The Viking's Defiant Bride (7 page)

‘He is not my husband, but I am betrothed to him.'

The Viking relaxed his grip on the sword and he laughed. ‘Not any more.'

As she watched him walk away Elgiva let out the breath she had unconsciously been holding. Exchanging a brief glance with Osgifu, she set to work again with trembling hands to stanch the wound and bind it. She wondered if Aylwin would last the night and thought it unlikely. It might be better if he did die. The alternative was a life of slavery beneath the Viking yoke, something he would never submit to. Nor would he suffer another man to take his betrothed without a fight. Elgiva swallowed hard. Aylwin had been allowed to live for now, but for how much longer?

 

She and Osgifu worked until all had been attended to. The sun was going down before they finished and both women were exceedingly weary. Elgiva wondered if she would ever get the stink of blood and death from her nostrils. Every part of her ached from the effort of bending or stretching and her gown was soiled with blood and dirt. She retired with Osgifu to the women's bower and, having assured herself that the children were safe in the hands of one of the older women, she turned her attention to herself, bathing her hands and face in an attempt to cleanse away the memory of the past hours.

‘Oh, Gifu, so many good men slain.'

The battle today had been a rout in the end despite all the Saxons had been able to do. No one could have withstood the invaders for long. Now they were the masters here and every last Saxon soul who survived was in their power. One taste of it was enough to strike terror into the heart.

‘Aye, yet not all our warriors fell in the battle. The Vikings have already sent men out to search for fugitives, but they will not find them all.'

‘I fear it will be too late to be of help here.' Elgiva met her gaze, unaware of the desperation in her own eyes as, unbidden, the memory of a man's face intruded into her thoughts, a strong, chiselled face and disconcerting blue eyes. She forced it down and strove against rising panic. She would not wed the Viking.

Osgifu broke into her thoughts. ‘The forest is large and there are many places of concealment.'

‘Aye, there are for those who know its secrets.'

Elgiva moved away as, through the haze of fear and desperation, the germ of an idea formed in her mind. She knew the forest paths well for, with Osgifu, she was used to spending time there, gathering the plants she needed for her medicines. She could not wait to see if Aylwin survived, if there would ever be a Saxon uprising. All that would take time, and time was
the one thing she didn't have. Elgiva found suddenly that she was shivering with delayed reaction and the atmosphere seemed stifling. She moved to the doorway.

The place seemed quieter now—the evening meal was preparing in the hall and beyond the palisade the majority of the Viking host had encamped for the duration. The smoke from their cooking fires was already rising into the evening air. The women's bower was situated behind the hall where over the years various rooms had been added according to need. Looking around now, Elgiva could see the bodies of the slain lying where they had fallen and beyond them a few of Halfdan's men moving around outside stables and barn. However, there seemed to be no one at the gate just then and the broken timbers hung wide. Not far away the forest beckoned. Elgiva bit her lip. If she could somehow reach the gate without being spotted, there might be a chance of reaching the trees. The Viking encampment lay in the opposite direction and, while it would mean skirting the edge of the village, she could be fairly certain no Saxon would give her away. Once in the forest she would stand a reasonable chance of eluding pursuit. What she would do then she had no clear idea, but it seemed to her that there must be Saxons who had escaped the Viking host. If there were enough of them, they might return by stealth and put the invaders to the sword in their turn. Failing that, she might be able to find help elsewhere in those lands where the Danes held no sway. Anything was better than remaining here to become the bride of a conqueror.

Looking round the room, she saw the empty bucket and with it the idea. A trip to the well would serve as a plausible excuse for leaving the bower. She made for the door.

‘What are you doing?' Osgifu looked at her in concern.

‘I can't stay here, Gifu.'

‘Elgiva, think.'

‘I have thought. I will not do what they want.'

‘If you run, they will find you and bring you back. These men are ruthless. Who knows what punishment they may inflict?'

‘It cannot be worse than what they're already planning.'

‘Don't do it, I beg you.'

‘I will not stay here to be married off to a Viking warlord. I must get help. You said yourself that some of our men have fled into the forest. I will find them.'

‘Elgiva, wait!'

The words fell on empty air for Elgiva was already heading for the well. Picking her way among the bodies all around, she tried to ignore the rising stench and darted covert glances all about her, fearing at every moment to hear someone raise the alarm. However, no one did challenge her and she reached the well a short time later. Putting down the bucket, she took another furtive look around but could still see no one at the gate. Summoning all her courage, Elgiva made towards it at a steady pace, not wishing to draw eyes her way by careless haste. At every step her heart hammered; she expected at each moment to hear the shouted challenge and the sound of pursuit. It never came and she reached the shattered entry. Cautiously she walked through the gateway and looked about her. The way was clear. Picking up her skirts, she ran, sprinting across the open ground betwixt her and the edge of the trees, ignoring everything but the need to escape and put as much distance as possible between herself and Ravenswood. Focused on her goal, she did not see the horseman approaching fast at an oblique angle to cut off her route.

By the time she heard the thudding hoofbeats, he was much closer. One horrified glance over her shoulder revealed the approaching danger in a brief impression of a great black horse and the warrior who rode it. Elgiva summoned every remaining vestige of energy and put on a last desperate spurt. The trees were no more than a hundred yards away now. If she could but
reach them, she would have a chance of escape. Behind her the hoofbeats sounded louder, thudding in her ears like the sound of her own heartbeat as she willed herself on. It was a vain effort. The rider leaned down and a strong arm reached out and swept her off her feet. Elgiva shrieked as she was thrown face down over the front of the saddle, held firmly across the rider's knees. For some further distance every bone in her body was jarred before the horseman reined to a halt. Fury and fright vied for supremacy as she fought to recover her breath. Then she heard a familiar voice.

‘Whither away, Elgiva?'

Her stomach lurched. Wulfrum! Frantically she strove to push herself upright, but a firm hand between her shoulders kept her where she was, his well-trained mount standing like a rock the while.

‘Let go of me, you clod. You Danish oaf.'

‘Clod? Danish oaf? These are grave insults indeed.' Wulfrum regarded his struggling captive with a keen eye. ‘It seems to me that you need to learn better manners.'

‘You have the nerve to lecture me about manners, barbarian?'

‘I think you were not attending to me earlier, wench, for I warned you what would happen if you defied me again.'

Suddenly she did recall the words and her face grew hotter as she divined his meaning and realised the extreme vulnerability of her present position.

‘You wouldn't dare.'

‘Is that so?'

The flat of his hand came down hard, eliciting a yelp of indignation and further futile struggles.

‘Let me go, you bastard! You swine! Let me go!'

It was an unfortunate choice of words for half a dozen sharp whacks ensued. Elgiva yelled in rage but bit back any further insults, knowing he would avenge himself if she uttered them.

‘You're not going anywhere,' was the pleasant rejoinder. ‘You belong to me now and I will hold what is mine.'

Fuming, she forgot her former resolve in the face of this breathtaking arrogance. ‘I will never belong to you, you loathsome Viking filth.'

That last was a mistake—the hand descended several times more and much harder. Elgiva gasped.

‘Anything more?' he asked. ‘I can keep this up indefinitely if you can.'

Indeed there were plenty more things she could have found to say, chiefly concerning his lowly birth, probable ancestry and certain destination in the hereafter, but with a monumental effort she forced them back. Only a very small exhalation of breath escaped, a sound that reminded him of an infuriated kitten. Wulfrum waited a moment, but there was nothing more. His lips curved in a sardonic smile; touching his horse with his heels, he let it move forwards at a walk. Elgiva gritted her teeth in helpless fury as they headed back towards Ravenswood and a dreadful suspicion grew that his retribution wasn't over yet.

 

In this she was right. Wulfrum took his time about the return journey, knowing full well the helpless ire of his captive and her present discomfort. He had been visiting the Viking encampment earlier and was returning when he caught sight of the running figure heading for the forest. He had recognised her at once and knew a bid for freedom when he saw it. He also knew she must not be allowed to get away. How she had got so far was a mystery, one for which the guards would get a roasting later. As for Elgiva, she would discover that it did not pay to disobey him. Right now he knew she was smarting, as much from the humiliation as from his hand. It had been most tempting to put all his strength behind it and beat her soundly, but he had resisted the notion and tempered the punishment.
As it was, she would think twice before crossing him again. Like all the Saxons she would learn that rebellion came at a price.

In consequence Elgiva was held across the saddle bow all the way back to the outer door of the women's bower. If she had thought then he would let her slide from the saddle and slink indoors, she was mistaken for Wulfrum dismounted first and dragged her off the horse after. Tucking her under one arm, he carried her inside in another casual and humiliating demonstration of superior strength. When at last he set her down she was hot and breathless and, to Wulfrum's eyes, most attractively dishevelled, for the golden mane had escaped its braid and fell in tumbled curls about her shoulders.

Furious, Elgiva glared up at him, wishing anew for a sword to cut the arrogant brute down to size. However, he was very big and to her cost she knew his strength. She hated to think what other retribution he might take if she angered him further for she was uncomfortably aware of the bed on the far side of the room and of the dimming light and of his dangerous proximity.

It was not hard to discern some of her thought but, far from being perturbed in any way, Wulfrum smiled, thinking that anger heightened her beauty for those wonderful eyes held a distinctly militant light. He was sorely tempted to take her in his arms and kiss her again, but he suspected that if he did, he would not be able to stop there. Better to let her think about what had happened, to understand the futility of attempting to escape him. She was no fool and the lesson would be well learned. Besides, time was on his side now.

For the space of several heartbeats they faced each other thus. Then, to her inexpressible relief, he moved towards the door, pausing when he reached it.

‘You will remain here until I say otherwise. I should perhaps point out that there will be a guard outside from now on.'

He left her then, closing the door behind him. Weak with relief, Elgiva collapsed against it, listening with thumping heart to the muffled hoof falls as he rode away.

I
n the days following an atmosphere of deep gloom hung over Ravenswood along with the stench of death and corruption. Carrion birds flapped among the bodies or perched in readiness on the palisade as the demoralised Saxons, with an air of bitter resignation, went about the business of digging graves. Since the church had been burned and the priest taken prisoner there was little chance that he might bless the graves, a grievous lack that added to the pain of loss. The living had perforce to be content with murmured prayers and the laying of flowers.

Osgifu and Elgiva helped with the laying out of the dead, working in silence and in grief for the lives snuffed out so soon. Aylwin lived yet, though he was much weakened from loss of blood. The Vikings kept a close watch, but they made no move to harm him. Elgiva did what she could for him, but there were many others requiring her attention too, and her time was spent in tending the wounded, changing dressings, applying salves and balms, dispensing the medicines that dulled pain. Some men were beyond help and died; others like Aylwin clung desperately to life. His troubled gaze followed Elgiva as she moved among her patients, an attention that had not gone unnoticed.

Waiting until Elgiva was not by, Wulfrum made his way towards the pallet where the Saxon lay, regarding him dispassionately. He made no attempt to sit, thus putting the other at an added disadvantage by compelling him to look up at his visitor. At first neither man spoke. Then Wulfrum broke the silence.

‘Your wound heals?'

‘It heals.'

‘Elgiva is skilled.'

At the mention of her name, the older man's eyes narrowed and his hand clenched at his side.

‘What is it you wish to say?'

‘That I know of your former betrothal to her…' Wulfrum paused ‘…a betrothal you would now do well to forget.'

‘Elgiva is mine.'

‘Not so. She belongs to me, as does this hall and these lands, and I shall take her to wife.'

‘By God, you shall not!' The injured man started up, then winced as his wound protested.

Watching him fall back upon the pallet, Wulfrum raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? And how will you prevent it?'

Aylwin remained silent, knowing too well the futility of any reply he might make. More than anything he wanted to be left alone, but his tormentor lingered still.

‘You should have wed her when you had the chance.'

‘Would that I had.' Aylwin regarded him with hatred. ‘But she asked me to observe a decent period of mourning for her brother. I would not expect you to understand, Viking.'

Wulfrum laughed. ‘I think I understand. The lady was not so keen as you to marry.'

Aylwin reddened for the words had touched a nerve. The same thought had occurred to him too.

‘You should be thankful—if you had married her, you would be dead now,' the other went on, ‘for I would still have taken
her from you. As it is, your claims on her are void and you had best accept it.'

‘Never!' The word exploded between them.

Wulfrum smiled and, throwing the Saxon one last contemptuous look, walked away.

 

Two days later Aylwin disappeared. At first no one thought it significant. A man so badly wounded could not have gone far. However, an exhaustive search revealed nothing. Elgiva heard the news with deep concern. Even if he escaped as far as the forest, Aylwin's weakened condition made him ill suited to such rough living and, without careful tending, he might well die. Angered that so prestigious a prisoner had slipped through their hands, the Vikings questioned everyone who had contact with him, including Elgiva and Osgifu.

Seeing their captors so disturbed, Elgiva knew only intense satisfaction. When Wulfrum questioned her, she was able to say with perfect truth that she knew nothing of the matter. However, she was unable to hide her feelings with complete success, a fact that he did not fail to note.

‘He could not have gone far alone. He must have had help.'

‘That is possible, lord,' she replied.

‘Who was it?'

‘I don't know.'

‘But you wouldn't tell me if you did know.'

‘No.'

It was a reply that was both honest and impudent in equal measure. With an effort, he curbed the urge to seize and shake her soundly. For all that air of quiet calm, the vixen was enjoying this. He didn't think for a moment that she was personally responsible for Aylwin's escape—she was under guard in the women's bower at night—but her relief when they failed to find him had been quite evident. Perhaps she wasn't as indifferent to the Saxon as he had first believed. The thought did
nothing to improve his temper and he dismissed her before he did something he might later regret.

Relieved to be out of that unnerving presence, Elgiva returned to her work among the injured, conscious the while of the brooding blue gaze that watched her every move. The Viking would not find Aylwin now, she was sure of it. If he died, his friends would bury him in secret: if he lived, they would get him away to a place of greater safety—somewhere the Danes held no sway. The thought filled her with fierce pleasure and only with difficulty could she hide her elation. She might not have loved Aylwin, but she did rejoice in his freedom.

 

Unwilling to dwell too long on the chances of her former betrothed, Elgiva put her mind to more immediately pressing matters. Chief of these was the welfare of her nephews. After their recent treatment at the hands of the invaders she kept a watchful eye on them. Pybba was too young to know how near he could have been to death but, for some days after the coming of the Vikings, Ulric clung to Hilda, his nursemaid, staring wide-eyed and silent from behind her skirts if any of the men appeared. Elgiva, touched by his vulnerability, would take him on her knee and sing to him and he would snuggle against her, seeking her warmth and gentleness. With her and Hilda he knew he was safe.

In spite of her other responsibilities Elgiva spent time each day with the children. She also kept an eye on Hilda for the girl had suffered at the hands of the conquerors. In particular the young man called Ceolnoth sought her out as a companion for his bed. All her struggles and protests had availed her nothing. Elgiva knew there was nothing she could say to soothe that hurt and the girl's strained expression was a cruel reminder of the fate she too might have suffered had their positions been reversed.

Thus far Wulfrum had not intruded into the nursery. It was women's work and he was content to leave it so, and since he had become Lord of Ravenswood none of his men had laid a
hand on any child, noble or base. However, one morning as he took a short cut through the rear of the hall, he was arrested by the sound of women's laughter and the playful squealing of a child. Moving towards the source of the noise, he paused in the doorway. Elgiva was kneeling on the floor. In front of her the oldest child was lying on the rug, laughing and giggling as she tickled his ribs. Across the room the girl Hilda watched and smiled from her place beside the baby's crib. It was a scene of innocent delight so different from anything he had known that Wulfrum was drawn and held in spite of himself. This was an Elgiva he had never seen, laughing and relaxed as though without a care in the world. The children were her nephews, but she tended them as though they were her own, with a gentle and loving hand. Watching, he smiled unawares as a new dimension opened up before him. One day he would have sons. His gaze warmed as it rested on his future wife. It would be good to have children with Elgiva. His smile grew rueful. One day.

Though he made no movement or sound, some instinct warned the occupants of the room that they were not alone. It was Hilda who saw him first. Her smile faded and a look of fear replaced it. Elgiva looked up and followed the direction of her gaze. Then she too froze. The child stared at him wide-eyed. In a moment the atmosphere in the room changed and became tense. He saw Elgiva rise and draw the child close.

‘My lord?' The tone was anxious, even wary.

He surveyed her for a moment in silence, wanting to speak, but not knowing what to say. Then, ‘The children are well?'

‘They are well,' she replied.

‘Good.' He paused, then glanced at the toddler. ‘The boy is afraid.'

‘Has he no cause?'

‘None.' He met and held her gaze for a moment. ‘He shall not be harmed if I have power to prevent it. Please believe that.'

Elgiva stared at him in surprise, but said nothing for her
heart was unaccountably full. His expression and his words had seemed sincere. His former actions too had prevented harm coming to the children. He was their enemy but, perversely, in that moment she wanted to trust him in this.

Unable to follow her thought and seeing she remained silent, Wulfrum felt suddenly awkward. What did he expect her to say? That she believed him? Trusted the children to his care? Aware of how ridiculous a notion that was, he turned abruptly away. Trust could not be commanded, it had to be earned; thus far, he could see he had done little to earn hers.

As he left the hall, the memory of the scene stayed with him. It stayed throughout the morning as he supervised the work of the serfs. He could not forget the fear of Hilda and the child when they saw him or Elgiva's wariness. What did they take him for? Then he remembered Sweyn and what he had been about to do before he was stopped. Wulfrum sighed. True enough, the child had cause to be afraid and the women too. It would not be easy to overcome it, either, but Sweyn would soon be gone and then they might learn there was nothing to fear from him or his men. While he lived no harm should come to them. He was their lord and their protection was his responsibility. For the first time he began to feel its weight.

 

It had taken several days to bury the dead for goodly numbers had fallen on both sides, but eventually it was done. Elgiva stood by the Saxon graves a while and said her own silent prayers since Father Willibald had not been permitted to officiate at the burials or to say a mass for the souls of the dead. To her surprise Earl Wulfrum had raised no objection to her attending the funerals or made any attempt to interfere. In any case, his men were taking care of their own dead. A few of the Viking warriors stood at a distance watching the events with a careful eye, their presence a reminder of the new order.

A cold breeze stirred the branches of the forest trees around
and Elgiva shivered, drawing her mantle closer, fighting down the fear in the pit of her stomach. Like a leaf swept along on the current of a stream, she had no control over the events that would shape her future. Everything she had known and loved was gone as though in a past life. True enough, she thought, she had been someone else then. And now? Now she was a prisoner like all the rest, little better than a slave. Not quite, she amended. Ever since Wulfrum had announced his intention to marry, his men had regarded her as his domain. She had not been troubled or molested in any way, though they looked their fill whenever she appeared. Neither had a hand been raised to Osgifu, who came and went to her mistress's bower without hindrance. To the best of her knowledge, the earl's promise that there should be no more killing had been kept; now most of the Saxons serfs had been put to work, albeit under the watchful eyes of their conquerors. Only the fugitives rounded up in the forest remained chained and under guard. Rumours abounded as to their eventual fate, though Elgiva had been cautiously optimistic.

‘Surely he will not kill them—he has need of them to work the land and tend the stock.'

Osgifu had been more sceptical. ‘He doesn't need to kill them to make an example of them.'

However, a day went by and another and nothing happened, but each time the Saxons had looked at the prisoners they had felt only deep disquiet for the reputation of the Danes went before them and had been well earned. Since their coming all the certainties of life had vanished, leaving only a dread of tomorrow.

Recalling that conversation with Osgifu, Elgiva wondered if her optimism had not been misplaced. She drew in a deep breath. Whatever the Danes decided, the prisoners would have no choice but to obey. Like the rest she had been kept under guard but she had been grateful for her relative isolation, not wishing to have any greater contact with the conquerors than
was absolutely necessary. Now, outdoors again, she was restless, and her gaze went beyond the burying ground to the forest. Its quiet glades and green solitudes beckoned, inviting and forbidden, particularly after the confinement of the bower. It recalled happier days when she had accompanied her father and brother on the chase; recalled the sheer exhilaration of the gallop, the power of the horse beneath her. Thinking of the game little mare in the stables, Elgiva knew that was something else forbidden to her now.

Forcing down her resentment and her anger, she laid her flowers on the graves. All around her groups of people began to disperse, mostly in silence, and sorrow hung heavy in the air. Elgiva followed, wrapped in her own thoughts. Then she became aware that two of the Saxons had been keeping pace with her and glanced up to see Leofwine, the smith, and Elfric, his son. The smith shot her a swift glance.

‘My lady, we must speak with you.'

Elgiva nodded discreetly, aware that she was watched. ‘What is it, Leofwine?'