Rescued by the Viking

by Meriel Fuller

  An angry flush tore across her pale cheeks. ‘It wouldn’t have surprised me. Your reputation is notorious.’

  ‘Not to the Saxons,’ he replied curtly. ‘We’ve come here to help, after all. The town is welcoming us with open arms.’

  The maid’s head knocked back as if he had hit her; she bit her lip as if she had made a mistake. ‘Yes, of course, I forgot myself.’

  He wondered whether she had forgotten speaking to him in French. He would keep her secret; it made no difference to him whether she was Norman or Saxon. She had been a maid who needed help and that was the end to it. Her agitated fingers played with the ragged filaments of her scarf fringe in her lap. The damp fabric of her gown moulded to her thighs, revealing their curving, slender contours. ‘Can I take you home?’ he offered.

  She threw the fringe of her scarf aside, raised her huge blue eyes to his. ‘No. But...thank you for coming out to me,’ she said. ‘You can leave me now. Please, go.’

  He nodded, acknowledging her grudging thanks, hearing the dismissal in her voice. She wanted to be rid of him, that much was obvious. He thought of Eirik, and the rest of the men, slugging ale down their throats in the nearest inn. The lusty singing would have started by now. He was reluctant to join them. ‘And what are you going to do?’ he asked. ‘Sit here on the beach all night?’

  Her magnificent eyes gleamed up at him. ‘It’s no concern of yours,’ she said tightly, sliding her knees up to her chest, hugging them. ‘I told you to go.’ Her voice held a hard edge, disdainful.

  She was ordering him about as if he were some common foot soldier! He raised his eyebrows at her rudeness, hips rocking back on his heels. Pins and needles started to prick the soles of his feet. ‘And I’m telling you that you should mind your manners. I’ve just saved your skin.’ A warning lilt entered his voice. ‘A little humility wouldn’t go amiss. You would have died if I hadn’t come along.’

  She flinched at the sudden harshness in his tone. ‘Someone would have come eventually.’

  ‘No,’ Ragnar said. ‘No one was going to help you. Your master was prepared to leave you out there to drown. Care to tell me why?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Placing her palms flat on the stones, she levered herself upwards. As she rose, she tottered forward unsteadily. Rising with her, Ragnar grabbed her upper arm, fingers pincering her flesh, preventing her from falling.

  ‘C’est possible parce-que tu est Normande? Maybe because you’re a Norman,’ he murmured close to her ear.

  She lurched away from him in shock, but he held her fast. ‘I don’t understand you,’ she replied in English. ‘What are you saying to me?’ She rolled her arm forward in a circular motion, tugging downwards, trying to release his fearsome grip.

  But Ragnar had seen the terror strike her gaze. He tugged at her sharply, forcing her to stagger closer, the startled oval of her face mere inches from his own. Her skin was like pouring cream, a polished lustre of silk. ‘You do understand me,’ he continued in English. Her delicious rose scent curled around him. ‘You understand me very well. What are you doing here, a Norman maid, living in the middle of all these Saxons? Don’t you realise they would kill you if they had any idea?’

  * * *

  God in Heaven, what had she done out there on the mudflats? What had she said? She wanted to weep with the thought of her own stupidity. How had she managed to give herself away so easily, to this man of all people? This tall broad-shouldered Dane, with his flare of bright gold hair and eyes of green who had come to help the Saxons. Was he going to kill her now?

  ‘Let me go!’ Gisela cried, struggling in his grip. ‘Otherwise I’ll...’ Her voice faded away as she realised the futility of what she had been about to say. Her fiery anger leached away, her spirits exhausted.

  ‘What...otherwise you’ll scream?’ His tone was sarcastic, grating. ‘And that will do a lot of good, won’t it? For we both know that no one will come. And we both know why.’

  Her shoulders caved forward, as if his words had delivered a physical blow. She stopped fighting his grip, her slight body drooping. ‘Let me go, will you, please?’ Gisela said quietly, the breeze whipping away the end of her sentence. His glittering gaze moved over her, stripping away her courage, leaving her exposed, as if her inner thoughts were stretched out on the ground for all to see. ‘I’m none of your concern.’

  She was right. She was none of his concern...and yet, Christ, she intrigued him. He knew that if she had been anyone else, he would have walked away and left her on the beach. But some small part of him urged him to linger at her side. ‘I will take you back to where you live,’ he offered. ‘The town’s not safe.’

  ‘You said it,’ she said, her tone faintly mocking. ‘But do you really think anyone would bother with the likes of me?

  ‘I only have to go down that alley over there,’ she explained, pointing to a shadowed gap in the distance. ‘And my family will be waiting for me.’

  Relinquishing his grip on the soft muscle of her upper arm, the Dane gave her a little push, sending her staggering off across the shingle. ‘Go then,’ he said bluntly. ‘Have it your way.’

  Chapter Four

  Gisela walked quickly along the alley, away from the beach, away from him, eager to reach the safety of her lodgings. The shadowed light made her step disjointed, uncertain; a couple of times she stumbled and her hands flew out to check her fall, scraping against rough exterior walls. Her hem, weighed down with thick, drying mud, clagged unhelpfully around her ankles, hampering her gait. Tears wobbled in her chest. She had only needed a few more days of working on the salt pans to earn enough money for them all to cross the river and be out of this place. Why, oh, why had she agreed to go out on to the mudflats with those children?

  Desolation rolled over her, the air catching in her lungs. She had had no choice. The master had told her to go out there. If she hadn’t followed his orders, then she would have had no work at all. But, because of what had happened out on the salt marsh, they would have to leave this place as soon as possible. Tonight, at least. A pair of sparkling green eyes punctured her vision. The Dane. Because of that man, they would have to leave. It wouldn’t take him long to tell others of his suspicions about her. She whipped her head around, checking that no one followed her, disquiet threading her nerves, making her increase her pace.

  The foul smell of the town’s midden, stinking and sour, washed over her as she approached the tiny cottage that served as their lodgings. Wrinkling her nose, she pushed against the wooden door, stepping down on to the earth-packed floor. Thick smoke hazed the chamber. She coughed, waving her hand in front of her, trying to clear the smoke so she could see. A fire burned feebly, smoke coiling up to the hole in the rafters, a chimney of sorts. Marie, her older sister, sat on a low stool, poking a stick fretfully into the damp, smouldering wood. Her golden braids, long plaits falling to her waist-belt, shone out in the gloom. She stared miserably across to Gisela, her face streaked with tears.

  ‘Where is he?’ Gisela’s heart filled with trepidation. A swift glance around the chamber told her that her father was not there. ‘Where’s he gone, Marie? Tell me!’ A rising fear laced her voice.

  ‘Oh, Gisela, he wanted to do something! Something to help you. He hated the way you were working so hard to make coin, while we sat around all day!’

  ‘But he can’t work...’ Gisela spluttered. ‘His leg...’

  ‘He felt so useless. Surely you can see that?’ Marie’s voice pleaded with her. ‘As I do, Sister. This is all because of me! I feel so guilty, I should have... I should have married...’ Her eyes, a stunning turquoise colour, wavered with tears as her sentence trailed away to a desperate silence.

  ‘No! Don’t say it!’ Gisela responded angrily. ‘Don’t ever say such things again! We did the right thing, Marie, even if our brother was taken.’ She crouched down, taking her sister’s hands into he
r own. ‘None of this is your fault, do you hear me? That man...that man is a monster, the way he treated you...’

  Marie’s hand reached out, touching the brooch that secured Gisela’s linen headscarf around her neck. The intricately wrought silver glittered as her fingers grazed the metal. ‘And the way he treated you, Sister. For that I am truly sorry.’

  ‘It was a small price to pay.’ Gisela’s eyelashes fluttered down with the memory of that horrific day: the swift retort of the sword, the slice of blade against her neck, the blood. But she had held on to Marie, held on to her sister as if her life depended on it, dragging her away from that awful man, dragging her to safety.

  Marie’s hand fell back to her lap. ‘Not that small,’ she responded sadly. ‘Does the scar pain you?’ Dropping the stick, she hugged her knees, rocking slightly on the stool like a child. Despite being three years older than Gisela, her delicate beauty, her frailty, made Marie appear younger. Her ethereal looks attracted attention wherever she went, however much they tried to hide it, making her vulnerable. It was for this reason, as well as the fact that she was physically stronger, that Gisela had sought work in the town. Her plain features and short muscular body drew few glances, an attribute she was glad of while living among these Saxons; she could slip unnoticed through a crowd. Up to now. A shudder gripped her as a male voice barged through her thoughts, speaking in French. Is it because you are a Norman?

  Gisela shoved the unwanted memory away, pinning a bright smile on her face. ‘It’s fine.’ Her response was clipped. She had no wish to talk about her injury, or to go over the details of that day, the regrets and recriminations. She had no wish to worry Marie any more than was necessary. At this moment, the only thing she wanted to do was find their father.

  Marie was peering at her, suddenly noticing the mud caking her sister’s clothes, her wan, drained features. ‘Gisela? Did something happen to you today? You’re much later than usual.’

  ‘No, nothing. We had to work later, that was all. Further out in the mudflats.’ Easing herself up from her crouching position, she rolled her shoulders forward, trying to relieve the ache along the back of her neck. Although she was used to using her body physically, the days at the salt pans were long and hard, and the buckets of brine were heavy to lift. Her upper arm pained her, a sore bruised spot where the Dane had gripped her; she chewed on her bottom lip, resentful, annoyed at him, at the way he had unwittingly managed to spoil their plans.

  She sighed. ‘Tell me where Father is.’

  ‘He’s gone to the inn. The one in the market square.’

  Her heart sank, fluttered wildly. ‘But why, Marie? What could he possibly hope to achieve by going there?’

  Marie hung her head, a listless, defeated gesture.

  Gisela folded her arms, mouth compacting into a stern, forbidding line. ‘He’s gambling again, isn’t he?’ Darting to the corner of the cottage, she opened one of the three travelling satchels that were stacked against the wall, pulling out the few personal items that lay at the top and flinging them on the floor. Two cloth sacks full of gold coins nestled at the bottom of her father’s satchel.

  One sack was missing. ‘He took a third of the ransom money, Marie! A third! Why didn’t you stop him?’ Distraught, she turned back to her sister. ‘You know how long it’s taken us to save up that amount!’

  ‘I tried, Gisela. I’m so sorry.’ Marie hunched her shoulders, winding her arms across her chest. ‘But he was adamant; you know how he is.’

  Gisela knocked her fist against her head, straightened up. ‘Hell’s teeth, Marie! What does he think he’s going to do? The town’s awash with a Danish fleet that’s just come in! They’ll take it from him in an instant!’

  ‘He’s good at dice.’ Marie’s voice quavered with doubt. ‘He knows how to win.’

  ‘Maybe against these dim-witted townspeople,’ Gisela replied harshly. ‘But against the Danes?’ She stared fiercely at the floor, toed the packed earth angrily with her boot. ‘We were so close, we almost had all the money. We almost had our brother back. Why did he decide to risk this now?’

  Marie’s fingers fretted with the end of one of her blonde plaits. ‘He wanted to help, Gisela. He thought he was doing the right thing.’

  Gisela drew a length of coarse red wool out of her own travelling bag, wrapping it around her shoulders, a makeshift shawl. ‘I’ll have to go and find him.’

  Rising from the stool, Marie nodded. Reaching out, she snared Gisela’s hands with her soft fingers. ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop him.’

  Gisela gave her sister’s hands a quick little squeeze, a gesture of reassurance. ‘You know we can’t let him lose that money. I must track him down before it’s too late.’

  A frustrated anger at her father’s behaviour drove her on, driving out her fatigue. Stepping out into the alley, Gisela held her heavy, mud-clagged skirts high above her ankles, her stride rapid and light through the maze of narrow streets. In the gap between the thatched roofs, the sky had darkened to a midnight blue, pinpointed with stars, a waxing moon. The cold, ethereal light picked out the street for Gisela as she hurried along, the constant roar of men’s voices drawing her towards the town’s main square.

  Something brushed against her ear; her headscarf had worked loose, slipping back over her silky hair. Ducking into a shadowed doorway, she un-pinned the brooch at her throat, quickly adjusting the material. As her fingers fumbled with the silver pin, she heard masculine voices, loud and strident, coming down the street, moving closer to her. Panic flared in her chest. Her nervous fingers dropped the brooch and it clattered down on to the muddy cobbles, the filigreed silver sparkling in the moonlight. As she dipped down to reach for it, a meaty hand scooped the brooch up before she had time to curl her fingers around it.

  ‘Give that back to me!’ Gisela demanded, straightening up.

  A flush-faced Saxon man peered closely at her. ‘Who do we have here, eh lads?’ He grinned at his friends, swaying in various stages of drunkenness around him. Before Gisela had time to stop him, the man snatched the scarf away from her hair and pushed his hand around her chin, forcing her head up so he could see her face more clearly. ‘A beauty, methinks, and no mistake! What are you doing out on your own, maid? Touting for business in this busy town?’

  They thought she was a whore! Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips, trying to find her voice, the blood hurtling through her veins in terror. ‘Get your filthy hands off me,’ she spat out fiercely.

  ‘William...’ a young man stepped forward, his mouth coiling with disgust. ‘Are you out of your mind? Look at her! Look at her neck! Someone’s dealt with her, good and proper. Why would you want to bed that?’

  The man’s gaze slid to the scar on her neck, the line of puckered skin that stretched from behind her ear to a point just shy of her windpipe. ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he muttered. His hand dropped away, the scarf and brooch dropping from his shocked fingers to the ground. ‘No wonder you’re out on your own, girl. No one will touch you, marked as you are.’ Turning away, he spat on the ground, ushering his friends away. ‘Keep moving, lads, before she gives us the evil eye.’ The men moved off down the lane, sniggering, jostling each other.

  She listened to the sound of their laughter, their whispering and tittering as they staggered off. Tears pooled in her eyes as the familiar shroud of humiliation descended; her skin hummed with shame as she bent her knees to retrieve the brooch and scarf. Why was she so surprised? What had happened then was precisely the reason she kept her scarf wrapped securely around her neck. She had experienced similar expressions of disgust aimed at her in the past, masculine declarations of snide revulsion; why should she subject herself to any more derision than was necessary? She knew she was ugly, that she would never marry or have children because of what had happened to her.

  Emerging into the open area from the narrow street, Gisela lifted her gaze across the cobbled sq
uare, across the smiling faces of Danes and Saxons, the tethered horses, the dogs trotting to and fro, sniffing the ground, eager for scraps. Even in the freshening breeze, the air was thick with the smell of ale and mead, roasting meat. Fires burned beneath iron skillets; glowing sparks flew up, reflecting against chainmail hauberks, jewelled sword helms. The small Saxon town had gone to a great effort to welcome these Danish warriors.

  Her feet teetered on the cobbles. She took a deep shaky breath, her flesh still trembling from her encounter with the Saxon men. Where was her courage? She needed it now, yet those men had driven it from her with their disparaging glances, their ugly words. Forget it, she told herself firmly, forget them. Your father needs you now. And yet, as she stared across the square to the inn, the sign of a gilded angel swinging above the entrance, her heart sank. Was she really going to have to fight her way across this crowded space to the inn and pull her father out? Suddenly all she wanted to do was to turn around and fly back to Marie. There was a possibility that her father might win more coin, after all, and return home unscathed.

  She pressed her lips together, hugging her arms about her middle, staring at the heaving mass before her. It was a remote possibility, at the very least. If she failed to retrieve the ransom money before her father lost it all, then her brother’s life would be in jeopardy. And it would be her fault. Come on, Gisela, she chided herself, you are made of sterner stuff than that; as a family, they had come too far and gone through too much to give up now.

  Snapping her shawl across her body, she ducked her head, plunging into the fray, squeezing and sliding her way through the crowds, her eyes pinned firmly to the ground. Nobody spared her a second glance, the huge blond Danes intent on slugging back their tankards of ale and singing their songs. Some had their arms firmly fastened around dark-haired Saxon maidens, claiming them already for the night ahead. Edging her way around the horses tied to the wooden rail at the front of the inn, Gisela stopped for a moment, gathering her breath and her resolve.