Viking Fire (8 page)

He had control again. He leaned on the staff and then hobbled to the shelf along the wall in front of his bed. He grasped the stone pitcher of water and carried the water back to the crumpled man across his floor. He doused the unconscious man with water, and he came to, sputtering and groaning. He rubbed his jaw, eyeing Bram warily.

Bram placed the empty pitcher on the floor away from the man’s reach and then stepped forward.

The servant flinched.

“If you hurt another woman,” he smiled, but knew his eyes spoke the truth of his fury, “I will finish you.”

“You mistake me for someone else, my lord.” Owen held out his hands.

“The serving wench,” Bram ran a hand through his blond hair, wanting to ring this man’s neck. “The one with cut lip and black eye? She is your wife?”

The man’s pear-shaped face changed from shock to calm within moments. He grinned, but then took two steps back seeing Bram’s blue glare. “I know where the mistake is now. Always she is clumsy. Yesterday, she fell down stairs. They can be unforgiving.”

Bram grated his teeth. “Bruises like that do not come from stairs, they come from a fist.” He took three strides forward. Concealed his pain with what he hoped was a snarl of anger.

He tapped the staff against his palm, staring into the other man’s eyes. “Do you know of the blood eagle?”

“An e-eagle sir?” Sweat beaded across the other man’s forehead.

“Many say ’tis a myth, but ’tis as real as both of us.” The slapping of the staff echoed. “Many Norsemen refuse to tell a foreigner of how ’tis done.” For effect he held the staff with both hands. Then dropped one hand, he whirled the staff straight and hit end against the stone floor.

The man jumped, his gaze locked on the staff.

“But I will tell you of the blood eagle, so you know I speak truth. The blood eagle is a slow death.” Each word vibrated through the chamber. He wanted every word understood. “First, strap a man to a tree, his back exposed. Then the knife cuts him along here.” He used his free hand to jerk quick motions along his back. “Then the ribs are broke open to reveal the lungs.

“With each breath you are in agony. With each breath your lungs cover in blood. Like an eagle’s wings they flutter, until you die.” He leaned forward. “Harm your wife, or any other woman,” his stare locked into the other man’s frightened eyes, “and I will carve you into a blood eagle.”

Owen blubbered apologies.

But Bram glared at him and the servant snapped his mouth shut.

Then Elva swung open the door, a basket full of linens and medicinal herbs in her arms.

At the intrusion the servant crouched in a corner.

“Are you done with Owen, sir?” she asked sweetly.

Bram nodded leaning on the staff.

She held the door open as Owen crawled by. “And mind your manners. Lucky for you, your wife refused to allow Sir Bram to kill you this time.” She closed the door and then faced her charge. “Well, off with your tunic. I do not have all night while you gape at me.”

• • •

Kaireen’s shoulders slumped as she continued to scrub the kettle. Her annoyance had long been replaced with anger gnawing at her stomach. Inside the kettle she sneezed; the sound echoed through her ears. She longed to crawl into her bed and never wake again.

She thought she heard a rhythmic thump in the distance. She ignored it. Probably it was the cook coming to give her another list of tasks to finish.

Kaireen quickened her pace scrubbing, so the woman would think she worked hard enough. But she doubted the cook ever got her hands dirty with cleaning or scrubbing this infuriating kettle.

At least Kaireen had finished all of the other chores, save this one. She had cleaned everything else. Her eyes and hands burned from the lye soap.

Now, this kettle refused to cooperate. She scraped the sides with the metal spoon. The handle engraved marks into her palms.

“Are you trying to make the pot sorry that it met you?” Bram said.

Kaireen jumped and banged her head against the side. Rubbing the back of her head, she eased out the rest of the way.

With a grin, he leaned forward, his hand outstretched.

She glared at him and scooted back.

Instead of arguing, he nodded. Then he balanced with the staff until he sat on the stone floor with her.

She smelled the aroma of Elva’s healing herbs on him. Myrrh, hyssop, pine, and strong wine radiated through the air.

“I have work to do, sir. So if you please, take leave.” The memory of his kiss angered her. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, smearing dried stew there. She saw his quick smile and huffed. “If you have come to laugh at me, then have your fill now and leave.” She squared her shoulders refusing to budge.

“Why do I anger you so?” His voice was gentle.

Her thoughts drifted of her sister’s laments of her husband who lingered into other women’s bedchambers crawled through her mind. How would Bram be any different? His kind raped and pillaged for amusement. “Your affairs,” the word tasted bitter on her tongue, “are no concern of mine. You may love whomever you wish. Only leave me alone and this ridiculous idea of us marrying.”

“I will have you trust me if we are to marry.”

“I will not marry you. I told you afore.”

He ran his fingers through his blond hair. “I have always told you the truth.” His dimple vanished when he frowned. “And I will forever do so.”

She glanced away, but his fingers lifted her chin until their eyes met.

“I have no interest in any other woman.” His thumb brushed across her lips. “Since you crossed my path.”

She rolled her eyes, and jerked her head away from his touch.

“’Tis true.” His voice sent shivers down her spine. “And you will feel the truth of my words.” He leaned forward, and then caressed her lips with his.

She did not succumb to the heat spreading through her. Instead she clenched her fists.

His nibbling on her lips drove her to madness. She thought about punching him.

He pushed back and winked. “Our marriage night will chase away your lack of belief.”

“I have told you, we will have no wedding or marriage.” Perhaps she could get Rebecca to play proxy for her. She would have to convince them both that it was not by proxy afterwards.

She could run away. There were enough jewels in her possession to pay for a journey to Scotland and a small cottage with a few servants at least.

“Aye.” He chuckled and used the staff to stand. “You will believe come the morning after.” With a slight bow of his head, he turned to leave.

Her mouth worked but no sound came as he limped out of the kitchens. Aye, Bram was dangerous.

The Lochlann would cause trouble,
Feoras thought as he cut the roasted duck on his trencher. The high table stretched before him, Bearach at his father’s right hand, and he on his father’s left.

His spy heard rumors in her circles with the Lady Liannon. The Lochlann rushed his men from across the seas to work on Kaireen’s holding. They would arrive after the wedding feast.

No doubt, Feoras and his men must strike before this. Otherwise a score or more warriors would descend upon the O’Neill clan, swaying the battle in Bram’s favor. The less men, especially Vikings, that the Liannon clan had on their side the better his outcome.

Battles never succeed exactly as planned. Feoras hoped to renew the bitter resentment of his clan against the Liannon’s. Pity his father wanted peace and had worked so long to grasp its slippery garment.

Feoras’ marrow boiled to rule both clans. His mother told him that although the younger son, he would accomplish great things.

Did not Jacob from the bible surpass his elder brother? She had asked when he questioned her. Would not Abel have the inheritance if he had slain his brother first?

Kaireen. How he hated the chit. This clan rejuvenation of unity was her fault. Women must be taught their place, lower than man and chattel, lower than slugs, which oozed from underneath his boots in the morning. Kaireen dared to fight with the men as though she were equal. She would be shown her place soon enough.

Resentment festered in his blood at the sight of her waving his father’s sword at the Lochlann enemy. And the memory of her arrows shooting through the air turned his bowels.

He gulped his wine to quench his dry mouth. When he won the battle, he longed to smell her blood, in its pungent metallic aroma. Her defiant blood.

If he were given a moment alone with her after the battle days ago, she would have begged for death.

As though it were Kaireen in his hands, he tore pieces from the turkey leg. He stuffed the pieces in his mouth, his eyes rolling into his head at the pleasure of wishing this so.

For touching the weapons, he would rip her arms from their sockets. For speaking against him in front of his father he would carve out her tongue.

“Another leg of turkey, Feoras?” His father broke his concentration and he wrestled with not displaying his anger. “No father, ’tis enough for me here.”

“We were wondering,” Bearach added.

Always his brother had to contribute to anything his father said. As though he feared their father would forget his first born and allow Feoras to usurp his position. “We must compliment the cook, Feoras.” He grinned. “For I have never seen you enjoy your food as much as now. But I have a liking for my meal as long as ’tis not alive.” He patted his stomach and the others at the table laughed.

“We will see, brother,” Feoras whispered during their joking. “Who is the victor of the battle.”

“Wench!” Bearach bellowed, addressing their servant. “Tell the cook she has Feoras’ heart through her cooking. Does she have need of a husband?”

“No.” Feoras clenched his teeth. “She be too fair for me.”

Men pounded their fists on the table. The serving wench laughed with them and then spun on her heel to the kitchens.

Moments later, the hunchbacked cook entered. Time and labor molded her back to its humped shape. Her blush was nauseating. She was thin, but her hands and feet swelled like they belonged to his brother and not a woman.

“Dance with her.” The crowd cheered.

Tables scooted across the great hall, making room for the musicians and dancing.

He was in no mood for either. But his mother’s words often filtered through his mind in times like these. “A laird must make his clan content, occasionally at his own expense. Do your duty once and they will remember you. Neglect it, and they will remember you not on the battlefield.”

With a wink, he stood and then turned away from the high table. He approached the cook, and then offered his hand.

The cook reddened, but accepted his offer. Her hands felt as they looked, like greasy bloated meat. Instead of his grimace, he donned a grin.

As the musicians played, he swirled her round the room. Because of her bent back, her head met his stomach. For effect, he bent and then kissed her forehead. She swooned in his arms.

When the first song ended, the crowd whooped their approval. He should have ended it there. But he had not forgiven his brother’s ridicule.

“Since this maid is so fair,” he addressed the crowd. “All I have for her is…”

Baited, the crowd roared. But he waited until their attention was upon him again. The musicians ceased their playing. The men leaned forward to hear.

“I give her only what I can, another dance.”

The music jerked into another song, and Feoras twirled the cook around the room.

“I fear they mock you and I,” he whispered to her.

Never anger a cook, his mother had told him. For they might remove an offender with poisons, if they so choose.

“No worry.” She smelled of pungent meat when she spoke. “Best time I have had since I was a young thing.”

He nodded instead of commenting, because he doubted he could stomach another whiff of her breath.

At the end of the second song, she panted.

“At last fair maid.” He swept into a bow. “You have put my dancing to shame with yours.”

His brother and father were in conversation at the high table as though their interest in his affairs had already waned.

She giggled and curtsied back.

With a nod, he strutted away and then headed back to the high table. His plate and goblet were full. But eating now would keep him awake all night. He needed his strength for the upcoming battle with the Liannon clan.

Instead of eating, he tossed his turkey leg to the dogs. Then he swigged the wine in hopes his headache would ease.

How dare they mock him in front of everyone. Well, soon his father and brother would pay. Without a word, he bowed his head to his father. But his father did not respond. Infuriated, Feoras tugged on his wool cloak and then hiked to the gate tower.

Outside, his cloak caught the wind and billowed behind him. His boots hit the groove of the well-worn path to the gate tower. Days ago, his spy within the Liannon clan had sent word after seeing his father’s sword in that abomination’s hands. He climbed the tower steps, eager for the peace offered inside.

This was his refuge when his mother had been driven away. It was here he saw her face for the last time through the tower’s south window.

Elias, his manservant, slept in this tower. Though missing his teeth and eyes, his ears heard the change of color on the autumn leaves.

When Feoras opened the wooden door, Elias snapped to attention. Before a word was spoken, he bowed.

“Leave me.”

Elias jumped, apparently sensing his mood. In no need of prodding, he rushed away, closing the door behind him.

At last, Feoras was alone. His shoulders relaxed at hearing the bolt slide into place.

He moved to the window kicking, aside dusty bowls. Elias liked rats. Fed them from his hand. Filthy creatures, and they knew to hide when Feoras entered.

He gazed across the Irish landscape. Dusk had settled, casting the last golden glow on the oak, spruce, and ash trees. The whole land stretched before him as though in supplication before him.

His hands clenched. He missed his mother so, but she willed him to be strong. And so he would be.