Rescued by the Viking

by Meriel Fuller

  Ragnar shook his head incredulously. ‘Would you prefer it if I were nasty to you?’ he asked mildly, raising shaggy, wayward eyebrows, unmoved by her melodramatic behaviour. Half-rising in the saddle, he adjusted his position on the horse, flicking the hem of his cloak out behind him. Beneath tight-fitting braies, the firm line of his leg muscle clenched, then relaxed, revealing the honed contours of his thigh. Gisela swallowed, her throat tight, focusing her gaze on the plume of her horse’s mane, unwilling to acknowledge the tumult of thoughts cascading through her head. Yes, she thought. I would prefer it if you were nasty to me. It would make it easier for me to control my heart around you.

  She twisted her mouth into the semblance of a smile, knowing she had to answer him. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Good, then at least we are in agreement about that,’ he replied. ‘Come, let us stop beneath those trees up there and have something to eat.’

  As they pulled the horses to a halt beneath the wide-spreading oak, Ragnar jumped down from his destrier and came alongside the flank of her mare. Reaching up, he gripped her firmly beneath the armpits, swinging her down to the ground: a strangely intimate gesture. His large thumbs dug into the soft flesh at the side of her breasts. Heat flooded across her pearly cheeks.

  Beside them, the horses stood indolently, tails swishing in the languorous air, mosquitoes dancing above their twitching ears. Ragnar held her for a moment, so she had a chance to regain her balance after the long ride, then turned away to rummage in his saddlebags. She watched in amazement as he produced all the trappings for them to eat: a woollen blanket, which he spread across the wispy grass beneath the tree, cloth-wrapped parcels of food and a leather flagon, no doubt full of mead. The sight of this large Dane involved in such gentle domestic activities seemed incongruous, oddly delightful.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her anger slipping away. ‘I have brought nothing.’

  Ragnar knelt on the blanket and unwrapped the packages. Amusement lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘You have been a bit too busy to go to market, Gisela. This is all from our ship, anyway. Danes always bring provisions.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Will you come and eat?’

  She knelt down slowly on to the rug; the stiff grass made a scrunching noise beneath the colourful wool. Her hips and the back of her legs ached from the long ride. ‘You seem oddly domesticated for someone who has devoted his life to battle,’ she muttered.

  ‘Even warriors have to eat,’ he replied, handing her a substantial slice of dark-brown bread. He laughed at her look of dismay. ‘This is rye bread. We eat this with smoked fish.’ He indicated the pinkish-grey slices lying on a piece of muslin.

  Gisela bit tentatively into the bread. The only time she had seen bread so dark before was when it had burned. The taste was unusual, with a slight sourness, but it was not unpleasant. She chewed hungrily. ‘It’s good.’ Surprise laced her voice.

  ‘My mother makes it,’ Ragnar said, laying a slice of fish on top of his bread. ‘It keeps for ages before going stale. That’s why we take it on our travels.’

  ‘Your mother...?’ Her eyes rounded at him in astonishment.

  He grinned. ‘I do have one, you know. And a father. I’m not the spawn of the Devil, whatever you might think.’

  ‘No, it’s not that...’ She brushed distractedly at the crumbs that had fallen from the bread on to the lap of her gown. ‘You’ve never mentioned your family before, that’s all.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve had other things on my mind,’ he replied. His emerald eyes gleamed over her. ‘Much has happened in the past two days.’ Since they met. Since he had hauled her, barely conscious, from the swirling brown water.

  The sun had shifted position, sneaking beneath the cool shade of the tree, warming Gisela’s spine. The stretched tension in her muscles, the strain of the last few hours seemed to dissipate in the shimmering afternoon heat. Swallowing the remainder of the bread, she brought her knees up to her body, hugging her shins. ‘Where do they live?’ she asked.

  ‘My family, you mean?’ He chewed thoughtfully. ‘We have an estate to the west of Ribe, in Denmark. Ribe is a port, on the coast: the place where we sailed from, to come to England.’

  ‘Is your father a warrior, too?’ Gisela smoothed her palm across the bright colours of the rug, her heart fluttering at the ease of their conversation. If only it could be like this for the rest of the journey, if only they could travel as friends, then...then her heart might survive unscathed.

  Ragnar laughed. ‘Nay, his raiding days are over. He devotes his life to farming our land now, with the help of a bailiff and my mother, of course. She keeps him in line.’ A note of tenderness laced his voice.

  ‘You sound as if you are very close to your parents,’ she said. Grief sifted through her as she thought of her own mother, of her wasted journey to England and the fear and sickness that had finally killed her.

  In the shadowy light beneath the tree, Gisela’s face shone out, revealing her sadness, she was sure. Ragnar shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve been lucky,’ he replied carefully.

  ‘Your mother sounds formidable,’ Gisela said, straightening her spine. Feeling sorry for herself would not help this situation.

  ‘Aye, she is.’ Ragnar’s eyes twinkled with memory. ‘She’s hardly taller than you, yet she rules the household like a battle commander.’ He laughed, his gaze drifting across the rippling field, the pale heads of wheat. The sound of rustling grass filled the air, mingling with the occasional shout from the workers in the field beyond. ‘You would like her.’

  Her heart pounded. What was he saying? That he would take her back to Denmark to meet his mother? A strange longing possessed her: an image of sitting beside a fire, opposite Ragnar, their feet stretched out towards each other, almost touching. Having someone to nurture and to love and to grow old with. That’s what he made her think about when he spoke of his family. A widening ache, heavy as a boulder, lodged deep in her belly. It was a dream that she could never hope to have and she would do well to dispel such a notion, unless she was to feel sad for the rest of her days.

  ‘I expect I would,’ she replied finally, her voice wooden. Raising herself on her knees, she started to wrap up the open packages, her movements brisk, succinct, trying to cover the hurt surging up within her.

  ‘Hold a moment.’ Ragnar’s hand shot out, clasping her wrist. ‘I haven’t finished eating yet.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She slumped back on to her heels, her fingers twisting in her lap. The tight waistband of her gown dug into her side. ‘I suppose there’s more of you, back in Denmark,’ she said, scouting around for something to fill the lengthening silence. ‘Have you brothers, or sisters?’

  ‘I have a sister.’ The warmth drained from his voice, freezing his low tone.

  ‘And is she as formidable as your mother?’ Gisela forced a teasing note into her voice. ‘A battle commander in the making?’

  ‘No, she’s not.’ Ragnar’s voice was brusque, harsh. He began to wrap up the packages quickly, rising from the rug to stuff them back into his saddlebags. The easy mood between them was broken, shattered. Her last question had ripped through their easy camaraderie like shears through silk. What in heaven’s name had she said to upset him?

  ‘Ragnar...’ The tender note in her voice faltered as she twisted around to look up at him. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve said something...that I shouldn’t have.’

  * * *

  His fingers stalled on the buckle of his satchel. The horse’s rump shimmered before his eyes, glossy and smooth, flies bobbing above the swishing tail. He saw nothing but the white, wretched face of his sister as she was carried off the ship at Ribe. Guilt surged around his heart, pinching cruelly. But his sister’s plight was not Gisela’s fault. Far from it. She did not deserve to be on the receiving end of his disgruntled shame.

  He jabbed his boot into the baked mud at the side of the field, kicked at the c
rumbling earth. Could he tell Gisela what he had done to his sister? She had a low enough opinion of him already, so maybe such an admission would make no difference. But would it turn her against him for ever? He wondered, for a moment, if he could bear such a thing, to be the recipient of her hate, her disapproval. But what did it matter? Once they had helped each other, they would go their separate ways, back to their families, and they would never see each other again.

  ‘My sister...is not well.’ Ragnar’s voice, when it finally emerged, cracked with emotion. ‘She’s the reason I’m here, in this country.’ He chewed the inside of his cheek, tasted iron in his mouth. The situation with his sister was one that he scarcely voiced. Shame tingled through him, twisting his gut.

  He tugged on the leather strap, forcefully, securing the satchel. His arm rested along the horse’s back. ‘About a year ago, my sister travelled to England with the man she loved,’ he said slowly. ‘And a month later, that same man’s body was brought back to Denmark. Without my sister. He had been killed and my sister had vanished somewhere in this hell-bound country.’ He stuck one hand through his hair, tousling the wind-blown strands. ‘No one knew what had happened. I came to England...with a few men, with Eirik, hoping to find her. And luckily, we did. But she is a changed woman.’ His voice dropped, a muted whisper. His lean tanned fingers worried at the stitching on his saddle.

  He jumped. Gisela was beside him. Her step was so light that he hadn’t heard her approach. The heady scent of roses, that poignant smell of summer, filled his nostrils: the perfume of her skin. Her sleeve brushed against his elbow. His torso constricted abruptly in response to her nearness, the faint brush of her body. He drew strength from her, the courage to talk, to confide. ‘We took her back to Denmark, but we...my family...don’t know how to help her. She weeps continually and will not speak. My mother is afraid that she will take her own life if we don’t find out what happened to her in England.’

  Her fingers crept along his arm to his hand; she squeezed his hard, warm flesh, rubbing the prominent bump of his wrist bone. ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘So this man you want us to find...’ Her voice trailed off, dismay lacing her tone.

  ‘Whoever he is...he abducted Gyda.’ Ragnar’s mouth set into a grim, fixed line. ‘When I found her, eventually, she was in Hoesella. A travelling merchant had found her wandering alone and had brought her back to live with them. The merchant told me the spot where he had found her, on the road north of Jorvik. But I had no time to go back to that place; I had to take Gyda home.’ Pain laced his heart. He did not want to think about what had happened to his sister. Revulsion rose in his gullet. Balling his fist, he thumped it against the flat of the saddle.

  ‘But how will finding this man help your sister?’ Gisela asked. She watched the hurt leach through his expression and the urge to reach out and comfort him, to draw him close, surged through her. His pulse jolted powerfully against her fingers.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We don’t know what else to do,’ he replied. ‘Maybe it will give us some answers, a clue as to how we can help her.’ He looked down at her, his mouth terse and rigid. ‘I’m prepared to try anything.’

  She squeezed his wrist: a gesture of comfort, of reassurance. ‘You’re a good brother, Ragnar.’

  A shudder racked his big body. ‘Nay, I am not,’ he replied. Rawness stretched his voice, a bitter thinness.

  ‘But you are!’ Gisela responded, her voice bright. ‘To do all this for her, to try to find out what happened.’

  Redness rimmed the startling green of his eyes. A muscle quirked in his jaw. ‘It’s the least I can do, Gisela.’ He sighed. ‘You see, I caused the whole situation in the first place.’ Above their heads, the arching branches of the oak dipped and swayed, casting a dark stripe of shadow across his body.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The heat pressed down in thick layers on the back of her neck, oppressive. Sweat prickled beneath her ear.

  ‘I was the one who encouraged her to travel to England in the first place, with the man she loved.’ His voice jolted, forcing the words out. ‘My parents were against them marrying, but I could see how much they loved each other. I knew that once they were on board that ship, then my parents could do nothing to prevent them being together.’

  ‘Oh, Ragnar,’ she said breathily. ‘It was not your fault. You could never have expected such a thing to happen.’ Without thinking, she lifted her hands to his face, cupped his jawline, wanting to smooth out the lines of wretchedness that carved his cheeks. Almost instinctively his arms came around her, around her shoulders, then her waist. He winched her close, roughly, as if wanting the comfort of her body against his. Just for a moment.

  The lurch of his strong body against hers tipped her off balance. Her hands dropped from his face to clutch his upper arms for support. She was so close to him that the top of her head brushed his chin. She yearned to tuck her face into the hollow of his neck, to breathe in the sweet leathery scent of his flesh, but she held herself rigid, resisting. The muscles in her legs screamed with the effort of holding herself away. What would happen if she threw caution to the winds and cleaved to his body as her heart begged her to do? She would be burned, that’s what, and her heart would be destroyed. Better to hold herself aloof, than risk destruction.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ragnar closed his eyes, wanting to savour the moment for ever: her delicate scent rising to his nostrils, the satin slip of her sand-coloured hair against his chin. He marvelled at the power in her small body to knit together the ragged threads of his wretched spirit, alleviating the scourging harshness of the guilt that had plagued him ever since his sister had disappeared.

  ‘So now you know what kind of man I am,’ he said slowly, tentatively.

  She lifted her face, the dancing glow of her cheeks inches from his own. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Ragnar. You are the same man that I thought you were before you told me.’

  ‘Still a barbarian, then.’ He laughed. The sound was harsh, strident, but his attempt at humour eased the tension. Relief coursed through him; he was surprised. He had no idea that her opinion of him mattered so much and yet, he realised that it did.

  Gisela pushed back against the muscular brace of his arms, tipping her head to gain a better view of his face. ‘Aye, definitely a barbarian,’ she agreed. But she was smiling.

  A bubble of voices coming along the track floated through the somnolent air, breaking the mood between them. Ragnar’s arms dropped from Gisela’s waist, reluctantly, and he stepped away, flicking the rug from the ground and bundling the fabric into his saddle bags.

  ‘We should move on,’ he said briskly, watching as a group of straggling farm workers made their way along the track, carrying scythes and leather satchels. Their faces were red and sweaty, streaked with grime, and their voices fell silent as they spotted the couple standing beneath the oak. Noticing Ragnar’s silver-riveted surcoat, the jewelled helm on his sword, they bowed, one by one, acknowledging his noble status.

  The shadows were lengthening, stretching out across the fields of bronze stubble. Ragnar hooked his fingers together; Gisela placed her foot carefully into the cradle of his hands and he boosted her into the saddle. He mounted up, swinging his animal around in a circle.

  ‘Not much further,’ he said, nodding towards the track. ‘We should reach Ralph de Pagenal’s manor before the sunset.’

  * * *

  The untidy sprawl of thatched cottages seemed to float in the middle of the marsh, a haphazard collection of domestic buildings clustered around a timbered hall house. Smoke rose listlessly from individual chimney holes: lazy dribbles of grey against the pale-blue sky. Around the cottages, animals were contained by low fences of split chestnut. All around this raised piece of land, strips of water glinted, bands of silver in the setting sun, evidence of poor drainage. In some places, the ground was completely flooded with not a speck of green grass to be seen.


  ‘Looks like de Pagenal spends more time battling than farming,’ Ragnar said grimly, casting a critical eye over the badly maintained ground. ‘Although the water provides an excellent defence. Only one way in and out.’ They had reined in the horses on the brow of a ridge so they could look down on the Norman lord’s estate. The breeze coming in over the flat land from the North Sea ruffled the horses’ manes.

  Gisela shuddered. Nerves hollowed out her stomach. The prospect of meeting her tormentor again had suddenly become very real, frighteningly close. This was his home, the estate given to him by the Conqueror. But the humble manor that lay below her did not fit with the arrogant knight who had kicked and slashed at her, who had hauled her sister, screaming, against the flank of his horse, until Gisela had pulled her away.

  ‘We should go down,’ Ragnar said. ‘We will have been seen by now.’

  Leaves drifted down from the beech trees behind, rustling close to her ear, scuffing along the tufted grass. Her saddle creaked as her mare sidled beneath her. She knew that if she dismounted now, fear would have driven the strength from her legs; her limbs would not support her. ‘What if they attack us?’ she asked, her voice cracking with anxiety. ‘What if they decide to never let us go?’

  Ragnar’s clear green eyes swept the pallid disc of her face. ‘A couple, travelling alone? It’s unlikely. We are worth little to them.’