Chapter 17 #2
He was a beautiful man, she thought. A good man. She watched him walk to a group of children whose leader was Kenna. He was stumbling about, aping his elders, and the children were laughing and trying to guess which man it was he was pretending to be.
She laughed when Sarla poured her another glass of ale.
“Merrik said I should remain sober, that it was very nearly a law, for we were responsible to see that no one got a broken head.”
“I will be vigilant for you,” Sarla said.
“And I as well,” said Cleve, who stood behind Sarla.
For a moment, Laren saw them as one. She shook her head, but still, they were so close to each other that they seemed to merge. She said slowly, “When will you wed?”
She watched them start, then stare at each other, consternation on their faces, at least she thought it was consternation. She drank a bit more ale. “Cleve saved me. He is a fine man.”
“I know,” Sarla said. “Please, Laren, you mustn’t speak of it. Erik is still too close, he still preys too much on my mind and on Cleve’s. Someone killed him. It wasn’t you nor was it Cleve or me. But it was someone and that person is here, close to us. I’m afraid.”
Cleve took her arm and gently squeezed it. “Hush, Sarla, it is Laren’s wedding day. We will find out who killed Erik and then we will be free. At least none believe it to be Laren, not with her royal birth. Hush now, sweeting, hush.”
But who did kill Erik? Laren sipped at her ale and stared at the men and women who were shouting at each other, telling jests that had no meaning, not now, after hours of drinking, kissing and caressing each other, all in all, oblivious of the world around them.
She looked at Ileria, the weaver, so drunk she was just staring into a plate of stewed fish, just staring, saying nothing, doing nothing.
And there were Caylis and Megot, both with two of Erik’s men.
The men were young and comely, as were most Vikings, their faces flushed with too much mead.
She felt warm breath in her ear. “I thought I told you that it was your duty to keep your wits together.”
She turned her head, found herself an inch from his face, and grinned. “I fear I have drunk too much ale, Merrik.”
“Am I to bed a drunken wife?”
“Oh dear, I better stop,” she said, tipped up the cup and downed the rest of the ale.
Merrik laughed at her and called out, “Behold your influence. My bride of four hours can barely hold herself straight. What am I to do?”
Oleg shouted, “Have her tell us a story! ’Twill sober her wits!”
“Aye, a tale, a tale!”
“Well, Laren, are you able?”
“A story,” she said, as if marveling that such a thing could possibly exist. “Aye, a story.” She stood then, stepped onto the bench, then up onto the wooden table. “Attend me,” she shouted. “A story you want, a story you will have!”
There was cheering mixed with an equal measure of laughter.
“She’ll fall and break her leg!”
“Better than her tongue. I want stories from her, many more stories!”
Laren stamped her foot and nearly slid off the table on a piece of oatcake. Merrik was there to steady her, clasping her by her knees to hold her steady. “Go ahead, I’ve got you now,” he said.
She tried for some dignity, failed, and said on a giggle, “I will tell you about Fromm and Cardle, two men who became the husbands of sisters in a royal family, Helga and Ferlain. Fromm was a bully and vicious, Cardle was a man who lived for learning, a man not really of this world. Helga saw immediately that her groom, Fromm, would be easily led by her, even though he was mean and petty. She told Ferlain to measure the strength of her groom, Cardle, and so Ferlain did and discovered there wasn’t all that much strength there to measure.
Then they met in the tower of the king’s fortress and compared what they’d learned.
They decided that through their husbands, they would be able to take over the kingdom.
Unfortunately they first had to rid themselves of the king’s heir, but he was grown and was away from the city.
Ah, but there was their little half brother named Ninian and he was next in line after the king’s son.
Surely they could begin by ridding themselves of Ninian.
“But this wasn’t so easily done, for little Ninian had a magic friend.”
Laren stopped, frowned, then demanded, “More ale for the skald, if you please, husband. My wits are near parched dry of words.”
Merrik gave her a full cup of ale, then clasped her legs again to keep her steady.
“What happened to the husbands?” Oleg called out. “Come along, Laren, tell us before your wits take flight into oblivion.”
“Who was Ninian’s magic friend?”
She frowned from her height on the table at Oleg and then at Bartha, a big-bosomed woman who had dyed the beautiful saffron gown Laren wore.
“Ninian’s magic friend was a Viking warrior who appeared only when the child was in danger.
He was as cunning, as wild, as fearless, as a berserker.
He wore bearskins like a berserker, but he didn’t howl or scream out to the gods, or roll his eyes when he met an enemy.
No, the Viking warrior was silent as a spirit.
Once, when Ninian had lost his nurse in the forest close by the king’s fortress, a wolf attacked him.
The Viking warrior appeared as if spun from the smoke from a fire, tossed Ninian up onto a tree branch, and turned to face the leaping wolf.
He gutted the wolf with his sword. Then, slowly, the warrior turned to the child and said, ‘You may be the king one day. I was sent to keep you safe. Come down now and go back to the fortress. Your nurse is frantic with worry for you.’
“He lifted Ninian back to the ground, patted the child’s shoulder, and then he just seemed to fade into the thick green trees.
One moment he was there—solid and strong as the oak trunk, a huge man, his sword covered with the wolf’s blood—and the next moment, he was gone, simply disappeared.
The child stood there, not understanding, but not afraid.
“A dozen soldiers burst into the small clearing. They saw the dead wolf, saw the child standing over it, and they were struck dumb.
“And thus the legend began of Ninian, the king’s nephew, who, when still a small child, killed a wolf.
That the wolf had been gutted with a sword was dismissed and forgotten.
The more thoughtful knew that the child couldn’t have lifted a sword, much less smote the wolf a killing blow.
The king marveled at this small being. The small being himself marveled.
He tried to tell his nurse of the Viking warrior, but she was in no mood to believe that a spirit could have slain the wolf.
No, she would prefer Ninian to be the magic one, the special one, the one chosen by the gods to follow the king.
“The sisters decided they would kill the child. They didn’t believe he killed the wolf, for Helga had powers herself, and she had watched Ninian, and seen none in him.
Thus they convinced themselves that a man had come along, seen the child was in danger, killed the wolf, then quickly left before the soldiers came.
“Aye, they would kill the boy. Helga cast a spell in her tower room.
She called up the demons of fire and ice and desert sands.
She bade them use their powers to rid them of the child.
The demon of fire appeared and said, ‘I cannot kill the boy. He is sworn protection by one far more powerful than I. Leave him alone.’
“Helga cursed him and sent him back into the netherworld. She called up the demon of ice. He said, ‘I cannot kill the boy. A higher power than I guards him. Leave him alone.’
“Helga still would not accept the demons’ words. She called forth the demon of the desert sands. He said, ‘You are a fool, woman, to call up the coward demons of fire and ice before you called me. You wish me to kill the child. I will kill him and I will enjoy it. Then you will be in my debt.’
“The demon disappeared in a swirl of thick black smoke. Helga rejoiced and told her sister that the child would soon be dead. They told their husbands. They all waited. One day Ninian was found missing. The king and all his soldiers couldn’t find him.
Everyone in the land searched for the child, but he wasn’t to be found.
He was gone, disappeared with no trace.”
Laren looked down at Merrik and said, “I am going to be sick.” She jumped down, trusting him to catch her, then broke away from him and ran through the open palisade doors and into the bushes around the path.
Oleg slapped Merrik on his back. “Perhaps she will not be groaning overmuch this night or racing from your bed to be sick. There is still hope, Merrik.”
Merrik grunted. “Perhaps, but give me leave to doubt it. She will be very unhappy on the morrow.”
“I want to know what happened to Ninian,” Oleg called.
“Aye,” Roran yelled out, “I want to know who the Viking warrior was.”
“I hope she doesn’t puke away the story with her guts,” Bartha said, “else I won’t dye her another gown.”
“And I,” Merrik said, gazing through the open gates of the palisade, “wonder if my bride will even remember the Viking warrior or me on the morrow.”
“With all that royal blood,” Old Firren said, and then spat, “surely she can recover quickly from the ale.”
And she did. It was near to midnight when Merrik, convinced she was back to herself again, took her hand and raised her from the bench. He said to all his very drunk people, “There is no rain coming, for Eller hasn’t smelled anything.”
“He can only smell the foul odors of savages!”
“That’s true enough,” Merrik said, laughing, “but the night is clear. Stay here if you wish and keep drinking. I will take my wife to my bed.”
They were given advice in the marriage bed, all of it very specific, all of it accompanied with laughter as both men and women played their parts as the bride and groom.
Merrik believed her embarrassed until they stepped inside the sleeping chamber and she said, “I trust you took note of all they said, Merrik.”
“Aye,” he said, and pulled her against him. “I heard everything.”
“I think,” she said, leaning her forehead against his shoulder, “that I’m still afraid. This is all very new to me, Merrik, despite all that I’ve seen in the past two years, and I have seen more than I should.”
“I know, sweeting, but it isn’t important now. What is important is us. I won’t hurt you. I could never hurt you.”
“I know,” she whispered. She felt the allure of him, the temptation of him, and what he would give to her. Still, she just looked up at him, waiting.
He smiled at her and sifted his fingers through her hair, pulling loose the tangles. “Trust me,” he said, “just trust me.” He leaned down and kissed her, slowly, easily, as if there were nothing more he wished to do. He lifted his face.
“The night is long before us,” he said.