Lord of Raven's Peak - Catherine Coulter [133]
Then he realized yet again that Taby belonged here. It could so very easily become his birthright, all this immense rich land that already held great wealth and granted great power. Life was fragile, it was true, and any man’s or child’s life was easily forfeit. Aye, and this duchy would grant even more power in the future, its dukes would vie with the Frankish kings for even more control, he knew it. He had to resolve this mystery and do it now. Thus, he had no intention of acting suspicious around the soldiers that would accompany him and Laren.
He saw Oleg and Old Firren. He smiled at them and called out, “You remember how much Erik likes to wrestle? When you return home, tell him I will visit him soon and I will rub his nose in the dirt. Tell him that, Oleg. Tell him that it will require at least six of his men, not less than six of his strongest men, to aid him if he wants to bring me down.”
“Aye,” Oleg said slowly, studying his friend’s face, “aye, Merrik, I will tell him.”
Old Firren spat in the mud at his feet.
Merrik gave them a small salute and turned to follow the four soldiers to the stables.
Laren breathed in the soft autumn air, the scent of the yew bushes and hedgerows, the wild daisies, and the tangy smell of the Seine. They rode past fishermen plying their nets, others spearing the larger sea bass as they bent down from atop massive black rocks that clustered above the river. The road was rutted from all the rain, but the sky was cloudless, as blue as Merrik’s eyes.
She was humming, smiling to her husband. There were four soldiers, two of them riding in front of them and the other two at their backs.
She said gaily, “My lord, we should have brought some of Uncle Rollo’s sweet Rhenish wine. A gift for this old wizard friend of his. What think you?”
Merrik agreed that it was a good idea, if only they had thought of it earlier. Weland’s second in command, a rough man with a sharp eye, whose name was Rognvald, said over his shoulder, “Aye, the Rhenish wine is good, but we must concern ourselves with outlaws and robbers who, it is said, hide in these woods. Weland doesn’t wish to take any chances with your safety, mistress, or yours, Lord Merrik.”
“I am vastly relieved that you are with us,” Laren said, and smiled at him.
“You now carry a sword, Merrik,” Rognvald said, eyeing the sword in a way Merrik didn’t like.
“Aye,” Merrik said easily, “one of your soldiers saw that I had need of one. As you say, there are many outlaws. It is wise to be prepared.”
Rognvald nodded, then kicked his stallion forward to speak to the two men who rode ahead of them.
Merrik pulled his stallion closer to Laren’s mare. “Listen to me,” he said quietly, trying to look loverlike and doubting if he was succeeding. “I—”
“Ho! Lord Merrik, look yon. ’Tis a group of monks the Frankish king has thrust upon us. Rollo was forced to give them a monastery—it’s called St. Catherine’s and is only two leagues from here. It is set atop a promontory. The prospect it gives is spectacular.”
Merrik pulled away from Laren, and called back to Rognvald, “Monks make me want to go immediately to a bathing hut. Their stench offends me.”
Rognvald laughed. “Aye, ’tis true. The beggars never bathe and wear those long robes that are never washed. They are always itching from their own filth, lice, and the wretched coarse wool.”
“I can no longer accept a god who wants his subjects to be filthy,” Laren said, knowing that the Christian God was forever lost to her, and accepting it.
And so their journey continued. For another hour, they rode close to the shore of the Seine, alert for outlaws.
But there was no attack. One of the soldiers shouted and pointed just ahead to their right. Atop a small hillock that overlooked the Seine stood a rough sod house with a small hole in its roof through which poured a thin thread of blue smoke. In front