Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] (2 page)

Wilfrid chortled gleefully at his other side, but Eadyth only colored brightly and pretended she had not heard his words.

“I meant my brawny might in battle,” he added mockingly, lifting a well-muscled arm for her to admire, “and my cunning in maneuvering unscathed amongst the Saxon political snakepits.” He tapped his head as if to show it was not entirely empty.

Eadyth, apparently lacking in humor, as well as beauty,
failed to smile at his jest. Instead, she thoughtfully compressed her lips to a thin line as she boldly scrutinized him. Finally, she asked, “May we speak in private, my lord?”

Eirik schooled his face to blandness, betraying none of his surprise, before motioning Wilfrid to leave them for a while.

As if pondering some serious problem, she drummed her slender fingers uncertainly on the tabletop before appearing to come to a decision. She waited until Wilfrid stepped off the dais, then looked Eirik directly in the eye.

“I need to marry immediately,” Eadyth blurted out without preamble. “Wouldst thou be interested?”

Eadyth watched the dark knight fight to keep his jaw from going slack. After his initial shock over her unexpected proposal, his face froze into an expressionless mask as he tried to understand her bizarre actions.

Hah!
Men were so transparent. They thought women incapable of logical thought, and therein lay their weakness. Eadyth had learned over the past eight years lesson after lesson in the power of men over women. But it was not an absolute power, and she had become an expert in outwitting them. Had she not proven over and over her capability in running Hawks’ Lair and trading her own products in the marketplace of Jorvik—the best honey and mead and beeswax candles in all Northumbria?

It nettled Eadyth to have to come on humble knee before the handsome, smooth-tongued Lord of Ravenshire. As if she cared whether his finely chiseled features could melt the hearts of maids from Yorkshire to Strathclyde! Or that his slick words could cause a saintly nun to lose her inhibitions. She wanted no man for husband, and certainly not this ill-clothed brute in his crumbling castle who looked down his arrogant nose at her in barely suppressed disdain.

St. Bridget’s Breath!
The thought of entering the bonds of matrimony made her cringe with distaste.
Bonds!
That was the all-important word here. For all these many years, she had refused to become chattel to any man.

But now she had no choice. Time was running out. The best she could do was strike a deal for the best betrothal agreement, one that would benefit her prospective husband but allow her to retain her freedom. Would the Lord of Ravenshire agree?

“Mayhap my ears play me false, my lady. Did you ask for my hand in marriage?” When she nodded and defiantly lifted her chin, he snorted with disgust. “’Tis unseemly that you act on your own behalf.”

“Who would negotiate for me? My father is dead. I have no family.” She shrugged. “Are you so strait-laced and fearful of your manhood you cannot deal directly with a woman?”

Eirik sat up straighter, a muscle twitching angrily in his square jaw at her challenge. “You tread on dangerous ground, foolish lady. Heed me well, I fear you not, nor any man
or woman
. You ask for direct dealings. Well, you shall have them. I tell you directly—my answer is ‘Nay.’ I am not interested in your marriage proposal.”

Eadyth felt an annoying flush move up her neck and heat her cheeks. Why couldn’t she curb her wayward tongue? Accustomed to dealing with crafty tradesmen and laggard churls, she ofttimes forgot how to be diplomatic. With deliberate care, she banked her rankling temper and forced herself to proceed carefully before speaking again.

“I apologize, my lord, for my hasty words. The urgency of my situation causes my loose tongue, but, please…please do not refuse my proposal afore you hear the details.”

Eirik poured more ale into his goblet and sipped thoughtfully, scrutinizing her through slitted eyes, and obviously finding her lacking in the attributes he would seek in a wife. That didn’t surprise her. In fact, she had tried her best not to attract the lustful attentions of men since her one disastrous mistake eight years before.

“With all due respect, my lady, I have no interest in another marriage—to any woman. Once was enough.”

“Ever?” Eadyth asked, surprised. “I thought all men felt
the need to breed heirs. Your wife bore you no sons, did she?”

He shook his head. “My brother Tykir is my heir, and I have no particular desire to propagate my own image.” His head tilted questioningly, as if he had just thought of something important. “Leastways, I would hardly consider you of childbearing age.”

“Huh?” His comment disarmed Eadyth. It was true that many girls wed by age fourteen, but she had seen only twenty-five winters and was certainly well within the age of conceiving a babe. Not that she wanted to. And certainly not with such a crude oaf as him. But how old did he think she was?

Aaah!
she realized suddenly, touching her head-rail, it was her silvery hair that caused his mistaken notion of her age—that and the deliberately loose garment which hid her womanly curves. It was fortunate that he had not seen her this morn as she tried to manage the wild, waist-length curls under her wimple, finally resorting to pig’s grease to slick back the unruly mass. Apparently, the lard also managed to hide the golden blonde highlights in the silvery strands.

But then a sudden thought occurred to her. Perchance his mistaken notion of her age could work to her benefit. After her one distasteful—nay, disastrous—encounter with a man’s lustful inclinations, she had no wish for any other. Warming to her role, Eadyth almost smiled as she hunched her shoulders slightly and forced a cronish cackle into her voice, evading his question. “Heh! Heh! Heh! ’Twould seem my age is of no importance if you wish to breed no heirs. In fact, it could work to both our advantages.”

His interest sparked, Eirik raked his fingers through the coal black hair which reached to his shoulders. He brushed his mustache distractedly, a trait she had noticed several times as he watched her like a wary bird—yea, the raven that he was. And he squinted often. Finally, he arched his eyebrows questioningly over translucent blue eyes.

Holy Virgin!
A woman could drown in their mesmerizing
depths, Eadyth admitted to herself, then mentally berated herself for the thought. In truth, Eirik was not as handsome as Steven, the cause of her problems. Steven’s polished veneer and delicately proportioned features approached perfection, while Eirik’s rugged beauty was too blatantly virile, his sharp edges too powerfully masculine for Eadyth’s tastes. In an odd way, he frightened her.

Forcing herself back to the matter at hand, she went on, “Let me be blunt—”

“Why stop now?”

Eadyth shot Eirik a withering look. She would ignore his jibe for now. But she could not stop her fists from clenching and unclenching convulsively as she spoke. Blessed Lord, humility came sore hard for her to swallow.

“I need to marry as soon as possible. My husband must be able to lead men if it comes to fighting, but more important is political cunning—a talent for politics, avoiding a confrontation, if possible. Do you understand my meaning?”

“Why me?” Eirik asked curtly. “’Tis obvious you are not attracted by my innumerable charms.”

He was watching with interest the revealing action of her nervous hands. Eadyth willed herself to composure. He saw too much. At the same time, he did not see her true appearance. How odd!

And his flippant remark about “charms” annoyed her. Did he play with her, regarding her reluctant proposal as an excuse to make sport with her? Of course, he did. To his mind, she was well past the age for being interested in a man’s endowments.

Enough! She wasted precious time tiptoeing around the dangerous issue at hand. He said he valued honesty. Well, she would give him a fair dose and show him what she thought of his “charms,” as well.

“’Tis true, I am not overwhelmed with lust for your godly handsome body,” Eadyth remarked sarcastically. “Nor do my bones melt in your manly presence. I could even bear to be in your company for a short while without swooning in
adoration, I wager. In truth, I would as soon wed your loathsome dog as you, if ‘twould solve my problems.” Eadyth saw the muscles tense in his tight jaw.
Good!
She had his full attention now—no more smirks or veiled allusions. “But your hound would not suit at all, you see, because it does not have your blue eyes…or black hair. Did I not mention afore, those are important requisites for my groom.”

“Blue eyes! Black hair!” Eirik sputtered. “Have a caution, wench, you overstep yourself. And you waste my time with foolish talk of physical attributes. I do not wish to wed, especially not to a coarse-tongued, waspish harpy. And that is my final word on the subject.” He stood as if their meeting was at an end.

Eadyth’s hopes withered under his scornful words, and a rush of alarm swept over her. Once again, she had let her repugnance for a forced marriage overshadow her reason.

“Here,” she said quickly, shoving a document into his hands. “Mayhap you should consider what you so blithely toss aside.”

Eirik stared at her in stony silence, but finally he looked at the document, holding it at arm’s length. He scanned the words and figures briefly, then plopped back down into his chair, exhaling with a loud breath of impatience.

“What in the name of St. Cuthbert is this?”

Eadyth thought the document was self-explanatory since the words “Betrothal Agreement” were written clearly across the top in her own neat script. Mayhap he could not read. “’Tis the dower I offer if you will agree to the marriage,” she explained proudly with chin held high.

Eirik gazed at her incredulously for a long moment before turning back to the document, reading aloud, “Five hundred mancuses of gold; two hundred hides of land adjoining Ravenshire to the north; twenty ells of fine baudekin silk from Baghdad; three cows; twelve oxen; fifteen thralls, including a stone worker and a blacksmith; and fifty queen bees, along with an estimated hundred thousand worker and ten thousand drone bees.” He looked at her questioningly, a mocking grin
twitching at his lips. “Bees? What would I want with bees?”

“’Tis how I have made my fortune, my lord. Do not be so quick to mock what you do not understand.”

He put the document on the table, then steepled his fingers in front of his mouth as he leaned back in his chair and studied her closely. Finally, he spoke, choosing his words carefully. “’Tis impressive, indeed—the dower you offer. And surprising. I had not thought Hawks’ Lair to be such a prosperous keep.”

He smiled then. It was a very nice smile, she conceded to herself. And Eadyth noticed how his very expressive eyes twinkled with merriment. Truly, she could understand why women melted at his feet if he turned this lethal charm in their direction.

“Does the king know of your wealth? Surely, his council would be interested in a higher levy for your riches.”

Eadyth bristled at his backhanded compliment. “Hawks’ Lair is a small keep, but I use every portion of it efficiently. Any wealth I have garnered, however, comes from my beekeeping enterprise. The last few years have been especially profitable as my reputation for fine mead and honey and beeswax candles has grown. My timekeeping candles earn a particularly handsome profit.”

“You engage in trade yourself?”

“Yea, that I do. I have an agent in Jorvik, but ’tis always wise to keep a check on those who handle your affairs.”

Eirik chuckled and shook his head from side to side in disbelief.

Eadyth bristled. “You find humor in wise business.”

“Nay, I find humor in
you
, my lady, and your many contradictions.”

“How so?”

“You come barging into my keep, uninvited, bristling like a hedgehog. You insult my dog, my ale, my person and my integrity, and yet you ask for my hand in marriage. You are highborn, and yet you dirty your hands in trade. And…” He hesitated, seeming to think he had mayhap gone too far.

“And what? Do not stop now. Let us be perfectly honest with each other.”

“Well, I have oft heard you referred to as ‘The Silver Jewel of Northumbria’ because of your renowned beauty, but I see it not.”

Eadyth cringed under his harsh but honest appraisal. In truth, she did all in her power to hide whatever beauty she still had. It should not matter that he found her less than comely, but somehow it did. It was just a remnant of her old feminine vanity, she supposed. She squared her shoulders and asked, “Is there more?”

“Yea, there is.” Eirik paused before continuing, “You have the demeanor of a stiff-necked nun who never spread her legs for a man’s staff, and yet I have been told you were wanton in your youth. I cannot fathom a woman such as you bearing a man’s weight, let alone a bastard child.”

Eadyth closed her eyes momentarily, ill prepared for the mention of her son John. She had known the boy would have to be discussed if Eirik agreed to the marriage. He was, after all, the reason for her being forced into such a repugnant alliance. But she had hoped to bring up the subject in her own good time.

“Yea, I have a son,” she admitted finally, looking him directly in the eye. “Is John an obstacle to this marriage?”

Eirik traced the edge of his goblet with a long, well-formed forefinger while he studied her further. Eadyth noticed that his smallest finger was missing, cut off long ago at the base, and she wondered idly if he had lost it in battle or an accident. Her speculation was interrupted as he continued speaking slowly, with what seemed to be carefully chosen words.

“If I met a woman I wanted to wed, a child would not deter me from the vows. ’Twould be false of me to say I would not prefer a virgin to wife, but then who am I to judge? I bear the mark of bastardy myself, and I have two illegitimate daughters of my own.” He grinned sheepishly at her. “’Twould seem we share a common bond.”

Eadyth gritted her teeth and fisted her hands so tight the
nails dug painfully into the soft flesh of her palms. She wanted to tell him what she thought of his fathering two illegitimate children. It was not her fault that her son was born outside wedlock. But he, an unwed man, could have given his daughters legitimacy. Oh, how desperately she would like to inform him that the only bond he shared was with all unscrupulous, loose-moraled men who thought their male organs were gifts from God to be pushed indiscriminately into every maid who dared to cross their paths. He disgusted her. She, more than any other, knew how women suffered from mating outside marriage, even when promises were made aplenty.