Viking's Prize (15 page)

For his
part, the monk seemed as surprised by the sight of Elienor as she was of him,
for he stared in return as he attempted to catch up with Alarik.

He gave
up abruptly, falling back to walk beside Elienor, his chest heaving with
exertion.

“Jesu!”
Elienor exclaimed at last, trying desperately to keep pace and failing
miserably. “You are a monk!”

“Aye!”
Alarik exploded, jerking to a halt. “Loki take you both, for the man is as much
a thorn in my side as you are, wench!” Alarik turned and eyed the monk
furiously. “What is it, Vernay?”

Vernay
prudently ignored Alarik’s outburst. Bowing his head slightly to Elienor, he
added, “I am Brother Vernay, my la—”

“By
God!” Alarik exploded. “Odin has cursed me!”

“My
lord!” Vernay reproached, turning to wag a finger at Alarik, the sight so
ludicrous—Vernay as small as he was, and Alarik as immense as he
was—that Elienor’s brows furrowed with incredulity. “You should not
speaketh the name of God in the same breath with that other!”

A
muscle ticked in Alarik’s jaw. “So you’ve said, holy man! I weary of this and
have much to do. Best you speak whilst you have my attention, or lose the
occasion until it suits me.”

At
that, Vernay immediately tore his gaze away from Elienor and turned to Alarik.
“Ah, yes, m’lord! As to that—”

“Alarik!”
another voice shouted, a feminine voice this time.

Elienor
glanced upward in time to catch Alarik rolling his eyes yet again, and then she
heard Brother Vernay’s answering groan. Scanning the path ahead, Elienor spied
the cause: A figure descended toward them, a woman, with her long, golden hair
plaited thickly and resting seductively over her left shoulder.

‘That,
m’lord,” Vernay interjected quietly, “is the matter I wished to address.”

“Nissa?”
Alarik asked, his brows rising.

Brother
Vernay nodded, grimacing.

The
woman smiled and held her arms outstretched as she came into Alarik’s reach.
“Finally, you are home!” she declared in a French that was heavy with Norse
inflections.

Evidently
she spoke it for Vernay’s sake, for she eyed the monk sharply, yet Elienor
found herself grateful that she’d spoken French, for she could hardly have
borne the uncertainty of not knowing of what they spoke.

“I have
worried so!” Nissa chided sweetly. She froze as she spied Elienor standing
behind Alarik, her ice-blue eyes centering at once upon the hand he held locked
within his fist. Her brow furrowed softly and she retreated a step. “Of
course... ’tis a woman’s lot to wait and worry, is it not?” She gestured at
Elienor. “Who...”

“Someone
I’ll wish you to tend,” Alarik broke in. He drew Elienor forward to stand
between them. “I’d have you go and make ready for her in my chamber,” he
directed.

Elienor’s
dark lashes flew wide. “Nay!” she shrieked, and tried to shake her wrist free.

“In
your chamber!” Nissa exclaimed.

Elienor’s
gaze flew first to Nissa’s; the woman’s expression mirrored Elienor’s horror.
And then twisting free of Alarik’s death grip, she spun to face him.

“In my
chamber,” Alarik repeated, ignoring Elienor and looking past her at Nissa. “I’d
have you bring her something to sup on, for I’ll not be dining in the
eldhus
tonight. I’ve much to see to first.”

Nissa
shook her head, unquestionably flustered by his request. “B-But...”

“As I
will it,” Alarik countered, his tone unyielding.

Nissa
recovered herself at once, though Elienor didn’t miss the gleam of repressed
tears in her eyes as she straightened her spine.

“As you
will it,” the girl said softly. She averted her gaze. “Sleipnir awaits you at
the summit, my lord,” she disclosed in a choked voice. “I... I... I shall walk
back.”

Alarik
nodded in appreciation. “Ride with Bjorn,” he advised. He glanced at Vernay.
“You I shall speak to anon!”

Vernay
nodded. “Aye, m’lord.” He glanced circumspectly at Nissa.

And
then Alarik was urging Elienor up the incline once more. She stumbled but
acquiesced, knowing she had very little choice in the matter. Vernay followed
silently. Nissa didn’t stir, and as Elienor glanced backward at the woman, she
couldn’t help but feel wretched for her. It was clear that Nissa was either
mistress or wife—in either case, little esteemed and little loved.

She
glanced impulsively up at Alarik, and was shocked to find herself conceding
that he was a striking man, in profile even more so. But if he thought he would
take her virtue without a battle, he was sorely mistaken!

“Put me
in your chamber as you may—alas I’ve no choice in the matter—but
rest assured naught else will come easily,” she swore vehemently.

He
glanced down at her, his eyes cold. “I made you a vow, wench. You go to my
chamber for your own protection,” he told her.

“Protection?”
Elienor asked incredulously, though deep down she knew it was so. Still she
could not bear to concede even that. “Protection from whom?” she asked
bitterly.

“Care
to extend me the same welcome you planned for my brother?”

Nissa
was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t see or hear Bjorn approach. She
started at his husky whisper at her ear then shrugged out from under the hand
he placed upon her shoulder. “Hardly!” she said petulantly.

Both
watched as Alarik and his prisoner reached the summit; he placed her at once
upon his horse, Sleipnir, and then hauled himself into the saddle behind her.

“I
wonder if you wouldn’t happen to have my horse saddled and waiting, as well?”

At
Bjorn’s question, Nissa’s humor was restored. “I wonder,” she replied lightly,
her smile returning.

Bjorn
grinned, though as he turned to see Alarik and the Frenchwoman disappear from
view, he shook his head in disgust. “You should have seen them aboard ship.”

“Oh?”
Nissa cocked her head inquiringly.

“He
risked us all for that shrew!”

Red-Hrolf’s
words had implanted the seed of doubt within his heart, but it was Alarik’s
inconceivable need to protect her that had nurtured those seeds to root. He
still could not credit the change that had come over his brother in such short
time.

“How
so?” Nissa’s blue eyes narrowed cannily.

“It
matters not,” Bjorn snapped. “All you need know is that he did. At any rate,
there is no loss to you, my love, for I’ve told you before he has no interest
in you, at all.”

Nissa
snorted, her brow rising slightly. “I’d take offense... yet I know what lies
beneath your words.” She eyed Bjorn astutely, her smile widening. “You would
still have me in your bed, Bjorn, Erik’s son,” she purred. “Would you not?”

Bjorn
smiled at her usual frankness. “How canny of you, my love.”

She
laughed abruptly, trying to sound indifferent. “Alas, I am loathe to disappoint
you, but my father would not receive you well at all.” She moved closer,
whispering into his ear. “Though truth to tell,” she relented with a sigh,
“were my heart not already given... mayhap, then I would.” She shook her head
regretfully. “Though as comely as you are, ’tis the position of Alarik’s wife I
crave. My father wishes it so.”

“Your
father need not agree to your choice of husband,” Bjorn reminded her.

“My
father is not a man to thwart,” she countered. “Besides,” she added, laughing
as Bjorn’s mouth opened yet again to contest her, “you forget that Alarik is
the one
I
desire as well! After all, he is master of his own.” She poked at his chest in
sport. “And you, Bjorn, cannot claim any such honor, can you?”

Bjorn’s
eyes narrowed as he returned the playful poke to her breast. “I wonder if you
shall open your eyes someday?”

“Doubtless
not,” Nissa retorted, her hand going to her breast. She narrowed her eyes in
censure. “Pardon whilst I go and do my love’s bidding,” she purred, and then
turned her gaze up the cliff side, in the direction Alarik had ridden. “I
believe I shall have the servants prepare him a grande fare to tempt his palate
tomorrow eve. That should indubitably please him. Likely, he’s had naught more
than scraps for meals aboard that beloved ship of his.”

She
turned to Bjorn, fluttering her lashes coyly. “What do you think?”

Again
Bjorn sighed, deeply. “An arrow never lodges in stone,” he replied, wisely.
“And it oft recoils upon the sender.”

Nissa
wrinkled her nose at his remark.

“You
don’t listen, Nissa,” he persisted. “And you strive for naught. Alarik has
never been interested.”

Nissa
paid him little mind.

Bjorn
doubted she’d even heard him for she turned, not bothering to acknowledge his
counsel, and made her way up the cliff. He watched her go, unable to keep the
bitterness from creeping into his heart. Was he always destined to have his
brother’s leavings?

And in
this case, he wouldn’t even get that.

CHAPTER
15

Alarik’s bedchamber was crude at best, no more
than a large square room with no windows and thus no natural light. Skins were
draped everywhere, doubtless to keep what little warmth there was from
escaping.

In the center of the chamber was a small,
rectangular, stone-rimmed hearth, where dying embers flickered in defiance of
the dark, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Smoke escaped through a small
opening in the ceiling above.

After bringing her here, Alarik had abandoned her
forthwith, without so much as the courtesy of a parting explanation—not
that Elienor would have cared to bandy words with the man! She wished she’d never
need speak to him again, though It was doubtful she’d be so fortunate. It
wasn’t likely he’d take her back to Francia in the near future—and curse
him if he didn’t speak the truth: He was her only protection against these
barbarians.

Shivering, her gaze settled once again upon the
bed—an immense oaken piece, intricately carved with birds of
prey—hawks, she believed, though they were much too embellished in form
to be certain. At the sight of the bed, she began to pace anew, refusing to
consider whether she’d occupy the monstrous berth herself come nightfall.

Glancing about uneasily, she wondered if night had
yet fallen. With no windows to peer from, it was impossible to judge time, yet
there was naught to be gained in fretting over it, and so she dismissed the bed
from her thoughts, once and for all.

She ran her fingers across the rich grain of the
oaken walls. There were skins draped next to horrifying weapons suspended from
pegs—weapons of every ilk: axes, swords, spears. At the sight of them,
Elienor couldn’t help but shudder—such a passion for violence! And little
could she comprehend why. What glory could possibly be had in a warring life,
and death?

Her gaze was drawn across the room, to the coffer
of wood that had been carried in earlier by servants. Atop it lay a coat of
mail, the same Alarik had worn that first night, she surmised. The links
glimmered like brilliant diamonds in the light of the dying fire. Above it,
dangling by a peg, hung a rounded shield, painted blood red with a gilded hawk
soaring through its middle.

Mesmerized, Elienor stared at the hawk... trying
to recall what it was about the shield that was so eerily familiar. Had he
carried it that first night? Likely so... yet it was something else that
plagued her...

Something from her dream? But what?

Sweet Jesu, what could it be? Rubbing her arms for
warmth, she shook her head, thrusting her musings away. She couldn’t remember,
and in truth, didn’t want to!

At once, her eyes reverted to the thick oak door.
Tempting as it was, she’d already tried it and found it locked. Yet surely
there’d been no need to lock her within. Alas, where would she have gone?

“Home,” she murmured wistfully, her eyes burning.

Mother Heloise would have heard by now and would
be wringing her poor hands raw with worry. But what of Count Phillipe? Her
uncle? Had they forgotten her already? Elienor felt like weeping, for It was
likely so. Never had anyone exacted judgment upon the Northmen with any measure
of success. It was one of the reasons they were so feared, for oft there was no
worthy recourse to be taken against them. They came swiftly to wreak their
brand of terror, and disappeared more swiftly yet, into the unknown. Only this
time, Elienor had vanished along with them.