Golden Surrender

by Heather Graham

  Friggid left her with a small salute. The door banged shut behind him, and she heard the heavy thud as a bolt was slid into place.

  She wanted to be strong, to be brave, to believe that she was small sacrifice for her son and for Ireland. But she threw herself on the bed and the tears she had held back for the long ride began to fall in great sweeps of despair and hopelessness. Yet the tears were beneficial, for their vehemence combined with her exhaustion gave her the release of a heavy, dreamless sleep.

  Servants appeared in the morning to bring her food and bathing water and provide her with clean clothing. Bathed and dressed, Erin knew she must begin to plot some method, however improbable, to escape. She found that with the day she was not bolted into the chamber, and carefully made her way to the hall. The Danes watched her as she skirted them to step outside, but none made any attempt to waylay her and as Friggid appeared nowhere about, she hurried on to survey her surroundings in the light of day.

  The planked wall was not so staunch, she decided, and yet she would never escape over its height. Her only hope appeared to be to the west, where high rising cliffs gave the Danes a natural defense against surprise attack. But such defenses, formidable against a mass, were weak against one, and if she was to find a way out, that was it.

  She attempted to appear as if she were interested in the building efforts, and she discovered that she was free to walk about. Friggid was overconfident, Erin decided, continually fighting the fear that threatened to lead her to another bout of crying. She could not allow herself to think about her son, or her husband, to wonder what they did in the comfort and warmth of the great hall in Dubhlain. Was she forgotten already? she wondered with a cry in her heart. Nay, do not think so! she warned herself. You must escape! Or you will die rather than feel the hands of Friggid on you.

  Resolutely she clenched her fists at her sides. A tremor swept through her, yet it left her with the newborn strength of desperation. Surreptitiously she gazed about, and certain she was unwatched, she turned for the cliffs and found a trail that wound upward to the heights.

  She was panting as she reached the crest, and yet she was exuberant, for it seemed she had only to descend again westward and live carefully within the forest until she could find help. The cold would be a deterrent, but she would chance freezing or starvation rather than live with nothing but cherished memories and the touch of the Dane whom she hated.

  She rested on a rock, breathing deeply of the fresh air, and then stood, stretching to begin again. But before she could take the first footstep towards freedom, she was startled to a freeze by the voice that accosted her.

  “Think not to leave me, Princess, for I have waited long to savor vengeance. And vengeance proves its own reward, Erin of Tara, for the tales and sagas have never exaggerated the beauty you possess, nor the nobility of your courage. You will be a tasty morsel for my pleasure this evening, and fear not that you will dismay me, for I am a man fond of fight.”

  She stared at Friggid, aware that he had but awaited her at the crest of the cliff. “You will never win, Dane. If not my lord Olaf, you will face my father—”

  “Then the Ard-Righ shall die, and Ireland may return to her petty squabbles between king and king. That will give me greater chance for success to bend more and more land to my will.”

  Erin shivered inwardly, praying that her father would never come, for truly Aed’s death would be the greatest disaster to befall the Irish.

  Friggid swaggered toward her, reaching for a lock of her hair that played in the breeze.

  “And know this, Princess: I want you, but I am prepared for whatever may come. Forget your Wolf and pray that he does not ride. In time you will learn to serve me.…”

  He spoke on, but she could not hear him for his touch made her shiver. I cannot bear this, she thought brokenly. Always she would see eyes of the northern sky before her, and to know another’s touch did indeed seem worse than death.

  Erin noted suddenly that Friggid had stopped talking, and then he was whispering again, gazing over her shoulder to the east. “No … not yet. He could not have caught us so soon.…”

  Curiously, with her heart beating in a furious crescendo, Erin turned and followed his eastward gaze. Weakness and joy cascaded over her as she surveyed the view from the high clifftop. The Wolf was coming for her!

  From the heights she could see the troops, and a poignant thrill ripped her body. The standards were waving in the air; the thunder of the horses’ hooves was a drumbeat that made the earth tremble. The Norse battle horns were sounding, and the war cries of the men were rising like a beautiful and deadly music on the air. Horses, thousands of them on the horizon, pounded across the terrain as far as she could see. The banners of Aed Finnlaith flew from the south, those of Niall of Ulster from the north, and from the east, the great banner of the Wolf, Olaf the White of Dubhlain.

  In the center, even in the distance, she could see Olaf. His hair was a golden halo that marked him irrefutably; he was one with the great black stallion, towering above the others in size and majesty, his mantle of crimson flaring with the thunder of the gallop.

  He was coming for her. So many times she had told herself that she must wish he would not come, that the bloodshed must end.…

  But now that he was there, she was overjoyed that her wish had been denied. He had been behind them all the time, all those nights that she had hoped and prayed.

  Erin started to laugh. She turned back to Friggid. “He does come, Dane! The Lord of the Wolves rides this way—against you.” She could not contain her laughter. It was hysterical, but it was joyous. It held at bay her tears of sweet pride. She thought that she might be about to die; it was highly probable that Friggid would kill her now. But it didn’t matter. He could kill her, but he couldn’t take away her love, nor erase what had been—the brief and tempestuous beauty that had passed between a Norwegian prince and an Irish princess. Somewhere in Dubhlain her son lived, indisputable proof of what had been. No, Friggid could not take away her triumph, because Olaf had come for her. A magnificent vision of golden power, he was thundering down on the earthworks and wooden gates of the Danish stronghold. So tall and proud, majestic in his mantle of crimson, more awesome than the sun and moon and stars.

  Friggid grabbed her arm, wrenching her to her feet. “So he rides, does he, the wolf at bay. It will do you no good, my princess. He will never have you again. He has had all he will ever have of Ireland. Today he will die.”

  He twisted her arm viciously, but still Erin laughed. “He will not die, Friggid. If you are fool enough to face him, he will butcher you into little quarters. It is you who will die today.”

  Friggid’s face twisted into an ugly smile. “Be that as it may, Princess, but you will never touch him again. One of you will die.”

  Their eyes clashed in a war of hate, and then he was twisting her arm behind her back to drag her from the cliff. “Brave words from an Irish lass I hold in my power,” he reminded her. She tried to fight him, but the pain was too great. He would, she was quite certain, twist until her arm snapped. Still she merely hampered him the best she could as he pushed and dragged her down the angled trail. She fell, sprawling and bruising herself several times, as they made progress down the winding steps. “Let us move, Princess!” he warned her with a growl when she lay gasping for breath, her shoulder bruised from a collision with the hard ground. “I don’t want you passing out on me before this is finished!”

  Gritting her teeth, Erin rose. It seemed an interminable walk before they were down the cliff, and amid the preparations in the courtyard that roiled the uncompleted camp into confusion. One of Friggid’s anxious men came tearing after his leader.

  “They are charging straight for the gates!” one informed him.

  “So!” Friggid flared. “You come to me like an old woman!” He spat out his disgust. “Get out there, command your troops! Look to the gates—they cannot trample the gates!”

  “It is not the Wolf riding
alone. It is the Norwegian, and the troops of Ulster, and of Tara. We are fighting the whole of Eire, half of the provinces … Aed Finnlaith …”

  “I care not who we are fighting! I have always fought the whole of these people! Get to your stations! What is this! Have the Danes become cowards because the Wolf comes back? He is not a god, he is mortal man, and he will bleed before you today.”

  Faced with the insane fury of his leader the man scurried to do as bidden, shouting orders in turn to his troops. Still having no idea where he was dragging her, Erin ground her teeth hard against each other as he wrenched at her fiercely. “Come, my lady princess,” he mocked. “I wouldn’t have you miss any of the coming slaughter. I have a prime place for you to watch!” Again she was pulled hurriedly along.

  Men floundered for weapons, forming in ranks, shouting, preparing catapults to send deadly hot oil over the walls. The archers assembled along the ramparts.

  But still the thunder riddled the earth. A thousand drums could ring no sweeter beat. Erin could no longer see the standards, but she could hear the song of the battle horns and, rising ever to her ears, the war cries of Olaf’s men, blending in a wild harmony that was both chilling and melodious.

  “Come!” Friggid shouted above the uproar.

  Erin cried out as she tripped, but Friggid’s hold was merciless. In a matter of minutes, she saw where he was taking her—to the raised wooden dais in the far field.

  Erin eyed the structure with horror. They entered through a short logged gate and headed for a sloping platform that led to what appeared to be a whipping stake. Erin panicked as she realized he intended to tie her, and began to struggle in earnest with him on the wooden slope. They fell together and rolled halfway down. She almost escaped him, but he caught the hem of her robe and she flew backward instead. He jerked her to her feet and slapped her hard across the face. The world spun and she could taste blood where her teeth had grazed her inner mouth.

  “No more tricks, Princess, or you die now and miss the show. And I went through a great deal of trouble to prepare this for you.”

  Erin said nothing; she felt tears welling in her eyes, but she wouldn’t allow them to fall. Even death would be more welcome than the continued touch of the loathsome Dane.

  He slipped his arm around her midriff and carried her up the slope to the platform and the stake. Her mind was still swirling so that she could barely stand. A cry escaped her as he jerked her wrists together high over her head, securing them soundly to the stake with loops of heavy rope. He pulled the loops so tight that she felt stabbing pricks in her hands, the blood barely flowing to them.

  His cropped beard came very close to her face, his lips touched her ear as he whispered, “The Wolf is a fool to ride against me today. A fool to ride for a woman. But perhaps you can travel to Valhalla together.”

  She managed to smile grimly and lift her chin. “Brave words for a man who ties a mere woman to a stake, Friggid the Bowlegs. Brave words for a coward who will not meet the Wolf in arm-to-arm combat, man against man. It is because he is the stronger, Friggid, because you are a coward—” She was cut off as Friggid’s palm came across her cheek again. She sagged against the post, remaining upright merely because she was tied.

  “Shut up, Princess, unless you are ready to die with a knife through your throat.”

  Erin swallowed and fought back the pain and nausea overwhelming her. The platform spun beneath her feet, went black, and then began to steady again.

  She raised her head. “Whenever I die, Friggid, will not matter. You cannot take the Wolf of Norway. Nor will you ever take this land. He will hold Dubhlain until you are dust in the wind—”

  “That would be great solace to take to your grave. Except that you are wrong. You will die, but you will get to see the Wolf die first. You will, I hope, appreciate the stunning view I have provided you.”

  She lifted her eyes. The dais had been placed on a slight dun; the small log fence that surrounded it was no more than the height of a man’s waist, and the slope leading to the platform raised it high over a man’s head. She could see over the posting and earthworks. She could see fields beyond the fenced defense post of the Danes; she could see the troops that continued to bear down upon the gates.

  Once again, she could see the great black stallion, racing, racing, drawing ever closer … And she could see Olaf, flying along with the stallion that sent up great clumps of earth with every hoofbeat.

  For a moment she closed her eyes. Was he coming because he loved her? Because he had decided he needed her? Or because of honor, because he was a Viking lord, because she was his property, and he would let no man take what was his? Or because he hated Friggid more than he could ever love her; because he had to avenge Grenilde?

  It didn’t matter in the glory of the moment. She could close her eyes, but she could not close out the sounds of the coming battle, the war cries of Norse and Irish mingling like a chant that rose with the sound of the horns and the thundering drumbeat.

  Take care, my love, she thought, and she opened her eyes again. The fields were alive with the galloping horses. Her husband, her father, her cousin, her brothers … Ireland’s finest. She had given to her land, but now the men of that land rose valiantly to her defense.

  “I go to arms, my lady Erin,” Friggid mocked.

  She stared without blinking into his dark ruthless eyes. “You will burn in hell, Friggid. When you die, there will be no Valhalla.”

  “I may discover what it is to burn in hell, Erin, and you will discover what it is to burn on earth.” He bowed deeply in mockery, and left her.

  She didn’t understand his innuendo; she didn’t care. She was staring again at the cloud of men and horses. They did not slow as they neared the wooden wall. The first catapults were raised and a scream of horror tore from Erin’s throat as ropes were hacked with battle-axes and boiling oil was sent flying over the wall.

  She closed her eyes again as she heard the agonized shrieks of horses and men. Archers on the ramparts rained burning arrows into the oncoming rush.

  “Oh, dear God!” The scream escaped her in horror as the deep gourds of the catapults were refilled. Furiously she worked at the thongs binding her wrists, her twisting only making the ties tighter. She closed her eyes, praying that in doing so she would not see the burning oil fly.

  But her eyes flew open again as a sound of the earth splitting came to her. She stared in amazement as she watched the Danish wall caving in.

  Olaf was the first one she saw, and it was as if her heart and the world stopped together in time. The black stallion’s hooves tore at the wood, and it crumpled beneath the force. The stallion sailed through the air with his rider. Olaf, at the head of his troops, his mantle and golden hair flowing with awesome majesty, his features unconquerable, relentless, his great sword flashing and gleaming beneath the sun as he wielded it high, and his battle cry—the howl of the wolf—rising, splitting the heavens with fury and vengeance. He was magnificent.

  He was still too far away, and yet she believed that he saw her. She believed that she could see the blue ice fire in his eyes that was deeper than the ocean and wider than the sky, searing into her heart.

  But then the moment was past. The black stallion had not broken down the wall itself. Hundreds of other horses were pouring into the courtyard. The shattering sound of steel upon steel rose as men engaged in hand-to-hand battle. Axes fell with terrible crunches; arrows flew with burning fire.

  Erin trembled, lowering her eyes. Friggid had been a fool. He couldn’t possibly withstand this onslaught. He could not, she thought, with a pride increased by love and poignancy, ever best the Wolf. But he had threatened her with such positive assurance. Had he truly thought that his feeble wooden walls would stand against a man who dealt in stone?

  She jerked instinctively with terror as something whistled by her cheek. Focusing ahead, she saw Friggid just beyond the logs that surrounded her. He held a bow in his hands, the long string still quive
ring. Wrenching her head around, she stared about her and then she understood.

  The logs that circled her dais had been soaked in oil, and into the logs, Friggid had shot a burning arrow. Already the wood was smoking, catching the flame.

  “Dear God!” Erin shrieked. With a frenzy she began working at her binds again, ripping, tearing at her wrists. Tears stung her eyes as she realized the lunatic vengeance that was Friggid’s.

  Above the din of battle, she heard his laughter. Perhaps he believed he was going to die. He lived with death; to fall in battle would not be dishonor. But whether he lived or died, he would have his revenge upon the Wolf because Olaf would never get past him in time to save his wife from the flames.

  “I salute you, Queen of Dubhlain, Princess of Tara!” Friggid called. “May we all meet in the great court of Valhalla!”

  He turned, his face still split with a macabre smile, and left her.

  The fire was lapping quickly around the dry logs of the fence. Soon it would rise all around her.

  Olaf would seek Friggid out, she thought frantically as the smoke rose around her, and he might very well kill him, butcher him in the fury she had described to Friggid. But it would be too late. Too late for her.…

  She ceased her struggles for a moment, staring at the rapidly spreading fire. “No,” she whispered with disbelief. But Friggid’s words haunted her memory: “… you will discover what it is to burn on earth.…”

  “No!” she screamed again, raging at the heavens. But her eyes were already beginning to water. The smoke permeated the air, turning it gray around her.

  She twisted her wrists until they were raw and bleeding, and then she sagged against the post again, the tears streaking down her cheeks.