Lady Of The Lake. Elizabeth Mayne

little shelter from the elements for the men forced to work in the quarry. They were a sorry lot, to Edon’s eye.

      As a commodity, slaves were as important to a large holding as its cattle, and should be as well fed and well cared for. Clearly, Embla was not of the same opinion as he about many things. Her slaves labored endlessly to the crack and rhythm of a whip. Judging from the look of their thin bodies, their food was at subsistence level.

      “I see,” Edon said. “Then you have more slaves tending the fields, do you?”

      “Nay, the freemen have that right. Surely, Lord Edon, you have not been so long in the east that you forgot the ways of your own world?”

      “No, I’m just curious about the changes here. I recall no slaves on Harald Jorgensson’s last accounting, and I am new to this wergild that Guthrum has imposed.”

      Embla ignored the scold inherent in Edon’s words. She had her scribe making the accounts ready for his immediate inspection. She would prove him in error about her there, too. She could account for every gold mark put into and taken out of the jarl’s holding much better than stupid Harald ever could have. He would have given one-tenth of everything away as a tithe!

      By her reckoning, the long-absent owner, Jarl Edon Halfdansson, had always made a handsome profit off her farmstead and his shire. A profit that by rights she should have kept, for it was her labor at overseeing all the work that accomplished any gain.

      “The kings’ wergild takes some getting used to,” Embla granted. “The truth is it has little effect in a frontier where Watling Street peters out in yon miserable haunted wood. King Guthrum thinks his road an open avenue from London to Chester, but north of Warwick it comes to naught. As for the Mercians, they stay out of my way or else pay dearly for entering Warwick.”

      “These men—” Edon pointed to the pit “—are Mercians paying your dear price?”

      “Aye. A pity they are so weak they die quickly. But there is a goodly supply, for they breed endlessly and are stupid as horses. My patrols easily replenish their numbers.”

      “Pray tell me what you do with women so foolish as to walk on Watling Street?”

      Embla answered his appalled question without batting an eye. “There is work in the kitchens and at the looms or at whatever task they are assigned. I have found it expedient to give my thanes free use of captured Mercian women. It keeps them better controlled, and I have heard no complaints from my soldiers regarding that.”

      “No, I imagine you haven’t,” Edon murmured. “I can’t help but remark upon the fact that I saw no Mercian farmsteads as I crossed the shire. There were as many Mercians as Saxons here when last I visited. Danes were the oddity. I had to pay a very high price to acquire the rights to Warwick Hill.”

      “Only Danes may be tenants in the Danelaw, my lord. That is Guthrum’s law.”

      Edon thought it pointless to discuss Guthrum’s law with this wife of his nephew. Her interpretation and his would never match. “I suggest we table a discussion of politics until evening. Nothing is to be changed until I have toured the tin and silver mines. We will do that tomorrow.”

      

      Edon met Rig on his way down from the quarry. His general’s face was twisted with anger, his large jaw thrust forward. Edon could tell he was grinding his teeth to keep from cursing a blue streak. Edon dismounted and handed Titan’s reins to a stable boy. “What has happened? Don’t spare me the news.”

      “The village of Wootton is on fire.” Rig answered in a clipped voice. A fire of a different sort burned in his cool blue eyes.

      “How so?” Edon asked, tamping down the alarm that started in his chest. Tala was at Wootton…in Mother Wren’s cottage.

      “I went to fetch the atheling as you commanded, lord.” Rig spun on one heel and pointed to a group of four Vikings leaning on their axes in the shade of the ironmonger’s shed. Their faces were contorted with anger, matching Rig’s. “They went to Wootton to cut wood, against your command of this morn.”

      “What of Mother Wren?” Edon asked, feeling a chill squeeze his heart Tala would have been sleeping in Wren’s cottage.

      “Asgart claims the villagers fled into the forest They captured none of them, not even the old woman.”

      That bit of good news relieved Edon’s worries somewhat. Then Rig squared his shoulders and gave him the rest of his news. “The cottage where you left the princess of Leam in the care of the old woman was empty when I got to Wootton to inspect the fire’s damage. There was no proof that anyone was living in that abode.”

      “What?” Edon said, confused.

      “I found a chest containing the lady’s clothing, and her jewels among the smoking ashes, lord. I have put it in your keep. But that was all I found worth retrieving. There were no furnishings or cooking pots or beds of any kind. I fear you have been tricked, lord. The princess of Leam does not live in the village of Wootton.”

      “Humph!” Edon grunted as he crossed the ward to the ironmaster’s shed. So much for his plan of visiting his bride in the evening ahead. The little minx had done him in. He turned his thoughts to the problem of the burned village and the Vikings who’d disobeyed his orders. Tala would have to wait.

      The Vikings were newcomers to Warwick. They were refugees from Lombardy, Danes that had been trapped in the terrible famine that had racked province after province on the Continent. Edon looked from one wary face to the other and elected the eldest of the four as their leader. “Did you not hear my orders this morn, Viking?”

      “Aye, lord, we heard you.” The man stood his ground on crooked legs, bowed from starvation. “I am known here as Archam the Bent. I am responsible for the fire, not my sons.”

      “Why did you disobey my order?”

      The four men exchanged glances. “Our holding begins at Wootton Wood,” the youngest answered. “Father, tell the jarl the truth, else he will have all of our heads up on stakes.”

      “Be quiet, Ranulf,” said a brother.

      “Are these your sons, Viking?” Edon directed his words to the elder. His grizzled head rocked up and down in affirmation. Edon could not place his age; his face and throat were too wrinkled and worn by the sun and wind and the loss of a great deal of weight.

      “They are each my son. Once I had ten sons all as straight and tall as you. These three are all I have left.”

      “Then why would you endanger them by going against my orders?” Edon demanded. When no answer came, he turned to Rig and commanded, “Take the eldest beyond the palisade and cut off his head.”

      All four Vikings started as Rig and his soldiers stepped forward instantly to carry out Edon’s command.

      “My lord!” the youngest protested, struggling to protect his brother. “We had no choice in burning the village. Asgart told us to clear the village land and plant it today. It was the only hide he would spare us.”

      “Aye.” The father broke his proud silence, speaking from desperation. “We must plant our field now, else there will be no grain in our larder this winter. Midsummer is past.”

      “When did you arrive in Warwick?”

      “Last full moon, Jarl Edon,” said the youngest son. “We were just given our land assignment this rising.”

      And from the look of them, a month ago they could not have swung an axe, any one of them. “How many are you? Wives, children and thralls?” Edon asked.

      “We four survived the journey overland and the voyage, lord,” said the father.

      “Who showed you where your holding was and gave you leave to burn your fields today?”

      “Asgart of Wolverton rode out to the woodland with us and said we could plow from the top of the hill to the