Viking's Prize

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Olav’s arms flew out at once to embrace Alarik. “Mine bror!” he bellowed cheerfully.

  Alarik grunted, returning the embrace.

  Olav punctuated the greeting with a number of whacks upon Alarik’s back.

  Not to be outdone, Alarik whacked him back, none too gently, then embraced him more heartily, conceding with a grumble that he was glad to see his brother—even if Olav’s timing was ever poor.

  “Come, old man, let us go in ere we die of exposure,” he suggested.

  “Old man?” Olav exclaimed. “You’ve more years on that body of yours than I can claim.”

  As they walked together, Alarik awarded Olav a disgruntled glance. “Only tell me, Olav, how is it you always seem know when I’m newly arrived? And why is it,” he wondered aloud, giving vent to his frustration, “that you always show up in time to usurp mine bed?”

  Olav placed a hand upon Alarik’s shoulder, grinning. “I couldn’t wait to see you, of course,” he exclaimed with a hearty chuckle.

  Alarik offered him a dubious glance, his eyes sharp and assessing. “That so?”

  Olav chuckled and ceded, “The truth is that while I never miss the opportunity to see mine faithful bror, I was, indeed, looking for your ships to arrive.” He cleared his throat. “I rather hoped you would join me in a small voyage. Tyri wishes—”

  Alarik snorted. “And how is your lovely wife?” His eyes glinted with sarcasm.

  Olav scowled at him for the quip and then conceded. “I’m afraid time finds her more bitter than ever,” he grumbled. He heaved a hearty sigh. “She would have her lands in the Dane’s mark returned to her and has pressed me to retrieve them. I should say... she’s immensely displeased not to have holdings in the Northland as befits a queen of her station, and I find myself wondering if, mayhap, she might be right.” He lifted his brows in question, and Alarik knew full well he sought agreement.

  Alarik refused to give it.

  His own brows knit in disbelief. “As your wife, Olav, Tyri wants for naught and still she whines for more.” He shook his head and cautioned, “You know where I stand where she’s concerned—let us not find reason to quarrel this night. I take it,” he said, shifting the topic, “that this voyage you wish me to consider is significant enough to you that I should consider leaving the comfort of mine steading mere days after arriving?”

  Olav sighed. “It is,” he assured, looking weary.

  Alarik shook his head, thinking that Tyri once again led his brother on a merry chase. Yet better Olav than him. He shuddered to think how close he’d come to binding himself to the harridan himself. “Then I shall consider it,” he yielded. “However... until I decide, I’ll not be giving up mine bed to you!” In truth, he’d been able to think of naught other than the sweet torture he’d experienced the night before. Why he should seek to subject himself to it again, he couldn’t fathom, yet in time, he determined, she would learn to accept him...

  Aye, he’d sworn not to force her—and he’d keep that vow. Still... there were ways...

  “You won’t?”

  Alarik glanced at Olav, his brows lifting. “Won’t what?”

  Olav cocked his head curiously, wondering what had Alarik so preoccupied. “Give up your bed?”

  “Nei,” he asserted, once and for all shaking his mind free of the little vixen awaiting him in his chamber. “Not this time. You’ll need find yourself another bed to snore in, for I’ll not be giving up mine.”

  “Though I did not ask you to!” Olav protested. “Not for your kin—nor your king!” he added plaintively. “Even if I did gift the accursed thing to you!”

  Alarik’s lips twisted wryly. “As of yet, you’ve not asked,” he asserted, giving Olav a narrow-eyed glance. “And in truth, the only reason you gave me that accursed bed was that your precious Tyri would not take her rest where you’d bedded your mistresses.”

  Olav placed a hand to his heart, yet he grinned shrewdly. “Ever you wound me, mine bror! I tell you I was not going to ask that you give up your bed. Tyri is not with me, as you can see, and so I shan’t be imposing.”

  Alarik’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I didn’t notice the virago missing,” he said lightly.

  Olav’s brow furrowed. “She’d not like to hear you say such things. As it is, she believes you’ll never forgive her.”

  “Tis likely she’s right,” he allowed.

  Olav’s face contorted suspiciously. “But you no longer care for her?”

  “Nei,” Alarik answered without hesitation.

  “Yet still you won’t forgive her?” Olav asked, beginning to take offense. “I’m not certain I relish hearing what I think I’m hearing from your lips,” he said tightly.

  Alarik heaved a weary sigh and offered his brother a frown. “Nei, Olav, ’tis not what you think. I believe you know very well that I care little that Tyri chose your miserable hide over mine. In truth, I thank Odin at every opportunity!”

  Olav winced at Alarik’s choice of deities. “Aye, well! Thank the God of Abraham instead.”

  “Whomever. What I do care about is that she gave not a thought about coming betwixt brothers.”

  “I see,” Olav said, and then teased, “so then you will always dislike Tyri because you cherish me so much?” His brows rose.

  Alarik chuckled. “Cherish?” He shook his head. “’Tis your word, old dog, not mine!” Yet he was forced to concede to himself that he valued both his brothers more highly than he did any other living soul. It was simply not his way to acknowledge such things aloud.

  Olav chuckled heartily, his sense of humor returning. “Well... ’tis more likely Tyri did not feel a mere half-brother worthy. You know mine bride—only the finest!” He stole a look at Alarik. “In fact I’ve oft wondered how she even considered you at all?”

  Alarik lifted his brows, grinning, thinking that it was more likely the other way around.

  “At any rate, ’tis the truth she did not expect we would be so close,” Olav revealed. “I do not believe she meant to come between us. She simply did not realize, is all.”

  Alarik gave him a dubious glance. His own opinion of Tyri was not so benevolent. Like Nissa, while she wasn’t malicious outright, she had no qualms over using whatever means necessary to gain her purpose.

  Olav placed an arm about his shoulders as they entered the enlivened hall. “At any rate, mine bror... I’ve heard a rumor... won’t you tell me about this wench you’ve brought with you from Francia...”

  CHAPTER 19

  Elienor had been eager enough to comply. Why she’d felt a momentary qualm over leaving Alarik’s side she had no notion, but she was grateful now that he’d ordered her to his chamber. She had no wish to witness their barbarous contest. Still the temptation to listen at the door had been much too great.

  What if he lost? What would become of her then?

  She shuddered to think of herself at Flame Hair’s mercy, and couldn’t help but say a fervent prayer that Alarik would win. It was appalling that she should be reduced to praying for such a thing, yet here she was, nonetheless! She told herself firmly that it was only for her own protection that she cared who won, or that she’d hesitated to leave him to begin with, for otherwise, he could take himself off to Viking purgatory for all it concerned her!

  Unaware that she held her breath, until the sound of the scuffle was over and her vision blackened at the edges, she slumped against the door, sighing in relief, hardly able to explain what had just happened.

  Jesu Christ—her head ached!

  Had he truly banished his man?

  For her?

  Surely not.

  After an interval, she sat upon the bed to wait, pondering his motives. Yet half an hour later, he still had not appeared, and Elienor’s nerves were fraying fast; she had expected to see his scowling face come bursting into the chamber at any moment.

  A female servant arrived to stir the fire and serve supper, and then she left without a word, and still there was no sign of hi
m. Lying back upon the bed, Elienor dared to hope that she would be spared his appearance... and thus his fury, for she still could not discern what had angered him so.

  Eventually he would need to come to his bed, though, and It was that she dreaded most.

  But she refused to think about it just now.

  At once, she envisioned his lips hovering above hers, so close, daring her to yield, and again she could not help but compare Count Phillipe’s sloppy kisses. In deference to her uncle, Count Phillipe had never done more than simply kiss her, but sweet Jesu, deny it all she may, never with him had she felt such... such... anticipation?

  Even now she felt a strange fluttering deep down at the merest thought—and Alarik had yet to even touch her in any manner at all—much less an intimate kiss! In truth, he’d not so much as looked at her as though he would kiss her. And still she could not expunge the vision of his lips from her mind.

  Forsooth! Did she require further evidence of her insanity?

  “I shall make it right,” Bjorn crooned, thrusting his fingers into Nissa’s disheveled hair. Leaning against the storage building, he drew her gently into his embrace.

  “But mine father!” she cried, resisting him. “Oh, Bjorn, I’m ashamed! I have failed him!” She shook her head woefully, her eyes swollen with tears, the crown of her head covered with icy flakes. “He’ll be so displeased with me!”

  Stroking her quaking back with his fingers, Bjorn compelled her to lay her cold cheek against his pounding chest. Reaching up to brush the snow from her hair, he closed his eyes in pleasure and laid his own head back against the rough timber, allowing the fresh snow to sprinkle down upon his face. He couldn’t be more exhilarated by the turn of events—despite the fact that the woman he loved was weeping in fear and pain. He truly believed Nissa loved him too—had always loved him, as he had her. It was only her driving need to satisfy her unpleasable father that made her think otherwise.

  “I’ll speak to Ejnar, myself, Nissa. You’ll see... everything will work out for the best. You don’t love Alarik!” he told her. Finally, something sweet would come his way. He intended to convince Ejnar the Dane to award him his youngest daughter, and then he would spend the rest of his life building her a home. “I swear it!”

  Nissa turned her tear-stained face up to look at him. “I swear it!” he whispered again, more fervently, and his body jolted with elation as she returned his embrace. He stared at her a long moment, trying to discern whether he’d understood correctly.

  Nissa stared back, nodding.

  Bjorn needed no more encouragement. At once he hoisted her up into his arms to carry her within the reserve hut, at last to make her his.

  From the high seat, Alarik watched as the runty pup Red-Hrolf had tormented lifted its curious head, then stood and stretched before limping toward the high table. He tossed the pup a scrap from his own plate, and recalled the way Elienor, at hearing its whimper, had been prepared to leap to its defense. She seemed to have a propensity for mothering both man and beast alike—seemed to need to protect—and, in fact, leapt at every opportunity.

  Olav slammed his fist upon the wooden table suddenly, arresting his attention.

  “I tell you no matter how hard I try, those accursed rebels will not give! They protest that the new God will weaken them—turn them into whimpering fearful little creatures who flee at their own shadows. Bah! I say to them, for they need only look at me to know ’tis not so. How much more strength need I show?”

  Alarik glanced at his brother, his face impassive, for he recognized the mood. “Mayhap that is the issue, Olav. Mayhap a lighter hand will gain you more?” he suggested, and then sighed when Olav shook his head adamantly. “If I know you... you did not take their refusal lightly.”

  “Nei—nei, I did not. Most assuredly I did not!” Olav leaned forward upon his elbows to stare into his tankard. “Can they not comprehend how much it would profit us if we united with the empire?”

  “Have you explained as much?”

  “The fools will not listen!”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  Olav said nothing, merely continued to stare into his tankard.

  “I must know if I am to support you, Olav.”

  Olav’s head jerked up and his canny green eyes locked with Alarik’s. “Then you have decided?”

  “Nei,” Alarik said with a weary sigh. “I have not. Yet you know I would back you regardless, for you are mine brother. What did you tell them?”

  Olav’s face reddened with remembered fury. “I commanded they acknowledge the Christian God by baptism... or be sacrificed to Odin!”

  Alarik winced. “And?”

  “None of the fools accepted my challenge, of course,” Olav gloated.

  “Well... what is done is done, but I’d be willing to wager that none will take your challenge lightly. Guard yourself,” he advised his brother, for neither a jarl’s nor a king’s power was absolute. Leadership was not simply gifted to a man for his birth status; rather, the position of jarl or kingship was exacted by the most able and revered, otherwise Alarik would not have achieved half of what he had, for as a bastard, his bloodline was far from noble.

  Olav threw a hand up in condemnation. “Bah! Let them perish in the offal of their heathen gods, then! Now... tell me more of the girl,” Olav demanded, shifting the subject drastically. “You say she was raised in a nunnery?”

  Alarik nodded, lifting his tankard to his lips. He glanced backward at his chamber door. They’d come into the skali long hours ago—had been here so long he’d finally had to send repast in to Elienor—and he was rapidly growing impatient with the company at hand. Curse Olav and his rotten timing! “So she claims,” he muttered, drinking deeply of his ale.

  Olav heaved a ponderous sigh. “You know I do not wish discord with the church. Alarik, are you listening?”

  Alarik swung back toward his brother. “Mmhhh.”

  He wondered what she was doing.

  He’d not set eyes upon her since ordering her to his chamber.

  “I’ve simply come too far to risk contention over a wench, of all things.” Olav placed his hand upon Alarik’s shoulder in appeal. “Mayhap, if you did not care for her overmuch?”

  Alarik’s scowl darkened, for the last thing he wanted was to become a beleaguered husband. He shuddered suddenly at the turn of his thoughts. Husband? Since when would he even have considered a thrall as a candidate for wife? Since when had he considered a wife at all? “I don’t.”

  Olav’s mood lightened, satisfied as he was with the expected response. “Well—I didn’t think so! At any rate,” he continued, “mayhap for the sake of peace with the church, for me, you will return her to...”

  Alarik slammed his tankard down, shrugging Olav’s hand from his shoulder. “Nei! She stays!”

  Olav scratched his chin, tilting his head in stupefaction. “Yet you don’t care for her?”

  “Nei,” Alarik maintained, his jaw taut.

  Olav chuckled suddenly, his green eyes dancing. “I see.”

  Alarik glowered at him and shoved his tankard away. “You see naught, you pompous old dog!” He rose abruptly from the table. “I’m going to bed,” he said irascibly.

  To that declaration, Olav merely threw his head back and roared with laughter. “And yet he says he does not care for her?” He turned to elbow Brother Vernay.

  At Olav’s unexpected jab in the ribs, Brother Vernay choked upon his ale, uncomfortable at taking his meal with so many hostile eyes upon him.

  Alarik ignored the quip, shoving away from the table.

  Brother Vernay cleared his throat. “Er... my lords?” He raked his chair backward and stood along with Alarik. “If I might be so bold?”

  Alarik turned from Olav, to the pestering monk his brother had cast into his life, his face contorting with impatience. It was the bane of his existence that Olav adhered to the one extreme, Bjorn to the other. “Go on,” he prompted, his brow furrowing suddenly as he scanned
the hall. Bjorn was nowhere to be found, and he wondered idly that he’d not missed his youngest brother ere now. Nevertheless, Bjorn’s absence surprised him not, for the animosity between he and Olav was palpable, oft splitting Alarik between the two.

  “You said the demoiselle was raised in a nunnery?”

  “Aye,” Alarik affirmed. “If her word is true.”

  “Well, then—if I may be so bold to advise—I believe I know a way we might appease everyone.”

  Both men stared expectantly.

  “Aye, well,” Vernay continued. “My lord, Olav, I know how much you would like for me to record for you l’ ecriture sainte, and if the demoiselle can copy, then she might be the answer to our quandary!”

  Both men continued to stare blankly, unaware there was a quandary.

  Brother Vernay cleared his throat and tried again. “You know I cannot write,” he reasoned. “Though the demoiselle would be perfectly suited to the task. Surely they would have taught her letters at the priory. And jarl?” he prompted, appealing to Alarik’s desire to keep the girl. “Wouldn’t that be the perfect persuasion? If she thought this were God’s will for her? Having been raised in the priory, she couldn’t possibly disagree. If only she were to realize how much she was needed here!”

  Alarik nodded, considering.

  “And my lord, Olav… I believe the demoiselle might even prove to be a suitable... er... influence, shall we say, for... he inclined his head subtly toward Alarik, “... us all?”

  “Aye!” Olav exclaimed, warming finally to Brother Vernay’s meaning. “Aye! I believe she would in fact be the perfect solution! ’Tis settled then!” he said, excited.

  “Er... not quite, my lords,” Brother Vernay broke in once more. His brows rose apprehensively. “There are those who would need to be appeased—her family for instance—but I would be delighted to speak in your behalf!”

  “Very good!” Olav exclaimed.

  “I dare say, we should hear no objections from the church,” Vernay added. “And I’m certain that in itself will hold tremendous sway with her family. Surely they can have no objections when informed by the church of the exceptional task set before her? Know you who they might be, my lord?”