“He laughed, a great belly laugh, and wiped his eyes, and reminded me I was master of Malverne and had no need to weave tales so unbelievable.”
“Does he believe you now?”
“He must. Am I not to wed you in two days?”
“I cannot wait for them to be gone from here.”
“Tomorrow. Now, tell me about your father.”
She dipped a wooden spoon into a barrel of mead and poured it into a cup. She handed it to him and watched him drink it down. “You wish me drunk?”
“No, it is just that I would put off the telling. It is painful, you see.”
“It can wait,” he said, and lifted her hand. He studied her fingers, the short blunt nails, the red chafed flesh. A slave’s hands, used to endless hard work, his wife’s hands. In two days. He turned and smiled a welcome at Sarla, who looked hesitant to approach them.
“Come, sister, and tell my betrothed that you will drink mead with us at our wedding feast. She fears Letta will try to gullet her before she leaves.”
“I will drink and dance and sing, Laren. I am pleased. I would have been just as pleased had you not been Rollo’s niece. Now I am not certain how to behave around you.”
Laren said nothing. She merely walked to Sarla and wrapped her arms around her. “You are my sister. You have been kind to me since the moment I arrived here, and I was naught but a slave. This is your home. Please, I am still the same.”
Merrik was pleased. He started to tell her so when he looked up to see Taby, rubbing his eyes, wearing a loose tunic that flapped around his feet, standing there yawning and looking around. He saw Merrik and smiled, a big sleepy smile, and made Merrik feel like a king, not just a simple duke. He went down to his haunches and opened his arms. “Taby, come,” he called out.
The child ran to him, wrapping his arms around his neck. Merrik nuzzled the child’s cheek, breathed in his child’s sweet scent. He’d known him for such a short time and now he would lose him again.
Laren said to Sarla, “Once we return Taby to Uncle Rollo, Merrik won’t see him except when we pay them visits. It will hurt him deeply. It hurts him now just to think of being parted from him.”
“Aye, but you will have your own children.”
Laren stilled. Then she smiled hugely. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Sarla grinned at her. “Perhaps it’s time you gave it full consideration. Oh goodness, here comes Letta. Now that you will be mistress of Malverne, you have nothing to worry about. Do you wish to enjoy yourself, Laren?”
“I just wish the girl would keep her mouth closed. She hasn’t much sense, Sarla.”
“She is jealous, very jealous of you. She wanted Merrik and Malverne. She believed both in her grasp.”
Laren said nothing. She had been cooking and there was a stain on the front of her overtunic. Her face was heated from the fire pit and her hair was wet on her forehead with sweat. Letta’s very ample bosom, she saw, was heaving.
Laren saw Sarla turn away to attend to the woman Thyre’s little boy, who had crawled too close to the fire pit. She took the child in her arms and hugged him, softly singing to him. Laren knew she would stay close, in case. In case of what? Letta sticking a knife in her heart?
“So,” Letta said, coming to stand in front of Laren. “You have won. You have blinded Merrik to the truth, mayhap given him a potion to dull and confuse his mind.”
“Nay. All his dullness and confusion are his very own. I have done naught.”
“Now you insult him. But you are careful to be certain he is not close to hear you laugh at him.”
“You have no humor, Letta. You should consider finding some.”
“You are a whore. My father is furious. He wanted to buy you from Merrik.”
“Now that is humorous. Listen, your father can take Deglin with him. I doubt he wishes to stay here.”
“Deglin is a whining pig. I don’t want him. All he will do is complain. He hates you more than I do.”
“You can clout him, Letta. Under your tender care he will improve. There is no reason to hate me.”
“Ha! You have Merrik. Once he knew that you were Duke Rollo’s niece, he had to have you.”
