Rescued by the Viking

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘And that was when he hit you?’ Ragnar asked tersely.

  She bit her lip. ‘Yes. I don’t remember much after that.’

  ‘At least your hat stayed on.’ He flicked her hat brim with one long forefinger, a disparaging gesture. ‘Otherwise they would have seen you were a woman.’ He narrowed his eyes, diamond slits in the twilight. ‘It might have been a great deal worse for you.’

  ‘The hat’s tied underneath my chin with laces,’ Gisela protested, throwing him a crooked smile. The bruise on her face throbbed fiercely. ‘It was not going to fall off. And my father’s clothes cover me adequately.’

  * * *

  Despite his annoyance with her utter foolishness, he chuckled at the fierce determination in her voice. ‘You take too many risks.’ Her father’s clothes were far too big for her, he thought, any idiot could see that. The tunic hemline skirted her knees, the collar gaping dangerously below her scarf that she had tied around her head and neck beneath the hat. The braies had been bunched up and tied around her leather boots to stop her tripping over their longer length.

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied smartly, ‘but at least I have the money now. That’s all that matters. If you give me the bag, I’ll be on my way.’ She frowned at his empty hand dangling by his side, traced the diagonal leather sling of his sword belt, the sparkling hilt of his sword. ‘Where is it?’ Her eyes glittered from beneath the shadows of her hat, dark sapphire pools. ‘You did take my money back from them, didn’t you?’ Behind her, a sharp breeze skiffed the waters of the moat, rustling the leaves in the tree canopy above.

  How could he tell Gisela that he had cared more about her, about extricating her from the grip of those Saxon oafs, than any bag of money? That would display a concern for her that defied explanation. ‘They believed the money belonged to them. Do you think they were just going to hand it over to me on my demand?’ The stark moonlight washed against the chiselled planes of his jaw, highlighting the vigorous abandon of his hair. ‘No, Gisela, I’m sorry, but they would not have done that.’

  She shook her head. ‘It was mine...ours!’ she spat out on a half-sob, winding her arms around her chest.

  ‘Come with me to Lord Guthrun and tell him what has happened. He will be able to get the money back, rather than you taking the law into your own hands.’ Beneath his fingers, the bones in her shoulder were fragile, delicate. This woman chanced with her life as if she were a soldier in battle, rather than the sweet bundle of femininity that stood before him. Did she have any idea how beautiful she was, even dressed as she was now, like a lad? How desirable?

  She wrenched from his hold, chewing on the dewy fullness of her bottom lip. ‘I can’t do that.’ Her voice was subdued. ‘I cannot go to Lord Gurthrun.’

  ‘Because...’

  She stared at him helplessly. ‘Because it would draw too much attention to the three of us.’ Lifting her head, she jerked it to one side, almost in challenge, almost as if she were daring him to run to the Saxons and tell them about her.

  He laughed softly. ‘With your antics this evening, I think you have drawn enough attention to yourself already.’

  Gisela stiffened, picking fretfully at the skin around the base of her thumb. Her nails shone out like luminous shells. The urge to grab her hand, to enfold those nervous fingers in his own, swept over him. ‘I have to go and get it. Where did those men go? Do you know where they were headed?’ A sudden gust of wind pressed the loose fabric of her braies against her legs, revealing the slim curve of her hips and thighs.

  Swallowing at the dryness in his throat, Ragnar peered at her. ‘Are you out of your mind? Those men will kill you. What was your father thinking? Letting you go out again, into the night, after what happened today on the marshes!’

  ‘The blow to my father’s head has made him ill. He has no idea I went out again this evening and I have no wish to worry him; he has suffered enough.’

  Anger coursed through him, a volatile flame. He stepped forward, gathering up the front of her tunic in his fist, hauling her against him, forcing her to look up at him. ‘And what about you, Gisela? Don’t you think you have suffered enough?’ He was furious with her, furious at her foolhardiness, her misplaced bravery. ‘You need to know when to stop fighting, Gisela.’

  ‘No,’ she murmured. The taut fabric of her tunic pulled against her spine; his knuckles grazed the smooth curve of her chin. ‘I will never stop fighting. You’ve no idea what’s at stake.’

  Above Ragnar’s head, a faint breath of air ruffled the leaves, a skittering sound, like water rippling. ‘Then tell me,’ he said. His voice softened, lowered to a muted burr. ‘Tell me what you risk everything for.’

  Chapter Seven

  Her eyes raked his jawline, square cut below the generous curve of his mouth. Grooves ran down from each cheekbone to his chin, etched deep, as if drawn by a formidable hand. In the moonlit shadows, his expression was difficult to read. Could she trust him? The man was a stranger to her, a Dane who had come to this country to help the Saxons. She barely knew him and yet, on this day, they had been flung together, a wild unexpected pairing that had pushed her normally sound judgement off course. How on earth could she tell him all that had happened? How her family had ended up in this Saxon town with only two bags of coin to their name?

  But before she could even make a decision, Ragnar jerked his chin up, listening intently. He raised a finger to his lips: a warning. Voices carried towards them. Two men appeared, following the track from the castle, carrying torches to light their way. They grinned at Ragnar. Eirik’s men.

  ‘Eirik thought you might need some help with this one.’

  Releasing his grip on her tunic, Ragnar tugged the brim of Gisela’s hat down firmly, making sure her face was well hidden. He turned to the men, shielding her with the bulk of his body. ‘I can manage,’ he replied curtly.

  ‘We’ll take him for you, sire,’ the younger Dane offered. The torchlight gleamed against the copper rivets set at intervals along his leather chest straps. ‘The town court sits tomorrow in the castle. Lord Guthrun intends to deal with him then.’

  Gisela stood quietly behind Ragnar, struggling with the tongue-twisting Norse sentences, but managing to decipher the gist of their conversation. Tracing the powerful line of Ragnar’s spine, the breadth of his shoulders, she waited for him to dismiss the men. Fronds of his bright hair brushed his tunic collar, silky, like gold embroidery thread. Once they had disappeared, she could tell him why her family needed the money and he would have to let her go. There would be no reason for him to keep her with him any more.

  ‘We’ll go up together.’ Ragnar half-turned towards her, fingers circling her arm, a sinewy bracelet pulling her slight figure against his muscled flank.

  Gisela glowered at him, giving her head the smallest shake. Surely Ragnar held superiority over these men? Why had he not fobbed them off with some story, then given her a little push in the small of her back and told her to get lost? The Saxons had her money. She had gained nothing by this whole night’s escapade. But he forced her to walk beside him. As she tugged moodily against his grip, his strong fingers dug into the soft muscle of her upper arm, an uncompromising answer. Her heart plummeted with anxiety. Had she misread the tone of his voice when he had asked her to confide in him earlier? Doubt coiled in her gut, churning incessantly.

  As Ragnar talked to the men, she stumbled miserably over the tussocky grass towards the gatehouse. The four turrets created forbidding, angular shapes against the soft blue twilight, looming up into the velvety sky, studded with twinkling stars. Her heart pounded with fear—what did he intend to do with her? An overwhelming sense of betrayal lumped on her shoulders, weighing her down, yet, if she thought about it, the only thing that had betrayed her was her own good sense. Duped by his interest in her, the low velvet rumble of his questions, she had started to think that she would tell him everything. It had been a long time sinc
e such a man had paid her such attention and, like a misguided fool, she had fallen for that attention. The touch of his lips. She shuddered, remembering. His mouth had been a taste of heaven, the promise of another world that she could only dream about. A world to which no man would ever take her. Of that, she was certain.

  As they crossed the wooden drawbridge that led to the gatehouse, the Danish soldiers drew ahead to speak to the castle guards. Tugging on Ragnar’s sleeve, Gisela tipped her eyes up to his face. ‘Why didn’t you let me go?’ A plaintive note entered her speech. ‘You could have fed your men some story about me!’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’ Ragnar shortened his step, walking more slowly across the planked drawbridge. He eyed his fellow Danes, already up ahead at the gatehouse. From the shadows beneath the raised iron grille of the portcullis, they beckoned to him. ‘And trust me,’ he added.

  Trust him? How could she trust him? She couldn’t even trust herself when he was with her. This man who smelled of brine, the salt of the sea, who carried the wind and waves in the strong set of his shoulders, in his long, athletic stride. He had barrelled into this difficult, unstable time of her life with such powerful vitality that she was unable to think straight in his presence. The last thing she needed was this man muddling her mind, pushing her off course. But at this precise moment, she had little choice in the matter.

  A grizzled Saxon guard stepped from the stone arch of the gatehouse, peering closely at Gisela from beneath his helmet. ‘Down there,’ he said gruffly to Ragnar, indicating a door cut into the gatehouse wall. He handed Ragnar a large black key and Ragnar pushed her into the dark doorway. Flickers of panic laced her heart. Keeping one hand on the wall for balance, Gisela worked her way down the tiny spiral staircase, her feet sliding carefully down each uneven step. She had no wish to fall. As she reached the bottom, she realised that Ragnar’s hand had been on her shoulder the whole time.

  Faced with an iron gate, a dank chamber beyond, the swirling fear in her chest reared upwards, consuming her, squeezing the air cruelly in her lungs. He was going to lock her up! Lurching around in terror, she raised her fists to Ragnar’s chest. ‘No! You cannot do this to me!’ In her panic, she reverted to speaking French, the harried speech tumbling out of her mouth, garbled, unrestricted. ‘Ragnar, please! You cannot think...!’ Her knee bumped inadvertently against his and she stepped back clumsily, her hips bumping into the gate. The bars pressed coldly against her rump, preventing any further movement backwards.

  ‘It’s the only way to keep you safe, from my own men and from the Saxons. It won’t be for long,’ he said quietly, replying in French. His voice smoothed over her, a honeyed lilt. ‘Trust me. I will come back for you.’

  ‘But how...?’

  His hand reached over her head, pushing open the gate. The iron bars creaked inwards on rusty hinges. Twisting around, Gisela stared into the chamber in despair. The walls, cut from huge stone blocks, were slick with moisture; ferns, a bright, iridescent green, frothed out of the gaps between the stones. There was no straw to sit on, no furniture. A huge puddle lay in one corner, the surface glimmering ominously. Placing his hands on her shoulders, Ragnar levelled his eyes with hers. His breath fanned her cheek. ‘You have to trust me, Gisela,’ he whispered. ‘Stay here for the moment.’ Turning her, he gave her a little push and she staggered forward into the darkness, as he locked the gate behind her.

  Damn him! She wanted to cry out to him to stay, to sit in this awful place with her, but already she heard his swift stride take him to the top of the steps, heard him laugh with his fellow men. Was that it? Would he leave her here, at the mercy of the Saxon Lord Guthrun? How dare he do such a thing! Her hands screwed into fierce little fists, wanting to kill him, wanting him to come back. Trust me, he had said. And he had said it in French, speaking the language as if he had been born in the country itself. She clung to his words like a lifeline, standing in the middle of the cellar, humiliated, cold and alone.

  * * *

  A stern voice budged through her brain, speaking French. Then again, driving through the thick layers of sluggish unconsciousness. ‘Gisela! Wake up!’ A hand on her shoulder, shaking her roughly.

  She had tried to sleep. Avoiding the damp walls, she had curled up from where she had stood, bringing her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her calves, trying to keep any warmth in the middle of her body. And she had partly succeeded, falling into a troubled, fitful sleep, a sleep beset by dream fragments, some bewildering, some benign. She woke with a start, jerking awake as if someone had kicked her in the spine. For a moment, she lay there, her befuddled mind sweeping across the stone walls, the bare floor, failing to comprehend where she was and how she had reached this place.

  ‘Gisela!’ the voice said again.

  She rolled over, rocking straight into the roped thighs of the man who knelt beside her. Ragnar. His fresh, invigorating scent, the smell of wind-whipped water, cut through the damp musty odours of her prison. Embarrassed by the physical contact, she shuffled back, sitting up abruptly, scrubbing at her face with one fist. The bruise beneath her eye smarted painfully. Her hat had fallen off and she groped across the chill stone floor, trying to find it.

  ‘Here,’ Ragnar said, handing it to her. He had removed his leather surcoat and woollen tunic, and wore only a linen shirt and braies. His long boots were laced up to his knees. The muscled hollow of his throat cast a shadow beneath the slashed neckline of his shirt. His pulse beat strongly beneath tanned skin. What would it be like, to place her finger to that spot on his neck, to feel the heat of his blood vibrating beneath her fingers?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped, replying in her native language, slipping back easily into the lilting vowels. There was no point in pretending any longer. He knew she was a Norman. Ragnar’s accent was perfect, with no trace of a foreign lilt; she wondered where he had learned her language.

  ‘I told you I would come back.’

  ‘I didn’t believe you.’ Doubt clogged her tone. She jammed the hat back down over her headscarf. In her lap, her hands fiddled with the leather binding that secured the end of her plait.

  ‘You thought I would leave you here?’ His eyes narrowed on her, faint white lines crinkling out from the outer corners.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. Her voice was small, forlorn.

  His fingers shot out, curled around her chin. A fleeting gesture, intended as reassurance. ‘I would never have done that.’ His hand dropped away, to rest on his massive thighs.

  ‘But I don’t know you well enough to know that.’ Gisela fought the urge to close her eyes, to savour the memory of that warm caress against her skin. ‘I don’t know you at all.’

  ‘True,’ he said. Ragnar stood up, a swift, powerful movement. ‘Come with me now,’ he said, offering her his hand to help her up. ‘The guard may wake up at any time.’

  She seized his fingers, scrambling easily to her feet. ‘Then how do you have the key to let me out? Surely you had to ask him?’

  Ragnar grinned. ‘I never gave it back, after I left you.’ His eyes blazed with devilish light. ‘And they never asked me for it.’ He paused in the doorway, his brilliant eyes searching for her in the dim shadows. ‘We must stop speaking in French now, Gisela, so that others do not hear.’

  * * *

  She followed him up the spiral staircase, past the sleeping guard and across a cobbled bailey. So grateful was she to be free of that horrible prison, she failed to question Ragnar’s direction. The place was deserted, quiet. Dogs slept in a pack in one corner, their silky pelts leaning up against each other for warmth. One dog raised his head, ears pulled back, sniffing the air, watching them as they passed. Ducking his bright head, Ragnar pushed open a low wooden door and started to climb another staircase.

  Gisela stopped at the bottom of the steps, one hand resting on the rope that served as a handrail. Exhaustion dragged on the bottom of h
er eyelids. She wanted to sleep and sleep for days. Her muscles ached from lying on the cold floor of the prison. ‘Where are you taking me?’ Her voice held a weak protest, echoing dully up the stairwell. ‘Aren’t you going to let me go now?’

  * * *

  Ragnar swivelled his leather boots on the angled step, the dipped centre worn away by the hundreds of feet that had gone up and down over the years. Gisela swayed below him, huge blue eyes shining up like luminous discs in the shadowy light.

  ‘It’s too dangerous to try to take you out at the moment,’ he lied. ‘The gatehouse is heavily guarded.’

  ‘You said there was only one soldier,’ she protested. ‘Surely it wouldn’t be that difficult?’

  He hoped that, in the darkness, she failed to see the flush he felt cross his face.

  ‘I think we have to be careful.’ His mind searched frantically for a coherent reason to keep her with him.

  ‘But the guards would accept any story you told them,’ she persisted. ‘I don’t understand why you are keeping me here. The Saxons have our money and my father and sister will be frantic.’

  ‘In Thor’s name, woman, you need to keep your mouth shut!’ he growled at her, exasperated by her constant questioning. He seized her hand to pull her up the stairs. ‘Save it until we reach my chamber.’

  ‘Your chamber?’ She reared against his hold, teetering backwards. ‘I’m not going there!’

  Ragnar cursed loudly, losing patience. Bending down, he grabbed her beneath her knees, one hand against her back, deliberately knocking her off balance to sweep her up against his chest. ‘Yes, you are!’ he said, striding up the staircase. Clearly furious with him, her feet flailing on a level with her head, Gisela dug her fingers into his shirt, bunching the linen fabric as if to stop herself bumping against him.