by Susan Amund
“If you’ve seen enough,” he raised his brows and unlatched the door. “We can be off.” She blushed hard and frowned,
“I don’t think I’ll be ‘off’ in this weather.” She smiled sharply and lifted her skirt enough to reveal her bare feet. “Would you be so kind as to fetch a horse from Dunc-oh!” He picked her up before she could finish, cradling her close again. He did not touch her skin anywhere, but having seen him without his clothes, Julia had a hard time not thinking about his hands on her.
“I think we can manage,” he said gruffly. He turned once they were outside so that she could pull the door closed, then he began the short walk to the village. Although the wind had completely died off, the snow had continued while they had been bathing. Nearly six inches of the thick white stuff piled on the ground. Eric took long, effortless strides in spite of the snow. Although she would never admit it, Julia was grateful that she did not have to walk. Even if she had boots like his, it would be slow going.
By the time they reached Mary Ellery’s cottage, she was chilled to the bone. Even Eric’s impressive heat could not keep her warm in the unseasonable garments with no stockings or shoes. Her friend took immediate pity, handed a baby to Sarah and pulled Julia to sit by the fire. She clucked over her chattering teeth and pushed a hot cup of calda into her hands and wrapped a loose scarf around her neck. Eric disappeared quickly and Sarah began talking non-stop about the return of MØrket and the fate of the English. Mary Ellery combed Julia’s hair and plaited it, offering her a pair of serviceable stockings before turning back to the hearth.
“Brother Simon said you might get Paul back. Is it true, my Lady?” Julia took in the young girl’s hopeful face from under a thick blanket. Sarah was Ulrich’s niece and Duncan’s granddaughter. Her parents were both dead, she had no siblings, and while Ulrich treated her with a distant sort of affection, Duncan could find only fault with the girl. Julia had viewed the budding friendship with the Saxon boy with pleasure, hoping it might become more for the pretty girl who had so little in the way of family. If Paul did not return, she would not take it well.
“Do not get your hopes up, cousin.” The girl scowled. “If Paul is still alive and in William’s keeping - if the Duke is willing to consider releasing him - I will see what I can do. I will do my best, but I cannot promise anything.” She tried to remain serious, but Sarah’s smile of gratitude and sparkling eyes were infectious.
“I know you will my Lady, thank you.” She jumped from her seat and hugged Julia impulsively. The infant between them did not seem to mind.
“Oh, behave yourself Sarah. That is no way to treat her Ladyship.” Mary Ellery scolded from her place at the hearth.
Julia nodded in acceptance, but she couldn’t help but wish that she had more familiarity in her life. Her position put her above almost everyone on the island. Only her immediate family, of which only Simon survived, the Abbot and Ulrich were near her station. Although the Church owned the monastery, all of their supplies came from the island and the Cruithne family had always supported the monks, so the Abbot depended on and deferred to Julia in most things. Ulrich was a knight, but he had sworn fealty to Aelfreic and then Julia, so he was under her command.
Eric, however, had pledged his men and his own arm to her defense, but technically he had not sworn his life to her as a vassal would. He truly answered only to himself, now that his King was dead, as Julia did not owe allegiance to any throne. She wondered if he considered them equals, or if her gender placed her below him despite her authority and position. Her thoughts were interrupted when Eric entered.
“The English knight is coming,” he said. He held out a pair of shoes for her, “It will be better to meet them outside.” Julia took the soft leather, a smile teasing at her mouth even as the tension in her shoulders increased. They were preparing for a confrontation that could change the future for the entire island and he still thought to get her shoes.
She murmured a thank you and slipped them on, following him to the door. Sarah’s voice called her back when she would have stepped outside.
“My Lady,” the blonde girl awkwardly tugged at her bracers with one hand. They were bronze dipped in gold, but finely worked in filigree. They had been passed down from generation to generation - once a part of the Cruithne treasury. “You should look like the Mistress of this Island when you set that dog down.” Julia helped her with the jewelry and clasped it onto her own forearms.
“Thank you, Sarah, I will return these as soon as we are done.” She followed Eric outside, only to be lifted onto the back of a horse. He handed her the reins but kept a hand on the bridle. “They are coming?”
“We will meet them on the road,” he responded. He took a moment to look her over. Her cloak was pushed back over her shoulder, revealing the embroidery on the wrists of her tunic and the bracers that spoke to the wealth of the island. He nodded to her and she stiffened her spine.
Eric led the borrowed horse onto the cobblestones layered with snow. They waited there, the still air full of flakes drifting lazily to collect on her shoulders and lashes. Dunholm and his men could be seen approaching on foot from the keep. Eric did not turn, but she could hear his low voice easily in the quiet. It seemed as if the whole island was holding its breath, waiting.
“He will try to intimidate you; do not let him.”
“I won’t.”
“He cannot hurt you.”
“I know.”
“If you say the word, if you wish to forget about your plan for William, I will kill him now.”
“I know.” She smiled softly, even though he couldn’t see it. He was so serious, ready to cleave Dunholm’s head from his shoulders, drive the English out, and dare William to attack, all because of her. She had retained her virtue, so most men would not have seen any reason to spill blood. If Dunholm had been successful, many men would have blamed her for the loss of purity. Dunholm was close enough that Julia could make out his expression. She had to school herself to remain pleasant but aloof, instead of laughing at the unappealing mixture of confusion and anger on the knight’s face.
“I may kill him, regardless,” Eric muttered in Norse. Julia could not help herself, she laughed in utter delight at the image of Dunholm being beaten to death by the Viking. He certainly deserved it.
Eric kept his face stern, but internally he admired how beautiful Julia looked. With her black hair softly braided and tendrils falling about her face she looked feminine and vulnerable in a way he had not seen from her before. Her huge cloak should have been ridiculous, but swept back from one shoulder and falling around her on the horse it looked regal. The dark blue wool made her eyes stand out sharply against her pale face. The cold brought a tint to her cheeks and lips and with the snow collecting on her hair she was beautiful. The borrowed bracers announced her wealth and her position on the island to anyone who looked. Her spine was straight and her shoulders squared. Eric stopped at her chest. As much as he enjoyed the view, he did not appreciate the thought of anyone else seeing how the cold affected her. He gently rearranged her clothing.
When they reached the edge of the village, he could see Dunholm approaching. Eric tried to reassure her, but she spoke calmly. For some reason, she did not seem concerned about meeting the man who had assaulted her. Eric didn’t understand it. She should have been furious - even scared. Of course, she was not afraid with him by her side. Still, he was not happy that he would have to let the English knight close enough to speak to her and not test his blade on the pale man’s ribs.
“I may kill him, regardless,” he couldn’t help the words from slipping out. At least he kept to his own tongue so that the approaching knight would not understand the threat if he heard. Julia’s laughter, honest and full of mirth, washed over him like a sweet song. He clenched his jaw to prevent a curious scowl from ruining the cold anger he wanted Dunholm to see. He was surprised that she would believe he joked about such matters.
“Lady Julia,” Dunholm called out. He sto
pped several strides short of where they waited. A frown when he glanced at Eric belied the concerned tone he spoke with. “I am so relieved to find you. When you did not answer calls at your door, I worried you had fallen to your...illness.” His eyes cut to Eric quickly before returning to the lady. Illness? Surely he does not think I believe that lie. Although, this man must be accustomed to making women sick, Eric thought. “I was surprised to find that you were not in residence.” Surprised that she slipped out from under his nose.
“I am feeling much recovered, Sir Dunholm. I visited those who need care in the village, as is my duty.” He admired how cool and steady her voice was. He wanted to turn and see her expression, but he could not take his eyes from Dunholm and the armed men with him.
“I see.” This time the English knight frowned and turned to face Eric fully. “I do not believe I have seen this man on the island before. Is he a reeve, one of your farm supervisors? Or perhaps he works for that Dane you have hired for the village?”
“Reeve?” Julia laughed. Her honest amusement was perhaps more insulting than any forced pretense would have been. “Sir Dunholm, I am afraid you have spent far too long on your farms.” A smile twitched at Eric’s mouth. The knight frowned even deeper. Apparently he did not appreciate being likened to a simple farmer. “This man is Vandalsson. I was lucky to have arrived in the village when I did and meet him when he returned. Such a well-known warrior should not disembark on my island without a proper welcome.” Eric had a vivid image of the way she had looked, sprawled on her bed, when he opened the passageway. Her long, pale legs were exposed among the tangle of linens. Her chemise was pushed up well above her knees, the thin material doing little to disguise the dark shadow between her legs or the stiff peaks of her breasts. He growled a little, drawing Dunholm’s attention. The welcome had been warm enough.
“A proper...” Dunholm seemed at a loss for words. After a few false starts, which Julia allowed him to stumble through awkwardly, he continued, “and how long will our visitor be staying?”
“We,” she stressed the word clearly, “don’t have any visitors. I have a loyal man-at-arms.” She rested one hand on Eric’s shoulder. “As guests of this island, you and your men are, of course, welcome to stay in our garrison until you are able to journey back to your lands.”
“Our garrison?” Eric questioned in Norse. “Does that mean you are convinced?” Julia ignored him.
“What did he say?” Dunholm asked sharply.
“He wonders how, if your men are unable to sail in such calm weather, did you manage to get here?” Her tone was so polite, Eric would have almost believed that she wasn’t insulting the knight. Dunholm seemed to have the same difficulty. He chose to ignore it.
“Thank you for your generosity, my Lady. I would not be able to live with myself if I left you alone in that large keep without someone to help you through this troubling time.” He took a step toward her.
“How thoughtful of you, Sir Dunholm. Thankfully, I am not alone.” She stroked her hand down Eric’s arm to rest on the back of his hand where it held the pommel. “Just now I was returning to the keep to dine with my men. I believe my brother will offer the thanks giving. Would you care to join us?” Eric raised his hand, and whatever response Dunholm would have given was interrupted by ten Norse soldiers stepping out of the village to stand behind him. The knight’s eyes narrowed.
“Very good,” Eric said to Julia in Norse. “Better let him deal with the men he left behind before he follows us to the keep.”
“What have you done with them?” Her tone was light, to any who did not speak the language, their conversation sounded quite civil.
“Torvald took charge of them. He hasn’t hurt them...much.”
“I must apologize, Sir Dunholm,” Julia said in English. “When Vandalsson’s men returned to the island and found strangers in the village, they did not react well. Understandable, of course. Your men are not unduly harmed, but perhaps you should see to them before you join us?”
Eric moved her forward, forcing the English to part or be run down by her horse. He left the knight and his men behind, angrily questioning Torvald, who refused to answer in anything but Norse. As they walked out of earshot, Eric caught Duncan’s voice entering the fray.
“Drop your drawers if you want to get into a pissing contest, otherwise, get a move on.”
Uneasy Peace
Eric allowed his eyes to scan the inner bailey from his place just inside the fort bathhouse. One of the keep servants was chatting with Amund just outside of the barracks. Her arms were occupied with a basket loaded with bread from the ovens to be delivered to the outlying farms. It was already mid-afternoon; if the girl didn’t leave soon she wouldn’t make it back before dark. Amund glanced at the sky, apparently sharing his thoughts, and then towards the open doorway to the bathhouse. With gestures and what Eric knew would be halting English, he offered to escort the girl on her duty. Eric nodded in approval and continued his survey. Margaret’s voice could be heard in the lower bailey, ordering about the women who worked in the drying houses. Steward Galen was making his way slowly from the stair tower to the servants’ quarters, his eyes glued to sheets of figures. He disappeared into the kitchen garden, but Eric was unconcerned, knowing that Jens watched that area from his window in the Legate's House. Jens had gone quiet when she presented him with permanent accommodations .
“Is it not to your liking, Sir Jens?” she asked, worrying her lower lip.
“Ye needn’t call me that Lady, I’ve told you I’m no knight. An old sea dog like me doesn’t need a place like this.” Jens had cleared his throat, noisily, and Eric looked away to leave him his pride. “It’s too good for someone who won’t fight again, and too big for a man without a family.” His voice cracked a little, but Julia went on as though she hadn’t heard it.
“You misunderstand, Sir Jens. This is not a gift. It is a bribe. I expect you to begin teaching arms to the youngest on the island and keeping an eye out for those who would do well to move up to train with Ulrich and Vandalsson. I thought, perhaps, if I made you comfortable, you might be willing to take on a task that Ulrich has refused. He claims to not have the temperament.”
“I-” he cleared his throat again, “I would be honored to be of use, my Lady.” It was the first time he had referred to her as such, implying his allegiance. Julia let it pass, but Eric took note with less surprise than he would have expected.
“As to the size of it,” she continued, glancing around the three spacious rooms that made up his half of the Legate’s House, “I worried that a man in his prime would need a bit more privacy than the young pups in the barracks.” Jens guwaffed and a wicked smile lit her eyes. “And if Cook should find the servants quarters too crowded, I’m certain you would offer her every hospitality.”
Eric couldn’t help the smile that twitched at his mouth as he remembered. Not every woman would take so well to someone as rough as Jens. She saw his need for occupation and found something worthy of the status that should have been his in Norway. Eric was again impressed with his good fortune.
The bathhouse faced onto a courtyard, the garden beds now empty except for a few dormant trees under a light blanket of snow. Across from him was the infirmary, he frowned again at its sad state. To his right was the courtyard gate and beyond that the barracks and the ramp to the lower bailey. The clash of arms could be distantly heard, as a few of the Norse practiced in the lower bailey where the stones had been swept free of snow. Eric knew most of the English knights would be watching them; a few might even join in. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, and so allowed half his mind to be occupied with the sounds inside the bathhouse behind him.
The rustle of clothing and splatter of water on stone had stopped, so Eric knew she had disrobed and rinsed in the washroom before heading into the cold bath. A splash and a shriek had him pushing away from the doorframe, through the hall, and grabbing the curtain that closed off the cold bath in moments. He flung it aside t
o find Julia, up to her neck in water, teeth chattering and a bar of soap in her hand. She shrieked again and whirled around.
“What are you doing?”
“You screamed. What is wrong?” he asked.
“I didn’t scream. The water was colder than I expected. That is all.” She glanced over her shoulder and he raised his eyebrow.
“You screamed,” he repeated.
“Fine, I screamed,” she snapped. “Happy? Go back to guarding, I need privacy.” Eric smiled at her bare shoulders and wet hair, his pulse slowing back to a more normal pace once he knew she was not in danger.
“If you desire my company, you need only ask,” he said before letting the curtain fall closed between them. An indignant sputter preceded a wet cloth slapping against the curtain hard enough to make it billow into the hall.
“Shall I return your cloth?” he asked.
“No!” Her immediate, overly vehement response brought a chuckle out of him as he returned to his post. The courtyard was still quiet, and nothing else was out of place. Soft curses and mutterings carried to his ears, although he was sure the woman inside had no idea how the stone walls and water transported sound. He caught a few words, ‘arrogant’, ‘handsome’, ‘self-assured’, and ‘peeping-tom’ were among them. He chose to focus on the compliments and ignore the rest. Her chattering teeth had grown loud enough to concern him when he finally heard her toss another cloth into a basket and climb out of the pool.
For a moment, he did not see the courtyard or pay any attention to potential threats. He listened to the sporadic pitter, patter of water hitting the stone floor and imagined how it would get there. His mind’s eye saw her black hair slicked down her back, water running across the curve of her bottom and down the backs of her legs. The snap of a towel as she shook it out caused his fantasy to lean forward over the table of linens he knew to be inside. The water would slide down her neck, across her chest, gaining speed as it reached the slope of her breast. It would caress the pale skin there until it slowed to a standstill on the rose-colored peak made hard by the cold pool. For the longest moment, the water drop would hang, suspended. A curtain was drawn aside in the bath house and allowed to fall closed. His fantasy collapsed, but Eric found himself licking his lips and wishing for the barest taste of cool water.