Enslaved by the Viking
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‘They have no reason to distrust me now.’ Only the few who followed Gunnar had dared to voice any dissent against him.
‘They distrust what isn’t like them. Marry a jarl’s daughter and you’ll prove to be even better than them.’
Eirik could read his father’s eyes and knew that the seeds of distrust lived even in his own father. If it could live there, then how could he expect the men to trust him?
‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be married by spring and there will be no reason for it to linger.’
The jarl nodded, but kept a keen watch on his son’s face. ‘Good. Gunnar is learning, but he’s not as temperate in his decisions as you are. The men need a level head to lead them.’
Gunnar was his main rival for his father’s seat. It was his duty to make his claim as solid as possible to lessen the fight. Despite the rivalry, he had no desire to harm his brother. But Gunnar wouldn’t sit by and allow what he deemed to equally belong to him to slip through his fingers. The fight was coming. It was the way of a jarl’s sons.
‘How was your bed slave last night?’
Eirik hadn’t realised his brother had come out of his chamber when he joined them at the table, but the question shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Gunnar wasn’t known for his subtlety or tact. He seemed to enjoy purposely riling both Eirik and their father.
‘Gunnar.’ Hegard shook his head in disapproval as he watched his son take a seat.
‘A fair question, father. I only wish my brother happiness.’ Gunnar grinned and raised his mug to them.
They were joined then at the table by Bram and Sweyn, who’d returned with Eirik and Gunnar, and the talk turned to the battles and raids over the past summer. The raids in Francia had been immensely successful. Much of their treasure had been paid in tribute, but the raids had been going on long enough and they were beginning to meet resistance. Which was why they had been patrolling the northern coasts. For years they had been raiding Wessex, East Anglia, Mercia and Northumbria to moderate gains. But now there was talk of more than raiding.
Hegard’s brother, Einar, claimed the land was ripe for the taking. Hegard was doubtful that men could be such fools to suffer kings unable to protect them, which was why Eirik’s trip had been so important. He’d confirmed Einar’s claim. Every stop along the coast had proved the Saxons were unfortified and unable to counter a full attack against an organised fleet. Their leaders offered tribute too easily now. It had become second nature, as if they thought no other form of aggression was possible. Leaders like that didn’t deserve to keep what they held. The only real resistance they had encountered was a skirmish just days south of where he’d taken the slave girl, and that had been pitifully organised. Judging from the lack of men at her home, Eirik suspected the group, or at least a part of it, had originated there.
Come spring, Eirik would return with even more men and join the group wintering just near Thetford. Then they would raid north to take Northumbria.
Eirik watched the excitement light up Hegard’s eyes as he listened to their stories. There was no doubt in his mind that the jarl would be inclined to commit men to the battle. The exhilaration was almost contagious. It even pulled at him, making his hands restless and his heart pound. But he could be gone for years. What would he do with his pretty slave then?
Chapter Eight
Merewyn had awakened to the Northman’s screams in the night. They had been so terrifying, she’d been convinced there was a demon attacking him until she’d risen to verify he was unharmed. Then she’d watched in fascination as he’d fought against something she couldn’t see. It had occurred to her to try to calm him lest he hurt himself, so she’d reached out cautiously to touch his forehead. His screams had quieted, and the moment his struggles had ceased, she’d moved back to her pallet. It had seemed better to not let him know she had witnessed his nightmare, so she’d pretended to be asleep until he’d left.
But real sleep had proved elusive. She’d lain there as her mind had relived the previous days. Every time it was quiet, Merewyn would hear Blythe’s words echo in the silence. She still didn’t know what had possessed her actions. After a while, the door opened and Merewyn closed her eyes, unwilling to face the day. She opened them when it was quiet again to see that someone had placed a pitcher of water inside the door—Hilla, she imagined—so she made use of it to clean herself. She managed it as discreetly as possible, afraid that the door would open at any moment. But it didn’t. She finally ventured out when her stomach began to grumble.
The first person she saw was Hilla, who directed her to an empty bench where she broke her fast surrounded by some of the men from the day before. She managed to remain unnoticed, so she slipped back to the bedchamber when she finished, where she was left alone until the evening meal.
* * *
Hilla was the one to retrieve her. This time the hall was considerably less full as she was led to the dais. Most of the men had probably left for their homes. Eirik sat eating, but didn’t even glance her way as she took her place on the floor behind him, though once she was settled he handed her a bowl filled with bits of food from his. Famished again, Merewyn ate without reservation and finished it all.
She set the bowl aside and leaned back against the wall to watch the men as they ate and talked. It had just occurred to her to wonder why there were no women—women who weren’t servants or slaves—when Eirik got to his feet. Her heart leaped, as it had a disturbing habit of doing every time she thought he might address her, but he didn’t look her way as he left the dais and headed outside.
Her mouth went dry as she looked around the room. She didn’t like being left alone in the hall without him. Despite her earlier fears of him, he was all that stood between her and them, and he did make her feel safe. She was contemplating making her way back to the bedchamber when the jarl called Hilla over. It was clear they were talking about her from Hilla’s glance her way.
That fear was confirmed when Hilla came over and knelt beside her. ‘Merewyn, you must go attend to Lord Eirik. Jarl Hegard commands it.’
‘Where is he?’
‘The baths.’
* * *
Merewyn worried the inside of her bottom lip as she struggled to find the courage to open the door. The wind was cold, as Hilla had made her take off her woollen dress so now she wore only her linen undershift, and her feet were bare. Shoes were not allowed in the baths. But the cold did not spur her to enter, even though she could feel the heat from inside seeping through the door. She was too afraid of what she would find there.
‘Go!’
She grimaced as she glanced to where Hilla stood tending the cook fire, which was a good thirty paces away from the bathhouse, but the woman watched. Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself of Eirik’s vow to not harm her, then pushed the door open and stepped inside. It took a long moment before her eyes adjusted to the meagre lantern light that penetrated the steam. Her skin was immediately wet with it, but it was a pleasant warmth after the cold.
Empty benches lined two walls, and a third held a long hearth where flat stones had been laid upon a smouldering fire. Casks of what she assumed to be water sat near it, the source of the steam. She didn’t see Eirik, but she heard someone just on the other side of a partition that quartered the room, so she stepped in that direction.
His deep voice filled the silence. He’d spoken a command, but it was in his own Norse language, so she was certain he hadn’t realised that it was she who had joined him. Had the jarl really sent her without Eirik’s knowledge? But the moment she rounded the corner, her ability to speak and alert him to her presence fled as quickly as any modesty she might have possessed. He had just stepped out of his trousers, his last garment, so he stood there gloriously naked before her, though facing away from her.
Hard muscles worked beneath the golden smoothness of his skin as he folded the garment and placed it on a bench. Merewyn couldn’t help but notice how wide and powerful his shoulders were. His back was long and lean where it led to a tapered waist. It was marred by a patchwork of scars that she assumed were from battle. Perhaps from the nicks of the many blades he must have fought over the years. There wasn’t a spare inch of flesh on him. Even his buttocks were chiselled with muscle. He exuded strength and confidence. It was then she admitted that under other circumstances she might have found him handsome. If Alfred had presented him to her as a potential husband, she would have encouraged his suit—had he been Saxon.
But Alfred would probably never present a suitor to her now, and it was all because of this Dane before her. The thought made her angry, so she was standing there with clenched fists when he turned around. She caught a glimpse of male flesh framed in dark blond curls before she pulled her gaze away, her face flaming.
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