Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (105 page)

“M’lady?” Clarisse asked weakly. “What do you suppose they will do with us?”

Elienor’s blue eyes were full of torment as she turned to acknowledge the question. She had no notion what to say to allay Clarisse’s fears. In truth, she had no inkling what lay in store for either of them; the dream had ended in the chapel, with the screams of the wounded and dying. She shook her head miserably.

Clarisse nodded, bowing her head, and Elienor turned again to watch the men at their rowing.

Heathens though they were, they moved gracefully together, in perfect accord. Yet, as beautiful as their motion was, the sound they made was diabolical. Keeping time with the head oarsman’s pounding rhythm, the oars groaned eerily as they rolled over wet wood, lifting and plunging again like savage beasts into the murky water. As the three dragon ships soared over the night-blackened waters, the sound only escalated, grating on Elienor’s nerves.

For the longest time, neither she nor Clarisse spoke. She simply sat, watching all, seeing naught. Against her will, she kept envisioning the Viking leader... the way his eyes had pierced her within the chapel... the way he’d touched her... caressed her cheek so tenderly.

Those eyes.

She saw them again as he’d touched her within the chapel… gently… more gently than any single person ever had. Not even Sister Heloise had shown her such affection. Troubled by the image, Elienor closed her eyes to ward away the memory and at once it was replaced with another.

Stefan.

“Sweet Jesu,” She moaned. Would she ever forget the look on his face as he’d died? Never! she swore vehemently. “Never!” she whispered.

All too soon, the three longships exited the mouth of the River Seine and entered into the turbulent channel.

Water rose up to slap against the dragon vessel like mighty wrathful hands. At once the rowing ceased and the rigging was hastily raised, the sailcloth unfolded and prepared. In short time the red diamond-patterned sails, which struck terror in the hearts of men, women, and children alike, billowed sharply with the strengthening breeze.

Elienor’s heart wrenched as the sails filled and the ship punched forward with a terrible fury, leaving the mainland of Francia small in its wake.

She dared not weep. With silent, stoic pride, she watched her homeland vanish before her eyes, then squeezed her eyes shut, even as her heart constricted with grief.

It was her duty to be strong, she told herself. For Clarisse.

Beside her, Clarisse began to weep in earnest. Burying her pallid face into the sleeve of her gown, the girl fell forward against the planking to sob.

Hours later, as the sky began to lighten, Clarisse lay weeping still, though quietly now. Elienor had no notion what to say to comfort the poor girl. Try as she might, the words would not form. She scooted to the maid’s side to soothe her the only way she knew how, the way Mother Heloise had so often done for her. She stroked the back of Clarisse’s matted hair, and when Clarisse’s sobs began to ebb at last, Elienor coaxed the girl’s arm away from her face.

Clarisse resisted, whimpering, concealing her eyes. She turned her back to Elienor, and it was then Elienor discovered the sticky blood that coated the girl’s dark hair behind her head. “Clarisse!” she exclaimed. “You’re injured! Jesu, why did you not say?”

Clarisse moaned and shook her head, refusing to bare her face. “I... I... sorry, m’lady! So sorry...” She moaned pathetically. “’Tis the light!” she complained.

As best she could, Elienor parted the girl’s hair to find the gash little more than a graze. The welt beneath, however, was a furious purplish crimson. She hesitated to touch it. “Does it pain you?” she asked, and then berated herself for the question. Of course it pained her!

Clarisse nodded emphatically, concealing her face into her sleeve, yet the gesture managed to bare her wound more fully to Elienor. Elienor gasped to see the swelling so severe at the base of her skull. She shook her head. “Jesu... what have they done to you?”

Clarisse responded by coiling herself protectively into a little human ball.

“Clarisse, how can I help if you will not speak?”

“H... he...” Her breast heaved on a sob. “He struck my head against the stairwell.”

There was no need to ask who. In Elienor’s heart it wouldn’t have mattered who the guilty party was. She knew precisely at whose feet to place the blame.

His.

“It hurts more with every passing moment!” Clarisse whined.

Cautiously, Elienor reached to probe the wound with her fingers, gently, so as not to cause more suffering.

At Elienor’s touch, the girl wrenched herself away with a shrill cry, rolling out of reach. Once again she began to sob, and Elienor felt utterly helpless, wanting to aid her, yet knowing she had not the means. Elienor looked to the helm, and this time, she rose determinedly, not thinking, only feeling.

The very least these heathens could do was to supply her with cloth and water to cleanse the wound!

Before she could rise fully to her feet, she was shoved backward by the one called Red-Hrolf. He scowled fiercely at her and began to bellow viciously in his garbled tongue. Elienor knew not a word, yet understood him perfectly. He commanded her to stay—like a dog! Well, she refused to be cowed! Clarisse needed aid and she would not fail her!

As she’d failed Stefan, a little voice hounded her.

Resolved as Elienor was, she rose again, only to be thrust backward once more.

“How dare—” She halted on a gasp, restraining angry words, and despite the trembling in her limbs, once more rose to face the irate Viking. “I would speak to your jarl!” she demanded furiously. “I’ll not sit idly by and watch this woman die! Have you no mercy at all?”

She didn’t stop to consider why she felt the jarl would help her any more than the flame-haired one would.

Red-Hrolf continued to bellow, shoving at her arm intermittently, and then abruptly he ceased his tirade to glower over her shoulder.

“Since when do thralls demand aught?” the leader demanded.

Elienor’s heart flew into her throat, and she buckled to her knees. Mary mother of God! She resisted the urge to cross herself. She dared not rise, nor turn to look at him for fear that her eyes would betray her. Her heart throbbed painfully as she waited for him to speak again, but when he did, it was to address Red-Hrolf in their own tongue.

Red-Hrolf immediately sat down upon his sea chest. Hushed and angry, he took up his oar once more, all the while glaring resentfully at Elienor.

At once she was wrenched about to face the Viking leader.

“And you! Mistress Arrogance! I remember not affording you choices!”

“Arrogance!” Elienor gasped, fury choking her. “Arrogance?” she returned contemptuously, “And what, prithee, my lord Viking, could be more arrogant than to steal into a sleeping manor and butcher those within for the sake of glory, or greed?”

The Viking’s eyes darkened to coal before her eyes, smoldering with ire. “Glory?” he replied sharply. “Greed?” His sneer mocked her. “Nei, wench! But I’ve no inclination to explain myself to you. Best you listen to me well, for I vow I’ll not deign to warn you again! From here forth you will do what is expected of you, or you will pay the consequences!”

Elienor met his gaze boldly. Something about this barbarian Viking liberated that wicked part of her she’d repressed for so very long; so many times she’d had to bite her lip to keep her words from spilling free, but not this day, she vowed. “And what might that be?” she dared to ask. “Might I lie down and die for you too?” she asked contemptuously.

He shook her briefly, and she choked back a startled cry. His eyes glinted in warning, his jaw working furiously. “What is expected…” He paused, obviously battling his raging temper. “…is that you be seated in silence and cease to goad my men. As it is, you’ve caused more than enough unrest today.”

She
had caused unrest?
She
had?

Where the courage came from, Elienor would never know, for she felt anything but valiant in that moment, but her chin lifted in defiance. “Nay!” she spat, “Not I, my lord Viking! ’Tis you, you who have caused so much destruction and depravity this night! And
you
dare accuse
me
?”

The angry retort hardened his features, and in answer his other hand flew to her shoulders so quickly that before Elienor knew what he intended, he’d lifted her until she stood on the tips of her toes. His jaw working with fury, he shook her until her teeth jarred. When he spoke again, his lips were so near to her own that she felt the heat of his breath. “Best you realize now, little Fransk,” he advised in a seething whisper, the endearment anything but tender, “I dare
anything
I please! Mayhap yesterday you garnered your will with your shrewish ways and biting tongue, but today you belong to me! Incite my men to violence once more, I tell you, and I will see you repent it sorely—woman or nei! Do not try me again this day!”

Elienor tossed her head back as best she could, her eyes blazing with ire.
Belong?
“Nay, Viking!” she returned sourly, spitting the word as though it were the vilest of epitaphs. “I
belong
to no man!” She dared again to lift her chin, cursing the sinful pride that would impel her to do so. “No man before the eyes of God!” She flashed him a look of disdain. “And I would remind you, my lord Viking, that you breached our bargain mere moments after effecting it.”

His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned in anger. “Aye, my little Fransk, you do,” he returned huskily. “For you belong to me—bargain, or nei!”

Again, she lifted her chin. “You have no claim over me, nor shall I give you anything freely! Now release me, if you please!”

He grinned suddenly, ruthlessly, pressing her closer. “In such case... believe me when I tell you that I shall deeply enjoy the taking!” He chuckled nastily. “After all, I am a beast,” he said, his tone heavy with sarcasm, “a Viking, as you so like to point out, and by your own words, force is the only way of our people. Naught—
naught
!” he stressed, “shall give me greater pleasure than to take what you will not freely give!”

Elienor’s heart flew into her throat, for she doubted him not. “Then by all that is holy, I shall fight you!” she returned, swallowing her fear. But to her dismay, she shivered beneath his gaze.

Feeling her tremors, he laughed outright, his expression knowing, his grin widening. “So be it! I trust we are understood?”

Elienor averted her eyes, loathing even the sight of him in that instant, loathing the fear that was undoubtedly in her own eyes.

He shook her once more, prodding her. “Are we understood?” His fingers tightened about her arms when she did not respond.

Her gaze reverted to his suddenly, her eyes shimmering violet fire. “Release me, barbarian!”

Triumph, that forbidden prideful emotion, flooded through her when he winced at her words. It was a victory, no matter how small, and she savored it fully. And then his expression turned utterly violent.

Sweet Jesu, but she was in peril of losing all self-control if he did not release her soon. She could not withstand his scrutiny, or his touch, much longer. “Aye!” she spat at once, feeling suddenly weak and vulnerable in the face of his fury. “Aye! We are understood! Release me now,” she cried.

He complied at once. She collapsed to her knees. With a last shriveling glance and a disgusted shake of his head, he turned to leave.

Kneading the soreness from her arms, Elienor whimpered softly, cursing him for the heartless heathen that he was. As much as she loathed him—and aye, feared him, even—she could not allow him to leave without requesting aid for Clarisse. ‘The maid is ill!” she shouted at his back, her voice trembling.

She prayed for strength.

The Viking stopped abruptly, pivoting to face her, his silver gaze as deadly as his sword.

With the last vestiges of her pride, Elienor raised her chin. “I would aid her, but have need of water—”

Without a word, he lifted his skin from his belt and flung it at her, then turned and stalked away. Elienor had no choice but to catch it, for it landed squarely at her breast, snatching her breath away—not from the impact, but because she’d not expected to gain it so easily.

She watched him go without another word, lest he change his mind and seize it away. Her gaze fell suddenly to where Clarisse lay. The girl’s eyes, focused upon the jarl’s massive back, were wide with fright, her cheeks tear stained. Her gaze reverted to Elienor.

“M-M’lady, I... I fear ’tis unwise to provoke him,” she fretted. Her eyes closed suddenly and her face contorted with pain.

Desperate to aid her, Elienor knelt beside her, brushing the damp hair away from her forehead. “Your fever rises, Clarisse...”

Clarisse groaned pitifully. “Aye, m’lady, aye... but—oh, the light!” she exclaimed. “The light p-pains mine eyes!”

Elienor’s brow’s furrowed. “What of the wound?” She wet her skirt with water from the skin, then wiped Clarisse’s brow with it, soothing her. “Where does it pain you most?”

Clarisse shook her head fitfully. “Mine neck... and... and mine eyes—the light, m’lady! ’Tis the light!”

Elienor offered Clarisse the skin of water to drink by.

Clarisse shook her head, refusing it.

Elienor’s own mouth felt dryer than sun-dried wool, and her tongue too large for her mouth, but she held the skin out resolutely for Clarisse to take. “I have no thirst just now,” she lied without pause. God forgive her, but she knew the girl would not accept it and knowingly deprive her in order to quench her own thirst. Clarisse’s station, regardless that here among enemies they were equals, was not so easily forgotten. Still Clarisse would not accept it. “Go on,” Elienor prompted. “I would prefer that you drank from it first.”

Still Clarisse hesitated. Elienor nodded encouragement, her eyes pleading. “Take it!”

At last Clarisse reached for it, her lean fingers quivering as she lifted it eagerly to her sun-parched lips. She drank deeply, and with desperation, and then finally lowered it from her lips, giving Elienor a look of utmost gratitude.