Free Lord of Raven's Peak by Catherine Coulter Page B

eat and rest. The weather held hot and dry.
    The men were exhausted by the evening, for Merrik had pushed them hard. They couldn’t waste the good weather, he’d told them again and again. He himself was breathing heavily, his shoulders and arms cramping, his legs feeling like great weights dragged at them.
    He looked over at her to see that she was also breathing hard, as if she’d been running a long distance, only she hadn’t, she was still very weak, both from the bone-deep hunger that had gone on far, far too long, and the beating. He looked over at Taby, standing quietly beside her, saying nothing, merely staying close, nearly touching her, and suddenly he felt a new spurt of energy. His men went about their tasks, all very familiar with what they had to do.
    Eller oversaw the gathering of wood for a small fire and built it up. Old Firren hooked the iron pot from a chain he attached to the three iron poles that were fastened at the top, and prepared to serve up the dried meat and cheesy curds and boil some vegetables.
    Oleg set up the perimeter so that they could guard the longboat and themselves. Roran and three other men went hunting. As for Merrik, it was his job to oversee things, but now he didn’t. He walked to her and said, “You are very tired. I have spread furs in the tentfor you and Taby. You will rest now, both of you. Cleve will bring you food when it is prepared.”
    She looked at him, at his blond hair plastered to his head with sweat, at the rivulets of sweat streaking down his face, at his arms, still wet with sweat, the muscles still flexing. “Did we come as far as you wished to?”
    â€œAye, a bit farther even. I don’t trust those clouds building to the east of us. Rest now, both of you.”
    â€œI know how to cook.”
    Merrik stared at her as if she’d said instead that she practiced some sort of old Celtic magic. Old Firren usually cooked and what he prepared was edible, but no more. “Do you really?”
    â€œAye, I cook very well.”
    Still he just looked at her.
    â€œI learned from a woman just last year. She said I was apt, for a slave. She cuffed me every time I prepared something not to her liking. I learned quickly. It was either that or go deaf from the blows to my head.”
    â€œVery well. You will speak to Old Firren. We have vegetables from Kiev—cabbage, peas, some apples, rice, and onions. Roran is hunting. Mayhap he will bring in a pheasant or a quail.”
    â€œI will make a stew.”
    She made, with Old Firren’s nominal help, a rabbit stew, with Cleve and Taby also helping her. She stood over the huge iron pot, stirring the stew with a long-handled wooden spoon. The men sat about the fire, cleaning their weapons, or paced the perimeter, always on the lookout for enemies. The sky darkened and Merrik worried, but kept silent about it. Soon his mouth was watering at the smell of the stew. His men looked ready to do battle for it. They were all moving closer to the pot, all staring at it intently.
    His first bite made Merrik close his eyes in absolute wonder. His second made him grunt with pleasure.
    There was no talk from the men, just the sounds of chewing and swallowing, and the sighs of satisfaction.
    She looked at them and smiled. She filled her belly quickly, too quickly, and she looked sadly at the rest of the stew in her wooden bowl. She had made more stew than ever before and yet it was eaten, all of it, not a bit left. Old Firren looked at her and grinned, showing a wide space between his teeth.
    â€œI hate the taste of my cooking,” he said. He heard laughter and agreement from the men. “My belly is singing.”
    â€œYour belly sings a simple tune,” Oleg shouted. “My belly believes it’s gained Valhalla and is being caressed by the Valkyrie.”
    The men laughed, and each one of them thanked her. When Merrik told her it was the best meal any of them had eaten since