The Viking's Woman (43 page)

They were still for what seemed like forever. Then he enwrapped her in his arms and held her close. “Remember me,” he whispered once again.

She opened her eyes and met the cobalt storm of his. She tried to smile but could not. And she tried to speak loudly, but her voice was a whisper. “Indeed, my lord, I daresay I cannot forget you. I—I am going to bear your child.”

“What?” Still looming atop her, he lifted his weight above her and searched out her features.

She inhaled and exhaled. “We’re going to have a child.”

“You do not lie to me?”

She smiled at last. He seemed so very fierce. “Milord,
I cannot believe that you have not guessed already. There are changes …”

It was his turn to inhale sharply. Then he drew his body abruptly from hers, adjusted her tunic, and touched her cheek tenderly. “You little fool!” he exclaimed. “Why did you let me—”

“Let you? My lord, when have I ever managed to stop you?” she challenged. Then she added hastily, “Eric, I wanted—I wanted you too. You did not hurt me or the babe!”

He touched her cheek, then he kissed her. “You will take care. You will take the utmost care.”

She nodded. He did not mean to take care of herself; he meant that she must take care for the child.

He rose, reached a hand down, and drew her up and into his arms. For a moment he held her tenderly, achingly so. “Aye, my love, take care ….” Then he released her, touching her cheek. “I will watch young Rowan. I will guard him whenever I may. You needn’t fear.”

The sound of his voice was harsh and bitter once again. His lips touched hers and then he turned and strode away.

The door slammed.

Tears stung her eyes. “It is you I love!” she whispered. But it was too late.

He was gone.

As evening fell, a chill wind swept the northern coastline. Standing high upon the cliffs, the wind whipping his mantle furiously about him, Eric stared out across the darkened, fog-shrouded distance of the sea. Somewhere far away lay the land of the Scots, so named for the tribes that had left Eire to settle there. It was a land far north, far, far above the English kingdoms Alfred fought so hard to wrest from the Danes.

Indeed, they had come very far in the past months. And now, with the harshness of winter facing them, they had come to the end of the fight. One by one the lesser kings of Ireland had bowed to the supremacy of Niall mac Aed, but now they battled along the coastline of his uncle’s own Ulster, battled a man born much as himself, Lars mac Connar, the son of an Irish lass and grandson of a Danish jarl.

The decisive battle would come tomorrow. To the north, far ahead of him, Eric could see the fires of the Danish camp. Emissaries had run back and forth between the lines all day, and it had been decided. Whoever took the day tomorrow would take the strip of Ulster. With all of the country now sworn to support Niall, it seemed unnecessary to wrest this strip of
land from Lars. But few knew the Irish sentiment more thoroughly than Niall, Olaf, Eric, and his brothers and cousins. If Niall did not hold his own kingdom, he would hold nothing else. The warlike factions would split and splinter, and there would be dissent throughout the land.

Everything hinged on the morrow.

Then they could return to Dubhlain.

Eric felt the cold wind rush over his face as a fire ignited within him. How he longed to return!

They had not departed so swiftly as they had first planned—there had been his grandfather’s funeral to deal with despite the imminent threats upon them. When he had left Rhiannon to return to the courtyard, he had discovered that there was a council under way, and that his immediate presence was required. He had sat with his uncles, father, brothers, and cousins, and they had decided that it was too risky to allow Eric and the women to see Aed to his final resting place at Tara with only a guard. They would not show fear and they would not show any weakness, but all of the family would proceed north with the Ard-ri’s body and attend prayers at his graveside with the monks from Armagh.

Then they would swiftly turn to the business of securing the loyalty of the lesser kings.

And so he had had some time ….

Not so very much time, for the journey with such a number had been slow, and he had never been at leisure to ride with his wife during the day. Then there had been the constant messages coming and going to the various kingdoms. Niall had recognized
the various kings of Ireland—and demanded their recognition in return. The days had been exhausting.

There had also been the messages from Wessex.

Gunthrum had cast himself into the fray after the fall of Rochester. Alfred had taken a great host of ships—Eric’s among them—and attacked the Danes under Gunthrum.

He had made a clean sweep, capturing endless ships and riches. But then the Danes had attacked in return, and the prizes had been swept away again.

By spring, Alfred would attack and harry the Danes from London; or so he vowed. He implored Eric to return by the spring.

Eric looked out to the sea. Always there was warfare.

He sighed, closed his eyes wearily, and remembered that at least for a time the nights had been his. On the long, slow journey to Tara the nights had been his.

Even then he and Rhiannon had spoken little. Sometimes their party had slept in tents upon the road, sometimes they had found the rich hospitality of an Irish farm, and occasionally there had been the luxury of a lesser king’s manor house. It had not mattered. He had been too exhausted for words; she had never demanded them. It had been a time of discovery for him, for indeed she had changed, and he cursed himself for a fool that he had not noticed. Her breasts were so very full as they spilled into his hands, and her abdomen had already begun to swell. It seemed that even her eyes were brighter, her cheeks more lustrous ….

But then she had always been beautiful. He had
never denied that. Never. From the very first time he had seen her high atop the wall, she had arrested his senses. Now she still plagued and haunted him in his dreams, for there were so many memories of her to be conjured up and recalled. In his dreams she came to him, as she had come to solace him after his grandfather had died. Came to him naked, lithe, the burning gold and fire of her hair a maiden’s cloak about her, casting her in a spell of both innocence and intrigue. Soft and rippling like the rays of the sun, like the dance of the fire, skeins of hair in rich, thick beauty fell upon her naked flesh and covered but did not hide the fullness of her breasts, the rose-colored hues of her nipples, the curve of her hip, the curling thatch of fire and mystery between her thighs. He could smell the sweetness of her flesh within his dreams, and he could see her eyes, feel her flesh, as she came to him and poured herself upon him. So very much lay deep within her. So very much was contained behind the wondrous silver lights of her
eyes
.
Pain
too swiftly betrayed, too swiftly hidden away. Laughter, so very seldom for him; tenderness; and the anger of a storm, the tempest of the sea, the rage of a tigress. All these things lay deep within her, and her mood, ever volatile, changed with the ripple of the wind.

Only a fool would love her ….

But he did.

He wondered briefly when it had come about, when his heart had so changed, when she had captivated more than his lust, when she had conquered his heart. Had it been in discovering that he could best her time and again, and yet she never surrendered?
Had it been in touching her, in drowning with the fire of her hair, the tempest in her eyes? Had it been in knowing her, in learning the beauty in her heart and mind? Had it been in wondering if she had indeed left the manor to send her arrows flying in his defense?

Perhaps on that day he had only admitted that she was his and that he would fight as ferociously and as blindly as any wild animal to keep what belonged to him. When had it changed so that he was forced to admit, if only to himself, that he loved her? Nay, what he felt for her was deeper than love. It was deeper than any emotion he had ever known before. It was a part of him, waking and sleeping.

He had loved before ….

And he had learned the pain of it, and he was keenly aware that love could be a two-edged sword, a weapon greater than any invented or perfected by man. By God, too many things still lay between them. Countless men had died needlessly because she had attacked him when he had arrived upon her shore.

And too many things had come to pass since then. Perhaps her men, long in their graves now, had been innocent, for in truth, no ghosts had later warned the Dane Ragwald of his approach.

But someone had done so ….

If not his wife, then someone frighteningly close to Alfred. Who? Rhiannon had to have some idea. She had been Alfred’s ward; she knew them all and knew them well. Was she protecting someone? Or was she as innocent as she claimed?

Perhaps she still desired his death but had learned with cunning to be patient, to await it more calmly.

No, he could not believe such a thing. That she still cared deeply for Rowan he knew. She had implored him once again to care for her countrymen when they had parted ways at Tara; there were at least twenty men of Wessex with them, but he had known that though she cared for the others, it was Rowan to whom she referred.

They were going to have a child. If he fell in battle now, he might well leave a son behind him. His hands trembled suddenly, and he looked up to the sky and prayed, though he wasn’t sure to which deity he offered up his prayers. He wanted to live. He wanted to live more than he had ever realized before. He wanted to see his child, be it a son or a daughter, and he wanted a chance to live the life he had carved out for himself. He could never betray his uncle, Niall, and he would always come to Leith’s support if Dubhlain was threatened. He would always be an Irishman, just as he would always be his father’s son, a Norseman. But his life now lay across the sea, and his soul now rested within Rhiannon’s slender hands. Somehow he had sent roots for himself deep down into that earth in Wessex, and he wanted nothing more than peace, time with his wife, time with his child. Time to luxuriate forever amid tendrils of fire and gold, to nuzzle and hug Rhiannon before a blaze in winter, to create a world together. His wandering days were indeed over; his time to go a-Viking had ended when Alfred had placed her hand within his. He had thought it was the land that he craved so fiercely, but it was not. It was the heart of the woman who had given him his home.

There was the softest sound behind him, and he swirled around, unsheathing his sword.

High upon the cliff, Mergwin stood before him. Eric lowered his sword with a sigh and resheathed it, swearing softly. “By Odin, Mergwin, but you do come like a wraith from the darkness!” Mergwin should not have been with them, Eric thought. Aed Finnlaith had left this life in his nineties. Mergwin was even older than Aed; far too old to follow a battle trail. And yet he had insisted.

Now the wind whipped his hair and his beard, and his eyes caught the glow of the midnight moon; he appeared the magician, the wizard, in truth. “I have come to warn you that much will be amiss with tomorrow’s dawn,” Mergwin said.

Eric smiled. “Very much, Mergwin. We’ll go to battle against a fierce and talented warrior, and the future of all the land and of the houses of Aed Finnlaith and the Norwegian Wolf will be at risk.”

Mergwin shook his head. “That is battle, open and simple.”

Open and simple? Eric thought. Battle was never simple. It was always a horror of blood and pain and death. But in his lifetime Mergwin had witnessed countless battles, and it seemed that he knew things could be even worse.

The old man cast him a wry glance and came to sit upon the cliff. He stared out at the night, at the ripping wind. “There is something gravely amiss. I followed you to England because I sensed it. I stayed with your bride because I feared it. And now, here, it has come close again.” His fingers knotted into fists.
“By Odin and all the hosts in heaven! I can feel this thing, but I cannot touch it! I can only warn you to look beyond the obvious. Duck the battle-ax, parry the thrust of the sword. And beyond that, too, you must take care.”