Chapter Six
Nyle was fairly certain he was not dead. From past experience he was reasonably convinced that dead men did not feel pain, and he was in agony. His head hurt, every muscle in his body ached. He could not move, nor could he see.
He could feel, however, and knew that he was in motion. And he could hear. The steady, rhythmic clip-clopping of hooves told him that he was in a cart being drawn by a single horse, his destination unknown. But he could guess. The woman he had encountered in the boathouse, lovely though she was, had mentioned claiming the reward for his return. Twenty silver pennies. Arkyn Arkynson must have experienced an uncommon rush of profligacy to offer such an amount. Nyle should be flattered. The bounty on him was more than enough to tempt even the most beautiful of noble Norsewomen to an act of desperation. It had worked and thus he found himself tied up like a chicken and tossed onto a cart to be returned to his master.
His head swam. Nyle found it difficult to concentrate but of one thing he was certain. He had to escape. He could not go back to sea again, he would gladly die first. At some stage he would tend to the matter. Soon. As soon as his head ceased this vicious throbbing and his world stopped spinning about him.
The next time he opened his eyes to peer into the darkness he was met with silence. The cart was still. Had they arrived back at Arkynsund? If so, why had the sacking that covered the cart not been removed? Why was he not, even now, being dragged back to the slave barn to await punishment?
Light footsteps reached him, but no voices. The cart rocked slightly and Nyle realised that his quite lovely but ruthless captor must have dismounted for a while but she was now back on board. Sure enough, the slapping sound of the reins and a soft cry of “Hup,” heralded the resumption of the awful rolling and swaying as the cart was once more set in motion. Nyle groaned and lost consciousness again.
He had no idea of how much time passed while he languished in the back of the cart, drifting in and out of consciousness, unable to summon the energy to again grasp the freedom that meant more to him than his life itself. Despite the chill in the air he was not cold. That, at least, was some consolation. A warm blanket had been placed over him at some stage and he was glad of it. His thoughts remained disjointed, his limbs uncoordinated. He could neither think straight, nor, he was certain, could he contrive to walk unaided even if he were not bound.
Even the slip of a lass from the boathouse would be able to best him in this condition. Soon, though. Soon he would recover his senses, then she would pay dearly.
The cart had stopped. Nyle heard voices, close by. The warm tone of a female, then another woman also. His beautiful captor also spoke, her words clipped and business-like. He heard a name mentioned, Mathios Agnartson.
Who might that be? Where is Arkynson?
Nyle knew he really should make some semblance of an effort to rouse himself to action. If he was to escape, this was the one chance he might still have, if only he could move.
He shifted, and found his arms were now free. His legs, too. He could… he might… His world went black again, and he lost consciousness.
The next time he opened his eyes it was to muted daylight. Wood smoke filled his nostrils, and all around him he heard the excited babble of voices, mainly female but one male. He recognised the determined tones of the Norsewoman who had brought him here. She demanded her reward. Those silver pennies clearly meant a great deal to her. The other voices sounded vaguely familiar also, though he could not quite recall…
Nyle groaned and raised his arm to cover his eyes. His head still throbbed mercilessly. Shit, what did that woman hit me with?
He must have spoken aloud, since the Norsewoman deigned to answer him.
“It was an earthenware pot, in fact. It broke.”
Nyle fastened his far from steady gaze upon her. He appeared to be lying on a pallet of some sort, and she stood at the foot. She glanced down at him, then turned her attention to the smaller woman by her side. “Now, if I might have my silver pennies I shall be on my way and bother you no further.”
“Yes, of course. My husband promised it and you have brought my brother home, so—”
Brother? Nyle might be barely conscious but his senses were fast returning now. He shook his head and peered at the smaller of the two figures. Could it be…?
“Merewyn?” he croaked. “Is it you?” He swung his gaze further to encompass a woman of middle years who he did not recognise, then the tall, hauntingly familiar figure of a man. He was dreaming, still unconscious, surely… “And Bowdyn? How is this possible?”
Nyle did not trust the evidence of his own eyes. How could he? He had not seen his brother for over three years, his sister neither. Bowdyn had been brought to the Norseland with him, but Merewyn had eluded the Viking raiders and remained safe at home. Did she not? Surely, he would recall if she had been enslaved too…
But, apparition or not, Merewyn knelt beside him now and dabbed at the lump on his forehead with a piece of damp cloth. Nyle winced and she apologised. He reached for her hand, overwhelmed by the need to touch her, to know that she was real, not some cruel vision conjured up by his rambling mind.
“You should rest,” she suggested tentatively.
He grunted his response. He had rested enough, now he wanted answers. Surely none of this could be real. He must be dead, after all, despite all the evidence to the contrary. Had he slithered unnoticed into the afterlife?
Bowdyn, the brother he had not seen for so long, crouched at his side. “We are all real, and you are not dead, my brother. Look around you. I am here, Bowdyn, and our sister too. We find ourselves in a Viking longhouse, not quite the setting any of us might have chosen for our reunion but this is the dwelling of our sister’s husband. He is the jarl of this settlement…”
Nyle gave up. He simply could not take in any more. It was too fantastic. Wonderful, but beyond belief. He would awake and find himself back on board Arkynson’s longship, lashed to his oar. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and blocked out everything.
* * *
He opened his eyes again to find his head nestling in Merewyn’s lap. She stroked his hair, her fingers gentle, loving. She was still here. He had slept, his head was clearing, and she was still here. Nyle smiled at her, at last permitting himself to start to believe.
“Ah, some semblance of life at last. Your brother appears to be ready to return to us, little Celt.”
Nyle angled his head to regard the tall Viking nobleman who stood at the foot of the pallet. The man had long blond locks and wore a tunic of fine lambs-wool. His expression was one of amused relief.
“Do I know you?” Nyle muttered.
The man raised one eyebrow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mathios, and you, I gather, are my brother. Or more properly, brother to my wife, which makes us kin.”
Wife? Nyle vaguely had a hazy recollection that Bowdyn had said something of that sort, that Merewyn was wife to the jarl of this settlement. Well, however unlikely that circumstance might be, it appeared to have worked in Nyle’s favour. He parted his lips and forced out a few conciliatory words.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, jarl.”
“And I yours. You are welcome here.”
“Thank you.” Nyle attempted to sit up but failed utterly. Merewyn tried to assist but it took Mathios’ strength to ease him up so that the middle-aged woman who darted about the longhouse could jam a roll of blankets behind him. Again, he thanked Mathios, and the woman, then, “I understand I am already in debt to you to the tune of twenty silver pennies. As well as that, I do not suppose I could trouble you for a mug of ale?”
Merewyn made to rise but the other woman laid a hand on her shoulder. “I shall get it.” She offered Nyle a soft smile. “I am Rowena, stepmother to the jarl.”
Mathios tilted his chin in the direction of the departing figure. “Rowena takes care of us all. I expect she will be fussing around you for a while yet.”
Nyle believed he might not find it so onerous to become accustomed to Rowena’s ministrations. He turned his head and took his first proper look at his new surroundings. “Where am I?”
Merewyn grasped his hand in both of hers. “This is my husband’s longhouse, in the settlement of Agnartved. It is our home. Yours too, if you wish. You and Bowdyn.”
“Bowdyn?” He had seen his twin earlier, but barely dared to ask in case that vision had been nothing but his turbulent imaginings.
“He is here, but he is occupied speaking with Kristin.”
“Kristin?” He knew no one by that name.
“The woman who brought you here,” Merewyn clarified. “Kristin Lofnsdottir. She has kindly consented to remain with us for the nattmal.”
So that was what the rather stunning Norsewoman was called. He had not got as far as formal introductions in their previous encounter, before she slapped him around the head with a pot. Perhaps she heard the mention of her name because this Kristin appeared from somewhere behind him to join in the conversation around the pallet.
“So, I did not succeed in doing you to death, then, despite your brother’s ridiculous accusations.”
“Not quite,” conceded Nyle. He tested the lump on his head with his fingers and wondered if there might yet be time.
“Let that be a warning to you. A thrall may not lay hands on a noble Viking woman. You are fortunate I did not have you hanged for your temerity.”
Should he thank her? Nyle could not quite bring himself to do so. But as for the laying of hands, had she not set upon him first?
“I seem to recall it was you who tumbled me to the ground. I merely sought to—”
“You know what you did, what you said. What is more, you were intending to steal a boat from us.”
Nyle shrugged. It was true he had considered kissing her as she lay beneath him. What male would not? And then, had that gone well, perhaps…
She glared down her elegant nose at him. “Do you deny it? Any of it?”
In fairness, he could not. Nyle attempted his most apologetic smile, but Kristin Lofnsdottir remained far from impressed.
“If you touch me again, I shall kill you.”
“I shall try to remember that,” he affirmed.
* * *
With Bowdyn’s assistance Nyle managed to rise from the pallet and stagger to one of the large, carved chairs that were situated close to the fire pit in the centre of Mathios’ hall. Bowdyn took the other chair opposite and Rowena placed a jug of ale and two horns within reach.
“This is better Viking hospitality than I have experienced in this land thus far,” observed Nyle after he thanked Rowena for her generosity.
“Aye. Rowena manages a fine household,” Bowdyn agreed.
“You have been here a while, then?”
Bowdyn shook his head. “Just six weeks or so.”
“I see. And before then?”
Bowdyn proceeded to tell his story. Nyle noticed that his brother hesitated over the parts concerning Deva and her relationship with their Viking master, Torsteinn. From what he could gather, the man had not been unkind and, when pressed, Bowdyn grudgingly had to concede that Deva appeared content with her lot.
“Torsteinn told me that he loves her,” he assured his brother.
“And you believe him?”
“Why would he say it if it was not true?”
Nyle nodded. “And Deva? Does she return his affections?”
Bowdyn stared down into his horn. “You must remember, it has been three years. We thought you had probably perished. Well, Deva believed that. I did not. I was sure that I would know if you had died. In here.” He laid his hand over his heart. “Somehow, I would…”
“I know. I feel the same. And I do not bear Deva any ill will. I am glad she is happy and cared for. It could so easily have been otherwise.” He grimaced as he recalled his own experiences as a thrall. “I should know.”
“We heard you had been sold as an oar slave…”
“Aye, ‘tis true. Not a life I would recommend.”
“But you survived.”
“It certainly seems so. I can only conclude that ours is a family of survivors.”
“Not all of us.”
“No, not all,” Nyle agreed. He had not witnessed the murder of their father but Bowdyn had told him of it soon after they were taken captive. “But Merewyn, somehow… And our mother.”
Bowdyn met his gaze and shook his head. “No, not our mother.”
“What? But I thought…”
“She… she was raped and left for dead. Merewyn told me our mother survived the attack, but was left pregnant. She carried the child of a Viking raider. She also survived the birth the following year but died a few weeks later, leaving Merewyn to raise the child on her own.”
Nyle let out a string of oaths beneath his breath. He met his brother’s gaze again. “What happened then? How did our little sister end up here?”
“From what I know, Merewyn battled on alone for the next year or so, trying to scratch out an existence in the burned-out farm, struggling to feed herself let alone the baby. He is called Connell, by the way. After our father.”
Nyle inclined his head. “She did well to survive.”
“Aye. Then, when Connell was a year or so old, Mathios and some of his men were shipwrecked on the coast close to the farm and found themselves trapped there for the winter while they made the repairs to their ship. They availed themselves of Merewyn’s hospitality, which I gather was somewhat grudgingly given at first. However, by the time the Vikings were ready to leave and return to their home, Merewyn agreed to accompany them, as Mathios’ wife. Connell is here, too. He has been adopted by a Viking family and is thriving.”
“An intriguing tale. So tell me, how did you come to be here?”
“Torsteinn and Mathios are friends. Torsteinn was invited to attend Mathios’ wedding celebrations and of course he brought Deva with him. She and Merewyn recognised each other, and Deva told Merewyn that I was still alive. Torsteinn sent for me and gave me to Mathios, who freed me. So here I am.”
“And Mathios posted the reward for me?”
“Aye. It meant a lot to Merewyn that her other brother be found. Me too. Despite being a Viking himself, Mathios agreed to help. Knowing we were identical twins, he paraded me around every village and settlement within a week’s ride of here leaving word that he would pay twenty silver pennies for information leading to the return of a man who looked exactly like me.”
“Despite being a Viking? Am I to understand that you dislike our new brother?”
Bowdyn considered for a few moments before responding, but when he did his tone was vehement. “He is one of them, the murdering, greedy thieves who raid and destroy. They slaughtered our father, raped our mother, ransacked and laid waste to our home. I will never forget, never forgive…”
“Mathios did not do those things,” countered Nyle quietly.
“But his kind did. It is the same.”
“Is it?” His acquaintance with Merewyn’s husband was limited but Nyle had observed nothing but generous hospitality from him. It was true that their family had been grievously wronged but Mathios was not the one who needed to be forgiven for those crimes. Nor did Nyle see merit in souring the present by holding onto bitterness and resentment over what could not be changed. The past was gone, the future lay untouched, unblemished before them and that was what now mattered. Bowdyn would see that, eventually. Meanwhile, he returned to the matter of his own deliverance. “It sounds to be an ingenious trick, to use the likeness between us.”
Bowdyn’s nod was grudging. “Aye, and it worked. Kristin recognised you and wanted to claim the bounty.”
“Ah. I had wondered how she knew to bring me here.” He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to drift. “My fierce she-Viking is a fine-looking woman, is she not?”
Bowdyn snorted. “She is a grasping, greedy opportunist, not to mention a liar and a thief.”
“Harsh words, my brother.” Nyle lifted one eyelid. “What is it that I am missing?”
Bowdyn’s jaw clenched, his eyes hardened. “This is not the first time I have encountered the lovely Kristin Lofnsdottir, nor even the second.”
“Tell me,” commanded Nyle softly.
“She was there, that first day, when we arrived here. You had just been dragged away by the guards and they started to auction the rest of us off. She was at the auction, accompanied by an older man. Her father, perhaps, or her husband. I gather he was not in the first flush of youth.”
“What happened?”
Bowdyn related the story. Nyle listened in silence.
“And the second time you met her?” Nyle took a few sips of the water left close at hand then settled in to hear the rest of the tale.
“It was when we went to Ravnsklif on our search for you. I spotted her in the crowd as Mathios spoke. She is fairly distinctive, as you have yourself observed. I knew it was her, that I was not mistaken. I was angry, she deserved to be punished for what she did. So, I followed her.” Bowdyn paused, dragged his hands though his hair. “I do not know what I intended, just that I wanted to confront her again, face to face, demand some explanation for why she behaved as she did after I went to the trouble of saving her from tumbling into the water.”
“And, you found her?”
“I did. It was in a warehouse. She claimed it to be her husband’s storeroom but at the time I did not believe her. I am not convinced, even now, that she had reason to be there, but that is of no consequence. She did not deny what she had done, and… I spanked her.”
“You spanked her? Properly?”
“Aye. Properly. Thirty slaps on her bare arse.”
“How did she take it?”
“Well enough, eventually. She screeched a fair bit at first.”
“I imagine she did.”
“But after… she was contrite, and I forgave her.”
“So all was well between you?”
“Yes. Then, I kissed her.”
“God’s holy bones, you wasted no time.”
“She slapped my face.”
Nyle choked on a laugh. “I only considered kissing her and she walloped me senseless. I believe you escaped lightly, brother.”
Bowdyn stroked his jaw, recalling the sting of her slap. “It did not seem so at the time, but I suppose she had the right. She was a married woman then, apparently.”
“She is a widow now.”
“And a Viking. It was a moment of madness, that is all, occasioned by the spanking, her beautiful round buttocks reddened by my hand. What man would not have been tempted?”
What man indeed? Nyle could only nod his agreement. “And now?”
“What about now?”
“You and Kristin?”
“There is no me and Kristin. For fuck’s sake, even if she had not slapped my face, how could there be? She might have killed you, and all for a few bits of silver.”
“My head is harder than it looks. And I have no real quarrel with self-interest. Any of us might have done the same in her position. Whatever the means, I am glad to be here, so I have much to thank Kristin for. I must tell her so when next I have an opportunity.”
“I would not recommend it, brother. Take it from one who has reason to know, our Nordic beauty has a tongue like a dagger, a heart of pure granite, and a mean right hand.”
Nyle shook his head. “I am sure she is perfectly agreeable, once you get to know her.”
* * *
That evening. Nyle took his first nattmal at a Viking table. Mathios sat at the head. Merewyn beside him. The affection between the pair was obvious and for that alone Nyle was ready to overlook Mathios’ Viking heritage. It was not the match he would have expected for his meek little sister, but it worked.
Bowdyn was seated opposite Nyle and spent most of the meal glowering first at Mathios, then at Kristin. To Nyle’s sharp eye, however, he detected a different quality in the manner in which Bowdyn viewed the Viking woman. There was anger, yes, and resentment. But there was something more. A carnal appreciation, perhaps, and why not? The more Nyle saw of Kristin, the more painful his engorged cock became. It was but a matter of time before he embarrassed himself. Christ, she was lovely. Utterly breath-taking.
Kristin and Merewyn appeared to be getting along well, and of course Rowena was the perfect hostess. Nyle had been surprised to learn that the jarl’s stepmother was also a freed thrall who had wed Mathios’ father. The two had not always enjoyed such an easy relationship, but whatever their earlier differences they had become reconciled by the time the older man died. Rowena now managed Mathios’ longhouse, and the care of his two sons, the product of Mathios’ first marriage. The boys also shared the meal with them, chattering happily between themselves and occasionally erupting into a squabble, which their father quelled with a few quiet words.
The others at the table were Arne and Sigrunn, the Viking couple who had adopted baby Connell. Nyle was fascinated by his little half-sibling who perched upon his new father’s knee and practiced drinking buttermilk from a small earthenware cup. It was clear his endeavours required more work, but no one seemed to mind the mess. The boy had a look of Ronat, their mother, but possessed the blue eyes of his Viking sire.
The conversation flowed. Both Mathios and Rowena at pains to make Kristin feel welcome despite Bowdyn’s best efforts to undermine their hospitality. Nyle could not help thinking that Kristin actually enjoyed the banter and deliberately baited his brother on occasion.
He allowed himself a private grin. This could be entertaining.