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 aberserker. He wore bearskins like aberserker, 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.’
