Rescued by the Viking

by Meriel Fuller

  * * *

  The gowns were too tight. Walking beside Ragnar down the steep incline from the castle, Gisela plucked miserably at the constrictive fabric, as if her continual tugging would somehow make the garments larger. She hadn’t even bothered to tie the side lacings on the light green overdress, but it made no difference. The material hugged her bosom, emphasising the roundness of her breasts, her neat waist, falling to mid-calf. The underdress beneath was of blue wool, the hem whispering against her ankles. According to Ragnar, the garments had belonged to a serving maid at the castle and were freshly laundered.

  She skipped along, matching Ragnar’s quick, long-legged pace. He held her elbow, guiding her through the crowded streets. They reached the market square, stall holders filling the air with the cries of their wares, keen to make extra coin from the people flocking into town to bid farewell to the Danes. Up ahead, through the narrow chink of an alleyway, the vast width of the river gleamed, a churning silver ribbon. Gisela’s heart flipped queasily; the river looked so benign, so inviting, and yet after last night, she knew the power contained in those frothing rivulets, the treacherous mudflats beneath that twinkling surface.

  ‘It’s so busy.’ She chewed on her bottom lip, agitation riffling through her. She had given no thought to how she would leave this place and now the full enormity of what she was undertaking gusted through her slender figure like a whirlwind. Had she truly thought she could slink away unnoticed? What had she been thinking? It seemed that every person in the town had turned out to witness the departure of the Danes. And there she would be, a harlot for all to see, being loaded on to a longship in front of judging Saxon eyes. As her eyes moved in dismay over the jostling figures in the square, her step faltered; she stopped.

  ‘This is so humiliating,’ she said, tugging at her snug bodice. ‘Dressed like this, everyone will think that I’m your...’ She pursed her lips together, unwilling to say the word. Her cheeks flushed with annoyance. ‘Why could you have not let me wear my other clothes?’

  * * *

  His brilliant gaze swept the alabaster bloom of her skin. Like the petal of a rose, plush, velvety. A rosy tint stained her cheeks, the mark of her hurried pace through the streets. The borrowed cloak was merely a length of wool wound around her shoulders, fastened with a cheap metal pin across her chest. Below the cloak’s bunching gathers, the gown traced the luscious curves of her bosom and waist, skirts flaring out seductively over her slim hips. Awareness sliced through him, squeezing the base of his belly.

  A hush encompassed them: a thick wadded quilt, muffling the shrieks and shouts of the market. Self-conscious beneath his quiet scrutiny, her eyelashes fluttered down, hiding the striking blue of her eyes. ‘I told you the gowns are too tight,’ she whispered, misinterpreting his close scrutiny. She tugged irritably at the rucked-up fabric around her waist. ‘I can’t believe that the serving girl was really the same size as me.’

  A dog trotted past them, scrawny and underfed; Ragnar followed the animal’s rangy gait, the horizontal lines of ribcage jutting out from mangy fur. He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful in those gowns, the clinging lines setting off her slender figure to perfection. But he was on tenuous ground; after that kiss in the bedchamber, how could he compliment her without her thinking the worst of him? Thinking that he wanted to bed her and nothing more? His groin tightened; he gritted his teeth, clamping down on the sweet thought. She would be right to think it. For it was true.

  ‘I did try.’ His tongue moved awkwardly in his mouth; he swallowed, trying to alleviate the dryness.

  ‘Do I look awful?’ she asked, throwing him a worried look. Another dog loped along behind her, sniffing in doorways, claws clicking on the cobbles.

  Ragnar laughed. ‘You sound just like my—’ He bit down hard on his tongue. My sister, he had been about to say. Gyda would say the same thing, but in a different context. She had always sought compliments, dramatically sweeping the curtains of the great hall aside, parading through the trestle tables towards Ragnar and his parents at the top table. A new velvet gown, a different cloak: they would be shown to all. His father would roll his eyes and continue to chew on his food; his mother would half-rise from her chair so that she could see her daughter properly, showering her with compliments and suggestions. How they all wished for that girl to be back with them again.

  Gisela glanced up, clearly startled by the abrupt stop to his speech. ‘I sound just like your...’ She repeated his words, giving him the opportunity to continue.

  He ignored her question and crooked his arm out, indicating that she should take it. ‘Come, we must make haste. The longships will not wait for us. And your father and sister should be waiting for us on the beach.’

  * * *

  But it was only her sister. Marie’s tall figure hunched against the wall of the last cottage on the street, before the cobbled surface gave way to shingle. Her scarf was pulled forward across her face, shadowing her features. As always she had no wish to draw attention to herself.

  ‘I’ll come back for you in a moment,’ Ragnar said, his large boots crunching across the shingle towards the men gathered around the longships. Seagulls wheeled in the air, screeching their hoarse, strident cries, orange-rimmed eyes searching for scraps on the ground. The river water lapped against the dry stones, rising slowly, endeavouring to reach the ragged line of seaweed that marked the last high tide.

  ‘Where is he?’ Gisela reached out to grasp her sister’s hands. ‘Where is Father?’

  Marie tracked Ragnar’s loping stride across the beach. ‘Is that the same man...?’

  ‘Aye, it’s him,’ Gisela confirmed, a resigned note entering her voice. She gave her sister’s fingers a little shake. ‘Marie, where’s Father?’

  ‘He’s too ill to walk.’ Marie’s eyes caught her own. ‘That blow to the head last night; it seems to have robbed him of all energy. He told me to bring you this.’ She handed Gisela a soft leather bag, lowering her voice. ‘The rest of the money is inside.’

  Her heart plummeted; so there really was no hope of her father travelling with her. She would have to make do with that insufferable Dane after all. But as much as she tried to stifle the feeling, anticipation threaded through her: a heady tangled mix of danger coupled with excitement.

  ‘What happened to your face?’ Marie traced the purpling bruise below Gisela’s eye. ‘Did they do that?’ She nodded fearfully over to the men by the longships, her features pale and washed out in the stark morning light. The tall Danish warriors, blond hair tufting skywards in the sharp breeze, crowded on to the loose shingle, round colourful shields and swords winking fiercely. The air filled with their rough, outlandish speech and the hard, guttural curses as they climbed over the gunwales, adjusting the position of the wooden boxes that they sat on to row.

  ‘No,’ Gisela replied. ‘It was the Saxons, when I tried to retrieve the money that Father lost.’ She sought her sister’s cold fingers, gripped them.

  ‘What happened? We were so worried when you didn’t come back last night. Then we received the message this morning to meet you here.’

  ‘Ragnar rescued me from the Saxons, then refused to let me go until I told him why we needed the money so much.’ Gisela glanced across the shingle, squinting. The strong sun bleached the round pebbles to a harsh scouring whiteness. Her eyes found Ragnar’s commanding figure with ease, his blond hair riffling in the light air, gilt-edged. Dismay clouded her expression. ‘I didn’t find the money. This is all we have now.’ She patted the satchel resting on her hips, the leather strap cutting diagonally between her breasts.

  ‘What is happening between the two of you?’ Marie asked quietly.

  Startled, Gisela’s heart gave a quick leap; she frowned deeply, a small crease appearing in the smooth skin between her finely arched eyebrows. What had made her sister say such a thing? Had her behaviour betrayed her? ‘Nothing. He’s agreed to help me,
that’s all. I have no one to go with me further north. Richard’s life is at stake, Marie.’

  ‘I know all that. It’s the way he looks at you...that’s all.’

  A deep visceral longing tugged at her chest. If only. If only he looked at me like someone he loved. Tossing her head up, Gisela laughed, swiftly dismissing the sentimental path on which her thoughts trod. ‘Nay, you’re wrong, Marie. I’m nothing more than an annoyance to him. If you’ve noticed anything at all, then it’s because he’s playing a part, so his men believe that I belong to him; it’s the only way I can travel safely.’ Memory snagged her mind: the firm, warm press of Ragnar’s mouth against hers. Delight whispered through her chest, a languorous coil of seductive heat.

  ‘But why would he offer to do this in the first place, Gisela? Have you asked yourself that? It doesn’t make sense; there’s nothing in it for him!’

  Her sister voiced her own disquiet, the questions that had tumbled through her mind since Ragnar had offered to help her. But if she succumbed to fear and refused to undertake this journey, then what hope would there be for Richard? ‘We have no other choice, Marie, surely you can see that? This is our only hope of getting our brother back, alive.’

  ‘Then make sure you guard your innocence around the Dane, Sister, for that is surely what he is...oh!’ Marie’s head jerked up, as Ragnar suddenly appeared next to Gisela. His upper arm nudged her shoulders. A dull red colour suffused Marie’s cheeks and she dropped her chin in embarrassment, staring awkwardly at the ground.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Ragnar inclined his head towards Gisela. Amusement tugged at the firm line of his upper lip.

  Flashing him a brief, hesitant smile, she prayed he hadn’t heard her sister’s warning. ‘Aye, I’m ready.’ She patted the bag at her hip. ‘Marie has brought me a few things. As well as the money we have left.’ Stepping forward, she hugged her sister, pulling her tight. ‘Take care of Father, Marie. I’ll be back soon, with Richard.’

  Holding her skirts high, she picked her way across the unstable shingle, following Ragnar to the waiting longships. Her heart flipped in panic; the Danes were ready to row. In a few moments, the ships would be afloat on the flooding tide. Even now, the water lapped against the shallow sides of the vessels.

  She stopped at the river’s edge, where curling wavelets flowed across a patch of mud and stone, a significant stretch of water, about a foot deep, lying between her and the first longship. ‘How am I supposed to reach the boat...?’ She glared at Ragnar in consternation, as if it was his fault that the water had risen so much.

  ‘There is only one way,’ he replied, ‘if you want to keep dry.’ He swept one hand beneath her knees to hoist her light weight against him. ‘There is no ladder.’ In the brilliant, unflinching sunlight, the bristles on his chin fired gold as he sloshed through the water. Instinctively, she clung to the back of his neck, her hip bumping treacherously against his muscle-bound chest.

  ‘Throw her up to me, man!’ a voice shouted down from the gunwale. ‘We’re about to leave!’

  Shifting his grip, Ragnar propelled her through the air, her feet and arms flailing at the abrupt, undignified movement. Her bag hung down, a heavy lump swinging precariously. Hands reached out to grab her: large, masculine hands that roamed invasively across her curves as she was hauled upwards and held on to her for longer than was necessary, once she was on her feet again.

  ‘Go away!’ She lashed out at the grinning men circling her, bringing up her hands to ward them off. Tears prickled beneath her lids. They were handling her like cargo, an unwieldy sack of grain, a commodity. Something to be bought and sold, not a woman in her own right. A woman who, only a short year ago, had full control of her family’s vast estates in France. She jutted her chin forward, narrowing her eyes in anger as if daring them to come any closer, watching as Ragnar climbed into the ship.

  He jumped down on to the deck beside her, one arm drawing her close against his hard flank. Possessive. Unyielding. ‘Hands off, if you know what’s good for you.’ His voice held a veiled warning. ‘This one belongs to me.’

  Chapter Ten

  This one belongs to me. His speech scorched her brain. Imprinted like a brand, searing, possessive. Heat surged in her belly, her chest, a swelling blanket of sensation. Stupid! Her reaction was unnerving, fluttering through her like a frightened bird. As if her physical body defied common sense, staggering haphazardly away from considered, practical thought towards a delicious wildness, a sense of abandonment, of danger, cleaving to this broad-shouldered Viking like a woman possessed. Out of control. And yet, as the sensible, rational part of her brain continued to chant at her, Ragnar was only playing the part, the role of a possessive lover, in order to protect her among his men.

  He led her to the bow. A wooden seat spanned the narrowest point where the ship’s curving sides met; he pushed her gently down on to the single plank, one hand on her shoulder, guiding her. The mast had been lowered, the vast square sail wrapped neatly around its length. The strength of the men at the oars would be enough to take the vessel across the river. Drawing her knees together beneath the hated gown, Gisela perched primly on the seat, unable to relax. Her shoulder blades ached from the strain of holding herself in a constant state of alertness. Gritting her teeth, she pulled the leather bag across her lap like a barricade, her neat figure shadowed by the high clinker-built sides of the ship. How on earth was she going to undertake this journey and yet remain immune to Ragnar?

  * * *

  The polished metal of his eyes roamed over her, the hunched, tense figure. He knew she was worried, daunted by this journey into the unknown, away from the security of her family. Her eyes were haunted, skittish, as she watched the oars lower into the glistening water on a shouted order. In the limpid morning light, her skin held the quality of pouring cream, luminous, translucent, like a pearl. In the midst of these enormous fighting men, with their lined leathery faces and rough-whiskered chins, she shone like an angel. Doubt niggled at him. Would he find the self-restraint to keep his hands to himself?

  To cover his own disquiet, Ragnar squeezed her shoulder. Bending down, he whispered in her ear, ‘Try to smile, Gisela. All eyes are upon you. I know this is difficult for you to understand, but it is something of an honour to become a Viking woman.’

  ‘That is a lie!’ she hissed back at him, under her breath, her jaw rigid.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Ragnar admitted, laughing.

  * * *

  The air shifted. His gentle teasing eased the strain along her back, breaking the bubble of tension that held her muscles in thrall; she released her grip fractionally on the bag strap, knuckles rigid and sore. The pent-up air exhaled from her lungs by slow degrees, heavy pressure softening behind her ribs. From the stern, an older man, his gnarled hand on the wooden tiller, gave the order to row; grizzled hair crinkled out from his head, sparse and wiry. The men dipped their oars, moving together with a combined, practised power, tunics pulling taut against their spines as they hauled back. Stones crunched faintly beneath the hull; the longship started to move.

  Gisela cleared her throat. ‘When do we reach the other side?’

  ‘It shouldn’t take too long.’ Ragnar squinted across the smooth ribbon of still water, assessing the distance. ‘The current is strong, but there’s no wind to blow us from our course.’ His bright eyes moved over her.

  His belt buckle, a simple design of dulled silver, gleamed in the sunshine; the sword hilt that crossed his lower torso was strapped up with a long narrow piece of leather. No trappings, no extraneous decoration. How unlike the swords of her fellow Normans, she thought, with their lightweight blades of finely honed steel, the hilts studded with precious gemstones to indicate their status. ‘And then we must head north. My father told me the way; it’s not above ten miles from Hoesella. I presume that is where these ships are headed?’

  ‘Aye, it’s the only safe harbour on that side, bi
g enough to take all these vessels,’ he confirmed, resting his lower back against the raked planks of the ship’s side. ‘And then our journey should be easy if we follow the road to Jorvik.’

  As the ship drew away from the shore, Gisela twisted her head, her gaze snagging on Marie’s pale figure, standing in the lee of the cottage on the shore. A sense of dislocation seized her, as if her feet balanced on precarious quicksand, a teetering raft. She was leaving her family, the two people, other than her brother, who represented home and security, a haven where she could vanish from the world outside. The only person she could rely on now was herself. Flicking a quick glance at Ragnar, she wondered whether, alone, she would be strong enough to withstand whatever was to come.

  ‘Your sister shouldn’t be waiting on the beach like that,’ Ragnar said, following her glance towards Marie. ‘It’s dangerous for her to loiter outside.’

  Gisela hitched her shoulders forward, scrubbing distractedly at a small grease spot on the skirts. ‘She’s worried about me, about what I’m going to do.’ The sparkling midnight blue of her eyes hooked his piercing gaze and she flushed. ‘Marie doesn’t trust you. She can’t understand why you are helping us. It’s rare that people do such things for nothing.’ Her voice was hesitant, laced with the faintest ripple of doubt.

  Ragnar leaned back against the gunwale. He folded his arms, his tunic sleeves falling back from his powerful wrists.

  He cleared his throat, raising his voice against the sound of the waves slapping against the keel, the chant of the men as they kept time on the oars. ‘Your sister is right.’

  Gisela jumped up from her seat, hands clutching the bag strap, staggering slightly as the boat pitched to the right. He caught her arm, steadying her, bringing her alongside him to shield her from the rest of the men. Trapped between his big body and the shadow of the prow, her hands wrapped around the gunwale, knuckles white, her expression rigid. ‘I knew it!’ she pronounced bitterly. ‘I knew there would be something more to this!’ Her voice lowered. ‘But as I told you before, I will not be your whore.’