Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] by The Tarnished Lady Page B

but I will make sure that no one hurts her again. And that includes Steven of Gravely.”
    “And how will you sweeten her unpleasant nature?”
    Eirik shook his head at that awesome task. “I will be gone from Ravenshire much of the time. Even now, I await word from Edmund. He moves his armies to…” Eirik let his words trail off, realizing he should not divulge such information to his brother, whose allegiances often differed from his. “Tykir, promise you will leave Britain and stay out of the fight to come.”
    Tykir refused to commit himself, and instead asked, “Doyou not ever tire of this double role you play, brother? You cannot always walk the middle road betwixt Saxon and Viking causes. Someday you will have to choose, and if these highborn guests here have their way, it will be soon. A battle approaches for control of Northumbria. On which side will you ride?”
    “I truly do not know. But know this—I owed much to King Athelstan and I promised on his deathbed to support his brother Edmund, as well. I will not break my oath of loyalty to him, but I will not ever fight against you, my brother.”
    “Ah, Eirik, why do you always make life so complicated? ’Tis a simple choice, really. Are you Norseman or Saxon?”
    “That is where you are wrong. I am both. And well you know that men of our time give loyalty to leaders, not countries.” He stood then and squeezed his brother’s hand warmly. “But no more of this. ’Tis my wedding, a night to rejoice,” he said dryly. “Come stand with me whilst I raise a toast.”
    “Yea, but first let us have a personal toast atween the two of us,” Tykir said solemnly, touching his goblet to his brother’s. “Know that this wife you have chosen is indeed the Silver Jewel of Northumbria under all her tarnish. May you be the true Norseman I know you to be deep down, one who values women for their true worth, not the surface glitter.”
    Eirik arched his eyebrows in disbelief. “Words fine enough for a poet, my brother. Have you been traveling with that warrior-skald Egil Skallagrimmson again?”
    Tykir shook his head and laughed.
    “Why, then, do I find it hard to believe that the man known for bedding the most beautiful women in every land is suddenly a connoisseur of inner worth?”
    “Nay,” Tykir said, laughing, “you misread me. I did not say beauty was unimportant, just that ofttimes a man is, shall we say, blind to the beauty shining in his face.”
    “You speak in riddles, Tykir. Mayhap you have had too much mead to drink. I am not blind.”
    Tykir choked and sprayed Eirik with a shower of mead.
    Brushing the wetness off his chest, Eirik shot him a look of disgust. “And speaking of beautiful women, Tykir, stay away from Britta. She is Wilfrid’s leman.”
    They laughed together companionably, then stood as Eadyth approached, clasping on each side the hands of her son John and Eirik’s daughter Larise.
    Larise’s blue eyes adored her father with childish worship. He felt guilty at his long neglect of his oldest child and was happy that Earl Orm had brought her home this morn—for good. Despite all his annoyance, he owed the earl much for his fine care of his daughter these many years.
    His eyes turned to John. The seven-year-old boy was thin, like his mother, and would probably be as tall as he himself one day. In truth, Eadyth had been right. The boy’s black hair and pale blue eyes matched his perfectly.
    He should hate this son of his worst enemy, but somehow Eirik could not blame the boy for his father’s sins. He held out a hand toward John, and the boy huddled closer to his mother’s knees, turning frightened, questioning eyes up to her. She nodded gravely and shoved him gently forward.
    Eirik put an arm comfortingly around John’s shoulder and pulled Eadyth to his other side, and tucked her, as well, under his other arm.
    Eirik motioned Tykir and Larise to stand on either side of John and Eadyth. Then they all turned to face the great