Corliss was of the opinion that Royce would never love again. He certainly did not love her, nor did he pretend to. She did not even have an alliance with her father to dangle before him, for Royce and her father were friends. A marriage was not needed to keep them friends. She was as sure now as she had been when she first did it, that the offer of her body had been the only condition that had swayed him.
If Royce were not so desirable as a husband, Corliss would just as soon never marry. But the fact was, every maiden for miles around wanted Royce of Wyndhurst for herself, including Corliss's three sisters. It was understandable, for not only was he rich and favored by the King, he was also a handsome man, even if he was so incredibly big—more than a foot taller than Corliss, in fact. His combination of dark-brown hair and fathomless dark-hued green eyes was striking indeed. As his betrothed, she was the envy of all these women, and that suited her admirably, for Corliss loved being envied. She thrived on jealousy, too, and her sisters were certainly jealous of her now. That was worth whatever she had to put up with from Royce in bed, even his prolonged lovemaking.
The first time had been quick. But the other times, including now, seemed to go on forever, full of kissing and touching. The kissing she didn't mind so much, but the touching...! He touched her everywhere, and she had to lie there in her humiliation and bear it all. She sometimes wondered if he prolonged it intentionally, if he had guessed that she didn't like it. But how could he know? She never protested or offered the least resistance. She lay there perfectly still and let him do what he wanted. What more could she do to let him know that she was willing?
He looked down at her, and there was bemusement in his eyes. She heard him sigh and stiffened, knowing this was the sign that he was ready at long last to mount her. A knock came at her door just as he fit himself between her legs. "Milord! Milord, you must come now! Your man is below and says 'tis urgent he see you!" Royce left the bed and reached for his clothes. That he was glad of the interruption did not show in his expression. Making love to Corliss was becoming a tiresome duty, fraught with frustration, that he no longer anticipated with any pleasure. It was confusing, too, for he did not seek her out. She brought him to her chamber each time, leading him to believe it was what she wanted. But once they were abed, Corliss was as passionless as dead meat, and he had done everything he could think of to make her enjoy their encounters.
That she did not wouldn't have mattered to most men, but Royce derived a good deal of his own pleasure from the pleasure that he gave. And if truth be known, he had more fun tumbling a lowly serf than he did this woman who would be his wife, no matter how beautiful she was.
After he strapped on his belt over the leather vest he wore, his only chest covering in the warm weather, he spared Corliss a glance. She had modestly covered herself the moment he left the bed. She begrudged him even the sight of her splendid nakedness. His anger rose for a moment because of that, but he tamped it down. He had to make allowances for Corliss's tender sensibilities. After all, she was a lady of noble birth, and like all such ladies of his acquaintance, she needed to be treated with care, or tearful scenes were likely to be the consequence.
"Milord, how can you leave me now?" Corliss asked plaintively. Very easily, little one, he thought, but those were not the words he spoke aloud. "You heard your woman summon me. I am needed below." "But, Royce, it seems so... as if you do not care ... as if you do not want me." Great tears were spilling from her eyes now, and Royce sighed in disgust. Why did they all have to do that? They cried so easily, for so little reason, clinging, demanding reassurances. His mother had been like that, his aunt, even his cousin Darrelle who lived with him now—how quickly they could burst into tears and make a man wish he were elsewhere. He would be damned if he would have this from his wife, too. Better to break her of the habit now. "Cease, Corliss. I cannot abide tears." "You—you do not want me!" she sobbed. "Did I say so?" he snapped. "Then stay. Please, Royce!" He almost hated her at that moment. "You would have me ignore my duty to appease you, lady? Never will I do that. Nor will I coddle you, so do not expect it." He walked out of the room before she could detain him longer, but the sound of her loud crying followed him down the hall, grating on his nerves. The scene had put him in a foul mood, and seeing the serf Seldon waiting for him below did not help it. A serf would not have been sent to him if the matter were important. "What is it?" Royce barked at the little man. "The Vikings, milord. They came this morn." "What!" Royce picked Seldon up by the front of his tunic and shook him. "Do not say me false, man. The Danes are in the North, dealing with the revolts against their rule in Northumbria, and preparing to attack Mercia." "Twas not Danes!" Seldon squawked.
Royce set him down slowly, a cold dread creeping over him. He could deal with the Danes, who now had control of two kingdoms in the country. They had already made their attempt at Wessex, Alfred's kingdom of West Saxons, in what was already called the Year of Battles, 871. The young Alfred had been only a score and two years when he succeeded to the throne that spring when his brother Aethelred died. And in the autumn, after nine battles had been fought with the two great Viking armies for control of Wessex, Alfred negotiated a peace.
It was peace no one expected to last, but Alfred had bought time for his people to regroup and prepare defenses in greater depth. His ealdormen, along with the lords and thanes of all the shires, had been training freemen and improving their own fighting skills as well as fortifying their manors these last two years. Royce had gone one further to even train some of his more able-bodied serfs in the arts of war. He was prepared to ride against the Danish Vikings, who were all intent now on settling the land. It was the Vikings from the sea that were never anticipated, that could take Wyndhurst by surprise and destroy it as they nearly had five years ago.
To have the last Viking raid at Wyndhurst recalled so clearly was anguish for Royce, a rekindling of the hate that had simmered for these five years, hate that had killed many Danes that summer of 871, for it was Danes who had raided Wyndhurst in 868, before going on to sack the monastery of Jurro. He had lost his father in that raid, his older brother, and his beloved Rhona, who was repeatedly raped in front of his eyes before her throat was slit, while he, unable to get to her because of the two spears that had pinned him to the wall, had to endure the agony of listening to her cry and beg and call for him to help her even as his own life's blood poured out of him. He should have died, too, and would have, if the Vikings had stayed for longer than they did. "Milord, did you hear me? They are Norwegians, these Vikings." Royce could have shaken the man again. What matter who they were? If they were not part of the two great Viking armies in the North, then they were raiding pirates from the sea, bent only on killing. "Is there aught left of Wyndhurst?" "But we beat them!" Seldon said in surprise. "Half are dead; the others, captured and in chains by now." Royce did pick up the man again this time and shake him once more. "Could you not have told me that first, you fool!" "I thought I did, milord. We won." "How?" "Lord Alden sent out a call to all the men to come for field maneuvers in the east field. But my cousin Arne was south on the river and did not receive the summons. It was he who saw the Viking ship." "Only one?" "Yea, milord. Arne ran straightaway toward Wynd-hurst, but came upon Lord Alden's men in the east field. 'Twas only that they were armed and ready and so close to the river that prompted Lord Alden to attack. We had time, just enough, to prepare an ambush. The men took to the trees in the forest before the river and fell on the Vikings as they passed under them. So many were killed in the surprise attack that we were able to defeat those remaining." Royce asked the dreaded question: "How many of our men killed?" "Only two." "And wounded?" "Slightly more... eighteen, actually." "Eighteen!" "The Vikings fought like demons, milord—giant demons," Seldon said defensively. Royce's expression grew taut and forbidding. "Let us be on our way, then, and I will see to the rest of those bloodlusting pirates." "Uh, milord, Lord Alden was..." "Not dead?" Royce groaned. "Nay," Seldon said quickly, for he knew how close th
e cousins were. It was reluctantly that he had to add, "But he is sorely wounded." "Where?" "In the belly." "God's mercy!" Royce groaned even as he ran from the hall at Raedwood.
Chapter Seven
Kristen woke slowly to an awareness of Thor's mighty hammer pounding on her head. God help her, now she was having fanciful imaginings, but this headache was the worst she had ever had in her life. And then other discomforts became known to her and she remembered.
She sat up too quickly and a wave of dizziness washed over her, making her fall to the side with a dazed groan. Two arms caught her, and the attendant rattle of chains brought her eyes wide open with a start. She was looking at Thorolf, who was looking at her, and then she turned her head to see who held her. It was Ivarr, a friend of Selig's.
She sat up, looking all about her frantically. They were grouped around a tall post, all of them sitting on the hard ground. There were seventeen of them, many lying unconscious with untended wounds, all of them chained together at their ankles in such a way that they formed a circle around the post. But she did not see Selig.
Her eyes met Thorolf's blue ones again, and hers were pleading. "Selig?" He shook his head at her and the scream tore out of her throat. Ivarr instantly put his hand over her mouth, and Thorolf brought his face close to hers. "They have not noticed yet that you are a woman!" he hissed. "Would you make us sit here and watch while they drag you away and rape you? Have a care, Kristen. Do not give yourself away with screams." She blinked her eyes that she understood, and Thorolf nodded at Ivarr to release her. She caught her breath, then bent over double, racked with the pain of loss. She wanted to scream, needed to, to let go of the pain that way. Without that release, it built and built until she could not help herself. The anguished moans came out of her until a fist struck her jaw and she fell again into two waiting arms.
When Kristen woke again, the sun was just beginning to set. She started to moan, then caught herself and sat up slowly, looking accusingly at Thorolf. "You hit me." She did not make it a question. "I did." "I suppose I should thank you." "You should." "Bastard." He would have laughed at the mild way she said this, if he felt free to laugh. He didn't. They had been left unguarded earlier while the enemies were busy seeing to their own wounds, but two guards rested near them now. "There will be time to grieve later, Kristen," Thorolf offered gently. "I know." She straightened her ankles with the heavy iron rings about them. Ohthere's borrowed silver helmet was gone, as was her jeweled dagger and belt. Even her fur-trimmed boots had been stripped from her feet. "They took everything of value?" she asked. "Aye. They would have taken your vest, too, if it were not such an old shaggy fur." "And bloodstained," she added, looking down at the dark blotches all over her, for the blood had shot out from the tall man she had killed when she pulled her sword out of him. She felt her head for the bump there that had rendered her unconscious, and then realized. "My hair!" The braid was still tucked into her tunic, but it would be clearly obvious if she was closely examined. Instantly she began to break the hair from the braid. "Nay, Kristen." Thorolf grabbed her hands away, realizing what she was trying to do. "It will take you forever to cut it that way." "You have a knife to offer?" she snapped. He grunted at such a stupid question, but then began to look her over. With the belt gone, her short tunic lay in straight lines down to just below her hips, effectively hiding the deep curve of her waist. Her dark-brown leggings were bulky beneath the loosened cross-garters, disguising the shapeliness there, too. Her hands and feet, bare now, were not tiny, yet not manly, either. But more dirt would help there, as well as on her bare arms, which were entirely too slim even for a youth. Thorolf was satisfied. "If not for that glorious hair of yours, it would take only your loud mouth for them to guess that you are anything more than a boy. How did you get your breasts to disappear?" Kristen blushed scarlet, looking down to avoid his curious eyes. "You should not ask me that." "But how did you?" "Thorolf!" "Keep your voice down! In fact, do not say a word that they can hear. We can tell them you are a mute, and that will solve that problem." "'But what about my hair?" He frowned, then suddenly grinned and began to rip away the lower hem of his tunic. He called for Ivarr to block Kristen from the view of the guards, then whipped her braid out and wound it quickly around her head, wrapping the soft leather from his tunic over it and tying it tight at the base of her neck. "My injury is not there," she started to point out. "I am not concerned with that puny little bump," he retorted. "Wait a minute. I have just the finishing touch." And he proceeded to slap at the ugly-looking cut on his arm until he had a good deal of fresh blood on his fingers, which he then smeared on her bandaged head. "Thorolf!" "Shut up, Kristen, or that woman's voice of yours will render my clever efforts wasted. What do you think, Ivarr? Will she pass for a boy now?" "With that swelling jaw, and that big head, no one will look twice at her," Ivarr replied with a grin. "Thank you so much," Kristen retorted churlishly. Thorolf ignored her sarcasm. "Aye, it is a little thick around the head, but since they will not be looking for the girl in her, they will only think it is a thick bandage. As dirty and unkempt as she is now, it will do. But keep it tight, Kristen. If it falls off, you are done for." She gave him a dark look for that unnecessary warning. "I think it is time you told me where we are." "The kingdom of Wessex." "The Saxons' Wessex?" "Aye." Her eyes rounded in disbelief. "You mean an army of puny Saxons defeated you?" Thorolf flushed at her aghast tone. "They fell on us from the trees, woman. Half our number were down before the rest of us even knew we were attacked." "Oh, unfair!" she cried. "They ambushed you?" "Aye. It was the only way they could have won, for their numbers were not more than ours. And the irony is, that we were not interested in them or what they had to offer. We would have passed by this place that they have brought us to. It was—" He paused, looking suddenly chagrined. "Never mind." "It was what?" she demanded. "Nothing." "Thorolf!" "Thor's teeth! Will you keep that voice down?" he snapped at her. "It was a monastery we were intent on sacking." "Oh, nay, Thorolf, tell me not." "Aye, it was, and this is why Selig did not want you to know, for he understood how you would feel about it. But this was our last chance to share in some of the wealth of this land, Kristen. The Danes will soon have all of it. We thought only to take a little of that wealth first. There would have been little or no killing. It was only the fabled wealth of the Jurro monastery that we wanted." "How did you know where to find it?" "Flokki's sister, the one who married a Dane, came home to visit last year. She had much news of what they are doing here, and she told about the failed attempt on Jurro in 871, when the combined armies of Halfdan of the Wide Embrace and King Guthorm first attacked Wessex. They are intent on the kingdom of Mercia right now, even though those fools have paid them Danegeld each year to keep the Vikings at bay. And once they have Mercia under their belt, they will be back here. If not this year or the next, then soon after. You think they can ignore this rich, fertile land? These little Saxons will not keep them out." "They managed to defeat you," she reminded him. "Odin's luck was on their side." "They were not all little, Thorolf. The one I killed was as big as you are." "Aye, I saw him when they brought the carts to carry all the wounded here. But you did not kill him, Kristen. At least, he is not dead yet." She groaned, his words filling her with regret. "You mean I could not even avenge my brother?" His hand went to her cheek in support, then quickly fell away lest one of the guards should see. "He will die soon, I am sure. He was bleeding heavily from his belly when they carried him into that large building over there." Kristen cringed at the reminder of the scene of carnage she had witnessed in the forest, even though she had added to it. But her part in it was justified. How could she ever face her family if she had not tried to kill her brother's slayer?
She turned to look where Thorolf nodded, not wanting to think of the blood she herself had let. It was a very large building of two floors, built mostly of wood, with large and small windows to let in the daylight, but no doubt they let in the cold of winter, too. There were many other smaller buildings around the place, and a wood
en fence that surrounded the area, thick but not very high. "Aye, you can see how easy it would be to take this place," Thorolf commented. "But they are preparing well for the Danes. Look there." She pointed to a huge pile of large blocks of stone on the far side of the enclosed yard. "It looks as if they plan to build a more sturdy wall." "Aye, we saw more stone outside the wooden fence," he agreed, then laughed contemptuously. "The Danes will be here before they can finish it." Kristen shrugged, for that was nothing to them. They would escape from this place long before then, she had no doubt. Glancing back at the large building, she frowned a little. "That hall is big enough that it must belong to an important lord. Do you think the tall one might be their lord?" "Nay. From the little I could understood of what they said, the lord of this place is not here. But I think he was sent for. I really should have given you more attention when you were trying to teach me old Alfreda's tongue." "Aye, you should have, for you are the only one who can speak for us if I am to be a mute." He grinned. "Will it be too hard on you, to keep your mouth shut when they are near?" She made a sound very much like a snort to show what she thought of his teasing. "I will manage somehow."
Chapter Eight
One brave man had walked in among the Vikings to plant a torch in a hole in the post they surrounded. Six guards stood near with swords in hand in case the Saxon was set upon. Kristen hid a grin as the man passed near her. She had heard them arguing about who would carry the torch, for none of them wanted to get this close to the prisoners, even chained as they all were and lying and sitting about in relaxed positions. With so many wounded, they offered no threat, at least not at the moment. But the Saxons weren't taking any chances.
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