‘What a low opinion you have of me,’ he replied mildly. ‘Your continual assumption that I should want to sleep with you.’
A rosy flush suffused her cheeks; she jerked her gaze away, scanning the wide expanse of river. Small wavelets scuffed the sparkling surface of the water, white curling ribbons of froth. The water running alongside the flanks of the ship made a hollow sound, cavernous. Humiliation flooded through her—why could she not guard her tongue? That was the second time she had said such a thing to him; the second time he had denied it.
‘Although I will if you want me to,’ he added, his mouth twitching on the edge of a smile.
Her brain acknowledged the husky edge of desire in his voice, the spoken promise. Her body jolted, alive with his proposition. What was he saying? Would it truly be that simple? That she only had to ask, to tell him that she wanted him, that she desired him?
‘You don’t know what you’re saying!’ she thrust back at him. ‘Stop teasing me!’
How could he tell her that his jest was actually the truth? The thought of touching her, of holding her velvet skin against his own, savouring her, had tormented him since the moment he had met her. He cleared his throat. ‘Then start trusting me, Gisela. And be assured that I am not about to hurt you in any way. I will protect you. But I do need you to help me.’
‘What is it? How...?’ Her speech faltered as Eirik’s commanding figure approached, his straight hair glossy as a blackbird’s wing. He moved across the deck with the air and swagger of one used to being in charge. A huge circular brooch holding his cloak together denoted his royal status: the heavy gold was finely wrought, the work depicting a coiling dragon, its single, enormous eye studded with a sapphire.
‘Wonders will never cease!’ Eirik clapped Ragnar on the shoulder, his eyes moving with predatory grace over Gisela, frowning at the bluish bruise marring her cheekbone. ‘Where did you find this one, eh? A real beauty and no mistake. Are you going to have much time to enjoy her, if you are hunting down your sister’s abductor?’
Gisela stared resolutely downwards, yanking her scarf forward to shield her face. Ragnar knew she probably couldn’t understand a word of their convoluted speech. Angling her head away, she turned towards the prow, shifting uncomfortably in the tight dress. Would Eirik realise that she was the same woman from the previous night? When she had hauled her father’s sword from his belt and threatened him?
But no hint of recognition sounded in Eirik’s tone or crossed his face; his speech remained jocular, benign. ‘How much did you have to pay her to sleep with you?’ He jabbed Ragnar’s side with his elbow, his chainmail tunic rippling in the sunlight. ‘I might have a go myself!’
‘She’s not here for that.’ Ragnar’s reply was sharp, constrained. A strange possessiveness rose within him—a need to protect Gisela from Eirik’s harsh assumptions, his bawdy circumspection.
‘Oh, really.’ Eirik’s voice was light, faintly sarcastic. ‘Ragnar, I don’t blame you; in fact, I think it’s marvellous. Why, it’s been months since you’ve had a woman, ever since...’ His eyes darkened as his speech trailed off. A ruddy colour seeped beneath the tan of his cheeks.
‘Ever since my sister came home,’ Ragnar supplied for him. ‘You can talk about it, Eirik. It’s why I’m here, after all.’
‘What are you going to do with her—’ Eirik shot a look at Gisela’s bowed head ‘—while you are searching for the Norman? You can leave her with us, if you like.’
Ragnar hitched his left shoulder, turning his body so that Gisela was more effectively hidden from Eirik’s prying eyes. ‘Nay, she’s coming with me.’
His friend brought his thick dark brows together, his large brown eyes shining with curiosity. ‘I’m not sure I understand... You tell me that Gyda’s abductor is a Norman lord, Ragnar. A tenant-in-chief to the Conqueror himself! As a Dane you’ll be instantly recognisable; you’ll be dead before you even reach the gatehouse. How is this woman going to be of any use?’
‘She can speak the language,’ Ragnar explained softly. ‘For she is a Norman, too.’
‘W-what?’ Eirik said, incredulous. ‘Is that the truth?’ He tried to peer over his friend’s shoulder, but Ragnar gripped his forearm, stalling him. His strong fingers dug into Eirik’s leather-bound arms. ‘What is she doing here? This far north?’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Ragnar. ‘Suffice to say that the maid found herself in trouble in Bertune; I helped her out.’
As Eirik stepped back, his puzzled expression cleared. ‘Of course, you speak French, don’t you? Your mother’s native tongue. No one would suspect a husband and wife, travelling alone, to be asking for anything other than board and lodging for the night. Especially a Norman couple, travelling through hostile country.’
‘You have it,’ Ragnar confirmed. ‘But say nothing. I will not have her drawing undue attention from the men.’
‘You have my silence, friend. If she is here to help you, then it doesn’t matter where she comes from.’ He stared at the back of Gisela’s head. ‘How did you persuade her to come with you?’
‘She had no choice,’ Ragnar said. He bit his lip. ‘The situation is complicated, but I think it can work.’
* * *
The ship’s look-out gave a shout. Gisela bounced from her seat, eyes wide, her muscles constricting with fear. The smooth glide of the ship across the river, the rhythmic slop and wash of water against the keel had lulled her brain into a mildly soporific state; at some point she must have leaned her head against the ship’s side and closed her eyes. The hull ground and crunched on the stones of the opposite shore. Oars rasped back into the boat; some of the men already stood, stretching their arms up to ease out the muscles.
Across the busy deck, across the jumble of men rising, gathering their scant possessions, her eyes searched for Ragnar, for the bright tumble of his hair. He was standing by the furled sail, laughing as he chatted in a group of men. Self-pity jagged her chest, a sense of isolation washing through her.
Then Ragnar turned, as if he sensed her eyes upon him, snaring her gaze. Across the hubbub of men rising from their rowing positions, tightening sword straps and looping their shields across their shoulders, the power from his eyes leaped through her: a jolt of energy. He smiled. Strength poured into her, filling her with a new confidence.
‘Are you ready to go?’ he asked, striding towards her.
‘When are you going to tell me what it is you want from me?’ Her speech juddered out of her.
‘Later,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘And don’t look at me like that, Gisela, it really isn’t that bad. A favour for a favour.’
Her heart deflated, shrinking inwards on itself. Oh, come on, Gisela, she chided herself scathingly. What did you expect? That was all this was: a simple business transaction.
Her leather bag bumped heavily against her hip as she rose, a little unsteadily. The boats had drawn up in a wide bay, sheltered from the easterly winds; already the men were jumping down and beginning to haul the longships up the beach. The land beyond stretched flat, for miles and miles, a largely featureless expanse of marshland studded with the occasional moated homestead. A stone gatehouse in the distance, signifying a larger property. An area so flat that only a vast grid of ditches and man-made earth banks kept the land from being permanently flooded by the tidal estuary.
‘Come,’ Ragnar said, ‘I’ll lift you down.’
Her chest was on a level with the polished top of the gunwale. Impossible for her to scramble over of her own accord. And there was no way she was even going to attempt such a thing, with all these men around. She inclined her head, the smallest gesture of assent.
Alerting the men on the shingle below, his large hands spanning her neat waist, Ragnar threw her up and over the side of the boat. Her skirts flapped about her, rippling around her slender ankles as the men below caught her, lowering her to the bea
ch. Ragnar landed on the shingle next to her, his big body thumping down, leather boots sliding on the stones.
‘Ragnar.’ She clutched at his elbow, stalling him as he prepared to walk up the beach. ‘Tell me. Please.’ Her eyes pleaded with him. ‘Tell me what you want of me.’
* * *
It was the first time she had used his name. His body trembled; sweet awareness tightened his chest. His name sounded different coming from her lips, more rounded, softer somehow. She had a right to know what he planned for her, but he wasn’t sure of her reaction. Would she run from him when he told her what he wanted her to do?
Up ahead, where the beach flattened off at the top, some of the men had gathered driftwood to start a fire. Stacking the bone-white sticks high, a flint had been struck into a piece of dry moss. Smoke rose hazily in the limpid dawn light. The men would set up camp here, on the beach, while they waited for Eirik’s brother to arrive with his ships, more men. As the flames licked up greedily around the dry wood, an iron tripod, with a pan suspended on a chain, was positioned over the fire.
‘Come and sit,’ Ragnar said. ‘I can tell you as we eat.’
Accepting his hand to help her up the slippery stones, she sank down on to an enormous fur spread alongside the fire. One of the men handed her a wooden bowl brimming with cooked oats; dried berries had been scattered across the steaming mix. Holding a spoon, Gisela eyed the glossy black fruits with suspicion.
Ragnar laughed. ‘Lingonberries,’ he explained in French. ‘They’re a good source of nutrients when we’re on our travels. They won’t poison you.’
Mouth slack with astonishment, the man who had handed the bowl to Gisela stood staring at Ragnar, large serving spoon wavering in mid-air. Drops of porridge fell from the spoon into the fire, hissing noisily. ‘Close your mouth, Rurik,’ Ragnar chided him in Norse. ‘And serve the other men. You’ve heard me speak French before, it should come as no surprise.’ The man flushed heavily, mumbled an apology and turned away.
* * *
The porridge was cooling rapidly in her bowl, but Gisela’s mouth was dry. Eating at this precise moment was out of the question. Her stomach roiled with nerves. ‘Tell me what you want of me, Ragnar,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve come to fight alongside the Saxons, haven’t you? I don’t see how I can help with that.’
‘I’m not here to fight.’ His eyes pierced her, chips of emerald. ‘Yes, I have come here with Eirik and his men who intend to do that, but I have come here for a different reason.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I have come here...to find someone. But he is a Norman lord, living in an almost impenetrable fortress. And as a Dane, I have no hope of getting close to him.’
Gisela stirred her porridge thoughtfully, the blue-black juice of the strange berries bleeding into the creamy oats, thin trails of colour. The rising steam warmed her chill fingers. ‘But I still don’t see how...?’
‘You are a Norman. And I speak French like a native. Posing as man and wife, we would gain access to his castle as travellers, looking for board and lodging for the night. That’s all I need.’
Her belly swooped, then plummeted. Of course, he had the perfect right to ask for this. He’d obviously been thinking about this ever since he’d offered to help her with her brother. Why had he not told her earlier? Did he think she would refuse? ‘But why do you need to find this man, to track him down?’
The light leached suddenly from his eyes, a muscle stretching in his jaw. ‘I will tell you later,’ he said, looking around at his fellow Danes, chattering and laughing, as if providing himself with an excuse not to tell her. Would he ever be able to find the words to tell her about his past?
‘And what if I say “no”?’ she asked.
He lifted his shoulders in a silent shrug.
‘This is blackmail.’
‘Hardly,’ Ragnar replied. ‘Without me, you would have no hope of reclaiming your brother...unless you prostitute yourself with Ralph de Pagenal. And I doubt very much that a man with such a notorious reputation would hand your brother over, even after you had done such a thing.’
‘But I’m going to have to do it anyway,’ she replied softly. ‘With you.’ A sudden breathlessness seized her chest at the boldness of her own words.
‘We would pose as man and wife, Gisela,’ he replied. ‘I would never force you to do anything against your will.’ His green gaze blazed over her, suddenly hot. The implication was clear.
Her belly melted stupidly, looping with giddy emotion. Her grip weakened, the heavy bowl tipping fractionally, and she made a conscious effort to set it straight, to avoid pouring the hot oats into her lap. But what if she wished such a thing? she thought suddenly. It was similar to his words on the boat. I will if you want me to. Would he stop her? And would she be able to stop herself?
Chapter Eleven
‘Come back here when you are done,’ Eirik said, as Ragnar slung his satchel strap over his head, positioning the narrow, worn leather across his broad chest, settling the bulky bag on his hip. ‘I will leave some men with the ships. I hope it won’t take you long to give the bastard the punishment he deserves.’ He lifted his black eyebrows with an exaggerated significance, wrinkling the skin at the outer corners of his dark-brown eyes.
‘I have to find him first.’ Ragnar grimaced.
‘And don’t tarry otherwise we’ll go back to Denmark without you,’ Eirik said. ‘The autumn storms are approaching; I have no wish to be trapped here all winter.’ Stepping forward, he wound his arms around Ragnar, clasping him in a hug. ‘Look after yourself, friend.’ He cast a quick glance at Gisela, standing silently at the big man’s side. ‘Make sure this beauty doesn’t lead you astray.’
Ragnar grinned, teeth flashing white in his tanned skin, then he turned away, cupping Gisela’s elbow to bring her alongside him. Walking up the beach, he raised his other arm in farewell to the men. His stride was long, quick; Gisela was forced to skip every second step to keep up with him, first along the shingle and then through the stiff rushes that bordered the beach before stretching inland. Her fist gripped the gathered bulk of her skirts, lifting the heavy folds clear of the stones.
As they gained the level ground beyond the beach, the path narrowing to a single, muddy track, Ragnar released his hold on her and she dropped behind, following him. He had thrown on a short cloak for the journey, a simple semi-circle of woollen cloth, fastened at his throat with a jewelled brooch. His fast pace made the hem of the cloak flare out, revealing the snug cut of his leather tunic over his slim hips. Excitement flashed through her, wilting her knees. She dropped her gaze, mouth set in a tight, fierce line. How was it that this man, this Dane, had the power to affect her so? Why could he not be ugly and squat, with a face like a pig’s bottom? It would certainly make this trip a great deal easier.
Up ahead the market town of Hoesella shimmered on the horizon: a low mound of clustered roofs, a church spire peeking above the flat expanse of reeds and marsh. To their right, a continuation of the inlet upon which the Danes’ ships had moored, a muddy creek leading up to the town itself, navigable only by smaller boats. Thick mud, creaking oozily in the sunlight, formed smooth rounded pillows along the edges; seabirds stalked the sticky expanse, trailing delicate claw marks. Low stretches of puffy white cloud studded the vivid blue sky, tacking eastwards on a swift breeze.
‘Is this the right way?’ Gisela asked, puffing slightly. Beneath her headscarf, sweat trickled down behind her ear. ‘My father said I should head north to reach Ralph de Pagenal’s castle.’
Ragnar paused, mouth twitching with amusement. ‘This is north, Gisela. And it’s the only way. We must follow the track through these marshlands. The boggy ground around here is treacherous.’ His eyes flicked over her. ‘Once we reach Hoesella we will pick up the pilgrim route towards Beverley. De Pagenal’s castle is a little way further north off that path.’ He spoke the place-names with certainty.
‘Have you been here before?’ She tilted her head in question, adjusting the leather strap of her bag across her shoulder.
His quicksilver eyes moved over her. ‘Many times,’ he said eventually, his gaze drifting over the flat grassland. The wind rippled through the feathery heads of the rushes: a continual swishing sound, blowing the delicate fronds first one way, then the other. Moving in unison, the dark lilac-coloured plumes appeared like the surface of a lake.
‘What did you do when you were here?’ Gisela asked. The path had widened and she moved to walk beside him.
* * *
Raiding, mostly, he thought, glaring at the far horizon. A small frown creased the spot between his eyes. Taking whatever they could find. Women. Land. His Viking peers had a terrible reputation; it was a well-known fact that they wanted the green and fertile lands of England, lands a mere hop across the sea from their own barren homeland. ‘Oh, nothing much,’ he responded lightly. ‘But I travelled enough to know my way around.’
Her eyes flicked up at his evasive answer; she wrinkled her nose at him. ‘I don’t know why I even asked. Everyone knows what the Vikings did. What they still do, on occasion. Their reputation precedes them.’
‘And yet it’s a Norman lord that tried to abduct your sister and now holds your brother hostage. And it was a Saxon man who was prepared to leave you to die on the mudflats. All men are capable of great cruelty, Gisela. You cannot say it is only the Danes.’
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