Читать книгу Lady Of The Lake - Elizabeth Mayne - Страница 10

The day’s heat refused to dissipate until the sun sank within a handspan of the horizon. A soft breeze off the river gently cooled Tala ap Griffin on her walk to the top of Warwick Hill. The fine red glow of the setting sun made it easy for her to slip unnoticed through Warwick’s open gates and approach the stalwart keep. Her hair and her mother’s scarlet cloak simply melted into the vibrant colors of the dwindling light, making any spell for invisibility redundant. She had no need to cloak herself magically when the dwindling light accomplished all. Inside the wood palisade, a commotion drew the curious to the fortress’s communal well.

Curiously, most of the Vikings had gone inside their huts and houses. It was the time of day when their noses led them to steaming pots and fragrant haunches of sizzling venison and pork. Those that lingered in the ward paid no attention to her as she quietly approached the keep and slipped inside.

No dogs barked a warning, no shouts broke the stillness that had come over the land when the cooling breeze lifted off the river. Nothing living took any notice of Tala ap Griffin until she reached the topmost step inside the fortress and came face-to-face with a wolf.

Distracted by the beauty of the setting sun, Edon turned his attention from his crowded table to the wide window aperture gracing his hall. Sundown had come.

He noted the time somberly as he sighed deeply. Come the rising, he would have to go looking for the spies in the oak. He could not allow his authority to be challenged, not even by Warwick’s curious children, else he would not be respected in his own shire.

Sarina’s throaty growl brought Edon’s attention back to the present. At the top of the stairs stood a woman in an exquisite white gown, sheltered by the increasing shadows and a long, flowing scarlet cape. She held herself so completely still in the increasing darkness that Edon almost believed the beautiful woman was an apparition—a vision solely in his mind. He caught his breath, thinking that she could have stood there forever unnoticed by everyone in his hall.

Only Sarina inched toward her, her hackles lifting, her growl a soft warning to Edon’s sharp ears. The woman had eyes for only one thing—the wolfhound coming to the end of her leash.

Edon inhaled deeply of the charged air in his hall and discerned that curiosity was the overriding emotion exchanged between the woman and the wolfhound.

Smiling a welcome for the beautiful woman, Edon came to his feet, lifting one hand to Sarina in a command to halt. Edon’s motion alerted Embla. She started and looked around, then lunged to her feet, upsetting the balance of intrigue between the woman, the wolfhound and Edon.

“Seize her!” Embla shouted.

The newcomer was obviously not a welcome sight to any of Embla’s guards. All six of her Vikings lurched to their feet, bumping their neighbors’ elbows as they drew swords from their scabbards. Embla moved hastily, tipping her goblet and spilling wine across the table.

“Seize her, I said!” the Viking woman screamed.

Edon’s hand clamped onto his niece’s wrist, slamming her sword back home where it belonged. “You overstep yourself, wife of Harald Jorgensson. We are in my hall, at my board. Here the rules of hospitality are more sacred than all the gods in Asgard.”

Tala tore her gaze from the wolf to the black-haired Viking jarl. He spoke without raising his voice, but the authority in his command fixed Embla to marble. Tala had never seen or heard the woman crossed before. Her eyes glowed with venom; her body tightened like a snake poised to strike.

Embla found her voice, recovering as she spun around and confronted the jarl in a shrill voice. “You would allow a Mercian witch to enter your hall? A witch who has tainted Warwick’s wells? She’s come to gloat! She will curse you and steal your soul, suck the breath from your mouth and blood from your heart. Banish her, Lord Edon. You know not what evil you allow.”

“My word, all of that?” Edon undercut Embla’s venom, halving it with an amused chuckle as his gaze returned to the beautiful lady. He envisioned that lovely mouth sucking the breath from his mouth and found the idea appealing.

Sarina crept closer, sniffing at the woman’s trailing scarlet mantle, lifting her nose as Edon did, searching the wind for the newcomer’s scent. Edon considered the lady’s face and white throat and the firm press of her lush bosom against an elegantly crafted tunic.

Two gilded brooches held the separate cloths fastened at her shoulders. A fine gold girdle rested at the peaks of her hipbones, bringing the sheer white linen to a narrow tuck that widened across her hips and fell in graceful folds to her ankles. A jeweled diadem circled her brow and held a wealth of flaming curls away from her face.

Thus far, Embla’s vitriolic attack had only made the stranger smile. And a beautiful smile that was, Edon thought, full of promise and mystery. He allowed his gaze to linger a moment longer on the lovely oval of her face before turning to Embla’s restive guards and commanding them to put down their arms.

“The lady bears no weapons on her person. Sit down and be civil, else you will be evicted from my hall. Rig, bring my visitor to the table and make her welcome. Eloya was wise enough to order a setting prepared for her.”

“I will not eat of the same food that is served to a Mercian,” Embla hissed bitterly.

“Then you will likely starve before our eyes in this hall tonight, Lady Embla. If it so pains you, you may leave and sup in your own hall.” Edon dismissed her, satisfied that Rig had moved to the newcomer’s side and no harm would befall the beautiful lady should Embla choose to leave in anger.

“I see that blood means nothing to you,” the Viking woman sneered.

“On the contrary, wife of my nephew,” Edon said with telling candor. “Blood means everything to me.”

Embla blanched. Her pale lips tightened and her chin jutted out in fury. Edon saw no gain in allowing Embla to think she retained any power now that he’d returned to his shire.

He was not ready to condemn her for the murder of his nephew, but he had his suspicions. So did his brother, Guthrum. Nor would Edon tolerate any direct challenge from her. Best she learn that now.

“Will we be killed in our beds?” Rebecca murmured fearfully from the near side of the table.

“No, we will not,” Edon said resolutely.

Theo turned to distract Rebecca from the commotion of Embla’s exit with her six foul-tempered guards. The newborn’s mewling became a soft undercurrent punctuating Sarina’s throaty growl.

The growling continued until Embla was gone from sight.

Edon realized that it was Harald’s wife the wolfhound took such great exception to, not the Mercian newcomer. He started to settle back into his chair, then realized that the newcomer had yet to take a seat. She had paused to greet Sarina and to speak to the two thralls manning the wine casket. Granted, they were only children that Eloya had selected from the compound, but Edon took umbrage that the woman chose to acknowledge anyone before she had made proper abeyance to him.

Blind Theo turned from soothing his wife and small son, chuckling, “So it begins, Lord Wolf.”

Ever quick to sense any change in Edon’s mercurial temper, Lady Eloya cast a knowing smile his direction. Then she did the unthinkable, speaking out in her clear contralto, in well-practiced Saxon. “Princess, Lord Edon feels ignored.”

Tala turned about so quickly she startled the thralls. Another blotch of wine splattered on the unvarnished floor. Sarina rose to her feet and ambled to the stain, sniffing it noisily.

As she gave ground to the wolfhound, Tala found herself the censure of all eyes. She didn’t know which was worse—standing still for a wolf to come close enough to devour her or confronting the dark Viking’s unfathomable eyes. Frissons of heat skittered over her neck, pebbling the skin on her arms as she turned around to face him. It was the same feeling that had overcome her that afternoon when he’d spied her in King Offa’s oak.

“Why did you call me ‘princess’?” She addressed the women at the table, not knowing which of the ladies present had spoken to her.

A very beautiful lady at the far end of the boards deigned to reply. “Because Lord Edon’s oracle, my husband, Theo the Greek, told us we would have a true princess dine at our table our first night in Warwick. We are in Warwick and you are the only visitor that has come to the hall.”

“Ergo, you are the princess.” Edon finished the theorem with simple logic. He saw no reason to add the dictum that the gold torque encircling her neck also proved the theorem valid. He came to Rig’s side and took hold of the woman’s hand. Her fingers were warm and moist, pale against his sun-browned skin.

“I am honored to be given such rank,” Tala replied. She dipped in a proper bow of respect to the lord and all of his guests at the table. “Forgive my interruption of your meal, but I was ordered to present myself at sunset.”

Edon blinked in surprise. This beauty standing before him was the bare-limbed nymph in the oak? He shook his head in denial. “You are not the girl I saw hiding in the oak.”

“And you said you never forgot a face.” She delighted him with a playful smile. “‘Haps I should have disobeyed your command and tested your memory, as well as your eyes.”

Edon looked closer, admiring the neatly tamed curls held by a net to her diadem. Her fair skin was kissed by the sun, warm and glowing. Wispy red curls escaped at her temple and brow.

“I did not command that you come alone,” Edon responded tersely. He felt slightly chilled at the idea of her facing Embla’s animosity unprotected.

“I did not say I came alone.” Tala chose her words carefully. “It is no matter at the present. You have ample swordsmen and warriors at your table to protect many ladies, be they princesses or not.”

Edon deliberately let his gaze move to the empty stairs. “Then summon the boy. He will sup with us as well.”

“What boy? I know no boys, lord.”

So she would spar words with him, would she? Did she think his eyes were as sightless as Theo’s? Edon motioned to Rig. “Have you discovered the princess’s name?”

A handsome smile lightened the planes of Rig’s lean cheeks. “Indeed I have, Edon. May I present Tala ap Griffin? Princess, this wolf in fine clothing is Edon Halfdansson, Jarl of Warwick.”

The dancing amber lights in the princess’s eyes dimmed slightly, as if she’d suddenly recalled a sobering thought. She removed her hand from Edon’s. “You are brother to Guthrum and son of Halfdan, late king of the Danelaw?”

“Guilty as charged,” Edon answered. He drew back the seat beside his own and placing his hand firmly at the small of her back, guided her to it. She stiffened at his touch, declining to take the seat immediately. By doing so, she wrested control of his hall from his hand. If she would not sit, he could not. If he did not sit, the food would grow cold and no one could eat.

“What ill do you bear my late father?” Edon asked, playing her game momentarily. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. His hand warmed to the sweet curve at the small of her back. “Halfdan has been gone to Asgard a score and five years. You are not old enough to have been ravished by him, and I know for a fact he did not venture this far south of the security of York.”

“Perhaps I am not from the south,” Tala countered.

“Ah, but you are, Princess. You are a royal Leamurian. The torque at your throat proclaims you that. Embla bears you great ill and openly calls you a witch. Has she reasons for her animosity, valid ones?” Edon asked silkily.

He allowed his hand to move slowly up the delightful curve of her spine, enjoying the way she pressed back into his hand, seeking a distance he wouldn’t allow. He smiled deliberately, as if to ask who is in control now?

“Embla Silver Throat is well-known for her malice.” Tala couldn’t take her eyes from his. “She spreads it about her indifferently, sparing no one.”

“She empowers you with the cunning of a witch.”

Tala’s laugh at that bald charge echoed into the high ceiling of Edon’s hall. “Aye, so she does.”

“You do not deny the charge?”

“To what purpose? Vikings are known for their stupidity and superstitious ways. Both run hand in hand with brute force. Embla has mastered all there is to learn of that.”

“Now you try to provoke me. Sit down, Tala ap Griffin. The food grows cold and others in this chamber want to have their bellies filled before the moon rises. Mind the insults you levy, lest you find there are no stupid Vikings at my table.”

That the warning bore a truth was as evident as the deep cleft in the jarl of Warwick’s handsome chin. Tala gave in to his command and took the seat beside him. Sitting allowed her some measure of relief, as he removed his possessive hand. But the imprint remained like a brand from a hot iron, tormenting her.

A servant hastily cleared away Embla’s spilled goblet, whisking clean linen and gold plate in its place before Tala. She squirmed on the hard chair, tearing her gaze from Eden’s face to look at the people at his table. Her palms grazed the lovely carved wood at her hips as she adjusted the chair closer to the table.

Edon watched her fingers unconsciously caress the carved wolf heads and wondered what the stroke of those same fingers would do to his own flesh. He watched as she gave in to a moment of curiosity, studying the various personages at his table. That allowed Edon more time to enjoy the pure curve of her cheek and the symmetry of a perfect nose above lips so sweetly red and full he imagined she’d consumed a handful of berries prior to coming to his hall.

Her gown was in no way unattractive, with its classic lines, but it was not something constructed just for her. The bright kirtles and fitted silk gowns his ladies favored would better suit her strong coloring and lush figure.

She wore not a trace of perfume, neither oil of attar nor the modest scents of herbal soaps. That appealed to him deeply, for he loved the scent of a woman. That was the richest perfume of all.

The food was served and the meal commenced, during which Edon introduced her to his guests and friends. As ladies were wont to do, she and Eloya struck up a fast friendship, asking about the gowns each was wearing, the source of the rich cloths. The princess seemed very pleased to learn that Eloya and two of her ladies were skilled with needle and thread. Warwickshire needed more such talents.

Amused, Edon and his men let the conversation drift along those lines while they ate their fill. When asked where she had come by her jewelry, Tala ap Griffin became quite animated in her speech, praising the talents of her craftsmen. Her goldsmiths were all Celts trained in Erin who traveled the ancient trade route from Dublin to Anglesey. They, like every goldsmith in the land, congregated in the great trade center of Chester, which used to be Tala’s home.

It wasn’t all that long before amber eyes turned fully to Edon, catching him in his most thorough inspection. A soft auburn brow rose in an arch. “Am I to be devoured, sir? Like the mutton on your platter?”

Edon moved his shoulder closer to hers and lowered his voice so that she alone could hear his words. “You are not the sprite I spied in the tree.”

“What makes you think so?” Tala asked.

Edon considered his answer with care, because it was not his way to give in to an instant attraction. Women surrendered at his beck and call, not vice versa. This woman had a seductive, enchanting power about her that spoke volumes to the barbarian inside him. He wanted to conquer her, take her to his bed in the next chamber and pull her beneath him.

It was a strong and powerful urge, fueled by the fact that he had the consent of two kings to compel her into marriage. Both kings knew of the ancient taboo prohibiting the marriage of the princess of Leam, the Celtic equivalent of Rome’s Vestal Virgins. Edon acknowledged only that she was lovely and highly desirable, not the untouchable woman he’d been led to expect, a woman whose allure would be somehow both sacred and profane.

“The sprite in the oak tree was all impulse and curiosity, while tonight you are a mysterious princess deliberately choosing each word and action. You are the kind of woman to be tasted again and again, one delicious bite at a time.”

Tala inhaled sharply and drew back enough that the flambeaux illuminated his dark face fully. The jarl was overpowering this close. Her heart racketed in her chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath. He was a wickedly attractive man, handsome and earthy. His black hair spread back from his head like a lion’s mane, full of curls and waves.

His brow was wide but his jaw wider, and unlike many of his peers, his cheeks were sleekly shaved. He did not allow even a mustache to grow upon his upper lip, to spoil the deep curves of his expressive mouth. Her gaze fled from them to the brilliant blue of his eyes, so dark they almost seemed as black as his hair. The Romans had a word for a man like him: satyr.

“I see that you are a man of vast appetites,” she said carefully, with a telling glance at the table before them. “Many ladies grace your table, one suckling a newly born son. Do not look at me with such hungry eyes. I am not your next conquest, I promise you, Lord Viking. I am here because it suits my purpose to meet and address you.”

Edon smiled and took the pitcher of wine from the trembling hands of the young thrall so that he could have the pleasure of refilling the princess’s goblet himself. “And what purpose is that, princess?”

Tala moistened her lips and told herself to be bold. No timid heart would secure Venn’s future.

“Petitions have been sent and recorded by the king of the Danelaw and the king of Wessex. Twenty of my thanes and more than a hundred freeholders and their families and thralls have been maimed, enslaved or murdered by your agent, Embla Silver Throat, since the kings signed the Treaty of Wedmore.”

“Is that so?” Edon set the pitcher aside. He knew the facts and was here to set the record straight. Like any woman, the princess exaggerated to prove her point.

“Aye, it is,” Tala continued, gaining confidence by the moment. He was not as intimidating as she’d first believed. She lifted the gold goblet full of wine, drank its delicious contents and said clearly, “I was sent word from Winchester that Jarl Harald would be replaced by another.”

“Were you?” Edon smiled.

He would choke on that smile in a moment, Tala thought, smiling in tandem. “My cousin, King Alfred, assures me the wergild due me is to be paid in full.”

“Did he?” Edon remarked, casting not a single glance at any of the gold on his table. The silly fool mistakenly thought a wergild was paid to her. She was wrong. It was a penalty tax—paid to the king.

“Yes, it is so. I am happy to see this evidence of your wealth spread so generously on your board. Suffice it to say the wergild for hundreds of slain and captured Leamurians will beggar Warwick to redeem it. At long last Guthrum and Alfred’s treaty brings justice to my people.”

Undaunted, Edon smiled for the bold lady’s enjoyment. “I, too, am glad that you so willingly and openly expose your trump hand, Tala ap Griffin. You are not the only flea in the ear of kings. I come fresh from court with orders of my own to enforce on the land called Warwick.”

“My land,” Tala declared forcefully. “Viking land ends at Watling Street, well above the Avon. Every scrap of earth between the Severn and the river Trent belongs to the kingdom of Learn, from Weedon Bec to Loytcoyt. The rivers, the forests of Arden and Cannock and all the creatures in them are mine to harvest, not yours.

“Furthermore, I want this fortress razed and the bridge cleared of obstruction. I order my thanes and thralls released from the enslavement imposed upon them by King Guthrum’s agent, Embla Silver Throat.

“Secondly, I want your freeholders to take their cattle and their wives and concubines and children to the other side of Watling Street, where you belong. Do that and I will rescind the death warrant sworn against Embla Silver Throat by Alfred of Wessex. He is my kinsman and will listen to me.”

Edon sighed. His raised his palm, commanded her to silence. “I am here to end the bickering and enforce the peace of two kings. The disputed land known as Warwick has become a troublesome shire. Both kings wish to see their realms well peopled by men of war, men of God and men of work. They tire of women who squabble like children behind their backs.”

“Squabble like children?” Tala took exception to that odious description. “I squabble with no one. Your king claims it is a matter of law, not heredity, that proves title and ownership. To that end we Leamurians have put our efforts into drafting laws of ownership sanctioned by our king, Alfred. I do not engage in useless bickering.”

“Are you saying Embla Silver Throat does?” Edon asked.

“Embla Silver Throat engages in murder and mayhem, slaughtering any who oppose her or stand in her way.”

“How is it then that she has not slaughtered you, Tala ap Griffin?”

“Because I am never so foolish as to try to face her alone. I choose to call her to task before the court of kings.”

“But you came here to my hall—alone,” Edon reminded her.

“You assume that.”

“Very well.” Edon gave her that point. She was crafty and smart, adept in using the arts of the diplomat. Her endless petitions to Guthrum proved those facts. “May I tell you that my duty is to enforce all the terms of the Treaty of Wedmore, to which you have already referred?”

“You cannot enforce what you will not respect.” Tala’s eyes narrowed cautiously. “I will not listen to arguments that put my people at fault, when they are the victims of Embla’s vast greed and ungoverned cruelty. Every day she burns more of my forest.”

“There will be no more burning of the woodlands,” Edon said with quiet authority. “Such fires put us all at risk in times of drought. I have ordered them stopped.”

“Will you also move your people behind the agreed boundary of Watling Street?”

“That I cannot do,” Edon replied.

“Well, you shall, else there will be no end to—”

“Hear me out, Princess.” Edon stopped her tirade. “This is not an eyre. This is my supper table. Here we dine pleasantly and converse upon ideas to stimulate thought and creativity. You will save your complaints for the judgment of my court when it is convened.”

“How convenient Viking law is,” Tala replied, without holding back her scorn. “I have not risked my life coming here merely for the civility of your board.”

“You came because I commanded you to come.”

“No.” Tala assured him. “I came to state my terms and demand reparations. The sooner made, the sooner we’ll have done with one another.”

Edon very deliberately shook his head. He cast a look across the table to Rig, who had quietly returned to his seat after searching outside for the boy Edon had told him to go and look for. A jerk of Rig’s head told Edon the boy had not been found.

“Very well, lady.” Edon sighed and leaned back against the cushions of his high-backed chair. “You have given me your terms. Now I must give you the terms of two kings. Tala ap Griffin, I present to you Nels of Athelney, King Guthrum’s confessor.”

A man directly across the table from Tala rose to his feet and bowed deeply from the waist. Tala blinked at him, not certain if she had seen him before. He seemed rather familiar, dressed in a brown woolen tunic with a broadsword belted to his hips. As strong as any man at the jarl’s table, he befitted the sword.

“Princess Tala, it has been a very long time coming, but I am most pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Nels of Athelney. She was nearly a legend in King Alfred’s court—a reminder of the days of Camelot and Arthurian epic, closely tied in the minds of Alfred’s subjects to the Lady of the Lake and mystical Avalon.

“Tell the princess your purpose for being here, Bishop Nels,” Edon prompted.

“Simply put, my lord Wolf, I am charged with the duty of seeing that all persons residing in Warwickshire are baptized Christians…with a sword at their throat if necessary.”

“You may have noticed, Tala ap Griffin, that I came with soldiers enough to see that joint edict of King Guthrum and King Alfred fulfilled within the month granted us to accomplish it. My general, Rig, has already accepted the teachings of the Christ and proudly wears the cross King Guthrum has given him.”

Tala looked from the soldiers to the dangerous man seated beside her. Edon of Warwick continued speaking horrifying words.

“Once the conversions are done, I am to staunch the wounds that cut so bitterly between neighbors on the same land. As palatine of this shire, I will hold a monthly eyre to judge and settle grievances. The morning after the new moon rises, you may bring to me your petitions, which have harried two kings. I shall deal with each charge as it is proved.”

“What?” Tala gasped. “You could not possibly sit in fair judgment over my people. You jest, Viking!”

“Nay, I do not,” Edon growled, not liking her reaction one bit. She glared at him as though he was something vile and unspeakable, not a polished, educated man of the world. “Make use of your days of grace as you will, Princess. Once you find yourself charged with treason before this Viking, there will be no more skulking in trees, spying upon the unwary and conducting mischief with the waters that fuel this land.”

“What now?” Tala demanded scornfully. “Do you accuse me of witholding the rain and drying up the rivers?”

“Not I, Princess.” Edon held back a laugh at her preposterous words. Her humor was not the issue. “It is time you learned you are not the only person capable of delivering ultimatums to kings. As you have harried Alfred, Guthrum’s niece has pleaded with him for redress.”

“So?” Tala replied hotly.

Edon smiled wickedly, taking a small taste of satisfaction in her discomfort over that news. She was truly naive, a mere innocent in the ways of wielding power. He leaned deliberately closer to her, inhaling her sweet fragrance as he allowed his fingertips to stroke soothingly across the satiny skin of her bare arm.

“Nor did you deny being a witch when the question was put to you at the beginning of this meal,” he said huskily. “So tell me, Tala ap Griffin. How does that slipper fit now?”