Lord of Raven's Peak - Catherine Coulter [132]
“You see her,” Merrik said, smiling, a cruel smile that made Otta want to leave, and very quickly.
Helga laughed. She smoothed the tunic over her throat again, then said, “Otta, what do you wish? Another potion for Rollo? I cannot make the pain lessen in his joints. I have tried.”
“It isn’t that,” Otta said. “I must speak with you.”
Merrik looked from the woman to the man. “Do you wish to take Fromm’s place? I should consider it carefully were I you, Otta.”
“I consider everything carefully, Lord Merrik. That is why I am Rollo’s minister.”
Merrik merely smiled and left the tower chamber. He walked down the winding wooden steps out into the palace courtyard. There were deep wide gashes in the black earth, filled with muddy water from the heavy rain the day before. There were horses tethered together in a long line, a long trough of hay in front of them. The air was rich with their scent. He nodded to the threescore soldiers who lolled about the compound. They eyed him warily, knowing well who he was, knowing that he could be their master after Rollo’s death. Each wondered if William knew of the Viking’s existence.
Merrik continued on his way, his mind taken with the duke. Laren had told him about Ferlain, how she’d come quietly into the sleeping chamber, scaring her nearly witless, then telling her that it had been Rollo who had had them abducted. He hated them, had wanted Laren’s mother, Nirea . . . It all seemed too fantastic. It made no sense. Ferlain had sounded mad from what Laren had told him. And Helga? If Merrik went to her bed, would she truly tell him who had been responsible for Laren’s abduction? He shook his head, looked up, and saw Weland detach himself from three men who were wrestling on a wide patch of ground covered with thick hay.
He was sweating and smiling, massaging his bare shoulder as he strode toward Merrik. The man was old, it was true, but he looked stronger than the oak sapling at the edge of the courtyard. There was a man on the ground, groaning. Had he been one of Weland’s opponents?
“Ho! My lord Merrik. I have a message for you from Rollo. He visits an old man who owns a farmstead northward on the Seine some five leagues from here. He wishes you and Laren to join him there.”
“Why?”
Weland looked at a loss for a moment, but his smile didn’t slip. “The old man predicted Rollo’s rise to his present position many, many years ago, I’m told. He is a wizard of sorts. Rollo wants you and Laren to meet him there, for the old man to examine your future, to predict your success. He says it’s for the benefit of the people, so that when he dies, if you are to be his successor, there will be no challenges to your succession.”
“I see,” Merrik said, but he didn’t believe any of it for an instant. Weland was lying to him. Was it truly Rollo who had sent Weland to lie to him? Was the duke mad? Eaten by hatred and jealousy? Too old now to realize what he was doing? He had seemed magnificent when they had first met him, the Rollo of legends, but now, he seemed to have changed.
“Have you yet spoken to Laren?”
“Aye, she awaits you at the stables. Several of my men will lead you to the old man’s farmstead. I must remain here. You will return to the palace with Rollo.”
“Very well,” Merrik said. He wished he had his sword. He carried two knives. He would take a sword from one of the soldiers, but it wasn’t the same as having his own, the one he’d bloodied at the age of fourteen, the one forged for him by his grandfather’s blacksmith. Nor did he want Laren with them, but how to avoid it? “Send the soldiers to me and let us go,” he said.
He had no chance to speak to Laren, to convince her to become ill and vomit and thus remain here, safe. But was she safe here? He wanted nothing more at that moment than to bundle up his wife, collect all his men, and leave this wretched place.