He cleared his throat. ‘And...about...last night,’ he murmured. ‘It will never happen again, I promise you.’
* * *
Through the shifting layers of mist, they retraced their route of the previous evening. The track was too narrow for the two horses to walk side by side, so Gisela dropped back, glad of a moment to collect her scattered wits. A sweet ache beset her body after the previous night; Ragnar had taken her to a place to which she had never been and now she had returned, a wholly different person. The practical, reliable Gisela, whom people turned away from, whispering about ‘the girl who fell foul of de Pagenal’s sword’, as they pointed at their own necks to demonstrate what had happened, that girl had completely disappeared and turned into...what?
Under Ragnar’s questing hands and mouth she had become like a woman possessed, someone she failed to recognise: a responsive, sensual woman, who revelled in the touch of his masculine body spread across hers. A wave of self-consciousness pulsed through her; she flushed. What must she have looked like, sprawled naked beneath him, begging him shamefully not to stop. It must have taken every ounce of his self-will to stop himself bursting out with laughter. Hunching forward in the saddle, she stared miserably at his broad back, tracing the powerful sculpt of his shoulders beneath his cloak.
At the edge of the forest, Ragnar reined in his horse, a small crease appearing between his eyebrows. The wide valley that spread below them was wreathed in smoke, billowing up in dark grey plumes to cover the bright blue sky. Flames flicked, orange and gold, from the upper windows in one of the castle towers.
‘I don’t like the look of this,’ Ragnar muttered. Beneath him, his horse hitched nervously, pawing the ground, and he leaned down, patting the animal’s neck.
‘What do you think is happening?’ Gisela moved her mare alongside his, trying to keep the note of panic from her voice.
‘I think the dispossessed Saxons have decided to object to de Pagenal’s lordship and the stealing of their lands. Look, down there.’
Gisela peered more closely. Men were everywhere, some on horses, some running, armed with swords and axes. They swarmed along the stone walls of the castle, their powerful, long-legged strides taking them in and out of the gate. Blades glinted in the early morning sun, as the air filled with war-like cries.
Ragnar nodded, confirming his own suspicions. ‘Definitely Saxons.’
‘Dear God, Ragnar.’ Gisela turned to him, catching at the sleeve of his surcoat. ‘Then we must go down there before they kill de Pagenal. I must find out where Richard is!’
* * *
‘I agree.’ Ragnar’s gaze traced the exquisite detail of her face: the fine skin like pouring cream, beset with a rosy blush from the exertion of riding; the intelligent assessment of her bright blue eyes. His heart snared with memory from the night before, those sweet limbs wrapped around his own.
‘Ragnar...?’ Her clear voice broke into the growing silence. ‘What are you waiting for? Let’s go!’
He rubbed at a rough spot on the reins, his expression terse. The smoke billowed up to obscure the watery disc of the sun, hazing the light. A wave of doubt crawled in his chest. ‘I think you should stay here. Let me go down alone; the Saxons are no danger to me, but...’
‘I prefer to come with you,’ she said. ‘I hate the thought of waiting around, not knowing...what if something happened to you?’
‘What if it did?’ he said bluntly. ‘Would it matter to you?’
She hitched one shoulder up, considering her response. ‘If we don’t...find my brother, then I’ll need an escort back to Bertune,’ Her expression was bland. ‘I can’t ride back alone.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replied, a great hollow opening up in his chest. His heart sank. He had wanted her to say the words, anything, any hint or clue that she cared for him. So for all her protestations to the contrary, she was not going to forgive him for what he’d done to her, after all.
* * *
‘Hail there, Viking!’ A burly Saxon stepped forward from the gatehouse, sheathing his sword as they walked their horses forward, coughing in the acrid stench of the smoke. ‘Now is not the time to be visiting this place.’ His eyes flicked briefly to Gisela. ‘Take your woman and leave quickly.’
Kicking his feet clear from the stirrups, Ragnar jumped to the ground, ignoring the man’s request. ‘What is happening here?’ he demanded.
The man scowled. ‘Waltheof, our chief, has decided to reclaim what is rightfully his. When that bastard threw him out, he went north, gathering support. It hasn’t taken him long to find some willing fighters. And now he’s returned, taking back what belongs to him.’
‘And what has happened to that Norman, de Pagenal?’ Gisela interrupted, leaning forward in the saddle. Her English vowels were slow and measured. ‘Where is he?’
The Saxon regarded her curiously. ‘Waltheof will know. You can ask him yourself, he’s through there, in the bailey.’
Squinting through the haze that filled the arch of the gatehouse, Gisela stared at the men gathered in the bailey. Dust covered their faces; some wiped their blades, others talked in low, muted voices. Her eye roamed across the huddled group, trying to spot an obvious leader. Her gaze snagged on the back of a tall, athletic man, with hair of smooth sable. Close-cropped, in the Norman style.
All thoughts of finding de Pagenal drained from her mind, like water coiling down a culvert. Her breath snared in her throat. The man was dressed like the Saxons around him: a plain buff tunic with little decoration; coarse woollen leggings, mud-coloured, bound with narrow leather straps from ankle to knee. Was it him? Or was she just seeing who she wanted to see? A tremor ran through her wrists, a trembling of excitement tingling along her forearms. Throwing her leg forward over the horse’s neck, she dismounted clumsily, hips bumping against the saddle, the reins slipping from her hands. She started walking, her strides at first unsure, then lengthening as she gathered pace, blue skirts flicking around her ankles.
‘Gisela...?’ She barely registered the thump of Ragnar’s feet as he jumped off his horse behind her, catching at her elbow as they entered the dank shadows of the gatehouse. ‘Wait...’ he cautioned, nudging the length of his body against hers as he fell into step beside her. ‘Not so fast. Let me talk to Waltheof, not you.’
Emerging out into the bailey, Gisela paused, her eyes lifting to Ragnar. His white-blond hair shone in the sunlight, gilt-edged, the vigorous strands riffling across his forehead in the breeze. ‘It’s not Waltheof I want to talk to. It’s him.’ She pointed, indicating the group of men. ‘That is my brother Richard. I am sure of it.’
At the sound of their voices, the dark-headed man turned.
A rush of emotion gripped Gisela’s heart, memories flooding through her. He hitched one shoulder as he turned, an old habit, head setting into its customary tilt. It was him.
‘Richard!’ she cried, stumbling forward, laughter bubbling up from her chest. Oblivious to the curious stares of the other men, she reached for her brother, arms outstretched. ‘My God, I thought I would never see you again!’
‘Gisela, what on earth...?’ Richard seized her upper arms, his gaze scouring her fine, delicate features, as if he couldn’t quite believe who he was seeing. ‘What are you doing here?’ His eyes flicked warily over Ragnar, standing silently behind her, massive arms folded across his chest. ‘With a Dane?’ he added in a fierce whisper.
‘Father was taken ill in Bertune,’ she explained Ragnar’s presence in a rush. ‘And Ragnar was kind enough to escort me here in his stead to pay your ransom. But when we met de Pagenal yestereve, he said he’d sold you...’
‘He did sell me, Gisela, to Waltheof.’ Richard nodded at a short, thick-set Saxon who watched their exchange with interest. ‘And I have been fortunate for Waltheof has turned out to be a better man than de Pagenal. He treats me the same as his other men and has promised to give me my f
reedom by the end of the year.’
‘But I can pay off your service to him with the money that we brought,’ Gisela said excitedly. ‘You will be able to come away with us now.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose...’ A wave of doubt crossed Richard’s face, ‘but now is not a good time to talk to him.’ He jerked his head up as the wide-shouldered Saxon chief strode over to them.
‘Greetings,’ Waltheof addressed Ragnar first, seizing the Dane’s hand in his bear-like grip and pumping it vigorously. ‘You and your lady are welcome here...’ he swept one arm derisively around the burning castle ‘...such as it is. And at any other time, I would be glad to sit and share a meal with you.’ He drew his great, bristly eyebrows together. ‘I need to find de Pagenal before this place burns to the ground. He set the place alight as we approached, no doubt just to spite me. He’s hiding somewhere. I will slit his throat before this day is out and that is a promise.’
A shout went up from outside the gatehouse, then a Saxon appeared, beckoning to Waltheof. ‘They’ve found him, lord, crawling through the wheat fields!’
‘Then let’s get the bastard!’ Waltheof roared, raising his sword high into the sunlight, the sibilant hiss cutting through the still air. ‘Come on, Richard, you can catch up with the maid later.’ He clapped one hand on Ragnar’s broad shoulder. ‘Want to join in the fun, Viking?’
Ragnar glanced at Gisela. ‘Do you want to see this? He is the man who nearly killed you, after all.’
She shuddered. ‘Nay, Ragnar, I have no wish to witness any man’s slaughter, even such a man like de Pagenal. I have never sought revenge for what he did to me.’ She followed Richard’s lithe step as he strode off to join the Saxons. A joy suffused her heart; her brother was here and he was safe. All her days of worrying about him, the nights of fretful anxiety, lifted away from her slender frame, as if a boulder rolled away down a steep mountainside.
‘Then you are a better person than me,’ Ragnar growled, a muscle clenching beneath the taut skin of his jaw. ‘Because I cannot wait to exact revenge on whoever abducted my sister.’
She lifted one hand, intending to touch his face, then tucked her fingers away, embarrassed, remembering the night before. His mouth on hers. Their bodies locked in tight embrace. ‘I haven’t forgotten, Ragnar. I will still help you, even though I’ve found Richard. I will still help you to find the man who took your sister. And Richard will help, too.’
‘You don’t have to, Gisela.’ His voice was quiet, subdued. ‘Now you have found your brother, you have someone to take you back to Bertune, back to your family. You don’t need me any more.’
Yes, yes, I do! she wanted to scream at him. I need your love. Her heart plunged low, gripped with an unbelievable sense of loss.
‘Gisela...?’
‘Nay, I made a deal with you,’ she said, her mind scrabbling desperately for reasons to stay with him. ‘And you have given up valuable time to help me find my—’ Gisela jumped forward suddenly, digging her fingers into Ragnar’s arm as something fell in one of the towers behind her, a hideous cracking sound.
‘The wooden floors are collapsing.’ Ragnar raised his gaze to the west tower, the leaping flames reflecting in his shimmering green eyes.
‘Listen! Can you hear that?’ Gisela twisted her head, trying to locate the source of the sound. The bailey was deserted now, emptied of men as they funnelled out of the gatehouse to watch the final demise of the Norman knight. ‘Ragnar, there’s someone in that tower.’ She jabbed her hand towards the flames. Her skin held the sheen of a limpid pearl as her midnight eyes rounded in horror. ‘I can hear them!’ A reedy wail, rising above the crackling sound of the flames. Her heart plummeted, swooping with fear. It sounded like a child.
Chapter Seventeen
For a fraction of a moment fear made them both hesitate, before instinct took over, driving energy into Gisela’s feet and limbs. She took off, sprinting across the cobbles, her step light and fast. Her blue skirts chased around her ankles as she charged towards the burning building.
‘Gisela!’ Ragnar bellowed. ‘Come back here!’
But she was either ignoring him, or had simply failed to hear above the ominous roar of the fire. She had reached the narrow arched doorway; he caught the glimpse of a spiral staircase inside. Surely now she would stop, he told himself. Fear pleated his heart as she slipped into the shadows of the stairwell, disappearing into a wall of smoke. Had she completely lost her senses?
Her utter recklessness drove him to action. Covering the bailey in long, decisive strides, Ragnar plunged into the stairwell, chest constricted with terror. He had to stop her! He had to reach her, haul her to safety before a spark took hold of her gown or her hair, or worse, before she plunged to her death through burning floorboards. He ran up the steps, leaping three at a time until he spotted her ahead, her slight figure climbing with a steady determination, white hand trailing along the knotted rope that served as a handrail. His breath gusted out with relief.
‘Got you!’ he said triumphantly, lifting his arms to snare her waist, deliberately pulling her back against him so that she lost her balance, her hips and spine thumping heavily against his torso.
‘No!’ Gisela cried, struggling wildly, her fingers pushing down on the fierce clamp of his arm around her belly. Smoke caught in her chest, tightening her diaphragm, making it difficult to breathe. ‘Ragnar, let me go!’ she spluttered out. ‘There’s a child up there! Can’t you hear?’
He could. A frantic screaming, almost hysterical, coming from behind a door on the first floor of the tower.
Releasing Gisela as abruptly as he had caught her, he barged past her, climbing the last few steps to the door. Trickles of smoke leaked out from between the thick planks. He kicked it open with one large booted foot. The door swung inwards, half-falling from its iron hinges.
Gisela was at his side. ‘Oh God,’ she said, peering round his shoulder into the hazy gloom of the circular chamber. Over on the far side, a woman sat huddled beneath a window, holding a small child close to her chest. The child was screaming, sobbing helplessly, tears streaking its puffy, terrified face. Smoke rose up through the floorboards, a shimmering orange glow streaking the cracks between the wooden planks. The fire was about to break through. The heat was extreme.
‘We have to get them out of here!’ Gisela said, shoving past Ragnar into the chamber.
‘Nay, I will get them out of there,’ Ragnar yelled, hauling her back into the stairwell, ‘and you will stay here!’ Avoiding the smoke that billowed out into the centre of the room, Ragnar trod carefully around the edge, his fingers running along the stone wall as a guide to reach the woman.
* * *
Gisela saw him take the child and drag the woman to her feet, nudging her before him until she reached the doorway.
Gisela reached for the woman’s hand, intending to lead her down the steps. Her skin was clammy. ‘We need to go. Come with me now.’
The woman stared at her blankly, not understanding. Gisela had spoken in French. She repeated the words as best she could in the Saxon tongue.
‘The child...?’ The woman’s lined face was streaked with smoke and sweat. Tears glistened in her eyes.
Ragnar was one step above them, holding the baby in his arms. The terrified screaming had subsided, reduced to a series of shuddering hiccoughs; the child’s hand curled tightly into Ragnar’s cloak. ‘Go, Gisela, go quickly,’ he urged her. Behind him, the floor of the chamber fell inwards with a prolonged cracking sound, sending a fountain of sparks gusting through the open doorway.
‘We have the child,’ Gisela reassured the woman. She led her down the steps, Ragnar following close on her heels, the baby in his arms. They burst out into the noonday light, eyes watering, coughing and spluttering as the fresher air entered their lungs. The woman sank to her knees, her rough gown spreading over the dank cobbles, weeping copiously. She raised her
knotted fingers skywards, thanking God.
‘Oh, my lady,’ she spluttered out in her thick Saxon burr, ‘I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I thought we were going to die.’ Lifting the hem of her gown, she wiped her face, smearing her tears into the soot on her cheeks. ‘How did you know we were there?’
‘I heard the baby crying,’ Gisela said, glancing at Ragnar. Amazingly, the child was quiet in his arms now, his small head nestling in the crook of his powerful neck, one fist resting against Ragnar’s tanned throat.
Her heart twisted with unbelievable longing. A need. She looked away, peering fiercely at the woman, seeing nothing. What was she thinking? That she would love to have a child and for Ragnar to be the father of that child? To see him cradle that baby with such tenderness made her chest swell with delight and pleasure.
‘Don’t you ever do that to me again,’ Ragnar said quietly. His voice held a flinty edge.
Gisela raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Sprinting away from me like that, when I had no idea what you were doing,’ he ground out savagely. ‘Risking your life!’ He stepped towards her. Caught between them, the child stared at her with enormous green eyes. ‘Gisela, you could have died in there!’
‘They would have died,’ she replied. ‘If I had heard the screaming and done nothing, with only a regard for my own safety, then it would have been on my conscience for ever.’
‘You could have explained...before you rushed off like that!’ He pushed one hand through his tousled hair, flecked with grey ash.
‘There was no time, Ragnar,’ she replied softly. ‘You saw how the fire took hold; if I hadn’t gone when I did, well...’
‘I know, I know,’ he bit out. ‘It’s the...the thought of what might have happened.’ To you, he added silently. His heart pinched tightly in his chest, squeezing the air into a tiny space beneath his ribs. The thought of physically losing her loomed up before him like a monster, lodging like a gigantic weight in the bottom of his chest. The enormity of such a thing. And yet, with her brother just outside, they would soon have to go their separate ways. What would he do then?
Rescued by the Viking Page 19
