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

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Flea ridden mongrel!”

  It took Elienor an instant to discern that he was speaking of the pup, not of her, and that furthermore the pup was racing toward the bed, whimpering as it skidded beneath the bed. Petrified for the animal, Elienor scrambled toward the edge, and poking her head out, thrust her hands down to snatch the pup into her arms.

  “Did you see what the little cur did to mine good boots?” Alarik bellowed.

  Blinking at the question, Elienor drew the cowering pup under the covers beside her. Both stared out from beneath the covers. Alarik continued to stare expectantly, and she shook her head in answer.

  “Damned witless beast!”

  Alarik bent, retrieving the boot from the floor where it landed. “I’d like to return the favor—chew his accursed hide!” He waved the boot lividly at the pair huddled together beneath his furs—his furs!—though he was appeased somewhat by the way the pup trembled at the sound of his voice. Elienor, on the other hand, merely stared at the mangled boot sheepishly.

  He snarled as he glanced again at his ruined boot, tossing it aside in frustration. Like as not, the pup had gnawed all night to have ravaged it so completely.

  And he’d slept soundly like the exceptionally sated.

  He pivoted abruptly, heading for the coffer across the chamber.

  Elienor gave the pup a reproachful glance. “Look what you’ve gone and done!” she whispered.

  Muttering, Alarik jerked open the coffer. The wooden lid struck the wall so violently that it bounced back, catching his fingers. “By the jaws of Fenri!” he exploded, snatching his fingers out of the way and waving his hand in pain.

  Elienor gnawed at her lower lip to keep from giggling. At the instant, rather than appearing threatening as he did so oft, he seemed more like a sullen boy who’d lost his favorite toy. Strange that during his moments of cold ire and calculating aloofness, she’d dreaded this explosion of tempers, yet to see him in the throes of it now did naught more than amuse her.

  “I’ll skewer the accursed beast!” he threatened, thrusting a hand into the coffer, yet somehow, as Elienor glanced down at the calming pup, now lapping at her hands in gratitude, she didn’t believe him. Her brows drew together. He wouldn’t harm the dog... she sensed that as strongly as she did the knowledge that something more than mere coupling had occurred between them last night. He would rant and he would rave, but he wouldn’t harm the pup... or her. The realization jarred her.

  He would threaten, and he would frighten... but he had kept his promise.

  As much as it shamed her to acknowledge it, he’d taken nothing from her without her consent. Nay, he would never harm her. He’d protected her all along.

  Hadn’t he spared Clarisse by her word alone? Banished his man because of her?

  As she stared in wonder, he snatched out another pair of boots and sat upon the stool to lace them, all the while continuing to curse the dog... nevertheless accepting her protection of it... despite the fact that he could easily have taken the dog from her.

  With his boots on, he stood, giving them both a black look before stalking from the chamber without another word.

  Elienor glanced from the door as it slammed, to the boots, to the dog, and never felt more bewildered.

  So now what was she supposed to feel?

  As the days wore on, so did the uncommon cold.

  The manor fell into a routine; Elienor, as well. Slowly, she was becoming accustomed to the Norse habits. For one, they ate only twice a day instead of three. As she was accustomed, they broke their fast with dagver, the morning meal, but then ate only once more during the day. That mealtime they referred to as nattver. Yet she found to her surprise that this new schedule suited her just as well. Be it the clime or the strange hours they kept, she never experienced hunger pangs between meals.

  Alarik spent most of his time with unresolved domestic issues. But that suited her as well, for she’d yet to determine what her feelings were for this enigmatic man. Olav, on the other hand, spent much time in the kirken with her and Brother Vernay, sometimes merely listening as Vernay dictated and Elienor transcribed. Other times, he asked Elienor about her past, her life in the priory, and such. Elienor thought she liked him, though she sensed in him a fever raging nigh out of control. He was impassioned when he spoke of Christ and the church, yet his eyes held little compassion for those who renounced it.

  The combination did not bode well.

  Elienor listened quietly, trying to determine what, if aught this quest had to do with her terrible vision.

  Something, she knew... but what? She would discover it soon, she was certain, for it seemed to be hovering just out of sight. She only hoped it was not too late when she did.

  This morning as she made her way to the kirken, frost billowed about her face. This, she thought, was one thing she would never become acclimated to—the incredible chill. Had she truly thought Francia cold? Forsooth, even within the heated manor house it was unbearably frigid. It was no wonder Alarik risked the possibility of fire to have heat within his own chamber. A simple brazier would never have sufficed!

  Snow fell so incessantly that men were forced to scoop away mounds of it periodically in order to excavate the entryway, lest they be trapped indoors. Only the servants dared brave the storm, for with the storehouses set apart from the manor, they had no choice.

  Nor did Elienor.

  Bundled tightly in Alarik’s mantle, each day she walked the short distance to the vale. Not a soul ever spoke to her along the way. It was as though they saw in her something vile, for the look in their eyes spoke volumes as she passed them by. They blamed her for something... but what?

  It was she who had the right to cast blame, after all.

  She might have felt bad, but these were not her people—let them despise her if it was their bent! While she no longer had Clarisse, she did have Alva, as well as Brother Vernay—and God. He was with her, she was certain.

  And then there was Mischief.

  A smile trembled at her lips as she drew the mantle more securely about herself and the pup snuggled within her arms. She giggled, thinking that he’d surely earned his name. No sooner had Alarik left the bedchamber the day his boots had been ravaged when the pup was once again into devilment. Elienor had risen to dress and had been preoccupied only a moment before she’d found him excavating the fire pit! Already clothed in the blue silk, Elienor had hoisted up her skirts and had coerced herself into the pit to clean up Mischief’s mess before Alarik could return and find ashes and earth scattered to the four corners.

  And now, with the little church in sight, she again lifted her skirts, and holding the pup close, ran the distance to it, eager to be out of the cold. As she opened the door, her breath coming in white puffs, Brother Vernay smiled brightly in welcome. She liked him, she’d decided. He tested her sorely, but she liked him, for he reminded her in many ways of Mother Heloise. Olav, too, was present today. He came forward to take her mantle as she removed it, chuckling heartily as the pup bounded out to the floor.

  Upon inspection of the fjords, it was evident no one would be sailing before spring thaw. In mere days, the ice had begun to thicken again, so that the ships were now forced aground. Despite the fact that Alarik had not relished the thought of setting out so soon after returning, the knowledge that he could not, even if he’d wished to, set his teeth on edge.

  Or mayhap it was more the fact that once again he was lured to the kirken like metal to a cursed lodestone!

  That, along with the probability that he would find Olav there before him, spurred his black humor.

  Having abandoned his men at the manor, he rode with the fury of a maelstrom toward the confounded little building that had caused him so much strife, his crimson mantle swirling behind him with a wrath like unto Hel itself.

  “’Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house,” Vernay announced.

  Elien
or blinked. “What?”

  Vernay waved a hand in admonition. “Copy! copy, ma petite! ‘Let your light so shine before men’”

  Elienor blinked again, in puzzlement. “Let my light—”

  “Nay, nay! Again from the beginning, ‘Neither do men light—’ “

  Her gaze fell. “Je m’excuse, Brother Vernay—I simply cannot think to copy today,” she apologized.

  “You are so unhappy, Elienor?”

  Elienor turned toward the sound of Olav’s voice, her blue eyes growing suddenly liquid. Alarik’s zealous brother sat in the shadows, upon a small bench, his hands linked before him. “What think you, my lord?” she asked softly, her eyes beseeching him to understand. “Having been taken against your will... to a strange land not of your choosing... could you be content?” Her heart twisted even as she voiced her predicament, for it made it all the more true.

  Olav shrugged, his hand going to the hilt of his sword in an absent gesture as he stood. “Alarik’s mother came to the Northland just so,” he pointed out. “As I understand it... she even came to love my father.”

  Elienor’s gaze fell momentarily. “My lord... surely I cannot speak for Alarik’s mother,” she told him. “But for me...”

  Olav held up a hand to stop her. “You need not say it,” he told her, coming forward. Sighing, he placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder, patting her, and then moved behind her to peer at the parchments spread before her upon the small writing table. “I suppose I understand.”

  He scrutinized the pages a long moment, immensely pleased by what he saw, despite the fact that he’d yet to truly learn the Latin tongue. Feeling as though he should repay her somehow, he announced suddenly, “I tell you what I would do. Grant me your word you will copy until all is complete here, and then mayhap I could persuade mine brother to release you.”

  Hope flared within her breast—hope that she refused to dampen by acknowledging the immediate pang of loss she felt at the thought of leaving Alarik. She peered over her shoulder at Olav. “You would do such a thing?” she asked, stunned.

  “I would... though I can promise nothing save that I will speak to him. I fear mine brother has a mind and will of his own. The truth is I cannot force him where he will not.”

  “My lord!” Elienor exclaimed. “That is all I could ask of you!” For her conscience, for her soul, she needed to go home.

  “Tell me,” Olav prodded. “Have you someone to take you in... if you were to return to Francia?”

  “My uncle!” Elienor proclaimed at once. She fumbled for the leather string about her neck, lifting her beloved ring up out of her gown. She then raised it over her head and handed it to Olav. Olav accepted it, examining it.

  “If you give my Uncle Robert that ring... he will know that you tell him true.”

  Olav stared at the ring a moment longer and then his gaze returned to Elienor. “And if mine brother refuses to set you free?”

  Elienor’s gaze dropped to the parchments. “Still... if you would somehow give that ring to mine uncle,” she entreated, “I would be so grateful.” She glanced up at him suddenly, her eyes pleading. “By it, my lord, he would know that I live... that I am well. I beg of you.”

  Olav nodded, moved by the melancholy in her tone. “Very well,” he relented. “So it shall be done. I shall speak to him soon.”

  Vernay cleared his throat suddenly. “Er... my lord?”

  “Mmmhhh?”

  “The day escapes us. Shall we continue now?”

  “Hmmm? Oh! Aye!” Olav gave Vernay an apologetic glance. He stepped away from Elienor just as the door burst open, whisking in a swirl of snowflakes. The cold blast scattered pages before Elienor, yet she could not move to retrieve them. Mischief bounded up from his comfortable spot on the floor at her feet, and upon seeing Alarik, began to snarl.

  Brother Vernay sighed in defeat. “My lord?” he said, somewhat less than enthusiastically. “Have you come to watch, too? I assure you all is in hand. The demoiselle copies very well, if we but had time...”

  Alarik didn’t bother to reply. He glanced briefly at Olav, his brows colliding with displeasure at finding him present, and then his wintry eyes sought Elienor’s violet-blue ones, holding them fast. Elienor’s breath caught in her throat as she waited for him to speak, though she prayed he would leave before doing so.

  Did he not know what his presence did to her? That she hated herself for what her body wanted of him? He’d not touched her since that night, and she never wanted him to touch her again. She had no wish to feel this way for her captor.

  She wanted peace. Her mind and body simply would not give it with him so near.

  Nor even with him far, she acknowledged.

  It was wrong to submit to his loving, wrong to crave it, yet she could think only of that as she gazed into his stormy dark eyes. She tried to cast the memory of his touch from her mind, but could not. Lowering her gaze to the bureau, she wished she could vanish from the face of the earth.

  Truly, she was shameless.

  How many years were wasted in the cloister?

  None wasted, bien aimee.

  Elienor’s gaze flew up at the words spoken so clearly in her mind, meeting Alarik’s piercing silver eyes. Was she mad? Was she truly mad now?

  How could she allow herself to love her enemy? A man possibly fated to die if her dreams held true.

  If she allowed herself to yield to it, would she be compelled to tell him aught?

  And would she die for it?

  For the longest moment, there was silence.

  Alarik flung his mantle behind him in an agitated gesture, telling himself he cared not a whit for the woman whose stark violet eyes slashed into his soul.

  It was merely lust.

  Lust that tore at his gut.

  Lust that made her face haunt his thoughts.

  Lust that made him want her in every moment of his life.

  Lust. And no more.

  She was a woman, he reminded himself, and he refused to lose his mind and command over any female—Bjorn being a perfect example of the former for his brother seemed unable to think clearly for love of Nissa, and Olav of the latter, for Tyri seemed to rule his every decision.

  The hard glint in his eyes held a shred of caution as he turned to Vernay, ignoring Olav. “Your work is concluded for the day,” he informed the monk curtly.

  “Not precis—”

  “It is concluded,” he maintained, his eyes gleaming.

  Vernay glanced at Olav and finding no help from that quarter relented. “Yes, my lord. Very well... if ’tis your wish.”

  Appeased, Alarik turned toward Elienor, his expression veiled. He refused to concede that he needed to be with her. Refused to concede anything at all. He straightened to his full height and took a step toward the woman who bedeviled his every waking thought. Yet before he could speak his intent, Mischief bounded upon his boot, growling insanely, nipping as though possessed. “Hel’s hounds!” Alarik exploded in surprise, rocking backward upon his heels. “Demon dog!”

  Olav hooted with laughter.

  Elienor gasped, springing from her chair to restrain the dog.

  “’Tis as though he abhors you, my lord!” Vernay exclaimed, stifling a chuckle.

  Elienor went to her knees at Alarik’s feet, prying Mischief away from his boots. “Nay! Mischief!” she reproached when he twisted loose and charged at Alarik’s boots once more. It never ceased to amaze her, the vehemence with which Mischief raged at him, particularly since Alarik did nothing but curse at the dog—ever. Never had he laid a finger upon it in malice—not ever! Nevertheless, she believed Mischief sensed Alarik’s aversion toward him, and responded accordingly. Nor did he seem to appreciate Alarik’s boots!

  With no small measure of envy, Alarik observed the way Elienor soothed the animal. Would that she would touch him so sweetly... of her own accord... instead of with such disaffection. He wondered how it would feel if just once she would look upon him in pleasure—not in
fear, or bitterness... or defiance. “It does seem so,” he conceded to Vernay.

  “You would think the cur would bear him some small measure of affection,” Olav declared, chuckling heartily. “Its mother was the man’s favorite hound, after all.”

  With the pup secure in her arms, Elienor peered up at Alarik. “Was?” she whispered, her expression anxious.

  Intuitively, Alarik understood what she asked of him. “Is,” he assured, giving Olav an admonishing look. His gaze returned to Elienor. “She is mine favorite hound, Elienor.”

  Elienor’s brows drew together. “Where is she? Why does she spurn him? ’Tis my guess that the poor mite is scarcely past the age of suckling.”

  Alarik’s brow lifted. “Poor mite?” he debated. His jaw tightened in remembrance of their discourse over his own birth circumstances. “I’ve told you, Elienor, the Northland is ruthless. Only the strong survive. The pup’s mother lives only because she knows this, and she fends for herself.”

  Brother Vernay came forward to deliver the unruly dog from Elienor’s arms. “’Tis the truth the jarl tells you, my sister. This land is harsh to those not hale enough to endure it.” He nodded when she glanced at him. Olav nodded as well.

  Nevertheless, Elienor took exception to those words flung at her once again. She glared at Vernay, letting him know that she considered his siding with Alarik a betrayal of sorts—regardless that she likely had no right to feel so. Vernay might be her own countryman, and a brother in Christ, but like aught else in this forlorn place—including herself—he belonged to Alarik. Her eyes narrowed as they returned to Alarik. “Mayhap instead of casting each other off, as though life were no more precious than offal from a refuse pit,” she suggested, meeting Alarik’s gaze boldly, “the strong might be wiser to aid the weak. You, my lord, above all men, should realize that oft times the weak become the strong... and the strong become the weak.”