‘Shall we give chase?’ demanded Ironfist.
‘No. Let them go.’
Wulfrum leaned on his sword, breathing hard. He turned and looked around at the scene of carnage. Apart from several casualties among Halfdan’s men, of the dozen who had originally set out with Wulfrum, only five were standing alongside himself and Ironfist. Three more were injured, the rest were slain. His anger grew.
Then Ironfist noticed the blood dripping over Wulfrum’s wrist and hand. ‘You are hurt.’
‘A gash, no more.’
‘Best let me bind it.’
Wulfrum stood while the big Viking took a cloth from his saddlebag and bound it expertly round the wound. Having done so, he looked around, surveying the bodies of the attackers.
‘Saxons,’ he said, ‘but why would they risk attacking such a large group?’
Wulfrum shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’ Then he remembered Elgiva’s words: Be vigilant on this journey. Had she known more about this than she confessed to? Was she implicated? As he beheld the bodies of the slain, all his former doubts resurfaced and with them his anger.
‘It seems the rebels grow bolder,’ said Sweyn, looking around him with casual interest. ‘You will have quite a task on your hands, Wulfrum.’ He wiped the blood from his blade before sheathing it again. ‘But at least we can look forward to a good fight.’
‘No doubt.’ Wulfrum turned to Ironfist. ‘Have the men mount up. I want to get back to Ravenswood.’
As Ironfist moved away, Sweyn grinned and his expression grew mocking.
‘Missing the lovely Elgiva, Wulfrum?’ Then, seeing the other’s expression, he feigned contrition. ‘Not that I blame you, of course.’
‘You take a deal too much interest in my wife. I should resent it if the time were right.’
‘Let it be a quarrel between us then, if you live.’
‘I’ll live.’ Wulfrum’s voice was cold. Retrieving his horse’s reins, he remounted, pausing a moment to survey his rival. ‘Whether you will do the same is another matter.’
‘Trust me…’ Sweyn bared his teeth in a vulpine smile ‘…I’ll have Elgiva yet.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘Why, so I hope.’
Refusing to be drawn further, Wulfrum touched Firedrake with his spur and the big horse cantered away.
Elgiva breathed a sigh of relief when eventually the pace slowed for a while to let the horses breathe. Already they were many miles from Ravenswood and all hope of aid. Her heart sank to think that she would likely not be missed for some time. Even then, no one would have any idea where she was. Aylwin had laid his plans well, baiting the trap with expert care. All sympathy for him had evaporated now. In following his own desires he had completely ignored hers, thinking to take by force what she could not give. She shivered. If once he and his men reached Wessex, she would be beyond all help. Even Wulfrum could not pursue her there. Wulfrum! If only he might be spared the ambush laid for him. If only he might live. Nothing else mattered.
She was so preoccupied that she failed to notice Aylwin beside her until he spoke.
‘Why so sad, Elgiva?’
She turned to look at him, hoping to find some trace of remorse in his expression, some small expression of pity that she might exploit.
‘You know why,’ she replied.
‘Have I not rescued you from the Viking’s clutches? Do I not deserve your thanks?’
‘Wulfrum is my husband.’
‘Not for much longer.’
‘He is not so easy to kill.’
‘It matters not.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A marriage made under duress to a pirate raider is no marriage at all. When we reach Wessex I shall appeal to Alfred. He will be exceeding grateful for the reinforcements I bring and he is withal a most pious king. I anticipate no difficulty in having your marriage to the Viking set aside.’
‘And say you do. What then?’
‘Then you will wed me as is my legal right as your betrothed.’
‘I will not marry you, Aylwin.’
‘You will have no choice, my dear, when it is a matter of royal decree.’
Elgiva closed her eyes for a moment, striving against the knowledge that he was right. If the king ordered it, she would be forced to submit to his will. Aylwin could then marry her within the hour. In desperation she made a last appeal to his better self.
‘What point, my lord? Would you have an unwilling wife?’
‘I would rather have you willing, Elgiva, but if not I’ll have you anyway.’ His gaze hardened. ‘Forget your Viking earl. You belong to me now.’
She drew in a deep breath, fighting down panic. He would not see her weep and plead. In any event it would be useless for all appeals would be denied. She would not give him that satisfaction. Aylwin saw her chin come up and nodded.
‘That’s better. Do you know, I’ve always admired your spirit and your good sense. You fight well, Elgiva, but you know when you cannot win.’
‘It isn’t over yet.’ Even as she said it, she was not at all sure it was true. He was strong and resourceful and now he had her in his power.
‘Shall we have a wager on that?’
‘I would wager only that you will die on the point of Wulfrum’s sword.’
‘Then you will lose. I am your lord now.’
Wulfrum urged the stallion to a gallop, a mile-eating pace that closed the distance between him and Ravenswood. As he rode, a lot of things became clearer in his mind and he knew for a certainty that he was supposed to have died in that ambush along with his men. It had been no random incident. The attackers had been Saxons and only one man hereabouts had the necessary knowledge to order it—the knowledge and the motive. Aylwin. He had not bowed to the Viking yoke, nor had he forgiven the loss of his lands or his betrothed. He would take Elgiva if he could. His wife’s face floated before him in memory and with it fresh suspicion. On her own admission Elgiva had been in contact with the rebel leader. It begged the question—had she aided him in this business? Had the two of them planned his death? The thought was chilling but he could no longer suppress it. It must be faced. She had deceived him before and might have again. However it might be, he would learn the truth soon enough.
He and his companions covered the last miles in a short time and at length saw Ravenswood in the distance. On seeing their approach, the look-outs gave word and serfs came running from all directions. Wulfrum rode through the gateway at the head of his escort and drew rein outside the hall. Ida and several of his men came out to greet the new arrivals. Of Elgiva there was no sign. The feeling of foreboding grew stronger with every passing moment. Dismounting, he flung the reins at a serf and strode into the hall.
‘Elgiva!’
His voice echoed round the building, but brought forth no reply. Setting his jaw, he took the stairs three at a time, coming at length to their bedchamber. One glance revealed it to be empty. Wulfrum searched the other room, then went down again to the hall. In the women’s bower he accosted Osgifu, but she professed no knowledge of Elgiva’s whereabouts. His anger rising fast, Wulfrum grabbed hold of her and shook her.
‘Don’t lie to me, old woman. Where is she?’
Osgifu went pale. ‘My lord, I’m not sure.’
‘What do you mean, you’re not sure?’
‘She said she was going to the burial ground earlier this afternoon. I have not seen her since.’
‘The burial ground?’ Mentally Wulfrum saw the place. It was but a stone’s throw from the forest. He glared at Osgifu. ‘What more?’
‘My lord, I know nothing more, I swear it.’
‘If you’re lying to me, this day will be your last.’ He let go his hold. ‘Now fetch me one of your mistress’s gowns and be quick about it.’
Much disturbed, Osgifu scuttled off. Wulfrum turned to Ida.
‘Tell the kennel men to bring out the hounds and have someone saddle me a fresh horse.’
‘At once, my
lord.’
As Ida disappeared, Wulfrum drew in a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts, to force his anger down. Ironfist’s voice broke the silence.
‘You think she’s run away.’
‘I don’t know yet, but I will find out.’
‘It’s possible she was taken by force.’
Wulfrum’s fists clenched. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Perhaps you should give her the benefit of the doubt.’ The giant met the basilisk glare unflinching. ‘I do not think her treacherous.’
Had it been anyone else, there would have been bloodshed. Wulfrum closed his eyes a moment, striving for control.
‘Tell the men to mount up.’
Ironfist walked away and for a moment Wulfrum followed his retreating figure. Then Osgifu returned with one of Elgiva’s gowns, hastily snatched from the coffer. It was the gold one she had worn for their wedding. The memory cut like a blade. Without a word, he seized the dress and strode out to the courtyard in the other’s wake. If they were to find his wife, the hounds needed a scent.
From the burying ground the trail was clear enough and they followed at a cracking pace, coming soon to the clearing and the now abandoned woodsmen’s huts. At that point the scent grew confused and there was no clear trace of Elgiva anywhere in evidence. Then, after some casting about, Ida called out, ‘A lot of horses were here, my lord. Fifteen or twenty, I’d say.’
For a moment Wulfrum was silent, his face deathly pale. Elgiva had chosen her moment well. By now she and her Saxon lord were well away. His fingers clenched round the fabric of the gown and he bit back the cry of rage and despair welling in his heart. Forcing his voice to a level tone, he turned to Ida.
‘We follow.’
The trail wasn’t hard to find and the fugitives had made no effort to conceal their passage. Moreover, they were travelling fast. Wulfrum pushed his horse hard, determined to narrow the gap. The party was riding west by south. That could only mean one thing. He gritted his teeth. If they once reached Wessex, Elgiva was as good as lost to him. Her face intruded on to his thoughts once more. How cleverly she had deceived him, using her beauty and her wit to lull him into believing she really cared, only to betray him so thoroughly in the end. Except it wasn’t the end, he vowed. Not yet. Not till he caught the fugitives. He would slay Aylwin with his own hand and then…Heartsick, he suppressed a groan for grief had taken on all the sharpness of physical pain, one deeper than any sword thrust. Yet even now, with all the evidence in front of him, he could not bring himself to believe her capable of such treachery. Could Ironfist be right? Could she have been taken by force? How much he wanted to believe that, to believe her innocent for he knew now that the alternative meant her death.
The Saxon fugitives rode until the sun was low on the horizon before stopping to rest the horses a while. Aylwin dismounted, lifting Elgiva from the saddle. Bone weary and sick with dread, she made no resistance now, knowing she was lost. Wulfrum was in York, would be for another day at least. He would return to find her gone. Worse, he would think she had gone of her own volition. His pain and his anger would be great indeed, but not as great as the desolation in her heart.
Throughout the long ride she had sought the means to escape, but none presented itself. She was kept in the midst of the riders and her horse was led. Besides, with her wrists bound, it would have been impossible to try anything. Even now they had halted, Aylwin was still taking no chances. On his orders, Elgiva was led aside and tied fast to a tree. The bonds were not cruelly tight, but they were secure enough when tested to preclude all hope of escape. Aylwin surveyed the proceedings with a rueful eye.
‘I’m sorry, Elgiva. I do this only for your own good.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘You do it for yours.’
‘I wish it had not been necessary.’
After he left her to speak with his men, Elgiva struggled again against the rope, but it yielded not a whit. Hot tears scalded her eyelids and she slumped into despair. She knew now that she would never see Wulfrum again.
Chapter Seventeen
Seeing a telltale cloud of dust some way ahead, Wulfrum experienced a sense of savage satisfaction. When the cloud dissipated, the feeling intensified. The Saxons had stopped. They weren’t expecting pursuit yet. Wulfrum reined in and raised a hand to halt his men. Then he gave the order to dismount.
‘We’ll move up as close as we can. Then we go in fast and we go in for the kill. Take no prisoners save one.’ He paused, drawing Dragon Tooth from the scabbard. ‘My wife is to be brought to me—alive and unhurt.’
In obedience to the command, the Viking host moved forwards with stealthy stride until they were within fifty yards of their prey. Then they surged forwards in open attack upon the startled Saxons. Wulfrum launched himself forward, Dragon Tooth in his fist, hacking and slashing at the hapless foe. Several fell before they had time to draw a blade. All around him he could hear shouts and curses and cries of pain in the ensuing mêlée. Though surprised and outnumbered, the remaining Saxons fought with desperate courage, determined to sell their lives dear. Surrounded on all sides by the battling throng, Wulfrum had but one immediate aim: to find Aylwin and carve the Saxon cur into small slivers. Seeking his man, he cut down three others on the way, his sword running with their blood. A moment later exultation became impotent rage to see his quarry locked in mortal combat some twenty yards off and half-a-dozen other fighting pairs between. Wulfrum’s wrath became incandescent when he saw who it was in that fatal conflict.
‘Sweyn!’
If the man heard that furious yell, he gave no sign. Even from his present position Wulfrum could see the fearsome light of battle joy on the berserker’s face, the savage delight with which he pressed the attack, forcing his opponent back step by step. Even in the midst of frustration and rage, Wulfrum had to admire the sheer gall of this man who dared steal his earl’s rightful opponent thus. Gritting his teeth, he carved his way forwards, determined not to lose this enemy to Sweyn. However, even as he slew one man, it seemed another rose up to take his place. Cursing, he fought on.
Elgiva struggled in desperation against the rope that held her, her terrified gaze following the conflict even as her heart leapt. They were Wulfrum’s men. He had come for her. Frantic, she looked for him among the heaving throng, but failed to spot him. She swallowed hard. Dear God, let him win. Let him come through unhurt. Her anxious eyes found Aylwin locked in deadly confrontation with a tall fair-haired Viking warrior. Anxiety became fear as she recognised his opponent: Sweyn! Appalled and fascinated together, she watched as the swords clashed, sparks leaping from their edges with each savage blow. Aylwin fought well, but he was twice the other man’s age and no match now for Sweyn in speed or stamina. Already his tunic was stained with the blood from half-a-dozen gashes. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead as he was pushed relentlessly back. Unable to see where he put his feet, he caught his heel on a rock and stumbled. He was off balance for no more than a second, but it was enough. Elgiva stifled a cry as Sweyn’s blade thrust deep into his opponent’s unprotected body. For a moment or two Aylwin hung impaled on its point before the blade was withdrawn and he buckled at the knees, sinking to the earth. The Viking paused a moment to look down at the fallen foe. Then he laughed, exultant. A moment later he was challenged anew by three furious Saxons who, having seen their leader fall, were bound on revenge. Sweyn fought like a madman, killing one and wounding another before the odds swung against him and the third sword thrust past his guard and through the ribs behind. Checked mid-stroke, he staggered and fell, dead before he hit the earth, the sword still in his hand and the ghost of a smile on his face. Elgiva shuddered and turned her head away.
Wulfrum saw Sweyn go down, but by the time he reached the place, the fighting had moved on and the berserker was dead. Darting fierce glances about him, he found Aylwin hard by. The man lived yet, but his lifeblood was flowing fast from the great wound in his side. For a moment Wulfrum was still, glaring down upon his fall
en enemy, knowing he had been cheated of the revenge he had so ardently desired. With dimming eyes, the Saxon registered his presence and spoke through ragged, gasping breaths.
‘So it ends, Viking.’
‘Aye, it ends.’ Wulfrum bent and he seized the front of the other’s tunic. ‘Where is my wife? What have you done with her?’
‘She is unharmed.’ The Saxon coughed and blood trickled from his mouth. Every word was an effort now. ‘I forced her to come…thought to take her from you but…it is you she loves.’ He paused, fighting for breath. ‘You must…take care of her.’
There followed a slow exhalation of breath and nothing more. Meeting the Saxon’s sightless gaze, Wulfrum bestowed on him a grim smile, his fist tightening round the hilt of the sword.
‘I shall take care of her. I swear it to you.’
He straightened, his gaze scanning the scene for the one he sought. Above the din of fight he heard a woman scream and then he located her at last, not twenty yards away from him. Anger blazed anew, but he controlled it now, letting it fuel his strength as he cut a path towards her, relentless, determined, his opponents falling like corn beneath the scythe.
Ashen faced, Elgiva watched him come and, as he reached her, joy was drowned by flooding terror for he was suddenly a stranger to her—not Wulfrum any longer, but a warrior bent on vengeance and fearsome in battle rage, all dark with gore, his sword reeking and bloody, a sword whose naked point was levelled at her. For a moment he stood quite still, the icy gaze taking in every detail of the scene before it met and locked with hers. Then ice became fire. Like one transfixed, she watched him lift the sword, saw it descend. With a solid thunk the blade bit wood, severing the rope that bound her to the tree. Elgiva slumped, barely aware of the powerful arm that caught her just before she fell into a dead faint.
The Viking's Defiant Bride Page 25