“You can fight me all you like, lady, but you will kiss me.”

“Why, you arrogant, conceited—”

The words were lost as his mouth closed over hers. Elgiva struggled but there was no chance of escape and he took the kiss in his own good time.

“Let go of me! How dare you treat me like this?”

“I shall not let you go. As to what I dare….”

Elgiva’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink at the warmth and the nearness of the man, the faint scent of leather and musk.

He kissed her again, the pressure of his mouth forcing hers open. Thereafter the kiss grew gentle and lingering. Elgiva shivered but her hands ceased to push him away. The thought returned: no man had ever kissed her like this.

The Viking’s Defiant Bride

Harlequin®Historical #934—February 2009

MILLS & BOON

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Author Note

The idea for The Viking’s Defiant Bride came to me in a gift shop on the green below Bamburgh Castle in Northumberland, England. That was where I found a copy of Roy Anderson’s wonderful little book, The Violent Kingdom, easily the best purchase of the whole trip. One paragraph and I was completely hooked.

Amongst other fascinating details, there was an account of the great Viking invasion of 865 AD. As soon as I read it, I knew what my story was going to be about. With such a turbulent history, Northumberland is powerfully atmospheric on many levels, truly a historian’s delight, so it was no hardship at all to explore the area and do the necessary research. Some happy hours were then spent collating the material in The Anchor at Seahouses. It’s just possible that there may be better lobster bisque in England, but I seriously doubt it.

THE VIKING'S DEFIANT BRIDE
JOANNA FULFORD

Available from Harlequin® Historical and JOANNA FULFORD

The Viking’s Defiant Bride #934

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For my parents and for Brian who, between them,

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Prologue

Denmark—865A.D.

The only sound in the great hall was the crackle of flames in the hearth. Flickering light from the torches cast a ruddy hue over the assembled warriors who sat stony faced before the implications of the news they had just received. In every heart was burgeoning sorrow and disbelief. All eyes turned to the three brothers at the high table. The sons of Ragnar Lodbrok surveyed the messenger quietly enough, but their eyes spoke of incredulity, of grief and rage.

‘Ragnar dead?’ Halfdan’s voice was grim, his fist clenched on the arm of his chair. ‘You are certain of this?’

‘Quite certain, my lord.’

Beside Halfdan, at his right hand, Earl Wulfrum was very still, his face expressionless save for the blue eyes, now two chips of ice. Involuntarily, his own hand tightened round the hilt of a wicked-looking dagger in a gesture that mirrored his sword brother’s, even as his mind struggled against the knowledge of Ragnar’s death. Ragnar the warrior, the war leader, fearless, powerful, respected, a prince among his people; Ragnar the Terrible, whose ships, once sighted, struck terror into the hearts of his enemies; Ragnar, who had been as a father to him, who had found him that day when, a ten-year-old boy, he had stood alone in the smouldering ashes of his home, the bodies of his slain kin all around; Ragnar, whose rough and careless kindness had taken in the son of his oldest friend and raised him as his own, who had given him his first sword, taught him all he knew, and raised him to the warrior caste in turn. And now he was gone, his fire quenched for all time.

Wulfrum revealed nothing of these thoughts, hiding his pain as he had all those years ago. What ill fate was it that he was always spared when those he loved were slain? Too much care and love made a man vulnerable. It was a lesson he had learned early in life, a lesson harshly reinforced now. If you did not love, there could be no hurt. Was it thus, then, that a man must protect himself? His jaw tightened. There would be a reckoning here. The blood feud that killed his kin had had a far bloodier resolution when the boy grew to manhood. How much more then the slaying of Ragnar?

He was drawn from his thoughts by Halfdan, voicing the question that was in his own mind.

‘How?’

‘As we neared the Northumbrian coast, a fearful storm arose and many of our ships were wrecked. Those of us who reached the shore were attacked by King Ella’s soldiers. We were heavily outnumbered and many were slain. Lord Ragnar was taken prisoner. The king ordered his immediate death.’ He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘He had him thrown alive into a pit of poisonous snakes.’

A collective gasp followed his words as the magnitude and horror of it sank in.

‘And how did you come to survive, Sven?’ Invarr’s voice was cold and his eyes raked the messenger from head to toe, but the man met his gaze and held it.

‘We fought our way back to the ship and put to sea. After nightfall we turned back and at first light Bjorn went ashore. He speaks the Saxon tongue and he learned the truth from some in the market place. ’Twas said that before he died Ragnar sang a death song in which he prophesied that his furious sons would avenge him, and then he laughed. They said he died laughing.’

As they listened it seemed to each man there that he could hear the echo of that laughter, and their hearts swelled. Ragnar’s courage was legendary. He would make a brave death. That it should not be in battle was a dire misfortune indeed, for he would not win his place in Valhalla and feast in Odin’s hall.

‘You did not seek to avenge Ragnar?’ demanded Hubba.

‘To what end? We were a handful against hundreds.’

Hubba’s hand went to the axe by his side, but Halfdan shook his head.

‘Sven is right. To try to attack Ella under such circumstances would have been madness. Worse, it would have been stupid. Now he will fight another day.’

Hubba glared at him. ‘Are you saying that Ragnar died for nothing?’

Wulfrum, silent and intent, waited for the reply, feeling all around him the same curbed rage.

‘No. Ragnar shall be avenged and by an army greater than any yet seen.’ All eyes were upon Halfdan as he rose to face the assembled throng. ‘We shall send a fleet of ships four hundred strong.’

Wulfrum regarded his sword brother with admiration. What he was proposing would be the greatest Viking raid ever known. Almost instantly he corrected himself: not a raid, an invasion.

‘Let every man who can wield an axe or sword prepare,’ Halfdan continued. ‘We shall sweep through Northumbria like flame through tinder. We shall beard Ella in his castle and he shall know the taste of fear. His death shall not be swift, but he will long for it before the end. This I swear by my own blood and by the sacred blood of Odin.’

He drew the blade of his knife across his palm, his gaze meeting those of his brothers. Immediately they followed suit and mingled their blood with his. Then his gaze moved past them and rested on Wulfrum. In it was an invitation, an acknowledgement of friendship and brotherhood. Wulfrum’s eyes never left Halfdan’s as he unsheathed his dagger and drew the bright blood forth before mingling it with theirs. Bound by the blood oath, their honour was now his honour, their purpose his purpose. Halfdan nodded in approbation, then turned back to the silent watching crowd.

‘Who will sail with us to avenge Ragnar Lodbrok?’

A roar of approval shook the rafters and every hand was raised. He looked round the hall, gratified to see resolution in each face. Then he raised his hand for quiet.

‘Make ready. Three moons from now the sea dragons sail for England.’

Another roar greeted this.

‘A fitting revenge for Ragnar,’ Wulfrum observed.

‘We shall have more than revenge, brother,’ replied Halfdan. ‘There will be rich rewards too for those who serve well—land and slaves to work it. And women.’

Wulfrum grinned, knowing whither the conversation tended. ‘And the Saxon women are reputed fair, are they not?’

‘Aye, they are, and it’s high time you took a wife. A man must get sons.’

‘True. And when I find a woman who pleases me enough, I shall wed and breed sons aplenty.’

‘Your standards are high, but even you might lose your heart to a Saxon beauty.’

‘I have never lost my heart to a woman yet. They satisfy a need like food and drink, but they have no power to hold us long.’

‘You say so for you have never been in love.’

‘No. Nor am I like to be. It is not necessary to fall in love to get sons.’ Wulfrum laughed. ‘My heart is my own, brother, and I guard it well.’

Chapter One

Northumbria—867A.D.

Elgiva sat on the goatskin rug before the fire, her arms clasped about her knees and her gaze on the flames. It was said that some had the skill to read the future there. Just then she would have given much for such a glimpse to help resolve the chaos of her thoughts. The present dilemma was desperate, but what to do for the best?

She glanced once at her companion, grateful for that comforting presence. To Elgiva, Osgifu had been both mother and confidante. The older woman had entered the service of Lord Egbert as a nursemaid when her husband died. At forty she was comely still, a tall elegant figure, for all that there were lines on her face and white strands in her dark hair. Her grey eyes saw more than other people, for she was known to have the second sight, to see those things hidden from ordinary mortal view. Her skill lay with the runes, not the fire, but the accuracy of her words was sufficient for people to regard her with awe, even fear. Elgiva had never been afraid, only curious. Osgifu’s mother had been a Dane, a trader’s daughter, who married a Saxon husband. From her she had inherited the gift of the sight and a wealth of stories besides.

When Elgiva was a child, Osgifu had entertained her with tales of the Norse gods: of Thor, who wielded the thunderbolts; of Loki the trickster of Odin; and Fenrir the wolf. Elgiva had listened, enthralled by stories of Jotenheim, the realm of the frost giants, and of the dragon, Nidhoggr, who constantly gnawed at the roots of Yggdrasil, the mighty ash tree connecting earth and heaven. Osgifu had taught her the Danish tongue too, albeit in secret, for she knew Lord Egbert would not have approved. When they were alone, the two of them spoke their secret language and knew their words would be safe from other ears. She alone knew the secrets of Elgiva’s heart and it was to her Elgiva turned in times of trouble.

The younger woman sighed and, turning her gaze from the glowing flames in the hearth, looked full at her mentor.

‘I don’t know what to do, Gifu. Ever since my father’s death Ravenswood has slid further and further into chaos. My brother did nothing.’ She paused. ‘Now he is dead too, and his sons are but babes. The place needs a capable hand.’

She did not add, a man’s hand, but Osgifu heard the thought. She also acknowledged the truth of it. Lord Osric, concerned only with skill at arms and with hawking and hunting, had taken little interest in the running of his late father’s estate, preferring to leave it to his steward, Wilfred. A good man at heart, Wilfred had performed his duties well enough under Lord Egbert’s exacting rule, but after, with no master’s eye on him, he began to neglect small things, putting off until the morrow what should have been done today. The serfs under his control took their example from him, and Elgiva, on her daily rides, had begun to notice the results. Ravenswood, which had hitherto always looked prosperous, began to take on an air of neglect. Fences were not mended, repairs botched. Weeds grew among the crops and the livestock were not properly tended. The roofs of the barns and storehouses leaked, and she felt sure that the stored grain and fodder within were not as strictly accounted for as they had been. When she had mentioned these things to Osric, he had brushed her aside. The problem grew worse. She had spoken to him again and received short shrift.

‘A woman’s place is in the house, not meddling in matters that do not concern her.’

‘Ravenswood is my concern,’ she’d replied, ‘as it should be yours.’

‘You take too much upon you, Elgiva.’ He had eyed her coolly. ‘If you had a husband and children of your own, you would have no time to interfere in the affairs of men. You should have been married long since.’

Her brother was right about that and Elgiva knew it. Had Lord Egbert lived, he would have found a bridegroom for her. There had been no shortage of suitors. She had loved her father dearly and he had made no secret of the fact that she was the child of his heart. Her company had been congenial to him for she knew how to make him laugh. A fearless rider, she had often accompanied him on the chase. His death three years earlier had changed everything, and for the worse. Osric, careless, feckless, had become the Thane of Ravenswood. Elgiva, well tutored in domestic matters, saw to it that the household ran smoothly, but she could do nothing about the wider problem. However, their conversation had put Osric in mind of his responsibilities towards his sister.

‘I shall find you a husband. These are troubled times and a woman should not be without a protector, even if there is truth in only half the tales we hear of the Viking raids.’

That too was beyond dispute, but she had assumed that he would forget the matter as he did with everything not immediately concerned with his own interests. She had been quite wrong. One day, about a month after the former conversation, he announced that Lord Aylwin had asked for her hand. At first she had not known whether to laugh or cry. A wealthy and respected Saxon lord, wise governor of rich lands, Aylwin was a near neighbour. He had been the friend of her father and, his own wife having died some years earlier, he sought a new bride. At forty he was old enough to be her father and his sons were grown men, but he was still strong and vigorous. Elgiva had baulked. Although she had nothing to say against Aylwin as a man, she knew she could not feel for him what a woman should feel for a husband. In truth, she had never felt it for any man of her acquaintance. However, women of her rank did not marry for love. If both partners respected each other, it was enough. But not for her, she thought, not for her. Osric had not understood.

‘Do you know anything against Aylwin?’

‘No.’

‘You know he is wealthy and of good reputation? A man to be respected?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why should you refuse him?’

As Elgiva sought for the words to explain, Osric had pressed his advantage.

‘You know Lord Aylwin sought your hand long since.’

‘And I said then I did not love his lordship.’

‘Love? What has love to do with it? This is an advantageous match.’

‘I do not deny it. He is also old enough to be my father.’

‘He is in his prime and will make you an attentive husband.’

‘I will not consent to such attentions.’

With that she had marched out of the room and there the matter had rested. Osric, for all his faults, still had a certain fondness for his sister and would not force her to a marriage that was distasteful to her. Life had gone on much as before until, a month ago, Osric’s horse put its foot in a hole while they were out hunting. Horse and rider fell with force—the former breaking its foreleg and the rider his neck.

The shock had been great and the sorrow also. At a stroke Elgiva found herself alone with all the care of a large estate and two young children. Osric’s wife, Cynewise, had died in childbed at the age of twenty. It was a common enough occurrence and, for women, one of the hazards of marriage, but for Elgiva it had been an added shock. She knew that Osric would have married again, in time, for a man might well have several wives in his lifetime. For a woman alone the future looked bleak. When she had told Osgifu that she didn’t know what to do, it had been prevarication and they both knew it. She must marry and soon. But Aylwin?

‘What do the runes say, Gifu?’

Elgiva knew already what they would say, but she needed to have it confirmed. The runes never lied. Carved out of ash, a tree sacred to Odin, and indelibly marked with ancient esoteric symbols, they would point the way as they had done before. Osgifu regarded her with a steady gaze.

‘Ask your question.’

Elgiva drew in a deep breath. ‘Shall I marry Aylwin?’

She waited, hands locked together, as Osgifu scanned the rune cast. The silence lengthened and her grey eyes narrowed, a sharp line creasing her brow.

‘Well? Shall I marry?’

‘Aye, you will be married, but not to Aylwin.’

‘Not Aylwin?’ Elgiva was puzzled. ‘Then who?’

‘I do not know the man.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘I cannot tell. The upper part of his face is hidden behind the plates of his helmet. He wears a shirt of fine mail and in his hand he carries a mighty sword, as sharp as a dragon’s tooth.’

‘A warrior? A Saxon lord, then. Shall I meet him soon?’

‘You will see him soon enough.’

Thereafter she became strangely reticent and all of Elgiva’s questions could draw nothing more from her.

The mystery stayed with her but, as the days passed, she knew she could not wait indefinitely for some stranger to ride by and rescue her from all her problems. A woman alone was vulnerable. A woman with wealth and land was doubly so once it became known she had no protector. It was not unknown for such to be married under duress to an ambitious and ruthless lord with a strong retinue and no aversion to the use of force. She shivered. Better to wed a respected man who would treat her well and restore Ravenswood to its former self. It came to her that she must wed Aylwin and soon. Love was all very well in stories of high romance: real life wasn’t like that. Her brother had been right. It was an advantageous match. Perhaps, with time, she might come to love Aylwin. Certainly she would make him a dutiful wife and bear his children. Her mind glossed over the details, unwilling to dwell on the matter. Should she be so nice when, every day, girls of thirteen or fourteen were married off to men thrice their age? The question now was how to bring this about. She had refused Aylwin’s suit. Could she now go a-begging?

In the event the matter was solved for her when, a few days later, the servants announced the arrival of Lord Aylwin accompanied by a small group of armed men. She received him in the great hall and, having bid him welcome, offered his men refreshment and allowed him to take her to one side. She wished that she had had more warning—she was suddenly aware of her sober-hued gown and her hair braided simply down her back without ribbon or ornament. It was hardly the dress of a woman receiving a suitor. However, Aylwin seemed to find nothing amiss and smiled at her. Of average height, he was stocky and powerfully made for all that the brown hair and beard were grizzled with grey. The expression on the rugged face was both sympathetic and kind, but the eyes spoke of admiration.

For a while they spoke of Osric and he said all that was proper, but it did not take him long to come to the real purpose of his visit.

‘Your brother’s death leaves you alone and in a most difficult situation, my lady. In these times a woman must have a protector.’

Elgiva heard in his words the echo of her brother’s and felt a frisson along her spine. Heart beating much faster, she knew what was coming and waited for it.

‘I would like to be that man.’ He paused, eyeing her with an unwonted awkwardness. ‘I am no longer in the first flush of youth, but I am still in good health and well able to protect you. I can also swear my undying loyalty and devotion.’

Elgiva felt her face grow warmer and for a moment her amber eyes were veiled. Aylwin, mistaking the reason, drew in a deep breath.

‘Let me protect you, Elgiva. I do not ask you to love me now, but perhaps in time that may come. Meanwhile, be assured that you will be loved, my lady.’

Hearing an unmistakeable note of sincerity, she looked up swiftly, meeting his gaze.

‘Does it surprise you to hear that?’

‘I had not thought…that is—’ She broke off, floundering.

‘Have you any idea how beautiful you are?’ he went on. ‘From the first day I saw you I wanted you for my wife. My Gundred has been dead these five years and a man grows lonely. I think you are lonely too. May not two such comfort each other?’

Elgiva nodded. ‘I think that perhaps they may, my lord.’

For a moment he did not move, the dark eyes intent on her face. ‘Then you will marry me?’

‘There would be certain conditions.’

‘Name them.’

‘That the rights of my nephews are protected and that you act as overlord of Ravenswood until they can act for themselves.’

‘Agreed. If you wed me, they shall be reared as my own sons.’

‘I would also ask for a decent interval of mourning for my brother.’

‘It shall be as you ask.’

‘Then on midsummer’s day I will become your wife.’ Elgiva’s voice was perfectly level as she gave him the commitment he sought.

Taking her hand, he pressed it to his lips. ‘It is an honour I scarce hoped to have.’

‘I will try to make you a good wife,’ she replied.

The proposed date was three months hence, but if Aylwin had hoped for an earlier wedding, he said nothing. Having got what he wanted he was prepared to give a little ground, knowing it would do his cause no harm.

‘Will you pledge your hand to me openly, Elgiva?’ he asked then. ‘I do not ask for a huge feast—I know it must be repugnant to you in the circumstances—but perhaps a small gathering?’

Elgiva was not surprised by the request. What it meant was a public declaration of intent. It also made clear to all concerned that Elgiva and thus Ravenswood were spoken for, that both lay under the protection of a rich and powerful lord. From the moment their betrothal was announced she was as good as his and no man would touch her. It also meant a respite, time to grow used to the idea of the bargain she had just struck.

‘It shall be as you wish, my lord.’

He smiled. ‘I am content.’

She had wondered if he would try to kiss her, but to her relief he made no further attempt to touch her. He took his leave not long after that and Elgiva watched him ride away with his men. Then she went in search of Osgifu.

The older woman listened in silence, her face impassive as she took in the news.

‘Do you think it was wrong to accept him?’ Elgiva asked at length.

‘You did what you thought you had to do, child, both for yourself and for Ravenswood.’

‘Aylwin will be a good husband and he will restore these lands to their former glory. I cannot bear to see things thus.’

‘I know.’ Osgifu hesitated. ‘But, can you be a wife to him?’

‘I must, Gifu. There is no choice now. Surely you see that?’

‘Yes.’ She put her arms round the girl’s shoulders. ‘I think you have nothing to fear. It is my view that he will be a doting and most indulgent husband.’

Elgiva nodded and tried to think positive thoughts. Neither of them mentioned the rune cast.

The betrothal feast went as planned, a small and select gathering of neighbours and friends who came together to see the couple pledge to each other. It was in every way a most suitable match and no one thought anything of the discrepancy in the ages of the pair who were soon to marry. It was widely held that Aylwin was a clever and knowing man for at a stroke he doubled his holdings and gained a most beautiful wife into the bargain. Elgiva in her blue gown, embroidered at neck and sleeve, her golden hair braided with matching ribbons, looked very fetching indeed. It was noticed that her prospective groom could hardly keep his eyes off her and was most assiduous in plying her with food and wine, carving choice cuts of meat and serving her with his own hands.

In truth, Elgiva had little appetite but did her best to hide it. Her heart was unwontedly heavy but, unwilling to disappoint her guests with a glum face, she smiled graciously and tried to look as though she were enjoying herself. As she noticed the gaze Aylwin bent upon her, the reality of the situation hit her with force—in three months’ time they would be married and he would take her to his bed. She must give herself to him whenever he wished and, eventually, she would bear his children. He had fine sons already, but, if the look in his eye was aught to judge by, he intended to sire more. Elgiva took another sip of wine to steady herself. She had wanted this, had agreed to it of her own free will. Now she must live with the consequences. If he was to be her husband she must get to know him, to learn his likes and dislikes, to discover what would please him. She had no doubt of her ability to run his household efficiently for she had been schooled in domestic duties from childhood. The rules of the bedroom were unknown territory, though familiar to him. She reminded herself sharply that it was not necessary to love for a marriage to work. As long as there was respect. Please, God, she prayed silently, let it be all right.

The feasting done and the hour growing late, the women retired, leaving the hall to the men. Elgiva knew the hard drinking was about to begin and had given orders to the servants to keep the guests plied with ale and mead as long as they wanted it. She was not sorry to make her excuses and bid her future husband a goodnight. He kissed her hand and pressed it warmly. From his flushed face and the hot glow in his eyes it was clear he had had a lot to drink, but his speech was unslurred and his balance still unimpaired.

‘Goodnight, Elgiva, and sleep well. Would this were our wedding night that I might share that bed with you.’

She managed a smile. ‘In good time, my lord.’

Then she was gone, leaving the hall behind and seeking the sanctuary of the women’s bower.

In spite of the late night, Elgiva woke early and for several moments lay still beneath the fur coverlet, enjoying the comfortable warmth of the bed. Though the first grey light of the spring dawn was filtering through the shutters, she could hear no sound of birdsong and the cock had yet to crow. Only Osgifu’s gentle snores broke the heavy stillness of the new day. The nurse would not stir for a while yet. Elgiva rose and dressed quickly for the air was chill, pulling the gown over her linen kirtle and sliding her feet into leather shoes. Then, throwing a mantle about her shoulders, she moved to the doorway, pausing once to glance back. Osgifu slept on. For a moment Elgiva watched, her feelings a strange fusion of love and disappointment. She had trusted her. Even now she could hear her words: The runes never lie. But the runes had lied, and Osgifu had been wrong. Immediately Elgiva upbraided herself. Why should she be surprised to discover human fallibility? She wasn’t a child, for heaven’s sake. It was time to face facts and shoulder the responsibilities that fell to her.

Elgiva left the women’s bower and made her way through the hall. It was not her most direct route out, but she was hungry and knew there would be a fair chance of finding something to eat without summoning a servant. All about her, men lay snoring on the rushes among the scraps of food, or sprawled on benches and tables among the debris of the feast. After the copious quantities of mead and ale they had drunk she had no fear of waking the sleepers and guessed there would be a few sore heads this morning. She retrieved part of a loaf from the table and broke a piece off. It was growing stale, but it would do for now. Chewing on the bread, she made her way silently among the sleeping forms, wrinkling her nose at air thick with the reek of smoke and spilled ale and male sweat, skirting the hearth where the remaining embers of the fire smouldered in mounds of grey ash. Hearing her approach, two wolfhounds looked up from their slumber, but the low rumbling growl died in their throats as they recognised her. One got to his feet, wagging his tail, shoving his nose into Elgiva’s hand. She stroked his wiry head absently and then moved on towards the door, eager to be gone for the confines of the hall were stifling and a sharp reminder of things she wished to forget.

The side door was ajar, a clear indication that she was not the first abroad. Through the gap she could see a man relieving himself in the midden across the way. He had his back to her, but from his dress she guessed him to be one of Lord Aylwin’s men. Elgiva seized the moment to slip out and round the end of the hall. From this vantage point she could observe without being seen. Presently, after having answered the call of nature, the man returned whence he came and Elgiva was able to make her way to the stables unnoticed.

Here too, all was quiet, for even the serfs were not stirring yet. They had taken their fill of Ravenswood’s bounty the previous evening and there was none to mark her passage along the row of stalls to the one where Mara was tethered. Hearing her approach, the bay mare turned her head and whinnied gently. Elgiva reached for the bridle hanging on the peg and slipped into the stall. Minutes later she was leading the horse out. Once in the open air, she vaulted astride and headed for the gate. The watchman roused himself and, responding to her greeting, swung the portal open. Elgiva held Mara to a walk as they passed the houses in the hamlet. Here were signs of life: a spiral of smoke from a roof, a dog scratching itself before an open door. She suspected it would be much later before those in the hall roused themselves. Glad to have escaped for a time, Elgiva breathed the cool morning air gratefully, though it could not dispel her sombre mood or the memories that occasioned it. Later she would return and play her part before them all.

Pride and a sense of family honour had led her to spare no expense in the celebration of the betrothal feast. It was, after all, a cause for celebration, an excellent and judicious match. The union would not only unite two great Saxon houses, but would bring advantage to both sides. She had entered into the arrangement of her own volition. Her future husband was a man she could respect. Why, then, in the face of such good fortune, did her heart feel so heavy?

Elgiva was startled out of these sombre thoughts when her horse shied. She tightened her hold on the reins, looking about her, but could see only shadows beneath the trees and curls of mist in the hollows. The wood was locked beneath an eerie silence. The mare snorted uneasily and Elgiva frowned, her gaze taking in the details of the surrounding woodland. The silence stretched out around her, unbroken by any breath of wind, or birdsong or sound of any living thing. Then she discerned movement ahead through the trees where a lone horseman was approaching, bent low over the saddle. Elgiva hesitated, wondering whether the safest course was to flee, but something about the rider’s posture gave her pause. He was swaying and for a second she wondered if he were drunk. Just as quickly, she rejected the idea, for as he drew closer she could see he had come far. The horse was lathered, its chest and flanks darkened with sweat, its legs and belly all bespattered with mud. Pulling up, she let the rider approach. Mara whinnied and sidled, but Elgiva kept a firm hold on the rein. The oncoming rider was a man of middle years and, like his horse, all muddied. His face was grey and lined with pain and she could see the side of his tunic was stiff with dried blood. He stared at her as if she had been an apparition and then she recognised him.

‘Gunter!’

Her uncle’s steward—he must have ridden far. It was a two-day journey and from the look of him he had ridden fast. His horse was all but spent, and he too. Every word cost him effort.

‘I bring urgent news for Ravenswood, my lady.’

‘We are not far from home. Come, let me take you there.’

He nodded and together they retraced Elgiva’s path. As soon as they were within the gates, she summoned help. Grooms came running to take the horses and another helped Gunter into the hall. Men were stirring now and looked up in surprise at their entrance. Elgiva saw Aylwin there with several of his men. He hastened over to her.

‘Gunter, my uncle’s steward,’ she explained. ‘He is wounded. I don’t know how badly.’

Aylwin took one look at the dark stiffening patch on the man’s tunic. ‘He has lost much blood. His hurts must be tended.’

Elgiva dispatched a servant for her box of medicines. Another brought a goblet of water and helped raise the injured man a fraction so she could hold it to his lips. He drank greedily, but Elgiva would only allow him a little to begin with. Then she and Osgifu set about dealing with the wound. It was a sword thrust, deep but clean. As far as she could tell it had not pierced any internal organs, though it had bled copiously. Between them they stanched the bleeding and cleansed the wound, before fastening a clean pad over it with long strips of linen cloth. Gunter bore these ministrations in silence, though his face was very pale. Then she allowed him a little more to drink.

‘You must rest now and try to recover your strength.’

‘Lady, I must speak. My news will wait no longer.’

‘Say on then, Gunter. Does it concern my uncle?’

‘Aye, my lady, and ill news it is.’

‘What of my uncle? Is he sick?’

‘Nay, my lady. He is dead with all his kin and his hall is burned. A great Viking war host marches north.’

A deathly silence followed as those present tried to grasp the enormity of the news.

‘The rumours are true,’ murmured Aylwin.

‘Aye, lord. We had little warning of their coming, but even if we had, it would have made no difference for the sheer weight of their numbers. Those Saxons who were not slain were enslaved. I was wounded and left for dead. When I came to, the hall was a blackened ruin and my lord was dead. I found a stray horse and got away under cover of darkness.’

‘It was as well you did,’ said Elgiva. She glanced at Osgifu, who looked as shaken as the rest.

‘You are right, child. We should have had no warning else. As it is, we must prepare to defend ourselves as best we may.’

‘Truly spoken,’ said Gunter, ‘for the sons of Ragnar Lodbrok seek a terrible revenge for their father’s death.’

‘We had heard of this,’ replied Aylwin. ‘There were tales of a great Viking war fleet a year or so ago, but we had thought the raiders much further south.’

‘That is so, lord,’ Gunter continued, ‘though not by design. It seems they set sail for Northumbria, but their ships were blown off course and brought them instead to the Anglian coast. Since then they have swept through that kingdom with fire and sword. We heard that they looted the abbeys at Ely and Crowland and Peterborough. ’Tis said that at Peterborough Hubba killed eighty monks himself.’

Startled exclamations greeted this and men looked at each other in mounting horror.

Gunter drew in a ragged breath. ‘They have taken Mercia too. Now that York has fallen, all of Northumbria is threatened.’

Aylwin’s hand went automatically to the hilt of his sword. ‘What of King Ella?’

‘They captured him and acted out their revenge. His ribs were torn apart and folded backwards to resemble a spread eagle. Then they threw salt in the wound and left him to die.’

Elgiva felt her stomach churn. She had heard many times of the brutality of the Norsemen, but never anything so barbaric. Beside her Osgifu paled, and she heard several sharp intakes of breath from those around.

‘You must prepare to defend yourselves,’ said Gunter. ‘The Viking host wintered at York, but the spring thaw draws them forth again. It is only a matter of time before they come.’

‘But surely if Ella is dead they have what they want now,’ replied Osgifu. ‘They will leave with their plunder as they always do.’

‘This time they want more than plunder. Halfdan has let it be known they want land and they plan to take it.’

‘Land? Do the pirates mean to stay?’

‘It would seem our shores are more fertile than their northern fastness.’

‘They will find the price dear.’ Aylwin’s face was grim. ‘My sword is ready, and those of my kin.’

Elgiva could see the determination on the faces all around her and knew a moment of shame that he was ready to fight on her behalf when she had earlier had misgivings about her betrothal to him, putting thoughts of her happiness before Ravenswood. As she looked up he caught her eye and smiled.

‘I swear, no harm shall come to you while I live, lady.’

Elgiva began to feel distinctly guilty. ‘I thank you, my lord. If it comes to a fight, my family will be much in your debt.’

‘They are soon to be my family too,’ he replied. ‘It is fitting my sword be ready to use in their defence, and in yours.’

Elgiva smiled a little in return, liking him more in that moment than ever before. However, her thoughts were soon distracted for Aylwin had turned away and was already organising the deployment of the men.

‘Every man and boy able to hold a weapon must prepare. There can be no knowing how soon the Viking host may march. We shall double our guard and watchers shall be placed at the boundaries to give word of any approaching force. If the Norsemen come, we shall be ready for them.’

He gave his orders and men departed to do his bidding. Elgiva turned to check on Gunter, but he was asleep and Osgifu was with him.

‘I will watch over him the while,’ she said.

‘Will he survive, do you think?’

‘He has lost much blood, ’tis true. But he is a strong man and, God willing, he will come through this. What he needs is rest and quiet.’

‘I pray God that he may have it.’

‘Amen to that, child.’

Elgiva left her and went outside, making her way to the steps leading to the rampart that ran along the inside of the palisade. From there she had an excellent view of the preparations taking place as everywhere men hastened to ready themselves for the defence of Ravenswood. Beyond the hall with its attendant stables and storehouses and the high wooden pale, the countryside lay still. An area of open ground surrounded the pale, and beyond it was pasture and woodland. Usually Elgiva thought of it as a place of peace and solitude, but now those quiet glades held menace. Her eyes scanned the trees, seeking for any sign of movement that might reveal a hidden enemy, but there was nothing to be seen save a few serfs driving their swine to feed. In the little hamlet people went about their business, though looking fearfully about all the while. The knowledge that Lord Aylwin had posted sentinels through the estate offered partial reassurance; at least there would be no surprise attack. Perhaps it was as Osgifu had said: now they had exacted their vengeance on King Ella they would adventure no further. It was a slender hope for the greed of the pirates was legendary. Their periodic raids were a fact of life for the unfortunate coastal dwellers, and the Norsemen had regularly carried off women and livestock along with any other loot that seized their fancy. Then they had sailed for their northern lands taking their booty with them.

Elgiva shivered to think of the poor souls taken off to a life of slavery in a strange country, of the women who must become unwilling wives or concubines to their new masters. It would be better to fight to the death than submit to such a fate as that. As she glanced away from the distant trees, her gaze fell on the roof of the bower. Within her chamber was the chest where she kept her gowns. Underneath them was the sword her father had given her some years before. He had taught her to use it too, holding that a woman should be schooled in self-defence as well as a man. Elgiva was resolved. If need be, she too, would fight and kill to defend her home.

Chapter Two

The Viking attack came within days; the sentinels on Ravenswood’s boundaries returned in haste to report the sighting of a marching host hundreds strong. Elgiva had been sewing in the women’s bower with Osgifu when the peace was shattered by the wild ringing of the church bell. Her hands paused at their task and for a moment or two she listened before the implications sank in.

‘The alarm.’

‘Dear Lord, it cannot be.’ Osgifu threw down her sewing and hastened to the door, but her companion was before her. Both of them halted in dismay on the threshold; outside was a scene of urgent haste with men running to their posts, buckling on swords as they went. They stopped a man-at-arms who was hurrying to the palisade with a large sheaf of arrows.

‘What is it? What’s happening?’

‘The sentries have reported sighting a large enemy force, my lady,’ he replied. ‘It is advancing on Ravenswood.’

Osgifu paled, looking in alarm at the armed men running towards the ramparts. ‘An enemy force?’

‘Aye, the Vikings approach.’ He inclined his head to Elgiva. ‘Your pardon, lady, but I dare not stay longer. I must to my post.’ With that he was gone.

The two women ran to the hall where Aylwin was barking orders to his men. As they hastened to obey, he turned to Elgiva.

‘Go bar yourself in the upper chamber, my lady. It will be far safer. Take Osgifu and the children too.’

Before she had a chance to reply one of Aylwin’s men spoke out, throwing a dark glance at Osgifu.

‘I’ve been told that this woman is of Danish blood, my lord. How do we know she can be trusted?’

Elgiva surveyed him with anger. ‘Osgifu has served my family faithfully and well for many years. Her loyalty is not in question nor ever has been.’

The man reddened. ‘I beg pardon, my lady.’

Aylwin glared at him, then nodded towards the door. The other took the hint and beat a hasty retreat.

‘I’m sorry, Elgiva.’ Aylwin laid a soothing hand on her arm. ‘Such times make men cautious.’

‘So it seems.’

With an effort Elgiva forced down her indignation. It would not aid their cause to quarrel among themselves. She turned to Osgifu.

‘Fetch Hilda and the children and the women servants. Then go with them to the upper floor.’

If Osgifu had been in any way discomforted by the conversation, it was not evident. Returning Elgiva’s gaze, she asked, ‘What about you, child?’

‘I will come presently, but there is something I must fetch first.’

‘Make haste then, my lady,’ said Aylwin. With one last warm smile he hurried off to join his men outside.

Elgiva raced back to the bower and, throwing open the chest in the corner, retrieved the sword from the bottom. The familiar weight of the weapon was comforting. At least they should not be completely defenceless if the worst came to the worst. Closing her hand round the scabbard, she slammed the chest shut and went to join the others, barring the stout door behind her as Aylwin had instructed. Then she took up a station by the far window. The shutters were pulled to, but through a broken slat she could see much of the hustle and activity below as men ran to their posts. Aylwin had his plan ready days earlier and each one of his retainers knew where he was supposed to be. Within a short time they were ready, armed to the teeth, and grimly determined to defend their homes and their lives.

The clanging bell had brought the peasants from the fields and the wood to seek the relative safety of the pale. No sooner were they gathered within than the men on the wall called out a warning as the forward ranks of the Viking host appeared. Like an army of sinister wraiths, silent and intent, they emerged from among the trees into the pasture beyond. One of their archers loosed an arrow, killing a Saxon guard where he stood. Then, as though at a signal, a great shout went up from the invaders, splitting the stillness, and they surged forwards as one.

‘Merciful heavens,’ murmured Aylwin. ‘Surely this can be no ordinary raiding party. There are hundreds of them.’ By his private reckoning his men would be outnumbered five to one.

Beside him, his armed companion had made a similar calculation. ‘This is revenge indeed for their dead chieftain.’

What Aylwin might have said next was lost in a hissing rain of arrows. It covered the advance of the Viking vanguard that carried ladders to raise against the walls. Swiftly the defenders loosed their own arrows in reply, but each time one of the attackers fell he was immediately replaced and the assault renewed. The Saxons maintained a deadly fire from above, but to right and left the invaders swarmed up the ladders and over the walls. The first were cut down without mercy, but their comrades followed hard on their heels and soon fierce battle was enjoined, filling the air with shouts and the clash of arms.

Peering through the gap in the shutters, Elgiva stared in horror at the scene of carnage below and murmured a prayer. Everywhere she looked the Viking marauders were pouring in over the walls.

‘God in heaven, can there be so many?’

Giants they seemed, these fierce warriors, cruel with battle thirst, each face alight with lust for blood and conquest. With sword and axe they cut down all who stood in their way, crying out the name of their war god.

‘Odin!’

The cry was repeated from four hundred throats as the Norsemen drove forwards, fearless into the ranks of their foes. The defenders fought bravely but the sheer weight of numbers pushed them back, step by step, the enemy advancing over the bodies of the slain, remorseless, hacking their way on. As the defenders fell back, Elgiva could see another group of the enemy without the palisade, dragging a huge battering ram into position. It was the trunk of a tree, fresh hewn and drawn on a wheeled timber cradle. Under cover of ox-hide shields the marauders rolled the supporting cradle back and forth, building momentum until the end of the trunk crashed against the gate. The stout timbers creaked, but held. Elgiva stared in horrified fascination as with each swing the gate shook. Alive to the danger the nearest Saxon defenders rallied to the gate and swarmed to the rampart inside the palisade, raining arrows and rocks on to the men beneath.

For a little while it seemed that they had met with success; several of the Vikings fell and the momentum of the great ram was lost. It was a brief respite—in moments reinforcements arrived and other warriors stepped up to take the places of their fallen comrades. The assault on the gate began anew. The timbers shuddered and splintered. Amid the clash of arms and shouts of men a thunderous crack announced the breach, followed by a roar of triumph from the invading horde who poured through the gap like a tide beneath their black-raven banner.

Helpless, Elgiva could only watch as the Saxon defence crumbled and her retainers were beaten back towards the great hall. Beside them Aylwin and his men fought on, shoulder to shoulder, returning the enemy blow for blow. Half a dozen more men fell under Aylwin’s sword while all around him the group of defenders grew smaller and more desperate, redoubling their efforts, hacking and thrusting and parrying, each man determined to sell his life dear. Tireless they seemed, yet one by one they fell. Aylwin fought on, laying about him with a will, his sword smoking and bloody as it rose and fell, slashing and cutting until the bodies were piled before him. And then its edge struck the blade of a huge war axe. The sword shivered and Aylwin was left undefended. He hurled the sundered hilt at the foe in a last act of defiance before the enemy blade cut him down.

Elgiva’s hand flew to her lips, stifling her cry, and she closed her eyes a moment, forcing back tears. Weakness would not help Aylwin now, or any of the survivors who would depend on her. Striving to regain some measure of self-control she turned from the window, sombrely regarding the other occupants of the room. Seeing that stony expression, Hilda let out a terrified sob as she cowered, clutching the baby, Pybba, to her breast. The nursemaid was but six and ten years old and plainly terrified. Osgifu stood beside her, pale but silent, her arm about the three-year-old Ulric, who clutched her skirt and bit a trembling lip. Around them the women servants sobbed.

In the hall below were gathered a handful of men left for their defence. Violent banging on the barred outer doors announced the invaders’ intent and the great timbers shuddered. Elgiva knew it could only be a matter of time before they broke through for above the din she heard the sinister thunk of axes against timber. A woman screamed. Minutes later the door gave way amid a roar of voices and the clash of weapons as the defenders tried to stem the tide of invaders. Shouts and shrieks filled the hall. More invaders poured in through the shattered doorway. Several made for the stairway in pursuit of plunder. Elgiva heard the heavy footfalls and men’s voices. Someone tried the chamber door and found it barred. Then she heard a man’s voice.

‘Break it down!’

There followed the fearsome sound of axes in wood. Hilda let out a stifled sob of terror. The baby began to cry and in desperation she tried to quiet it, while little Ulric looked on, wide-eyed with fright. Elgiva looked from them to the door, which shook under the assault. In another minute the first blades were visible through a hole in the timber, a hole that grew larger with each blow. A few more moments and they would be through. With beating heart she backed away to the far side of the room, watching the splintering wood in helpless horror, struggling to control her growing fear. With her back to the wall, she closed her hand round the hilt of the sword and, taking a deep breath, drew the blade from the sheath.

As she did so the door burst asunder and the first three men fell into the room, followed by half a dozen more. Their greedy gaze fell immediately on the cowering group in front of them and they strode forwards, seizing upon the women servants. One man grabbed hold of Hilda, who clutched the baby in one arm and the terrified Ulric in the other. Osgifu strove to come between, but a heavy blow sent her reeling back into the wall. She hit her head and fell, stunned. Hilda shrieked, struggling wildly against the hands that held her, her screams mingling with those of the baby.

Outraged to see such treatment meted out to the weak and helpless, Elgiva stepped forwards.

‘Leave them alone! Let them go!’

It proved a futile protest, but the words drew attention from a different quarter and Elgiva found herself confronting another armed man. Tall and well made, fair of hair and beard, he might have been handsome save for the thin cruel lips drawn back in an indulgent sneer.

‘Well now, what have we here?’

Her face blazed with loathing and contempt and her hand tightened round the hilt of the sword.

‘Viking scum! You would make war on women and helpless infants! Come, try your luck here! I’ll slit your belly and spill your yellow guts for you!’

All eyes turned towards Elgiva, registering surprise, and then, on seeing the sword, amusement.

‘Have a care, Sweyn,’ called one of his companions in mocking tones. ‘That one is a regular fire eater.’

Sweyn bared his teeth in a smile, his cold grey gaze speculative. ‘A warrior maid, no less. One of Odin’s daughters, perhaps, and fluent in our tongue. That will be convenient when I give her instructions in bed.’

Appreciative grins greeted the words and the speaker turned away for a moment to share the joke with his companions. Elgiva darted in for the attack. From the corner of his eye he saw the flashing blade aimed at him and leapt aside. The thrust that should have pierced his heart merely gashed his arm. Incredulous, he clapped his free hand to the wound, staring at the dripping blood, amid roars of laughter from the rest. Undeterred, Elgiva laid on with a will and for several moments Sweyn was forced to defend himself most dexterously before the onslaught, being driven back several paces. However, very soon greater strength and skill began to tell and then it was Elgiva who was forced back step by step until she came up hard against the far wall. A heavy blow beneath the hilt numbed her hand and wrist and with a gasp of pain she dropped the sword, only to find the Viking’s blade at her throat.

‘Beg for mercy, vixen!’

Elgiva spat at him. She knew he would kill her now, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, of hearing her plead. Lifting her chin, she let her gaze travel the length of the bloody sword until it met that of the man who held it. The tip of the sword pierced the skin and she felt the warm trickle of blood. With pounding heart she waited for the final thrust. For a long moment there was silence. Then the blade was lowered a fraction and for a fleeting second there was something like admiration in his eyes.

‘No,’ he said softly, ‘I will not kill you. What a waste that would be.’

‘You speak true, Sweyn!’ called a voice from the assembled group behind. ‘Take her to your bed. I wager you’ll never have a livelier piece.’

Another shout of laughter went up. Elgiva felt her cheeks flame as she heard Sweyn laugh, saw his hot gaze strip her.

‘I’d rather be dead.’

‘You’re not going to die,’ he replied. ‘Not yet.’

He sheathed the sword and, stepping close, seized her by the waist, bringing his mouth down hard on hers amid shouts of encouragement from the watching men.

Elgiva struggled in furious revulsion, but to no avail. In desperation she bit down on his lip. With a cry of pain and outrage, he released her abruptly, his hand moving to his mouth where the blood welled. Giving him no time to recover, Elgiva brought her knee up hard. Instinct made him move, though he still caught a glancing blow. She heard a grunt of pain and he reeled backwards while his companions redoubled their mirth. Elgiva didn’t wait to see how badly she had hurt him, but turned and fled across the room. Hilda was still struggling in the arms of the young man who had first seized her, but, hampered by the baby, could do little. The crying Ulric was standing beside the still figure of Osgifu. Elgiva reached him and flung her arms around him.

Across the room Sweyn staggered to his feet. Seeing the movement, Elgiva looked up and, as her gaze met his, she saw the murderous rage in his eyes. He crossed the intervening space and with a crash flung open the shutters. The room flooded with light. Then he tore Ulric from her arms and raised him aloft. Realising his intent, Elgiva screamed.

‘No!’

Sweyn’s lips twisted in a chilling smile.

Then a much louder voice sounded above all. ‘Hold!’ There was no mistaking the tone of cold command. ‘Enough! Put the child down, Sweyn.’

Elgiva, very pale, tore her gaze from the man by the window and risked a glance at the speaker. She had a brief impression of a tall, dark-haired warrior in a mail shirt. His face was concealed behind the plates of his helmet, but it was clear that all the intruders knew him and that he had authority with them for the room fell silent. His blue gaze locked with that of the other man. Frantic, she looked back across the room at Sweyn. For one hideous moment it seemed as though he would follow his intent, but then, to her unspeakable relief, he slowly lowered Ulric to the floor. Bewildered, the little boy ran to Elgiva, who held him close. Ignoring them, Sweyn confronted the other man.

‘Did we not swear to avenge Ragnar with fire and sword?’

‘Aye, man to man. Do men make war on babes?’

‘A mewling Saxon brat. What does it signify?’

At this casual dismissal of helpless innocence Elgiva, sickened, thought her heart might burst with rage. She missed the casual glance that the dark warrior threw her way before his gaze locked again with Sweyn’s.

‘Slaves are valuable, no matter what their age, and we have need of them. There will be no more killing here this day.’ The tone was calm, but no one missed the inflexion of iron beneath.

Sweyn shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Wulfrum.’ He turned back to Elgiva. ‘Even so, I have a reckoning to settle with this one.’

Elgiva struggled to her feet and, thrusting Ulric towards one of the serving women, backed away. Sweyn came on. She turned and fled for the door.

She never reached it for in her blind flight she hurtled headlong into the warrior who had spoken before, stumbling against him, her hands slamming into chain mail as she tried frantically to push him aside. He stood like a rock. Strong hands closed round her arms, bringing her flight to a dead stop.

‘Not so fast.’

The voice was low and even, the tone amused. Elgiva’s gaze, currently level with a broad chest, travelled upwards, took in a powerful jaw and strong sensual mouth, parted now in a smile. She twisted in his hold, but her efforts made no impression except that, if anything, his smile widened.

‘I’ll take the wench, Wulfrum.’ Elgiva’s pursuer halted a few feet away. ‘I’ll teach the Saxon bitch to mend her ways and that right soon.’

He took another step forwards and Elgiva spun round, shrinking back involuntarily against Wulfrum for the expression in the other’s eyes was terrifying.

‘By Odin’s blood, it looked to me as if she was teaching you a thing or two, Sweyn,’ said a warrior, who stepped forwards to stand beside Wulfrum.

Amid the mirth and jests that greeted the remark Elgiva looked round and then froze. The speaker was a fearsome figure, a giant of a man all bedaubed with blood, and a good head taller than any present. Grey mingled with the brown of his hair and beard, and his weathered face was seamed with lines, but his dark eyes were cool and shrewd. In one fist he held a great bloodstained axe.

‘Ironfist is right!’ called another. ‘She’s too hot for you, Sweyn!’

Sweyn glared. ‘We’ll see.’

‘You are careless with your captives,’ said Wulfrum. ‘You let the wench escape. I caught her. She is mine now.’

Elgiva looked up in alarm, but Wulfrum’s gaze was fixed on Sweyn. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other on her shoulder.

‘True enough,’ said Olaf Ironfist. ‘We all saw it.’

Murmurs of agreement greeted his words.

‘Nay, Wulfrum. I say she is mine.’

‘Not so. You let her get away.’

‘Wulfrum speaks true,’ said another.

A chorus of agreement greeted this. Sweyn darted angry looks to left and right, but could find no support. Elgiva held her breath, praying that he would not prevail, quailing to think of the revenge he would take. It was in her mind to run but, as if he read her thoughts, Wulfrum tightened his hold a fraction.

‘Take the bitch, then,’ replied Sweyn. ‘’Tis but a wench after all.’

‘Aye, and there are plenty more,’ said a voice from the doorway.

All heads turned in the direction of the speaker and the men fell silent, parting to let Lord Halfdan enter. Although only of average height, he was powerfully made and, like Wulfrum, carried with him an aura of authority. When he reached the group around his sword brother, he took in the scene at a glance.

‘There are women and slaves aplenty in England and land enough for all.’ His voice carried without effort across the room. ‘Therefore there is no reason to quarrel.’ He bent his gaze upon Elgiva, scrutinising her. ‘A comely wench, Wulfrum. She will fetch a good price in the slave market, unless of course you plan to keep her.’

‘I do intend to, my lord.’

‘Well then, keep her close.’

‘I shall, my lord.’

‘Put the matter beyond dispute.’ He glanced across the room at Sweyn. ‘It seems to me she would make a fine Viking bride.’

‘Never in a thousand years!’

The words were out before she could stop them and Elgiva felt her throat dry as both men turned their attention towards her. Wulfrum laughed and his arm closed about her, ignoring the resistance it encountered.

‘A spirited piece,’ said Halfdan, ‘and impudent too. She must learn who her master is.’

‘I will never acknowledge any Viking as my master!’

‘Oh, I think you will—eventually.’ He smiled down at her.

Elgiva’s stomach churned.

‘She will learn,’ said Wulfrum.

‘From you?’ Her tone was blatant disdain. ‘I think not.’

‘Aye, from me.’ He took another look at the face turned up to his and all former reservations about marriage evaporated like mist in the sun as he made his decision. ‘For, by all the gods, I will have you to wife.’

‘I will never agree to that.’

‘You have no choice, my beauty. You belong to me now.’

‘No!’

‘Oh, yes. Unless you would prefer to go with Sweyn?’

She swallowed hard, every fibre of her being wanting to spurn him, but when she looked upon the alternative, her heart was filled with loathing and contempt.

‘Well?’

‘I will not go with a coward and a child slayer!’

Wulfrum looked from Elgiva to Sweyn. ‘The girl has chosen.’

‘Then I wish you joy of her,’ replied the other. The cool tone was at variance with the expression in his eyes.

It had no effect on Wulfrum. ‘I shall find joy enough, I have no doubt.’

‘Then it is settled.’ Halfdan turned back to Wulfrum. ‘You have done good service under the black-raven banner. From henceforth this hall and these lands shall be yours. The slaves too, to do with as you will.’

‘You are generous, lord.’

‘Aye, to those who serve me well.’ He glanced at Elgiva. ‘As for the girl, take her—she is a worthy prize.’

‘Indeed she is.’

Elgiva glared at them. The Viking chief threw her a mocking smile.

‘Your fate is clear, wench, and you had best submit.’ He turned to the assembled warriors. ‘Go down to the hall. Summon the others. I would speak to all.’

The men turned and began to troop out of the chamber, one carrying the screaming Hilda under his arm.

‘No!’ Elgiva fought the hold on her. ‘Take your filthy hands off her!’

On the floor Osgifu began to stir. Wanting to go to her, Elgiva strove harder.

‘Come,’ said Wulfrum.

‘I will not. Let go of me, you pirate scum.’

For answer she was thrown over a broad shoulder and, regardless of violent struggle and loud protest, was carried from the room. Only when they reached the hall did he set her down, but a strong arm about her waist prevented any chance of escape. Breathless and furious, Elgiva threw him a venomous glance and wished in vain for a sword to disembowel him with. Undismayed, Wulfrum grinned. Then his gaze moved on from her across the hall and she became aware that Halfdan was speaking.

‘Tonight we shall feast in celebration of our victory. We shall rest here long enough to bury the dead and tend our wounded. Then we push on until all Northumbria is ours.’

A rousing cheer tore from the throats of the assembled men. He held up his fist for silence.

‘Before we leave we shall witness the joining of Earl Wulfrum and this fair Saxon maid in marriage. She will bear him fine sons who shall inherit this land after him. Let it be known that the Norsemen are here to stay.’

Another cheer shook the rafters. Elgiva closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, determined to stifle the wail of terror rising in her throat. When she opened them again, it was to see Wulfrum watching her. Under that cool gaze her resolve stiffened.

‘If I am to take a wife, I would have a name to lay to her,’ he said.

For a moment she was tempted to refuse, but then common sense came to the fore. If she did not tell him, he might well beat it out of her.

‘I am Elgiva, daughter of Egbert, and sister to Osric, late the thane of this manor.’

‘Elgiva. The name is pleasing—as pleasing as the outward form.’

She felt herself grow warm beneath that keen scrutiny. Wulfrum smiled and removed his helmet. The face beneath might have been chiselled from rock, so strong were the planes of cheek and brow and jaw, the latter accentuated by a beard close trimmed and dark as the hair that fell over his shoulders. The eyes regarding her now were the startling blue of a summer sky. She saw their expression change and he reached out a hand, lightly touching the cut on her neck.

‘You are hurt?’

‘No. ’Tis merely a legacy of your brave friend, Sweyn.’

He ignored the gibe. ‘How is it that you speak our tongue so well, Elgiva?’

‘I was tutored in it by my nurse. Her mother was a Dane.’

‘It is an advantage I had not thought to find.’

‘An advantage indeed, for now I can call you the loathsome reptile you are and have you understand.’

Wulfrum was not so easily goaded. If anything, his enjoyment grew.

‘You could say it in your own language if you wished.’

Hearing him speak the words in fluent Saxon, she was temporarily at a loss.

‘I have learned much in my travels,’ he explained.

Letting his hand drop a little, he brushed the top of her gown. Elgiva instinctively took a step back. The smile widened.

‘Soon you will beg me to touch you, lady.’

‘That I never will.’

‘You say so now—you have yet to share my bed. May I say I look forward to it?’

Hot colour flooded her face and neck, but before she could reply Ironfist appeared beside them. He glanced down at her for a moment and then took her chin in one huge hand, turning her face to his.

‘By all the gods, not bad.’ He let his hand slide to her arm, encircling it easily. Then he looked at Wulfrum and grinned. ‘She’s a little slender for my taste, but to each his own.’

Elgiva glowered. Did these Viking clods think her a prize horse to be mauled thus?

‘I’m glad you approve,’ replied Wulfrum.

‘Thor’s beard, ’tis high time you took a wife. A man must breed sons.’

‘I intend to.’

‘I’ll cut out your liver first!’

Both men looked down at her in silence for perhaps the length of two heartbeats. Then they laughed out loud.

‘I do believe she’d try,’ said Ironfist. ‘You’ll have trouble with this one, believe me. Are you equal to the challenge?’

‘Trust me,’ replied Wulfrum. He turned her to face him. ‘Come, Elgiva. Let us seal our betrothal.’

Before she could anticipate him she found herself being forcibly kissed, drawn hard against him, held in strong arms and kept there at his pleasure in an embrace that left her breathless. No man had ever kissed her like that, a kiss that was both knowing and disturbingly assured. When he released her, the warmth of his mouth lingered on her lips. Her eyes blazed as she hit him, the crack ringing loud. There was a sharp intake of breath from others nearby and heads turned to watch the developments with keen interest. Not a man there but expected to see the mutinous wench laid at Wulfrum’s feet with one blow of his fist. To their surprise he merely grinned.

‘I suppose I deserved that.’

‘You said it,’ replied Ironfist.

Elgiva launched a second blow, but Wulfrum caught her wrist and held it. ‘Now that’s no way to behave towards your future husband.’

‘I will never take you as my husband.’

‘You will, Elgiva, believe me, and that soon enough.’

Before she could reply Lord Halfdan drew near.

‘Come, that’s enough romantic dalliance, Wulfrum. You can deal with the wench later. There is work to be done.’

‘As you say, my lord.’

‘Take her back to the upper chamber and put a guard on the door. Then join me outside.’

Wulfrum nodded and turned to Elgiva, ignoring her attempts to pull free.

‘Don’t you dare touch me!’

He raised an eyebrow and threw Olaf a speaking look. The hand round her wrist tightened and he strode to the stairs, drawing her after. Resistance was futile for his grip was like a vice. When they reached the upper chamber, he pushed her inside.

‘Until later, Elgiva.’

Then he left her, pausing only to issue instructions to the guards outside the door. Breathless and shaking, she watched him go.

When she was satisfied that he really had gone, she turned and looked fearfully at the scene before her. The two children were still there, apparently unharmed and being comforted by frightened servants. With enormous relief Elgiva saw one of the latter help Osgifu to her feet. The older woman was still dazed. Her lip was cut and a dark bruise was already showing down her cheek. Hastening forwards Elgiva guided her to a chair before pouring a little water into a basin and gently bathing the cut lip. Osgifu sat very still throughout, though her hands trembled slightly in her lap. As she had no access to her medicine chest, there was relatively little that Elgiva could do for she had no arnica or salve to hand. The best she could manage was a cool compress on the bruised area of the face.

For some time neither woman spoke, each trying to come to terms with the terrible events that had shattered the peaceful course of their lives and changed it for ever. Eventually it was Osgifu who spoke first.

‘Are you all right, child? They did not hurt you?’

‘No, I am quite well.’

‘Thank God for it. And the children?’

‘Both well too.’ Elgiva cast a glance at the open window and shuddered. If Sweyn had had his will, both her nephews would be dead, impaled on the spears of the horde beneath. It had been prevented. Remembering Wulfrum’s ringing command, she could only be thankful he had appeared on the scene when he did. Seemingly he had no taste for the slaughter of babes, either. He had kept her out of Sweyn’s clutches too. She knew that if he had not, the other would have exacted a terrible revenge for she had bested him and caused him to lose face before his comrades. It was not a thing he was likely to forgive. There could be no forgetting the expression in the cruel grey eyes.

Unable to read her mind, Osgifu guessed accurately enough the thoughts passing through it. She had been stunned for a short time, then disorientated, lying still until she could be sure of her bearings. None of the invaders had paid any further attention to her and she had heard much of the conversation in the room, listening with mounting concern for Elgiva. The girl turned to her now.

‘Did you hear?’

‘Aye, enough.’

Before they could speak further, Ulric broke free of the woman who had been holding him and came to them. Elgiva scooped him up and sat him on her knee, holding him close, speaking words of reassurance. The tears that had risen in her eyes unbidden were swiftly quelled. A show of weakness would not help anyone, least of all herself. If she hoped to survive the ordeals that lay ahead, she would need every ounce of courage she possessed. The trouble was that she had never felt so afraid in her life.

Chapter Three

Wulfrum rejoined Halfdan and Olaf Ironfist outside. His men were already moving among the bodies of the slain, collecting weapons and armour along with any valuables they might find. The fighting had been fierce while it lasted—the Saxons had put up a brave defence even though they were heavily outnumbered. He admired courage and it had been shown here this day. Their leaders had fallen and many besides, but a goodly number had been taken prisoner. They stood roped together under heavy guard. From their sullen expressions he knew them unbowed, though they feared for their lives even now. It was well. It meant they would do nothing foolish. He had no intention of shedding any more blood for he would need able hands to work these lands in future. However, it would not hurt his cause to leave them in doubt a while longer.

Wulfrum turned away from the prisoners and met the keen gaze of his sword brother. Halfdan lowered his voice.

‘Hold this place well, brother. Lying as it does on the road to the north, it is of strategic importance to us.’

‘You may depend on it.’

‘I know it.’ Halfdan clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I could think of no better hands to leave it in. Even so, it will keep you busy. The place seems to be strangely neglected.’

Wulfrum glanced around. ‘It looks to have seen more prosperous days, but they will come again, I promise you.’

‘Why would any man worthy of the name allow his holdings to fall into such disrepair?’

‘I know not.’

‘Unless of course there was no man in view,’ said Halfdan, his tone thoughtful.

‘Perhaps, yet the Saxons were organised and fought valiantly. It suggests a leader, does it not?’

‘Belike he fell in the fighting, then.’

‘Most likely. The Saxon losses were heavy. I shall make enquiries.’

Before further conjecture was possible they were interrupted by the approach of two of their fellow Danes, dragging a captive with them. The man’s hands were bound before him and his face beneath a layer of grime was ashen. From the shaven crown and long robe Wulfrum recognised one of the Christian priests. He glanced once at Halfdan and then watched in silence as the trio came to a halt before them.

‘Look what we found, my lord.’ The guard’s lip curled as he glanced at the prisoner. ‘The craven swine was hiding in the barn.’

‘Hiding, eh?’ Halfdan’s expression mirrored the guard’s as he looked the priest over. ‘Scarcely surprising, I suppose. He’s a poor specimen by the look of him. Must be fifty if he’s a day.’ He turned to Wulfrum. ‘What do you want to do with him? Shall we have him spitted and roasted like an ox? Or shall we flay him and nail his hide to the door of his accursed church?’

‘Beg pardon, my lord,’ said the guard, ‘but we burnt the church down.’

Halfdan followed his gaze towards a distant plume of thick dark smoke. ‘Ah, yes, so we did. Pity. We’ll spit him, then.’

Grinning, the men moved to obey.

Wulfrum held up a hand. ‘No, not yet. He may prove to be of use.’ He fixed his gaze on the trembling form. ‘How are you called, priest?’

‘Father Willibald, my lord.’

Halfdan stared at the earl in disbelief. ‘You want this shaven ass?’

‘Aye, I do.’

‘Very well, as you will. Put him with the others, then.’

With ill-concealed disappointment the guards dragged the priest away.

Halfdan watched them a moment before turning back to his companion.

‘Have some of your men search the forest hereabouts. ’Tis likely some of the serfs have taken refuge there. We should not lose valuable slaves thus. Besides, if left on the loose, they may foment trouble later.’

Wulfrum nodded for it had been his thought also. ‘It shall be done, my lord. If any are hiding, they will be found and brought back.’

‘Meantime, let the injured be carried into the hall and treated. There must be those among the Saxon women versed in the knowledge of healing. They must be identified and put to work.’

‘It should be easy enough. I’ll wager that priest will know.’

Wulfrum was right. Two minutes was all he needed to elicit the relevant information. Hearing the names, he hid a smile. It seemed that his beautiful future bride had other talents to her credit. He strode back to the hall and collared one of his men.

‘Have the guards bring the Lady Elgiva down here,’ he ordered. ‘And the woman called Osgifu.’

Wulfrum seated himself casually on the edge of the long table and waited. A few minutes later the guards reappeared, ushering the two women in front of them. They came to a halt a few feet away, eyeing him warily.

‘I’m told you have skill in healing,’ he said without preamble. ‘You will help to tend the injured.’

He saw the flash of defiance in Elgiva’s eyes, but he was not alone; her companion put a gentle hand on her arm and the two exchanged looks. Then the older woman spoke.

‘We will do so, lord.’ She paused. ‘I will need my things.’

‘Fetch them.’ Wulfrum turned to one of the guards. ‘Go with her.’ Then he turned his attention back to Elgiva, who was regarding him with a distinctly hostile gaze. He let his glance travel the length of her and saw her bridle in an instant. ‘Do not think of trying any tricks, Elgiva.’

‘Do you think I would harm injured men? I have a greater regard for human life.’

‘Then give them all tending.’

‘Does that include Saxon, as well as Dane?’

‘Of course. Slaves are of value to me too.’

‘A pity, then, that you have slain so many.’

‘The fortunes of war.’ He paused, smiling faintly. ‘They could always have surrendered.’

‘To a life of slavery? You cannot seriously think so.’

‘I don’t. I merely offer it as a possibility.’

The amber eyes blazed, but her anger appeared to leave him unmoved. A few moments later Osgifu returned with the box that held her herbs and potions. She eyed Wulfrum and hesitated.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘I will need hot water and clean cloths too,’ she said, ‘and some help to bring pallets for the injured.’

He glanced at the guard standing nearby. ‘Arrange it.’

The man nodded and went with Osgifu to do his bidding. Wulfrum turned back to Elgiva, who had made no move to obey. He raised an eyebrow and saw her chin come up. She lingered a moment more and then, in her own good time, turned away. Had she seen the glint in his eyes she might have made more haste for an instant later the flat of Wulfrum’s sword caught her hard across the buttocks. With a gasp of indignation, she spun round.

‘Defy me again, wench, and you go across my knee.’

The words were quietly spoken, but, looking at that imperturbable expression, Elgiva was left in no doubt he meant it. She was also aware of several grinning faces around them from those who had witnessed the little scene, no doubt hoping for further entertainment at her expense. For a moment she hesitated, caught between anger and indecision. Then Wulfrum stood up and took a pace towards her. Elgiva fled.

The afternoon was wearing on when the Viking hunters returned with some dozen bound captives, those who had fled when defeat became inevitable. Some were wounded, all dirty and dishevelled. Wulfrum surveyed them for a moment and then turned to Ceolnoth, who had formed one of the hunting party.

‘These were all you found?’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘Very well. Keep them apart from the rest. I’ll deal with them later. Meanwhile, take some of the women to the kitchens. They can start preparing the food. Lord Halfdan and his earls will be hungry tonight. See to it.’

‘Yes, lord.’

Ceolnoth swung down off his horse and moved towards the captive women, who eyed him with fear. Enlisting the aid of a warrior companion, he cut half a dozen free, including the girl, Hilda. Wulfrum noted the young man’s gaze lingered far longer on her than on the rest, and he smiled to himself. It seemed he was not the only one to have an eye for a comely Saxon wench. He watched as the women were taken off towards the hall. Then his gaze went to the upper storey of the building and in his mind’s eye he saw again the chamber where he had first met Elgiva. It was a fine room. Henceforth it would be his, as would she. Their union would set the seal of his ownership on these lands and these people. Whether they liked it or not, the Danes were here to stay.

He had no doubt as to Elgiva’s mind on the matter. In truth, she was a spirited piece as Lord Halfdan had said, and brave too. Her defiance of Sweyn demonstrated that beyond doubt. Not that he blamed the man for wanting her. She was a rare beauty and it must have cost him a pang to lose her so soon. Wulfrum had not forgotten the look in his eyes when the girl had spurned him, nor again when Wulfrum claimed her for his own. If Ironfist and the others had not been there, Sweyn might have disputed the matter further. Even if he had, Wulfrum knew he would have fought to keep her for, from the moment he set eyes on the wench, he knew he wanted her for himself. Wanted her and intended to have her. Halfdan had seen it too. It was why he had urged Wulfrum to take her to wife and settle the matter once and for all. Wulfrum knew that a week ago he would have dismissed the suggestion out of hand. Today he had embraced it. After all, he was five and twenty and should have taken a bride long since. He would have if he’d ever found one he wanted. It had seemed a hopeless quest. That situation had just changed. Besides, he could think of many a worse fate to befall a man. Recalling the kiss he had stolen from Elgiva earlier, he grinned. If looks could kill, he knew he’d be a dead man now. Too bad—he was determined that kiss would be the first of many. Let her fight him tooth and nail; it would avail her naught. She would yield in the end. He would strip away her defences as he intended to strip away her clothes.

‘My lord?’

Jolted back to the present, Wulfrum focused his attention on the man before him.

‘Well?’

‘Lord Halfdan requests your presence in the hall.’

‘I will come.’

When he returned, he made his report and then looked about him with curiosity. He could see that the Saxon healers had not been idle. They had organised matters so that those men who had been badly injured had been lifted onto makeshift pallets and, having been tended, were watched over now by some of the serfs. Elgiva and her companion continued on to see to the walking wounded, of whom there was a goodly number.

‘Those women know what they are about,’ observed Halfdan, noting the direction of Wulfrum’s gaze. ‘It is useful to have experienced healers to call on. They will serve you well.’

He turned aside then to speak to one of his men, leaving Wulfrum free to observe. Across the hall he could see Elgiva with her latest patient, bandaging his arm. It seemed that Halfdan was right—she worked with assurance, her hands moving swiftly and competently about their task. From her hands he let his gaze travel on across the graceful curves of her figure, from the swelling bosom and narrow waist to the gently flaring hips. A thick golden braid hung down her back, though several tendrils of hair had escaped to curl about her neck and cheek. Just then her profile was towards him and he missed nothing of the delicate bone structure beneath that flawless skin. She was lovely, a prize indeed. As if sensing herself watched, she turned her head and looked round, perceiving him immediately. He saw the dainty chin tilt upwards before she looked away, and smiled to himself. She was safe enough for now; there were many more wounds to stanch and bind and he had still many matters to attend to, including a trip to the Danish encampment.

‘After that, my lady,’ he murmured, ‘we shall see.’

Elgiva and Osgifu worked on. It was late in the day when the last of the wounded were carried in. Among them was Aylwin, his face waxen beneath the dirt and gore. He had taken a deep sword thrust in the side and his tunic was dark with blood, yet a faint pulse testified that he lived. Swiftly they cut away the tunic and the shirt beneath. The wound gaped, wide and ugly, but it looked clean. Several superficial cuts marked his arms and livid bruises attested to the ferocity of the fighting. Elgiva set to work to stanch the bleeding. As she did so a shadow fell across them and she glanced up. Her heart skipped a beat to see Halfdan standing there. He surveyed the injured man a moment and then the pile of discarded clothing. Even soiled, it could never pass for the garb of a peasant.

‘Who is he?’

Elgiva felt her throat dry. Then she heard Osgifu speak.

‘This is Lord Aylwin.’

‘A Saxon lord.’ Halfdan looked from her to Elgiva. ‘Your father, perhaps?’

‘No. My father is dead.’

‘Ah, your husband, then?’ His hand moved to his sword hilt.

Elgiva bit back a cry of alarm, her mind racing. If Halfdan’s earl intended to marry her as he had said, then she could not have a husband living. If he thought that the case, he would rectify the matter.

‘He is not my husband, but I am betrothed to him.’

The Viking relaxed his grip on the sword and he laughed. ‘Not any more.’

As she watched him walk away Elgiva let out the breath she had unconsciously been holding. Exchanging a brief glance with Osgifu, she set to work again with trembling hands to stanch the wound and bind it. She wondered if Aylwin would last the night and thought it unlikely. It might be better if he did die. The alternative was a life of slavery beneath the Viking yoke, something he would never submit to. Nor would he suffer another man to take his betrothed without a fight. Elgiva swallowed hard. Aylwin had been allowed to live for now, but for how much longer?

She and Osgifu worked until all had been attended to. The sun was going down before they finished and both women were exceedingly weary. Elgiva wondered if she would ever get the stink of blood and death from her nostrils. Every part of her ached from the effort of bending or stretching and her gown was soiled with blood and dirt. She retired with Osgifu to the women’s bower and, having assured herself that the children were safe in the hands of one of the older women, she turned her attention to herself, bathing her hands and face in an attempt to cleanse away the memory of the past hours.

‘Oh, Gifu, so many good men slain.’

The battle today had been a rout in the end despite all the Saxons had been able to do. No one could have withstood the invaders for long. Now they were the masters here and every last Saxon soul who survived was in their power. One taste of it was enough to strike terror into the heart.

‘Aye, yet not all our warriors fell in the battle. The Vikings have already sent men out to search for fugitives, but they will not find them all.’

‘I fear it will be too late to be of help here.’ Elgiva met her gaze, unaware of the desperation in her own eyes as, unbidden, the memory of a man’s face intruded into her thoughts, a strong, chiselled face and disconcerting blue eyes. She forced it down and strove against rising panic. She would not wed the Viking.

Osgifu broke into her thoughts. ‘The forest is large and there are many places of concealment.’

‘Aye, there are for those who know its secrets.’

Elgiva moved away as, through the haze of fear and desperation, the germ of an idea formed in her mind. She knew the forest paths well for, with Osgifu, she was used to spending time there, gathering the plants she needed for her medicines. She could not wait to see if Aylwin survived, if there would ever be a Saxon uprising. All that would take time, and time was the one thing she didn’t have. Elgiva found suddenly that she was shivering with delayed reaction and the atmosphere seemed stifling. She moved to the doorway.

The place seemed quieter now—the evening meal was preparing in the hall and beyond the palisade the majority of the Viking host had encamped for the duration. The smoke from their cooking fires was already rising into the evening air. The women’s bower was situated behind the hall where over the years various rooms had been added according to need. Looking around now, Elgiva could see the bodies of the slain lying where they had fallen and beyond them a few of Halfdan’s men moving around outside stables and barn. However, there seemed to be no one at the gate just then and the broken timbers hung wide. Not far away the forest beckoned. Elgiva bit her lip. If she could somehow reach the gate without being spotted, there might be a chance of reaching the trees. The Viking encampment lay in the opposite direction and, while it would mean skirting the edge of the village, she could be fairly certain no Saxon would give her away. Once in the forest she would stand a reasonable chance of eluding pursuit. What she would do then she had no clear idea, but it seemed to her that there must be Saxons who had escaped the Viking host. If there were enough of them, they might return by stealth and put the invaders to the sword in their turn. Failing that, she might be able to find help elsewhere in those lands where the Danes held no sway. Anything was better than remaining here to become the bride of a conqueror.

Looking round the room, she saw the empty bucket and with it the idea. A trip to the well would serve as a plausible excuse for leaving the bower. She made for the door.

‘What are you doing?’ Osgifu looked at her in concern.

‘I can’t stay here, Gifu.’

‘Elgiva, think.’

‘I have thought. I will not do what they want.’

‘If you run, they will find you and bring you back. These men are ruthless. Who knows what punishment they may inflict?’

‘It cannot be worse than what they’re already planning.’

‘Don’t do it, I beg you.’

‘I will not stay here to be married off to a Viking warlord. I must get help. You said yourself that some of our men have fled into the forest. I will find them.’

‘Elgiva, wait!’

The words fell on empty air for Elgiva was already heading for the well. Picking her way among the bodies all around, she tried to ignore the rising stench and darted covert glances all about her, fearing at every moment to hear someone raise the alarm. However, no one did challenge her and she reached the well a short time later. Putting down the bucket, she took another furtive look around but could still see no one at the gate. Summoning all her courage, Elgiva made towards it at a steady pace, not wishing to draw eyes her way by careless haste. At every step her heart hammered; she expected at each moment to hear the shouted challenge and the sound of pursuit. It never came and she reached the shattered entry. Cautiously she walked through the gateway and looked about her. The way was clear. Picking up her skirts, she ran, sprinting across the open ground betwixt her and the edge of the trees, ignoring everything but the need to escape and put as much distance as possible between herself and Ravenswood. Focused on her goal, she did not see the horseman approaching fast at an oblique angle to cut off her route.

By the time she heard the thudding hoofbeats, he was much closer. One horrified glance over her shoulder revealed the approaching danger in a brief impression of a great black horse and the warrior who rode it. Elgiva summoned every remaining vestige of energy and put on a last desperate spurt. The trees were no more than a hundred yards away now. If she could but reach them, she would have a chance of escape. Behind her the hoofbeats sounded louder, thudding in her ears like the sound of her own heartbeat as she willed herself on. It was a vain effort. The rider leaned down and a strong arm reached out and swept her off her feet. Elgiva shrieked as she was thrown face down over the front of the saddle, held firmly across the rider’s knees. For some further distance every bone in her body was jarred before the horseman reined to a halt. Fury and fright vied for supremacy as she fought to recover her breath. Then she heard a familiar voice.

‘Whither away, Elgiva?’

Her stomach lurched. Wulfrum! Frantically she strove to push herself upright, but a firm hand between her shoulders kept her where she was, his well-trained mount standing like a rock the while.

‘Let go of me, you clod. You Danish oaf.’

‘Clod? Danish oaf? These are grave insults indeed.’ Wulfrum regarded his struggling captive with a keen eye. ‘It seems to me that you need to learn better manners.’

‘You have the nerve to lecture me about manners, barbarian?’

‘I think you were not attending to me earlier, wench, for I warned you what would happen if you defied me again.’

Suddenly she did recall the words and her face grew hotter as she divined his meaning and realised the extreme vulnerability of her present position.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Is that so?’

The flat of his hand came down hard, eliciting a yelp of indignation and further futile struggles.

‘Let me go, you bastard! You swine! Let me go!’

It was an unfortunate choice of words for half a dozen sharp whacks ensued. Elgiva yelled in rage but bit back any further insults, knowing he would avenge himself if she uttered them.

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ was the pleasant rejoinder. ‘You belong to me now and I will hold what is mine.’

Fuming, she forgot her former resolve in the face of this breathtaking arrogance. ‘I will never belong to you, you loathsome Viking filth.’

That last was a mistake—the hand descended several times more and much harder. Elgiva gasped.

‘Anything more?’ he asked. ‘I can keep this up indefinitely if you can.’

Indeed there were plenty more things she could have found to say, chiefly concerning his lowly birth, probable ancestry and certain destination in the hereafter, but with a monumental effort she forced them back. Only a very small exhalation of breath escaped, a sound that reminded him of an infuriated kitten. Wulfrum waited a moment, but there was nothing more. His lips curved in a sardonic smile; touching his horse with his heels, he let it move forwards at a walk. Elgiva gritted her teeth in helpless fury as they headed back towards Ravenswood and a dreadful suspicion grew that his retribution wasn’t over yet.

In this she was right. Wulfrum took his time about the return journey, knowing full well the helpless ire of his captive and her present discomfort. He had been visiting the Viking encampment earlier and was returning when he caught sight of the running figure heading for the forest. He had recognised her at once and knew a bid for freedom when he saw it. He also knew she must not be allowed to get away. How she had got so far was a mystery, one for which the guards would get a roasting later. As for Elgiva, she would discover that it did not pay to disobey him. Right now he knew she was smarting, as much from the humiliation as from his hand. It had been most tempting to put all his strength behind it and beat her soundly, but he had resisted the notion and tempered the punishment. As it was, she would think twice before crossing him again. Like all the Saxons she would learn that rebellion came at a price.

In consequence Elgiva was held across the saddle bow all the way back to the outer door of the women’s bower. If she had thought then he would let her slide from the saddle and slink indoors, she was mistaken for Wulfrum dismounted first and dragged her off the horse after. Tucking her under one arm, he carried her inside in another casual and humiliating demonstration of superior strength. When at last he set her down she was hot and breathless and, to Wulfrum’s eyes, most attractively dishevelled, for the golden mane had escaped its braid and fell in tumbled curls about her shoulders.

Furious, Elgiva glared up at him, wishing anew for a sword to cut the arrogant brute down to size. However, he was very big and to her cost she knew his strength. She hated to think what other retribution he might take if she angered him further for she was uncomfortably aware of the bed on the far side of the room and of the dimming light and of his dangerous proximity.

It was not hard to discern some of her thought but, far from being perturbed in any way, Wulfrum smiled, thinking that anger heightened her beauty for those wonderful eyes held a distinctly militant light. He was sorely tempted to take her in his arms and kiss her again, but he suspected that if he did, he would not be able to stop there. Better to let her think about what had happened, to understand the futility of attempting to escape him. She was no fool and the lesson would be well learned. Besides, time was on his side now.

For the space of several heartbeats they faced each other thus. Then, to her inexpressible relief, he moved towards the door, pausing when he reached it.

‘You will remain here until I say otherwise. I should perhaps point out that there will be a guard outside from now on.’

He left her then, closing the door behind him. Weak with relief, Elgiva collapsed against it, listening with thumping heart to the muffled hoof falls as he rode away.

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