Chapter Seven
Elgiva awoke to broad daylight. For a few confused seconds she could not remember where she was. Then memory flooded back and with it shame. Beside her lay the man who was her husband now. Wulfrum slept on and for a moment or two she watched. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown behind his head in an attitude that seemed both abandoned and vulnerable. Her gaze travelled from the dark tousled hair to his face, exploring its chiselled lines, then moving on to the lips and chin and thence to his naked torso where the marks of her nails showed a harsh red. The welts looked painful, but she felt no remorse. It occurred to her as she watched him sleep that anyone with a blade could kill him where he lay, driving the point between his ribs and thrusting it in to the hilt. It would be no more than he deserved. Even as the thought formed itself, she rejected it—she could never kill a man in cold blood. Besides, had he not spared her from dire humiliation last night? Aye, and rape too. Why had he? It was his right to take her and yet he had waived that right. Truly the man was an enigma: on the one hand, a fearsome warrior, and, on the other, capable of tenderness and compassion. He intrigued even while he repelled.
Throwing the coverlet aside, she eased herself to the edge of the bed but was stopped short. Her hair was partly trapped beneath the weight of his body. With great care she eased it away. Wulfrum stirred, but did not wake. Elgiva drew in a deep breath as the strands came free. Cautiously she climbed out of bed, glancing around for her kirtle. Then she remembered what had become of it and her cheeks grew hot. Seizing a pelt from the bed, she wrapped it around herself and tiptoed to the window, peeping through a crack in the shutter. Nothing stirred, either in the courtyard or the meadow beyond the palisade where the majority of Halfdan’s force was encamped. No doubt many would feel like death this morning after the vast quantities of mead and ale they had consumed. She turned back into the room, thinking to retrieve her gown. It would not be so comfortable without the kirtle beneath, but there was no alternative unless she wished to leave the chamber clad only in a wolf pelt. The rest of her garments were in the chest in her bower.
Looking round the room, she saw the clothing that Wulfrum had discarded the previous night and with it his sword. Elgiva moved towards it, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. With care she lifted the heavy blade from its resting place and studied the hilt in curiosity. It was made of iron, gilded, and bound with copper wire, the pommel set with red jasper. Closing her hand round the hilt, she drew the blade part way from its scabbard. It was a fine weapon and beautifully wrought—a true melding of iron and steel. Where the hammer had fallen on the metal, it had left wondrous patterns like wreaths of frozen breath, fantastic shapes that seemed to change with the light. Down the centre were hammered grooves to channel the blood. She had no need to try the edge of the blade to know it was keen. She would have wagered too, that it was finely balanced. In truth, it was a warrior’s weapon.
‘Were you planning to use that, Elgiva?’
She spun round to see Wulfrum watching her from the bed. Recovering her self-possession, she slid the blade back into the scabbard.
‘No. You are more use to me alive. All the same, it is a beautiful sword.’
‘It is called Dragon Tooth.’
‘An apt name.’ Elgiva laid the weapon back where she had found it.
‘So it is,’ he agreed. ‘It was wrought by a smith of great renown among my people. He made it for Lord Ragnar, and he gave it to me.’
‘A handsome gift. He must have favoured you highly.’
‘He was like a father to me.’
Elgiva looked at the sheathed blade and thence at Wulfrum. The blue gaze that met hers was implacable. Elgiva shivered. Suddenly a lot of things had become clearer.
‘And when King Ella slew Ragnar, you sought to avenge his death.’
‘Of course. I swore the blood oath along with his sons. With my sword brothers. It was a matter of honour.’
‘A matter of honour to slay King Ella, perhaps,’ replied Elgiva, ‘but to slaughter the innocent too?
‘Kings are not as ordinary men. The decisions they make fall on all their subjects for good or ill. When Ella threw Ragnar into the snake pit, he not only murdered a great warrior he added grave injury to that insult—a warrior must die with a sword in his hand or he cannot enter Valhalla. Ella denied him that right and in so doing he sealed his own fate and that of his kingdom.’
Elgiva bit her lip, knowing there was more than a grain of truth in his words. Besides, for years Northumbria’s rulers had been involved in petty disputes. Had they only joined forces, the Vikings might have been repelled. As it was, the land was overrun and its people conquered. Guessing the trend of her thoughts, Wulfrum frowned.
‘There is no use repining. What’s done is done.’
‘Indeed, but do not expect a conquered people to enjoy their situation.’
‘I do not, but I expect to be obeyed.’ Wulfrum’s voice was quiet, but every word carried weight. ‘The conquered must bend to the yoke.’
‘Aye, my lord, for who would dare do other?’ The tone dripped sarcasm.
‘I think you are not conquered, lady.’
Elgiva glared at him. Undismayed, he let his gaze travel over her appreciatively. The pelt she had wrapped about her left her arms and shoulders bare and stopped short mid-thigh, revealing a shapely pair of legs, and he was reminded of those other more intimate places beneath. He resisted the temptation.
‘Come, do not deny it.’
‘Whatever you say, my lord.’
‘The man who would be your lord, Elgiva. Only I think another stands between.’
Genuinely puzzled, she could only stare at him.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t understand. I refer to your former betrothed.’
‘Aylwin?’
‘He.’
‘How can he stand between, my lord? He is gone.’
‘And yet you have not forgotten him.’
‘No. How could I?’
‘Then you were fond of him,’
‘He was a good man. I respected him.’
‘More than that, I think.’
Elgiva began to feel uneasy, wondering at the tenor of his questions.
‘He was a friend of my father’s. Since his death, Lord Aylwin considered it his duty to help our family.’
‘Indeed. And what of your brother?’
‘He died in a hunting accident two months ago.’
‘And yet the neglect I see around this estate goes back further.’
‘Osric had no interest in anything save his hawks and his hounds.’ She hesitated. ‘You have seen how things are at Ravenswood. I could not bear to see it so neglected. The only way to change things was to marry a man who would restore the place to what it was when my father was alive.’
He heard the sadness in her voice and understood. He too knew what it was to lose a father. Yet her brother must have been a wastrel indeed, to let so fair an estate fall into rack and ruin. In that moment he had an insight into her predicament and knew it would have been hard on a woman alone.
‘So after your brother’s death you were left alone.’
‘Save for Osric’s sons,’ she replied. ‘The children whom Sweyn would have murdered.’ The contempt was clear, but he could understand it.
‘Did your brother make no attempt to find a husband for you?’
‘No.’ She did not qualify it, hoping yet to keep the conversation away from Aylwin. ‘I told you, he had no interest in the matter.’
‘Very remiss of him.’
Elgiva felt her blood race, more than ever aware of that searching blue gaze. Why should he care about her relationship with Aylwin?
‘A woman alone would find herself in an unenviable position,’ he went on. ‘Particularly a beautiful woman with wealth and land.’
‘I did not choose the circumstances.’
‘No. What woman would?’ He paused. ‘You would seem to have been fortunate in your friends.’
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‘As you say, lord.’
‘But this Aylwin was much more than a friend, was he not?’ The blue gaze grew warmer. ‘You loved him, didn’t you?’
He saw the momentary flicker of surprise on her face and knew a moment’s triumph. His guess had been right, then. Her reluctance for him stemmed from her love for another.
‘Some marriages are made for love, my lord,’ she replied, ‘but precious few.’
The irony was pointed and his jaw tightened in response.
‘True,’ he replied. ‘And yet that has never been grounds for a wife to deny her husband.’
‘You think I denied you because I loved Aylwin?’ Elgiva wanted to laugh, but it caught in her throat like a sob.
‘Is it not so?’
She shook her head, unable and unwilling to explain. Wulfrum smiled grimly.
‘Then let us put it to the test.’
Without warning, he scooped her up and carried her to the bed, spilling her on to the coverlet and pinning her there with the weight of his body, clamping her wrists in strong hands. For a moment he was silent and Elgiva remained quite still, waiting, praying, striving to keep her breathing even, to ignore the pleasurable warmth along the length of her skin. It seemed as if every part of their bodies touched. If he pressed his advantage now, she could not stop him. For a fleeting second she wasn’t even sure she would try. Appalled, she pulled herself up abruptly. He was the enemy. There could be no warmth between them.
Unable to follow the thoughts behind the smooth brow, Wulfrum frowned. For all that they afforded pleasure, women were subtle and devious creatures, not to be trusted like men. Elgiva’s golden beauty made her more dangerous than most. He knew that she had told him some of the truth, but he was not naïve enough to think she had told him everything. However, it answered some of the questions that had been puzzling him in the past few days. He would discover the rest by and by. In the meantime he was in a highly desirable position.
Elgiva saw his expression change and tensed beneath him, putting up a token resistance to the kiss he took next. His mouth on hers was gentle, but it would not be denied, forcing hers open, demanding her response. It seemed to go on for a long time. Then he drew back a little, looking into her face.
‘Give yourself to me, Elgiva.’ The tone was more a plea than a demand, his voice husky with desire. Her body tensed further. Seeing her expression, he masked disappointment with mockery. ‘No? I thought not.’
She met his gaze and tried to ignore the dangerous thumping of her heart.
‘I will never give myself to you.’
The blue eyes burned. ‘Did you give yourself to Aylwin?’
For a moment she was thrown. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was jealous. It was tempting to lie, to tell him she had belonged to his enemy, but somehow she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.
‘No.’
‘He was a laggard, then.’
‘He showed restraint out of respect. I cannot expect you to understand.’
‘I understand, all right—you didn’t want to bed him.’
Her cheeks grew warm, partly for the accuracy of that shot and partly for the assurance with which it was delivered.
‘Come, admit it.’
‘I admit nothing except that I loathe you,’ she retorted.
If she expected him to become enraged, she was mistaken.
‘No, you don’t.’ He smiled and reached out, taking a lock of her hair between his fingers, testing its softness. ‘And you will come.’
Her jaw tightened. Did this arrogant barbarian think she would fall into his arms just because he willed it?
‘You are thinking you will never do that, isn’t it so?’
The blush on her cheeks was sufficient answer and his smile widened.
‘Never is a long time, Elgiva, and time is all on my side.’
Then she felt his weight shift and she was no longer pinned. In trembling relief she massaged her bruised wrists and watched him leave the bed to cross the floor and retrieve her gown. Then he tossed it to her. She caught it awkwardly.
‘Put it on.’ He saw the fleeting expression of surprise in the amber eyes. ‘Yes, I’m letting you go—for now.’
Nothing loath, Elgiva rose and struggled into the gown, conscious the while of his watchful gaze, but she could think of nothing to say. Then, having dressed, she moved to the door. It was still closed and the wooden bar heavy and awkward. As she struggled to lift it, Wulfrum moved. Two large hands covered hers. Elgiva froze. Had he changed his mind? She looked up at him to find out. The mocking smile was back, but he lifted the heavy bar. Weak with relief, Elgiva swallowed hard. However, he held the door closed a moment longer.
‘I will give instruction for your things to be moved in here.’
‘I have my own bower.’
‘Henceforth you will share this room with me,’ he replied. ‘Love me or loathe me, you will discover how real this marriage is going to be.’ The tone was soft enough, but utterly implacable. Unable to withstand his gaze longer, Elgiva looked away. Wulfrum smiled. Then, to her unspeakable relief, he opened the door and let her pass.
Elgiva made her way back to her bower and sank weak-kneed and shaking on to her bed. The tears she had been holding back spilled over and fell unchecked, all the fears and tensions of the last week pouring out in great racking sobs. She cried for the loss of her kin and her home and for the knowledge of a past life that could never be regained. She cried for a long time. Osgifu, peeping in unnoticed, saw her and retreated again to let her have her cry out. The grieving was long overdue.
When it was over, she brought hot water and helped her mistress wash away the scent of the bedroom. Then she helped her to dress again in a clean kirtle and the blue gown. She combed out the golden hair and braided it down Elgiva’s back in a neat and sober plait. When she was done, it seemed to her that no trace remained of the frightened girl at the end of her tether and that in her place was a poised and lovely woman.
By now life was stirring in the hall and Elgiva had no wish to meet any of the Viking war band. She slipped out and, after checking that the coast was clear, went to the stables where her bay mare was stalled. Hearing her footstep, the horse whinnied softly, turning her elegant head to look at the approaching figure. Her soft muzzle snuffled the proffered palm and Elgiva wished she could have found an apple to bring. She stroked the glossy neck and looked the animal over with an expert eye, but to her relief the horse was unscathed by recent events. A look around the stables made it clear they all were. It was evident the Vikings held livestock too dear for indiscriminate slaughter. The mare’s bridle still hung on the peg at the stall’s entrance and for a moment Elgiva was swept with longing to get out of Ravenswood, to ride away from everyone and everything. Another moment’s reflection assured her it would never be permitted. She might be Wulfrum’s wife now, but she was a captive for all that and would not be allowed out of sight. The war band would leave soon and Ravenswood would be in Wulfrum’s hands, as would she. He would certainly never permit her to ride and so provide the means for her escape. Elgiva sighed. The horse was a symbol of the freedom she had lost and would never have again. Ravenswood was no longer her home, it was her prison and she shackled irrevocably to her gaoler. Nothing could change that now except death. In that bleak moment it seemed in many ways preferable to the future that awaited her. Then she remembered Osgifu’s words and knew she could not abandon her people. That dark future beneath the Viking heel was theirs too; somehow she and they must dredge up whatever remained of courage and resilience and find the means to face it. The old days were over. Sad at heart, she gave the horse a final pat and reluctantly quit the stall.
As she left the stables, she became aware of other people all moving in solemn procession towards the burying ground. For a moment her heart misgave her and she wondered who else was dead. Then she remembered. Wulfrum had promised that the Saxon graves might be blessed. Fear was overlaid by relie
f and a measure of surprise. He had kept his word. Though his men were everywhere in evidence, they made no attempt to interfere. She noticed Sweyn in the background. He gave her a sardonic smile. Elgiva ignored it and looked away, focusing her mind instead on the priest and the words of the blessing.
Standing in the midst of the crowd, she became aware of the man next to her. He seemed familiar, but it was hard to see his face for he wore a hood that concealed his features in its shadow. Then he turned just for a moment and she started. Brekka!
She stared at him aghast. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I had to speak with you, my lady.’
‘Why?’
‘Lord Aylwin sent me.’
Elgiva paled and for a moment thought she might faint. With a severe effort she regained her self-control.
‘Aylwin lives?’
‘Aye, he lives.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In the forest with those of our warriors who survived the battle.’
‘Is he well?’
‘Well enough, though his wounds are not completely healed.’ Brekka paused. ‘He bade me tell you to be of good cheer and to say that he will come for you.’
Elgiva drew in a sharp breath. ‘Brekka, he must not. The Vikings will kill him if they catch him.’
‘They will not catch him. When he is recovered, he will gather a force to retake Ravenswood.’
She stared at him in consternation. ‘It is madness. It will but lead to more bloodshed.’
‘That is unavoidable, my lady.’
‘Tell him he must not do this thing. Tell him to get away, far away—Wessex, perhaps. Anywhere the Vikings hold no sway.’
‘I will tell him what you say, my lady, but I think he will not heed it.’
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