Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03]
Read Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] Online
Authors: The Tarnished Lady
Sandra Hill
To Nellie Housel, whose unconditional love inspires all who are privileged to come in touch with her. At ninety-two, Aunt Nellie is still reading romance novels and cherishing the joy of life and loving. And she can still yodel.
“Bloody Hell! What is she doing here?”
Eadyth awakened at dawn the next morning. Truth be told,…
Eirik’s words about the betrothal agreement finally sank in, and…
By the time Eadyth reluctantly left the seclusion of her…
Eirik watched Tykir and his wife suspiciously. She relaxed with…
Eirik and his guests sat around a small table in…
To her regret, Tykir prepared to leave the next day.
“Kiss me, dearling, Awk.”
“Eadyth, we have to talk.”
“Bloody Hell! Would you look at the way she walks,”…
For the rest of the day, Eadyth enlisted every servant…
Eirik was driving her mad.
As they walked back toward the keep, Eirik draped an…
My wife.
With supreme care, Eadyth edged closer to Eirik, who slept…
That afternoon, Eirik returned from the exercise field with his…
They awakened later to a loud pounding on the door.
Eirik insisted on carrying her back to the keep and…
“They are both hiding something,” Wilfrid told Eirik just past…
Eadyth looked at the parchment in her hands and read…
Ravenshire Castle, Northumbria, 946 A.D.
“Bloody Hell! What is
she
doing here?”
Eirik quickly quaffed down the remainder of ale in his wooden goblet, then slammed it down on the high table. All the time, he watched with annoyance as the tall, reedlike figure daintily lifted the hem of her voluminous gown and stepped gingerly toward him through the filthy rushes.
“It must be Lady Eadyth of Hawks’ Lair,” Wilfrid, his seneschal and longtime friend, remarked.
“I thought I told the guard to turn her away at the gate if she should arrive unexpectedly.”
“’Twould seem the maid finally caught up with you,” Wilfrid said with a chuckle. “Surely, her persistence is commendable.”
“Hah! I have seen more than enough of persistent ladies and overzealous mothers these two years I have been gone from Ravenshire. All I want is a little blessed peace to—”
Their conversation ended abruptly at the wild yelping of a
dog. Eirik’s eyes widened in surprise as he watched Eadyth give the animal another swift nudge of her soft-toed leather shoe as it spread its hind legs and squatted on the floor near her feet. Even through the smoky dimness of the great hall, Eirik could see her lips curl distastefully as she eyed the loathsome “gift” left by the large hound. With her hands on her hips, the impudent wench glared at the whimpering hound until it sheepishly scurried out of her sight.
Eirik and Wilfrid burst into laughter, along with the scruffy knights who lounged below them in the hall. There were no ladies present, other than the serving wenches. Thank the Lord! He hoped to keep it that way.
“The boldness of the woman!” Eirik muttered finally, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes with the sleeve of his threadbare tunic. “First she barges uninvited into my keep. Then she kicks my dog. Shall I lay my boot to her bony arse and send her on her merry way?”
“Oh, let her speak. Mayhap this ‘urgent matter’ she wishes to discuss will provide good sport to lessen our boredom.”
Eirik shrugged. “Perchance. Leastways, I have always wanted to get a closer look at the Silver Jewel of Northumbria.”
“Nay, Eirik. Have you not heard? The jewel lost its glitter long ago. Did you not know court gossips now call her ‘The Tarnished Jewel’?” He whispered several hasty words of explanation.
Eirik’s eyebrows arched with skeptical interest. He knew full well from harsh, personal experience the viciousness of the nobles of King Edmund’s court, but still he wondered if Wilfrid’s words could be true.
Meanwhile, the woman continued to make her way doggedly toward the dais where they sat. A plump matron and several retainers followed close behind her like ducklings waddling after a scrawny goose.
At one point, she stopped and lifted her arrogant nose, seeming to sniff the air around her. Then she leveled a condemning glare at Ignold, one of Eirik’s trusted retainers, and
snarled several sharp words his way. The fierce giant of a warrior, who had never been known to back down in a battle, just stared, open-mouthed, at her.
Eirik had a fair idea of what she had said.
After recovering the Norse capital in Jorvik earlier that year, then conquering all of Strathclyde, King Edmund had sent Eirik as his emissary under the Golden Dragon standard to the Duke of Normandy to negotiate the release of Edmund’s nephew, Louis d’ Outremer. Louis had been captured by the Northmen of Rouen the summer before and then rescued by the Duke of the Franks, who persisted in holding him hostage all these many months. Finally, following months of Eirik’s haggling and many setbacks, Louis was restored to his Frankish kingdom.
Many of Eirik’s
hird
, his contingent of permanent troops, had straggled in that eve after the long return trip from Frankland. They followed his smaller group of retainers who had accompanied him back two sennights ago. After weeks on board ship and then horseback without bathing, they stunk to high heaven. Even he had noticed the pungent, acrid odor of unwashed male flesh as he passed by earlier on his way to the garderobe. No doubt, the shrew from Hawks’ Lair had voiced her displeasure.
The wench continued forward in his direction, ignoring the ribald comments of his men who sat in small groups drinking mead or playing dice. It would seem they had all been too long away from polite society.
A twinge of guilt tugged at Eirik’s conscience. Perhaps he had been rude in ignoring her letters seeking aid in an unnamed “urgent matter.” But he was bone weary from two years of fighting and carrying messages for his king, not to mention continually dodging the arrows of political intrigue. He wanted naught to do with the cesspit lives of the nobility—men
or
women. Just a little peaceful respite, that was all he asked.
Eirik leaned back in his chair, casually folding his arms over his chest and crossing his long legs at the ankles. He
narrowed his eyes and studied Lady Eadyth more closely, barely able to see her body or face under the loose gunna and confining wimple she wore. His eyes teared in the smoke and he squinted even more.
She appeared to have gray hair skinned back tightly under a mud-colored head-rail. No loose tendrils escaped to soften her dour features.
Deep in thought, Eirik brushed his mustache with a forefinger, back and forth, a habit he engaged in when puzzled or deep in concentration. “I had not thought her so long in the tooth.”
“Nor I.”
They both looked back to the woman in question. She was tall and slender, if the trimness of her ankle was any indication as she lifted the hem of her garment to avoid the muck. Her spinsterish breasts waxed nonexistent on a chest as flat as his battle shield. But it was the scowl on her face that was most uncomely.
God’s Bones!
She came seeking favors, yet could not control her sour countenance.
Eirik smiled. He would enjoy playing the cat to this dowdy mouse with her haughty airs.
Clearing her throat, she called out brazenly from the bottom of the dais steps, “By your leave, my Lord Ravenshire, I would beg an audience with you on an urgent matter.”
Urgent matter! Urgent matter! That was what they all said when they came seeking favors.
Eirik nodded reluctantly, and with a wave of his right hand to a nearby housecarl indicated that Eadyth’s companions should be taken off for food and drink.
“Apparently you did not receive the missive I sent,” she began in a stilted voice, her lips pinched white with tension. Two little lines between her brows bespoke what must be a permanent glower. Eirik almost burst out laughing as he realized the woman was finding it sore hard to humble herself before him, that she would much prefer to administer a sharp tongue lashing for his discourtesy.
“I received your letter.”
When he declined to explain himself further, Eadyth’s mouth dropped open, exposing surprisingly white and healthy teeth for one so old. He stroked his mustache thoughtfully and squinted to see better. Despite the age lines that bracketed her eyes and mouth, she might not be as elderly as he had originally thought. In truth, the skin over her delicate facial bones was smooth as new cream in those places where a frown did not crease it unpleasantly. He wished he could see her better; it rankled that his poor vision made him see things less clearly when up close.
“Aaah! An honest man. How refreshing!”
“Didst thou expect any different? ‘Tis a virtue I value more than any other—honesty, that is,” Eirik snapped, oddly offended by her complacent acceptance of his admission that he had received her summons and rudely failed to respond.
His answer seemed to please her greatly. “Yea, most times I do expect dishonesty. There are not many truly trustworthy men in my experience.”
“Or women?”
“Or women,” she agreed with a slight nod, appraising him boldly.
A smile tugged at the edges of Eadyth’s finely defined lips with their perfectly ridged divot above the center and a small, disconcerting black mole just above the right corner. In truth, the woman was not as horse ugly as he had originally thought. Oh, her straight nose was too strong and haughty for his taste, not to mention that stubbornly jutting chin, but if it were not for the gray hair and broom-thin body she might be passable in looks. Peering closer, he could see now that she would have been a beauty in her youth—the Silver Jewel of Northumbria.
Eirik’s hand reached instinctively for his mustache. Something about the lady’s appearance struck him as strange. But then he remembered Wilfrid’s words on the scandal that surrounded her. She was a puzzle he could not fathom yet. He smiled to himself at the prospect of solving her mystery.
“May I join you?”
“Of course,” he said, feeling chastened, like a boy, by her softly spoken words at his failure to offer hospitality. He stood and helped her up the steps to the high table, noting the thinness of her arm under the thick fabric. Lord, where did she find such a God-awful color of russet? She was taller than average but still she barely reached his shoulder, he noted as he introduced her to Wilfrid.
Before sitting, she checked the seat of her chair, no doubt looking for dust.
Bloody Hell!
He had only been home a few sennights and had more important matters to handle than laggard servants. It was one thing for Wilfrid to nag him about opening the purse strings of his fortune to restore Ravenshire, another for this unwelcome guest to look down her long nose at him and his keep.
Reaching for an empty goblet, he looked at her pointedly as he wiped the rim with the sleeve of his undertunic to satisfy her fastidiousness. Then he poured her a drink and offered it to her graciously, hoping to make up for his earlier lack of manners. Eirik saw that she took special care not to let their fingers touch. And, as she sipped the ale, he could not help but notice her nose’s slight wrinkle of disapproval.
“You mislike dogs and ale, as well, I see,” he commented testily.
“Nay, ’tis untrue. I like dogs well enough, in their place,
outside
the hall and kitchens. And as to your ale, ’tis passable.” Her prideful chin lifted a notch higher. “I have been spoiled, though. I make the best mead in all Northumbria from my own honey.”
“Truly? ‘Tis remarkable. Not that you brew your own mead, but that you sing your own praises.”
Eadyth’s eyes shot up and locked with his, and the heat of her blush turned her cheeks pink.
Good!
he thought.
“I must yield to your wise assessment of my failings, my lord. ’Tis true I am immodest. I have lost the feminine arts these many years I have lived away from society,” Eadyth apologized with no embarrassment whatsoever. “Ofttimes I
forget that gentle-born ladies are to be ever meek and weak. My father indulged me in my independence.”
Even if he had not already noted her prideful chin, which had a tendency to jut upward stubbornly, Eirik sensed instinctively that she did not often humble herself so. An almost imperceptible note of vulnerability edged her voice, and Eirik softened.
“He was a good man—your father. I met Arnulf years ago when he came to visit my grandfather Dar. Sorry I was to hear of his death.”
Eadyth nodded in acknowledgment of his condolences.
“You have no brothers, as I recall,” he continued. “Who runs Hawks’ Lair?”
“I do.”
Startled, he choked on the ale he had been sipping, and Wilfrid slapped him heartily on the back.
Eadyth’s lips turned up in a condescending smile, and Eirik’s attention once more riveted on the small mole near her mouth. He had heard of some women who painted such on their faces. Could that be the case with her? Nay! A woman who skinned her hair back like a nun and wore such drab garments would disdain vain decoration.
“Why is that always a man’s reaction? Truly, I do not understand why men ever persist in believing women incapable of more than gossip and stitchery.”
Eirik sat forward and began to look at Eadyth with new interest. “’Tis my experience that most women are empty-headed, devious creatures and quite content to do little more than just that. ‘Twas certainly so with my wife afore she died. If ‘twere not for the need of heirs, I warrant, most men would disdain the marriage bed and get their bed sport elsewhere.”
The bluntness of Eirik’s words did not seem to bother Eadyth’s feminine sensibilities. In fact, she appeared to appreciate his honesty.
Her fingers traced an invisible pattern on the tabletop as she studied him closely. Why? he wondered. Eadyth licked her lips nervously, drawing his eyes once more to the disarm
ing mole. Eirik watched, mesmerized, as the pink tip of her tongue unconsciously traced a path from one corner, to the divot, to the other corner, then across her full bottom lip. What would it be like to do the same with his own tongue? Eirik fantasized, feeling an immediate swelling at the joining of his thighs.
By All the Saints!
he chastised himself. He was behaving like an untried boy. In truth, he had been too long without a woman if an aging chit could turn him hard.
And the impudent wench was scrutinizing him in an oddly searching fashion. Truly, she was a most unusual woman.
“Are your eyes blue…pale blue as a summer sky…as I have been told?” Eadyth asked unexpectedly, jarring him from his lustful thoughts.
Disconcerted by her odd question, Eirik drew back slightly. “Yea, they are—a legacy from my Viking ancestors.”
Eadyth nodded her approval.
God’s Teeth!
Why would the old crone care one way or another whether his eyes were sky blue, or dirt brown?
“You do not look the Norseman. Your hair is black, is it not?” She asked her question in a casual manner, but Eirik could tell by the whiteness of her knuckles, apparent even in the dimness of his hall, that his answer was important to her.
What was the wench about, asking him foolish questions about the color of his eyes and hair? He leaned back and viewed her suspiciously through slitted eyes. “I am only half Viking. My mother was Saxon.” He bit his bottom lip in annoyance as he failed to figure her game, then added mischievously, “Would you like to see my Viking half?”