A Flame Put Out (17 page)

Removing a collar from a living thrall was a difficult business, requiring a sure aim and a steady hand. Most collars were only removed after death.

Selia bucked wildly, fighting with the strength of terror. Alrik leaned close to her face and met her gaze. The flames of the fire flickered in his eyes as he spoke, and made him look like a madman.

“Hold still, little thrall. Unless you want an ugly scar.”

Stilling in defeat, Selia took a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. Alrik turned the collar upon her neck, heat radiating from the rivet as Bjorn put it through the ends of the collar and bent it around upon itself. Selia flinched as cold water was poured over the rivet to cool it.

There was a sudden rush of wind as the door to the blacksmith’s stable opened again. Selia heard a child’s cry of indignation that she recognized as Faolan’s. Alrik released her head and Selia stumbled away from the table. The rivet was still hot and she screamed as it touched her. She held the collar away from her skin as best she could, sniffling in pain and humiliation.

Faolan and Geirr rushed to Selia. Furious tears flowed down Geirr’s cheeks but Faolan was quiet. He examined the slave collar around his mother’s neck and the blister that was forming on her collarbone. His face grew dark and the color of his eyes intensified as it did whenever he was enraged, just as Alrik’s always had. Selia had the strange sense she was not looking at the face of a young child, but instead at the man her son would eventually become.

Faolan’s body vibrated with fury as he spun to Alrik. He locked eyes with his father and spoke with the searing conviction of one casting a curse. “I will kill you for this, Alrik Ragnarson. Know this truth as you know your own name.”

Selia stared at her son. Geirr could pull off the tone of a miniature Hersir when necessary, but Faolan had never needed to and so had never tried. To hear the words of a warlord come out of Faolan’s childish mouth felt eerie and thick with portent. Selia shivered.

Alrik erupted with a cry of outrage. He rushed at Faolan and backhanded him with enough force that the child left his feet with the impact. Selia screamed as her son’s small body flew through the air and thudded against the wall.

Faolan landed in a heap on the floor, as still as death.

Chapter 17

Selia’s misery continued as Faolan slowly recovered. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and when he did open his eyes they were dim and unfocused. Once his little body had thrashed about on the bed, and Selia and Hrefna had to hold him down to keep him from falling to the floor. His eyes had rolled back in his head as his body continued to twitch under their hands.

Selia had been certain Faolan would die, and she vowed to the heavens to kill Alrik if her worst fear did come to pass. She would kill him in his sleep; draw a blade across his throat and watch him bleed out. His men would avenge the murder of their Hersir, of course, but Selia would die knowing she had avenged her son.

But Faolan grew stronger, until it became clear he would live. He was still very weak and was only able to sit up in the bed for short periods. He had no memory of the events leading up to his injury, and once he could talk he repeatedly asked Selia why she was wearing a slave collar.

Selia didn’t know how to answer him. And even when she did answer, he didn’t remember her response for long. He would awaken later and ask her again.

Alrik had taken to sleeping on one of the curtained benches in the main room since his own bed was ruined. He barely spoke to anyone, least of all to Selia. She and the boys slept with Hrefna, still terribly weak herself. Yet she seemed to pull herself together at the knowledge that Selia needed her help.

Not even Hrefna had been able to get through to Alrik and convince him it was not within his rights to put a slave collar on his wife as a punishment for threatening divorce. Hrefna realized, finally, that Alrik had slipped into Ragnarr’s madness and might never return. Selia told Hrefna of her plan to escape with Ulfrik, and Hrefna was in agreement that she should go.

“You must leave with us when Ulfrik comes,” Selia whispered to her as they lay in the bed. Faolan slept between them and Geirr was curled at the foot of the bed.

A single candle burned on the table, but it didn’t offer enough light for Selia to see Hrefna’s face clearly. They’d had this conversation several times before and Hrefna always avoided giving Selia a definite answer.

“My dear,” the woman sighed. “This is my home. The only person I know in Ireland is Dagrun, and I’m not even sure if she’s still alive. And more to the point, I’m too old to sneak off into the night. I would only slow you down.”

“You would not,” Selia argued. “And we won’t stay in Ireland. Ulfrik said Ireland would be the first place Alrik would look for us. As soon as we warn Ainnileas we will go somewhere else. Anywhere you like.”

“Be that as it may, I’m still too old to hide out in a foreign land, Ireland or no.”

“Hrefna—”

“I will die in the land of my birth,” Hrefna vowed with conviction. “I will help you when the time comes, but I will not go with you.”

Selia swallowed the tears building in the back of her throat, and her voice wavered as she pleaded, “The boys need you. I need you.”

Hrefna reached around Faolan’s sleeping form and clasped Selia’s hand. “My dear. I love you like a daughter—you know this to be true. I love these boys as though they were my own as well. When you leave you will have each other. You will have Ulfrik and perhaps Ainnileas to protect you. Alrik has no one left but me now. No one to care for him. I am his mother because there is no one else. I cannot abandon him any more than you can abandon your children.”

Selia pulled her hand away. “He is a grown man. Not a child. And he almost killed Faolan.”

Hrefna sighed. “You will realize your children never stop being your children, no matter their age. And no matter what wickedness they have committed. A mother’s love does not falter, although I sometimes wish it could.”

The next morning a rider came to the farmstead; a thrall, by the looks of his rough clothing and cropped hair. As Selia met him at the door she recognized Hakon from Ketill’s farmstead.

Her anxiety rose as she stepped back to let him enter. Did he have troubling information about Ingrid? Or, God forbid, Eydis?

“Hello, Mistress,” Hakon said. His eyes took in the sight of the collar around her neck but he didn’t appear surprised. It would seem news traveled fast about how Alrik Ragnarson had humiliated his wife when she tried to divorce him.

Selia was not permitted to speak to anyone other than Hrefna or the boys unless Alrik was present. He had brought all the thralls on the farmstead together and warned them that anyone caught in conversation with Selia would be killed immediately, without question. Obviously Hakon hadn’t heard about this further injustice or he wouldn’t have spoken to her.

Selia motioned for Hakon to follow her and she led him over to the bench where Alrik slept. It was late in the morning but he had drunk himself into a stupor the night before.

“Alrik,” she said loudly, throwing open the curtain. “Wake up.”

He snorted and rolled onto his side. Selia leaned over to shout in his ear. “Alrik!”

He sat up, sputtering in fury, glaring at Selia and then Hakon, who took a hasty step backward.

“This thrall has come from Ketill’s. I do not know what he wants since you have forbidden me to speak to anyone outside of your presence.” She turned to Hakon. “Now that the Hersir is awake you can tell us your news.”

Hakon hung his head in apprehension. “Master. I am sorry to inform you, my master Ketill Brunason is dead.”

Selia gasped and her knees nearly gave out from under her. No.
No.
How could Ketill be dead? She needed him—he was the only one who could send for Ulfrik. The only one who could help get her children to safety. It all had hinged on him. What was she going to do now?

Alrik swung his legs around to sit on the edge of the bench. As Hakon’s words sank in, the muscle in Alrik’s jaw twitched. “How?” he finally asked.

“On the road. He had planned a trip to Bjorgvin so we didn’t expect him back soon. But he had been gone for some time, so Bolli went to see why he was taking so long to return. He found Master Ketill’s body. His horse was dead as well, nearby. It must have gone lame and thrown him.”

A rush of unbearable frustration shot through Selia’s veins. It was all she could do to keep from screaming. It seemed even in death, Ketill Brunason would continue to spite her. Had he gone to Bjorgvin to get word to Ulfrik? Had he fulfilled his promise?

Perhaps he had done what he had set out to do, and now Ulfrik was on his way to rescue her. Or perhaps Ketill had died on the way to Bjorgvin before he had a chance to speak to anyone.

She sank to the edge of the bench and dropped her head in her hands. She could not contain a sob.

Alrik raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you cared so deeply for Ketill Brunason.”

What to say that wouldn’t raise Alrik’s suspicions? “I know he loved Eydis as his own.” Selia sniffled. “Who will protect her from you now?”

“If I wanted to kill that child I would have already done it.”

Hakon’s eyes grew large. “The funeral is soon.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Master Skagi bade me return immediately after I delivered the news. May I take my leave?”

“You may.” Alrik waved him away. “Find Keir and tell her to give you food and supplies to take back with you for the funeral. I will come along shortly.”

“Yes, Master.” Hakon appeared relieved.

“Wait,” Alrik called as Hakon turned to leave. His chin jutted and his eyes narrowed in the Hersir expression Selia knew so well. “Tell Bolli Ketilson this will not postpone our fall trip. If he is ready to prove his loyalty to me, I am in need of a new right-hand man. Tell him to ponder this until I see him.”

Hakon bowed and hurried out the door.

Alrik turned back to Selia. He studied her, taking in her disheveled appearance. Selia had been so distraught over Faolan, she had given no attention to her hair or clothing. And Alrik had smashed her comb anyway.

He seemed to focus on the slave collar around her neck for a moment, then he looked away and scrubbed his hands through his hair in the way he did whenever he was upset. He seemed almost contrite.

“How is Faolan?” he asked.

Selia kept her face impassive. “He is as well as can be expected after being thrown across the room by his father.”

“Any father disrespected in such a manner would have done the same.”

Selia felt it pointless to respond. It was true every father had the right to discipline his children in the way he saw fit. The behavior of a man’s children reflected upon him directly, and children who were disrespectful or out of control were seen as an indication the father was lacking in some way. Many men were heavy handed with their families for this reason. Selia had seen children, both Irish and Norse, hit by their parents with fists and switches. Niall had never hit her or Ainnileas, but his disciplinary choices were unusual.

The difference in Alrik’s methods lay in his reputation as a berserker. When his rage overtook him, he lost control in a way other men did not. A lesson in discipline could easily turn into Alrik doing his children great bodily harm. How could the man not see that?

Alrik caught Selia’s wrist and drew her to him. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. Selia held herself stiffly until Alrik finally pulled back.

“I did not mean to hurt him, Selia,” he murmured. “I’m sorry. I want everything to go back to the way it was.”

“Then take this off.” She fingered the collar.

“Not quite yet. I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I have learned my lesson. I am your wife and I love you. Take it off.”

He eyed her closely. “You say you love me. But how can I believe you? You were going to leave—you said you wished you had left with Ulfrik. An Oath Breaker. The same Oath Breaker it was rumored bedded you when Gunnar One-Eye’s men were here.”

“You believed a vile rumor spread by someone you met in Bjorgvin. I was angry you accepted the word of a stranger over that of your own wife. Can you blame me? But I’m sorry now, Alrik. I’m sorry for what I said. I never would have left you.”

Alrik lifted the collar as though to test its weight. His voice grew hard. “There was a time I wouldn’t have kept you here if you didn’t love me. There was a time I wouldn’t have forced you to stay.” He hooked his finger under the collar and tugged Selia toward him until her face was inches from his. Alrik’s eyes grew flinty. “But that time is over, Selia. Whether you love me or you hate me, I will not let you go. You are mine and no one else will ever have you.”

Selia gulped, praying he would not see her fear. “I understand. Please take the collar off.”

His gaze searched hers. “Not yet. When I return from the fall trip we will see how contrite you are. After you’ve been my thrall for a time, perhaps you’ll be more inclined to be my wife again.”

Selia hurried back to the bedchamber. Hrefna and Faolan were sleeping, and Geirr was sitting on the floor playing with a pile of rocks and sticks meant to represent a war band on a raid. He and Faolan had invented this game over the long winter, and it proved useful to keep the boys quiet whenever it was impossible to send them outside.

She knelt beside him. “Geirr, I need your help with something very important. I would do it myself but I can’t.”

Geirr smiled in expectation and dropped the rocks. “What is it, Mother?”

“There is a thrall outside, a man named Hakon. He is talking to Keir but he will be leaving soon. I need you to speak with him without anyone else hearing. And you must tell him exactly what I say.”