Rescued by the Viking

by Meriel Fuller

  ‘No, Gisela, I cannot take the risk,’ he said finally, shaking his bright head. ‘The shock of seeing him again might kill her.’

  Renewed anger rose within her, flaring chaotically. ‘Nay, you must!’ she cried, thumping him squarely in the chest. Instantly, he snagged her fingers, crushing them against his ribcage. ‘And if you don’t take him, then I will!’ she blurted rashly, words spilling out before she even had time to consider their meaning. ‘I will carry him to Denmark on a ship and my father and sister will come with me! That poor little mite is the innocent in all of this and he needs to be with his mother! If you don’t do this, then I will!’ She stopped suddenly, breathing heavily, rocking back on her heels. Only his grip on her fingers held her steady, keeping her upright.

  * * *

  Astounded by her impassioned words, by the energy that flowed from her in waves, all Ragnar could do was stare at her. A rapid pulse in her wrists beat hard against his thumb. A rose colour suffused her cheeks, ragged and wild, daubing her luminous skin, snow-drop white in the shadows. ‘You’re angry with me,’ he croaked out eventually. ‘You don’t know what you are saying.’

  ‘I do,’ she countered vehemently, thrusting her chin up to meet his eyes. ‘And I have enough money to do this, now that my brother is staying with Waltheof.’

  His hands fell away. ‘But why...why would you do such a thing? My family...my sister...you don’t know them.’ A plan was beginning to form in his mind, radical, outrageous. His heart leaped with possibility.

  ‘No,’ she replied, rubbing her wrists tentatively, ‘but I know it’s the right thing to do. I think you will regret not taking him.’

  The dense pine trunks seemed to close in, a huddle of shadow around their figures. Somewhere, high up above, an owl hooted, the hollow sound echoing eerily around the tree tops.

  Ragnar crossed his arms over his thick chest, tracing the downy curve of Gisela’s cheek. He should be taking her back to her family in Bertune and bidding her farewell. But he had no wish to bid her farewell.

  ‘I will take the child on one condition,’ he said.

  Stunned by his sudden change of heart, her eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Ragnar, truly?’ she whispered. ‘Do you mean what you say?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ he said carefully. ‘But you haven’t asked on what condition I will take him.’

  ‘What is it?’ She eyed him airily. ‘Whatever it is, it won’t matter. All that matters is that the baby is returned to his mother.’

  ‘My condition is that you come with us. With me.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Disbelief burst through her, a sudden flood of dislocation. Why did he continue to do this? Pushing her off balance so that her whole world twisted out of kilter. Staggering back, bereft of speech, she felt her spine hit the gridded bark, hips bumping painfully against the iron-hard wood.

  ‘What...what are you saying?’ Had she misunderstood his words?

  ‘If I take the baby to Denmark, then you must come as well.’ He stood below her, legs astride on the needle-covered ground, the bulky contours of his shoulders almost blocking out the village spread out on the valley floor. The gemstones set into his silver brooch winked and glimmered in the shadows cast by the towering pines.

  ‘But...you can’t do this!’ she cried, levering herself away from the tree. ‘It’s not fair!’

  His emerald eyes gleamed. ‘No, it’s not fair, Gisela. But it’s the only way that child will reach Denmark.’

  After what had happened last night, their naked limbs tumbling together, she suspected he was counting the hours until he would be rid of her, free of her company, but she never wanted that moment to arrive. But now, because of her stubbornness in wanting the child to be returned to Gyda, he had given her the perfect opportunity.

  ‘What about my family? They are waiting for me in Bertune...waiting for news of Richard. I have to explain to them...’

  ‘And you will,’ Ragnar countered. ‘I am meeting Eirik and the rest of the ships in Hoesella. We can take the ferry across to see your family. There will be time before we set sail.’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ she whispered, tracing the firm, determined line of his top lip with her gaze. ‘Why are you forcing me to go with you?’

  * * *

  He was behaving like an oaf, heavy-handed and belligerent, living up to his true Viking reputation. For a moment he wanted to relent and take his demands away. To take this baby back to Gyda was a bad idea, of that he was certain, but he would do it for Gisela, to see her eyes light up with pleasure, with approval at his actions. His fingers tingled. And he had seized the chance to bully her into coming with him. But he had to be careful. If she suspected his true feelings, he would scare her away and make her fear him, without a doubt. Tread softly, he told himself.

  ‘I am not forcing you,’ he replied. ‘You have a choice.’

  ‘Hardly.’ She raised her finely etched eyebrows. Her scathing glance was laden with disapproval. ‘There’s no choice at all. The only way Gyda will have her baby boy again is if I go with you.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Was it his imagination or did he sense the slightest weakening in her demeanour? His heart swelled with hope, with the anticipation that she would agree to his demands.

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘But I don’t understand why you want me to come? Surely I’ve caused you enough trouble already? The baby is used to Bertha, she has been with him since your sister left, so why not ask her to accompany you?’

  Because I don’t want her to come. I want you.

  His mind cast about frantically for an explanation as to why the nursemaid could not come. ‘She has her own family to look after, Gisela. It wouldn’t be right to take her away from her own children, or her husband.’ The slenderness of his excuse was obvious and he wasn’t even sure that Bertha even had a husband and children. He hoped Gisela wouldn’t probe too deeply, searching for the weak spot in his answer, a chance for her to wriggle out of all this. But luck was on his side. He read the acquiescence in her slender frame, the softening of her tense shoulders, and knew she would come. His heart leapt with sudden pleasure, delight suffusing through his chest.

  The breeze tugged at the trailing ends of her scarf and she wound the loose fabric decisively around her neck, fixing him with eyes of limpid sapphire. ‘Well... I suppose you know what I am like to journey with.’ Her chin jerked up, slightly angled: a belligerent, feisty gesture to show that she had relented, but would not make the process easy. She was not happy with him, he could see that, not happy at the underhand methods he had engaged to persuade her to come with him. But he cared not. She would be at his side and that was all that mattered.

  ‘I do,’ Ragnar agreed. His brilliant gaze roamed over her pallid expression, the defeated stance of her slim frame. Oh, how she must have been hoping to be rid of him! In two days she could have been bidding him farewell and riding on south with her father and sister. Only it was not to be. He was behaving like an ogre, but he had to fight for this, for her, by whatever means possible. He had to make good the wrong he had done her last night, even if it meant forcing her gentle spirit into things that she had no wish to do. Because this woman, this infuriating woman, with her hair of glossy sable and eyes of midnight blue, had invaded his heart, driving out the guilt he had experienced over his sister’s plight and replacing it with...was it love? He was not about to give that up without a fight.

  * * *

  Bertha’s round face cracked into a wide smile as she opened the door. ‘I knew she would persuade you!’ she cried, stepping back to allow Ragnar and Gisela into the cottage. She raised her eyebrows at Gisela in silent congratulation. ‘He’s ready for a journey. He’s been fed and I’ve put clean linens on him. I’ve packed a bag with all the things that he will need.’

  ‘I see.’ Ragnar glanced at Gisela. ‘So you women had this planned all along. How did you think
you would make me agree to this?’

  Gisela peered around the cottage, thinking she could not speak for fear of being overheard, but the space was deserted apart from Bertha and the little boy, kicking his legs up happily from a small wicker basket. ‘I had no plan, Ragnar, other than that it was the right thing to do. You know that. I didn’t think you would resort to blackmail.’

  Her words jabbed hard into his solar plexus. Stung. A muscle contracted sharply in his jaw. He shrugged his shoulders, rolling away the jibe. ‘It’s the only way, Gisela. You know how I feel about this child.’

  She held his emerald gaze for a moment, acknowledged the determined thrust of his chin. He was right: this was the only way, for neither of them would retreat from their opinion. ‘You take the bag, then,’ Gisela said, briskly. ‘And I’ll carry the baby.’ For one single terrifying moment, she wondered how she was going to do this. She hadn’t even considered the practical side of caring for a child and suddenly the thought of taking him on such a long journey seemed wholly daunting. She looked at Bertha, who was smiling broadly as her gaze swung from Ragnar, back to Gisela, then back to Ragnar again.

  ‘Bertha? What do you call him?’

  ‘When Gyda was on her own with him, she called him “Torven”.’

  ‘What does he need? I have no idea of such things.’ There, she had said it. Let Ragnar laugh at her inadequacy if he wanted. She had no intention of letting this little boy down.

  ‘He will eat what you eat, mushed up with a little milk or weak ale if you can find it. Change his linens once or twice a day, keep them swaddled tightly for the rest of the time. He’s wearing warm clothes, so he should be fine in the open air.’

  ‘I hope...’ Doubt tangled in her voice.

  ‘You’ll be fine, my lady. He’s an easy baby. Bind him to your chest when you ride and feed him when you eat. Change him before he goes to sleep at night and when he wakes up. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Let’s go, then,’ Ragnar said, swinging up the leather satchel that Bertha had packed for the baby.

  Bertha darted to the corner, returning with a small leather pouch. ‘Here, my lord,’ she said, holding the bag out to Ragnar. ‘It’s yours. We have no need of the coin, now you’re taking the child.’

  ‘Keep it,’ Ragnar replied curtly, ‘I’m sure you will put it to good use.’

  Bertha nodded. ‘Thank you. And thank you to both of you, for saving my life.’

  The burning tower at the castle; the baby’s frantic screaming—what a long time ago that seemed, thought Gisela, as Bertha hoisted Torven up against her, binding him tightly to her chest with a deft criss-crossing of linen bands, knotted firmly into the small of her back. The baby’s head tucked up beneath her chin, the downy fuzz of hair tickling her skin like feathers. She followed Ragnar out into the balmy afternoon air, towards the waiting horses. A few hens pecked the ground in a pen alongside the cottage, but otherwise, no one was about, apart from Bertha, who stood in the doorway, waiting for them to leave.

  She frowned, wondering how she was going to climb into the saddle with the baby strapped to her. Ragnar stepped forward, a slight twinkle in his eye. ‘How do you want to do this?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ she replied, a rough despair fringing her voice. ‘I’ve never done this before, have I?’

  ‘Can you use my foot to mount?’ he asked. His heart hollowed out with a peculiar craving, a sudden hankering for the picture of domesticity created by Gisela and the baby, an image of what might be. The baby rounding out her belly made her look like she was with child and, after what had happened between them, that was a possibility. His ribcage constricted, a rush of sweet pressure.

  ‘I can try.’

  But it was useless. The bulk of the child prevented her from lifting her foot more than a few inches off the ground; her toes failed to reach the cradle of Ragnar’s fingers.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried out in frustration. ‘How do other ladies with children do this? I’ve seen them riding horses!’ They heard Bertha’s cackle from the doorway; spots of colour rose in Gisela’s cheeks.

  Ragnar laughed. ‘Have you? I thought noble ladies usually travelled in litters, carried by servants. And the peasants walk with their babies. Let me help you.’ Gripping Gisela’s waist, he lifted both her and the baby up into the saddle. She swung her leg over immediately to balance herself. His hand grasped the toes on her boot, feeding her foot into the stirrup; moving around to the left flank, he performed the same operation, pulling her cloak out from where it was bunching at the back of the saddle, and flicking the coarse fabric across the horse’s glossy rump.

  ‘Why didn’t you do that in the first place!’ she muttered in irritation.

  He vaulted into his own saddle, swinging his horse around. ‘Because you are so determined to do everything for yourself, I thought I would give you the choice,’ he said.

  She frowned, drawing the fine arch of her brows together. Her pert little nose wrinkled with annoyance. Fear was making her grumpy.

  Ragnar caught the flicker of concern in her eyes, the slight constriction of her rose-coloured lips. ‘It will be all right, Gisela,’ he said suddenly, wanting to comfort her.

  She sent him a sharp look, tense and worried. ‘There’s no point in saying such things to me.’ Bitterness creased her soft voice. ‘I know you don’t mean it. You don’t want this to happen.’ She cast her eyes down meaningfully to the bronze fluff on the baby’s head.

  ‘Yes, but despite what I think, this should not be an ordeal for you. He is my sister’s baby, after all.’

  * * *

  She jabbed her heels into her horse’s rump, following him towards the bridge, retracing their path up to the pine forests. The baby bumped comfortably against her belly, his cheek pressed against her bosom. She should have been angry, annoyed at the way he had forced her into travelling back to Denmark with him, but in reality she was glad. Glad that she had a chance to be with him for longer, to relish that big muscled body close to her own. Aye, she knew that he held no real affection for her; that much was obvious in his cobbled-together apologies after they had slept together, his avowal that such a thing would never happen again, but she didn’t care. It was enough to have him close, to catch the quick flash of his diamond eyes, the amused tilt of his ready smile. She would take any small crumb of attention that he threw her way and be happy with it. She only hoped that her heart would remain intact.

  At the sight of the imposing Dane filling his doorway, a wilting wife and baby at his side, the innkeeper immediately ushered them to a private chamber, promising that hot food would be sent as soon as it was prepared. Ragnar and Gisela followed him along a narrow passageway, the only light emanating from a guttering torch held high by the innkeeper, and passed open windows where men and women drank and laughed in a clatter of loud merriment. The thick smell of mead and woodsmoke filled the air.

  ‘Here,’ said the innkeeper, the flickering torch highlighting the fleshy lines of his face. ‘There are clean linens on the mattress.’ His voice contained a faint pride at the room he was offering.

  The baby began to snuffle, agitated, against Gisela’s chest, tiny hands kneading against her neck, clutching and releasing. The muscles in the small of her back ached from carrying him; placing her palms against her spine, she kneaded the sore spot above her hips. She longed to stretch out and ease her cramped limbs; to lie on that bed and sleep. Exhaustion scoured her eyeballs, shadowing the wells beneath her eyes, deepening them to a purplish-blue colour.

  ‘I’ll leave the light with you,’ the man said, thrusting the torch into Ragnar’s hand. ‘Ask the servants if you need anything.’

  Ragnar shoved the door shut after the man’s retreating figure, kicking the bottom of the wooden planks as they jammed against the ground. He slung the torch into an iron ring set at head height by the window. ‘Hardly a palace.’ His mouth twisted grimly as
he surveyed the vague rectangle of straw on the floor that served as a mattress, the cracked earthenware bowl and jug of water on a low stool in the corner. A rotten smell pervaded the damp air. ‘In fact, hardly a chamber.’

  ‘It will be fine,’ Gisela said, her elbows bent out to the sides as she rubbed her back. The baby whimpered, his little body jerking back in the makeshift sling around her body. ‘But I think little Torven might need some food.’

  ‘Which bag did Bertha put it in? Yours?’ Ragnar dumped the bags at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Could you take him off me first, please? Before you find the food?’ Gisela asked, wriggling her painful shoulders.

  He moved behind her. She stiffened as his knuckles grazed her spine; he undid the knot with deft fingers. ‘Hold on to him,’ he ordered, releasing the two ends of the linen band. Tilting forward, Gisela tipped the baby away from her chest, and laid him in the middle of the bed. Released from the sling, Torven kicked his arms and legs into the air, gurgling with pleasure.

  ‘Ah, that is good,’ breathed Gisela, hunching her shoulders up and down, easing out her stiff muscles. She removed her cloak and unwound her headscarf, her plait falling across her breast, glistening in the torchlight.

  Crouching down by the leather satchels, rummaging among the contents, Ragnar threw her a look of admiration. ‘You’ve ridden a long way with him,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you say that he’d become too heavy? I could have taken him for you.’

  Gisela took the earthenware pot that he held out to her. Sitting on the bed, she lifted Torven on to her lap, holding him steady with one arm while she spooned the thick milky gruel into his mouth. He bounced on her knee, dribbles of the liquid spilling down his chin, dripping on to her lap. ‘Because I didn’t want to give you any excuse not to take him,’ she replied honestly. ‘Back to Denmark, I mean,’ she clarified.