Читать книгу Lady Of The Lake - Elizabeth Mayne - Страница 9

Their passage out of the forest was silent and swift. Neither disturbed so much as a twig, for it was fence month— the time when does dropped their fawns. Both Tala and Venn respected all of the forest creatures and demanded their people do the same.

The short run took them to the very edge of the Leam, where a stand of silver beeches had broken the last time the river flooded, some three summers ago. The bleached trunks spanned the dry river. Only a few remaining puddles wet the caked bottom.

Tala skipped across the natural bridge and stopped at the base of a massive, ancient oak where their grandfather Offa had rested on the day of his coronation. Fed by an artesian river, the oak’s gnarled and twisted trunk supported the largest canopy to be found on a living tree beyond the Black Lake’s forest. Consequently King Offa’s oak shaded a goodly portion of Watling Street.

Nimble as a squirrel after a hoard of acorns, Tala shinnied up the tree and took her favorite position high above the road. Venn climbed up behind her. She could hear his lungs bellowing softly, the wheeze a reminder that he’d been deathly ill this winter past.

Tala spared a look at his face and found it damp with sweat. Pale blotches tempered the blush on his smooth cheeks. He settled on the limb adjacent to her and calmed himself. The sound of many horses approaching brought her attention back to the business at hand—spying on Embla Silver Throat.

A pair of greyhounds ran into the clearing, preceding the travelers. They paused beneath the great oak to sniff, jump and bark. Tala cast a quick spell that made them sit abruptly and whine in confusion, wondering where their prey had gone off to.

“As you can see, my lord Edon,” Embla boasted proudly as she rode into the shade of King Offa’s oak, “I’ve cleared the land south of Warwick to this river. The soil is agreeable here, as along the Avon. My best man, Asgart, and his thanes have applied for tenancy of the new bottomland. This time next year the valley to the south ridge will be plowed and planted. Oats and wheat and hops grow well here.”

“I see you have been most ambitious,” Jarl Edon Halfdansson replied, complimenting his nephew’s wife. All around him were signs of prosperity, save here by the Leam. He remembered the river as a wild stream, freeflowing and full. Now it had not enough water in its muddy bottom to quench the thirst of his horse.

Edon drew back on Titan’s reins, halting the black stallion in the cool shade of the oak. It was a blessing to have the hot sun off his head. He ran his forearm across his brow and squinted at the hill fort still some good five leagues to the west.

From the top of the last rise, the Avon valley had looked incredibly fertile and productive. On closer inspection, each field showed the effects of long-term drought. The heads of grain were small. The rich black earth was cracked and parched.

“How long has it been since the last rain?” Edon asked in concern. This drought was not an isolated problem. Fields in the land of the Franks were in worse shape. This was the third year of unexplainable drought.

“Too long, curse Loki’s hide,” Embla grumbled. “We’ve done everything we know of to gather clouds in the sky. We have made sacrifices to Freya, cast spells onto the winds for the four dwarfs. Nothing brings us rain.”

She shifted in her saddle and cast a hateful look at the woods beyond the dry river. Lifting her golden, muscled arm, she pointed as she spoke. “There is the root of all our troubles, my lord Edon.”

“How so?” Edon saw no malice in the woods nor felt any evil emanating from it. But he was not a superstitious man who gave credence to spells or omens.

“The headwaters of the Leam lay deep in that woodland. A witch has cursed the river and caused it to dry up as you see it now. Her charms are scattered all about yonder oaks. ‘Tis that evil incarnate that drives away every cloud that gathers in the sky.”

“And would this witch be known to Guthrum by the name of Tala ap Griffin?” Edon asked, his tone as dry as the summer day. Venn cut a sharp glance at his sister. Tala only motioned for him to remain still.

“Aye,” Embla assented. “That’s the one. Should she ever dare to cross the river onto my land, I’ll cut her into seven pieces and trap her soul inside a sealed jar.”

Edon changed his focus from the harmless woodland to his nephew’s wife. A tall, robust woman, Embla of the Silver Throat made a strong impression upon him. Her full breasts were barely concealed by her cotton tunic. Thick loops of corn-colored hair crowned her altogether elegant head. Despite her pleasing form, she was not an appealing woman. Her voice was strained and strident. Her mouth thinned to a grim, downward curve at each corner. Edon preferred women who at least tried to look pleasant tempered.

A finely crafted necklace of chased silver and amber was the only ornament she wore. Even though her breasts joggled freely, there was naught else feminine in Embla’s demeanor. She carried a shield and wore a helmet and leathern armor strapped to her forearms and legs. Edon could see that Embla considered herself a warrior first and last.

“Wait here,” he commanded.

He turned his stallion and galloped back up the dusty hill to intercept his train of possessions. The curtains of the chaise parted and Lady Eloya peered at him inquiringly, her kohl-lined eyes as exotic as her perfumes.

“Is it much farther, my lord Wolf?” Lady Eloya spoke to him in his own tongue, giving Edon a title of awe and rank.

“Not long,” Edon murmured in her native tongue, Persian. He put his hand forward to part the curtain more so that he could see into the dark and cool interior of the chaise. “How fares Rebecca?”

“She is bearing up, my lord, as all women must. The babe waits to present himself in good order. Allah wills it so,” Lady Eloya promised.

“I will do what I can to speed this infernal procession to Warwick, my ladies. You will be comfortable there.” Edon let the silk curtain fall and motioned to Rashid to stay close to the ladies’ caravan.

A woman of unique sensibilities, Rebecca of Hebron had refused Edon’s Persian physician’s assistance this morning when the water of her belly broke and the birth of her child appeared to be their next order of business. Edon had offered to delay their journey to Warwick to accommodate the laboring woman, but Rebecca had decried that suggestion, too. She wanted no part of sitting idle on the open road and insisted the gentle movement of the chaise would soothe both her and the babe. Still, Edon ordered Lady Eloya’s husband, Rashid, to remain close in case his vast skills became necessary.

Edon nodded to the bearers, who immediately lifted the chaise again, then began their steady, measured walk behind the hundred horses of Edon’s entourage.

More slaves pulled the sleds carrying Edon’s menagerie to Warwick. Horses and oxen could not be coaxed into the harnesses dragging the cages bearing Edon’s lion, crocodile and wolfhound. So men did what domesticated animals would not.

The wolfhound’s soulful eyes were as deeply intense and beautiful as Lady Eloya’s—if not more so to Edon. The black that outlined Sarina’s eyes was natural. She gave a mournful howl, unhappy in her whelping cage, crying out to Edon astride his horse. He monitored the sled’s slow progress down the dusty slope.

Caging the wolfhound was necessary. Without it, Sarina would surely have run off into the woods and reverted to the wild. Edon treasured the dog too much to risk losing her.

“Be patient, my lovely,” Edon crooned to the wolfhound, as much in love with her as he was with this land he had dreamed of returning to for so many years. “We are almost home, I promise you.”

Finally Edon watched his guards and the drovers pass beneath the ample shade of the great oak. He let the dust raised by a herd of woolly sheep and nimble goats settle before taking up his wineskin and removing the stopper.

Edon lifted his head and tilted the wineskin to his mouth. It was then his eyes located the spies in the oak’s leafy canopy. Both the boy and the girl held themselves as still as the dying Gaul’s statue on the colonnade in Rome. Leaves fluttered about them, stirred by a hot breeze fueled by the parched land.

When Edon had quenched his thirst, he lowered the wineskin and plugged it. He did not lower his eyes.

“So! You dare to spy on me, do you?” It had been a good dozen years since he’d spoken the odd language of the Britons, but Edon was certain he was understood, for the boy reacted by reaching for the knife at his belt.

“Don’t even think to try something so foolish, boy,” Edon cautioned. “I will have skinned you from ear to ear before you could strike one single blow.”

Venn stilled his hand, convinced the stranger’s words were truth. A more menacing soul Venn had never laid eyes upon. Tala’s quick gasp assured him his sister felt the same tremor of fearful respect.

“I do not take kindly to spies and sneaks. You have until sunset to present yourselves to me at Warwick, state your names and tell me who your thane and your father is.”

Edon gathered the reins in his left hand, preparing to follow his large train of people, baggage and animals to their new home at Warwick.

“Do not make me come looking for either of you. I never forget a face or forgive a slight.” He made his voice soft and low when he spoke again for the spies’ ears alone. “One word of advice to the both of you. Bathe before you present yourselves at my court. I can smell you from twenty feet away. Don’t risk insulting me again.”

He put his heels to Titan’s sides and galloped out from under the oak without looking back.

Venn dropped out of the tree and stood on Fosse Way, shaking his raised fist at the rider’s back as he rode away. “Come back, you dirty Viking, and I’ll show you who stinks!”

Tala joined him and grabbed Venn’s fist, yanking him behind the wide trunk of the oak, out of sight from those who traveled the road.

“Be quiet!” she commanded. “Don’t you ever do anything like that again, brother! If he did come back, he would cut you into pieces!” Though her voice was soft, she was obviously furious at Venn’s foolhardy words. To taunt a Viking jarl couldn’t be borne. Tala would not tolerate such an act of stupidity again.

Venn reached for his bow. “I’ll show him!”

“You’ll do nothing!” She cuffed his ears stoutly, then pushed him roughly back to the beech-tree bridge. Venn resisted the thrust of her hand as she herded him back to safety.

Tala proved how deeply upset the stranger’s discovery and words had made her when she prepared to beat any hint of rebellion out of her younger brother. “Don’t try me, Venn ap Griffin. Defy me and I’ll take a strap to your hide and wear you out!”

She gripped his narrow shoulders and shook him hard, then yanked him to her breasts, as if her arms smothering him could protect him from all danger. Her fingers spread into his dark hair and she whispered, “Never do that again! Never risk your life to provoke a jarl. Do you hear me? Have you forgotten our father and all of our kinsmen who had died at the end of Viking swords?”

“No!” Venn’s voice came to her muffled by the press of her breasts against his face. He was only a boy. Boys who taunted Vikings were not likely to live to become men. That fear justified Tala’s anger, and Venn well knew it.

Pushing him to arms length, Tala stared into his clear blue eyes. “Venn, I promise you, someday you will take your rightful place as a prince in this world,” she said earnestly. “The Vikings will fear and respect you. But today, brother, you are a boy and vulnerable. Time and King Alfred are on our side.”

“King Alfred does nothing for us, Tala. Every day more Vikings sail their long ships to our shores. Alfred does nothing to send them away. No, even when they land their ships in Wessex he merely shows them Watling Street and invites them to go and find the Danelaw. But they come here to Leam to set up their farms. They don’t go to Anglia or York—”

“I am aware of that.” Tala cut off his protests. “But Alfred can’t strike the Vikings down just because you don’t like it when their ships land on Britain’s shores. The kings have both signed a peace treaty. We must rely on their law to protect us. King Alfred promises me so.”

Venn shook his head. “What good are words on parchment? Or treaties with out enemies? A king must act.”

“Nay, we must give Alfred’s law a chance to work. Do as I say—return to the lake and your lessons with Selwyn. See that the girls have done their chores. I will be there anon.”

“Where do you go?” Venn demanded.

Tala shook her loosened braid back onto her shoulders. “Why, to Warwick…to present myself to the new jarl as he commanded. But you will not come, and do not think to disobey my command.” Tala delivered orders easily. At twenty she wielded complete authority over her siblings and their retainers.

Venn knew better than to question her, but he itched to strike out at the arrogant Viking who had taunted them in their own language. Venn would never admit it to his sister, but he was fascinated by the wondrous equipage in the new lord’s entourage and his cages of strange and curious animals.

Too smart to argue, he cast a disdainful glance at her. The two simple clothes that covered Tala’s torso were belted at her waist by a leather girdle. Embla Silver Throat would mock Tala if she went to Warwick thus attired. “You are not dressed to go to court,” he reminded her.

That remark reminded Tala of the stranger’s challenge about bathing. The jarl’s insult had stung her to the core of her femininity. She knew herself to be beautiful, an unattainable woman desired by men of two kings’ courts. Telling color swept into her cheeks.

“See, that is what I mean, little Venn. A grown man is skilled in the art of verbal baiting. He could not tell we were in the trees by our scent,” she said purposefully. “Not unless he has the nose of a wolf.”

“Fear not, I will go to Warwick via the village at Wootten and bathe at Mother Wren’s before I change into robe and crown. All will be well.”

Jarl Edon Halfdansson was disappointed by the appearance of Warwick upon his arrival. He’d bought Warwick Hill itself ten years ago from its last owner, a minor atheling of the old house of Leam. There was much to be disappointed over. Edon’s nephew, Embla’s husband, was missing, and the castle Edon had ordered constructed over the past decade was far from completed.

Warwick offered little respite from the scorching sun. The barest hint of a breeze wafted against the stone walls of the fortress and promptly died. A tremendous heat had built up, inside the great stone keep, and which remained steamier than the catacombs beneath Rome. Not one open shutter allowed air to move from chamber to chamber or floor to floor.

Oh, there were windows and openings, shutters and doors aplenty as per Edon’s construction plans. But Embla had thought it best to bolt the shutters and keep the entrances securely barred. She claimed there was no other way to protect from thieving Mercian thralls the treasures he’d had shipped to Warwick in the intervening years.

Edon didn’t care much for Embla’s disdainful dismal of his plans and orders. Nor had the woman the vision to see that Edon’s well-planned, thick stone walls should have made the vast keep cool in spite of such intense heat— provided the windows and doors were open. Instead, the handsome structure had the appeal of a brick kiln sealed to fire pottery.

Edon was aware of his attendants’ reactions to Warwick. Eli rolled his eyes each time he looked at the steamy green forest, nor could Rashid hide his own awe of the great woods blanketing acres and acres of land. Eloya and Rebecca were near to fainting from the unaccountable heat. They had, in desperation, taken over the bathhouse.

“Tell me,” Edon said easily, putting aside the goblet of watered wine his niece had provided him from her own stores. “When was the last you saw your husband? He has been missing seven moons now, Guthrum said.”

“Eleven moons,” Embla corrected. Her thick fingers tightened on the handle of her short sword. Were she a man that gesture would have made Edon wary. Were he less of a Viking, he might have taken insult. “Too long, my lord Edon. I have given up hope of ever seeing Harald Jorgensson alive again.”

“Surely not.” Edon lifted a hand, inviting her to sit and rest, but Embla ignored it. “You are a Dane’s wife,” he continued. “Your man could be on the high seas. He could this moment be turning his long ship into the north wind or trading for jewels and furs that will please you. Eleven months is nothing. I myself have been on voyages exceeding three years duration.”

“Forgive me for reminding you, Jarl Edon, but the Avon has no outlet to the sea,” Embla replied.

“Ah, but long ships do traverse the other rivers. The Severn and the Trent both have access to salt water.”

“Not good access from deep inland, Jarl Edon. Weirs prevent even the most stalwart of long ships safe passage. No, my Harald has not gone exploring. I know what has happened to him—he was murdered by the druids. Else he remains a captive in the dungeon of the keep on Black Lake.”

“If you think him a captive, why have you not assaulted this keep?”

“No one can reach the lake in the heart of Arden Wood,” Embla told him. “The druids have strewn charms all through the forest, disguising the trails. The witch has cast terrible spells that turn even my bravest warriors into terrified madmen. No, my Harald has been murdered, Jarl Edon. I know it, and none can convince me otherwise.”

Edon made a rumbling noise in his throat as he considered her words. “So my brother Guthrum has informed me, but he said there was no proof to that charge. Harald’s body has not been found. Is that true?”

“Aye.” Embla’s jaw tightened. “Harald disappeared the night of the great druid sacrifice to their god Lugh, August 1.”

“I had not realized there were druids still practicing in these isles,” Edon mused absently. “How curious…and here I thought the Romans put them all to the sword.”

“The savages exist,” Embla said intractably.

She turned her back to Edon, and for an unguarded moment she glared at his entourage. His wagons, sleds and carts filled the entire ward of her utterly inadequate wooden palisade. In Constantinople, where Edon had spent seven years as Guthrum’s hostage-emissary, such a structure intended for defense would have been torched the moment it was erected, just to prove how useless it was.

“Are you absolutely certain of the date of Harald’s disappearance?” Edon asked. “It was at Lammas?”

Embla grasped the wood stakes and tilted her chin, exposing a long throat and wondrous white teeth as she laughed scornfully. “Why wouldn’t I be certain? You haven’t lived here for years as I have done. It was August 1, the feast of Lughnasa. The night the druids sacrifice a living man to their gods of the lakes and rivers.”

“Granted, it has been years since I last lived in Warwick, Lady Embla,” Edon said smoothly, “but I remember the people well. They are for the most part a breed of peaceful, simple farmers.”

Embla snorted. “They are cannibals. Men are put to death over their Beltane fires. Infants are slaughtered and their bones thrown beneath the foundations of their houses.”

“That uncivilized, are they?” Edon remarked with a raised brow. “How amazingly similar we are then. Vikings leave their newborns outside to weather the elements the first night of their lives. By Byzantine and Roman standards we are both barbarians, are we not?”

Embla checked herself. Her blue eyes hardened in judgment of the Viking jarl before her. She thought him a lazy wretch, a weakling softened by the pampered life of a courtier. He was of no use to a woman determined to amass her own inviolate wealth.

Thank Odin, Guthrum had provided her adequate warning of the jarl’s arrival. She’d wished Edon Halfdansson dead many times over the years of her tenancy in Warwick.

Now that she saw him in the flesh for the first time, Embla gave the pampered Wolf of Warwick one sennight in his home shire, certain he wouldn’t last that long before he hightailed it to a retreat in Anglia.

She raised a brow, inquiring archly, “Does our home wine not suit your palate?”

Edon wasn’t so easily baited. “I saw no grapevines thriving in your arid fields.”

“How observant you are, Lord Edon.” Embla’s tone changed smoothly, and she smiled as she pointed south over the spikes of the wood palisade. “Crowland Abbey was fortuitously placed, as was another monastery in Evesham. Both were pitiful places where monks wore out their knees endlessly in prayer. Their vines were well established. Their cellars were also quite full. It was nothing to dispatch the monks to their Christian hell and relieve them of their surplus.”

Edon sampled another taste of the unpalatable wine and deliberately changed the subject. “So who is it that you believe murdered my nephew?”

Embla turned to face him. Her fingers clasped the hilt of her sword again. “The druid, Tegwin.” She straightened, as if refusing to grant Edon dominance over her, despite his height.

He set the cup aside. “What happened to the wine cellar I ordered my nephew to construct? Every casket I’ve brought with me will sour in this heat if it is not properly sheltered from the heat and the sun.”

Embla held a firm check on her simmering temper. She looked toward the fields, which she believed showed her best efforts very clearly. This hideous stone castle of Edon’s had no value or importance. The fertile land wrested from the hands of the lazy Leamurian farmers held the true worth of Warwick.

“I have altered some of your plans, Lord Edon. Owing to the bedrock here at the summit of the hill, it was necessary to place one or two of your requested conveniences elsewhere. Now that you have quenched your thirst, shall I give you a tour?”

“By all means,” Edon agreed, eager to inspect every inch of his property.

The stone keep was primitive and crude to Edon’s eye. But then he was accustomed to the splendors of Constantinople, that gem of cities bustling with artisans, philosophers and scholars.

In time, Edon knew, his own hand would change and alter what was begun here in Warwick. For this was now his home. He was finished with roaming the world, doing his brother’s—King Guthrum’s—bidding. Now, at the age of one score and nine, Edon intended to establish his own court and turn Warwick into a seat of learning to rival Byzantium.

The two-storied square keep was only the beginning of what he planned to build.

Embla proudly took him to her longhouse first. The building was completely roofed with luxuriant thatch. Its pitch was so high that no smoke from the cooking fires stung Edon’s eyes. A raised vent in the center let the smoke rise and allowed a beam of bright daylight inside.

The largest part was used as a hall for feasts and the daily meals. “My chamber is here to the east of the hall, my lord, but if you prefer my services in your keep, I shall move at your convenience.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Edon replied.

Looking around him he saw many thralls at their labors. Women made bread and tended the meat roasting on spits over the open fires. Edon had grown up in surroundings similar to this, as most Vikings did. Farmsteads were the backbone of Viking economy and culture. Embla’s longhouse was no different than any of a thousand like it Edon had inspected in his travels.

He thought fondly of the palaces at Rome and Alexandria. With their courtyards and splendid gardens, there was beauty everywhere a man looked. Given time, Warwick would become such a place.

He returned his attention to the woman, whose walk so reminded him of a proud man’s strut. Edon put out his hand to touch the carved bone handle of her dagger, which her fingers had flown to so often during their conversation. “This is a curious piece. Who made it?”

At the interest in her prized weapons, Embla offered a genuine smile, the first Edon noted. She proudly unsheathed the dagger and laid it in his hand, expecting his admiration. “Falkirk is my carver. He is good with bone and ivory. This is the goddess Freya hunting a boar.”

“An ambitious work.” Edon tested the weight and balance of the blade, but was truly enamored of the skill of the bone carving, the attention to detail and the beauty of the craftsmanship. This carver knew what he was about. “It is a worthy weapon. I trust you have little need to use it for defense.”

“Humph,” Embla scoffed. “Few are foolish enough to challenge me.”

“So I have heard.” Edon smiled and handed her back her knife, offering his own blade for her inspection. “Mine is more modest, but possibly more deadly in the tempering of the Damascus steel. That is what counts where weapons are concerned, is it not?” His smile faded from his lips. “It is far better to never need to have to unsheath one’s weapon in the first place.”

The jarl left Embla with those cryptic words. He walked to the well and took a dipper in his hand to quench his thirst.

Asgart, Embla’s best man, threw the bucket in the well and drew up a fresh supply after Edon had drunk his fill. Suddenly, the soldier gave with a shout and leaned over the rim. Before his eyes, the water level dropped ten feet.

Asgart’s cry of alarm brought everyone in the ward running to the well. The gathering crowd watched the water inch slowly back up the stones that lined the well. It foamed and swirled, a brackish, foul brine. The stench that arose was foul enough to make a strong man stagger.

“The well has been poisoned!” Asgard shouted. He threw the dipper and the bucket to the ground. Edon took a step back because of the stink. Sulfur wasn’t a pleasant smell, though the water he’d just drunk had been sweet and pure.

Embla ran to his side and waved her hand across the rising water, smelling the sulfur-tainted air. Fear and alarm darkened her fair cheeks.

“The well has been cursed!” she announced. “The witch has cast another spell upon us!”

Furious, she turned on Asgart, her hand clenching the hilt of her sword. “Damn you, Asgart, bring me that woman! Double your patrols. Find the witch before she causes any more harm. Bring her to me! She will pay for poisoning my well!”

“As you command.” Her captain saluted by striking his fist to his chest. Before Asgart could call his soldiers to him and comply with Embla’s orders, Edon stepped forward and laid his hand on the captain’s arm.

“There is no need to send out a search party.”

“But…” Asgart sputtered.

“Keep your men here and go about your usual business,” Edon commanded, taking charge of his land and defense of his property. “That was rather presumptuous of my niece to make such a command. I am here now. My men will see to the shire’s defense when necessary, Embla Silver Throat.”

Both the captain and the woman were stunned by Edon’s contradictory order. Only Embla spoke out against it.

“What? You don’t know what goes on here,” she sputtered.

“I know enough to realize that wells fail during droughts, and it doesn’t take witchcraft to accomplish that,” Edon replied sternly. “Send your people back to their work.”

“Get back to work!” she shouted at the thralls who had come to see what was happening. Edon found it hard to decide which frightened the people more, their mistress or their superstitions. In either case, the poor slaves backed away in alarm.

He didn’t believe in such nonsense as wells being cursed by witches. He was astute enough to see that Embla and her people did.

Edon sent one of his captains into the keep to see if the well inside had also been affected. He was met by a servant Lady Eloya had sent running from the bathhouse, to ask what had happened to the water. The sluices in the bathhouse had suddenly gone dry. Rig returned, reporting that the same rotten-egg smell affected the water well in the keep.

Edon gave his head a firm shake, regretting the bad luck of that. “Then we will have to cart water from the river below the palisade. This is quite unacceptable.”

Rig stood beside him as the others moved away. “These people are very superstitious, Lord Edon,” he said quietly.

With a meaningful glance at the retreating form of his niece by marriage, Edon said, “That they are, Rig. Let us hope that we can educate them somewhat over time. Shall we adjourn to the keep?”