Rescued by the Viking

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘You’re right,’ she murmured, apology clouding her soft voice. ‘It wasn’t right, what I said to you.’

  He nudged her upper arm, a bit too forcefully, and she stumbled, losing her balance. Laughing, he caught her before she fell into the rushes alongside the path. The precious stones set in his brooch glinted in the rising sun. ‘Luckily for you, fair maiden, I have a very thick skin. You don’t need to apologise, I have had far worse things said to me. And it’s true: the Danes have done many bad things.’

  * * *

  Fair maiden. She smiled up at him, grateful for his easy-going manner, grateful for his compliment, even though it wasn’t true. His arm was still crooked beneath hers. The powerful flex of his muscle wrapped around her elbow, lay across her forearm. Her skirts lapped against his leather boots. She had no inclination to pull away. ‘I don’t think it will take too long to walk to Ralph de Pagenal’s estates,’ she said. ‘Not above a couple of days anyway.’

  His eyes were like mirrors, a translucent emerald green. His dark eyelashes formed a strong contrast with his bright hair, startling. Her senses lurched.

  ‘But we can reach his castle sooner,’ he said, ‘if we buy horses in Hoesella.’

  ‘Oh!’ Gisela said, startled. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘I suppose you were planning to walk there with your family, weren’t you?’ A muscle jumped in the hollow of his cheek. ‘But this way will be quicker.’

  Her step slowed. ‘But, Ragnar, I have not enough coin to buy a horse; you know that.’

  ‘I will pay.’ He tugged her along beside him, eager to keep up the pace.

  The churned-up mud of the path stretched out before her, leading to a wooden gate in the distance. ‘This is wrong,’ Gisela said quietly. ‘I can’t take your money.’

  ‘Consider it a loan, then, or else payment for what you will do for me.’ His words made it clear he wanted her to accept, to be helped by him.

  ‘But I would use any extra coin to make up my brother’s ransom money, not waste it on a horse.’

  He stuck one hand in his hair, irritation sifting through his expression. ‘In the name of Odin, Gisela, why must you argue so? The money means little to me and I refuse to walk when I can easily ride. It’s not a waste if it means we can reach our destination more quickly. The only other option is for you to ride pillion, behind me, but that will slow us down considerably. Is that what you want?’

  A vivid picture flashed into her mind: of her arms wrapped around that sturdy frame, her cheek pressed against the rough wool of his tunic. Her heart fluttered, a ripple of excitement. The thought of being that close to him, and remaining aloof to him, was pure torture. ‘No!’ she replied, her voice stinging the air with unusual force. She studied the ground, embarrassed by the violence in her voice, then lifted her chin, attempting to modulate her tone. ‘We’ll take two horses, then. Have it your own way.’

  He laughed, a melodic rumble of humour. ‘I had no idea the prospect of riding with me would be so hateful.’ He shrugged his shoulders, seemingly unconcerned. ‘Two horses it is, then. Truly, Gisela, you are the most obtuse woman I have ever met!’

  * * *

  They found a horse-dealer easily in Hoesella. The town, being on the main route to the north, was full of supplies for travellers: food, horses, woollen cloaks, even armed men for hire for those who considered the road too dangerous to travel alone. The dealer himself was a short, wiry man with most of his teeth either rotten or missing. As Ragnar and Gisela approached the field of scrubby pasture on the outskirts of town, he eyed them with an air of suspicion, frowning at Ragnar’s height and wild hair, the unusual design of his sword.

  ‘Not from around these parts, then?’ the man said, his voice rasping with age. The cuffs of his tunic were frayed; greying white threads floated over his scrawny wrists. His eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘You could say that,’ Ragnar replied with deliberate vagueness. He leaned on the fence around the field containing horses of varying shapes and sizes, and narrowed his gaze over the animals. Then his eyes switched back to the dealer. ‘I need two good horses for travelling.’

  ‘How much money do you have?’ the dealer chortled, eyeing the fine embroidery on the edges of Ragnar’s cloak. ‘I have horses to suit all pockets. That black stallion over there, he’ll cost you forty pounds, and maybe the grey palfrey for the little lady?’ He pointed at a small horse in the corner of the field. ‘Five pounds for her. Saddles and bridles extra.’

  ‘Let me see the black,’ Ragnar said.

  The man slipped through the gate with a leather halter and led the black stallion, head tossing, out from the field. His giant hooves thudded through the long grass as the dealer brought him towards Ragnar.

  Gisela saw it then. The yellowing of the whites in the stallion’s eye. Despite his healthy appearance, the high-stepping power of his legs, Gisela knew that in a few days this horse would be dead. He carried a sickness that would kill him. She had spent enough time in the stables at Carsac, her home in France, to know that. And the dealer knew it too; his desperation to be rid of the animal before it died was palpable. As Ragnar smoothed his hand down the horse’s neck and down its forelocks, Gisela stepped up to him.

  ‘Not this one, Ragnar,’ she said in her halting Saxon. ‘He’s no good.’

  ‘Eh? What are you saying?’ the horse-dealer said, hopping from one thin leg to the other. ‘There’s nothing wrong with this one. Don’t listen to your mistress, lord. She’s talking nonsense.’

  Ragnar straightened up and stared at her. Then he looked again at the stallion, the long proud nose, nostrils rounding, the shock of black coarse hair fringing down between his ears. ‘I see it,’ he muttered, evidently spotting the problem with the horse’s eyes. ‘Not this one,’ he said to the dealer.

  Grumbling beneath his breath, the man ripped the bridle from Ragnar, turning the horse to lead him back to the field.

  Ragnar glanced down at Gisela. ‘So, a woman who knows her horseflesh,’ he said, admiration tracing his tone. ‘I’m impressed. Which horses would you choose?’

  ‘The chestnut just here,’ Gisela responded immediately, indicating a thickly muscled horse on the other side of the fence, ‘and the grey palfrey for me. The most you should pay for them is twenty pounds.’

  Ragnar bent down and whispered in her ear, in French, ‘Since when did you become a horse-dealer, Gisela?’ His firm mouth brushed the top of her ear; a scythe of giddy warmth vibrated down her spine. ‘You never cease to surprise me.’

  Her flesh rippled beneath his light touch, a shudder of anticipation. ‘We had a lot of horses...in France. I practically grew up in the stables.’

  ‘Well, I agree with your choices,’ he said, smiling down at her before turning to the dealer.

  * * *

  ‘I’m surprised you let him get away with that,’ Gisela said. Pressing her feet down in the stirrups, she adjusted her position in the saddle, spreading her skirts across the neck and down the flanks of the horse. ‘You paid too much for them.’ Ragnar rode the chestnut at her side as they inched their way along the busy thoroughfare towards the northern gate of the town. People swarmed alongside the horses, pushing and jolting them and each other; up ahead an empty cart drawn by two oxen lumbered slowly.

  Eyeing the cart, Ragnar sighed. ‘That man had all the time in the world, but we do not. I could have wrangled all day, to gain...what? Maybe an extra pound or two? It wouldn’t have been worth it. But you spotted that sick horse, which saved us having to buy another animal further along in our journey.’

  ‘You saw it, too,’ she acknowledged, tucking her dangling scarf end beneath her leather bag strap that crossed her chest. Despite the late summer sun slanting down between the gable ends of the houses, the air held the slight chill of morning, a hint of the winter to come.

  ‘Take the praise when it’s due, Gisela,’ he said. �
�You certainly know your horseflesh. Did you learn from your father? Did he trade in them when you were in France?’

  ‘He did,’ she confirmed. Her heart vibrated with a pang of nostalgia, a fleeting memory of how her life had been...before, when her father had been lord of his own manor, a string of exquisite animals in his stables. Noblemen had come from far and wide to look at her father’s horses; royalty, too. ‘He...he was nothing like the man you saw in Bertune. You must understand...his fortunes changed on the day Ralph de Pagenal set eyes on Marie. He went from being a man of importance to a man with nothing. King William has decreed that de Pagenal will have it all, as recompense for not marrying Marie.’ Sadness clouded her eyes and she fixed her gaze on the stone carved arch that decorated the gatehouse up ahead.

  * * *

  ‘You don’t have to explain.’ He viewed the determined jut of her chin; the slight tremble in her beautiful, rose-plush mouth. The last thing he wanted was to cause her any distress by explaining her circumstances. And yet? He wanted to know; he wanted to find out more about her, the circumstances that had formed this incredible woman.

  She rubbed the rough edge of the leather bridle with her thumb. ‘I know, but I don’t want you to think badly of my father, for what has happened. He...he made a mistake in Bertune.’ Hesitation laced her voice. ‘He felt bad that I was the one who had found work and thought he would be able to raise the last bit of money by gambling.’ She hitched forward in the saddle; the stiff leather squeaked, a stretching sound. ‘I just hope that de Pagenal will accept the smaller amount of coin. It’s not an insignificant amount.’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ Ragnar murmured, deliberately keeping his voice on the level. And if de Pagenal didn’t, then he would make up the difference. ‘Especially as he already holds your estates in France. He’s done exceptionally well out of demanding your sister’s hand.’ The wind sifted through the loose strands of hair at the back of his neck, cooling his skin. Anger rose within him, a searing protest at the unfairness of life. Gisela’s family had done nothing to deserve this, other than refuse a hand in marriage, and that refusal was wholly justified, in his opinion. And now Gisela was forced to grovel and plead at de Pagenal’s feet. He gritted his teeth. He would not let it happen. He would not allow it to happen.

  ‘It was not a wise decision for my father to go gambling,’ Gisela continued, her voice small. ‘But I’m sure he knows that now.’

  But it brought you closer to me, Ragnar thought, steering his chestnut around a couple of impromptu market stalls set up at the end of the thoroughfare. He ducked his head to one side, avoiding a canvas awning. The striped edge jutted out into the street. For I might never have seen you again if you hadn’t gone out that night to look for the money.

  ‘He’s not been the same since my mother died. He was devastated by her death.’ Gisela chewed on her bottom lip, reddening the tender skin.

  ‘How did your mother die?’ Ragnar asked bluntly, watching the blood seep slowly back into the curving fullness of her lip. The etched line of her mouth, the velvet indent below her pert nose. She was so close he could see the fine hairs on her skin, lending the surface its dewy softness.

  * * *

  Despite the brusqueness of his question, she welcomed his clarity, the way he refused to sidestep around the nub of a question. It made him easy to talk to, even about such difficult subjects. A lightness played around her chest, an easing of clenched muscles. ‘My mother...she hated leaving her beloved France, as we all did. The sea crossing was long and arduous, and she became sick then. Because my father had fought in the Conquest, King William gave us an estate on the south coast, seized in battle from a Saxon lord. But even though we had a home, good food on the table, my mother never recovered from her illness on the boat.’ Her voice trailed away, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ragnar said softly. ‘Is that the reason why you travel with your father? Because there’s no one at home to look after you?’

  ‘In a way, I suppose. He doesn’t like to leave us, after what happened to Marie. I think he’s worried that de Pagenal might try again at some point.’

  ‘And yet he’s exposing you both to far more risk by carting you about the country. I’m surprised he even trusted me to take you.’

  ‘He didn’t have a lot of choice.’ Her eyes met his with fierce determination.

  He smiled grimly. ‘True.’

  ‘But it’s good that I can help you in return for your kindness,’ she said hurriedly, trying to take the harshness out of her last statement. ‘And my brother will help, too, of course.’

  * * *

  He nodded grimly, his eyes roaming her gentle face, the way her neat figure sat upright and steady on the grey palfrey, yet moved in harmony with the horse. A natural rider, a woman accustomed to being in the saddle. She was soft-hearted, sweet and delicate, not a bloodthirsty warrior who could cope beneath a shower of raining arrows, who could wield a sword. He doubted she could even lift a sword, let alone wield such a weapon. He had judged Ralph de Pagenal to be a monster, but surely he was just the same, by demanding that Gisela help him to track down Gyda’s abductor, forcing her to go with him into a situation of such potential danger?

  Chapter Twelve

  Heading north, the chalk track rolled away from them across the undulating hills, the landscape rising up from the flat wetlands around the estuary. Cow parsley lined the grassy verges, billowing like white lace. Ripe corn stretched across the sloping fields, a sea of rippling pale gold, basking beneath the thick afternoon heat. A muddy depression at the edge of the field drew swallows, their black angular shapes diving frantically to feast on the insects clustering above the stagnant water. High-pitched shrieks filled the air.

  It was time for harvest. Beyond a copse of trees, Gisela could see peasants working, scything the stiff corn into stooks, heads protected from the strong sun with cloth wrappings. Almost in acknowledgement of their hard work, she tugged at her tight headscarf, trying to loosen it slightly, feeling the sweat beneath the fabric gather in the hollow of her throat.

  Riding alongside her, the horses plodding in tandem, Ragnar caught her fractious gesture. ‘Why not take it off?’ he suggested, his voice breaking their companionable silence. ‘It’s far too hot.’

  She rounded her eyes at him, scornful. ‘I can’t do that!’

  ‘Why not? It will make you feel more comfortable.’

  ‘But... I don’t...’ Her voice trailed away. What had she been about to say? That because of her scar, she had never taken her headscarf off in daylight before? Most women of her age and status would plait their long hair, as she did, but only cover their heads if the weather were cold, or inclement. She gripped the rough leather of the reins, indecision wrenching her nerves into a constrictive cage.

  ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Your scar does not trouble me, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  His blunt words stabbed at her; her chin lifted sharply as she narrowed her eyes on him. She remembered his lips on hers in the chamber at Bertune, his growling tones of regret after their kiss. A kiss of pity at the dreadful thing that had been done to her. Desolation rolled over her. Of course her scar did not trouble him; he was not bothered by such a thing, because she, Gisela, meant little to him. Her heart pleated with sadness.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, a hint of challenge edging her voice. She laid the reins across the horse’s neck, unwinding the cloth from her head, stuffing the material into the leather satchel resting on her hip. She tugged at her borrowed cloak, pulling the coarse, bulky folds away from her throat. The breeze sifted against her heated skin; she resisted the urge to lean her head back, to savour that delicious sensation lapping her neck.

  * * *

  The breeze ruffled the silky curls around Gisela’s forehead, tugging out golden-brown strands; they floated in the balmy air. The same colour as the ripe wheat in the field beyond, Ragnar t
hought. The gleaming rope of her plait curved lovingly around her neck, dropping over her rounded bosom to her waist. The curling end brushed against the point where her dress bunched on to the saddle, the fabric pillowing around her hips. A slow languorous heat rippled through him, building steadily. Had he made a mistake, encouraging her to remove her scarf?

  ‘And you can stop staring at me,’ Gisela snapped, acutely aware of his intense scrutiny. ‘You’ve seen it before. Remember?’

  ‘Seen what?’ he asked, bemused, dragging his eyes from the magnificent colour of her hair to her scowling expression.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ She frowned at him in exasperation, touching her plait self-consciously. ‘My scar, of course!’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Ragnar murmured, distracted. ‘I wasn’t looking at that.’

  * * *

  His eyes darkened to the deepest green, shimmering pools that spoke of enchanted woodlands, magical places.

  The air thickened with incredible speed. All movement slowed: the horses’ tails swishing away flies, swallows ducking and diving, the rustle of leaves in the oak trees up ahead; everything took time to push through the air, as if struggling through mud, or a thick, tangible fog.

  Gisela flushed, a shuddering breath filtering through her windpipe. He stared at her as if mesmerised, as if she were some sort of beauty. Hunching her shoulders in defensive response, she tried to create some sort of barrier against his admiring appraisal. ‘Stop teasing me.’ Her fingers plucked in agitation at the scuffed leather saddle.

  ‘You’re a beautiful woman, Gisela.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ The dull force of her voice slapped down his words. ‘How can I possibly be beautiful with something like this?’ Suddenly all the hurt, the fear and anxiety that she had endured since coming to England coagulated into a massive lump of anger in her chest. His words inflamed her, unlocking the key to this suppressed emotion. Ripping the plait away from her neck, she revealed the silvery line of her scar, stretching her chin to one side so that he couldn’t fail to see the line on her neck. ‘Look properly, Ragnar. See my scar in daylight. You’re making things worse by pretending it isn’t there, by flattering me. It was all right before...before you came along! Now you make me think about it all the time!’