Golden Surrender

by Heather Graham

  In her cries muffled against his flesh was the promise that she would give, she would torture as he. Her golden hair tangled about him as they rolled together, her mouth found him and his fingers wound into that golden beauty of the hair that enwebbed him. She was strong, his Viking love, yet all woman. Undaunted and uninhibited, she met his passions with her own, and then she gave to his superior strength, falling willingly to his demand as he rolled over her. He placed his hand upon her and parted her thighs, whispering his joy and pleasure as she arched toward his fingers, at the warmth that welcomed him. Her long legs wrapped high around him and then he rose to give himself to her as she cried out for him, taking her so that they blended together in a need both sweet and savage.

  He lay beside her and stroked her glistening body when they were spent. How he loved her. She was so perfect, bronzed as he, both sinewed and slim, firm of breast and thigh. She was the only mate for him, insatiable lover, fearless fighter, recipient of his dreams. Still tangled within her golden hair, he slept.

  But in the darkness of sleep he could see serpents coming for him. They raised their heads high above him and came in wave after wave, fangs dripping. With his sword he tried to slay them, but there were more and more. Their vicious fangs could not penetrate him, but they were getting past him and there were screams, terrible screams coming from behind.…

  He awoke covered with sweat, and for a moment he froze, alert to danger. He was shaking, his teeth were chattering. But there was nothing in his tent of furs and leathers, nothing but the woman who lay beside him, meshing her heartbeat with his.

  He closed his eyes, clenching them tightly. When he opened them once more, she was raised above him.

  “What is it, my love?” she demanded, frowning, then trying to make light of his situation. “The Wolf who never flinches in battle shakes over a dream? Tell me of it, love, and I will chase the darkness away.”

  He stared into her sapphire eyes, so beautiful in the pale moonlight, and the fever of fear clenched him once more. “I don’t want you to join the battle tomorrow.”

  She stiffened, her golden hair trailing proudly over her breasts. “I am more a warrior than most of your men,” she spat contemptuously. “And I am my own mistress. I will fight my enemies as I choose.”

  “You are not your own mistress!” he declared heatedly. “I am your prince—you are near my equal, but you are my mate. You will do as I say.”

  Grenilde hesitated a moment, wondering at the anger that glistened so irrationally deep within his eyes. She would have argued, she would have reminded him that even as a woman she had earned the respect and loyalty of her own troops, but she loved him. He was her lord, and so she would humor him and demurely promise obedience, and then do as she wished.

  Grenilde curled once more to his side. “As you choose, my lord Wolf,” she murmured with a yawn. “As you choose.” She stretched her arm around him, pretending to settle back to sleep.

  But it was she who lay awake when exhaustion reclaimed him. She held him long against the spirits of the night, and she prayed to the god Thor to keep him safe on the morn.

  The battle of Carlingford Lough was the bloodiest ever to take place upon the emerald-green field. And by midafternoon, Olaf knew that it was a battle lost. All around him lay bodies. The human carnage was so great that a man could not take a step without sliding on blood.

  He himself was covered with blood, which mingled with the sweat on his face to drip into his eyes. He could scarcely see. At one point he was saved from certain death only by the hideous cry of his attacker.

  His arms, so accustomed to the heavy weight of his sword, were weary, and his mind, so accustomed to carnage, was rebelling. The smell of death around him was terrible, and the battle was lost. Viking kings and princes lay dead all over the field. He didn’t yet realize that he was one of the few royalty and generals still standing. He knew only that if any Norse lives were to be saved, it was time to retreat. The retreat would not be an orderly one. Those who had survived would have to flee into the countryside and find shelter until they could meet and rally once more. Raising his arms high over his head, he sent the signal for retreat to those Vikings who could see him. As he tiredly lowered his arms, he knew that the Danes now held Dubhlain. But he and his men would arise again from outside its earthworks and they would seek their revenge. He would have vengeance for this day.

  His resolve strengthened, Olaf sidestepped a Danish battle-axe, and the heavy weapon was imbedded in the earth. Olaf took that chance to bring his sword down upon the Dane, swiftly slaying his enemy. Then he looked about and saw his remaining forces disappearing into the trees of Eire. Now he could make good his own retreat. He stepped cautiously through the field and looked to a cove of thick bark and leaves.

  But then he saw Grenilde. She was still in the thick of battle, her grace and poise allowing her to dance about her would-be assassins. At first he was furious; she had disobeyed his direct order. Then fear riddled him once more. He had seen it in his dream; the Danes had been the serpents.

  He called to her; he shouted. Her sapphire eyes met his across the field. And then she was coming to him, running, stopping to cover her rear, running once more, pausing to slay a sword-wielding hulk. And then she was running again, toward the cove.

  But there were more Danes coming with battle-axes, with spears, with chains and swords. Olaf ran out to meet them, screaming for Grenilde to get behind him. They were two now against ten, but the bodies fell around them. “Go!” he screamed to her. Olaf met the last of his contenders, vaguely aware of the blood dripping down his mail from a wound beneath his arm and the weakness in his leg from a deep, gaping wound on his thigh, but he couldn’t give in to his fatigue and pain. He had to keep fighting like a demon, forgetting all else but the need to survive.

  The battle continued across the field, until the last man before him fell. Olaf tore from the field, into the trees shouting Grenilde’s name until she answered him. Following the sound of her voice, he found her, lying on leaves and moss. As he saw her there, she was more beautiful than she had ever been. He didn’t see the sweat, the dirt, the blood. Beneath the grime that covered her skin he saw only her eyes, beautiful eyes, sapphire eyes. They beheld his with love, and then they began to glaze.

  Then she screamed a cry of agony, a cry of death.

  He knelt down beside her. “No!” he cried, twisting her body to find her wound. But even as he slipped his arms around her, he was drenched with her blood. The wound was in her back, and even as he cast his great, sun-capped head back to howl against it, her life began to slip from her body. Her arms that reached piteously for him were cold, too limp to hold him.

  “My love,” she whispered.

  Smoothing her torn and matted hair from her brow, he bent over her, touching his lips to hers, unaware of the fetid scent of death upon them. “Tor eternity I will love you,” he swore, his breath mingling with hers. “You must not leave me.”

  Somehow she smiled, but then her chest heaved with a great rattle and she broke into a spasm of coughing. Blood trickled from her lips, and heedlessly he kissed them again.

  “Don’t die,” he pleaded, “please, don’t die.…”

  Through her parched, cracked lips, she whispered, “Hold me, love … Your warmth belies the cold of death. Oh, hold me … my lord … hold me … I am cold … so cold … cold as our native icestorms.” Then her broken whispers ceased.

  He held her, shook her, sat clasping her dead body to his chest. And there he rocked her, whispering to her as if she were a sleeping child.

  The sun had set when he finally laid her on the ground. He stood trembling, the rage and pain wracking his already weak and tired body. Casting his massive golden head back, he screamed his grief and despair to the heavens. He ranted of his torment, his anguish, his loss, and his cries rattled the land. Wherever they were heard, even the Danes, the staunchest barbarians, quivered and prayed to their gods. It was the mighty howl of the Wolf,
and it brought chills of terror and doom.

  From his vantage point atop a high hill overlooking the lough, Aed Finnlaith viewed the bloody field. Those standing amid the carnage were Danes. Whether it had been their superior numbers or organization, or if Saint Patrick had heard their heathen prayers, he would never know, but the victory was theirs. Dubhlain, city of the Norwegians for years, now belonged to the conquering Danes.

  Bent on one knee as he looked over the scene, Aed suddenly closed his eyes in silent prayer. The bodies that covered the field were those of his enemies, but he could take little pleasure in the hideous toll of death. Let it end, God, he prayed silently. Let the Danes hold their city of Dubhlain and build their walls. Let them cease their countless scourges throughout the country. Let us live in peace.…

  He felt nothing from his prayer; he knew deep within him that it would be ignored, and he had the strange intuition that what he witnessed that day would be just the beginning for him. “Thy will be done,” he murmured with a surge of pain.

  “Father.”

  There was a tap on his shoulder. Aed twisted his head to his son Niall of Ulster standing behind him. Niall was a powerful man of thirty years, a handsome young giant with the wisdom learned from his father reflected in his somber green eyes.

  “Fennen and Maelsechlainn await us, Father. We must ride down and receive the tribute for the shrine from the Danes.”

  Aed nodded and rose to his feet, wincing a bit as his bones cracked. With Niall, he didn’t care if his bones cracked. His son had no desire to attempt to seize his crown during his lifetime; in fact, Aed sometimes doubted if Niall would ever covet the position of Ard-Righ. It was not a title that was necessarily hereditary; it passed between several of the powerful royal tribes. Niall was burdened down with his own affairs in Ulster and with the constant Viking harassment that occurred in the north.

  Yet there were always men ready to topple an unwary king, and a man in Aed’s position could afford to show no weakness. He gathered his horse’s reins and mounted with an agility that belied his aching bones.

  “We ride to the Danes,” he called to his son.

  The Ard-Righ’s trumpets sounded and the Irish began their approach.

  Dusk fell as they rode. By the time they picked their way through the fallen to the tent of Friggid the Bowlegs, the Danish chief, fires were flaming within the hastily erected campsite. Danes stopped in their camp preparations and looting to watch the Irish. They wore the grins of victors, sly looks that chilled the heart, looks that warned that truces were promises waiting to be broken.

  Yet Aed was not afraid as he faced Friggid, despite the foul temper of the wild, red-haired Dane. In fact, Friggid took pleasure in the fury that tautened his features as he raged to his men. “Find him! The Wolf must die!” Friggid controlled his temper as he faced Aed. “A slaughter, Ard-Righ.”

  Aed found that he could grimly smile. The murdering Dane was afraid, afraid that one Norwegian lived … the Wolf.

  Olaf held Grenilde through the night. In the morning he was quiet, a changed man, a man even more determined. His leg wound was festering, but he thought nothing of it. He lifted her high in his arms and began to walk, seeking water. The sun beat down upon him, but he kept his pace even, one step after the next. At midday he came to a stream, and then he bathed her tenderly. He touched her with reverence, cherishing the silk of her hair, the satin bronze of her flesh.

  He spent the rest of the day building her bier. When the platform was complete, he laid her on it and placed her sword in her hands. He piled the plentiful kindling high as he wished her journey to Valhalla to be easy. She would travel with the wind to sit beside the war god Wodon, for surely there she would lead the life of the princess she had not been on earth.

  When all was complete, he kissed her cold mouth. Determinedly searching, he found a piece of flint and sparked a fire. With a torch, he set it to his love. The bier burned ferociously. As he stood by the banks of the stream he watched it, burning still as the sun set once more. His eyes were distant and yet hard. He no longer howled out his grief. It had become a part of him, a part of his heart.

  In the morning, he discovered it was difficult to stand. His wounds had weakened him. He bent to the stream and drank hungrily, then staggered in to soak his wounds. The pain in his thigh was a burning that equalled the fires of Grenilde’s bier.

  He attempted to cleanse the leg wound, but fatigue overwhelmed him. He fell on the bank of the stream, half in, half out of the water, his face lodged in mud, his golden head dirty and matted. But his nose and mouth were still above the water. The Wolf was felled, but still he breathed.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Tiptoeing about the cabin, Erin dressed quietly, donning a short wool tunic, heavy leather leggings, and a girdle of engraved gold. The need might arise for her to ride hard and she didn’t want to be impeded by proper maidenly dress. Dragging her forest-green mantle from the hook by the door, she cast it about herself and secured the brooch. Just as she touched the heavy wooden latch, Mergwin’s snoring ceased.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Erin?”

  “To the stream, Mergwin, where else?” she inquired innocently.

  “You should not go riding, Erin. The woods will be full of danger today.”

  “I shall take my sword, friend Druid,” Erin said, adding with a mischievous smile, “after all, Mergwin, what can happen to me? It was you who said I would grow old with children at my feet!”

  She closed the door quickly behind her, laughing as she heard the Druid’s soft curses follow her. He would not be really worried, Erin was sure. Mergwin knew that she was one with these woods; she would be wary of stragglers from the battle. She would be careful; she would listen to the sounds of the wind and the earth as he had taught her. But she wanted to find the battlefield. She had to see …

  What drove her she herself really didn’t know. That she should hate the Norsemen was, logically, ludicrous, for she knew the Danes to be, if anything, even more barbaric. But her father could weigh logic and politics; he was the king. She could only take the torture of her own soul personally, and that torture had been inflicted by the Norwegians—Norwegians led by the Wolf, Olaf the White.

  She paused many times as she led her horse through the overgrown paths and sloping fields that led to the duns above the lough, heeding Mergwin’s warning to keep her eyes and ears sharp. She intended no stupidity. Her goal was to see the land run red with the blood of the Vikings—not her own. But it was difficult to sense the danger on the air. The sky was a sapphire-blue that morning, touched by only dreamlike puffs of white clouds. The long green grass seemed to reflect the morning dew like a million glittering emeralds. Rich clumps of heather spotted the fields, adding a touch of amethyst to the beauty of the day.

  She rode nearly an hour before she dismounted from her horse and began to scurry carefully through the high dun above Carlingford Lough. Briars and branches pulled at her hair and mantle as she made her way through the dense foliage, but she didn’t feel them, so intent was she to reach her destination.

  Yet when she reached a spot near enough the cliff to survey the immense field below, she closed her eyes. A dizziness came over her; she had to grab a branch and hold on tightly to keep herself from falling. Her stomach began to writhe and heave. Despite her best efforts, she had to bend low over the grass as she was violently sick.

  The world spun black for a minute, then she steadied herself. You came to see, she admonished sharply, to see Norwegian carcasses.

  But nothing in her life, not even Clonntairth, had prepared her for the horror of the scene below her. Birds of prey were already among the torn and mutilated bodies. How many men lay dead and rotting? she wondered. Thousands. Literally thousands. She choked back a surge of hysterical laughter that would surely do nothing more than make her retch hideously again. In one day, one bloody day, the Vikings had decimated more men with more vengeance than the Irish had inflicted in ye
ars.

  Oh, God, Erin thought, over and over. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to close out the nightmare of the field. Oh, God … Just as she had been so determined to come, now she had to get away. Suddenly it seemed that the air was permeated with the smell of death and decay.

  She didn’t realize that she sobbed her horror as she backed her way rashly out of the thicket to her mare. Her flesh was roughly torn and ripped, and a bramble tore across her cheek. She touched her face and vaguely realized that her tears were mingling with the thin line of blood. She took a deep breath, and then another, and as she swung her leg high and remounted her horse, she realized that she had been too horrified to try to discern if the bodies were Norse or Danish. She didn’t really know who had taken the victory.

  With all those dead, it had to be the Danish. She swallowed sharply, still tasting the bile in her mouth. It would have been too great an irony for the Wolf to escape. If there indeed was justice, and all those men had been left for the scavengers, then Olaf the White had to be among them.