Miranda's Viking Page 12

  "Miranda, you need to rest."

  She didn't react to the sound of his voice. Had she known he was there? But she didn't answer. Instead she brought the jacket close to her face and inhaled its scent. "It still smells like him, you know. That specially blended pipe tobacco, and a hint of Skin Bracer after-shave."

  He felt her grief and knew she ought to give it release, but not here, he thought. Not here in this room surrounded by vivid images of the man she had lost. He went to her, took the jacket gently from her hands and laid it on the bed. "Come down with me. You need food and then rest."

  "I can't. I can't eat. How can I eat when my father—" She bit off her words as a sob threatened and liquid diamonds began swimming in her eyes.

  "Finish it," he instructed. "When your father…"

  She sniffed and shook her head, but when she lifted her gaze to meet his the tears came again. "Is dead," she said in a choked voice. "He's dead." The tears spilled over and she turned her back to Rolf. Her hands came up to cover her face, and her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs. When she could draw a breath, she spoke in broken sentences. "Go away. Leave me alone. I don't… need an audience."

  "No. Whatever an audience is, I have no doubt it is not what you need." With one decisive movement he stepped next to her and swept her up into his arms. It showed him the true extent of her turmoil that she didn't yell at him or struggle. She remained all but limp, still trying to avert her tear-streaked face from his view.

  This proved it. He'd been mistaken about her from the start. He saw that now. She wouldn't use tears as weapons. She was loath even to have them seen. Rolf carried her down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he lowered her into a chair. "Now, cry. It is good, I think."

  She sniffed a little, her distress seemingly lessening. "I thought you hated tears."

  "These ones are needed."

  She blinked and swiped the moisture from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. "I can't cry with you standing there watching me."

  "You wish me to leave, then?"

  She looked at him for a long moment. "No. I guess I don't."

  Rolf turned from her, confused by the tone of her admission, and opened the refrigerator. He removed a brick of cheese and a couple of apples and oranges. "In my village, when a warrior fell, we would join together, his comrades and his family. The women prepared much food, and all would feast the night through in the fallen man's house, telling stories of his heroic deeds until the dawn."

  He closed the door and moved to the sink where he located a sharp knife. He began slicing the cheese and the fruits and stacking the wedges on a plate. "I missed the feasting for my father." He pronounced the word carefully, just as she did. "My brothers, as well." He set the filled platter before her and returned to the cold box for milk, and to the cupboard for glasses. "It is the way a warrior gives release to his grief. Mine is still within."

  He turned to find her watching him, eyes red, but drier now. "I'm sorry."

  Rolf eyed the platter of fruit and cheese in the center of the table and smiled sadly. "It is not much of a feast."

  She sniffled and rose from her chair. In a moment she was pulling vegetables and thinly sliced meats from the refrigerator, and stacking these artfully onto what she called kaiser rolls, which she first smeared liberally with a tangy white cream she called mayonnaise. She placed the completed meal onto two small plates and placed one at her seat, one at his.

  Rolf sat down when she did, noting with some satisfaction that the anguish in her eyes had subsided somewhat. When she spoke, her voice was almost normal. "You could tell me about your father," she said slowly, "if it would help."

  "It would, I think. But you must tell me about yours, as well."

  She closed her eyes for a long moment, then blinked them open. "I'll try."

  Rolf looked pleased. "Good. And there is one other thing you need tell me, Miranda." His tone was deliberately serious. When her dark auburn brows rose in two perfect arcs, he jabbed a forefinger at the food before him. "What do you call this meal, and how does one eat it?"

  Her full lips turned up at the corners. A second passed, and then she laughed very softly.

  Midnight. They'd moved to the living room and Rolf had insisted on building a fire in the hearth, though she explained about central heating and argued that it was a warm night, anyway. Miranda rested in her father's favorite chair, a worn corduroy recliner. Her feet were up, her head back, and she held a cup of steaming cocoa in her hands, as Rolf went on with his tale.

  "Of course the man was drunk. Had no business being on a dragon ship with that much ale in his belly. But Svein was never known for his wisdom. A fight ensued, and the fool lost his balance and plunged into the icy waters."

  "That's terrible."

  Rolf agreed. "Yes. Svein had a wife and seven children. My father threw himself over the side. Had I known what he intended I would have tried to stop him. When I saw him in the water I tried to go in after him, but the other men held me fast. I was but—" he hesitated, mentally counting "—twelve years. It was my first time on my father's drakkar."

  Miranda brought the recliner down and leaned forward in the seat. "What happened?"

  "Father caught hold of Svein. Nearly drowned the way Svein floundered about. Finally my father hit him and, while Svein was senseless, dragged him to the side. A rope was tossed over and both men were brought back onto the ship."

  Miranda relaxed then. "You must have been very proud of him," she said softly.

  Rolf smiled. "My chest was puffed up for the rest of that trip."

  She tried to imagine Rolf at twelve, but failed. Twelve… it had been a painful age for her.

  "I see the sadness again in your eyes, Miranda. Tell me."

  She was amazed at his perceptiveness. "I was twelve when my mother died. It was ovarian cancer. By the time we learned she was ill, it had progressed too far. A month later she was gone."

  "And you stepped into her place, cared for your father."

  "Yes. I began working with him right away. It was as if we both needed something to focus on." She curled her legs beneath her in the chair and sipped the cocoa. "At first I just helped transcribe notes, but I became fascinated with the work. When I was fourteen I went with him to a site in England, one of your people's burial mounds. My first dig." She smiled fondly at the memory. "We sifted the dirt, Rolf, and found bits and pieces of the past."

  "And you loved this… sifting?"

  She nodded hard and felt another smile tugging at her lips. "I still do. The sifting, the exploring. It's been my life."

  "And what of Morsi?"

  "Jeff?" She blinked and averted her gaze. "If you don't mind, I'd just as soon not discuss that with you. It's… personal."

  "You wished to wed him." It was a flat statement, given without inflection.

  "Darryl has been talkative, hasn't he?"

  Rolf shrugged. "That you despise him is obvious. His manner toward you suggests… familiarity."

  "You are mastering the language in a hurry."

  "I learn more with every word I hear. What did you do to anger Morsi so much?"

  "What did I do?" She took a deep breath, set her cup down onto an end table and sat up straight. "What makes you so sure it was my fault?" She sighed and rolled her eyes. "That's right, I forgot. You dislike women, don't you?"

  "More distrust than dislike. And I did not accuse you of anything. Only asked how you angered him. He looks at you with murder in his eyes, you know."

  "Yes. Just the way you looked at me when you thought I was this Adrianna."

  The blow hit home; it was obvious in the tightening of his jaw. He was silent a long moment. "You could be her twin," he finally said. "If you resemble her so much within as without, then it is no wonder Morsi would like to wring your neck."

  Miranda flinched. "What did she do to you, to make you so bitter?"

  "Ann, we have two questions now. No answers. Will you tell me the truth about Morsi, if I
tell you of Adrianna?"

  It was Miranda's turn to be silent. In her mind, for just a moment, she felt again Jeff's hands on her, tearing at her clothes, hurting her, hitting her. She blinked rapidly as tears of humiliation burned in her eyes. "No." She rose and moved toward the stairs. "I'm going to try to get some sleep."

  "Is it so shameful, then?"

  She whirled on him, her face burning with anger. "Oh, yes, it is. So shameful I've never told a soul. Not even my father. But you don't want to hear it. You'd rather sit there and let your cynical mind conjure up a list of crimes to credit me with."

  "If you refuse to tell the truth, I am left with little alternative. I believe you were not always the pillar of virtue Darryl sees today."

  "And you can judge me for that? You, who spent your life ravaging coastal villages, murdering and robbing and raping—"

  Rolf stood so suddenly that Miranda jumped backward. "You know nothing of my life. You cannot read a man's soul by sifting the dirt on which he trod. You cannot know a man by finding some trinket he left behind. And I will not defend myself, or my people, to you!"

  Part of her wanted to cringe, or to turn and run. But another part, a part she hadn't realized existed, made her thrust her face upward, closer to his, as he stood towering over her. "Yet you expect me to defend myself to you."

  He said nothing. Her back rigid, Miranda turned and walked calmly up to her room.

  Anger. Fury. Rage.

  As he slept in the guest room that night, Rolf felt them all invade his dreams. Miranda's face became Adrianna's. For the first time Rolf saw the differences. Adrianna's nose had been narrower and pointed at the end rather than turned up slightly like Miranda's. Her lips were not as full, her eyes duller and rarely showering him with sparks the way Miranda's had tonight. Miranda… insulted and fighting mad at his implications.

  Adrianna. He thought of her and of the way, when faced with an accusation, she would simply concoct a lie. He recalled that she'd done exactly that to him. Accused him of murder in order to save her brother. The result had been his exile and very nearly his death. Indeed she had cost him his entire world, his family, everything he'd ever known.

  Miranda assumed that, because of what he was, he'd raped and murdered innocents. It hadn't been until that final voyage that he'd—

  Rolf sat up in bed, eyes flying wide, fully awake now. He'd been struggling for the memory of the last voyage to no avail. Now, suddenly, it came to him without effort. He'd sailed from Norge a condemned man, úrhrak, outcast, and his anger had driven him to behave like one. In a rage he'd led his crew of misfits on a rampage along the coasts of England and the Shetland Islands, along the coasts of Francia and Normandy.

  As he thought of it now, Rolf wished the memory had evaded him a bit longer. He'd allowed his anger at Adrianna to completely overwhelm his mind and to command his body. He remembered and he covered his face with his hands and groaned softly.

  The clash of steel on steel, the screams of terrified women, the wide-eyed children. Oh, Miranda had been wrong about the rapes and murders she'd accredited to him. Rolf's upbringing had taught him better than to force himself on a woman, or to kill a man without cause. Men had died, all the same. Those who were foolish enough to fight the Plague of the North. Rolf and his men had swept through the wealthiest villages, taking what they wanted. They'd taken spoil from peoples who had never wronged them, and Rolf's upbringing had taught him better than that, as well.

  His father, had he known, would have been appalled. But Rolf had been wronged, vilely so. He'd had his vengeance. He'd plundered his riches. By the time the drakkar was on its way across the fickle North Atlantic for the second time, he'd amassed enough gold and silver to suit a king, enough iron to forge blades for an army.

  He'd determined he would build his own village in the midst of the Skraelingar, south of the barren wilderness in which he'd secreted his first cargo. In Vinland. He'd trade for what his people needed, trade with the civilized lands within easy sailing distance. If they refused to trade, he'd raid, instead. He'd be prosperous and wealthy, and his name would once again be on the lips of kings, this time uttered with fear of his vengeance rather than with good will for his friendship. His friendship, he'd believed at the time, had meant so little to his high-placed allies that they hadn't even stooped to help him when his life was in peril.

  And now, with hindsight, he saw that he'd been wrong to let his rage so fully rule him. Thor had seen that he was punished. For truly, had not the ship been so laden with chests of booty, she might have made it to the shore.

  Miranda couldn't sleep. She'd known it before she'd tried but she'd tried anyway. She'd done all there was to be done—chosen the clothes, talked to the funeral director, ordered the flowers, contacted all the relatives she could think of. She'd even arranged to have Erwin Saunders give a eulogy. Her father hadn't been much for religion. Few scientists were.

  Still she kept getting the feeling there was something she had forgotten. Something important. It wasn't until her eyelids grew heavy, toward dawn, when she hovered between sleep and wakefulness, that she remembered what. Her father's last words to her had been a plea. Read the journal. The real one. And then he'd said something that made no sense. Jules Verne.

  Too tired to think and too wide-awake to lie still, Miranda got up. She didn't bother dressing. She wore an oversize football jersey, a gift from a student, and she figured that was enough. Darryl and Rolf had done an admirable job of picking up the ransacked house while she'd been dealing with the funeral arrangements. They'd left the study, probably so as not to disturb her while she'd been in there. She would have done it herself, but it had seemed such a poignant reminder of her father that she'd had to get out of the room all at once. Now, though, she felt able to tackle it. She wanted to smell the scent of his pipe tobacco clinging to the curtains and the carpet. She wanted to run her hands over the supple leather of his swivel chair, to hear it creak as it used to whenever he sat down or rose, or even moved.

  She began by replacing the desk drawers, and sorting through the items that had been dumped from them before they'd been tossed to the floor. Reverently she picked up notepads and pencils, a favorite lighter. The antique pistol lay on the floor, its pearl-inlaid grip marred with scratches. She stroked the tiny gun, tears blurring her vision as she replaced it in the drawer.

  The desk restored to order, she moved on to the bookshelves. Volume after volume had been scattered over the floor. One by one, she picked them up and slid them back onto the shelves. When she held in her hands an old edition of Around the World in Eighty Days, she paused, and her father's odd words came back to her. "Jules Verne," she whispered.

  She yanked the leather chair closer to the desk, sat down, and opened the book. Only instead of the pages and illustrations she remembered, the book had been filled with lined sheets, each one covered in her father's spidery script.

  She cursed herself for leaving her glasses upstairs, and didn't want to risk waking Rolf to go and retrieve them. Instead, she bent the desk lamp's long neck lower, and squinted as she began to read.

  Chapter 10

  When she finished an hour later, Miranda shivered.

  Her father, never satisfied with the Inuit version of things, had longed to know more even before they'd discovered Rolf in that cave. He'd believed so completely that they would find him that he'd already begun work on the next step. He'd researched every historical account he could find until he'd found one that fit. Of that much, Miranda had already been aware.

  The rest of what she found came as a complete surprise to her. The man known as the Plague of the North had not always been so, her father noted. In fact, he'd been considered one of the wisest men in his country. He'd been called upon by Knut the Great not only to fight by his side in battle, but to act as translator in sensitive discussions with other European leaders. He'd been respected and trusted implicitly.

  And then he'd brutally murdered one of Knut's emissaries in Norway
at a crucial time in history. The man had been beaten to death, and the information he'd been gathering for Knut came to a stop. As a direct result, Knut's archenemy, Magnus, had gained the Norwegian throne.

  With his banishment, the once-honorable aid to a great king became the Plague of the North. Lawbreaker. Ruffian. Thief. Murderer.

  Here Russell had noted that, despite popular belief, most Vikings did not go around raiding and plundering at random, but only in serious efforts at political and commercial expansion, or colonization of new lands, or in retribution for some serious wrong they felt they'd suffered. A few notorious renegades had broken the code, and history had recorded their deeds more thoroughly than those of their more honorable counterparts.

  The exiled man, however, was ruthless. He and his band raided villages along coastal Europe. He robbed people of their stores and their valuables. Then, suddenly, he vanished.

  The recorded description of the criminal shook Miranda even though she knew what it would say. From the time they'd found Rolf, she'd known he had to be the legendary Plague of the North her father sought. She simply hadn't been so enlightened as to the details of his crimes. He was described as large, much larger than most men of his time. His hair was golden and worn very long. His face was covered by a reddish gold beard, and his eyes were the blue of a winter sky. He carried with him a magnificent sword known far and wide as Vengeance, and with it, the legend went, he was invincible. He raided in the manner of the Berserkers, wearing no helmet or armor of any kind, and often barechested, as if daring his enemies to strike a killing blow.

  At the end of the hand-penned notes, a notation, "C: plague," was written in red ink, followed by the word, "Biblio."