Desire's Hostage: Viking Lore, Book 3 (6 page)

Mayhap Alaric and his men were different than the other Northmen. Should she believe the little voice in her head that said she could trust him?

“I suppose I can answer your questions…in the interest of ending my sentence as a hostage.”

It was a lie, the soft voice whispered in the back of her mind. If not a lie, then an untruth by omission. For though she longed to free herself from the role of hostage, more than that she wished to trust the tall, golden man before her.

What was happening to her? What powers did this pagan barbarian have over her?

She didn’t dare consider the answer.

“And that one there?”

“Rowan.”

Alaric was familiar with the properties of the tree, for they grew in the Northlands also, but he didn’t have the Northumbrian word for it.

“Rowan,” he said, letting the word sink in.

He and Elisead had been playing a game of sorts. He’d led her farther into the woods and away from the site of the bones. The distance from that spot seemed to instill an ever-spreading calmness within her. He hadn’t asked further about the bones and the other Northmen yet. She needed time to relax, time to trust him.

Alaric ran a hand absently over the rowan’s bark. This land was not so different from the Northlands. Yet it was softer somehow, more fertile.

He’d already asked Elisead about what kind of crops her people grew. As in Dalgaard, they harvested oats, barley, and some rye. But when Alaric had left Dalgaard a little over a sennight ago, it was still considered early summer. The farmers on the outskirts of the village had only just begun sowing their crops, for though the summer was intense in the Northlands, it was all too short. Elisead had said that villagers around the fortress had begun laboring in the fields nigh two moons ago.

Alaric let his gaze shift to Elisead. Indeed, this was a lush, ripe land.

She was toying with a small rock she’d found on the forest floor.

“You must know a great deal about the quality of stone here,” he said, watching her fingers stroke the rock.

“Aye,” she replied, her amber eyes lighting.

“How did you come to learn how to carve those patterns?”

The flicker in her gaze dimmed somewhat, but she answered him. “Many of the great stone masons travel throughout Pictland, sharing their gift and honoring God with their carvings.”

Why might that piece of information cause her to become ever so slightly guarded? Alaric kept his air easy as he bend to retrieve a stone of his own from the ground.

“And such a mason came here.”

“Aye, her name was Una, and she was truly gifted.”

Again, she answered with restraint.

“
Was
?”

The question was enough to draw her gaze to his. “She is well, I am sure,” she replied. “But she was only able to stay with us for a season. And…”

Alaric longed to prod her, but instead casually tossed his rock into the air, then caught it.

“…And it was a dark season.”

“You mean winter?”

“Nay, I mean…it was just before the Northmen arrived.”

Unwittingly, he’d stumbled once more upon the very topic he was trying to avoid. She was like a frightened doe, especially when it came to the subject of Northlanders.

It was important to him that she grow more comfortable around him—only because it would aid his mission in negotiating a place for his people on these lands, he told himself firmly. It had naught to do with wanting to see Elisead’s eyes light up and a soft smile curve her rosy lips.

He fumbled for something to say to put her at ease once more, but she surprised him by going on unbidden.

“Needless to say, we were all very…distracted. But she taught me well in what little time we had.”

“And is it normal in this land for women to become great stone masons and travel the countryside? Is that what you will do some day?”

Unexpectedly, she erupted in laughter. The sound was like the most delicate waterfall. Alaric’s stomach twisted into a knot of heat.

“Oh, nay!” she said between giggles.

He couldn’t help but smile at her sudden merriment. “Is what I said so preposterous?”

“Aye, it is!” she blurted. At last she got her laughter under control. “Una was special, indeed. ’Tis very rare here for women to be allowed to become artists. But Una’s skill was undeniable.”

“Then yours must be, too, for your father encourages you to carve that enormous stone he sent with you.”

A shadow passed over her features, and yet again Alaric wondered what he’d said wrong. He turned fully toward her, laying a hand over hers to still her absent rubbing of the pebble there.

“I saw your work myself. I have never seen its equal.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Was it his imagination, or did he feel a tremble in her hand beneath his?

“It isn’t that I doubt myself, it is that…”

With her free hand, she tucked a lock of auburn hair behind one ear. “If my father had his way, I would never have learned how to carve. Now he sees it only as a way to advance our people through my marriage.”

“That is why he sent you with the stone—your gift to your future husband.”

She nodded, and the lock of hair, like polished copper, slipped free once more. “’Tis an honor to be able to carve such a work as that.”

Yet the way she said it, the task sounded more like a punishment.

“Come,” he said gently, intertwining their fingers. “You never explained just how you create such fine detail in that slab of rock.”

She blinked up at him, surprise floating in her eyes. “You wish to see the stone again?”

“I wish to learn more about your skill,” he corrected. The stone was a work of art, but it was the artist he was interested in.

Her hand in his, she let him lead her back toward the camp—though he carefully skirted the site of the burned bones. As they walked, he caught a glimpse of her brows knitting out of the corner of his eye.

“Is it normal in
your
land for women to become artists and travel the countryside?”

It was the first question she’d asked him about his homeland. Something swelled inside his chest at her curiosity.

“We don’t have many traveling artists, except for skalds—those who recite verses,” he said. “But you saw my sister Madrena. She is a fierce and greatly respected warrior. I doubt you’ve noticed her yet, but there is another shieldmaiden in my crew. She is a pupil of Madrena’s. She wished to become a warrior, and so she has.”

“And…and that is
allowed
?”

Alaric shrugged but didn’t release her hand. “Life is merciless in the Northlands. If someone possesses a particular skill or a desire to work hard and help our people, we accept it.”

Elisead seemed to puzzle over this for a long moment as they continued to weave their way back toward camp.

“Strange,” she said under her breath, and again, something expanded in his chest.

The camp was buzzing with activity in the cheery afternoon sun. While he and Elisead had been away, several of his crew had applied axes to the thin, young trees growing among their tents. Now the camp was more open, which meant it would be easier to keep watch for intruders or wild animals.

A few of the men were gone, likely hunting for fresh meat. Alaric would have to tell them what he’d learned about the animals and plants of these woods from Elisead when they returned.

As he led her toward her tent, he caught sight of Eyva, Madrena’s pupil, practicing her swordwork with her husband of a few moons, Tarr. He squeezed Elisead’s hand and nodded toward the two as if to prove his words about shieldmaidens earlier.

Elisead watched the two spar in slow motion for a long moment. Her hand relaxed in his. He still hadn’t learned what the extent of her knowledge about Northlanders was, but he could surmise by her soft, curious features and bright eyes that he was changing some of her ideas.

He turned to fasten the tent flap back for her, eager to learn more about her carving, but just then a whistle tore through the air.

Alaric tensed immediately. It was the signal for an approaching outsider.

Unthinking, he pushed Elisead into the tent and stepped in front of the open flap, hand gripping the hilt of the sword on his belt.

A movement in the denser forest beyond their little clearing on the shoreline caught his eye. Alaric partially drew his sword. Elisead gasped behind him in confusion.

A white-blond head emerged from the woods, attached to a young man Alaric guessed was close to Elisead in age.

He was dressed as the other Pict men—woolen tunic to his knees over trousers and leather boots, leather belt around his waist, and a brightly colored expanse of cloth thrown over his shoulders like a cloak despite the mild weather.

But his coloring was more like a Northlander. Even from this distance, Alaric could make out the man’s ice-blue eyes. His nigh white hair flashed blindingly in the sun as he stepped from the cover of the trees.

“I come with an invitation from Maelcon mac Lorcan,” the man said, though he spoke in Alaric’s native tongue.

“Feitr,” Alaric said by way of greeting.

The man seemed surprised that Alaric knew his name, but after the briefest pause, he continued forward. Alaric eased his blade back into its scabbard and dropped his hand, though he remained between Maelcon’s Northland slave and Elisead.

When Feitr reached him, Alaric noticed out of the corners of his eye that several of his crew had stopped what they were doing and watched the stranger. Some looked on suspiciously while others seemed surprised to hear their tongue spoken by the man.

“Maelcon wishes to speak with you again. He invites you to return to his fort with the man who accompanied you the first time—the dark one. And he wishes you to bring his daughter so that he can verify her wellbeing.”

Rúnin was suddenly standing behind Feitr. When the dark warrior’s shadow fell across Feitr, the pale man actually flinched slightly.

“And what of Madrena? How does she fare?” Rúnin asked, his voice a low threat.

“She is hale and hearty, I assure you,” Feitr said, turning slightly so that he was not pinned between Rúnin and Alaric, both of whom were a hand span taller than he was.

“She’d better be,” Rúnin bit out.

Alaric longed to echo Rúnin’s sentiments, but as the leader he had to maintain control of this situation. He glanced at the sun. It had already passed its zenith and was heading toward the distant mountains in the west.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said to Feitr. “Tell your master that we will be happy to meet with him tomorrow morn.”

At Feitr’s nod, Rúnin strode away, muttering under his breath. But instead of turning to deliver Alaric’s message, Feitr lingered in front of the tent for a moment.

“Do you need assistance in finding your way out of the camp?” Alaric asked Feitr sharply.

Suddenly Feitr leaned in and spoke only loud enough for Alaric’s ears.

“If you knew what was best for you, you’d leave now.”

Unease coiled in Alaric’s belly. Feitr had waited for Rúnin to leave, and he spoke in Alaric’s tongue so that Elisead, who still stood behind him within the tent, wouldn’t understand.

“What do you mean,
what is best for me
?” Alaric snapped, narrowing his eyes on Feitr.

“Sail now while you still can,” Feitr hissed. He darted a glance over his shoulder and noticed that some of Alaric’s crew still watched them.

He stepped back from Alaric abruptly and spun on his heels. As Alaric watched, Feitr stole into the woods, heading upriver toward the fortress.

“What did he say?” Elisead asked, drawing Alaric’s narrowed stare from Feitr’s back.

“We will visit your father’s fortress tomorrow morn,” Alaric said, forcing his voice to be level and his face smooth.

Her eyes widened hopefully at that, and Alaric was reminded that she wasn’t with him by choice. For some reason the thought soured his mood further.

“And the last part? What was Feitr muttering to you?”

Alaric shook his head, but then plastered a lighthearted expression on his features. “Naught. Only that he missed speaking in his native tongue and wished to extend the conversation.”

Elisead’s brows drew together but she nodded.

“Your explanations about your carving techniques will have to wait,” Alaric went on. “I must discuss tomorrow’s meeting with my crew.”

She nodded again, though he thought he caught a flash of disappointment in her eyes.

“You are free to move about the camp, though don’t go beyond the tree line,” he said, stepping away from the tent.

He forced down the desire to stay by her side as he walked between the smaller tents of his crew. Feitr didn’t pose an immediate threat. He was just one man against a camp of nigh forty Northland warriors.

But unease still laced through Alaric’s gut. Were Feitr’s words a threat? A warning? Was he plotting something? Or was Maelcon mac Lorcan?

Alaric barked Rúnin’s name. He needed to chew on Feitr’s words before sharing them with his friend, but he felt the sudden need to release the energy burning in his veins with a sparring match. Rúnin was one of the few who could hold his own against Alaric.

Rúnin partially drew his sword, but Alaric shook his head and unbuckled his scabbard from his hip. Rúnin followed his action, comprehending wordlessly that Alaric wished to spar with his bare hands.

As he took up a readied stance across from Rúnin, Alaric’s mind set to work on Feitr’s words. Whatever they meant, he swore by Odin that Elisead would come to no harm.