Page 19 of Viking in Love

CHAPTER NINETEEN

D addy knows best…

Caedmon walked up behind Breanne as she stood at the ramparts and kissed the back of her neck.

He sniffed deeply and said, “You smell of raspberries and roses.

At first, she leaned back into him and allowed him to wrap his arms around her waist, but then she shrugged him off. “Behave, lest someone see us.”

He glanced around. Most everyone was at the other end of the ramparts, or down in the bailey preparing for the “visitors.”

Dunstan and the king had not been happy to learn that a “horde” of Norsemen were on their way, even when assured by Caedmon, Geoff, Eirik, and the princesses that they probably came in peace.

“Why are you so distressed?” he asked Breanne. “You should be happy that your father comes to your rescue.” Assuming that was why he was here.

“I suspect that my father is beyond furious and will ride in with sword and battle-axe raised.”

He had been thinking that all would be well now that her father and his hirdsmen had come to escort the princesses home. “You do not mean that he would kill Edgar and Dunstan.”

She shrugged. “There is no telling what an angry Viking will do. He has been known to lop off a head and then sit down to eat.”

“My head is beginning to ache.”

“I should forewarn you…”

Bloody hell! I do not like that look on her face.

“…if my father hears of our bargain, or even the false betrothal, he might be a tiny bit upset.”

Forget head lopping. Perchance my brain might just explode inside by head.

“Oh, look, there is Tyra. In full battle gear.” At first she giggled, then went more serious when she realized the significance of that apparel. “That is Adam and their little boy Edward riding farther back.”

Caedmon had never seen a woman in armor, weighed down with sword and axe, although Saxons grew up on tales of the warrior queen Boadicea, who had fought bravely against the Romans.

Just then, Breanne went stiff and gasped.

“What?”

“Oh my gods and goddesses! ’Tis Rafn.” She pointed to a Viking warrior who rode at the head of the hird, beside the king.

“Who the hell is Rafn?” he asked but Breanne was already running away.

He followed her across the ramparts, down the stairs, through the great hall, across the upper, then the lower bailey. Her sisters were following close behind them. The drawbridge had been lowered and on the other side of the moat the troops had come to a halt with the man Rafn dismounting.

“Rafn!” Breanne screamed and rushed into his open arms as he limped toward her. He was a tall man, even taller than Caedmon, though slim and almost gaunt. He supposed some women would find his dark good looks appealing. He did not. Breanne was laughing and kissing the Viking’s neck.

With muttered imprecations, he stepped forward and yanked Breanne out of the man’s arms. The warrior immediately reached for his short sword.

Caedmon did likewise.

“Caedmon! What are you doing? This is Rafn.”

“And who are you to touch one of the princesses?” Rafn shouted.

Caedmon was about to say he was her betrothed, but Breanne slapped a hand over his mouth. “Caedmon is a friend and kinsman-by-marriage. He offered us protection.” Then, she turned to Caedmon with a tsk-ing sound of disgust. “And this is Rafn, Vana’s long-ago betrothed, who was supposed to be dead.”

“Hmpfh!” He was not consoled.

“What happened?” she asked Rafn.

“I will tell you all later.” He smiled at her.

Caedmon did not like other men smiling at her. Not one bit. Even a man presumably linked to her sister. And wasn’t that a fine mess of another color! An alleged murderess and a come-from-the-dead Viking warrior.

Meanwhile the other sisters had caught up and were surrounding Rafn, giving him hugs and kisses.

There was a coughing noise behind them.

He and Breanne turned to face a glowering old man with long white hair and war braids twined with crystals framing his leathery face. “Vikings are meant to ride longships, not horses,” he complained as two men helped him dismount. When he stood before them, Caedmon could see that he was a big man, and very fit for his age. Breanne had told him that she and her sisters were all legitimate, though born of different deceased mothers. Thorvald, apparently, had married all his women, sometimes more than one at a time.

A teary-eyed Breanne rushed up to her father, who opened his arms to embrace her. Patting her on the back, he kept telling her, “Hush now. Everything will soon be aright.”

Swiping at her eyes, Breanne stepped back, and Caedmon immediately put his arms around her shoulders. For some reason, he wanted to be the one to reassure her.

“And who are you to be touching my daughter so?” the aged warrior inquired.

“Sir Caedmon, this is my father, His Royal Highness the King of Stoneheim, Thorvald. Father, this is Sir Caedmon of Larkspur. You must be kind to him. He has protected us all these sennights when we were alone and had nowhere else to go.”

“Is that so?” He eyed Caedmon suspiciously, but only for a moment. With a gruff laugh, he grabbed Caedmon and yanked him into a hug that about broke his ribs and cut off his breathing.

“I owe you much, Saxon. Do you want gold, lands…or, ha, ha, ha…one of my daughters?”

The three princesses all groaned.

“It is a jest our father plays everywhere we go,” Breanne explained. “He pretends he wants us all married off.”

“I do,” the king disagreed.

“He is just teasing,” Breanne contended.

The king rolled his eyes at Caedmon. Just then, he seemed to really look at his daughters, and he swore a blue Viking streak. “What has happened to my beautiful daughters?”

Breanne’s red spots were smudged from her father’s hug, but Ingrith was still fat, and Drifa still crone-like. Breanne told him quickly that there was a reason for the disguises, which she would explain later.

The king just nodded, looking over their shoulders as Archbishop Dunstan approached, using his crozier as a walking stick. He was flanked by two of his tonsured monks. Dunstan’s face was flushed from the exertion, or perchance he was angry. Probably both.

“King Thorvald!” Dunstan greeted the old man who was eyeing him warily. “I see you have arrived in time for the betrothal ceremony.”

Caedmon and Breanne looked at each other…and grimaced.

“What betrothal ceremony?” King Thorvald de manded to know, regarding the archbishop with as much distaste as the clergyman regarded him.

Dunstan glanced at Caedman and Breanne, an evil grin tugging at his thin lips, as if he had caught them finally in his wily trap. “Caedmon and Breanne, of course.”

The quicksand Caedmon had been sinking in for days just pulled him under. He could swear he heard the loud sucking noise. No way out of this mess! He was one dead Saxon duck.

The tic pulsing at the edge of King Thorvald’s mustache was the only clue he gave that he was ignorant of these happenings. “My darling Breanne and her beloved Caedmon? How could I forget?”

The sly king then smiled.

Beware a Viking’s wrath…

First things first.

Breanne, her sisters, her father, Rafn, Eirik, and Eadyth were in the solar. They drank cups of Eadyth’s fine mead, which she had brought with her from Ravenshire, and nibbled at manchet bread and hunks of cheese whilst catching up on all that had happened these past few sennights.

Geoff and Sybil were making arrangements to feed and house another hundred bodies in addition to those who had come with Dunstan and King Edgar. Adam and Rashid had taken little Adela for a walk to see some newborn lambs. The archbishop and his clergy were resting or praying somewhere in the keep. The ealdorman was off drinking ale to assuage his impatience over the way the Witan hearings were going, or not going. And Caedman, may the gods bless him, had taken the king and his cohorts out hunting with falcons. It was either that or let Edgar make merry with one or several of the Heatherby maids, willing or not. Besides that, he had been eyeing Breanne’s fading spots with suspicion.

“I do not blame you, daughters, for killing Havenshire,” Thorvald told them. “I only wish I had been there.”

“Not nearly as much as I do.” Rafn was feeling immense guilt over all that Vana had suffered, thinking him passed to the Other World. He had fallen in battle and had been presumed dead, but in fact he had been taken into slavery by a vicious outlaw band of Danes. His original wound, a deep sword cut to his thigh, had never been treated properly, and thus he limped slightly. “I but wish that Caedmon would tell me where Vana is hiding so that I can take her home with me.” And marry her was left unspoken, but inevitable.

“He honestly does not know, Rafn,” Breanne told him. “’Twas better that none of us knew. Be assured that she is safe under the care of Wulf. And Ivan and Ivar, as well.”

“We owe these people so much,” Rafn told Thorvald.

“Rest assured. We will reward them for their help.”

“I am not sure they will want or take a reward, Father, but this is a small estate, and they do not have the resources to feed all of you,” Ingrith pointed out, her mind ever on food. “There will be enough to last through the wedding feast on the morrow, but not much else.” The Norse troops were settled in tents in the fields beyond the castle, but they still needed food and drink.

“Rafn, send someone to the nearest market town for supplies.”

Rafn nodded.

“We will be going back to Larkspur right after the ceremony. Caedmon advised me that would be the best place for us to wait for Vana to return. She will have heard of our presence here in Northumbria.”

“I only wish it could be now. ’Tis hard to wait, doing nothing,” Rafn remarked.

“Father, Larkspur is not a grand estate, either,” Breanne said.

“We will worry about that when the time comes, daughter. Now, back to Oswald. Are you certain the body will not be found?”

“He is at the bottom of a privy…a very deep privy,” she remarked dryly.

Her father and Rafn gaped at her before breaking out in grins. Then Rafn asked, “How did you get him through the hole?”

Breanne and her sisters just rolled their eyes.

“Believe me, Rafn,” Tyra said, “I would have had no problem making a bonfire of him, beast that he was, but there was an easier solution.” She explained how they had disposed of the body and then pretended that Oswald had ridden out of the castle.

“Oh, Rafn, you should have seen Vana. Black and blue marks on her face, finger marks on her neck, a broken arm, and…” Drifa’s words trailed off as she saw the horror on Rafn’s face. “I am so sorry. I did not mean—”

But Rafn stood abruptly, appearing as if he might hurl the contents of his stomach, and staggered out of the room.

“Nice work, Drifa,” Ingrith remarked.

Drifa started to cry.

“’Tis not your fault,” her father said, pulling her onto his lap. “We had to learn the details eventually. Why the disguises?”

They told him of King Edgar’s reputation for sexual assaults, whether the women be lowborn or noble.

Their father bristled with indignation. “Did he touch any of you?”

“Nay, but I am not sure how long we will be able to fool him,” Breanne said.

“Well, keep your distance ’til we are ready to leave. And, believe you me, when I meet with these Saxon miscreants later today, I will make it clear that no complaints will be filed against any of my daughters. If there are, they will have not just me to deal with, but many of our Viking neighbors. Eirik’s brother Tykir at Dragonstead and Brandr of Bear’s Lair have pledged hirds of soldiers, if need be.”

“Not to mention Ravenshire men,” Eirik pointed out.

“Now, tell me, daughter, why it is that you stayed back at Larkspur whilst your sisters came here? And what is this about a betrothal?”

The door was opening as her father started to speak.

Caedman entered and said, “Forget about the betrothal for now. Edgar has a dairymaid trapped in a locked milk shed, and her father is heading that way with a battle-axe.”

“Let me take care of it,” Rafn said, coming in behind Caedmon. “I am in the mood for killing someone.”

That was all they needed.

It all comes down to money, honey…

The meeting of the Witan later that day was vastly different from the one held that morning.

It was difficult…nay, impossible…to ignore King Thorvald’s presence. Equally difficult to ignore was King Edgar’s surly disposition. He was not a happy king, having been thwarted in his swiving of the dairymaid, not that the maid was objecting, but her father was. It had taken Archbishop Dunstan’s intervention to pry the king away and to appease the angry father with a handful of coin. No one knew where the two thanes were. They had disappeared after the Vikings’ arrival, mayhap gone back to their Wessex homes.

Thorvald had taken one bite of food at an earlier meal and spat it out with contempt. Disregarding any of their arguments, he ordered Ingrith to the kitchen to prepare her usual sumptuous fare. That was where she and the other princesses were now. They would dine royally tonight.

Rather than the ealdorman magistrate, Eirik was the one to open this meeting. “We are here to discuss the disappearance of Lord Havenshire.”

“More like murder,” King Edgar grumbled.

“Until you find a body, there will be no talk of murder,” King Thorvald asserted.

“Putting aside any accusations of murder, why do you seek Lady Havenshire?” Eirik inquired.

“She had cause to want him gone,” Edgar snarled.

“Oh?” Eirik lifted one haughty eyebrow.

“Havenshire beat her regularly, no doubt because she needed it,” Dunstan elaborated. “All women do at one time or another.”

Rafn let out a roar of outrage, and it took both Caedmon and Geoff to hold him down in his seat. Even so, Rafn managed to yell, “You bloody bastards! Vana was a gentle woman, the least deserving of any soul I have e’er met. Personally, if he were here now, I would lop off his head. Then you would not have to search for his vile body.”

“Rafn, you are not helping matters,” Caedmon whispered.

With a snarl of disgust, Rafn plopped down in his seat, stone-faced with fury.

Caedmon pinched the bridge of his nose as he contemplated how this mess was going to be ironed out. “Do you have a headache?” Geoff asked him.

“Why? Is blood seeping out of my eyeballs?”

“That bad, huh? Methinks you need a bout of bedsport.”

“Hah! That is not likely to happen in the near future.”

“I could lend you my hunchback.”

“Geoff! You are getting married on the morrow?”

“I was just teasing, lackwit.”

“I wonder if Sybil would appreciate the jest.”

“Do not dare tell her.”

“We cannot resume our meeting until you two stop chattering,” Lord Orm said.

“Back to your comment about Lady Havenshire having cause to kill her husband,” Eirik said to Dunstan. “Are you aware that the earl has many enemies?”

Caedman noticed that Eirik always spoke of Oswald as if he were still alive, saying he “has” enemies, and not “had” enemies. It was a lesson he would follow.

“In fact, I have been told that Lord Havenshire has a reputation for whipping or striking anyone who displeases him…housecarls, maids, even his own hirdsmen,” Eirik went on. “Therefore, if you want to make accusations of murder, or some other foul act against the earl, why not accuse them?”

Dunstan and Edgar were at a loss for words.

“Do not throw the arrow that can come back to you,” Rashid muttered behind him.

Caedmon had no idea what that meant, but he did know that it was a good thing the king or Dunstan could not hear him.

“Here is the situation,” Dunstan said. “The four princesses were at the castle the night the earl went missing. It is very suspicious that they were in the earl’s bedchamber just before his demise.”

“Demise?” Thorvald hollered. “There you go again, dreaming up murder when you have no proof it ever happened.”

Dunstan held up a hand. “Let me finish. We are trying to piece together what happened at Havenshire from the time Lady Havenshire’s sisters arrived until the earl’s disappearance was noted.”

Caedmon inhaled deeply. This was the do-or-die moment.

“When we arrived at Havenshire, ’twas early evening. I recall because most of the Havenshire folks were still in the great hall, eating dinner,” Ingrith interjected, her speech slurry from the fleecy cheeks.

“Our sister Vana was not present, and we were not looking for Lord Havenshire; so, we do not know if he was there. We went directly upstairs,” Drifa said.

Breanne picked up the lie…uh, story…from there. “Our sister was badly injured. Black eyes, neck-strangling marks, a broken arm. All our attention was focused on helping our sister. Did Lord Havenshire cross our minds? Yea, but only as we cursed the man who would do this to a woman. We assumed that he had beaten his wife, then left to visit his mistress, which I understand was his routine.”

Dunstan was not happy with her story because it not only put Havenshire in a bad light but also himself, as Dunstan had claimed on more than one occasion that beating a woman was not only acceptable but a good thing. “I find your story highly implausible,” Dunstan spat out, drool pooling at the edges of his mouth. “Methinks a torture test to determine your truthfulness might be in order.”

There was a ludicrous method of ferreting out liars. Have them put a hand in boiling water. If the skin did not blister or peel off, they were telling the truth.

King Thorvald stood to his impressive height and pointed a long finger at the archbishop. “You will perform no torture on my daughters. You can accept what they say or not, but this farce is over.”

“And how do we know that none of you is responsible?” Rafn added, looking pointedly at Dunstan and the king.

“How dare you!” Edgar jumped to his feet.

“I understand you want lands…Heatherby, Larkspur,” Rafn blundered on. “Why not Havenshire, which is a much more prosperous estate?”

“Your question is insulting and inappropriate,” Dunstan said, ice coating his words. Turning to Lord Ravenshire, he demanded, “Remove him from our presence.”

Eirik made some silent signals to Caedmon and Rafn, and the Viking got up and walked out. But just before he exited, he said, “If any of you does one single thing to harm Vana, you will feed the raven so fast you will not know what hit you.”

“That…that man threatened us. Take him into custody,” Edgar shouted.

The two soldiers in the room looked from the king to Dunstan to the magistrate, Lord Orm, to Lord Ravenshire, confused about what to do. Dunstan waved a hand and said, “Let him go. For now.”

“You were saying…?” Lord Orm prodded Lord Ravenshire.

“I was saying that Lord Havenshire had many enemies. Seems to me that you have concentrated so much on Lady Havenshire you have failed to investigate anyone else. If naught else, you have prematurely judged this woman.”

King Edgar’s response was a crude Anglo-Saxon word.

Dunstan flashed him a warning glare, then surprised them all by saying, “Your words are well worth heeding, Ravenshire. On the issue of Lord Havenshire,” he looked at his fellow Witan members, “I suggest we do more investigation.”

Neither Orm or the king was happy with Dunstan’s suggestion, but the archbishop was a powerful figure. Even the king rarely disagreed with him in public.

Dunstan addressed King Thorvald then: “Do I have your word that you will make Lady Havenshire available for further questioning if need be?”

King Thorvald hesitated, then nodded, but Caedmon knew there was no chance in hell that Vana would come back on Saxon soil once she was gone.

“The last thing we are to discuss is Caedmon’s hasty betrothal to Lady Breanne,” the king said.

Caedmon and Thorvald both tried to speak at the same time. Caedmon won. “There has never been a formal betrothal, just talk of one.”

“By the runes! That matters not. My daughter will be betrothed only when I say so.” Thorvald glanced at Caedmon. “No offense, but I know nothing of you and your affections for Breanne. You are aware she has this tiny little quirk.”

Dost mean she likes to brush her naked breasts against my chest hairs. Caedmon grinned. “Dost refer to her woodworking skills?”

“For a certainty. She cannot be left alone for even one day without building something. We have more benches at Stoneheim than we have people to sit on them.”

Ravenshire cleared his throat. “Uh, could we go on here?”

“Listen,” King Edgar said to King Thorvald, “you surely understand that noble marriages are arranged here for political reasons. Favors granted. Adjoining estates. Pacts with other nations. And, yea, Caedmon, your estate is small compared to some, but we believe there is merit in your remarrying some Saxon lady who brings profit or merit.”

To the crown , Caedmon finished for him.

“I know what you mean,” Thorvald said. “That is true in the Norselands, as well, but in my family it is different. I have promised each of my daughters that she may choose her own husband…a decision that has come back to bite me in the arse since only two of them have wed, and one of those badly. But that is neither here nor there. It should be noted that their dowries go to them, not their husbands, on marriage. Unless they choose to gift their husbands.”

“Will you at least put off the betrothal ceremony, if there is to be one, until we can discuss a certain widow we had in mind for you?” Dunstan asked Caedmon.

“What widow?” Caedmon eyed the king and Dunstan with suspicion.

Reluctantly, Edgar told him, “Lady Helen of Lockhaven. She brings two castles, many hectares of land, and a good annual profit from her sheep.”

“Whaaat? She is more than forty…closer to fifty.” And homely as the back end of a hog. Not to mention the sheep smell that followed her everywhere.

Geoff was scarce hiding his mirth beside him, but Caedmon considered it no laughing matter.

“All the more reason for it to be a good match,” Dunstan opined, “since you have said on more than one occasion that you have too many children already.”

King Thorvald leaned forward on his bench to address Caedmon over the two people between them. “You do not intend to have any more children? Well, that does it then. No betrothal with my daughter. If naught else, my daughters owe me a grandson. I am sick to death of an all-female household.”

For some reason, Thorvald’s dismissal of him as a prospective groom cut deep. He should not have been offended, but he was.

“Have you been dallying with my daughter?” Thorvald asked of a sudden.

What exactly is dallying? Less than swiving, I would wager.

“Nay,” Caedmon lied.

“Well, do not, lest you want at least five more children.”

Whaaat?

Geoff chuckled and pretended to be counting on his fingers, up to fifteen, counting this current five.

“Never!” Caedmon mouthed silently to Geoff.

“Definitely,” Thorvald insisted, having interpreted their silent exchange.

Everyone started talking at once.

But then Geoff stood and spoke over all the voices, “’Tis past time we held a wedding. Mine.”

Caedmon breathed a sigh of relief then as the room began to empty. It would be a short-lived relief, though, because nothing had been settled.

Fifteen children? He almost gagged.

And Lady Helen? Hah! He would sooner wed a camel.

It was appropriate then that Rashid, in passing, tossed one of his proverbs his way: “He who rides the camel should not be afraid of dogs.”

“We have a similar Saxon saying, Rashid,” Geoff interjected.

Caedmon could not wait to hear this one.

“He who tups the keg must take the foam with the ale.”

“Well said!” Rashid congratulated Geoff.

Caedmon just put his face in his hands.