Lord of Raven's Peak - Catherine Coulter [12]
“No need,” the boy said. “Truly, there is no need.” He weaved where he stood, looked helplessly toward Cleve, then crumpled to the ground.
Cleve tried to catch her, but Merrik was faster. He lifted the boy in his arms. “By all the gods, the lad is naught more than a few bones held together with filthy flesh and filthier rags. This sealskin smells as if it’s rotted in the sun for years.”
“Aye,” Cleve said. “Thrasco let me feed him broth, but he wouldn’t let me give him a bath or clean clothes. Here, my lord, I’ll take the boy.”
“No need.” Merrik lifted the boy onto his shoulder. He felt his pelvic bones grinding against his chest, and wondered if the lad would live long enough to see his little brother. And if he died, what would Merrik do with Taby?
Cleve wondered at the sudden turn of fate. He’d crept through the huge compound hoping to find Laren before the guards caught her, for he knew she would never make good her escape; she was too weak from the beating and from the lack of food. Thrasco, of course, had believed the same thing, and thus, she hadn’t been guarded. But she had escaped, at least she’d made the good beginnings of an escape. Cleve looked at Merrik. This man had come to save her? To save him—a boy, actually. He shook his head. He refused to believe that any good could come of this. The man was probably a savage out to capture slaves from others to save himself silver. This Norway, a place Cleve had heard daunting tales about, was a savage land, much farther to the north of Kiev, and thus it had to be savage and violent and barbaric. It bred not only men who explored, traded, and stayed to build settlements, but it also bred warriors who raided and plundered and killed without mercy. And now one of these Vikings had three new slaves and all without paying out a pinch of silver. Surely the man had lied. Rescue a boy because he’d felt sorry for the boy’s little brother? It was ridiculous. Cleve wondered what the man really wanted. And he wondered how long it would be before Merrik discovered the boy was a girl.
The Silver Raven moved swiftly and silently in the dark smooth waters of the Dnieper. It was Merrik’s pride. He’d had the sixty-foot craft built three years before by Torren, a builder in Kaupang, whose renown had reached even to York in the Danelaw. The longboat was a good fourteen feet across, nearly flat bottomed, not made for extended travel, but rather for sailing on rivers, and held a deep cargo hold for goods. The sides of the boat came out of the water only six feet, curving gracefully. Loose pine planks lay across the crossbeams. In rough water they could be raised easily to bail out the bilgewater, or now, as the longboat glided under sail through the calm waters of the Dnieper, beneath those planks lay silver, gold, and jewelry and other goods they’d traded for here in Kiev, as well as tents, cooking utensils, and food for their journey home. The rudder was large and worked smoothly, Old Firren moving it tenderly and gently, as knowingly as a mother would her child. The water was deep so the rudder held its eighteen inches below the keel line. The sail was hoisted high on the yard, for the breeze was sharp, and would carry them northward in good time; still the men remained seated on their sea chests, their hands near the oars as they spoke in low voices to each other. They were too close to Kiev, too close to men who would kill them without a whisper of regret, and if the wind died, they would be rowing within seconds. There were twenty-two oar holes, but on this trip Merrik had brought but twenty men.
The dim light given off by the few rush torches along the fortress perimeter in Kiev grew faint in the distance. The thick black smoke given off by the torches could still be seen, curling into the clear summer sky.
The men began to row steadily now, for the wind had died as suddenly as a man’s lust caught in a sudden belly cramp. Merrik spoke to each of them, encouraging each to pull hard on his oars until they were well beyond the reach