“Ah, but you’re a stubborn little pullet.” She ran her fingers through his thick hair. “Listen to me, Taby. Merrik takes me because I will be useful to him. He doesn’t take you because he loves you and doesn’t want to take any chances with your being hurt.”
“He doesn’t care if you’re hurt?”
Even as she shook her head, she knew he did care, but it was nothing compared to his feelings for Taby, feelings she knew he didn’t understand, but so strong nonetheless that he was helpless against them. She accepted that and with the acceptance she felt a lurching of pain deep inside her.
“I won’t be hurt,” she said, rising. She kept her hand on Taby’s shoulder. “I want you to go to Merrik now. Do not use his love for you against him. I expect you to act the man you will one day become.”
Taby looked at her for a very long time. Then he looked toward Merrik who was speaking to Oleg and Roran, his body stiff with silent pain.
He walked slowly to him. When Merrik turned to look down at the boy, the blanked pain in his eyes turned to delight and relief. He clasped the child to him and closed his eyes, even as he spoke quietly in Taby’s ear. What was he telling him? Even when Merrik found his release with her, even when he laughed with her, he had never looked at her with such joy and tenderness. For the first time in her life, Laren found herself jealous of her little brother. She felt sour resentment roil in her belly, and she swallowed, forcing herself to turn away.
She sought out Sarla, to hug her good-bye once again, for there was really no other reason. As they walked side by side down the winding trail to the dock, she told her how to combine cloudberries with mashed hazelnuts to flavor venison-and-onion stew, something she’d already done two days before. Sarla looked earnest and nodded.
20
“ATALE, LAREN, a tale!”
“Aye,” Roran said. “You, mistress, you sit there with nothing to do, doubtless dreaming about that smiling sod, Merrik, whilst we break our backs at the oars.”
The wind had picked up and the men had rested their oars. They all turned about on their sea chests to face her. She smiled and said, “I will tell you a true story. Listen now. Duke Rollo’s lieutenant, Weland, tells of how Charles the Third, the Frankish king, ordered my uncle present himself in Paris to swear fealty to him. Charles commanded Rollo to kneel before him and kiss his foot in homage. My uncle Rollo indeed went down on his knees, with all solemnity, you understand, but he didn’t kiss the king’s foot. No, he grabbed his foot and jerked upward, sending the king toppling over the back of his throne to land flat on his back.”
Merrik and his men shouted with laughter. “And what did the king do?” Old Firren asked, then spat over the side of the longboat.
“His men picked him up and held their breaths. They were scared he would order them to kill Rollo. They weren’t stupid men, and they knew many of them wouldn’t survive such a contest of sheer strength. King Charles stood there, dusting off his beautiful robe of purple wool, and just stared at Rollo. The men shuffled their feet, their fear growing. Then, to their joy, King Charles smiled. Then he threw back his head and laughed. He told them all that he was pleased by Rollo’s insolent violence because it proved to him that the Viking overlord would control any marauders who dared to sail down the Seine and plunder the towns. He is called Charles the Simple, you know, a name he does not merit, at least in his dealings with my uncle. He gave all the northwest lands to Rollo in exchange for protection. There have been no raids of any seriousness in five years. All the Danes and Norwegians respect and fear my uncle, for he has many well-trained men and is also building fortifications and manning them. The Franks under King Charles live in peace for the first time in many, many years.”
Oleg scratched his four-day growth of beard. “I heard it said that your uncle refused to go to Paris to swear fealty. I heard he sent a message to the Frank king telling him that ‘We know no master. We are all equal.’ Then he spat upon the message and rubbed his thumb in it.”
“If my uncle said that, I don’t know of it. It sounds like him though. He is ruthless and arrogant; he fears no man. He did go to Paris, I do know that for certain. Also I never knew Weland to lie. Otta, my uncle’s minister, also tells the same story.” She paused a moment, then added, “Perhaps Rollo was wary of King Alfred of the Saxons a long time ago. But Alfred has been dead now nearly two decades so there is no one to disturb Rollo’s sleep, even his relatives, the earls of Orkney, who occasionally send him threats that they will destroy him if he doesn’t give them some of his vast holdings. Aye, the earls of Orkney are a vicious, nasty lot.”
“So it is true that Rollo comes from the Orkneys?”
“Aye, it’s true. Uncle Rollo told me once a long time ago that they were a savage clan.”
“How savage?” Roran called out.
“They’re so savage they even piss in their longhouses.” She let the men’s laughter warm her, then turned her face to the southern breeze off the longboat’s port side. It was very calm now, the water a deep blue, the whitecaps small and lazy. They sailed just beyond the coast, always keeping land in sight. They would reach the river Seine by nightfall, if the wind held and the rain kept to the north of them.
“The giving of land to Rollo and making it a duchy—it is the poacher turned gamekeeper,” Merrik said, as he picked up his oar and rhythmically pulled on it. The other men soon joined him. “No, this Charles the Third isn’t at all simple. He gave to your uncle what he already occupied. He is a wise man.”
“You make it sound as though my uncle were a naïve child to be led about by the nose.”
Merrik laughed. “Nay, acquit me, Laren, of speaking thusly of the sainted Rollo. He is a man to fear and to respect. Your uncle wanted permanency and he assured it. Aye, he saved himself much trouble and got what he wanted for his people and for his heirs. If you wish to farm and settle, it makes no sense to want to make war on your neighbors. Tell me more about this Otta and Weland.”
“Otta has been at my uncle’s side since Rollo was outlawed from Norway by King Harald. He is younger than my uncle and very smart. Weland, my uncle’s lieutenant, grew up with my uncle. They fought together, wedded at the same time, and their wives died at nearly the same time. They are all very close.”
The men fell to speaking of other matters. Laren sat back beside Old Firren, who held firm to the rudder, letting the afternoon sun warm her face. She slept. When she awoke the sun was no longer on her face. Merrik stood over her, his hand outstretched. “We are coming now to the Seine. We will continue south down the river. We will make camp outside of Rouen. I wish us all to be clean and well garbed when we go to your uncle’s palace.”
Laren thought of the three new gowns Ileria had woven then sewn for her. All of them were of the softest linen, all now neatly rolled in Merrik’s sea chest. Aye, she wanted to face all of them looking the best she could.
They pulled the longboat from the water onto a deserted stretch of narrow beach, bordered by thick beech and maple trees. The evening was warm, insects were flying madly about, the water lapped against the shore. There were no villages close by. All was peaceful.
Merrik turned to Eller. “Keep your nose awake to smell out any trouble.”
“I shall, Merrik, have no worry.”
Merrik was worried, though not about enemies coming upon them unawares. He was worried because he’d allowed Laren to come with him, bowing to her quite logical arguments that her uncle might just as well dismiss him out of hand rather than listen to him, that he might be enraged by his unlikely tale and have him killed. All the reasons made good sense, but it still didn’t make him like the situation.
He wasn’t worried that Rollo would kill him even though he’d wedded his niece, who had been destined for a dynastic marriage with the king of the Danelaw’s heir. No, he imagined the man would bow to that. He was worried about the traitor who’d had her and Taby abducted. Was it Helga? It seemed possible, and Laren, in her skald’s tale, seemed convinced she was the guilty one. However, Merrik hesitated to believe in the obvious, for in his experience, what appeared obvious in reality proved many times a devious and wrongful path.
