Surrender My Love

by Johanna Lindsey

  The second day of the journey dawned with a cloudless sky and a hot sun that had them riding even slower for the bishop’s sake. But the company was pleasant, the land lovely, with all the colors of fertility in full bloom.

  As they passed through a small woods with welcome shade cast over the narrow way, Elfmar was amusing Selig with tales, and was now telling of a pagan goddess who had come down to earth in search of a mortal lover. But all the great and mighty warriors were off to war, and the only person she could find to bestow her favors on was a lowly swineherd. Yet this was no ordinary swineherd, was in truth a god in disguise, one who was so smitten by the goddess that he would do anything to spend one night in her bed, even wallow in earthy muck. But the goddess had guessed the god’s trickery and—

  The ambush took the party completely unawares.

  Out of the trees they dropped, and from the bushes they leapt, with clubs and daggers swinging. There was no time to draw a sword or offer a last prayer, so swiftly did the blows fall. Out of a dozen faces, Selig saw only one, no one he recognized—a thief, he supposed, though the man did seem too finely dressed, the sword that cut the bishop down too finely wrought. And then pain exploded in the back of his head and he was falling.

  A young man led a fine destrier out of the woods to his lord. The lord mounted to survey the carnage his men had left behind.

  “Take their horses,” he ordered his captain. “And what coin they have so it will appear they were robbed.”

  “And what if Alfred sends others?”

  “Then they will meet the same fate.”

  Chapter 4

  LADY ERIKA PUT the large ladle to her lips to taste the green pea pottage and sighed, for once again the cook needed instruction. “More saffron, Herbert, and do not be so stingy with the salt either. The merchant is due back again, and I will replenish all the supplies that have gone missing, including your spices.”

  She should not have had to say so. Seven years was long enough for these people to learn that their new lord, though a Dane, was not the miser their old lord had been. But they were a timid lot, these serfs, and no wonder, with as brutish and cruel as she had found the houseguards to be.

  Erika had put an end to the indiscriminate beatings when she had come to live here four years ago—her brother Ragnar giving her a free hand. Not that she was soft. She could order a whipping when called for—a hanging, too, for that matter. She couldn’t rule her brother’s holdings in his absence without doing what was necessary when the situation warranted it, and she had no difficulty with that. She merely believed in being fair and having the punishment fit the crime.

  She had taken her brother to task for what he had let continue for the three years before she came. Yet it wasn’t actually his fault that he had done naught, since he had been away with the army for most of those three years, and therefore unaware of the situation.

  It was a fine holding he had, and he had obtained it without bloodshed. The old Anglian lord who had lived here had been terrified he would lose all he possessed to the invading army, and so had offered Ragnar Haraldsson his only daughter in marriage. And Ragnar had been delighted to have her and all she brought with her, which included the loyalty of her people.

  The old father died of natural causes soon after, and the transition of lordship had gone smoothly because Ragnar was wed to the daughter of the house. And because there had been a lawful marriage, the people’s loyalty easily survived the sad death of their lady in childbirth nine months after she was wedded. They were Ragnar’s people now—and Erika’s.

  When she had come here, not only the beatings had ended, but also the near starvation, the rapes, the deaths for minor crimes. However, these people had lived too long under such a brutal yoke, just about every one of them bearing the marks of the lash. It would take more than a handful of years for them to forget the drudgery of the past.

  Which was why she had spoken so softly to the cook, and now tempered the reprimand with a smile. “Mayhap a bit thicker, too, Herbert, as I know you like to make it. I do so prefer your recipe to mine.”

  The praise had the cook beaming as Erika left the kitchen. But then, that was her usual effect on the servants, whether she offered praise or not—at least on the male servants. Because she was uncommonly pretty, just a smile would do it.

  Her beauty was not something she had always appreciated, since it had caused her female siblings to pick on her for many years. Yet she was comfortable with her looks now, even glad of them finally. She had high cheekbones, a short, straight nose, lips rosy and full. Her eyes were powder blue, with thick lashes and gently arched brows. But her glory was her hair, long and golden with a subtle shading of red.

  She was a tall woman compared with the people she lived among. But she was small-boned, which gave her a willowy, delicate appearance. Not to say she was skinny. Her curves were well rounded and dented in all the right places, her breasts larger than most but well proportioned to her size, her long legs lean and firm.

  Eyes would follow her as she crossed a room, and did now as she left the kitchen. Rarely noticed anymore was the shadow that moved away from the wall to follow her out into the bailey.

  Torches lit the way to the hall. She hadn’t realized the hour had grown so late, or that everyone would be waiting to eat. The last meal of the day had been delayed because of the latest thefts, and taking a tally of exactly what was missing this time had occupied her and the kitchen staff for several hours. So she hurried to the hall because Herbert wouldn’t begin sending the food in until she had taken her seat. But her mind was still on the thefts.

  “Seven loaves of bread and half the spices,” she said to her shadow. “The spices will be sold, no doubt, but the bread?…Have you noticed anyone getting fat?”

  The grunt she received in reply meant No.

  “Has Wulnoth no clues who our thief is?” she asked next.

  The same grunt. Erika sighed. They had been plagued for a fortnight now with the pilfering of their food supplies, weapons, even several of the livestock. Either there was a very clever stranger sneaking in and out of the manor, or one of their own was selling the goods in Bedford for a tidy profit. It was a wonder Wulnoth, the captain of the guard, hadn’t caught him yet, for the crime warranted a lashing at least, and he did so love using his whip.

  She despised the beefy Saxon captain, and had since the first day she met him. The man was arrogant, just short of insolent, and with an inherent cruel streak that could make any wrongdoer tremble in unholy terror. She would have dismissed him long ago except he had bowed to her edicts once made, giving her no cause, and the other men obeyed him, fearing him more than they did her, she had no doubt. He still suggested harsher punishments than she thought necessary, but he always acceded to her judgments, albeit with ill grace.

  She reached the hall, finding it well lit, the manor folk milling about in small groups, but avoiding the tables that had been set up. She could imagine that half of them were anxious that the days of little or no food were returning. They should all know better, yet old fears were hard to let go of. New fears were easier to set aside, and she was pleased to note that conversations no longer ceased when she walked into a room, as they had for most of her first year here. Of course, it had never been she who had caused this phenomenon, but her shadow, which was perfectly understandable.

  Turgeis Ten Feet was his name, the “Ten Feet” an exaggeration, as were most Viking names, but not by much in Turgeis’s case. Seven feet tall he was, and barrel-chested, a great bear of a man with a shaggy mane and beard of bright red, and gentle brown eyes—at least she thought them gentle eyes. No one else did, not even her brother, for Turgeis, with his great ax three times the size of a normal one, could inspire fear in the stoutest heart. And he was never far from Erika’s side, never beyond the sound of her voice.

  It had been so since her tenth year, when she had found him near her secret pond, where she went to escape the bickering and unpleasantness of her hom
e. He had been half dead, lying in a pool of his own blood, with an ax embedded in his back and a half-dozen gaping slashes on other parts of his body. He was Norwegian and had been sold into slavery by his own brother, who had been jealous of him, and feared him, and been promised by the unscrupulous slave traders that Turgeis would be lost in the slave markets of the Far East. The crew had taunted him that he would fetch a great price as a harem guard, but would have to lose his manhood first. Little wonder he tried to escape when the ship put in for supplies at her family’s dock. The entire crew had given chase, and their bodies littered the woods from the docks to her secret pool.

  Erika had learned all of this later, but it was his body that concerned her. To bring help to him would give away her private spot, but to let him die and rot there would ruin it just the same. So she had taken her needle to him and applied what herbs she knew for healing, and miraculously he had lived. And while he was recovering, her father had confiscated the crewless ship and its human cargo, which he sold at Birka. Because of that, he had asked few questions about the bodies that were discovered eventually, and even less of Turgeis the day Erika brought him home and said simply, “He is my friend.” He had been her shadow ever since.

  It was not such a bad thing to have a shadow like Turgeis. He was a man of few words, and she had come to understand the grunting sounds he made in response as a language of his own. He was indeed her dearest friend. Also, he had kept her father’s heavy hand from falling on her, as it so often did on her many brothers and sisters.

  Her father had had two lawful wives and three bedslaves, all of whom had given him numerous children. The count had been twenty at his death, and Erika had been close to none of them except her true brother, Ragnar. Their mother had been the second wife. The first wife had given the old man four daughters and three sons, all much older than the rest.

  In fact, the oldest son, who took their father’s place in their Danish lands, had three daughters himself for whom he would be concerned with finding husbands before he would think to arrange marriages for Erika and his one other sister still unwed. And with most of the young men in the area having left to seek their fortunes in new lands, it was little wonder she had supposed she would never have a husband or a home of her own.

  But her brother had been one of those to leave home to find a place for himself elsewhere, with great success. And it had been one of the happiest days of Erika’s life when he had sent for her to live with him in his newly conquered East Anglian holdings. She had had few expectations, was merely pleased to leave a home overcrowded and rife with petty jealousies, where she had never felt truly welcome or even needed.

  But Ragnar had shared his new wealth with her, had given her the highest authority in his home, that of the lady of the manor, and complete command in his absence. No longer was there no hope of a marriage. She had had five offers already from Ragnar’s men, stalwart Vikings, all, which he had turned down himself. He had higher aspirations for her, a wealthy lord at least, with many men at his command. This was their new home. It was time to strengthen their position with alliances. And now Ragnar had gone with his men to seek marriage contracts for them both.

  Erika should be ecstatic. He had promised her she would be well pleased with the man he brought home for her, and she had little doubt she would be, for Ragnar wanted her to be happy. The trouble was, a husband of her own was no longer such a hoped-for circumstance. Her brother had given her so much—spoiled her, actually—that she was perfectly happy to remain where she was. Even her desire for children was answered in Ragnar’s son, Thurston, whose upbringing she had taken over.

  In truth, she did still want a husband, and did still hope for love to come her way, and she prayed often that the man Ragnar found for her would be that love. But she was so content as she was, that she feared a change, feared she wouldn’t be as happy as she was now.

  She supposed her fears were normal, the same shared by most women when faced with imminent marriage to an unknown man. Her life would change again, when she was not long used to the one she had.

  Yet she knew her lot would change anyway when Ragnar married again. That was inevitable. And although she would be welcome in Ragnar’s home for the rest of her life if she chose to stay here, she didn’t care to feel useless and unneeded again.

  So she hadn’t mentioned her preference when the subject first came up, nor did she ask for a year or two of grace before she must wed. Ragnar thought he was giving her her fondest wish. She let him think so. But she wasn’t all that happy about it. She simply wished that things could remain just as they were now. But then, she had no idea that things were about to change drastically, and much sooner than she expected.

  Chapter 5

  THE OXCART TRUDGED slowly down the wooded lane, an old woman, hands gnarled, gray hair straggly, sitting behind the reins. A young woman limped beside the cart, though without pain, the limp caused by one leg being shorter than the other, a phenomenon she was born with. The stench of death met them long before they came upon the bodies in the road. It was a smell old Valda welcomed. It was a smell her young niece, Blythe, abhorred, but had grown used to.

  Seeing the corpses finally, Valda guided the cart to the side of the road and eagerly jumped down. She was spry for an old woman, and swift to move through the dead, searching through a pocket here, turning a body over there.

  It wasn’t long before Blythe heard her grumble. “Faugh, scavengers have beat us to them.”

  She should have said other scavengers, for Valda supported herself and her niece on the leavings of the dead. The wars that had ravaged the land for so many years were a boon to her and her kind, and she would follow in the wake of the Danish armies. With the excuse that she was looking for her son, no one would bother her as she picked through the bodies of the fallen, pocketing whatever coin or jewelry came easily to hand.

  But what Valda had said was true. Other scavengers had already found these dead men and picked them clean. All the boots save one hole-ridden pair were missing; all the cloaks, the leather, the weapons, the wool. Only two tunics remained, these rent so badly by the inflicted wounds as to make them unwanted even by a scavenger. Most of the men still had their braies on, bloodied and stinking of death, though their chausses were gone. Two were completely naked, even their underwear fine enough to warrant taking. Lords, likely, those two.

  Blythe stood upwind of the carnage, patiently waiting for her aunt to finish. Valda was angry that naught had been left behind for her, and was yanking off one of the remaining tunics. Blythe knew that she would wash the garment, stitch it, and sell it at market for a hot meal.

  Blythe was loath to touch the dead bodies herself, and her aunt never insisted she help, which she was grateful for. She did the selling of whatever they found, and the selling of herself when times were lean. Valda had raised her, and it was the only life she knew. But Valda was getting on in years and yearned for a roof over her head instead of an oxcart and the cold ground for her bed.

  It was not a vain hope, at least now it wasn’t, for Valda had heard that her cousin’s wife had died, and she and Blythe were on their way to visit him in Bedford. It was Aldrich’s wife who wouldn’t take them in before when they had asked, but his wife was dead now, and it was Valda’s hope that he would marry Blythe and give them the home she so desperately wanted. Blythe was also hopeful that it would be as Valda predicted. Aldrich was much older than she, but not a mean or ugly man, so she wouldn’t mind marrying him. Also, he had always looked kindly on her, despite her deformity. And a home and food every day would be nice, very nice.

  Her eyes wandered as she waited for her aunt to finish. She hated death, had seen so much of it, yet her eyes were drawn to it still in morbid fascination. And her gaze came back to one man repeatedly, until she finally approached him.

  He was one of the two men who had been picked clean, and Valda had turned him over—grunting and swearing the while, he was so big—looking for rings on his hands. He m
ust not have worn any, for none of his fingers were missing, which was the quickest way for a scavenger to remove a ring that bloated joints would not release.

  His was a fine young body, without a wound that Blythe could see, though with enough scars to claim him as a fighting man. His was also the longest, largest body she had ever seen. But it was his face she couldn’t take her eyes from, the face of an angel, so beautiful it brought pain to her chest. And for the first time in all the years that she had seen men dead like this, tears gathered in her eyes.

  It was typical of his effect on women that Blythe, who didn’t know him and had never seen him before, could cry over the death of a man who looked like him. This she was doing, unbeknownst to her aunt, and she even dropped to her knees beside him, her hand drawn to his cheek. The skin was warm and supple, which brought a gasp of surprise from her. But she jerked her hand back with a shriek when she felt his breath on it.

  “Aunt Valda, this man is not dead!”

  Valda looked up from folding the tunic she had claimed and said with no concern, “So? He will be soon.”

  “But he has no wound on him either!”

  Valda came to her side to look down at the man. She had wrestled long enough with his back to get it turned that she knew it bore no wound now hidden. She bent down to lift his head with both hands to feel there, and found the lump that had struck him down, the size of her small fist.

  She let his head drop back to the hard ground without a care for the pain it might cause him. He made not a sound.

  “His skull has been cracked,” she said offhandedly. “They rarely waken from that.”

  “But he could?”

  “Aye, he could, with constant care, which he will not be getting out here. Now, come along. I am finished—”

  “I could care for him.”