Viking's Prize (2 page)

It was only then, in that moment, as the ship’s prow
nudged its keel into the soft muck of the river embankment and ended its
journey, that Alarik truly beheld the figure standing above them.

To his absolute shock... it was a woman... her
dark hair long and fluttering wildly in the breeze... her light colored kyrtle
billowing furiously with the wind.

The very sight of her made the hairs of his nape
stand on end.

Elienor shook her head in denial, yet the proof
sailed before her eyes, appearing from mist and shadows like a grim specter
from the dark.

She braced herself against the buckling of her
knees for the dream that had awakened her earlier and had sent her dashing to
the tower to disprove it was, in truth, unfolding before her eyes. The rising
wind buffeted her face, flinging her hair into wild disarray at her back, and
sending icy prickles of fear down her spine.

Merely coincidences, Mother Heloise had claimed.
Always when she would dream, and the dream held true, the old abbess would
assure her that she was not afflicted with the second sight that cursed her
mother’s life. Because her visions were few and her desperation great, Elienor
had readily believed her. And yet, the sight before her gave testimony to her
fears.

Now what was she to do?

Turn and flee down the steps, a voice whispered.

Warn the castle!

Her legs would not move.

If only her gifts did not mark her for a witch and
condemn her to her mother’s tragic fate. She shivered as the wind, bitter as
ice, lashed her. In that instant, she saw herself again as a child of four,
standing atop the hallowed knoll of graves, the white lily she’d picked for her
mother held firmly in her little hands.

In her mind, the voice came back to her with such
clarity. “Whatever possessed you to come here at such an ungodly hour?”

Hearing Sister Heloise’s voice, Elienor had nearly
cried her relief. She swung about and hurled herself into the sister’s
welcoming arms.

“The lily!” she said, squirming to disengage
herself. The old nun struggled to keep Elienor within her embrace. “The lily!”
Elienor insisted.

“Non, non ma petite! ’Tis raining. We must go now!
I will bring you again.” she coaxed. “When the rain has—”

Elienor struggled more fiercely. “Nay!” she cried.

Freeing herself abruptly, she scurried to the
blossom and hastily scooped up a handful of wet soil from the center of the
mound. Handling the lily gingerly, she planted the end of it into the hollow
she’d formed, covering it carefully, taking her time whilst Sister Heloise
hovered above her, shielding her back from the pattering rain.

Elienor’s eyes filled with tears as she turned and
thrust herself back into the sister’s arms.

Sister Heloise lifted Elienor up. “There, there,
now,” she soothed. “Sister Heloise will love you now, ma bonne petite. Together
we will care for your maman’s lily. Oui?”

Elienor nodded into the warmth of Sister Heloise’s
shoulder. “Maman loves lilies,” she said sadly. Her chin turned up a notch, and
a tear slipped defiantly from her dark lashes. “She loves them so much!”

Sister Heloise carried her away and she turned to
peer over the nun’s shoulder. With stark violet eyes, she watched the grave
recede as they made their way down the hill. Her words were broken with emotion
as she raised her little hand to wave farewell.

“Adieu, Maman. Adieu!”

The fates were cruel, indeed.

Elienor gulped back a sob of despair. The pain of
her mother’s death was still fresh in her heart, even after all these years. To
die so cruelly, for naught more than predicting the course of a peasant babe’s
illness...

Would they question why she’d come to the tower
tonight? She closed her eyes and begged for strength.

Mayhap It was but a dream...

But nay, for she felt the bitter wind as surely as
she felt the numbness stealing into her bones. If only she were not such a
coward! The merest notion that she might meet the same fate as did her mother
made her knees weak and her tongue draw into knots.

Even now she could hear her mother’s screams and
see her writhe helplessly against the flames of hell.

She bit into her whitening knuckles as she watched
the specter ships advance.

There was no more time to linger. There was no
need to say what had driven her to the tower, was there? None need know! She
would tell them only that she had come for air—that she could not sleep.

Stricken with grief for the fate of Brouillard,
Elienor watched an instant longer, needing to be absolutely certain. But she
waited no longer than to see the Vikings land their vessels upon the moonlit
shores, for little more time could be spared if she were to warn the castle.

She spun about and hurried down the tower stairs,
tears brimming in her eyes, her movements stiff with terror and cold.

She should have known it was too good to be true.
That Count Phillipe had asked for her hand in marriage and her uncle had
assented was true enough, but that it would actually come to pass was more than
she should have dared to hope for.

With assurances from Mother Heloise that Elienor
was not beset with her mother’s curse, her uncle had withdrawn her from the
cloister mere days before she was to make her vows to the church. So long she’d
waited and despaired. Tonight marked one full month since she’d first come to
Brouillard, and in little more than a fortnight she’d have become its countess.
At last she would love and be loved in return! She would bear children into the
world, love them, care for them. At last.

But it would never be.

Despite the fact that Mother Heloise had plainly
perjured herself for Elienor’s sake.

Tears welled in her eyes as she rushed down the
stairs. Fumbling for the silver ring that hung about her neck, she lifted it
out from within the neckline of her bliaut and pressed it firmly to her breast.
The night was well advanced. She only hoped she could rouse the castle in time.
Though to what end?

Tears streaked down her pale cheeks, for deep down
she knew it mattered not if she were to warn these people.

Their fates were sealed.

The Viking would prevail tonight.

CHAPTER
2

They moved quickly, like soundless shadows
creeping through the night.

Flattening their war-hardened bodies against the
stone walls, they made their way to the hidden portal.

She was gone now, but Alarik could still not
wrench his gaze away from the tower above. Even as his men toiled to destroy
the wooden portal, his eyes sought her. Once it was breached he could delay no
longer, and he shuddered away a prickle of foreboding before turning to his
men.

There was no guard posted at the hidden
portal—arrogant, stupid Franksmann.

His eyes glinted with loathing. “Have eyes to your
backs!” he warned his men, and then he raised his gilt-edged sword into the
night. “May Dragvendil spare no man!” he charged. “May your own blades dole no
mercy!” And with that, he stooped to lead them through the tiny, well-concealed
portal.

‘To arms! To arms!”

Swiping at the tears that blinded her vision,
Elienor shouted at the top of her lungs. ‘To arms!” she called again as she
spiraled downward. Her frantic voice carried down before her into the hall
below, and she was relieved to hear the ensuing commotion as the men stirred
immediately from their slumber.

One man darted up the tower steps, tripping over
himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, only to halt when he saw her. “My
lady!” he gasped.

“Gaston!” It was the sentinel. He’d come in from
the cold to warm himself only to fall asleep at the foot of the stairs. She’d
passed him on her way up, had tiptoed around him so as not to wake him—so
certain had she been that her dream would not hold true. Had he been at his
given post tonight, it would have been Gaston to spy the Viking ships, and not
Elienor. She wished, with all her soul, it had been so. Her heart pummeled
against her ribs.

For an unbearable instant, neither spoke.

“The Northmen are come! I have seen them from the
tower. Go quickly—warn the castle!”

The man’s eyes widened visibly. “My lady, art
certain?”

“Aye!” she exclaimed. “Aye! Even now they climb
the banks! Go!”

Sobered by her revelation, he did not hesitate to
wonder why she’d been in the tower to begin with, nor did he linger to offer
explanation as to why he was not, and she said a silent prayer of thanks. She
watched as he whirled about and raced back down, sounding the alarm.

Knowing there was little time to spare, Elienor
followed, praying she’d not lose her footing on the slippery stone. So intent
was she on her descent that she nearly tumbled over Stefan as he came loping noisily
up the dimly lit stairwell. Despite the fact that his newly acquired sword
clanged and scraped clumsily against the wall, she did not see that he was
there until she was virtually upon him.

“My lady!” he reproved. “You will fall to your
death!”

Elienor shrieked as he caught her arm. “Stefan!”
Sweet Jesu! How could she have overlooked him? Stefan had not forsaken her when
first she’d arrived at Brouillard! Despite the fact that he was no more than a
boy of thirteen summers, he’d been the only one with wisdom enough to
understand her apprehension over coming alone to a strange new household. The
rest had kept themselves apart. It was her duty to save him if she could!

“My lady? Is it true?” There was a tremor of
excitement to his voice. “Gaston says you have spied the Northmen?”

A quiver of fear passed down Elienor’s spine, but
she recovered herself, seizing him by the wrist. Knowing full well that he
would feel obliged to hie to his lord’s side, she ignored his question and
tugged him after her. “Quickly,” she commanded on impulse. “Follow me!” If his
face had been revealed to her within the tapestry of her dream, she would have
known the futility of altering its course. But it had not been, and Stefan was
far too young to die!

“My lady!” he protested. He cringed as the sword
Count Phillipe had so recently presented to him shaved the wall. “My lord...”

“I spoke to him just now,” she lied. “He said you
were to come with me to the chapel!” It was only a small lie, she reasoned.
Surely God would forgive it.

“My lady?” He tried freeing his arm from her
frenzied grip, but Elienor clutched it all the more fiercely. “Did you not
realize that my lord has gone to Pa—”

“Please!” Elienor appealed. “Heed me—if only
this once!”

Stefan dug in his heels stubbornly.

There were no torches burning in the great hall at
this late hour, and the muted light came from the single torch that graced the
stairwell behind them. As Elienor turned to face him, tears shone in her eyes.
“Stefan,” she cried. “I beg you!”

His shoulders slumped in frustration and his brow
furrowed, but he nodded. Elienor nearly wept her relief.

Clasping his hand firmly, she drew him at once out
of the hall, into the narrow pentice, which provided them with a covered
passage from the hall to the kitchens. Once in the kitchen, certain that in
scant moments the donjon would be overrun with the Northmen, she ran across the
smoke-permeated room, to the far doors. It was the quickest route, she knew,
and there was no time to waste. Count Phillipe’s small numbers were simply no
match for the scourge of the north!

As they left the kitchen and entered another
narrow walkway between buildings, she pulled the boy to her protectively.
Stefan recoiled at once. “My lady, please! I’ve no need of such coddling. I am
elevated to squire! Aide to my lord!” he protested.

“Hush, Stefan! Instruct me to your heart’s content
once we are safe in the chapel!” Elienor grimaced, recalling the enemy. Since
when had the Northmen regarded the Church as hallowed ground? Mother Heloise
had said that the fiends never spared castle or monastery, whether Roman,
French, or English. Their pillaging of Grande Bretagne’s Jarrow and Wearmouth
was well renown, as well as the numerous parishes of her homeland! It was true
that their reign of terror had subsided of late, but only now that most of
northern Francia was at last under their barbarian rule!

The chapel door stood ajar a scant few feet away,
the dark interior a greater beacon to her now than the brightest of lights, and
she prayed, asking for God’s mercy and aid—not for herself, but for young
Stefan.

Let us reach the chapel—please, please, please!

Tonight, she would live, as the dream foretold...
but Stefan? There was no time even to make the sign of the cross, or she would
have.