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“I promise,” Kiri said, giving each of her aunts a small smile, “to eat and not to be dead when papa returns with my second papa. But I still would like some sticks to count, Papa.”
He tossed her into the air as he groaned. “No sticks. Eat, sweeting.”
York, capital of the Danelaw
the king’s palace
One week later
Chessa chewed on an apple. It was more sour than not, and crisp, just as she liked it. Ragnor was sitting in a chair, trying desperately to play the small harp with emotion. He was singing a romantic poem the court skald, Baric, had taught him. It rhymed but Ragnor couldn’t seem to make the rhyme fit the music.
Chessa picked up another apple and took a bite. She’d eaten nothing today since she’d been forced to be in the king’s presence at both meals. He both frightened and repelled her, a combination that took away her appetite. He’d told her that he’d bed her if Ragnor didn’t please her and make her scream with pleasure. Then, he said, if she pleased him sufficiently, he would allow her to chew his food for him.
She shuddered now thinking about it. Finally, Ragnor looked up at her, his expression both pained and defiant. “Did you like it?”
“Oh, yes. I love music. Your display of ardo
r moved me, Ragnor. I’ve asked Baric to teach me lullabies to sing to Cleve’s babe when he’s born.”
Ragnor raised the harp at her, cursed, then threw it to the floor and stomped on it. Each stomp made her smile. “Damn you,” he yelled, “you will be quiet. You will not have his babe, Chessa, I forbid it. That damned Cleve. I should have killed him. I should have known that he would seduce you, the damned bastard, just to thwart me. He lied about marrying you to William of Normandy. He just wanted to have you for himself.”
“He was relieved that I wasn’t pregnant with your babe,” she said, and took another bite of her apple. “He was pleased that I was a virgin. He lost his head when he discovered that he was the first. Then he just couldn’t stop. The act was quite nice, at least with him.”
“My father isn’t pleased. You shouldn’t have just spat it out at him the way you did and all because he said he’d like to bed you and make you scream. He would have forgotten. He even forgets he’s angry at me now. But you had to anger him, didn’t you? He was so furious he forgot to have the concubine that stands on his left hand taste every bite he wanted. He could have died from poison.”
“Perhaps,” Chessa said, “I could bribe the concubine who stands at his left hand.”
“Stop that, you evil witch. You try to anger me now. You do it apurpose. My mother warned me that it was your way. She told me not to let you arouse my ire, that you never meant what you said, it was all a ploy. My mother is very smart, but you make it difficult to do as she directs.”
“I agree,” Chessa said. “She is very smart.”
“Ah, here’s Baric, here to ask you how you liked my singing and playing. You will tell him that you felt it in your soul, if you have one, or I’ll beat you.”
Baric was very short and thin. He had a lush dark brown beard that grew nearly to his waist. But he was completely bald. But he was kind and had merry, intelligent eyes. Chessa liked him and guessed he enjoyed watching Ragnor gnash his teeth. At his side was a woman, a very tall woman, whose head was bowed. She was carrying Baric’s prized harp. She wore white mittens on her hands and her hair was covered with the hood of her tunic.
Ragnor eyed her as he did every female. “Who is this, Baric? She’s twice your size. Do you like to climb her as a man would a mountain?”
“Aye, my lord. Her size gives me great pleasure as well as protection. She’s a hardy wench and strong. Her name is Isla and she comes from Iceland. I sang to her in the market and she swooned. Now she is mine and gives me all her loyalty. Such, my lord, is the power of music.”
Ragnor cursed.
“Have you given the princess pleasure, my lord, with your sweet verses?”
“I always gain pleasure in Ragnor’s company,” Chessa said, and chewed on her thumbnail. “Who could not?”
“I did mean with his music, Princess.”
“Ah, that is another matter. He sought such perfection, Baric, that when he didn’t achieve it, he stomped the harp into the ground.”
Baric looked at the destroyed harp and blinked back tears. But he did manage to keep his mouth shut. He mumbled something and picked at his huge beard.
The woman raised her face. She was beautiful. She was also painted like a harlot. Her brows were black with kohl, her one eye lined so heavily with it that it was difficult to gauge her expression. Ah, and the other eye was covered with a patch of white linen. The uncovered one was blue. Her lips were vermilion and looked wet. Her cheeks were dead white, painted thickly from ground cornstarch and panza root, mixed into a paste. Chessa blinked at her. Her face must weigh as much as the armlets Ragnor was wearing, heavy silver, coiled in the shape of snakes.
Ragnor blinked as well, only his blink was assessing and excited. “Isla,” he said, leering at her. Chessa had seen him once practicing that look when he saw his reflection in a metal shield one of the soldiers was holding.
The woman breathed his name, “My lord Ragnor. I’ve waited long to see you. Baric tells me you play brilliantly. I wish to hear you sing. Ah, but your poor harp. Did the bitch break it? And you’re so noble, you protect her?”
The bitch. Chessa eyed the woman more closely. This was interesting.
