The Viking's Woman (36 page)

He set her upon her feet, studying her in turn. He lifted her cloak and felt the quality of the material. Then he ducked to a knee and felt her hose. She started to kick him, but he grabbed her ankle, causing her to fall. Laughter rang out around her.

“I think, my friends, we’ve captured a lady of some standing,” he mused in his native tongue. “Perhaps we can trick her into giving us her identity, eh, Ragwald?” he said to the blond man.

“She speaks our language very well,” Ragwald informed him, a slight edge to his voice that told her there was a great struggle for power among them.

“Does she? Hmm, a lady with learning. Perhaps she comes from Alfred’s very house!” he mused. “Well,” he said pointedly to her, “do you?”

She spat at him. He roared with fury and came to her, wrenching her arm hard. “So she bites and spits and swears and fights, eh?” he thundered, and he swerved around, dragging Rhiannon with him. Tripping, she followed along, and the others did, too, laughing and applauding their leader. Stumbling, still ill, and wretched, Rhiannon tried to remain on her feet and yet see the terrain. They had come to a farmer’s cottage—she could see the corpse of the farmer in his field. There was a broad stream that led down a length of the cliff to the sea, she was certain. And it was to that stream that Yorg dragged her. In the water he pressed her to her knees, then pushed her facefirst into the water, holding her by the length
of her hair. She could not breathe, she was going to drown, her chest was bursting. She would die, she thought, and when the pain was gone, perhaps it would be best.

Yorg pulled her from the water. She opened her mouth and gulped in air. He walked around her, and she staggered to her feet. “You’ll be tamed, vixen,” he promised. He turned to his men, his hands on his hips. “She is a beauty, a prize. I applaud your bringing her to me. Hair like the sun and fire, eyes like precious jewels, lush, ripe … indeed a prize. A royal prize. When I have done with her, she will draw a goodly ransom!” He chortled.

Her ties were binding her, but fury and dreadful, horrible fear sent her catapulting forward, striking Yorg with her body with such a startling impact that he pitched forward into the water himself. His men roared. She backed away quickly and desperately as he rose.

There were more of them, she realized with sick dismay. Suddenly they were all around her—the men who had seized her and more. All of them bloodied, some of them limping, they had come to this quiet glen, murdered the farmer, and taken the place to hide out and nurse their wounds. She could never escape.

And now Yorg was up on his feet, shrieking like a wounded bear, thrashing through the water to reach her side. She tried to run. He caught her and spun her around. She flinched instinctively as his fist raised to come against her cheek, but the blow never fell.

“By all Valhalla, she is mine, and you will give her to me or answer with your life!” A voice rang out.

Yorg’s arm fell. Everyone turned with amazement to see what effrontery had brought a man to argue the rights over a woman with Yorg.

No one’s amazement was greater than Rhiannon’s, for a single rider had come among the men. He was mounted on a small brown pony and seemed immense upon it. He was as blond and golden as the sun, except that his hair was matted with blood. He wore no clothing she had ever seen before but was clad like these men in skins and fur-lined boots, tattered and ragged from battle. His face was dirty and grimy and barely recognizable, but there was no mistaking his eyes.

It was Eric. Eric, alone, calmly walking into this sea of the enemy and demanding that she be given to him.

She was too startled to cry out, and in a minute she was grateful that amazement had taken her tongue, for she realized that he was pretending to be among their number.

Yorg let go of her and strode through the water to the horseman. “Who are you? And who in the name of all the gods do you think you are to demand anything of me? Do you know who I am, you fool?”

“I demand her because she is my captive, taken by your men.”

“Who—”

“I am sent by Gunthrum—whom you have failed, Yorg!” Eric dismounted and thrashed through the water, straight toward Yorg, to wrench Rhiannon away from the Dane and drag her along with him in a method every bit as crude as Yorg’s. She cried out, falling. He dragged her back up to her feet, slipping a
dagger from the sheath at his ankle and slicing the strips of skin that bound her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Yorg snarled.

“Taking back what is mine.”

“She’s mine now. And I had her tied.”

“You had her tied because you are not even warrior enough to hang on to a woman,” Eric said, sneering. “And she is mine because I seized her first, and I am ordered to take her to Gunthrum.”

“What care I for Gunthrum?” Yorg demanded.

Ragwald stepped forward. “We found her upon a cliff. You were careless with your captive. The bitch was sending messages,” he spat out. “She was the one raining down the arrows that warned the bastard Irish-Norseman of our attack. You were not warrior enough to hold a woman!”

Eric stepped back, drawing his sword. He smiled, and the smile was an eerie one. “Come. Test the warrior that I am.”

Shouts went up. It seemed that Ragwald regretted his challenge, but he drew his own sword and stepped forward. “A man dies of old age and is forgotten!” he yelled. “A warrior sits in Valhalla, and you will sit in Valhalla this night!”

They were brave words, but Rhiannon had never, until that moment, quite realized the full value of her husband’s prowess. Barely had Ragwald moved with a battle cry on his lips than Eric had countered that move, swinging his heavy sword as if it were a twig. Even as Ragwald bore down upon him, Eric swung his sword again and shifted his weight.

There was never even a clash of steel. Ragwald fell
before Rhiannon, and the pool of water before her began to spread out red.

She screamed as her arm was forcefully yanked, and she was pulled against her husband’s side once again. “She’s mine!” he roared. “Mine, by Gunthrum’s order. Who else would dispute me?”

There was no sound. Then Yorg spoke, more carefully than he had before. “She is from a royal house, perhaps Alfred’s own. She is worth a great deal and has been in our keeping. What will you pay for her?”

“The brown pony,” Eric said, indicating the horse.

Yorg spat into the water. “The brown pony? You offer me a pony for a treasure?”

“A treasure!” Eric snorted. “She is not worth so much.”

“Her hair is gold and flame!” Yorg argued.

“It is tarnished brass, no more,” Eric said flatly. Rhiannon spun on him, startled. He held her tight, ignoring her. “Take the pony in trade.”

“Worthless compared to this woman!” Yorg insisted. “She is young, with breasts as ripe and sweet as fruit and legs as long and as tempting as willows.”

Eric laughed good-humoredly. “Breasts like sagging melons, my friend, and legs as knotted and knock-kneed as a willow, if you would.”

“Take care! She understands your every word!” Yorg warned Eric.

She did indeed. Rhiannon could not resist. He was directly by her side, and she swung about to kick him, hard. After all, she was a captive—whether theirs or his. She had every right to fight.

Yorg laughed, and someone warned Eric that she bit worse than a rabid dog, and before she knew it he
had his hand in her hair, pushing her down into the water again, and pinning her angrily before him. Sodden and both furious and terrified, she listened as the negotiations continued.

“Her temper is worse, indeed, than that of a rabid dog,” Eric told Yorg.

“Then why would you have her?” Yorg craftily demanded.

“Because I took her first, and therefore she is mine, for all that she is a vixen.”

“Give her to me this night—she will be yours tomorrow.”

“She is mine now.”

They were at a stalemate, Rhiannon realized. It was insane. Eric could not battle them all, not if they rushed him. Why had he come alone? she wondered.

She cried out, startled, as he ripped her mantle from her shoulders, along with the sapphire brooch that held it there. He tossed the sodden garment to Yorg. “It is all that I offer, and it is worth much.” He shoved Rhiannon ahead of him with such force that she nearly fell. Staggering, she swirled in protest. He thrust her forward again with a thunderous expression and greater force. “Go!” he roared.

She moved. She walked past Yorg, and then she felt that they were all around her. Eric pushed her past the brown pony and the others, and across the open field where the farmer’s body lay. He walked calmly and with purpose, with his long stride, his arrogance, his determination.

Finally they reached the forest, and there was a trail within the darkness of the trees. He shoved her
once again, and she swung around on him, terrified and swearing. “You bastard! Why—”

He had no reply for her except another furious order. “Run!” he commanded, and he took her hand. Even as they started thrashing through the trees and foliage, she realized that Yorg and his duped comrades were coming after them at last.

Eric passed by her, catching her hand, dragging her along at a speed that soon stole her breath away. Her chest burned ferociously, and pain streaked down her legs, then shot back upward from her calves. Tree branches and brambles caught and tore at her hair and her clothing, but despite her gasps, Eric kept his steady runner’s pace, amazingly fleet considering the steely bulk of his muscles.

At last she tripped over a root. Her hand was wrenched free from her husband’s and she went sprawling into a pool of mud. He stopped, swirled around, swore vehemently, started to reach out a hand to her, and then paused.

The woods were silent. They had outrun Yorg and his men. Eric’s continued silence assured Rhiannon that it was true.

“Well, milady”—he scowled, exasperated—“would you care to get up so that we may keep going? Or do you wish to rest so there?”

Her fear of Yorg died away with a renewed birth of fury. She closed her fingers around a handful of the mud and slung it Eric’s way before leaping swiftly to her feet to circle him carefully.

The mud caught him right on the nose. She would
have laughed out loud except that the dark color of the earth framed his eyes as neatly as the silver tones of his battle helmet and his eyes had become a very lethal blue.

“I wish to rest here!” she exclaimed, fighting for breath to maintain her fury. “Oh! Of course I do not wish to rest in mud! I can barely move, milord. What on earth were you doing there!”

“What!” He had circled around her with purpose but now stood dead still, his hands upon his hips as he stared at her. “Madam, did you wish to remain in the Dane’s embrace? You had only to say so!”

“Oh! And you would have let me remain? I seem to recall that there was once a place I longed to remain, and my longing had no effect upon your will!”

He moved quickly toward her, and before she could escape on the slippery earth, he had caught her. He tossed her heedlessly over his shoulder and started to move.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“Returning you to the Dane!” he thundered. “You are a vixen and a shrew, and you bite, and, quite frankly, your hair is currently the color of a dung heap.”

“Oh!” She slammed her fists against his back. “Put me down!”

He released her and she slid back into the mud. She started to reach for another handful of it, but suddenly he was on top of her, as caked with the brown earth as she. All that she could see of his face was the blue of his eyes. His fingers wound tightly around her wrists, and then she saw the white flash of his teeth as
he smiled. “I was trying to rescue you, though heaven alone knows why!”

“You fool, you could have been killed!” she railed in return. “You’ve command of hundreds of men, yet you entered into Danish horde alone, in rags—”

“My God, woman!” he exclaimed heatedly. “Don’t you know what they would have done to you had they realized that you might be seized by a Norse-Irish host? They’d have killed you before we could have entered into battle!”

His words chilled her to the bone. She had heard tales about the atrocities committed by the raiders. Tales of men nailed to trees, forced to watch as their entrails were sliced from their bodies. Beneath the dirt on her face she paled, then trembled. She felt his weight against her and knew that he had not realized the meaning of her silence, for he continued on in a fury. “I should strip the flesh from your back myself, madam, that you should have come to put us both in such a position!”