Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (104 page)

Cheers resounded the moment they were spied coming into the hall. Viking voices hailed them—no doubt praising the barbarian that had carted her in. The din threatened to burst her eardrums, and she knew in that moment that the shoulders she’d been irreverently slung over belonged to none other than the leader, himself.

“Jarl! Jarl! Jarl!” they bellowed, each man louder than the one before.

One bedraggled beast with hair the color of the noonday sun came to stand behind Elienor’s captor. Roughly, he jerked her up by the hair to see her better. Heathen! What she wouldn’t give to slap his face just now, not for herself, but for all the terror they had wreaked upon these people! For Stefan! For the way that he’d been treated!
Bon dieu
, were she not such a peace-loving soul she’d strike the heinous smirk from his face but good!

Unable to stay her hand, Elienor’s palm cracked along the side of his face.

Abruptly, the hall went silent, and one by one, every pair of eyes turned toward them.

The flame-haired’s gaze narrowed upon her, his eyes sparking with fury.

Her palm stung. Still, she held it in midair, poised to strike again. She peered up fearfully to see a welt beginning to form upon the flame-haired’s cheek.

“Jesu!” she whispered hysterically. Seeing the ire in his eyes, she regretted her rashness at once, despite the fact that he deserved worse.

Beneath her, the Viking’s shoulders began to quiver, then shake, and then rumble, and she found to her dismay that he was laughing.

Laughing?

How dare he!

The fiend she’d slapped, on the other hand, glared at her. Though to her immense relief he responded only by gurgling his ale in her face. When he finished swooshing it, he grinned, letting the sudsy, amber liquid seep from between rotting and missing teeth. She winced as a sprinkling caught her full upon the brow, and resisted the urge to swipe the revolting droplet away.

Beneath her, the golden one’s shoulders shook ferociously with his mirth. Bracing her palms against her captor’s back for support, Elienor willed him to perdition and beyond! Though even as she struggled for balance and blasphemed him, his husky laughter filled her senses, riveted her, and only belatedly did she realize that Flame Hair had taken another hearty swig from his tankard. He swooshed it again, puffing his cheeks to spew it upon her. Fie! No doubt all would burst into fits of hilarity this time. Uncouth savages! She squeezed her lids closed and braced herself for the deluge.

It never came.

The metallic hiss of a sword being drawn caught every ear. Stefan’s voice resounded off the stone walls, flying upward into the tower. “Leave her be!”

Elienor’s eyes flew wide as he charged at the leaders back.

Her mouth formed a scream that never materialized, for what happened next happened so quickly that she would never be entirely certain of the chain of events; Stefan came at them with blood lust in his eyes, his sword rising up. One instant, the Viking leader was empty handed. In the next he held his sword and was facing Stefan, ready to strike. With astounding ease, he’d also managed to snatch her down to hold her by the waist before him. Next she knew, Stefan lay skewered by his sword.

“Nay!” she screamed. “Nay! Nay! We made a bargain!” Frantically, she resisted the Viking leader until he was forced to release her. “You made me a bargain!” she cried as she tumbled to the floor beside Stefan’s body.

His face in death was still as sweetly innocent as it had been in life, no fear, no regret—he’d done it for her. “Nay... oh, nay!” He was but a boy! God have mercy, he’d died for her! She seized him, clutching him to her breast, rocking him. “Stefan!” she whimpered. “I’m so... so... so, sorry!” It was her fault.

She cried out, her features twisting with horror as she lifted her tear-stained face to the chaos about her. Bodies were strewn about the once spotless hall, littering every corner. Tables were toppled. Stools, so beautiful once with carved legs that clawed the ground, were axed into little more than rough-hewn splinters. The only lives that seemed to have been spared were those of the female servants who now screamed for mercy beneath the abusing bodies of murdering Northmen.

Nay, they were not being raped, but how long before they were all defiled? How she wished she could aid them! She released Stefan, and tried to rise, but her vision blackened as blood rushed into her temples. Desperately, she fought another wave of nausea as she rose. Her legs had never felt more unsubstantial.

Anger unlike anything she’d ever known soared within her. She whirled to face the Viking leader, loathing in her eyes. “You made me a bargain!” she cried furiously. She lifted her fists to strike him and he caught both wrists in midair with a single fluid movement.

Wrenching herself free, Elienor turned to face the rest of his butchers, all the while shaking her head in denial. “He was just a boy!”

The flame-haired Viking laughed uproariously. Undaunted, she met his gaze without fail, her own eyes vivid with fury. He would laugh? He would rejoice at the death of a child? Too furious to consider the consequences, she lunged at the flame-haired one, too desperate to avenge Stefan to consider the consequences.

An arm caught her firmly about the waist. Elienor screamed, bucking and squirming against the iron hold.

“Think you a boy cannot deal a death blow?” a husky voice asked at her back.

“As God is my witness, I wish he had!” Elienor told him and meant it with all of her soul. “Set me free, you deceiving, misbegotten cur!”

Trying in vain to shake herself loose from the leader’s grasp, she kicked him. He dropped her at once. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a Norse curse, he spun her about, his expression furious, though he said not another word.

Blinding tears welled in Elienor’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks, but she lifted her chin, daring him to make her repudiate her words, daring him to say aught more to defend himself. They’d struck a bargain and he’d forsaken it, and she’d never forget.
Ever!

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Whether boy, or man, in fact,” he said, “by the blade he wielded he declared himself a man!” He spared a quick glance at Flame Hair, and turned back to Elienor with a look that was lethal.

Elienor shook her head. Accursed fate! She cast a withering glance at the one called Red-Hrolf.

The Viking leader snarled and tore his gaze from her abruptly. “Enough!” he commanded his men. His scowl was as cold and fierce as the north winds. “We go now! Take whatever catches your fancy from this wretched mound of stones—but do so quickly!”

The Viking in the nearest corner snickered wickedly and again tackled the wench he’d pinned to the floor. Red-Hrolf shouted heinously as he turned and dove upon the girl, as well. Struggling in earnest they squashed the buxom wench beneath their strong play, causing her to scream in fear and protest.

Another came and tapped the leader upon the shoulder. He smiled meaningfully. “I’d have a taste of this one, if it please you.”

“Nei, you will not!” the leader barked. His eyes narrowed in warning. “Take what else you will with my blessing, but do it now. Do not try me tonight!”

The other Viking stood beside him stubbornly, his expression offended and resentful.

“Suit yourself,” the leader grumbled, and then still scowling, he turned to yet another—the nude one! “Enough, you bare-assed sapling, dress yourself! We go! And you!” he added to Elienor, “get yourself up and walk!” He pried her away from Stefan’s body, lifting her and nudging her forward.

“Nay!” Elienor planted her heels. “I’ll not leave him!”

He shoved her this time. “You will,” he apprised. “Walk of your own accord, wench, or I will haul you out myself!” When she wouldn’t comply, his fingers dug into her upper arm in warning. “Walk!” he demanded.

There was no doubt in Elienor’s mind that he would, indeed, carry her out as he’d warned, but it was the only way she would leave, she vowed. If he would steal her from her home, she would not go easily!

Muttering another savage curse, the Viking leader lifted her up, and for the second time this night, flung her over his hefty shoulders.

T
hree longships were beached upon the narrow embankment, the largest of them monstrous, over eighty feet long. Spanning more than sixteen feet in the midsection, it held no seating; the oarsmen used great-footed war chests in their stead, their surfaces weather-beaten and smooth from use. Moonlight glinted off the polished wood, casting deep shadows into the planking.

Elienor was dumped unceremoniously into the belly of the largest vessel, into the shadows, next to a young woman she recognized by name as Clarisse, Brouillard’s
fille de chambre
. And then, cursing roundly, the Viking simply turned his back and stalked away.

“I shall see you rue this day!” she swore tearfully.

Never had she felt such loathing for another human being. Indeed, never had she even considered it possible! She might have forgiven him anything—anything! Stealing her away from her home, the raid upon Count Phillipe’s castle—anything but the killing of an innocent boy!

“Oh, God... Stefan.”

Her throat tightened.

In her mind she could see him again so clearly, his innocent young eyes widening the instant he recognized death. “Unfair, unfair, unfair,” she sobbed. Her gaze bore into the Viking’s back as he assumed his position at the helm. Curse him—a thousand times curse him! The Norse fiend had been three times Stefan’s size, and likely claimed three times his skill.

Trembling with fear and fury, Elienor sat in bitter silence and watched as the last of the Vikings boarded, seating themselves upon their sea chests. At once they took up their oars.

“M’lady?” the young woman beside her ventured timidly. “You should not blame yourself. I... I saw it all... It was the boy’s...” She swallowed visibly. “It was Stefan’s fault.”

Elienor shook her head adamantly, refusing the comfort offered.

“Aye, m’lady!” Clarisse insisted. She began to sob quietly, disconsolately. Elienor thought she might be weeping for Stefan, for she knew they, too, had been close. Impossible not to care for young, lighthearted, sweet, smiling Stefan. “It was his duty to defend you!” Clarisse maintained. “My lord Phillipe would have expected it.”

“He was so young!” Elienor cried. “So very young!”

Hot tears blurring her vision, she swallowed and met Clarisse’s gaze. She swiped at the fiery wetness upon her cheeks, and shook her head. “If... if only... I’d not struck the demon…” She averted her gaze, unable to continue, grief and remorse wrenching her heart.

Through misty eyes she watched as the Vikings launched their dragon ships into the Seine. It was like naught she’d ever seen before. In one fleeting moment the castle was in plain sight, in another it was gone, vanishing into the night mist without a trace, so swiftly did they glide away. And with it, their last chance for deliverance.

Would her uncle know where to seek her? Would he bother? And what of Count Phillipe? The Viking had said he lived. Could it be true?

She dared to hope.

Against her will, her gaze was drawn again to the helm, where the King of Demons stood peering out over the waters.

Murderer! her heart screamed.

His back was to her this instant, but even at this distance, she knew him. Aye, she knew him—never would she forget those silver eyes, so cold and hostile!

The men surrounding him were large of stature, yet he towered over them still, his fair hair glowing pale beneath the silvery moonlight. Bound with a braided leather strip about the forehead, its silky length fell well below his nape, catching the light so that it gleamed. The thought occurred to her suddenly, bitterly, as she stared transfixed, that she’d never seen the likes of his hair before. Not even the fairest ladies of Francia’s court had such beautiful tresses as did he. She found herself wondering over the feel of it.

Would it be as soft as it appeared?

The instant she considered it, she recoiled. Jesu, but whose thoughts were those? Surely not hers!

She shivered as the breeze swept her hair into her face, and closed her eyes to pluck away the stinging strands from her lashes. When she opened them again it was to meet the Golden One’s dark gaze. The way he watched her never ceased to send quivers down her spine.

Faithless was what she was.

But nay, all it took to keep those thoughts at bay was to remember Stefan’s face as he’d died. “Murderer,” she whispered, and hoped he could read her lips. Still, she could not wrench her gaze away, and so she willed him to know what was in her heart, every last trace of loathing. And yet if her emotions were truly in her eyes, he seemed wholly unaffected by what he saw, for his gaze never wavered. His lips merely curved at one corner, as though to mock her, and then mercifully he turned to address his men, releasing her at last.

With another shudder, Elienor turned to meet Clarisse’s probing gaze, and gasped in surprise at being watched so cannily. Chagrined at what thoughts might have been evident in her confused expression, she wrenched her gaze guiltily away.