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.”
Rognvald 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.”
