Cecilia looked again at the children. She frowned this time. ’Twas a very handsome Viking named Orm Ottarsson who had presented Guthrum with the boy and girl, along with more silver coins than Cecilia could count, in return for removing a Saxon family from rich farmlands on the River Thurlow, lands he wanted for himself. She’d seen the man, and found herself impressed with his arrogance and his sleekness. She thought herself a clever woman to his clever man, and thus tried to seek him out. But he had left York to return to Norway. It was depressing, but Cecilia knew that he would return, and when he did, why, then she would see.
Cecilia rose and walked into the small walled garden outside her bedchamber. The stone walls were eight feet high with roses climbing over the top, covered with red and white blossoms. There was a small fountain in the center of the garden, surrounded by an old Roman mosaic, rectangular in shape. It was still intact, showing strange seaweed-draped creatures rising from the sea, mating with the fierce Celts. Egill and Lotti were there, and he was speaking to her, using his hands as he spoke, as if to give emphasis to his words. She drew closer to listen.
“Say it again, Lotti. Come on, say it.”
Lotti made some slurred sounds, but Cecilia understood. The little girl had said “good morning.” What was going on here?
“Good morning to you,” Cecilia said gaily as she walked toward the children. The boy paled and took a protective step closer to the little girl.
They were both garbed in white wool tunics that were lightly belted with soft blue pleated leather at the waist. The tunics were sleeveless and came to their knees. The garments told others that they were slaves, but the soft, excellent quality of the wool also indicated that their master or mistress was of a generous nature. The children were fine-looking, and that pleased Cecilia. The little girl’s hair was a rich ginger color and her eyes were an odd golden hue. She showed promise of great beauty when she became older, but that didn’t bother Cecilia. She didn’t like to be surrounded with ugliness, even in little girl slaves.
“Lotti,” Cecilia said to the child, “go pick me a red rose and be quick about it. The king will be here soon and I wish to wear it in my hair.” She patted her thick brown hair as she spoke.
Lotti darted a glance toward Egill, and he moved his hands quickly and easily, pointing to the rosebush.
Cecilia didn’t notice. She was studying a scratch on the back of her hand, wondering where it had come from.
Egill waited, hoping that Lotti would pluck a red one and not a white one. They hadn’t yet made up signs for colors. He waited, tense and stiff, watching her.
She broke off a red rose and he felt a flood of relief. He had no idea what would happen if the woman realized Lotti couldn’t hear and spoke only very little. Lotti handed Cecilia the rose and Cecilia gave her an absent pat on the head, as one would a dog that had performed well.
Egill felt naught but contempt for the woman and her ridiculous vanity. About King Guthrum, he didn’t know what to think. The man was older than Egill’s grandfather, yet he tried to pretend to youth, tried to caress and pinch Cecilia as if he were her lover and a young man of passion. And Cecilia played the game with him. Egill had first thought to tell the king who he was, but then he’d heard Guthrum tell one of his council, a man who leered at Cecilia behind the king’s back, that he was pleased the children were Viking get. He would see for himself if Viking children would become as dangerous as their sires in captivity. Egill had realized then that they knew they were his own countrymen. He didn’t care. He was amused.
He wondered if perhaps the king knew his father. As yet he hadn’t sensed a right time to approach him. Guthrum had an uncertain temper. Egill wasn’t stupid. He had no intention of angering this man who held the power of life and death over him and Lotti.
Egill brooded. He thought of Orm Ottarsson, who had taken him and Lotti even as they had lain sodden and gasping on the shore of the outjutting point, trying to suck life into their bodies. Egill had seen Lotti facedown in the shallow water and dragged her out, tearing the binding water reeds from her. He’d nearly drowned himself, but he wouldn’t have cared if the little girl had died. He had pounded her chest and her back and finally she’d begun to breathe again, wretching. And then he’d looked up and there was Orm Ottarsson staring down at them, smiling. For a moment Egill thought he would return them to his father. He’d wrapped them up in warm blankets and had taken them away. When Egill had asked Orm what he intended, the man had struck him hard and laughed. He had given them as a bribe to the king. And that was another problem. Surely then the king would believe Orm’s word and not that of a boy who was also a slave. Egill didn’t know what to do.
He missed his father; he saw him in dreams, tall and fierce, his eyes going remote and sad when he looked inward, thinking of his only son. Egill knew his father must believe him dead, for he’d considered all the possibilities, seeing in his mind’s eye how his father and his men would have searched for him, and, not finding him, would conclude that he had died somehow with Lotti or been killed and dragged away by wild animals.
He saw that Lotti had fallen to her knees and was raptly studying the Roman mosaic. She found it fascinating, her small fingers tracing over each of the brightly colored figures. Cecilia, having placed the rose in her hair, was now looking about for something to do. Egill thought her a useless creature. Even Cyra, who had been his father’s mistress, hadn’t been useless, not completely.
“Egill.”
Lotti was excited by one of the tiles. Egill gave her a tolerant smile and walked to her, dropping to his knees beside her.
The tiles showed a very handsome man wearing nothing but a strange white pleated cloth wrapped around his waist and held with a wide leather belt. He wore a golden helmet on his head. He was large, muscular, and looked to be very sure of himself. He was standing at the bow of a boat, men bent over oars behind him, and he had his sword drawn and was looking toward the horizon.
The handsome man looked like his father.
Egill made a sound in his throat and Lotti quickly swiveled around and placed her hand on his arm.
She was smiling and nodding. In the next tile the man was ashore, his sword still pointed at an unseen enemy, and he was ready to strike. In the final tile, there was the enemy, a monster cloaked in thick dark smoke, writhing and hissing. The handsome man severed the monster’s neck with his sword.
“Father will save us,” Egill whispered. “It is a portent.” He heard footsteps and turned quickly. It wasn’t Cecilia; it was King Guthrum, and Egill felt both fear and hope build inside him. The king looked to be in a temperate mood today. Egill looked at the battle-scarred king, his face seamed and leathery from a life spent in the sun, his shoulders bent slightly forward, his thick ebony hair threaded with gray, as was his short beard. His clothing was rich with golden thread.
Lotti was very silent, her eyes on the king. Her hand slipped into Egill’s. They waited, watchful and wary.
King Guthrum nodded to them, not really paying them any heed. He was speaking to another man, one who was garbed like a soldier. Guthrum called out suddenly, “Bring us Rhenish wine, boy.”
Egill didn’t want to leave. He wanted to listen to the men. He turned quickly to Lotti and made signs for her to watch the men and try to understand what they were saying; then he walked quickly away toward the antechamber where he would find one of Cecilia’s house servants.
The king’s soldier, Aslak, was saying in a fierce voice, “I tell you we must cease these silly woman’s taunts, sire. We must gather in force and attack Alfred. The damned Saxons run hither and yon, without direction. The treaty with King Alfred means nothing. You have said so many times.”
The king was stroking his beard. “Aye, ’tis true. What is it you want to do, Aslak?”
“I would lead men to Chippenham itself, to the very gates of the king’s house. We would travel swiftly and stealthily, and that would give us the surprise. We would take all the gold and coin we can carry. Alfred must be shown that a Viking bows to no man, particularly to a Saxon. It is time to strike the death blow.”
Guthrum liked the sound of those arrogant words, for he had himself spoken similar ones many times, but he wasn’t a fool, even though the words did stir his blood. Aye, but his blood was thinner now, much thinner. “Leave me to think about it, Aslak. ’Tis a risk we would take. Alfred isn’t like the other petty little lordlings. Nay, he is a man and a fighter. Let me think about it.”
