Merrik pulled away from Laren, and called back to Rognvald, “Monks make me want to go immediately to a bathing hut. Their stench offends me.”
Rognvald laughed. “Aye, ’tis true. The beggars never bathe and wear those long robes that are never washed. They are always itching from their own filth, lice, and the wretched coarse wool.”
“I can no longer accept a god who wants his subjects to be filthy,” Laren said, knowing that the Christian God was forever lost to her, and accepting it.
And so their journey continued. For another hour, they rode close to the shore of the Seine, alert for outlaws.
But there was no attack. One of the soldiers shouted and pointed just ahead to their right. Atop a small hillock that overlooked the Seine stood a rough sod house with a small hole in its roof through which poured a thin thread of blue smoke. In front of the dwelling stood only one horse. The rider was not to be seen.
It was Laren who said, “I do not see Uncle Rollo’s horse, Rognvald. I wonder where Njaal is.” She turned to Merrik. “Njaal is a huge beast, some seventeen hands high. It is the only horse to carry my uncle without his feet hitting the ground.”
“Well, Rognvald?” Merrik said, staring at him, his hand going down to his sword handle.
Rognvald was frowning mightily, then suddenly he looked vastly relieved. “There the stallion is, over there, beneath that oak tree. Aye, ’tis Njaal.”
“Come, Merrik,” Laren said gaily, “let us go meet this wizard.”
She climbed from her horse without aid and hurried to the entrance of the small dwelling. Merrik wanted to shout to her but he held his peace. He dismounted, tossed his horse’s reins to one of the soldiers, then followed his wife into the farmstead. He had to lean down not to hit his head on a beam, blackened from too many years of soot. It was dark within, and it took several moments for his eyes to adjust. When he could see well enough, he winced. It was a wretched place, and it smelled, the air rancid with old food, unwashed bodies, and closely packed animals. He saw an old man seated by a fire pit in the very center of the single room. He had a long white beard and he wore a surprisingly beautiful white robe. It was clean. He looked up as Merrik entered.
“You are her husband?” he said.
“Aye, I am Merrik Haraldsson of Malverne.”
“In Vestfold,” the old man said low, and stirred the embers in the fire pit with a skinny stick. “It is a beautiful land, Vestfold. Harald Fairhair will rule even longer. Know you that, Viking? He is as long-lived as Rollo.”
“I have never doubted it, old man.”
“You have gained yourself a wife blooded of valiant men and women.” He didn’t look at Laren, who stood opposite him, obviously fascinated, staring at the old man, but saying nothing. Merrik took another step forward, but the old man held up his hand to stay him.
“Nay, stay there, Viking, else you will disturb the embers. All these flames, licking about the new twigs I just laid in, they show me things.”
Merrik came forward in any case. “You will tell me, old man, where is Rollo?”
“He came and left.”
“His horse, Njaal, is still outside.”
“He is swimming in the river. I gave him a cream for his joints, then told him to bathe it off. He is at the river.”
“Now you will tell me who you are.”
“I?” The old man lifted very bright dark eyes to Merrik’s face. “Ah,” he said, and laughed, a rusty sound. “You do not trust me. I do not blame you, Viking. Look at your wife. She doesn’t trust me either, but she is more subtle about it. She watches closely and doubt not that she carries a knife in the folds of her gown.”
“You are right,” Laren said coldly. She raised her hand to show him a long thin-bladed knife that would easily sink through a man’s chest and show its bloodied point out his back. Its handle was exquisitely carved ivory. Merrik had never seen it before. “You will not harm my husband. If you attempt it, I will kill you.”
Merrik simply stared at her. He hadn’t guessed that her suspicions ran as deeply as his, for he had been so very worried that she believed this to be different, to be safe, to be... He had underestimated her and he vowed he would never do it again. He walked to her side.
“She also carries a babe,” the old man said, seemingly not bothered by her threat. “Aye, a knife without and a babe within. You have grown fierce, Laren, and loyal. Rollo told me that Taby lives. He was a beautiful babe, fat and smiling, always smiling, showing his toothless gums, and I loved him deeply. He always held out his arms to me. I was besotted with him. But then everything changed and I was forced to flee. It was Rollo’s idea that I become as you see me now.”
Merrik was aware suddenly that Laren had grown very still. He saw that her face had paled and he immediately held her against his side. “Do you feel ill?”
“Nay,” she said, never taking her eyes off the old man.
Suddenly, the old man rose from the rough stool and smoothed out the folds of his white robe.
Laren said very quietly, “It is you, isn’t it?”
Merrik stared from her to the old man. “What do you mean, sweeting?”
