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This is a work of fiction. Any references to events or people, historical or otherwise are used fictitiously. Names, characters, places and incidences are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Ravven
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
Copyright © Tanya Anne Crosby
DEDICATION
For Chaise.
Other e-books by
Tanya Anne Crosby
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HAPPILY EVER AFTER
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PERFECT IN MY SIGHT
LYON’S GIFT
THE MACKINNON’S BRIDE
KISSED
ONCE UPON A KISS
VIKING’S PRIZE
SAGEBRUSH BRIDE
ANGEL OF FIRE
CHAPTER 1
Alarik Trygvason knew full well the risk he took by navigating so far up the river Seine, but the French Count deserved this retribution. Never again would the spineless bastard plot to ambush his camp! Of that Alarik would make certain.
It was also the last time he would trust a filthy Franskmann!
He should have realized the ruse the instant the French king had offered him native soil in exchange for peace between them. Above all, he should have perceived the true reason Count Phillipe had sent a squat little balding man with the generous gift of French wine.
But he’d been too hungry, too mesmerized by the lush green beauty of French soil. Too enthralled at the prospect of holding a meager parcel of it.
Like vipers they’d slithered into his sleeping camp. And like vipers they had attacked. He’d lost full half his men before any could clear their heads of wine or sleep. Sotted as they’d been, they were ill-prepared to fend off the strike, though thanks to the count’s little balding man, Alarik’s eyes were now open wide; he knew precisely who to thank for the night’s unexpected call.
Phillipe of Brouillard.
His eyes narrowed vengefully.
The deceiving fool had thought his plan infallible. Doubtless he’d believed that if he rid himself of Alarik, he would deliver King Robert from the terms of this agreement. But Phillipe had turned over the wrong stone—chosen the wrong man with whom to match wits and might.
Tonight he would pay the price.
His gaze fixed upon the horizon, his expression hard as unyielding steel. His features were well chiseled like that of his namesake’s, the hawk, and his pewter gray eyes had been likened to the silver of his sword, Dragvendil, for they could slice into the heart of a man with the ease of a fine gilt-edged blade.
The single turret appeared first, standing sentinel alone, its battlements a hungry mouth open to the heavens, jagged teeth exposed and ready to devour the concealing vapors.
Gracefully, with little more sound than the lifting and parting of skin-wrapped paddles from the black water, the drakken prows slid onward toward shore.
Like a mantle of misty white, the impenetrable fog cloaked his men from the fortress’s view, though Alarik spied the guard atop the stone tower at once, and a prickle raced down his spine as he waited for the man to sound the alarm.
Nothing, but a tumble of thunder, an approval from the heavens.
His men took heart. “Thor! ’Tis Thor! He is with us!” his men declared.
Their victory was predestined.
Alarik, no longer cleaving to the old gods, allowed his men their enthusiasm, but did not share in their triumph. He acknowledged their belief with a deferential nod, but would not accept that a mere rumble of thunder would predetermine the outcome of this battle. Their superior warrior’s skill alone, hard earned by the sweat and blood of their bodies, would give them the victory they sought tonight. That and naught else.
The wind picked up, feathering the haze away, leaving them completely exposed to the watchman’s view...
Still nothing but silence.
With a calmness that belied the occasion, Alarik listened and waited, his head tilted skyward with no emotion evident in the intense silver of his stare. He eyed the sentry intently for some sign that the alarm had already been sounded... that he’d missed it somehow, but there was nothing.
His eyes never left the turret.
All the while, the current brought them closer.
Closer…
With a flick of his hand he motioned for his men to cease their rowing. Their forward momentum alone would complete their glide to shore, and he needed the silence to better determine their position.
The oars were abandoned, but the night air remained undisturbed, the whispering wind the only sound to reach his ears. Incredibly, there were no shouts of ‘To arms! To arms!’ to be heard from within—despite the fact that Alarik was certain the guard had spied their approach. With an absent gesture, he stroked the hilt of his double-edged sword, considering the goal, assessing their options with narrowed eyes.
“A trap, jarl?”
By now, every man aboard the three warships had spied the lone figure atop the tower, but it was Sigurd Thorgoodson, Alarik’s most loyal warrior, who came forward to voice the concern.
“Nei,” Alarik said, his gaze returning to the figure above. The silhouette grew slowly clearer as they neared.
“They could not have known we would come.”
None of the count’s bumbling mercenaries had lived to carry the tale. Truth was, he had no inkling why the witless guard did not alert the castle.
Brouillard’s thick masonry walls were a deterrent to most in this day when castles were built of timber and so much easier to infiltrate, but Alarik knew this one’s damning secret and his lips twisted with ill-concealed contempt as he thought of the man whose blood he sought to spill this night.
Coward.
Only an incompetent, craven bastard would have such an escape portal. And there was only one thing Alarik despised more than a coward: a traitor.
Count Phillipe was both.
Never mind, for while the latter had decreed the count’s fate, the former now sealed it.
Concealed by the dense trees and bush of the forest beyond lay the means to breach the mist-enshrouded monstrosity—a hidden passage that backed deep into the sheltering woods. He grinned at the thought of it, a slow, merciless smile that swept winter into the silver of his eyes. For that bit of knowledge he could also thank the little balding man, for by it Alarik would return the count’s favor tenfold this night.
His grip tightened about Dragvendil’s hilt as he thought of the portal, for It was fitting the hidden passage should be the count’s very downfall this eve.
He had no qualms whatsoever about catching the count unawares. As declared by Phillipe’s own Christian God, It was fitting to take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth... a life for a life. Just as the count had dealt with him, so would he be dealt with himself.
The chill wind rose, swirling the remaining fog in its wake, obscuring the figure upon the turret momentarily before dissipating into the ominous heavens.
It was only then, in that moment, as the ship’s prow nudged its keel into the soft muck of the river embankment and ended its journey, that Alarik truly beheld the figure standing above them.
To his absolute shock... it was a woman... her dark hair long and fluttering wildly in the breeze... her light colored kyrtle billowing furiously with the wind.
The very sight of her made the ha
irs of his nape stand on end.
Elienor shook her head in denial, yet the proof sailed before her eyes, appearing from mist and shadows like a grim specter from the dark.
She braced herself against the buckling of her knees for the dream that had awakened her earlier and had sent her dashing to the tower to disprove it was, in truth, unfolding before her eyes. The rising wind buffeted her face, flinging her hair into wild disarray at her back, and sending icy prickles of fear down her spine.
Merely coincidences, Mother Heloise had claimed. Always when she would dream, and the dream held true, the old abbess would assure her that she was not afflicted with the second sight that cursed her mother’s life. Because her visions were few and her desperation great, Elienor had readily believed her. And yet, the sight before her gave testimony to her fears.
Now what was she to do?
Turn and flee down the steps, a voice whispered.
Warn the castle!
Her legs would not move.
If only her gifts did not mark her for a witch and condemn her to her mother’s tragic fate. She shivered as the wind, bitter as ice, lashed her. In that instant, she saw herself again as a child of four, standing atop the hallowed knoll of graves, the white lily she’d picked for her mother held firmly in her little hands.
In her mind, the voice came back to her with such clarity. “Whatever possessed you to come here at such an ungodly hour?”
Hearing Sister Heloise’s voice, Elienor had nearly cried her relief. She swung about and hurled herself into the sister’s welcoming arms.
“The lily!” she said, squirming to disengage herself. The old nun struggled to keep Elienor within her embrace. “The lily!” Elienor insisted.
“Non, non ma petite! ’Tis raining. We must go now! I will bring you again.” she coaxed. “When the rain has—”
Elienor struggled more fiercely. “Nay!” she cried.
Freeing herself abruptly, she scurried to the blossom and hastily scooped up a handful of wet soil from the center of the mound. Handling the lily gingerly, she planted the end of it into the hollow she’d formed, covering it carefully, taking her time whilst Sister Heloise hovered above her, shielding her back from the pattering rain.
Elienor’s eyes filled with tears as she turned and thrust herself back into the sister’s arms.
Sister Heloise lifted Elienor up. “There, there, now,” she soothed. “Sister Heloise will love you now, ma bonne petite. Together we will care for your maman’s lily. Oui?”
Elienor nodded into the warmth of Sister Heloise’s shoulder. “Maman loves lilies,” she said sadly. Her chin turned up a notch, and a tear slipped defiantly from her dark lashes. “She loves them so much!”
Sister Heloise carried her away and she turned to peer over the nun’s shoulder. With stark violet eyes, she watched the grave recede as they made their way down the hill. Her words were broken with emotion as she raised her little hand to wave farewell.
“Adieu, Maman. Adieu!”
The fates were cruel, indeed.
Elienor gulped back a sob of despair. The pain of her mother’s death was still fresh in her heart, even after all these years. To die so cruelly, for naught more than predicting the course of a peasant babe’s illness...
Would they question why she’d come to the tower tonight? She closed her eyes and begged for strength.
Mayhap It was but a dream...
But nay, for she felt the bitter wind as surely as she felt the numbness stealing into her bones. If only she were not such a coward! The merest notion that she might meet the same fate as did her mother made her knees weak and her tongue draw into knots.
Even now she could hear her mother’s screams and see her writhe helplessly against the flames of hell.
She bit into her whitening knuckles as she watched the specter ships advance.
There was no more time to linger. There was no need to say what had driven her to the tower, was there? None need know! She would tell them only that she had come for air—that she could not sleep.
Stricken with grief for the fate of Brouillard, Elienor watched an instant longer, needing to be absolutely certain. But she waited no longer than to see the Vikings land their vessels upon the moonlit shores, for little more time could be spared if she were to warn the castle.
She spun about and hurried down the tower stairs, tears brimming in her eyes, her movements stiff with terror and cold.
She should have known it was too good to be true. That Count Phillipe had asked for her hand in marriage and her uncle had assented was true enough, but that it would actually come to pass was more than she should have dared to hope for.
With assurances from Mother Heloise that Elienor was not beset with her mother’s curse, her uncle had withdrawn her from the cloister mere days before she was to make her vows to the church. So long she’d waited and despaired. Tonight marked one full month since she’d first come to Brouillard, and in little more than a fortnight she’d have become its countess. At last she would love and be loved in return! She would bear children into the world, love them, care for them. At last.
But it would never be.
Despite the fact that Mother Heloise had plainly perjured herself for Elienor’s sake.
Tears welled in her eyes as she rushed down the stairs. Fumbling for the silver ring that hung about her neck, she lifted it out from within the neckline of her bliaut and pressed it firmly to her breast. The night was well advanced. She only hoped she could rouse the castle in time. Though to what end?
Tears streaked down her pale cheeks, for deep down she knew it mattered not if she were to warn these people.
Their fates were sealed.
The Viking would prevail tonight.
CHAPTER 2
They moved quickly, like soundless shadows creeping through the night.
Flattening their war-hardened bodies against the stone walls, they made their way to the hidden portal.
She was gone now, but Alarik could still not wrench his gaze away from the tower above. Even as his men toiled to destroy the wooden portal, his eyes sought her. Once it was breached he could delay no longer, and he shuddered away a prickle of foreboding before turning to his men.
There was no guard posted at the hidden portal—arrogant, stupid Franksmann.
His eyes glinted with loathing. “Have eyes to your backs!” he warned his men, and then he raised his gilt-edged sword into the night. “May Dragvendil spare no man!” he charged. “May your own blades dole no mercy!” And with that, he stooped to lead them through the tiny, well-concealed portal.
‘To arms! To arms!”
Swiping at the tears that blinded her vision, Elienor shouted at the top of her lungs. ‘To arms!” she called again as she spiraled downward. Her frantic voice carried down before her into the hall below, and she was relieved to hear the ensuing commotion as the men stirred immediately from their slumber.
One man darted up the tower steps, tripping over himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, only to halt when he saw her. “My lady!” he gasped.
“Gaston!” It was the sentinel. He’d come in from the cold to warm himself only to fall asleep at the foot of the stairs. She’d passed him on her way up, had tiptoed around him so as not to wake him—so certain had she been that her dream would not hold true. Had he been at his given post tonight, it would have been Gaston to spy the Viking ships, and not Elienor. She wished, with all her soul, it had been so. Her heart pummeled against her ribs.
For an unbearable instant, neither spoke.
“The Northmen are come! I have seen them from the tower. Go quickly—warn the castle!”
The man’s eyes widened visibly. “My lady, art certain?”
“Aye!” she exclaimed. “Aye! Even now they climb the banks! Go!”
Sobered by her revelation, he did not hesitate to wonder why she’d been in the tower to begin with, nor did he linger to offer explanation as to why he was not, and she said a silent prayer of
thanks. She watched as he whirled about and raced back down, sounding the alarm.
Knowing there was little time to spare, Elienor followed, praying she’d not lose her footing on the slippery stone. So intent was she on her descent that she nearly tumbled over Stefan as he came loping noisily up the dimly lit stairwell. Despite the fact that his newly acquired sword clanged and scraped clumsily against the wall, she did not see that he was there until she was virtually upon him.
“My lady!” he reproved. “You will fall to your death!”
Elienor shrieked as he caught her arm. “Stefan!” Sweet Jesu! How could she have overlooked him? Stefan had not forsaken her when first she’d arrived at Brouillard! Despite the fact that he was no more than a boy of thirteen summers, he’d been the only one with wisdom enough to understand her apprehension over coming alone to a strange new household. The rest had kept themselves apart. It was her duty to save him if she could!
“My lady? Is it true?” There was a tremor of excitement to his voice. “Gaston says you have spied the Northmen?”
A quiver of fear passed down Elienor’s spine, but she recovered herself, seizing him by the wrist. Knowing full well that he would feel obliged to hie to his lord’s side, she ignored his question and tugged him after her. “Quickly,” she commanded on impulse. “Follow me!” If his face had been revealed to her within the tapestry of her dream, she would have known the futility of altering its course. But it had not been, and Stefan was far too young to die!
“My lady!” he protested. He cringed as the sword Count Phillipe had so recently presented to him shaved the wall. “My lord...”
“I spoke to him just now,” she lied. “He said you were to come with me to the chapel!” It was only a small lie, she reasoned. Surely God would forgive it.
“My lady?” He tried freeing his arm from her frenzied grip, but Elienor clutched it all the more fiercely. “Did you not realize that my lord has gone to Pa—”
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