Rescued by the Viking

by Meriel Fuller

  A couple. His words reverberated in her ear, sending a coil of warmth down through her chest. He made it sound like they were truly together. A husband and wife, journeying on horseback. She flushed, enjoying thinking of that image of herself with him, allowing herself to dream for a moment. Nibbling sharply at her bottom lip, she dragged herself back to reality, to the flooded, barren wasteland below them, to the prospect of meeting Ralph de Pagenal once more.

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ she said. ‘I know what he’s capable of.’ She kneaded the aching muscles in her right thigh, an absent-minded gesture.

  ‘We will stay only as long as is needed,’ Ragnar responded quietly. He read the flare of panic in her eyes and hated it. Hated the man who had done this to her. Who sapped her courage when she needed it the most. ‘We will give him the money, claim your brother and leave.’

  ‘You make it sound so easy.’ Her slim fingers, agitated, fiddled with the cheap metal pin that held her borrowed cloak together, then she unwound her long scarf from her saddlebag to wind it back around her head.

  ‘That’s because it is.’ The dull brown fabric obscured the bright sheen of her hair; he mourned the loss of the glistening braid. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’ Clenching the reins, her knuckles were white, delicate knobs of bone.

  He threw her an encouraging smile. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you in there, Gisela. I will make certain of it.’

  She took a deep unsteady breath. ‘Yes, because you need me to help you.’

  ‘No, because I...’ What had he been about to say? Because I would do anything for you? How was that even possible for him to think such a thing about her? He had only known the girl for barely two days.

  Astounded by his own feelings, he fixed her with his bold emerald stare. ‘Gisela, I would protect you whether you were helping me or not!’ he replied. ‘What sort of man do you take me for? I rescued you from the river when I had no idea who you were. I could have revealed your true identity to the world when I realised you were Norman...’

  ‘All right...all right!’ Despite her worries about what lay ahead, she laughed, holding up her palms towards him, appealing for mercy.

  ‘Well, then,’ he muttered reproachfully, ‘as long as you are fully aware that I’m not about to feed you to the lions.’

  Jabbing his heels into his horse’s rump, he took off at a fast trot down to the lower ground by the marshes. A series of wooden bridges crossed the boggy land to the farmstead on the island. Gisela followed in his wake, her mare descending the steep ridge more slowly, then stepping up on to the planks. Up ahead, a wooden gatehouse was set into a palisade wall: a wall formed of oak stakes, each one honed to a deadly point. Any man would risk certain death if he attempted to climb them.

  There was no guard in sight. A group of labourers gathered in front of the gatehouse watched their approach across the bridges, eyeing the fineness of Ragnar’s cloak and sword as he drew closer. Their clothes were dusty, sweat-stained, evidence of hard toil in the fields.

  ‘Good day to you.’ Ragnar dismounted, throwing his reins across the horse’s neck. He came around to the front of Gisela’s mare. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered her swiftly, as if sensing she was about to dismount. He snagged her reins to stop her animal moving forward.

  The men nodded back at him. ‘What business do you have here, young man?’ asked one. ‘If you’re after a bed, you’ll not be getting one. The lord does not like visitors.’

  ‘Nay, we’re not after a bed,’ Ragnar said in his oddly accented Saxon. ‘But it’s your lord that we’ve come to see.’

  The men shifted uneasily. The oldest man, his grey beard grizzled, took a step closer to Ragnar. ‘He’ll never see you if you go in dressed as you are. You’re a Dane, are you not?’

  ‘What if I am?’ Ragnar replied.

  ‘We know that you’ve come to help us Saxons,’ the man whispered. ‘We had word that the Danish ships had landed. You’re going to help us rid our country of these Norman invaders.’ He spat derisively on the ground. ‘The Conqueror has given this place to de Pagenal, and we must work for him now if we are to survive. God knows where our Saxon chief has gone.’

  Gisela shifted uncomfortably in the saddle at the men’s revelation. And yet it was unlikely that they would identify her as Norman; she had lived and worked among the Saxons at Bertune for a couple of days and nobody there had questioned her identity.

  ‘Take off your cloak and brooch, and wear this instead.’ Lifting the hem of his hooded tunic, the old man yanked the coarse fustian fabric over his head. Removing his cloak, Ragnar bundled the expensive wool into his saddlebag, pulling on the Saxon’s tunic over his leather surcoat and red woollen tunic. The hem fell to his knees.

  ‘It’s big enough to cover that sword of yours as well. Pull the hood up and hide that Viking hair of yours. That way he’ll not be able to tell where you’re from.’ The men were nodding at each other now, silently congratulating themselves on a job well done.

  * * *

  Swinging her leg forward over the horse’s neck, Gisela slid down from the saddle, down in between the two horses, standing at Ragnar’s back. He turned, surprised to see her there, eyes widening. ‘I was going to lead you in on the horse,’ he said. In the shadows of the hood, his sparkling eyes gleamed.

  ‘Ragnar, it’s not safe for you,’ she whispered, her chest bubbling with fear. ‘Stay with these men and I will go in alone.’

  ‘Out of the question.’

  She touched his sleeve. ‘I am Norman, any guard will let me in. I’m afraid something...’ Her voice trailed away. What had she been about to say? I’m afraid something might happen to you. Yes, that was it. The terrible image of some Norman soldier driving his sword through Ragnar was almost too much to bear.

  He laughed. ‘I didn’t know you cared.’

  Her heart squeezed tight with unshed emotion. I do, she thought. I care more than you think. A desperate sense of unease flooded through her at the thought of losing him. She smoothed her hand across the napped pelt of her mare, catching the heel of her hand on the saddle. ‘I wouldn’t want to give de Pagenal the satisfaction,’ she said, finally. ‘He’s caused so much trouble already.’

  ‘You’re not going in on your own and that is final,’ he said. ‘I speak French; they will assume that I am Norman, albeit one that has fallen on hard times.’ He plucked at the coarse wool of the cloak, turning down the corners of his mouth ruefully, before looping his arm decisively around hers. The strong muscle in his forearm flexed against her own. ‘We’re in this together, Gisela.’

  Leaving the horses with the Saxons at the gate, they walked through the shifting gloom of the gatehouse, then out again into the brightness of the afternoon. Hens picked their jerky way across the rutted muddy path, searching for grain; geese honked, wild-eyed, as they noticed the presence of strangers, their white-feathered undersides filthy with mud. Fear weighed heavy at the bottom of her stomach, lodged like a boulder.

  Ragnar paused for a moment, narrowing his gaze on the scene, gaining his bearings. He watched as a wiry-haired sow, russet-coloured, scratched her backside against a hurdle, making the woven willow bend and creak.

  ‘It’s over there,’ Gisela said, dipping her head to indicate a large hall house. ‘There are Norman soldiers at the door, look.’ The guards stood on either side of a wide, oak-planked door, faces concealed by conical metal helmets, armed with swords and shields. She shivered, gripped by doubt. Their presence was arousing curiosity. A woman, sitting on a stool outside her cottage, had been spinning fleece with a drop spindle. Now her hands were stalled, the spindle turning more and more slowly, until it stopped, as she stared at them with bright, beady eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We can do this.’

  Gisela shifted the bulk of her leather bag more securely on to her hip. She bit her lip, doubt casca
ding through her slim frame. ‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘But let me do the talking.’

  * * *

  In the end, it was easy. The guards listened carefully as Gisela rattled away in French to them, explaining why it was imperative that she met with Ralph de Pagenal, then nodded and opened the hefty oak latch for them both to pass through into the hall. They barely glanced at Ragnar, his big bulk standing silently at Gisela’s side, face shadowed by the voluminous hood.

  ‘They think you’re my servant,’ Gisela whispered as they plunged into the darkness of an entrance hall. A fusty smell emanated from the packed earth floor. Some of the wooden planks forming the walls were rotten, coated in mould.

  ‘I don’t care who or what they think I am,’ Ragnar said quietly, ‘as long as they let me in with you. Stay close to me.’ They passed through a curtain into a smoke-filled, double-height chamber. The hall was sparsely furnished: an elm chest, pitted and scarred with age, butted up against the wall, painted cloths, most faded and in tatters, drooped down in ragged swags over coarsely plastered walls. At the far end was a long trestle table at which a single figure sat: Ralph de Pagenal.

  Her heart lurched, nausea roiling in her stomach. Sweat sprung to her palms, making them slip on the leather strap of her bag. Stepping forward, she walked clumsily into the edge of a trestle table, jabbing her thigh; her eyes watered from the impact.

  ‘Careful,’ Ragnar said, taking her arm. The taut muscle of his bicep nudged her upper arm.

  Slumped back in his high-backed oak chair, de Pagenal watched them approach. His gaze honed in on Gisela, like a fox scenting his prey. ‘Well, well,’ he said as they skirted around the circular hearth, the fire belching smoke towards the hole in the roof. ‘You finally decided to come, my lady. Took your time, didn’t you?’

  Despite the sun-filled day outside, the room was gloomy, lit by guttering candles. The choking smell of tallow filled the air. Grease spots sparkled down the front of de Pagenal’s fustian tunic. Gisela forced herself to look at him, to stare at this man who haunted her dreams and trailed behind her days. It was the same face, and yet...he appeared to be different. Diminished somehow, smaller in stature. Was it the bold Dane at her side who gave her the confidence to see this man for what he truly was?

  ‘I came as soon as I could.’ They reached the table, standing in front of de Pagenal. He squinted up at them, scowling, clearly disliking the fact that they towered above him. Pushing his chair back, he stood up, swaying gently. His tunic was too tight; the curve of his belly pushed out over his leather belt.

  ‘Your father is not with you. What happened?’ De Pagenal was slurring his words; he lurched forward suddenly, gripping the edge of the table for support.

  ‘He fell ill. So I came alone. I have the money, here...’ Gisela patted the leather satchel. ‘To pay the ransom for my brother. Where is he, please? I am anxious to see him.’

  De Pagenal’s bleary eyes moved over to Ragnar, standing silently beside Gisela. ‘But you’re not alone, are you, Lady Gisela? Will you not introduce your husband?’

  ‘Oh, but he’s not my...’

  Ragnar jerked sharply on her arm, stopping the words in her throat. ‘My name is not important,’ he spoke in perfect French. ‘But what is important is the whereabouts of this lady’s brother. Where is he?’

  De Pagenal leaned forward, a slight leer to his expression. ‘You...whoever you are—’ he jabbed the air with one thick finger ‘—do not get to dictate terms. My deal was with this lady’s father and her family. It is not your affair.’

  ‘Whatever concerns Lady Gisela is my affair,’ Ragnar said, pushing back his hood.

  De Pagenal’s eyes rounded at the sight of his flaming hair, bright strands glowing in the dim light of the hall. He stepped back, banging the back of his legs awkwardly against the chair, confusion crossing his face.

  ‘Do not even think of calling your soldiers.’ Ragnar’s voice held a menacing streak. ‘I would slit your throat in the blink of an eye, before your men have time to race in here and save your skin.’

  De Pagenal’s gaze flicked warily over Ragnar’s stern expression before his eyes whipped back to Gisela’s pale face. ‘So you’ve resorted to hiring Danish mercenaries to guard you, my lady. I would be careful if I were you, especially with that ransom money. What would your father say if he knew how low you have stooped?’

  Ragnar thumped his fist on the table. The plates rattled and jumped. ‘Just give us the boy, de Pagenal, and we will pay the ransom and be on our way.’

  The Norman lord collapsed back in his seat, a mocking smile pinned across his face. ‘But Richard is not here.’

  Gisela moved forward, her feet tangling against the long tablecloth that gathered on the flagstones. ‘What do you mean? You took him hostage! He is your prisoner; how can he not be here?’

  ‘You’re too late, Lady Gisela.’ De Pagenal twisted his mouth to a terse little smirk: a look of gloating triumph. ‘I gave up on you and your pathetic little family ever reaching this place. I don’t want your ransom. I’ve sold your brother for three times as much.’

  ‘Nay, you’re lying,’ Gisela cried out, her voice rising shrilly. Disbelief coursed through her, a shard of ice, driving deep. ‘What have you done with him?’ Leaning over the narrow table, over the jumble of half-eaten food on dirty pewter dishes, she grabbed two large fistfuls of de Pagenal’s tunic, intending to shake the truth from him.

  ‘Get away from me!’ De Pagenal slapped at her hands, a heavy chopping motion, instinctive. ‘Christ, woman, you were always a feisty piece. Should have sliced my blade a little deeper, shouldn’t I? Then I’d be spared all this nonsense!’ He flicked a glance at Ragnar. ‘You’ll not be long in her employ, I’ll be bound. How much coin did she have to give you to persuade you to accompany her up here?’

  ‘Stop lying to me!’ cried Gisela, her fists digging into the cloth of de Pagenal’s tunic. ‘Tell me the truth!’ Ragnar’s arm swooped around her waist, hauling her back, away from de Pagenal, away from the table, wedging her firmly against his chest.

  ‘You’ve got your hands full there,’ muttered de Pagenal. ‘Keep her under control, will you?’ Beads of sweat rolled across de Pagenal’s ridged brow, wobbling orbs of liquid. ‘I am telling you the truth.’ He rolled his shoulders forward, as if contemplating how best to tell his story. ‘I sold your brother to the good-for-nothing Saxon chief who owned this miserable castle. He took him away when he left this place; paid good money for him as well.’ He turned his palms to the ceiling, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I couldn’t resist. You can’t blame me. I never thought your father would be able to raise the money.’

  ‘You sold him...to a Saxon? My God, he won’t survive! The Saxons hate us, hate everything we Normans have done to their country,’ Gisela shouted, pushing down Ragnar’s arm, an iron band around her waist. His knee was jammed against the back of her thigh.

  ‘Stop fighting me.’ His breath was hot, gently caressing the silky lobe of her ear. ‘We’re in this together, remember?’

  ‘I think he’s killed him, Ragnar!’ She was openly sobbing now, great gusting tears welling up from deep in her chest. She plucked frantically at Ragnar’s sleeve, wriggling in his hold. ‘Where is he? Where’s Richard?’ In desperation she opened the flap of her leather satchel hanging below Ragnar’s arm and brought out the pouch containing the gold coins. ‘Here! Take this and give me my brother!’ Stretching forward, she threw the sack on the table in front of de Pagenal. The loosely gathered neck of the bag opened; coins spilled out over the fat-stained tablecloth.

  ‘I...don’t...want...it.’ De Pagenal spat the words out, enunciating heavily as he slumped back in his chair. ‘You need to leave now, both of you,’ he barked at them. ‘There’s nothing for you here.’ He jabbed a finger towards Gisela, with the air of delivering an important lesson. ‘You took Marie from me. I loved her and I would have been a go
od husband to her...’

  ‘No!’ Gisela railed at him, waving her arms out in front of her, as if swimming through air. ‘How dare you say such a thing! You would have broken her and well you know it!’

  De Pagenal’s eyes moved slyly to a spot on Gisela’s neck. ‘Well, at least I made sure no one would have you...’ He cackled, drawing one finger diagonally across his neck, a slicing motion. ‘We all know what hides beneath that scarf, don’t we? Who would bed you now? You will be alone till the end of your days, Lady Gisela.’

  As suddenly as he had seized her, Ragnar released Gisela, sending her staggering to one side with the force of his movement. He sprung on to the table, drawing his sword with a sibilant hiss. His booted feet clattered through the plates and goblets, the spill of gold coins; the flagon crashed to the floor. Red wine spilled down the tablecloth. The point of his blade flashed forward, suspended a hair’s breadth from de Pagenal’s throat. ‘You deserve to die for what you did to her,’ Ragnar growled.

  De Pagenal sprawled back in his chair, his face a pallid grey. ‘But you will not kill me,’ he managed to spit out through bloodless lips. ‘For I am the only one who knows where Richard is.’

  ‘Ragnar, stop!’ screamed Gisela, lurching forward. ‘Do not!’ She pulled at his sleeve, reaching up to tug on his leather waist-belt in an effort to yank him down from the table. ‘Come now, come away!’ A huge sadness welled in her chest, a wave of grief. ‘Come now, come away...’ she spluttered out, struggling to find enough breath to speak, gasping and coughing as if all the words she wanted to say became jammed in her throat instead. The room wavered before her eyes, looming large before receding rapidly.

  Sheathing his sword, Ragnar jumped down from the table. He caught Gisela as she fell, her knees no longer able to support her wavering frame.

  ‘Get her out of here before I call in the guards,’ de Pagenal growled, regaining some of his lost composure. He tore at a hunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth.