by Julia Byrne
‘Don’t blame yourself, lady,’ Anna interrupted drily. ‘I doubt Rorik would have ransomed you then, and he certainly won’t now. I’ve never seen a man more determined to possess a woman.’
Yvaine gazed at her in dismay. ‘Are you saying he’ll force me if I resist? That I have been deluding myself that he’s honourable?’
‘No. On Rorik’s honour we agree. The real question is, can you resist him? Is it Rorik you fear, or yourself?’
Yvaine shook her head. ‘You said something like that on the ship. I couldn’t answer you then, and I can’t now.’
‘But you’re drawn to him. I’ve sensed it, and now you say ’tis so.’
‘Aye, drawn. Who would not be? He’s handsome, he’s protected us. God knows what would have happened if he wasn’t the man he is, but…’ She glanced away, towards the curtain. Beyond it lay her future—or her destruction. She didn’t know why that thought had come into her head; it was just there, terrifying in its clarity. But so was something else—a vague awareness that struggled to surface.
‘You know, Anna, I’ve just realised…’ She looked back at the girl, slowly working it out. ‘I’ve been relying on Rorik’s sense of honour, but what of my own?’
‘Your own?’ Anna frowned. ‘But a lady’s honour is bound to a man’s. You have no father or brother or husband here.’
‘Exactly. And Rorik is both protector and predator, so I can’t look to him. Indeed, why should I? My honour should be my responsibility. Don’t you see? I’ve been waiting to see what he’s going to do, worrying about surrender, as if I don’t have a choice.’
‘But—’
Yvaine swept on before Anna could point out the glaring flaw in this brilliant reasoning. ‘I know he said he’d give me time to get used to the idea of belonging to him, but he can afford to say that because he thinks I’ll succumb. Edward’s too far away to rescue me, and by the time he learns what’s happened ’twill be too late. There’s no other man whose honour will be impugned. Why wouldn’t Rorik expect me to give in?’
‘But—’
‘What I should be doing is demanding his respect for my notion of honour.’
‘But you did. I mean, you demanded to be returned to your cousin.’
‘That’s just it. I asked to be ransomed as if I was a piece of property to be bartered between one man and another. I played by the rules of men, making the demands they would make. All of which Rorik ignored or refused because I’m a woman. Would he have flung my ring into the sea if a man had offered it? Of course not. And I accepted his decrees like a meek little prisoner. No wonder he thinks he’ll succeed.’
Anna frowned. ‘But you just said you don’t know what you’re feeling, so—’
‘I don’t,’ Yvaine agreed grimly. ‘But until I do, he’ll refrain from trying to seduce me. There’ll be no more kisses—’
‘Kisses?’
‘No more looking at me as if he wants to gobble me up in one bite. I may be a woman, but I’m a person, too. If I decide to have a…a…liaison with him, it will be because I want to.’ She glared at Anna. ‘Not because he’s seduced me into it.’
‘Hmm.’ Anna folded her arms and contemplated her mistress’s determined face. ‘And how long do you think ’twill take him to seduce you into a liaison, lady?’
‘Probably not long,’ Yvaine muttered. ‘But he doesn’t have to know that.’
‘Well then—’ Concealing a grin, Anna turned to sweep back the curtain. ‘Let us show these Norsemen that two Saxon women are not to be reckoned with lightly. Onward, lady.’
Yvaine took a deep breath and marched outside.
She cannoned straight into Rorik.
He grasped her arms, stepped back a pace and looked her up and down.
‘Well?’ she demanded, while her heart leaped into her throat and threatened to stay there. ‘Does the lady meet with your approval more than the street urchin?’
His brows went up at her belligerent tone, ‘I think you were safer as a street urchin, beautiful lady,’ he murmured, and a smile flashed into his eyes that was very male, wickedly inviting, and utterly irresistible.
Yvaine sternly ordered her mouth not to curve in response. Bad enough that she’d smiled at him before; if she continued the practice, heaven only knew what might happen.
‘Holy Saints!’ exclaimed Anna, coming unwittingly to her rescue. ‘We’re not the only ones who look different.’
Rorik sent her an amused glance ‘Come with us,’ he instructed. ‘Your place is with your mistress. And yours—’ he gently tugged Yvaine closer ‘—is with me.’ Releasing her, he took her hand and led her towards the stern.
Yvaine clutched thankfully at the distraction Anna had given her. It wasn’t difficult. She had to look twice to recognise some of the men. Several of the crew had been left behind in Kaupang, including Gunnar she was thankful to see, but the rest now looked more like respectable tradesmen or farmers than Viking raiders—in startling contrast to the ship which was decked out in all her pagan glory.
The big sail was furled, but flying from the mast were two standards. The topmost pennant was red, embroidered with a large black raven, its huge wings outspread. Below this fluttered a smaller yellow flag decorated with a fierce red dragon. Painted wooden shields hung over both sides of the vessel, overlapping each other in alternate colours of red and black. They were too small to be useful in battle, and in any event larger shields would have covered the oarholes, so Yvaine assumed their use was purely ceremonial.
The triumphant return of the warrior indeed.
They reached the stern and Rorik took the steering oar from Thorolf with a word of thanks. Yvaine sank on to a nearby sea-chest, her troubles momentarily forgotten. Even Othar, who was staring at her as if he’d never seen her before, impinged only vaguely on her awareness as she gazed in awe at the scene before her.
They were making their way up a narrow fjord. The water arrowed before them, of a blue so clear it seemed to pulse with light and colour. Lush green fields clung to the shoreline, gradually giving way to dense pine forests that marched up the craggy slopes on either side of the fjord. And higher still rose the distant, snow-capped mountains, their peaks soaring towards a pale, cloudless sky.
The only sounds were the light splash of the oars and the occasional call of a bird. Then, rising gradually on the clear, still air, the call of a horn echoed through the hills. Just two notes, long and haunting.
Yvaine tilted her head, her lips parting in delight as she listened.
‘Word has gone ahead of us,’ Rorik said. ‘Come here, sweeting. We’re almost there.’
His remark brought her back to earth with a thud. She looked at him, nerves and anticipation warring within her, and knew the real battle was about to begin.
‘How are you going to explain me?’ she demanded. ‘As the spoils of war?’
Rorik reached over, grasped her arm and drew her up to stand in front of him. ‘Sheathe your claws, little cat. There’ll be no need to explain you. One look at us standing together, and everyone will know you’re mine.’
‘Will they?’ She tried to pull out of his hold, only to discover there was nowhere to go; that even if there were, her own senses were conspiring against her. She wanted to stay in his arms, to feel the strong beat of his heart against her back, the male heat and power surrounding her. The longing to go where he led, to let him protect her, was wrenching—and she had to fight it.
‘How convenient,’ she muttered, forcing the words out. ‘Install me in the same house as your stepmother and go on your way. After all, we’re only women. Possessions.’ She turned sharply within the circle of his arm. ‘And possessions don’t think, do they? They don’t feel. They don’t—’
She had to stop; anything else and her voice would break. She was angry, aye, but her own words beat at her like savage blows. If Rorik installed her, as his mistress, or even potential mistress, in the household run by his stepmother, he would have no awareness of her as
a person. No awareness of her sense of pride, of worth.
Pain clutched at her heart, almost making her cry out. She couldn’t surrender under those conditions. No matter how gently he treated her. No matter how much—
She dug her nails into her palms and fought the tears stinging her eyes.
And didn’t hear Rorik inhale sharply as her meaning hit him with the force of a battering ram. He opened his mouth to assure Yvaine that concubines were a commonplace part of Norse family life, that the position held almost as much status as a wife—and the words wouldn’t come.
He stared down into tear-drenched eyes and saw exactly what he’d done. He, who had never taken a woman by force in his life, had carried an innocent girl from her home because he wanted her with a desire that, by now, was barely under control. Because of a gut-deep conviction that she belonged to him; a conviction so absolute he hadn’t once considered her feelings.
Oh, aye, some deep instinct had urged him to remove her from a place where she’d been grievously hurt. The sight of the royal standard might have had something to do with it. He could even argue that he hadn’t believed she was innocent. The fact remained that he’d placed her in a position that might destroy both her pride and any chance he had of—
He frowned and shook his head sharply. Any chance he had of…what? Why this sudden feeling that he could lose something incredibly fragile, something indefinably precious? There was nothing he wanted that Yvaine could withhold. He wouldn’t force her, but every time he touched her he found an innocent, seeking response that threatened to shred his control into tiny little pieces and send him hurtling back to the savagery of his ancestors. He would have her.
But his arm tightened as though he would shield her even from himself, and he knew he was about to condemn his aching body to further torture without a second’s hesitation.
‘Don’t,’ he said, not even sure what he was protesting. She hadn’t let the tears fall; hadn’t used them to plead her cause. That, alone, was enough to rend him. ‘I know everything’s strange…different. I won’t rush you.’
She didn’t speak, only gazed up at him, so utterly vulnerable, he felt something tighten about his chest. As though a giant hand had seized his heart. He started to speak, to reassure her further, only to hear the clear notes of the horn again.
The meadows of his home were opening out before them, and there, on the grassy bank, an excited crowd had gathered, waving and calling out.
There was no time, then, for long explanations, but in that instant, savage desire and aching tenderness came together for the first time without conflict, and he knew, with utter certainty, what he was going to do.
Abandoning the steering oar for one brief moment, he captured Yvaine’s face between his hands, pinned her gaze with his, and put every ounce of conviction he possessed into his voice.
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘For this moment, at least, put your honour in my hands and trust me.’
Chapter Eight
Trust him? What choice did she have? From the moment they stepped off the ship, Rorik’s grip on her hand was her only anchor in the sea of noise and confusion that surrounded her.
Cries of delight rang in her ears as husbands and fathers were welcomed home. Men thumped friends and brothers on the back; children darted, laughing, through the throng. There was even a greeting or two thrown in her direction. She would have responded, but she couldn’t translate fast enough to keep up. Her mind was still caught in the moment when Rorik had specified her honour.
Then, as the crew began to mingle with the crowd, expressions changed, became cool assessment. Speculation hummed on the air like a swarm of bees. When Rorik finally won free of the crush and led her across a narrow meadow towards several turf-thatched wooden buildings clustered at the foot of a pine-covered slope, the crowd followed, sweeping them through the doorway of the largest building on a tide of curiosity and anticipation.
The sudden cessation of daylight blinded her. She had a vague sense of walking along a short corridor, then they passed through another doorway, into a hall, and she could see again.
Her first impression was of size. The room was huge, longer than the King’s thirty-foot hall at Winchester and far more luxuriously appointed. Two rows of posts, carved in intricate designs of plants and animals, supported the roof. Between them a long open hearth was set lower than the floor, which formed a wide platform around the perimeter of the room. Benches, broad enough for sleeping and made comfortable with furs, were set against the two long walls, on either side of a pair of carved, high-backed chairs that could have comfortably accommodated a giant or two.
A doorway in the far end wall led to an inner chamber. The jarl’s private solar, Yvaine guessed. Another bench was set to one side of it, and on the other, an enormous loom held the beginnings of a colourful wall hanging.
Smoke rose in lazy spirals from the firepit, but the air was surprisingly fresh thanks to several square holes cut into the walls. Though their wooden shutters hung open, they were too small to allow much light into the hall; what illumination there was came from bowl-shaped lamps set on long spikes hammered into the floor. Wicks made of moss floated in pools of oil—fish oil, she decided, sniffing cautiously.
The flickering lights glinted on an enormous wooden shield that hung above one of the central chairs. Gold plaques and precious stones rimmed its edge, while the brightly painted centre depicted men and animals engaged in various improbable battles.
Below the shield, propped in the chair and wrapped in furs, an old man watched the invasion of the hall through half-shuttered eyes.
Yvaine knew him instantly; knew that, though wasted with illness, he’d once been as tall and powerful as his son, that, despite a face drawn and gaunt, he’d once possessed the same sternly chiselled features and glittering eyes.
When Rorik led her across the hall and clasped his father’s outstretched arm, she was startled by the wave of fierce emotion she felt emanating from the old man. Then a woman spoke behind them, and a chill brushed her flesh.
‘So, Rorik, this is the reason you’ve returned early.’
Yvaine turned to meet pale blue eyes. Othar’s eyes.
‘Gunhild,’ said Rorik coolly.
Othar’s mother looked her up and down, her sharp features pinched in an expression of distaste. ‘Who is this stranger you bring amongst us, Rorik? One would say a Norsewoman by her clothes, but my son tells me otherwise.’
‘In this case, he’s right.’ Ignoring the tightening of her lips, Rorik turned to his father and raised his voice so everyone in the hall heard him. ‘Egil Eiriksson, my father, I present to you Yvaine of Selsey. My betrothed.’
Stunned silence greeted his announcement. It was immediately followed by an explosion of sound as shock and excitement sent voices soaring to the rafters. Gunhild’s outrage overrode them all.
‘What!’ she shrieked.
Yvaine couldn’t say anything. She could only stand there, eyes open to their widest extent, while she wondered what Rorik thought he was doing. If they were truly betrothed she would visit his family, but every member of his crew knew a romance worthy of the sagas hadn’t taken place on board ship.
‘By the Gods!’ Another furious voice rang out, and as swiftly as they’d cried out, the crowd fell silent.
‘We don’t marry English captives!’ Othar elbowed his way out of the throng and ranged himself beside his mother.
‘Aye,’ Gunhild added. ‘If you want the girl then take her as your concubine. There’s no need to marry her. A captive will bring you no dowry, and how do we know she’s virtuous?’ She cast a scornful glance at Yvaine before appealing to her husband. ‘A necessary quality in a wife, Egil.’
Egil had been so still and silent, an oddly frozen expression on his face, that Yvaine suddenly wondered if he could speak. As if in answer, he gave a short bark of laughter and glanced up at Rorik.
‘Gunhild has a point there, Rorik. You’ve had the wench on your ship for
nigh on two weeks and even my failing eyes can see she’s a beauty.’
‘She’s a virgin,’ Rorik said shortly.
Egil’s brows shot up. Before he could answer, Gunhild grabbed Yvaine’s arm and jerked her around towards the nearest light. ‘How do you know?’ she demanded shrilly.
‘The English always lie. Look at her well, husband. Look at those cat’s eyes and tell me the creature hasn’t cast a spell on your son.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Gunhild.’ Rorik stepped forward and pushed the woman’s hand away from Yvaine ‘You may rule here when I’m away, but don’t overstep yourself.’
‘I will not be silenced. This touches your father’s honour. Have you forgotten your purpose in England? Do you turn so lightly aside from avenging your cousin?’
Yvaine blinked, but there was no time to grapple with this unexpected reason for Rorik’s viking raids.
‘That purpose is done,’ he said curtly. ‘Enough English soldiers have died to avenge Sitric’s death and the deaths of his men.’
‘I didn’t see you kill anyone on this trip, Rorik.’ Othar’s eyes gleamed with malice. ‘And that’s not all, Father. Rorik struck me in front of the men, and wait until you hear about—’
‘Enough!’ ordered Egil, struggling to sit upright. A shaking finger was pointed at Othar. ‘I’ll hear no tales from you, boy, unless you can tell me what you’ve done to help your brother avenge Sitric.’
Othar smirked. ‘Well, some of those English vermin had to watch their wives and daughters pay for their sins.’
‘Pah!’ Egil’s hand fell back on his chair. ‘You call raping women a fitting revenge for the way Sitric died? Strutting young cub. You’d do well to remember why you had to leave Norway.’
‘I have killed,’ Othar claimed, turning sullen. ‘Some fellow who refused to get out of my way. The drooling fool kept gaping at the ship as if he’d never seen one before and didn’t even try to defend himself.’ He shrugged. ‘I think he was wanting in wits.’