The Viking's Woman

  Morning came curiously to the sky. The reds and pinks of dawn did not become bright, but gray clouds crowded the heavens. Lightning bolted across the sky and thunder clapped with a deafening force.

  The Vikings were supposed to be a superstitious lot, or so Rhiannon had heard, refusing to sail if the cast of the runes was not right, looking to their gods against this sort of weather. But even as the dragon-prowed ship pitched against the rising, swirling waves, the red-bearded fellow nearest Rhiannon smiled at her reassuringly. “’Tis just Thor, perhaps, riding across the heavens, throwing down his thunderbolts.”

  “Aye,” agreed another, “for even the great Norse Thor weeps and laments with all good Christian man that the Ard-ri should pass from this world to the next.”

  Rhiannon tried to smile, but her lips were white and her stomach was churning fiercely.

  “Don’t fear, lady!” the red-bearded oarsman urged her. “We are the finest seamen alive!” he boasted.

  She did not fear sinking into the sea or being swallowed up by the blackness of it. Indeed, she might welcome such an event. That, at least, might move her husband, for Eric still stood at the prow, his arms crossed over his chest. No matter how fierce or wild the tempest of the sea, he boldly stood upon the deck of his ship, and his blue eyes were fixed upon the land that they approached, the land that seemed so very distant from her own.

  She stumbled to her feet, gripping the rail at last, and was violently sick. She wondered how the ship was still moving, for it seemed that every man upon it had come to witness her humiliation. “Lady, are you well?” “Take care the pitch and sway of the waves!” “By Odin and God above, have we lost her?”

  Mergwin, his eyes no longer filled with condemnation over the deceit she had played upon him, was then at her side. While men whispered that a violent sea could do such a thing, even to a seasoned sailor, Mergwin stared upon her with a knowing gaze. It was the growing babe that had caused her upset, and they both knew it.

  With a cloth dampened by fresh water, he cleaned her face, then offered her a drink. She closed her eyes and leaned against him, accepting his ministrations and finding a curious comfort in his ancient arms. She wished that she could touch his weathered cheek and tell him thank you, beg his forgiveness, and confess that she was indeed coming to love him.

  But when she opened her eyes, she saw that Eric was standing there, towering before her, his eyes as sharp as a whip, his hands upon his hips, his muscular legs still riding the rise and swell and tempest as easily as he rode a war-horse. A dark blush stained her cheeks and she folded her lips tightly together.

  “She is all right!” he called to his men. He didn’t need to say more; they all returned to their positions, and she was left there at the bow, in the shelter of Mergwin’s arms, beneath his condemning stare.

  “They thought that perhaps you had been about to pitch yourself overboard. I wondered that myself for a moment,” he said.

  She tried to rise from Mergwin’s shoulder but could not. She swallowed tightly. “Alas, sir, you do distress me, but not enough that I would go against God’s commandments!”

  His jaw tightened, and she saw a pulse tick furiously at his throat. “’Tis good to know I have not driven you to the sea, milady.” He bowed mockingly. “My deepest regrets, lady. I had not realized you would be so poor a sailor.”

  He returned to his vigil at the prow. She nearly lashed out that she was a wonderful sailor, that it was his fault, that there was a babe inside making her so wretchedly ill. But she clamped down hard on her lips and did not speak. When she looked at Mergwin, his mysterious gray eyes were upon her, but he did not question or condemn her. “This is a rough time for him,” Mergwin told her. “For all of us. You do not know the Ard-ri.”

  Mergwin loved the dying high king, too, she thought. But she said wearily, “All times seem to be rough these days, don’t they?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “There will be sorrow, but you will find happiness here, you will see.”

  “I shall not be here that long,” Rhiannon said. Mergwin started to speak, paused, then shook his head. She touched his knee. “Mergwin, I shall not be here that long. It isn’t—it isn’t my home, don’t you understand? It is his, never mine. I mean no insult, but here, everyone will be different ….”

  He leaned back and his eyes fell closed, and for a minute she was afraid, for he seemed so very old and fragile himself. Then he sighed wearily. “There will be war,” he said softly, and then no more, and she wasn’t at all sure of what he meant.

  The threatened rain never fell. The sky and the sea continued to roil and churn with black clouds and fierce wind, but rain never fell. The darkness was still all around them when Rhiannon first saw the rugged coastline of Ireland. She stared at the land, alien and seemingly threatening in the wild grayness that prevailed. Then they entered into the river that would lead them to Dubhlain, and she watched everything around her for what she could see. There was beauty in Ireland—stark, green beauty as the land bowed to the heavens. Much of the land was barren, some of it fascinating, and all curiously familiar, much of it like home. Subtly different, though. For the meadows endlessly stretched out from the cliffs, in truly emerald hues. Fluffy white sheep grazed in the fields.

  In time the walls of Dubhlain rose before them. Rhiannon was amazed at the work in stone, at the splendor, at the strength of the walls, rising white against the darkness. And even as the ships found their berths upon the river she saw the crowds awaiting them upon the shore. Mergwin helped her to rise. For now, it seemed, Eric had forgotten her. He had stepped ashore all ready.

  Rhiannon paused, her heart pounding, as she saw a woman break away from the crowd. Her hair was as black as the night, sweeping free to her waist, and she was as lithe and slender as a young doe. She came racing forward, calling Eric’s name.

  Rhiannon froze, swallowing tightly, thinking she had never hated him with more vigor. Why had he brought her here? To witness his tender reunions with an Irish mistress? She wanted to be sick all over again. The woman greeted him with such care, such tenderness, and even in the shadows she was so very beautiful. And when she was not hugging him, she was speaking earnestly with him.

  “Rhiannon, come,” Mergwin urged her.

  “I … can’t!” she whispered. Then she froze, for Eric had turned back to her at last, and he came back aboard the vessel and to her side. Before she could protest, he had taken her arm and was dragging her forward, and then he swept her into his arms to set her firmly upon the Irish shore—and before the dark-haired woman. “Rhiannon, this is Erin of Dubhlain; Mother, Rhiannon, my wife.”

  The woman with the ebony hair smiled, and seeing her up close, Rhiannon realized that she was not a young woman, although she seemed ageless. Her eyes were a dazzling emerald green, her smile infectious. “Rhiannon, welcome. This is a sad time for us, but anything we can do for you we will. We Irish are famed for our hospitality, you know. This is my son’s home and therefore yours, so all within it is utterly at your disposal.” She squeezed Rhiannon’s hands, then flashed her beautiful smile to her son. “Eric! She is lovely beyond measure, and I daresay, you don’t deserve her one small whit. But come now, please. I am afraid to be away too long.”

  But they did not leave the ships so quickly. Erin of Dubhlain saw Mergwin waiting silently behind her. Not a word passed between them, but she went into the old man’s arms, and there they hugged each other in silence as time slipped by. When they parted, Erin’s eyes were damp with tears, but she took Rhiannon’s hand and smiled again, and Rhiannon spoke softly and quickly, trying not to stumble over the Irish language she had so seldom used. “My lady, I am so very sorry to have come at such a time. Your father is clearly a well-beloved man and king, and my prayers are with him and with you.”

  “Thank you,” Erin said. She continued to hold Rhiannon’s hand, leading the way past the walls to a manor built also of stone, huge and impressive. There were paths against the walls of the t
own where people could step and avoid the mud and manure of the open ground. The wooden walks were amazing, like nothing Rhiannon had ever seen before in England or in Wales.

  “It was here that he collapsed,” Erin was explaining softly to her son. “I know many thought that I should have returned him to Tara to die, but I was desperate to gather my brother and sisters, and father’s grandchildren. He sleeps and he wakes; he has good moments and bad. He knows that he is leaving, and he often speaks his will. I could not risk his death upon the road.”

  Eric replied that his mother had been right. Rhiannon felt like an intruder, but Erin’s hand remained firm upon hers, and Rhiannon followed along. When they entered the manor, they came upon a huge, great hall, and it seemed that there were at least a hundred people gathered within it. They gave way as Erin entered. In the center of the room they came to a bed covered in embroidered linen. Within it lay a very old man with snow-white hair and a completely weathered face. His eyes were closed. Erin paused, and Eric stepped forward quickly, falling to his knees, taking the old man’s long, thin hands into his own. Rhiannon noted dimly that there was a nun on the other side of the bed, her head bowed deeply in prayer. And then Rhiannon started, for at the head of the bed stood a man so like Eric that he could only be Olaf the White of the House of Vestfald of Norway, King of Dubhlain, and Eric’s father.

  Time had trod gently with this man, as with his wife. His golden hair had touches of white, but he stood as tall as his son, with endlessly broad shoulders and handsome, striking features. His eyes were the shocking, piercing blue Eric had inherited. They fell upon Rhiannon, and for a moment she could not breathe. Like his son’s, they offered no apology but studied her keenly. Then his mouth twisted into a small smile and he nodded, and she knew that he had determined her identity and was welcoming her. Her heart fluttered suddenly, for it was that same smile upon Eric’s face that had captured her senses and, upon occasion, her heart.

  There were many others within the room. At the Ard-ri’s feet was a tall man with dark hair and shadowed green eyes who resembled Erin, except that he seemed much older. Beside him was another dark-haired man, but his eyes were blue and his features akin to her own husband’s. All across the room there were men and women, striking brunettes, Celtic blonds, and all shades in between, and it suddenly occurred to Rhiannon that everyone within the room was a relation, in one way or another, of the Ard-ri.

  She began to hear Latin chants and realized that they had all come to pray. There was a priest far beyond the Ard-ri’s bed, and his words droned on and on. Then there was silence, and then a shuffling, as many of the people left the room. There were a few soft sobs and the sniffling of children, and then it seemed that things were very quiet again.

  Then the Ard-ri opened his eyes and a smile touched his features. He didn’t try to sit up. He glanced down to the foot of the bed, and then he glanced up at the Viking King of Dubhlain. His voice was soft but very assured. “Olaf, you are here.”

  “Aye, Aed Finnlaith. Always.”

  “He has been as good a son as any, eh, Niall?” he asked the man at the foot of his bed.

  “Aye, Father. As he has been my brother.”

  The old man then glanced at Eric. “A wolf like your sire, Grandson. Eric, you have come! You will not leave me now. You will not leave Ireland just yet.” He winced suddenly with pain, and Erin bit down upon her hand as just the whisper of a sound escaped her. The Ard-ri closed his eyes and spoke again. “God help us, for the kings will go to war! The peace I have sought all of these years is such a fragile thing! ’Tis not the law that the High Kingship should go to Niall because he is my son but because no man is more qualified. All of these years, Olaf, I have been strong because you have been beside me. By God, I pray you stand by my son!”

  “Aed, by the oath that bound us years ago,” Olaf assured the Ard-ri, “rest now with peace. The walls of Dubhlain will ever be Niall’s fortress. My sons, your grandsons, will ever be the great sword you claim we have been. Indeed, Aed, my father, I am your son.”

  The Ard-ri’s eyes opened again, and they seemed to be glazed with tears. Then they fell shut. Moments later they opened again. They were heavy with pain now.

  And they were on Rhiannon. The Ard-ri freed a hand from Eric and reached it out to her. Startled, Rhiannon moistened her lips and looked uncertainly at Erin.

  “Please!” Erin whispered.

  Rhiannon stepped forward. The Ard-ri’s fingers closed upon hers with a startling strength. “Forgive me!” he whispered heatedly. “Forgive me, forgive me. I loved you then as always, so fiercely!” Clearly, he thought she was someone else, Rhiannon thought, but who?

  A silence fell then. Frightened, Rhiannon held still, staring down at the man with the glazed eyes. “By God, I loved no one more! But there was always the land, you see. And the fight. I had to do what I did.” He paused, bringing her hand together with Eric’s. Rhiannon wanted to shriek and pull away, but she caught her husband’s sharp blue gaze upon her with its raw command. She did not move, she could scarcely breathe, and then the Ard-ri continued, tearing into her heart, seeing things that no one should have seen. “I knew the man, you see, the things a maiden could not know. I knew his strength, and I prayed fiercely that you would forgive me. I prayed that you would love him, that time would tell, that days together would bring peace. It was for Ireland, you understand. Tell me, child, that you forgive me!”

  Stunned speechless, Rhiannon felt tears stinging hot behind her lashes as she stared into the haunting and anxious gaze of the dying man. Eric’s grip tightened upon her hand until she thought she would scream. Then Eric was whispering to her harshly, “Tell him! Damn you, woman, tell him what he wishes to hear!”

  “I forgive you!” she cried out. She freed her hand and touched the old man’s cheek, and suddenly her tears were falling down her cheeks and she was saying the things she was certain he wanted to hear. “Of course I forgive you. I love you. And everything you thought was true, and all is fine now—you cannot imagine how fine—and you must rest, and know that I love you and that everything is forgiven you, and there has never been such a king ….”

  His eyes had fallen shut again. Erin, pale, was at her side. “Bless you, child!” she said softly, then pleaded to her son, “Eric, take your bride to her room, then come back. They do not believe that he will last the night.”

  “As you wish, Mother,” Eric said. He brought her hands to his lips, then took Rhiannon’s elbow and led her from the room with strides so long, she could barely follow. He hadn’t a word to say to her as he led her through the magnificent stone residence, up a flight of stairs, and along a long corridor. They turned at a second hallway and moved left, then Eric thrust open a door and urged her inside. Rhiannon nearly flew past him, came to the center of the room, and then paused. It was every inch a man’s room—Eric’s room. The carved wood bed was enormous, like a massive sleigh. The trunks in the room were heavy, and the tapestries that protected the walls depicted scenes of war and triumph. Fine wood tables offered drinking horns and a heavy pitcher and bowl for washing. The fireplace was on the far side of the room, and before it lay a huge, heavy rug that had once been a tremendous white bear. Furs also lay strewn over the bed, and upon the walls were mounted various weapons, an intricately etched sword, a large bow, several pikes, and a shield with the insignia of the wolf.

  She ceased looking about the room and gazed back at Eric, startled to find him staring at her intently.

  “What—what was your grandfather saying to me?” she whispered. “Whom did he think I was?”

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t really time to talk now,” Eric said curtly. “The manor is well staffed. Someone will come to you soon with food and drink and anything that you require.” He still stared at her, and she shivered. He did not seem so cold now but distant, and she realized suddenly that he was suffering but that he would never betray it. She wanted to reach out to him.

  He had dragged her here. He care
d nothing for her, or for her feelings. He cared only that she obey, that he speak and she jump to his commands.

  She turned away, tears again spilling from her eyes. She could not love him! She could not be so great a fool, nor could she cast aside pride so very easily. He used her constantly. He menaced her with his strength. She would not give him anything, not even sympathy. “I shall be fine,” she told him stiffly.

  Still he did not leave. Then, moments later, she heard the door open and close.

  She sat down on the bed and sobbed, and she didn’t know if she cried for herself, for Eric, for Erin, for the Ard-ri, or perhaps for all of Ireland.

  In time her tears dried. A girl named Grendal came to the door with a rich stew and warm mead. The girl assured her that a bath would not be difficult, and many lads came with a fine carved tub and buckets of water, and just as efficiently they removed the tub when she was done and dressed in a new bed gown of finely embroidered Irish linen. Grendal quietly left her be then, and Rhiannon crawled into the massive bed with all the furs and slept.

  Sometime later Rhiannon awoke but did not know why. Then she realized that she was not alone in the room. Eric sat before the fire, his legs outstretched before it, his golden head heavy between his two hands. The fire snapped and crackled, but no sound came from the man. Rhiannon sat up and paused, and she reminded herself that he had been cold and brutal in the extreme about her coming here, but then she rose, anyway, remembering the whispers of the lover he had been at the stream. She could despise him, but there was something binding them together. She rose and found the mead and brought him a horn of it. She knelt upon one knee at his side to offer the drink to him. Startled, he turned to her. He took the mead, watching her warily. “What is it that you want now, Rhiannon?”

  She started, moving back from him. “That I want?” she repeated.