Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  His home.

  His.

  All his life he’d endeavored to prove himself—first to his father, then to his people, and finally to himself. He’d sweat blood, pure and bright, for his right to hold this land. It was his now—all of it—stark as it was in winter, meager as it was in spring—as far as the eye beheld. He’d earned every last grain of soil.

  Like a mother that snuggles a hungry babe to her bosom, so did the twin knolls on the horizon give refuge to his steading. He watched, the end of a snow-peppered dock appear, and as the Goldenhawk rounded the bend in the fjord, the wooden structure grew in clarity before his eyes, as though stretching in welcome. With a father’s pride, Alarik stood, relishing the sight.

  No doubt, the red diamond sails of the Goldenhawk had been spied the moment they’d entered the mouth of the fjord. Long before the first drakken glided into dock, the pier was teeming with gleeful kinsmen.

  Feeling much as she imagined a caged animal would feel, Elienor paced the confines of the tent, wondering how long it would be before he came for her.

  And though she couldn’t possibly have waited longer than fifteen minutes, when Alarik appeared in the doorway, darkening the tent interior with his presence, she was so anxious that she shrieked in startle.

  “Gather your belongings. We’ve arrived.”

  Elienor bristled at his choice of words. “Pray, do you mean all my many coffers, my lord Viking?” she asked with a slight smile of defiance.

  Alarik frowned at her.

  “But there are so many!” she continued flippantly, lifting her chin, meeting his icy gaze straight on. “It would take hours to pack them all!”

  Without warning, Alarik sauntered forward, seizing her by the hand and hauling her out of the tent after him.

  Dread shot through her at the reality of this new world she was entering, so different from her own.

  The drastic change in weather, the uncanny chill of the air alone was staggering. Nevertheless, she concealed her fear valiantly behind bold words. “Alas, shall I go with the dress on my back?” she asked sarcastically, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight. “Will we send for the coffers later?”

  He said naught, merely tugged at her arm, and she glared at his back.

  Jesu, but it was cold!

  All about her there were people, embracing, laughing, joking. How could they? Elienor bristled. Certainly there was nothing joyous about this day!

  Alarik stopped and turned, and Elienor gasped as she collided with his leather-clad chest. He’d been about to speak out, but halted abruptly at her cry of pain. And again, that look as he gazed down at her. She couldn’t bear to suffer his scrutiny, or his concern!

  His hand went to her healing scar. “I am fine!” she said, shrinking away from his touch.

  His hand froze between them, and at once his look darkened. He jerked his gaze away, and without a word to her, immediately began to bellow out orders to his men for the unloading of the vessels. And then, hauling her after him once more, he led her off the ship, up a narrow pathway that led up the cliff side.

  Beneath Elienor’s leather shoes, the snow was tamped down, evidence of the rush of feet that had trod up and down the pathway to the docks this morn. Obviously someone loved these men well, though she couldn’t imagine who, or why. That they would have families who cared for them seemed inconceivable.

  Halfway up the cliff side, her heart full of misery, Elienor cast a glance over her shoulder at the despised dragon ships that had brought her to this godforsaken place. And to her shock, she spied Clarisse being led onto the dock by the Nude One.

  “You lied to me!” she said to Alarik’s back. When he didn’t respond to her accusation, she tugged wrathfully upon his arm. “Clarisse lives!”

  “So she does,” he replied dispassionately.

  Again Elienor tugged at his arm, this time with more force. “But you said—”

  “I said naught,” he snapped, glancing backward at her, his eyes dark and smoldering. He tugged her forward. “It was you who said, wench. I simply didn’t bother to correct you!” He kept walking, virtually dragging her after him.

  “How could you deliberately mislead me?” Elienor stumbled over her feet, unable to keep pace with his greater stride. “Stop! Stop! Let me speak to her, for the love of God!”

  He stopped abruptly, and once again Elienor collided with him. Only this time, she dared not cry out, for the malevolence in his expression when she looked up at him was startling in its intensity.

  “Mislead you?” he asked, his voice low and silky. He shook his head slowly. “Nei, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes, for you were bound and determined to believe the worst of me. I simply chose not to disappoint.”

  Elienor blinked, uncertain of what to say in her defense, for in this he spoke truth. She had suspected the worst of him. Yet how could she not?

  He turned sharply and continued up the path, again hauling her after him.

  “My lord, a word please!”

  Startled by the male voice so near, Elienor gasped and turned to face the bearer of it—and found herself reeling yet again at the sight she encountered. Struggling not to trip over her blundering feet, she watched in shock as the man passed her by.

  A monk? Here? But nay, it could not be!

  Shaking her head in mute disbelief, she once again took in everything, from his frock, tied with braided rope, to his tonsured head.

  Elienor’s mouth opened to speak, though she was unable to find her voice. And still Alarik would not stop. Curse him! Instead, he seemed to walk all the faster, jerking her after him, as though he did not wish her to acknowledge the monk at all.

  For his part, the monk seemed as surprised by the sight of Elienor as she was by him, for he stared in return as he attempted to catch up with Alarik.

  He gave up abruptly, falling back to walk beside Elienor, his chest heaving with exertion.

  “Jesu!” Elienor exclaimed at last, trying desperately to keep pace and failing miserably. “You are a monk!”

  “Aye!” Alarik exploded, jerking to a halt. “Loki take you both, for the man is as much a thorn in my side as you are, wench!” Alarik turned and eyed the monk furiously. “What is it, Vernay?”

  Vernay prudently ignored Alarik’s outburst. Bowing his head slightly to Elienor, he added, “I am Brother Vernay, my la—”

  “By God!” Alarik exploded. “Odin has cursed me!”

  “My lord!” Vernay reproached, turning to wag a finger at Alarik, the sight so ludicrous—Vernay as small as he was, and Alarik as immense as he was—that Elienor’s brows furrowed with incredulity. “You should not speaketh the name of God in the same breath with that other!”

  A muscle ticked in Alarik’s jaw. “So you’ve said, holy man! I weary of this and have much to do. Best you speak whilst you have my attention, or lose the occasion until it suits me.”

  At that, Vernay immediately tore his gaze away from Elienor and turned to Alarik. “Ah, yes, m’lord! As to that—”

  “Alarik!” another voice shouted, a feminine voice this time.

  Elienor glanced upward in time to catch Alarik rolling his eyes yet again, and then she heard Brother Vernay’s answering groan. Scanning the path ahead, Elienor spied the cause: A figure descended toward them, a woman, with her long, golden hair plaited thickly and resting seductively over her left shoulder.

  ‘That, m’lord,” Vernay interjected quietly, “is the matter I wished to address.”

  “Nissa?” Alarik asked, his brows rising.

  Brother Vernay nodded, grimacing.

  The woman smiled and held her arms outstretched as she came into Alarik’s reach. “Finally, you are home!” she declared in a French that was heavy with Norse inflections.

  Evidently she spoke it for Vernay’s sake, for she eyed the monk sharply, yet Elienor found herself grateful that she’d spoken French, for she could hardly have borne the uncertainty of not knowing of what they spoke.

  “I have worried
so!” Nissa chided sweetly. But she froze as she spied Elienor standing behind Alarik, her ice-blue eyes centering at once upon the hand he held locked within his fist. Her brow furrowed softly and she retreated a step. “Of course... ’tis a woman’s lot to wait and worry, is it not?” She gestured at Elienor. “Who—”

  “Someone I’ll wish you to tend,” Alarik broke in. He drew Elienor forward to stand between them. “I’d have you go and make ready for her in my chamber,” he directed.

  Elienor’s dark lashes flew wide. “Nay!” she shrieked, and tried to shake her wrist free.

  “In your chamber!” Nissa exclaimed.

  Elienor’s gaze flew first to Nissa’s; the woman’s expression mirrored Elienor’s horror. And then twisting free of Alarik’s death grip, she spun to face him.

  “In my chamber,” Alarik repeated, ignoring Elienor and looking past her at Nissa. “I’d have you bring her something to sup on, for I’ll not be dining in the eldhus tonight. I’ve much to see to first.”

  Nissa shook her head, unquestionably flustered by his request. “B-But...”

  “As I will it,” Alarik countered, his tone unyielding.

  Nissa recovered herself at once, though Elienor didn’t miss the gleam of repressed tears in her eyes as she straightened her spine.

  “As you will it,” the girl said softly. She averted her gaze. “Sleipnir awaits you at the summit, jarl,” she disclosed in a choked voice. “I... I... I shall walk back.”

  Alarik nodded in appreciation. “Ride with Bjorn,” he advised. He glanced at Vernay. “You I shall speak to anon!”

  Vernay nodded. “Aye, m’lord.” He glanced circumspectly at Nissa.

  And then Alarik was urging Elienor up the incline once more. She stumbled but acquiesced, knowing she had very little choice in the matter. Vernay followed silently. Nissa didn’t stir, and as Elienor glanced backward at the woman, she couldn’t help but feel wretched for her. It was clear that Nissa was either mistress or wife—in either case, little esteemed and little loved.

  She glanced impulsively up at Alarik, and was shocked to find herself conceding that he was a striking man, in profile even more so. But if he thought he would take her virtue without a battle, he was sorely mistaken.

  “Put me in your chamber as you may—alas I’ve no choice in the matter—but rest assured naught else will come easily,” she swore vehemently.

  He glanced down at her, his eyes cold. “I made you a vow, wench. You go to my chamber for your own protection,” he told her.

  “Protection?” Elienor asked incredulously, though deep down she knew it was so. Still she could not bear to concede even that. “Protection from whom?” she asked bitterly.

  “Care to extend me the same welcome you planned for my brother?”

  Nissa was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t see or hear Bjorn approach. She started at his husky whisper at her ear then shrugged out from under the hand he placed upon her shoulder. “Hardly!” she said petulantly.

  Both watched as Alarik and his prisoner reached the summit; he placed her at once upon his horse, Sleipnir, and then hauled himself into the saddle behind her.

  “I wonder if you wouldn’t happen to have my horse saddled and waiting, as well?”

  At Bjorn’s question, Nissa’s humor was restored. “I wonder,” she replied lightly, her smile returning.

  Bjorn grinned, though as he turned to see Alarik and the Frenchwoman disappear from view, he shook his head in disgust. “You should have seen them aboard ship.”

  “Oh?” Nissa cocked her head inquiringly.

  “He risked us all for that shrew!”

  Red-Hrolf’s words had implanted the seed of doubt within his heart, but it was Alarik’s inconceivable need to protect her that had nurtured those seeds to root. He still could not credit the change that had come over his brother in such short time.

  “How so?” Nissa’s blue eyes narrowed cannily.

  “It matters not,” Bjorn snapped. “All you need know is that he did. At any rate, there is no loss to you, my love, for I’ve told you before he has no interest in you, at all.”

  Nissa snorted, her brow rising slightly. “I’d take offense... yet I know what lies beneath your words.” She eyed Bjorn astutely, her smile widening. “You would still have me in your bed, Bjorn, Erik’s son,” she purred. “Would you not?”

  Bjorn smiled at her usual frankness. “How canny of you, my love.”

  She laughed abruptly, trying to sound indifferent. “Alas, I am loathe to disappoint you, but my father would not receive you well at all.” She moved closer, whispering into his ear. “Though truth to tell,” she relented with a sigh, “were my heart not already given... mayhap, then I would.” She shook her head regretfully. “Though as comely as you are, ’tis the position of Alarik’s wife I crave. My father wishes it so.”

  “Your father need not agree to your choice of husband,” Bjorn reminded her.

  “My father is not a man to thwart,” she countered. “Besides,” she added, laughing as Bjorn’s mouth opened yet again to contest her, “you forget that Alarik is the one I desire as well! After all, he is master of his own.” She poked at his chest in sport. “And you, Bjorn, cannot claim any such honor, can you?”

  Bjorn’s eyes narrowed as he returned the playful poke to her breast. “I wonder if you shall open your eyes someday?”

  “Doubtless not,” Nissa retorted, her hand going to her breast. She narrowed her eyes in censure. “Pardon whilst I go and do my love’s bidding,” she purred, and then turned her gaze up the cliff side, in the direction Alarik had ridden. “I believe I shall have the servants prepare him a grande fare to tempt his palate tomorrow eve. That should indubitably please him. Likely, he’s had naught more than scraps for meals aboard that beloved ship of his.”

  She turned to Bjorn, fluttering her lashes coyly. “What do you think?”

  Again Bjorn sighed, deeply. “An arrow never lodges in stone,” he replied, wisely. “And it oft recoils upon the sender.”

  Nissa wrinkled her nose at his remark.

  “You don’t listen, Nissa,” he persisted. “And you strive for naught. Alarik has never been interested.”

  Nissa paid him little mind.

  Bjorn doubted she’d even heard him for she turned, not bothering to acknowledge his counsel, and made her way up the cliff. He watched her go, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into his heart. Was he always destined to have his brother’s leavings?

  And in this case, he wouldn’t even get that.

  Chapter 15

  Alarik’s bedchamber was crude at best, no more than a large square room with no windows and thus no natural light. Skins were draped everywhere, doubtless to keep what little warmth there was from escaping.

  In the center of the chamber was a small, rectangular, stone-rimmed hearth, where dying embers flickered in defiance of the dark, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Smoke escaped through a small opening in the ceiling above.

  After bringing her here, Alarik had abandoned her forthwith, without so much as the courtesy of a parting explanation—not that Elienor would have cared to bandy words with the man! She wished she’d never need speak to him again, though it was doubtful she’d be so fortunate. It wasn’t likely he’d take her back to Francia in the near future—and curse him if he didn’t speak the truth: He was her only protection against these barbarians.

  Shivering, her gaze settled once again upon the bed—an immense oaken piece, intricately carved with birds of prey—hawks, she believed, though they were much too embellished in form to be certain. At the sight of the bed, she began to pace anew, refusing to consider whether she’d occupy the monstrous berth herself come nightfall.

  Glancing about uneasily, she wondered if night had yet fallen. With no windows to peer from, it was impossible to judge time, yet there was naught to be gained in fretting over it, and so she dismissed the bed from her thoughts, once and for all.

  She ran her fingers acros
s the rich grain of the oaken walls. There were skins draped next to horrifying weapons suspended from pegs—weapons of every ilk: axes, swords, spears. At the sight of them, Elienor couldn’t help but shudder—such a passion for violence! And little could she comprehend why. What glory could possibly be had in a warring life, and death?

  Her gaze was drawn across the room, to the coffer of wood that had been carried in earlier by servants. Atop it lay a coat of mail, the same Alarik had worn that first night, she surmised. The links glimmered like brilliant diamonds in the light of the dying fire. Above it, dangling by a peg, hung a rounded shield, painted blood red with a gilded hawk soaring through its middle.

  Mesmerized, Elienor stared at the hawk... trying to recall what it was about the shield that was so eerily familiar. Had he carried it that first night? Likely so... yet it was something else that plagued her...

  Something from her dream? But what?

  Sweet Jesu, what could it be? Rubbing her arms for warmth, she shook her head, thrusting her musings away. She couldn’t remember, and in truth, didn’t want to!

  At once, her eyes reverted to the thick oak door. Tempting as it was, she’d already tried it and found it locked. Yet surely there’d been no need to lock her within. Alas, where would she have gone?

  “Home,” she murmured wistfully, her eyes burning.

  Mother Heloise would have heard by now and would be wringing her poor hands raw with worry. But what of Count Phillipe? Her uncle? Had they forgotten her already? Elienor felt like weeping, for it was likely so. Never had anyone exacted judgment upon the Northmen with any measure of success. It was one of the reasons they were so feared, for oft there was no worthy recourse to be taken against them. They came swiftly to wreak their brand of terror, and disappeared more swiftly yet, into the unknown. Only this time, Elienor had vanished along with them.

  Would anybody care?

  “Nay,” Elienor whispered softly, aching.

  Nobody but Mother Heloise had ever truly cared for her, she thought mournfully. Hugging herself, her gaze fell to the floor, her eyes stinging. God help her, but she was unable to stifle the tears that trickled past her guard. Yet she refused to cry aloud, refused to let them witness her defeat!