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“Because I would have flayed the flesh from his back without even asking him a single question. He believed by killing Erik, you would be blamed and he would still gain what he wanted. He could sit back and laugh at all of us, watching us perform as he’d wanted.”
“I am very sorry about Erik.”
“Aye, to die to have another blamed. I miss him sorely. Now we have the guilty man. I have sent a messenger to my other brother, Rorik, on Hawkfell Island. He and his wife, Mirana, will come, I doubt it not. Answer me, Laren. What should I do to Deglin?”
She said slowly, “Perhaps I would send him to my uncle Rollo. Let him serve up justice and punishment.”
Merrik’s nostrils flared. “Aye, it would be fitting. Rollo would have Deglin ripped apart by four horses or he would have him hung upside down next to a wolf. Your uncle isn’t known for his clemency or his forgiveness.”
“No, he is not, particularly toward those who attempt to hurt those he loves. No Viking is known for clemency. I would kill him, but not so crudely.”
“And what would you do?”
“I think I would take him deep into the forest, give him a knife, and leave him. He is proud of his wits. Let him save himself if he can.”
“Perhaps he would save himself. I cannot bear for him to live. It would offend the gods and all our people.”
She sighed then. “You are right. Kill him.” She paused a moment, then added, “He didn’t really confess to killing Erik.”
“He killed my brother.”
“He swore only that he saw me unconscious, and that is what I remember, Merrik. There is no doubt now in your mind?”
“None at all.”
A
ll the Malverne people agreed that Deglin was guilty. They all had heard him speak ill of Laren, heard his bitterness, his rage at her seizing of his position. The men told of how Deglin, in his jealousy, had knocked Laren into a campfire, badly burning her leg. All of Deglin’s silver was given to Merrik as Danegeld for Erik’s life. It wasn’t enough, there would never be enough to pay for Erik’s life, but it was custom and Merrik bowed to it. No one wanted him taken to Duke Rollo in Normandy, they wanted him dead, the sooner the better. Thus it was that Merrik would wield the knife, as was his right. He planned one quick blow. He wanted it over. He would execute Deglin at dawn the next morning.
The morning was chill, clouds lying low. Everyone stood in a circle, waiting for Deglin to be brought out. But when Merrik, Snorri the blacksmith, and Oleg went into Snorri’s hut, Deglin was dead. He’d managed to free himself and thrust a knife in his heart. It was one of Erik’s old knives, there to be repaired, then to be given to Merrik.
“By all the gods,” Snorri said, infuriated, “I should have remained here in the hut last night! But I didn’t want to hear him pleading and begging me for his release. And now he is dead, by his own hand.”
All complained that his death was too easy, too quick. Merrik wondered why Deglin hadn’t tried to escape. Others wondered as well. Surely dying in freedom was better than knowing death was certain in captivity. Surely dying in freedom was better than taking your own life. But it was done.
Merrik merely shook his head and had Deglin’s body dragged into the forest. He did not deserve a Viking burial. Laren watched him wipe Deglin’s blood from the knife pulled from Deglin’s chest. He stared silently at it for a long moment, then handed it to Snorri.
They planned to leave for Normandy and the court of Duke Rollo after the harvest. That would give them enough time to return before the first winter storm struck Vestfold.
One week after a farmer had come across Deglin’s body in the forest, little left of it save bloody rags, there was much shouting and yelling and arm waving from the pier.
Merrik’s older brother, Rorik, had arrived at Malverne.
Laren was on her back on the floor, laughing and trying to avoid the huge dog’s hot tongue that lapped her face, grainy and nearly painful on her flesh. She gripped his thick fur and pulled and pulled, but it did no good at all. “Don’t just stand there,” she yelled, “help me!”
“Kerzog! Off her, you stupid hound! Get off!”
Kerzog took one final lick, then bounded up, his huge paws landing on Merrik’s chest, nearly dropping him to his knees with the force.
“I see that Kerzog still admires a beautiful woman and remembers how my little brother fed him more meat from his platter than he himself ate.” Rorik smiled toward the gigantic hound still trying to swipe Merrik’s face with his tongue.
“I must wash my face at least six times a day,” Mirana said to Laren. “Kerzog is as loving as is my husband, and he is considerably stronger.”
“Six times?” Merrik said to his smiling sister-in-law. “I should say he is far more loving than any mortal man could be, including my brother.”
Rorik Haraldsson grinned at Laren, and said, “Your new husband has enough wit for the entire family. You, I understand, are a skald. That is unusual. Both my wife and I are eager to hear a tale.”
“And our sons as well,” Mirana said, pointing to two little boys who were utterly identical, both with hair as black as their mother’s, and eyes as light blue as the sky, just like their father’s. They were beautiful. They were eyeing Taby, the three of them circling each other, wary, yet interested.
