‘Dieu! Vous êtes le Diable!’ she cursed beneath her breath in French. God, you are the Devil!
His mouth twitched in amusement as he set one booted foot against his chamber door and kicked it open. It did him good to hear his mother’s language, even if it was only to be cursed. He strode in, dumping Gisela down on the bed furs. Placing his hands on the carved posts holding up the linen canopy, he leaned the bulk of his body forward over her sprawling figure. His knees bumped against the wooden footboard of the bed. ‘I told you, don’t speak your language unless we are totally alone. It’s not safe.’
After the chill in the stairwell, the dank stone walls heavy with claggy moisture, the warmth in his chamber engulfed them like a balm. Coals glowed in a charcoal brazier, throwing out radiant waves of heat; candle flame winked from niches hollowed into the stone walls. A hazy, ambient light shuddered through the space. Gisela sat up moodily, pushing her scarf away from her face. ‘How can you speak French anyway? You, a Dane,’ she burst out belligerently, still clearly annoyed at his manhandling.
‘My mother is French,’ he explained. ‘I speak it, at home, with her.’ And my sister, he thought suddenly, a pang scything through him. Although he couldn’t remember the last time his sister had spoken anything, Norse or French, her pale, silent figure wandering around their castle in Ribe, trailed by the arthritic figure of their old nurse.
‘Your mother...is French,’ she repeated his words, incredulous. ‘She married a Dane.’ Outrage seared her voice. ‘How could she?’
He laughed at her astonishment, flexing his fingers against the carved wood. ‘Very easily, as it happens. She loves him.’
‘But to betray her own country?’ The question spilled out of Gisela’s mouth before she had time to consider the implication.
Ragnar’s eyes darkened. ‘Be careful, Gisela, you are talking of things of which you have no knowledge.’
Shame crossed her face; her knuckles digging into the pelt beneath her hips. ‘I’m sorry, Ragnar. You’re right, I shouldn’t have said that.’ Searching his stern features for some element of forgiveness for her harsh words, she threw him a tentative smile.
‘You speak before you think,’ he replied. ‘You can’t keep quiet and you won’t do as you’re told.’ Despite his admonishment, his eyes twinkled. He turned away, shutting the door, then settling the wooden bar across to secure it.
She smoothed her hands slowly over her thighs, letting them drift to the side of her hips. Her slim legs stuck out across the coverlet in front of her, boots sticking up incongruously. The leather toes were scuffed, dulled with a layer of dried mud. ‘If I had always done what I had been told to do, then my life would be very different from now.’
‘Yes,’ Ragnar agreed, moving back to the bed. ‘Your life would be better.’
‘Nay,’ she replied quietly, her voice hitching with emotion. She twisted the curling end of one plait with agitated fingers. ‘It would be far worse.’
Shadows deepened the blue of her eyes, her expression stricken. Ragnar folded his arms, right flank propped against the bedpost. Beneath the gauzy whiteness of his shirt, the flat plane of his torso was visible, etched ridges of honed muscle. ‘Then tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me what happened to you. Tell me why you need that money.’
‘Will you let me go if I tell you?’
No. The single word barged through his brain: a certainty. No, he would not let her go. Not just yet, anyway. ‘Maybe,’ he replied vaguely.
She grimaced, her mouth twisting down at the corners. ‘I suppose I have no choice.’ Reluctance traced her voice.
‘You do not,’ Ragnar replied firmly.
‘We are travelling north to pay a ransom,’ she began, her tone hesitant. ‘My brother, Richard, is a prisoner at Ralph de Pagenal’s castle and the money is needed to set him free. Half of that money was stolen from my father tonight. He had gone out this evening, in the hope of...winning at dice to make up the deficit. We didn’t have quite enough, you see.’ The words stalled in her mouth; she picked at a ragged patch on her braies, then at a thread of dried blood on the scratch on her wrist.
‘So you were working at the salt pans to make some more money.’
She nodded. ‘The ferry across the river is expensive.’
‘And when do you have to deliver this ransom?’
‘By Michaelmas. If we don’t deliver by then he... Ralph de Pagenal will kill Richard...my brother.’ Her voice wobbled dangerously. She touched her neck through her scarf, her fingers hesitant.
‘Ralph de Pagenal.’ Ragnar recognised the name. ‘One of King Williams’s barons. I’ve heard of him. But why does he hold your brother? There must be a reason.’
‘He wanted to marry my sister, Marie.’ Her voice slowed, reluctant to share more details.
‘And...?’ he prompted.
Gisela sighed. ‘The man is notorious for his cruelty. Marie refused him, but he wasn’t happy with that. People don’t refuse Ralph de Pagenal. One night, he and his men came to our home, our new home, in England.’ Her voice faltered, shadows of memory flickering across her face. ‘He set fire to the turret to drive us from our beds. And as we ran out...’ She bit her lip, her hand clasping her throat. ‘He grabbed Marie. He tried to take her by force.’
‘But he didn’t succeed,’ Ragnar concluded, shoving one hand through his unruly hair. ‘Did your father’s guards stop him?’
‘Something like that,’ Gisela responded vaguely, unwilling to speak the truth, to detail the horrifying details of that night. ‘De Pagenal then went to King William to plead his case. He hoped the King would force Marie to marry him. But William decided that we should pay our way out of the marriage and our brother was sent to live with Ralph de Pagenal to make sure we kept our word.’
Ragnar let out a long, low whistle. ‘And you say the Danes are barbarians,’ he said. Her eyes shimmered with unspent tears; instinctively, he reached over, catching one shining pearl of liquid on his thumb before it trailed down her cheek. The skin over her bruise was threaded with blood, purplish, sore-looking.
She shivered at his glancing touch, biting her lip as his hand fell away, then pulled her shoulders straight beneath her baggy tunic. ‘Marie has suffered terribly. She feels she has pulled this whole sorry mess on to our family. She speaks constantly of relenting and marrying de Pagenal.’
‘But you will not let her.’
‘No. The man is a monster.’ Clumping her hands into small fists, Gisela scrubbed furiously at her wet eyes. As if suddenly making a decision, she shuffled clumsily to the edge of the bed, dropping her feet to the floor. Fatigue daubed blue patches beneath her eyes as she stood up; her movements were slow, hampered by tiredness. ‘So now you know the whole story.’ She tipped her chin up to him, eyes flashing with defiance. ‘You have no reason to keep me here any longer. Let me go.’
The maid was dead on her feet, Ragnar thought. His arms itched to take her close, to clasp her against his chest and tell her everything would be all right, that it would work out. But the devil in his ear told him that was not the only thing he wanted to do. How easy it would be to push her back on those soft furs, to strip off those voluminous braies and tunic and savour the sweet taste of her flesh against his own. He took a deep breath; his diaphragm shuddered with longing, forcing his wayward brain to concentrate on what she had said.
‘If I let you go, what will you do?’ he asked. The flame of a stubby wax candle, burning low in a niche beside the bed, guttered and wavered, casting flickering shadows across the room. Somewhere, buried in the recesses of his mind, a plan formulated.
She lifted her shoulders, a forlorn, despairing gesture. ‘We have no hope of raising that amount of coin before Michaelmas. So I must go to Ralph de Pagenal with nothing and plead for my brother’s life.’ Hope drained from her voice. ‘Whatever that might entail,’ she added dully.
Odin’s
teeth, no! What was the maid saying? That she would offer herself to save her brother? Denial ripped through him. The ghastly thought of a Norman lord, slack flesh rolling across her soft limbs, with no grace or gentleness, punctured his vision. A sickening coil of nausea rose in his belly. He thumped the bedpost with his fist. ‘Nay, Gisela, you cannot do that!’
She jerked back at his reaction, frowning deeply. ‘There is no other way,’ she replied. ‘What else can I do?’
He cleared his throat, attempting to moderate his behaviour. His plan gathered strength. ‘I have a suggestion,’ he said slowly. ‘You’re not going to like it, but it certainly would be better than losing your virginity for the sake of your brother.’
Her head shot up at his blunt assumption of her innocence. ‘Do you have to talk about me like that?’ she replied testily.
Ragnar squeezed his fists together, one thumb kneading his knuckles. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’
A heightened flush crossed her cheeks. She glared at him mutinously before changing the subject. ‘What are you proposing?’
‘Eirik and I will cross the river tomorrow and head north to Jorvik. Ralph de Pagenal’s castle lies on the route to the city. Come with me and I can take you to him. You can’t go on your own.’
‘My father will come with me.’
‘He’s not fit to travel, or provide any sort of protection. Your sister will have to stay and care for him. You would be travelling on your own, not a good idea for any woman in these troubled times, but especially not for a Norman woman such as you.’
‘But I can’t come with you! It’s...unseemly!’
Ragnar laughed, the sound dry, uncompromising. ‘I think we passed that point long ago. In the last few hours, you’ve spent more time in my company, alone, than with your own father. You must put social conventions aside. Think of your brother.’
* * *
She bowed her head, her gaze tracing a rough knot in the floorboards, a scuff on the top of her leather boot. The string holding her braies tight to her ankles was starting to unravel. Cloudy with fatigue, her brain struggled to cope with Ragnar’s words. A seed of hope, drifting in her gut, sprang slowly into life. Might this be a solution? To have this man, this tall broad-shouldered warrior, by her side when she faced Ralph de Pagenal was simply astonishing, unbelievable. She struggled to understand why he would even offer, why he was prepared to do such a thing, for her, a complete stranger.
But there was one problem that he hadn’t foreseen. She sighed. ‘But...how can you help me? You’re a Dane and the Normans hate the Danes. De Pagenal would realise what you are and probably kill you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he replied swiftly, quashing her speech. ‘The Normans consider the Danes and the Saxons to be the same, as an irritant in their path for the conquest of this country. I doubt very much that de Pagenal would be able to tell the difference.’
She considered him doubtfully: the way he held himself in front of her, legs braced apart, crackling energy, every limb, every muscle honed to a point of fighting perfection. He stood out, head and shoulders above other men, his bronze-coloured hair like a flag, drawing all eyes towards him. Unmissable. Devastating.
He crouched down beside her, lifting her hands from her lap. ‘It will work out, Gisela. I will take you to the Norman and we will fetch your brother back.’
Raising her head listlessly, Gisela fixed him with her huge blue eyes. The skin on his hands was rough, warm against her own, as he enfolded her chill fingers. ‘I... I’m not sure...’ she uttered, pulling her hands from his to press her fingers against her eyes. ‘God, I... I’m so tired. I can’t decide what to do. My mind...’ Her voice trailed off in despair, too exhausted to formulate any more words.
* * *
Ragnar saw the wilting of her shoulders, her spine sagging. ‘You need to sleep, Gisela,’ he said, refusing to acknowledge the sense of victory swirling in his heart. This was the only option open to her, but he would give her time to come to that conclusion by herself. ‘Decide on the morrow.’ Stepping carefully, as if any sudden movement would startle her, he led her around to the side of the bed. Half-asleep already, she sat down abruptly, then lay back on to the coverlet. Ragnar lifted her feet up carefully on to the bed, untying the strings around her ankles so he could pull off her boots. He chucked them on the floor. Leaving her scarf wrapped around her head, he removed her hat. Her eyes were already closed.
Chapter Eight
Gisela opened her eyes. Beneath the thick swathe of her linen scarf, sweat trickled uncomfortably down her neck. Emerging from the foggy wreathes of sleep, she struggled to comprehend her whereabouts. Weak moonlight from the uncovered windows lit the chamber with a shadowy darkness. The candles had burned down to waxy stumps, extinguished; a faint glow wavered in the depths of the charcoal brazier. Her eyes moved hazily up to a gathered canopy of linen above the bed; fur pelts and a pillow filled with goose down lay beneath her. Over by the door, a large man sprawled on a pallet bed. Her heart lurched, whiskers of sensation flicking along her veins, jabbing at her memory. Her jumbled brain slotted details quickly into place. The Dane. Ragnar.
He lay on his left flank, facing her, the chiselled angles of his face emerging through the gloom. His massive arms, thick ropes of honed muscle, crossed over his chest, wrinkling the gauzy fabric of his shirt; his legs were so long that his bare feet dangled over the end of the bed. Ridged, sinewy ligaments splayed out from his ankles to his toes. Big thigh muscles traced an obvious curve beneath his tight-fitting braies. His leather boots, along with his belt and sword, had been thrown in a messy heap on the polished floorboards.
Her eyes roamed over him, guiltily, greedily, absorbing the beautiful details of his impressive frame, savouring his honed physique like a gift. Had she ever seen a man like him before? Nay, of course not. He was incomparable, larger than life, his vitality and physique able to fill a chamber, a great hall. Eyes were drawn to him, attentions snared, even, as now, when he was asleep. At her home in France, when her mother had been alive, there had been household knights and a succession of visiting nobles: potential suitors for her and Marie. Not one had affected her as strongly as this one, this wild Norseman with his unruly bronze hair and quick easy smile.
Rolling her head on the pillow, Gisela sighed. How could she have fallen asleep like that, in front of him? She only had the vaguest recollection of stretching out on the bed, of Ragnar lifting her feet. He must have removed her boots; she wiggled her toes in their stockings, blushing in the darkness at the imagined intimacy. His hands moving deftly over her feet, her shins. She cursed herself for even thinking about this in such a way, attributing such meaning, such promise, to Ragnar’s simple actions. He thought she was a fool and would think nothing of it; she would do well to think the same. Drawing her brows together, she frowned. So why, in heaven’s name, had he offered to travel north with her? He had made it perfectly obvious that she was nothing but an encumbrance. It simply made no sense.
Twisting her neck from one side to the other, she stretched the tense muscles at the top of her spine. Perspiration clogged her scalp. She longed to wash, to splash fresh water across her face. Over by the window, an earthenware jug sat on an oak coffer, with a bowl alongside. Chewing hesitantly on the inside of her cheek, she turned back to Ragnar’s prone form, watching the breath rise and fall in his chest, a deep, regular sound. He was sound asleep and the thought of the cool water against her skin was irresistible. Very, very slowly she eased herself into a seated position on the mattress, sliding her hips sideways to inch her way off the bed.
She tiptoed towards the oak coffer, stocking-covered feet whispering across the floorboards. The large braies borrowed from her father flapped around her slim legs, the extra length hooking around her toes, threatening to trip her up. She reached out for the jug; the vessel was heavy, but she managed to lift it with both hands, pouring the water carefully into the bowl. Da
rting one further glance at Ragnar, she removed the tight bindings of her headscarf from around her head and neck, almost crying with relief as she placed the rumpled linen on a low stool by the coffer.
A cloth hung over the side of the bowl. Submerging the lightweight material into the water, Gisela wrung it out, smoothing the cool, damp fabric over her face. Her eyelashes fluttered downwards at the sweet sensation, the chill water trickling down, soaking the gaping collar of her father’s tunic. Confident that Ragnar continued to sleep soundly, she untied the leather bindings at the bottom of her plaits, combing her fingers through the silky strands to release her hair. Turning sideways, she bent over from the waist, sweeping her hair forward from the nape of her neck to fall like a shimmering curtain before her. Pushing damp fingers through her hair, she worked from her scalp outwards, shaking dust and dirt from the glossy tendrils. Her hair brushed against the floorboards: a light tickling sound, like a mouse’s pattering feet.
‘Gisela.’ The guttural voice echoed beside her, driving deep into her solar plexus.
Gasping, she straightened up in panic, hair tumbling around her shoulders in a silky mass. The long curling ropes, the colour of pale sand, swept the length of her spine, touching her hips, spilled forward over her shoulders. Her long hair would cover her scar, but she patted the silky tresses into place beneath her ear, over her exposed neck, just to make certain. Droplets of water pooled into the hollow of her throat, glistening in the brazier’s diminished light. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked jerkily, plucking her scarf up from the stool.
‘I...’ It was as if Ragnar struggled to comprehend her question. A croak obscured his voice, as he seemed to force himself to focus his thoughts. ‘You woke me up, Gisela.’ Sleep had pulled the neckline of his shirt awry. The gauzy linen was rumpled and creased; red-gold hairs sprinkled his chest, below the tanned dip of his throat.
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