Captive Of The Viking. Juliet Landon
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the revelation buffeted her like an icy blast of the north wind, rippling the surface of the wine in the flagon. Her body shook and she was unable to tear her eyes away from the evidence that must surely mean Barda had been taken or killed, for no man would willingly give his cloak to the enemy.
Yet even as she stared, frozen with shock, the powerful Dane stared back at her as if she were the only woman in the hall. The distance was too great for details; only the compelling force of his dynamism released in her direction from two unpitying eyes seemed instinctively to understand the reason for her wide-eyed expression of outrage that he was daring to wear the garment she had made for another man.
Screams, accusations and frenzied shows of anguish would have been most women’s reaction, at that point, forcing some kind of explanation ahead of the Earl’s diplomacy. Yet it was not the Dane’s arrogant stare that kept Fearn silent, but the certain knowledge that it would not serve Earl Thored’s purpose to embarrass either their Danish guests or him, and certainly not to have Barda’s mother screaming and wailing and, naturally, Hilda, too, at such a critical moment in the proceedings. She must keep her secret knowledge quiet. She must. Against all her impulses to challenge the man, she must wait until the right moment. Or perhaps not at all. Perhaps the knowledge would emerge in some other way, when the Danes had gone.
Aware of a discomfort against her ribs, she realised she was pressing the flagon tightly against herself, almost to the breaking point, and that of all the emotions chasing through her numbed mind just then, incredulity and relief were the only ones she recognised. The Dane was still staring at her while Earl Thored told him who she was. Trembling, Fearn turned away, thankful that it would not be her to pour his mead, but Hilda.
* * *
The rest of that momentous discussion passed like a strange dream in which the information she held struggled in her grasp, waiting for the moment of release that did not come as she moved like a shadow through the hall. Usually, she was aware of men’s eyes upon her but, this time, she was aware of only one man’s, though she tried to evade them. But by the time she was obliged to respond to his request for wine instead of mead, he had shed the cloak to reveal a fine tunic of honey-coloured wool, which she knew would have been dyed with onion skins, its braided edging round the neck and sleeves glistening with gold thread, the delicate circular pin at his neck surely of Irish origin. For the first time, she came close enough for him to see into her eyes when, in spite of herself, she saw how his own narrowed eyes widened fractionally as if responding to a trick of the light. She saw the tiny crease between his brows come and go as he spoke in the mixture of English and Danish everyone in Jorvik understood. ‘Lady Fearn,’ he said, holding out his drinking horn to her, ‘I understand you are the daughter of the previous Earl.’
Earl Thored, seated opposite, interrupted. ‘The exiled previous Earl.’
Aric continued, ignoring the correction. ‘Do you miss him still?’
The rich red liquid wobbled as it poured, though Fearn tried to keep her voice from doing the same. There was hardly a day when she did not think of her parents. ‘I miss all those who are taken from me suddenly,’ she replied, purposely filling the horn up to the brim so that it would spill when he moved it away. Movement and speech were suspended as the drinking horn was held motionless, as two pairs of eyes locked in combat, hers challenging him to an admission of murder, his countering her challenge with his own brand of indifference. By this time, several men had noticed what was happening, laying silent wagers on the outcome. Aric the Ruthless would not be beaten by a woman, especially not by Thored’s foster daughter, though Fearn’s only aim was for him to tremble and spill the blood-red wine on the table as a sign of his guilt. He would surely understand her message.
Slowly, and without a tremor, the drinking horn was taken smoothly to Aric’s lips and tipped, not a drop escaping, its curved point encased in a silver cone pointing upwards. A ripple of applause accompanied the laughter, but with a look of contempt, Fearn turned away, sure that the Earl would have something to say about her behaviour towards his guest at a serious meeting. But for her, the meeting was an ordeal from which she was not allowed to excuse herself, even though she was now sure of the reason for her husband’s disappearance. This she was obliged to keep to herself for the time being, though Catla had expressed concern. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ Fearn told her, truthfully. She, too, would have liked to know whether he lay dead in the woodland or tied up in one of the longships.
Distancing herself from Catla and Hilda, Fearn went over to sit with Arlen the Moneyer and his wife Kamma. Obeying instructions, Arlen had filled sacks with coins and some hack silver—chopped-up disused pieces to be melted down for newer coinage—helped in the task by his young son, Kean, a good-looking lad of some ten years. He smiled as she sat beside him, clearly honoured by her presence.
‘Do you understand what’s happening, Kean?’ she whispered.
‘Oh, yes, my lady. The Danes are demanding a great deal of my lord Earl.’
‘You think there’ll be enough there?’ she said, nodding towards the sacks.
‘Hope so. Those sacks are heavy.’
The bargaining seemed to go on for ever, going through all the motions of trading peace for wealth, as if in their minds it had not already been settled down to the last silver penny. Roars of outrage, thumping on the tables, accusing fingers and sometimes the quieter voices of compromise and concession rose and fell as, for two or more hours, Thored faced down the enemy and tried to fob them off with less, even as he knew the price of peace was rising. To some extent, it was a performance that only prolonged the moment when agreement, if one could call it that, was reached in time to give the Danes a period of daylight to carry away the heavy sacks of treasure and depart.
Setting her heart against the arrogant Dane and his absurd demand for ten thousand pounds’ worth of silver, Fearn had no option but to watch the Danish warriors enter, wearing swords and shining round helmets with nose guards half-hiding their satisfied smiles, pick up the heavy sacks between them and carry them out across to the gates of the enclosure. No words accompanied this disgraceful looting, only a heavy silence, glowering faces and the almost unnoticed gathering of armed Danes around their leader.
The Danish demands appeared to have been met, but Aric’s demands were not yet over. Turning, he pointed towards Kean, the young Moneyer’s son, beckoning him to his side. Thinking that the Dane had some words of wisdom for him, Kean went to him willingly, not flinching as the man’s hand rested on his shoulder. Thored’s hand went to his sword hilt while, next to Fearn, Arlen and Kamma leapt to their feet with yelps of protest.
‘No!’ Thored bellowed. ‘Oh, no, not the lad!’
Kamma’s hands flew to her mouth to stifle the wail, though it leaked through her fingers. ‘Tell me,’ said Aric to Kamma, ‘how old the lad is.’
She ran towards him, her face contorted with fright. ‘He is ten years, my lord. He’s too young to be taken as a slave...please...he’s our only child.’
‘Your child, is he?’ Aric said. ‘Did you bear him? You? Yourself?’
Earl Thored knew where this was leading. Angrily, he kicked over the table before him with one mighty shove of his foot, sending drinking horns and beakers flying and bouncing across the floor. He strode over the edge of it towards Kean who now looked anxiously from one adult to another, wondering what this was all about. But as Thored moved towards Aric, the helmeted Danes closed in around their leader and the boy in a semi-circular defence. ‘So this is why you wanted them here,’ Thored growled. ‘So that you could insult the parents and steal their child. And is this how you repay my hospitality, Dane? Is this the price of peace, after all?’
‘We have bargained for peace, Earl,’ Aric said, with an icy calm, ‘but this is not a part of that and I believe you know it. Cast your mind back twelve years to that time when several young Danish couples sailed into Jorvik asking to settle here. You had been Earl five years then. Remember?’
Impatiently, Thored shrugged. ‘Vaguely,’ he said.
‘Not so vaguely, I think, my lord Earl. You will