Edin's embrace

Edin shrank back against the wall, trying to disappear. But her captor was relentless. He folded his arms over his chest and glared at her. He commanded, "Take off your clothes."

When she hesitated, he reminded her, "I could do it for you." And he thought,
She will obey me. by Thor! She will obey me or else —

Edin didn’t look at him, but slowly, unsteadily began to disrobe.

Her arms were raised, her torso taut, her breasts lifted. Then her lovely face emerged, with her spill of thigh-length golden hair, and Thoryn felt like he'd been drinking fire. He wanted this Saxon captive with more desire than he’d ever wanted a woman before. But the Viking wanted more than his own satisfaction. He wanted her will, her responding desire, and he swore that before the night was through he’d own not only her body, but her heart as well. . . .

ZEBRA BOOKS

are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp. 475 Park Avenue South New York, NY 10016

Copyright ®1989 by Nadine Crenshaw All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First printing: December, 1989

United States of America

For Robert,

who is at the heart of all my

aspirations.

The world was a colder, darker place then. It was an axe age, a wind age, a wolf age, a time when men didn't dare give mercy, a time when the powerful exacted what they could and the weak granted what they must.

In the bleak northern lands of Scandinavia, lands of long winters, of ice and snows bitter enough to kill, a people were bred to sharpness and suddenness. Dark, fir-covered slopes, skies grey with thick clouds, seas so cold they made men's bones ache —all exacted their blood tax. Those who would survive to breed new generations had to possess a contempt for softness. The generations were bred, however, and each became hardier.

At first these Norse were not joined into kingdoms under monarchs; they remained divided under local chiefs, or jarl's. Each jarl enjoyed the rank of a petty king over his local territory —as long as his people deemed his leadership beneficial to them.

Meanwhile they came to know how to make fine sea boats and acquired the skill to navigate them. At the same time, they began to hear that across the sea existed lands filled with desirable goods they couldn't make for themselves. Reports of accessible churches and coastal marts and riverine villages seeped through the Viking world like water through thirsty earth. A few jarl's called together their folk to fare forth after these rich pickings. They abandoned their timid coast-hugging habits and pointed their foamy-beaked vessels across the uncharted sea. Braving the perils of the ravaging whale, the devouring whirlpool, the polar storm, they made a few quick raids on island and coastal towns, hit-and-run attacks. Their longships made it easy for them to appear, outrage, and escape.

When these victorious few returned to their homes, word of their successes traveled like sparks on a high wind. Curiosity and greed blew on these sparks till they burned incandescent and set many a mind afire. Soon it was the folk who were clambering at the door of the jarl's longhouse, calling, "Come away! The ship pulls at her anchor, and there is a bright world to gallivant in. Blue water froths to the four edges of the world!"

Even if that particular jarl happened not to be one who wanted to pirate, even if the hay in his home field needed to be cut for the cattle, or the flock needed shearing, and his womenfolk needed to be fed, he had his position of leadership to keep, for his power was always circumscribed; it always depended on the devotion and regard of his subjects. His very title depended on their favorable voice at the assemblies where he presented himself to them. If they wanted to go a'viking, he could not very well refuse to lead them.

And, after all, a journey! At the word, the blood bounded, a wildness rose in the soul. Was there ever a proposed journey that was not a magic casket filed with promises? To the wife or mother who tugged at his sleeve, murmuring in a voice thick from crying, "Go not, there is danger, there is hardship," what answer could a man give but the bluff answer: "What Norseman fears hardship?"

And so these men of the north broke the silence of the seas once and for all. With the driving force of a mast under a bellying sail, the mighty Viking conquests began. The unexpected, swift, savage raid on Lindisfarne in the year 793 was as a bolt from the blue and marked the beginning of what was called the Norse Terror; it went on for 250 years.

Two viewpoints existed concerning the men who reveled in this barbarous age. There was the viewpoint of those who suffered because of them, who thought them cruel, bloodthirsty savages with terrible blazing eyes who left behind nothing but bones and ruin. This was the perspective of the victims, those who knew the Norse as their enemies. They had every reason to fear and hate them, since they saw them at their roughest and worst.

Then there was the viewpoint of the saga makers, who spoke of bold, fearless, heroic men— blond, blue-eyed, tall men; broad-shouldered, rock-ribbed men, honorable men —who sailed out on glorious adventures and brought home treasures beyond imagining.

Both these points of view may stand a little to one side or the other of the truth. But one fact is undeniable: The cruelty of that age was universal and incredible; destinies were decided quickly, thrillingly, cataclysmically — and usually by force. What prizes there were went to the darer.

Now it happened that the longship
Blood Wing
strand-hewed on the coast of Wessex, and a notable tale hangs thereon...

On the last day of spring, a soft afternoon when Britain was still bursting with hope, a prowling band of Norwegian predators brought their dragonship in for a beach raid on a convenient flock. The white sheep were tended by a young shepherd who hadn't spied the longship's sail on the horizon because he'd closed his eyes after the midday meal of bread and sheep-milk cheese. Dreaming of anything but a raid from the sea, the first he knew of the Vikings was the feel of the cool, flat surface of an axe blade laid against his sleeping brow, and then, suddenly, came terror.

The invaders bound him and kept him by while they slaughtered the choicest ewe of the flock. The butchered mutton they rubbed with salt to keep the meat fresh. Those who weren't occupied with this enjoyed loud and heavy conversation among themselves, often directing sly comments toward the shepherd. Since he spoke no Norse and had no notion what they were saying, this considerably increased his terror. One big fellow with huge, golden cat eyes jabbed a blue-tipped spear at him. And once, the broad-featured, surly-looking one whose cool-bladed broadaxe had wakened the shepherd came near enough to laugh and capture the young man's nose with two fingers and give it a hard tweak.

When the mutton was secure aboard their ship, the giants stood looking at him as if undecided about what to do with him. The young man was near to gibbering with those light-eyed gazes on him. Whether or not the Norse understood anything he said, he began to babble, trying to save his life: "I can tell you where you'll find plenty of wine and food and-and whatever else you like —gold! Plenty of gold! Enough to make life gorgeous! A wedding. Cedric the thane is taking a wife. A great beauty she is, a yellow rose —she'd glow beneath you."

The Vikings seemed unmoved. A wind blew in from the open sea, flapping their clothes and sending the shepherd's coarse hair backward. He shivered and cringed in his bindings, for everyone knew these rough dealers believed in no such nonsense as fair play.

The tallest among them, a warrior less merry than the others, stepped forward and pulled his sword out of its scabbard. This he passed before the young man slowly, so that the shepherd saw every feature of it: its double-edged blade three feet long, the gold wire that had been beaten into engraved grooves then filed smooth, leaving a golden design in the steel.

The Viking squatted before him, filling all the space in the shepherd's view. The giant was dressed as the others in a tunic that reached to his mid-thighs, trousers, leggings beneath his knees, and shoes of soft leather. And like the others, he wore his yellow hair long enough to cover his neck, kept off his face by a cloth band worked in a pattern of silk threads. His jewelry included a gold arm ring and finger rings, and a big single bead strung about his neck.

Yet, other than the fact that he was the tallest, there was something very different about him. The shepherd seemed to hear a thrumming in the air, like a rush of bird wings. The sound seemed low, and large, too large to be a bird. Was it wind? The shepherd was a Catholic, but behind and beneath the imposing fabric of Christianity, older beliefs lingered, a folk memory of an ancient legend, an image of a huge, gaping creature from deep time, the Monster of the Mist: the dragon. And at that moment it seemed quite possible that that extraordinary creature was intensely alive — and not in some dank cavern, but wandering far more pleasing realms.

The Viking said, in plain Saxon, "Where is this wedding to take place, goose boy?"

The shepherd's voice did seem to honk rather like a wild goose as he replied, "Down the coast, a few miles, Fair Hope Manor." His sentences were disjointed and broken-backed. "Plenty of treasures, down the coast and up the river. An undefended manor house, the great hall of Cedric the thane, and well-stocked farms. You can't miss it, master! A wedding —tomorrow! They'll have food, wine . . .
please don't kill me!
"

The sword point passed beneath his chin again. While looking at him, the big tawny giant spoke to his comrades. They laughed. The shepherd thought his end had come, and closed his eyes and began to whisper his prayers. But then he noticed the quiet and looked to see that the Viking had put away his weapon and turned toward his longship.

It was known that Vikings moved more swiftly than ordinary men, but even so, the shepherd was amazed at how they shoved off and rowed out onto the opal sea, took the breeze in their sail and simply vanished from sight.

He felt so relieved he could have cried, and did cry where he lay bound in the rich late-spring grass. He cried until he felt as if his eyes had been pickled in brine, until his eyelids felt as if they'd been curled back and scraped raw by the glistening edge of that huge damascened sword, the thought of which made him cry some more.

***

Another shepherd, this one yet a boy, also suffered that afternoon, in his mind at least. The lad Arneld lived on the manor farm of Fair Hope, and today the Lady Edin had him on a stool outside the kitchen of the manor house where she was resolutely shearing his heap of auburn hair.

"Sit still, Arneld, I'm almost finished."

The boy obliged her without complaint. It was Udith, her face glowing from her cooking fire, who complained as she passed by with a little chopping axe to get herself some kindling. "To think you'd make time on this of all days to look out for the likes of him, my lady. You're too kind by far. Surely you've got better things to do than fuss with an orphan boy."

Edin said nothing to the stout, big-jawed, good-hearted woman. She only stood back to examine her work, then smiled secretly at Arneld. "Not a thing better to do," she said gently. "We orphans must stick together, afterall." She was rewarded with an adoring grin.

Her face sobered, for the unmistakable tangy smell of sheep droppings came from her adorer. "You look much better, but you must have a bath, Arneld."

"Aww, my lady!"

"No bawling now. Tell Udith I said you need the tub."

"I'd just as soon go down to the river and have a swim."

A shadow passed over Edin's face. She looked beyond the fine-timbered barn with its gabled roof and the modest wooden buildings behind it to the trees that flanked the river. "You'll be careful? You'll take someone with you, to watch in case — "

"Aw, my lady, I can swim good."

"Let the boy go, Edin." This was a masculine voice, and with it came a new smell, the reek of hot hay. "All the lads can swim, the girls, too. So near the sea, we're children of the water. You're the only marrowless one among us."

"My lord." She curtsied.

Cedric waved his hand in the direction of the boy, who catapulted across the dooryard for the river in a frenzy of obedience. Edin was left alone with her youthful bridegroom, who said softly, "You used to call me Cedric."

"It would not be seemly now."

She hadn't quite looked him in the face since he'd appeared. She felt terribly shy of him of late. Though she'd grown up alongside him, as close as brother and sister, now he was going to be her husband, and that was a different thing altogether.

"Edin." He moved closer and claimed her hands. His figure was slightly made, hardly taller than her own. He had a rather wispy brown beard, and an equally wispy, drooping mustache; and his mouth was a little too sensitive for his new role of thane. He wore a linen tunic to his knees, gathered at the waist by a broad belt from which hung a sword — which Edin had never seen outside its scabbard. His legs were protected by leggings, and his feet by the rugged leather shoes he wore whenever he oversaw work on the sprawling manor farm. Edin wore similar clothing, except her shoes were softer and her dun tunic fell to her ankles.

Abruptly he pulled her into the shadow of the manor house wall. "Edin, kiss me!"

"My lord, not here!"

He drew back his jaw as if riding a blow. "Yes, here! Why not? We're to be married on the morrow."

"I — " She had no chance to say more, for he took her in his arms and pressed his mouth to hers. Wisps of his beard tickled her cheek, and she felt a giddy urge to laugh. When his hands moved to her bosom, however, she strained back in alarm.

"Edin!"

She stopped straining immediately. "I'm sorry, my lord." She was near to tears.

"And will you be sorry tomorrow night?" He cupped her chin with his hand, forcing her to look at him. "Do you realize that I'll make you mine then? Did my mother never speak to you about — "

"Yes! But tomorrow night is not now, not here in the kitchen yard!"

He regarded her. "You don't like my kisses, Edin. You are always so very kind to the people who serve you, yet seem to care so little for me anymore. I would serve you if I could, my dewy rose, to get a little of that sympathy. We were such friends once —until I fell in love with you."

She felt herself wilting under his steady examination.

"Love has made my hands sieves," he went on. "I can't seem to claim your complete attention anymore. And I
want
your attention, Edin. I'm in a constant state of frustration because of you. Do you know that sometimes I
ache
for you?" He took her hand once more and placed it against his groin. "I ache
here
," he whispered quickly, hotly.

She snapped her palm away as if burned, and slipped sideways out of his arms. "I-I have so many things to do, my lord. You must excuse me!"

She tried not to run as she fled through the double line of rose trees she'd nurtured for the last three years, on through the garden where she tended and grew herbs for the healing of the sick and the flavoring of Udith's cooking, to the front door of the manor house and through the splendid oak-raftered hall to the stairs. She was walking so fast, however, that her unbound amber hair flowed behind her.

In the upper hall, she paused. With a rush of guilt, she pulled herself together. She should like Cedric's kisses. The next time he wanted to kiss her she must let him, without so much as a flinch.

A voice seemed to speak in her ear:
Tomorrow night he will do more than kiss you. He will bare that weapon he says aches so because of you and bury it in your body.

Oh! She had things to do, so many things, and no time to think about tomorrow night!

In the chamber that had been her uncle's and aunt's —Cedric's parents' —she went to the big bed and took up the folded linens left on the bare straw mattress. The chamber hadn't been occupied since Edward's and Bertra's deaths last winter, but tomorrow she and Cedric would sleep here.

Tomorrow!
Her fears began to crawl back. She poured all her concentration into savoring the smoothing of the linens. The making of order was a delightful thing to her. She was grateful that she had this home to call her own. Grateful to Uncle Edward and Aunt Bertra, who had taken her in when her parents died in a drowning accident. Grateful for the leafy, tranquil decade she'd spent here. And grateful to Cedric for asking her to marry him and thereby letting her stay, but —

Tomorrow!

She stilled the thresh of her emotions and bent her head so that her hair fell forward around her face. She whispered, "Dear Father in Heaven, please help me. I know I'm no mere girl anymore, but a grown woman with a woman's duties before me. If you will but help, I promise I shall try to be a goodwife. I shall try to do whatever dear Cedric requires of me —I will! But I do need your help."

She always felt she didn't pray well, though she persisted. There were a great many things she felt she didn't do well or right. For instance, she felt she wasn't very clever, though she longed to be. She knew that she had a certain beauty, but often feared that people overestimated her because of it, and would find her out, and then she would be a cause for disappointment.

She remembered something Uncle Edward, a thick square man, had said to her just before he died. "Edin," he'd whispered, patting her hand, "you're so like your mother; you have the very beauty and flavor of her, her deep-grained habit of kindness."

That often came back to her, because it wasn't true. Her memories of her mother had an ethereal iridescence. She hardly recalled more than a figure that was mysteriously detached, but from what people told her, unkindness had been out of her mother's ken. Edin wished desperately that she could be like that, but she wasn't. Look at how she'd just made Cedric miserable. She'd failed him. She should go back . . . but dared not. Because she was certain that if she did he would want to kiss her again, and then she would disgrace herself and hurt him all the more. She might even cry She might even whisper, "I'm so afraid."

She heard voices in the hall and went to peek down the stairs. Cedric was making a stranger welcome. The man was saying, ". . . since the great heathen host quartered for the winter in East Anglia and were supplied with horses . . ."

Heathens — that meant Vikings. They'd stayed the winter in East Anglia? That was unusual.

"I see you have no walls or safeguards of any kind," the man was saying. "Have you buried your coins? Nothing's safe that isn't in the ground, neither coins nor folk."

"My father felt we were safe here as we are, and that's good enough for me." Cedric could put on a certain air of command, but he was young and carried his authority a bit anxiously. "You can't see Fair Hope from the sea. No one would know it was here."

The stranger grunted, accepting a silver bowl of ale from the servant girl Juliana. He watched the girl walk away before he said, "The heathens have an unerring nose for likely targets." He tipped the bowl to his mouth, glancing up as he did so, thus spying Edin. Driblets of ale leaked down either side of his beard as he forgot to swallow.

Cedric turned. "Edin, come and meet Ceolwulf. King Alfred has sent him to witness our marriage."

Edin wrenched herself into motion and started down the stairs. The great hall was adorned and decorated as it never had been since her coming. Even the air was fragrant. She'd had the year's old rushes swept out into a fetid heap beside the cow byre, and on the oaken planks a carpeting of new sun-dried rushes had been laid then strewn with crumbled lavender and thyme. The tables were set for tomorrow. Edward had valued beautiful tableware enough to import glass from France and silverware from as far as the Eastern Empire. At the head of the hall was the table for the bride and groom, and there Edin's own gold-adorned wooden goblet sat.