Page 4 of Summer Warrior

Rognvald began another poem, his intense dark eyes never leaving her. His voice faded as she shifted her gaze to the men of Orkney sitting around him held in rapt attention. They were all mail-clad warriors, long-haired and bearded, battle ready with swords and great gleaming axes hanging from their belts. Had they been the ones to murder Earl Paul? Had they pillaged as they sailed south, leaving cottages burning in Argyll and the Isles? One named Sweyn, when drinking deeply, had boasted of his battles and the women who satisfied his lust.

Rognvald’s booming voice drew her attention to where he stood. Not as tall as some of his men but well-proportioned and strong-limbed, his chestnut hair fell in waves to his shoulders. Even before his arrival she had heard he was a man who gave great attention to his person and his clothing.

In her father’s great hall, where the rushes were herb-scented and always fresh, where tapestries hung on the stone walls that spoke of the Kings of Man, Earl Rognvald wore his finery, bright with color and the fabrics rich fabric. His mantles of fine woolens were clasped with gold brooches carved with Norse symbols. She suspected that was not what he wore beneath his mail when he engaged in battle, which, by all accounts, had been often.

She knew from her mother that Orkney’s history was one of petty grievances, feuds and warring factions. The stories often involved betrayal and murder, of cousins, friends, even brothers. She wanted no part of it.

OLAF PATTED his daughter’s hand as her fingers rested on his shoulder as she sighed beneath the weight of Rognvald’s many words. The tension she conveyed in her touch was uncharacteristic of his fearless, spirited daughter. Mayhap it was the grin the earl gave her as he spoke of her beauty, one that hinted of possession and nights under the furs. Olaf could see the earl was pleased with the possibility of having her to wife. Any man would be. The flame-haired Princess of Man had grown into an emerald-eyed enchantress, beautiful and keenly intelligent, but one who was slow to accept another’s will, even Olaf’s own.

Still, he needed this alliance.

The Norse sea-raiders gave little heed to anything save their own pleasure and lust for wealth. Word had reached Olaf of their pillaging, raping and burning as they sailed south, coming ever closer to Man where great treasure lay. Olaf took comfort in his warriors and his many longships resting in the harbor but he feared a stealthy attack. A great force of Norse could overpower his men.

His marriage to Ingibiorg, Ragnhild’s mother, had brought peace for many years as the Earls of Orkney kept the villains at bay, but would this new earl observe the old alliance? Earl Paul, who had ruled Orkney before Rognvald, had been a man like Olaf, one who preferred peace to war, one who was loved by his people. Alas, he was gone, replaced by this capable, though pompous Norseman whose axe, dagger and sword spoke of battle. Could Olaf give his beloved daughter to such a one? Did he have a choice?

THE NEXT MORNING, Ragnhild lengthened her stride as she hurried toward the abbey her father had built several years before. She had to speak to Abbot Bernard, her confessor, counselor and closest friend. Not even her handmaiden, Cecily, was privy to the secrets she shared with the priest. When the Savignac abbot first came to the Isle of Man, she could speak Irish, Norse and English, but he had taught her to write as well. They had shared many hours by the fire as he read to her from ancient manuscripts and spoke about God, encouraging her to trust her future to the Master of the Heavens.

The priest met her at the door of the wooden abbey, wearing the gray robe of the Savignacs that was nearly the color of his tonsured hair and short beard. “What is it, child? You seem greatly disturbed.”

“Indeed, I am,” she confirmed. “Do you know who my father has been entertaining at the castle this past sennight?”

“’Tis known the Earl of Orkney visits the island.”

“Not just a visit. I think my father means to make a match between us! I cannot bear the thought of being wedded to a man so full of his own conceit.”

“Yet you are both Norse.”

She averted her gaze. “We are not the same. You know as well as I the King of Norway has little to say in the affairs of Man. Some of the Norse still hold to their pagan traditions while my father is a man of reason and learning, a man of God, closer to King Henry than Norway’s king.”

“Yea, ’tis true,” Abbot Bernard said, nodding. “We are ever in King Olaf’s debt for the land on which the abbey stands and the timber he gave us to build. And now he encourages us to build anew in stone and grants us more land.”

“I would dread having to leave my father to marry a man tied to Norway. I have no wish to live far away on those dreary islands with their harsh cliffs surrounded by sea. And I refuse to marry a murderer.”

The abbot’s forehead furrowed as if he were unaware of the rumors that had dogged Earl Rognvald. Surely the priest had heard of Earl Paul’s demise.

“Come, child, let us share some ale and we will speak more of it.”

As well as raising cattle and growing herbs and vegetables, the monks of the abbey produced excellent ale. Ragnhild was not averse to raising a goblet with her dear friend. “Very well,” she said, following him inside. “I am in sore need of your advice.”

In the monks’ dining hall, Abbot Bernard called for ale and, soon, Ragnhild was sipping the warm golden liquid and pouring out her heart.

His goblet held between his sure and steady hands, the priest stared into his ale. “It is common for lords to barter their daughters for alliances, Princess.”

Wishing he would raise his kind brown eyes to her where she hoped to see sympathy, she asked, “Is the situation so dire that King Olaf needs this alliance?”

“Aye, there is a need,” he said raising his head. “The Norse pirates are ranging farther south. Earl Rognvald could stop them if he chose.” Meeting her gaze, he said, “If it is you the earl desires, mayhap the sea-raiders serve his purpose to pressure your father into meeting his demand for your hand.”

“Oh.” She sat back, twisting her goblet in her hands, her fingers running over the raised carving. “I had not thought of that.” Nothing would bring her father to the negotiating table sooner than if his kingdom and the people of Man were threatened. “But what of his alliances with King Henry and King David, not to mention Lord Fergus of Galloway? Are they not protection enough?”

“They have served King Olaf well these many years. Like your father, David was raised in Henry’s court, a hostage really. Yet now Henry and David squabble over Cumbria. Their eyes are diverted from what is happening in the west. If there were another way to keep the Norse pirates from our shores, it is possible your father might delay an alliance with Earl Rognvald.”

“Is there another way?” she asked, looking into his wise face with anxious eyes.

He nodded sagely. “Aye, there might be. News spreads of a strong warrior driving the Norse menace from the shores of Argyll.”

Her heart raced to think of such a possibility. She looked at the abbot with hope in her eyes.

He rested his hand on hers. “Worry not. I will speak to the king.”