She said clearly, “Give me your mouth, Merrik.”
He did. He kissed her and caressed her until she thought she’d surely die from the delight of it, but she didn’t, of course. Her body was alive with wanting and she knew more would come, even that ultimate pleasure that would catch and hold her, blurring what was real and what wasn’t, just leaving the two of them, clasped together.
She urged him with her hands, parting her thighs, tugging at him, saying his name again and again, and he just smiled at her, but didn’t yet come to her. He lay on his back instead and lifted her over him. He came up into her slowly, so very slowly, not allowing her to take him deeply inside her, holding her above him as he moved upward into her. And when he was touching her womb, his fingers found her and she stared down at him, frozen in that instant, feeling the slickness of her flesh, the rough softness of his fingers, and then, without her knowing that it was near, her body exploded into pleasure.
As she heaved over him, her pleasure swamping her, wanting more and yet even more, arching, then folding inward, her hair spilling onto his face, he thought of his child within her and his breath caught in his throat and his body shook, tensed, and he believed in those moments that there could be nothing more to match this, but then there was, and he couldn’t believe the intensity of the sensations that were binding him to her. He yelled, his hips jerking upward, his body trembling and shaking, and she took him even more deeply and caressed his face with her fingers as his release took him.
It was over, yet he knew it wasn’t, it would never end, this sorcery between them. And he was content.
It was then, in the fading afternoon light, that his vision cleared and he looked up to see Helga standing at the edge of the shadows, gazing at him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes avid on his face.
He went still as a stone in shock. Very slowly, Merrik shook his head at her. She turned then, looking at them one last time, and disappeared from his sight. He felt his heart pounding, not from the wildness of his release, but with the utter fury he felt. Helga had watched them, had watched him bring Laren atop him, watched him slowly thrust upward into her, watched Laren yell in her pleasure as his fingers caressed her, watched his face turn bloodred as he reached his own release.
He wanted to kill the bitch.
“Merrik?”
“Aye?”
“You are all stiff. What is wrong?”
He forced himself to ease, forced the muscles in his arms to loosen, forced his legs to sprawl. She raised herself atop him again, placed her hands on her hips, and smiled down at him, a superior smile, one filled with satisfaction. “Now I know how it is that you feel when you are above me, the one who decides when one is to do what and for how long.”
“Do you really believe that, sweeting?” As he spoke, his hands stroked up her legs, upward until he was touching her and himself still inside her. He felt the dampness of her and of his seed and closed his eyes a moment against the deep, deep joy it brought to him. Then he touched her again and she lurched over him and sucked in her breath.
He laughed. “So, you still believe that you are the one who controls?”
She said nothing. Then she leaned forward, splaying her hands wide on his chest. She kissed his mouth, then his chin, his throat, downward to his chest. She raised herself, felt him swelling within her again, and grinned as she came down on him very slowly. She raised herself again, then came down on him even more slowly.
Merrik’s eyes nearly crossed. He moaned. His hands tightened about her hips as it began again, only this time, after letting her do as she wished, he lifted her off him and came over her, to cover her and stroke her and kiss her until he was deep inside her once again, and he brought her again to pleasure. He held her, feeling the sweat on her soft flesh, the giving of her, and he managed to forget for a while longer that Helga had been there, watching.
Merrik sat with Otta and Rollo in the private chamber set apart from the great hall. He and Laren had dined with Rollo, then Rollo had sent Laren to await him in his chamber. Now Otta was to tell Merrik about the court of King Charles.
Merrik listened carefully to Otta as he said, anger lacing his voice now, “There are factions in the court, and I wonder still how the king controls them.”
“Wonder not, Otta,” Rollo said and laughed deeply. “The king acts stupid, it’s that simple. He looks blankly from one set of opinions to the other, and smiles and nods, as vacant as a longhouse at the night of the summer solstice. I thought you understood that.”
“I understand that he is stupid, but it is not a ruse, sire. Sometimes he is lucky, that is all, just lucky.”
Rollo stared at Otta, surprised that he dared to gainsay him, but then he only shook his head, looked bored, and rose. “I will leave you two together now. I wish to have Laren continue the story of the mighty Danish king, Gorm, and how he lost his life only to gain immortality as a god.”
Otta watched Rollo leave the chamber. He looked troubled. Merrik said nothing, but he wondered. Did Rollo really have no interest in this? Were his old man’s wits gone begging? Was it true what the man had said? Had Rollo hired him and his friend to kill Merrik?
No, he couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it. It made no sense. And what about Fromm? An accident? Merrik doubted it. There were so many strange currents running here, emotions smothered then let loose, so many things he didn’t know, couldn’t begin to guess. He leaned back in the chair, his arms on the beautifully carved posts, and listened to Otta drone on about a king Merrik would never have a bit of interest in. He was no closer to discovering who had been responsible for Taby’s and Laren’s abduction. His wounded arm began to throb.
He slowly opened the thick narrow door to Helga’s tower room and looked inside. It was a strange chamber, octagonal in shape, strange scents lying strong in the still air. She was standing beside a long bench that held numerous pottery bowls and glass containers. She looked up and smiled at him.
“I have waited for you to come to me.”
“I have been told that you allow no man here in your tower chamber. However, I did not believe you would forbid me to enter.” He paused as she smiled more widely at him. “You looked at Laren and me. I do not like that. Why did you do it?”
She only shrugged, not at all alarmed by his show of male anger. “I never take a man before I know if he is sufficient to fulfill my needs. You are, Merrik Haraldsson, indeed you are.”
“Did you take men before Fromm was killed?”
“Fromm,” she said, and then repeated her dead husband’s name yet again and then a third time. “Fromm. We were wedded for many years. He wanted a child so badly, and I did as well, for I saw my son as Rollo’s heir after William. But my belly never swelled. Rollo and Fromm blamed my potions for it, but that isn’t true. Then, just when I gave up, I became with child. Poor Ferlain had just birthed the fifth of her eight dead babes. The gods know that I feared for my babe as well. He moved strongly within me, my beautiful son, but I held silent, not telling anyone. I was afraid to.”
“What happened?”
“The babe came from my body much too early. I was out collecting herbs and roots in the forest to the north of Rouen when the cramps began. There was so much blood. I never imagined there would be so much blood. I buried the little scrap of a babe there, in the depths of the forest.”
“Why do you tell me this, Helga?”
“I didn’t pay those men to kill you. I have always wanted to tell someone about it.” She looked away from him, staring into the distance, yet there was no distance, for the chamber was close with fall warmth and the smells of the potions held in the pottery bowls and basins. “It was after that I began to make potions that enhanced my beauty, that brought youth back to my flesh. I wish to take you as a lover, Merrik Haraldsson. You are strong, I admire your man’s body. Many men care not about a woman’s pleasure. You do, for I saw what you did to Laren, and she, ah, she didn’t even realize that what you do is different from most men.
She doesn’t appreciate what you give her. I want you. What say you?”
“I cannot think of why I should agree. I am one of Rollo’s heirs. Surely it would be dangerous for me to betray my wife and Rollo’s favored niece by plowing your belly, as soft and white as it may be.”
“On the other hand,” Helga said very quietly as she set down a slender glass goblet on the bench top, “it is possible that I will give you more pleasure than a man dreams of, that I might even be able to tell you who was responsible for Laren’s abduction two years ago.”
Merrik looked at her for a very long time, saying finally, “I can take your white throat between my hands and squeeze until you tell me those who are responsible.”
“Aye, you could,” she said.
He walked slowly toward her. She smiled at him and pulled the high top of her gown away from her neck. “Come,” she said. “Kill me.”
24
“MY LORD MERRIK! Don’t,” Otta yelled from the doorway. “Don’t hurt her!”
Merrik merely smiled down at Helga, then slowly turned to face Rollo’s minister. “You move silently, Otta,” he said easily. “Perhaps you were waiting outside? For a signal? Perhaps you hoped to find me on top of her rather than my hands itching to close about her throat?”
“You mock me, Viking,” Otta said, and came into the room, his pace slow, for he wasn’t a fool, and he knew that a man like Merrik Haraldsson could erupt into violence in an instant of time. “I am not a spy. I did not know you were here with Helga. I merely wished to see her.”
“You see her,” Merrik said, smiling, a cruel smile that made Otta want to leave, and very quickly.
Helga laughed. She smoothed the tunic over her throat again, then said, “Otta, what do you wish? Another potion for Rollo? I cannot make the pain lessen in his joints. I have tried.”
“It isn’t that,” Otta said. “I must speak with you.”
Merrik looked from the woman to the man. “Do you wish to take Fromm’s place? I should consider it carefully were I you, Otta.”
“I consider everything carefully, Lord Merrik. That is why I am Rollo’s minister.”
Merrik merely smiled and left the tower chamber. He walked down the winding wooden steps out into the palace courtyard. There were deep wide gashes in the black earth, filled with muddy water from the heavy rain the day before. There were horses tethered together in a long line, a long trough of hay in front of them. The air was rich with their scent. He nodded to the threescore soldiers who lolled about the compound. They eyed him warily, knowing well who he was, knowing that he could be their master after Rollo’s death. Each wondered if William knew of the Viking’s existence.
Merrik continued on his way, his mind taken with the duke. Laren had told him about Ferlain, how she’d come quietly into the sleeping chamber, scaring her nearly witless, then telling her that it had been Rollo who had had them abducted. He hated them, had wanted Laren’s mother, Nirea . . . It all seemed too fantastic. It made no sense. Ferlain had sounded mad from what Laren had told him. And Helga? If Merrik went to her bed, would she truly tell him who had been responsible for Laren’s abduction? He shook his head, looked up, and saw Weland detach himself from three men who were wrestling on a wide patch of ground covered with thick hay.
He was sweating and smiling, massaging his bare shoulder as he strode toward Merrik. The man was old, it was true, but he looked stronger than the oak sapling at the edge of the courtyard. There was a man on the ground, groaning. Had he been one of Weland’s opponents?
“Ho! My lord Merrik. I have a message for you from Rollo. He visits an old man who owns a farmstead northward on the Seine some five leagues from here. He wishes you and Laren to join him there.”
“Why?”
Weland looked at a loss for a moment, but his smile didn’t slip. “The old man predicted Rollo’s rise to his present position many, many years ago, I’m told. He is a wizard of sorts. Rollo wants you and Laren to meet him there, for the old man to examine your future, to predict your success. He says it’s for the benefit of the people, so that when he dies, if you are to be his successor, there will be no challenges to your succession.”
“I see,” Merrik said, but he didn’t believe any of it for an instant. Weland was lying to him. Was it truly Rollo who had sent Weland to lie to him? Was the duke mad? Eaten by hatred and jealousy? Too old now to realize what he was doing? He had seemed magnificent when they had first met him, the Rollo of legends, but now, he seemed to have changed.
“Have you yet spoken to Laren?”
“Aye, she awaits you at the stables. Several of my men will lead you to the old man’s farmstead. I must remain here. You will return to the palace with Rollo.”
“Very well,” Merrik said. He wished he had his sword. He carried two knives. He would take a sword from one of the soldiers, but it wasn’t the same as having his own, the one he’d bloodied at the age of fourteen, the one forged for him by his grandfather’s blacksmith. Nor did he want Laren with them, but how to avoid it? “Send the soldiers to me and let us go,” he said.
He had no chance to speak to Laren, to convince her to become ill and vomit and thus remain here, safe. But was she safe here? He wanted nothing more at that moment than to bundle up his wife, collect all his men, and leave this wretched place. He wanted to go home. He wanted to keep Taby with him and forget Rollo, any possible succession by Taby, which seemed highly unlikely to Merrik in any case, and all the miserable secrets that festered here.
Then he realized yet again that Taby belonged here. It could so very easily become his birthright, all this immense rich land that already held great wealth and granted great power. Life was fragile, it was true, and any man’s or child’s life was easily forfeit. Aye, and this duchy would grant even more power in the future, its dukes would vie with the Frankish kings for even more control, he knew it. He had to resolve this mystery and do it now. Thus, he had no intention of acting suspicious around the soldiers that would accompany him and Laren.
He saw Oleg and Old Firren. He smiled at them and called out, “You remember how much Erik likes to wrestle? When you return home, tell him I will visit him soon and I will rub his nose in the dirt. Tell him that, Oleg. Tell him that it will require at least six of his men, not less than six of his strongest men, to aid him if he wants to bring me down.”
“Aye,” Oleg said slowly, studying his friend’s face, “aye, Merrik, I will tell him.”
Old Firren spat in the mud at his feet.
Merrik gave them a small salute and turned to follow the four soldiers to the stables.
Laren breathed in the soft autumn air, the scent of the yew bushes and hedgerows, the wild daisies, and the tangy smell of the Seine. They rode past fishermen plying their nets, others spearing the larger sea bass as they bent down from atop massive black rocks that clustered above the river. The road was rutted from all the rain, but the sky was cloudless, as blue as Merrik’s eyes.
She was humming, smiling to her husband. There were four soldiers, two of them riding in front of them and the other two at their backs.
She said gaily, “My lord, we should have brought some of Uncle Rollo’s sweet Rhenish wine. A gift for this old wizard friend of his. What think you?”
Merrik agreed that it was a good idea, if only they had thought of it earlier. Weland’s second in command, a rough man with a sharp eye, whose name was Rognvald, said over his shoulder, “Aye, the Rhenish wine is good, but we must concern ourselves with outlaws and robbers who, it is said, hide in these woods. Weland doesn’t wish to take any chances with your safety, mistress, or yours, Lord Merrik.”
“I am vastly relieved that you are with us,” Laren said, and smiled at him.
“You now carry a sword, Merrik,” Rognvald said, eyeing the sword in a way Merrik didn’t like.
“Aye,” Merrik said easily, “one of your soldiers saw that I had need of one. As you say, there are many outlaws. It is wise to be prepared.”
Rogn
vald nodded, then kicked his stallion forward to speak to the two men who rode ahead of them.
Merrik pulled his stallion closer to Laren’s mare. “Listen to me,” he said quietly, trying to look loverlike and doubting if he was succeeding. “I—”
“Ho! Lord Merrik, look yon. ’Tis a group of monks the Frankish king has thrust upon us. Rollo was forced to give them a monastery—it’s called St. Catherine’s and is only two leagues from here. It is set atop a promontory. The prospect it gives is spectacular.”
Merrik pulled away from Laren, and called back to Rognvald, “Monks make me want to go immediately to a bathing hut. Their stench offends me.”
Rognvald laughed. “Aye, ’tis true. The beggars never bathe and wear those long robes that are never washed. They are always itching from their own filth, lice, and the wretched coarse wool.”
“I can no longer accept a god who wants his subjects to be filthy,” Laren said, knowing that the Christian God was forever lost to her, and accepting it.
And so their journey continued. For another hour, they rode close to the shore of the Seine, alert for outlaws.
But there was no attack. One of the soldiers shouted and pointed just ahead to their right. Atop a small hillock that overlooked the Seine stood a rough sod house with a small hole in its roof through which poured a thin thread of blue smoke. In front of the dwelling stood only one horse. The rider was not to be seen.
It was Laren who said, “I do not see Uncle Rollo’s horse, Rognvald. I wonder where Njaal is.” She turned to Merrik. “Njaal is a huge beast, some seventeen hands high. It is the only horse to carry my uncle without his feet hitting the ground.”