Lord of Raven's Peak - Catherine Coulter [128]
“I couldn’t. Were you the one who hired the men to take us away, Ferlain?”
“I? My dear girl, why ever would I do that?” She laughed then, a fat merry laugh, but somehow it wasn’t funny, that laugh. Laren wished desperately for Merrik, for Risa, for anyone.
“I don’t know. I wish to leave the chamber now.”
“Oh, not just yet, Laren, not just yet. I wanted to speak to you, to warn you.” She leaned close, her heavy fingers closing about Laren’s upper arm. “Listen to me, Laren, for I have your best interests at heart. It is Rollo who is your enemy. He is old and bitter and he hates all of us, including you, including that Viking husband of yours. He hated Taby most of all because he was of Hallad’s seed and not his. He sired but one male and one female whilst Hallad’s seed was wild in its potency. Aye, Rollo hated his own brother. Did you know that he wanted your mother? Aye, ’tis true, and Hallad discovered that she, the faithless bitch, wanted to be the duchess of Normandy. Thus she wanted our father dead. She wanted Rollo. Did our father kill her? It seems very likely, does it not? Our father did run away, disappeared. But beware of Rollo. He is quite mad and he became madder still after she died and our father left. Aye, Laren, you should leave too.”
Laren stared up at her, felt her belly heave, and ran for the basin. She heard Ferlain laughing behind her as she retched and retched.
Fromm was buried with many of his favored belongings in a deep mossy grave on a hillside overlooking the Seine. His old slave was killed and laid beside him, his arms crossed over his chest, a rough wooden cross in his hands, a token sop to the Christian God, Rollo said. All of Fromm’s weapons, his clothing, and his prized chair posts were wrapped carefully and placed into the grave with him.
Helga was a magnificent widow, tall and beautiful, her face set and still, aye, a tragic brave figure. Fromm was buried quickly, despite the Christian tenets, for the Vikings believed deeply in the return of the corpse’s spirit as a ghost, a monster, who would bedevil them. And Fromm hadn’t been a good man when alive. What could his spirit be upon his death but a malicious ghost?
“It is over,” Rollo said, and turned away from the heavy mound that held no marker, no adornment, as was again the Viking way. When grass covered it once again, no stranger would know that it covered a body and riches. There would be a marker, but it would be placed near to the palace, where people would see it and know of all Fromm’s good works and bravery.
Rollo looked at Helga and Ferlain, then at Laren who stood close to Merrik. “I dreamed of Hallad last night,” he said. “I dreamed he came back and that he was angry at me. He wasn’t old, but as young and strong a man as I once was. Odd, but he even looked like me, and that isn’t right, for Hallad was very different from me, you remember that, don’t you, Helga? He wasn’t strong or fierce. And his hair was that damnable red, and thicker than a mink’s pelt. Ah, but the women loved Hallad, all of them, even those—”
Rollo looked down at his fingers. He began to rub the joints. Weland said quietly, “Sire, it is time to return to the palace. There is a man, a blacksmith by trade, who has asked to see you. It seems he