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Cleve saw that the queen was furious, but wise enough to hold her tongue in front of her husband, and even, perhaps, in front of him, though he couldn’t imagine why she would care about what he thought of her. As for Chessa, she was staring blankly down at her serving of glailey fish and eggs. All knew that the Danelaw was growing weaker by the year, the inroads made by the Saxons drawing closer and closer. It was a matter of time and the Vikings would lose their hold and their rule. He wondered if this prince of the Danelaw, this Ragnor, would ever even rule.
Warfare was more open tonight. The queen and Chessa scrapped back and forth, but there wasn’t much heat in Chessa’s insults. Cleve wondered what Chessa thought about her probable marriage to William Longsword. It would doubtless be to her liking. What woman wouldn’t prefer wealth? He didn’t care. By Freya’s grace, he wanted only to lead his life, raise his daughter, and find a willing female once in a while to ease his body. Surely it wasn’t too much for a man to wish.
The next morning the king summoned Cleve to his throne room. No one else was there. Nothing new in that. Whenever he’d spoken to Cleve, he’d dismissed his ministers, even the servants, all save his bodyguard, Cullic. When Cleve had remarked upon it the first day of his arrival he’d said that servants could serve two masters and he had no intention of granting them that opportunity.
“I give my consent,” he said as soon as Cleve entered. “You may leave today and inform Duke Rollo of my decision. I will send Chessa to Rouen when he so desires the marriage to take place.”
Cleve bowed low. “As you will, sire.”
“Cleve.”
“Aye?”
“You did well. You’re an intelligent man. I believe you are a man to trust. If you tire of Rollo, I would offer you service here.”
Cleve thanked Sitric and turned to leave.
“You were wise to keep away from my daughter. She seems to regard you differently. It is unexpected. I want this marriage. I foresee that Duke Rollo has begun a dynasty that will only grow in power and in conquered land.”
“Perhaps you are right about Rollo. His will is strong.” Cleve paused but a moment, flicked a speck of dirt from his sleeve and added, “I have no reason to wish your daughter’s company.” He left the king’s presence, neither saying more.
Malverne farmstead
One month later
“Papa.”
“Aye, sweeting,” he said, lifting Kiri up above his head, then lowering her and holding her close.”
“You were gone far too long. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either. I had to travel from Dublin back to Rouen before I could come home to Malverne. But I told you how many days it would be. I am home three days early.”
“That’s true,” she said, and frowned. “Sometimes I think you add days just to try to fool me. Did all go well?”
He was silent for a very long time, his long fingers lightly stroking down his daughter’s back. She wiggled and he scratched her left
shoulder. “Everything went as Duke Rollo wished,” he said finally. “Now, go to bed, Kiri. I’ll tell you all about Taby on the morrow. Your uncle Merrik is right. Taby is a golden child, strong and kind. Ah, here is Irek, come to sleep with you.” Irek was fat now, nearly full grown, black and white save for a gray spot on his nose. What sort of dog he was, no one could begin to guess. He was ferociously protective of Kiri, barking wildly if he believed anyone wanted to harm her. Harald, Merrik’s eldest son, kept his distance when Irek began to growl.
In the full darkness of the night, he dreamed again the vivid dream that hadn’t come to him in nearly three months. He was tossed into the dream just as a man could be tossed overboard into a storm-maddened sea, with no warning, no portent. It was real and he was there and the scent of those purple and yellow flowers filled him, just as he seemed to feel the lightly falling mist against his face. This time he didn’t begin on the cliff edge looking down into that ravine that was filled with boulders and crashing cold water. No, this time, he was there, at the door of that house with its sod and shingle roof, with the thin trail of smoke that came from the single hole in the roof. He was shaking. He didn’t want to go into that fortress. He heard that deep, compelling voice. He knew she would scream soon. He tried to run. Where was the pony? He reached out his hand and lifted the single iron latch. The huge wooden door swung open. Suddenly the voice was quiet. She wasn’t screaming. There was dead silence. The room was long and wide, and at the end of it there was a high dais, behind it huge square-cut shutters. The floor was hard-packed earth. One end of the huge hall was curtained off. He knew there were small sleeping chambers behind that curtain, four of them. There were benches all along the walls. Hanging from thick chains over the fire pit was a huge iron pot, steam rising out of it, thickening the air with white mist. Silence still reigned even though the hall held many men, women, and children. Even the three dogs sitting there on their haunches were as silent as the people. He hated it. He feared it. He took another step into the hall. He saw a woman standing over the fire pit stirring something in a huge iron pot. There was a man drinking from an ornately carved wooden cup. He sat in the only chair in the room, its back high, its arms exquisitely carved to display a scene showing Thor defeating his enemies, his sword raised, the look of triumph ferocious on his thick wooden face. The chair looked to be very old, but the man was young, his hair black and thick, his face lean, his hands long and white and narrow. He was garbed all in black. His sleeves were so loose they would billow out in a wind. Other men were sitting along the bench where several women served them wooden plates of food.
The man in the chair looked to be brooding, his chin resting on his white slender hand. But he wasn’t really brooding, Cleve somehow knew. He was watching a young girl who was working at a loom in the corner. Then he glanced at the woman attending the iron pot over the fire pit. The woman looked from the girl toward the man. There was both rage and fear in her eyes. She said something, but the man ignored her. He kept his eyes on the girl. Softly, he told her to come to him. Cleve shrieked at her not to do it, not to go to him, and for the first time in the dreams, she actually seemed to hear him. She turned, as if searching out where he was. Then, as if she saw him, she spoke to him, but he couldn’t hear her words, couldn’t understand what she wanted to tell him. He watched her walk slowly toward the man, and he was afraid and he was angry, as angry as the woman who still stood at the fire pit, her eyes never wavering from the elegant man who sat in that royal chair.
He knew he was dreaming, but again he couldn’t make himself awaken. He could feel the man looking at him now, and he saw the man frown. Then the man rose and waved the girl away from him. He was walking toward Cleve. He would kill him, Cleve knew it, yet he couldn’t seem to make his feet move, he couldn’t speak. The man came down on his haunches in front of him. Oddly, he merely stretched out his hand and smoothed the golden hair back from his brow. He said, “You look as shaggy as your sheep dog.” He drew a slender knife from its scabbard at his waist. Cleve was so afraid he thought he’d vomit, but the man merely sliced off the long shank of hair that fell over his forehead. Then he patted Cleve’s cheek and rose. He said, “This is a man’s business. Go outside and play with your pony.” But Cleve looked toward the woman at the fire pit. She avoided his eyes. He looked toward the girl and she nodded, saying nothing, just nodded at him until he turned and nearly ran from that huge hall.
It was then he heard a scream. He didn’t turn. He couldn’t bear to turn, he just ran and ran and ran. . . .
He jerked awake, his breath hitched in his throat, and he knew then that his mind was stitching together long-forgotten memories and making him relive them, making him face who he was and what he’d been a long time ago. He slept again as the dawn came and the air was still and deep as his sleep was now.
And once he was wide awake, he remembered.
Laren and Merrik, the lord and lady of Malverne farmstead, walked with him up to Raven’s Peak. They were silent, waiting, for they knew that something important had happened to him and they were content to be patient, to let him tell them in his own good time.
Cleve said nothing until they reached the top of the peak. He stared out over the fjord and the barren cliffs opposite before turning to his good friends with a smile. “My name isn’t Cleve. It’s Ronin. My mother’s ancestors are Scottish Dalriada and were originally from northern Ireland, many generations ago. They journeyed to the west, first to the outer islands, then to the mainland both north and south of the Romans’ two walls, where they fought the Picts, the Britons, and the Vikings. They finally gained their own land and settled. They’re now called the Scots. They were united with the Picts by Kenneth in the middle of the last century.”
“By Thor’s might,” Merrik said. “You’re a Scot, truly? From where does your family hail?”
“In the northwest, on the western shore of a river called Loch Ness. It’s a savage land, Merrik, more untamed than Norway, but it doesn’t have the months of frigid cold. There are outlaws aplenty. There is much trading. There is beautiful land that goes on and on, and it changes from flatland to deep valleys to mountains that are so vicious, so barren and rugged, that you pray to survive them. There are glens and small secluded places where waterfalls crash downward onto boulders older than the hills themselves. You would enjoy yourself there.
