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“Our father looked very handsome in his red hair,” Helga said. “A pity he killed that faithless wife of his and ran away. But then I have always wondered if he did kill her. She died so quickly, you know, and there didn’t seem to be violence. Aye, such a pity that our father believed he would be blamed and disappeared. More a pity that the bitch gave birth to Laren and Taby before she succumbed.”

Ferlain felt the cold of the grave, a cold so profound that it numbed the body and the mind. She thought of her eight dead babes, aye, they were in cold graves, every one of them, naught but scattered tiny bones now. She stared at her sister, who had now turned and was saying to her husband, Fromm, “So, husband, what do you think of this Merrik Haraldsson?”

Fromm puffed out his chest, a habit he’d learned from Otta, only when Fromm did it, it was annoying. He said, “It is obvious he is cunning. He has taken advantage of Rollo’s advancing years, showing Rollo only what the old man wants to see, saying only what he wants to hear, doing only—”

“Aye, I know,” Helga said, not bothering to hide her irritation. “I think him handsome. He wears his youth splendidly, does he not?”

“Do not give me your smooth spite, Helga.” Fromm turned from her to his brother-in-law. “Cardle, I will speak to you once Rollo dismisses us.”

Helga laughed now, overhearing her husband speak to Cardle. By all the gods, why would he want to speak to that pitiful fool? Ask his advice on how to kill Merrik? Laren?

Helga turned to listen yet again to Rollo as he calmed the crowd and spoke of the Viking’s character and his honor, of the advantages they would gain allied to the king of Norway. Rollo did not mention that it had been that same king who had outlawed him some years before. Merrik had carried the still-unconscious Laren through the thick draperies behind Rollo’s throne. Helga didn’t listen to Rollo, it was all nonsense in any case. She listened to the questions put to Rollo from high-ranking families, but she was picturing the Viking in her mind. He was a beautiful man.

Was she not a beautiful woman?

Was his wife not pregnant, fainting like a weakling and probably vomiting up her guts in front of him? Laren was also still too thin, scarcely looking like a female, save for the red hair in those stingy braids. Surely no man could willingly wish to bed such a stick as she was. Surely she had not the skills to please such a man as this Merrik Haraldsson.

Why, Helga wondered, listening to that ass, Weland, respond to Raki, a man of little intellect and great strength, nearly as great as Weland’s, hadn’t Rollo told them what had happened to Laren? She herself was very interested. She wanted to know how this Merrik had met Laren. Had he killed Taby once he’d learned who they were, guessing that he could take the child’s place in Rollo’s plans?

She looked back at Rollo, seeing him as a man, not just as her uncle. He was still handsome, still more forceful and stubborn as a pig, but he was old, so very many years sitting on his still-broad shoulders, too many years. She wondered idly what she would do.

22

MERRIK HELD HER head as she vomited into the basin. She was shuddering with the effort, her skin clammy and cold. She’d eaten little that morning because she’d been so nervous, and now she was heaving and jerking, but there was naught left in her belly save the twisting, grinding cramps.

“I shouldn’t have told you,” he said as he pulled her sweat-damp hair from her face. “You were feeling well in your ignorance.”

“Aye,” she said. “I would bless both you and my ignorance if only it would return.”

He gave her a mug of ale. She washed out her mouth, moaned and clutched her stomach again, then, to his relief, eased. “I don’t like this,” she said, looking at him with less than adoration. “You did this to me.”

“Aye, it is a man’s duty,” he said, grinning at her. “Come.” He lifted her to her feet and then into his arms. He carried her to the wide box bed and laid her down.