She gave Wilfrid a quick glance as if to question whether she had said too much. He gave her a fractured nod and turned his gaze back to the table game. Her shoulders relaxed infinitesimally and she returned her attention to Rurik.
‘What have you said to him? I must warn you that—’ She broke off and glanced to Wilfrid again. Leaning towards Rurik, she lowered her voice and said, ‘I must warn you that you cannot be allowed to upset him. Any variance from his normal routine can frustrate him and send him into another attack.’
She did not have to say that another attack just might kill him. He seemed frail and half-gone from the world as it was. If Wilfrid heard them, he did not acknowledge it. Rurik had already ascertained that the man was a bit hard of hearing, but he wanted to know for certain. ‘Can he not hear you if you whisper?’
She shrugged. ‘The hearing on the weak side of his body seems to have gone.’ The older man’s weak side was the side nearest Annis.
Rurik found it odd that he was being asked to not upset the man who had had a hand in his father’s death. The very man he had come here to kill. His fingers clenched around the seax. One quick move and the man before him could be dead, his blood spilled all over his precious table game. The idea of it did not hold the same appeal it had a week ago.
What joy was there in killing a man who was simple-minded and half in his grave? Had not the gods already accomplished the justice that Rurik had been prepared to mete out? Impotent anger and bitterness roiled within him. He had come so close only to have his justice denied to him. There had to be someone else. Wilfrid could not have acted alone.
Annis’s astute gaze saw his fingers and accurately read his intentions. Her own hand gripped the hilt of her dagger where it lay beside her on her lap. ‘If you do that... I will kill you.’ The words were low and softly spoken, but no less intense because of that.
‘Perhaps I would forfeit my life to see him dead.’
Rurik’s gaze turned from the old man before him, the man that he should hate, to take her in. She seemed unusually reserved and then he recognised that serenity for what it was. It was the warrior quiet. The calm before the storm of battle. He could easily plunge the small dagger into Wilfrid’s neck, but then Rurik would have to face her. If she did not kill him, the sound of their battle would rouse other warriors. Rurik would not live out the hour. There was no question about him being taken downstairs to the cage, not when there was no reason left to keep him alive. Not when vengeance would burn in their own hearts as brightly as it had blazed in his.
Was he prepared to kill her as well? He would no doubt be forced to fight his way through her if he had a hope of making his way out of the house. The question made his fingers loosen on the seax.
‘I have not questioned him yet, if that is your concern,’ he said to her. ‘I told him that we are lovers.’ He could not help the satisfaction he felt at her reaction.
‘What?’ The colour fled her face along with her rage. She stared at him as if he had spoken in his own Norse tongue when he was very certain that he had used the Saxon words correctly.
He fought the smile that threatened to make itself known. He very much liked this sparring with her. ‘Wilfrid wanted to know why I was here, who I was. All the normal things that a person questions when finding a stranger in their bedchamber. I told him that my name is Rurik and that I am here as your lover.’
She continued to stare as if his explanation had made no sense, so he asked, ‘Would you prefer that I tell him I am here as your pris—’
‘Do not say it.’
She spoke quickly so that he would not confess the truth and risk Wilfrid hearing. Interesting. He had no idea why she would want to hide the fact that he was a captive from her father-in-law, but he was beyond intrigued. Their voices had risen to a normal conversational tone, so Wilfrid had heard this part. He gave her a nod and reached across his body with his good arm and took her hand.
Strange. Rurik had expected anger and a desire for retribution, but Wilfrid seemed perfectly content that she had taken a lover. Who were these odd people? No one here reacted as he thought they should. Continuing the odd display, Wilfrid brought her hand to his face. He mumbled something, but Rurik could not make it out.
Her eyes glazed with tears that she hastily blinked back. Wilfrid released her and went back to the game as if he were alone. He moved the King, but then also one of the pieces Rurik was supposed to control.
‘He behaves like a child.’ Rurik lowered his voice again so as not to draw Wilfrid’s attention. ‘One moment he is alert and the next he is so absorbed in his game that he does not see us.’
She nodded as pain slashed across her features. ‘I do not know if it is the result of the attacks, but there have been times when he does not even know me, but in the next instant he will call me by name.’
‘That happens often?’
She shook her head. ‘Only a few times and only late at night, like now.’
Her gaze went to Wilfrid, the table, the dagger...anywhere but Rurik. It was as if she did not want to meet his gaze and allow him to see the pain she so clearly felt. Wilfrid was beloved by her. Rurik tried to imagine his own father in a similar state as the old man found himself. Sigurd had been such a powerful man that it was impossible. Would Sigurd ever have sat so easily playing an amusement? Would he have finally welcomed Rurik’s presence at his side?
Clearing his throat, he asked, ‘Why does he not care if we are lovers?’
That question cut through the pain on her face, bringing her eyes sharply back to him. ‘How could you tell him that? It is not the truth.’
‘We did kiss.’
Her chin came up. ‘You stole a kiss.’
‘You would deny that you kissed me back?’ There had been a glorious moment when she had welcomed his kiss, her lips moving beneath his, her tongue in his mouth.
‘This is not appropriate conversation.’ Seeming to gather herself so that she was once more the Queen, lowering herself to address a servant, she asked, ‘Why are you here, Norseman? What do you want from us? Explain yourself.’
She was right. The game between them had gone on long enough. It was time to get to the truth. If the truth resulted in a fight, then Rurik would fight to the death if need be, but he would have answers. ‘I want to know why Wilfrid would want my father dead.’
There was a flicker of knowledge in her eyes. It had gone as quickly as it had appeared, but Rurik was certain he had seen it. Even as she asked the next question, he knew that she already knew the answer. ‘Who is your father?’
‘King Sigurd of Maerr. Wilfrid helped kill him two years ago and I would know why.’
Chapter Six
Annis had known all along that Rurik must have come because of the massacre that had happened in Maerr. She had hoped she was wrong, but deep down, where the scar on her soul was almost too much to bear, she had known. The wound had throbbed to aching life the moment she had heard that someone was in the village asking questions about Wilfrid. Rurik had come to avenge his father’s death. More than his father. There were other dead, too. Possibly family members. She thought of the pregnant woman’s face in the moment the woman had realised death had come to claim her.
Anger and sorrow spun around inside Annis so fast that she was not certain which one she should feel more. It had been the same ever since that day in Maerr—before then, if she was being completely honest. Losing Grim and the baby had been difficult, sowing the seeds for both the fury and the sadness. Maerr had only sharpened them both, putting an edge on an otherwise dull blade. An ache filled her throat so that it was a moment before she could speak.
She could not change her involvement with the past, but she could give Rurik his due. He deserved some sort of answer.
‘I will discuss it with you, but not here.’ She nodded towards Wilfrid.
Unfortunately, Wilfrid had al
ready got wind of their discussion. He sat up straighter, his eyes as sharp and alert as they had ever been. ‘What of Sigurd? Has he come back?’ he asked in the garbled speech she had come to understand. His hand touched her arm and his gaze searched them both almost frantically, as if expecting the news that his enemy was approaching. Rurik probably had not understood every word, but he knew the word Sigurd. His eyes had sharpened.
‘Father.’ Rising, she set the dagger down on the coverlet and moved to his side, casting an anxious glance towards Rurik as she put her arms around Wilfrid’s shoulders to calm him. ‘I have told you before, Sigurd is dead.’
Wilfrid touched her hand and lowered his face. Remembering Sigurd would surely remind him of Grim. She had never seen him cry for Grim, but she knew that he still grieved the death of his son. His only son to reach adulthood.
‘You’re certain?’ he asked. When she assured him that Sigurd was truly dead, he shook his head. ‘I cannot remember. I have trouble remembering.’
‘Perhaps you should lie down. The sun has yet to rise.’ His mind seemed to be muddled the worst during these nights when he did not sleep well. She hoped his wakefulness now did not bode ill for the next day. Watching him struggle to remember the simplest things was a painful reminder of how she was losing him.
He agreed and she helped him stand. His muscles seemed particularly weak on these nights as well, so it was no surprise when his knee gave way. They would have tumbled to the floor had Rurik not grabbed her waist to brace her. Surprise and a strange sort of delight made her glance at the Norseman. He met her gaze, but his expression revealed nothing. His face was as strong and impassive as she had ever seen it. She gave him a nod of thanks and braced her weight under Wilfrid, helping him shift into the bed.
Before pulling the blanket up, he turned to look at Rurik. ‘Good evening. I look forward to speaking with you later in the day.’ The words were spoken as plainly as he was capable, a testament to how important the words were to him. Yet they still managed to run together.
Annis glanced at her long dagger, which had been pushed off on to the floor, and then at the seax in Rurik’s hand. Only then did she notice his knuckles were raw, as if he had dragged them against the stone in his cage, a stark reminder that he was her enemy. There was nothing certain about Rurik not trying to kill them at any moment, yet she did not feel threatened any more. He could have killed them both by now if he chose. Nevertheless, the caution and discipline both Wilfrid and Cedric had instilled in her made her kneel down with caution to collect her weapon.
Rurik noticed. He seemed to notice everything, but his lips pulled tight as he stepped back towards the table. ‘Until later,’ he said to Wilfrid.
This had turned out to be one of the most peculiar nights of her life. Walking in to find her enemy talking to her beloved father-in-law had been bad enough, but then to have to tend to him while Rurik waited to discuss the murder of his father was something she had never imagined would happen. And she had imagined plenty the many forms in which Sigurd’s sons might deliver their retribution to her.
‘Come.’ She mouthed the word more than said it and was relieved when Rurik nodded and made to follow her. The blast of cold air when she opened the door was welcomed. It revived her senses, which she would desperately need as she faced off with the Norseman. Her next task would not be easy.
She stood there, momentarily uncertain where she should take him. When she had been certain just an hour ago that she would be forced to kill him, now she was prepared to explain Wilfrid’s hatred of Sigurd. To hope that there could be a peace between their families. She wanted to lead him back to his cell, but that was obviously out of the question. Not only would he refuse to go there, if Cedric saw him walking free, he would almost certainly attack him on sight. The only answer was that they would have to talk somewhere more private where they would not be disturbed. There was only one place where that was possible.
‘Will you agree to a short truce? We need to talk,’ she said.
He stood beside her, tall and broad, but restrained. Perhaps it was the lingering effect of his earlier noble intentions when he would have saved her from her own men, or the way he had helped with Wilfrid. Or perhaps it was simply that she felt that she deserved at least some of his anger for his family’s fate and she trusted in her abilities to put up a good fight. Whatever it was, she decided to trust him in this.
His suspicious glance took in the rectangular garden, looking for dangers hidden in the shadows. When none revealed themselves, he met her gaze. ‘You have my word. For now.’
It was all that she could ask. Taking a deep breath of the cold, she said, ‘Follow me’, and led him to her chamber. Another chill came over her as she opened the door to let him inside. He followed her cautiously, the seax gripped in his fist as if he expected a guard to be within waiting for him. No one was there, of course, so he stepped into her chamber.
Closing the door behind her and moving by the dim orange glow of the fire in the brazier, she lit the small tray of beeswax candles on her chest and waved him over. Her chamber was smaller than Wilfrid’s and she rarely took her meals here, so she did not have a table and chairs. Instead, she had stools and the chest, which was where she intended for them to sit.
Rurik took in his surroundings as he went, as if he were appraising the space for hidden threats. As a child, she had been relegated to one of the antechambers off the room belonging to Wilfrid’s wife. The woman had died in her childbed the year Annis turned twelve. When Annis had wed Grim many years later, she might have chosen his mother’s chamber for her own, but she chose this one simply because she liked the mosaic tile floor. Left over from the Romans, it was badly crumbled in spots and refurbished in others, but enough of the tiles were left to show olive trees surrounding what would have been a woman. Annis suspected the woman was a goddess, but she could not say which one. She’d had her choice of tapestries, so she had chosen forest scenes which meant the walls were decorated in faded shades of green and gold. It was quite nice in summer when the shutters could be opened to allow in the sunlight. In winter it reminded her that there was more to the world than their grey existence.
Gathering her cloak about her, she took a seat and faced him. He sat on the stool opposite the chest, though he did not relinquish the seax. Not that it mattered. He could take any of the weapons in the room if he wanted. She was taking a huge risk in trusting him, but it was necessary. Short of killing him, which she was glad she had not done, she had to convince him that they could find peace. To do that she needed to convince him that her revenge on Sigurd had been justified.
She nearly laughed aloud in self-mockery. She could not convince the son that the father had earned his death. To even think so was madness. Perhaps she could at least help him understand the why of it.
‘I was not completely aware of it at the time, but it seems that your father, Sigurd, visited our area several summers past.’
‘How many summers?’ His strong tone brooked no omission of the truth.
‘Four.’ Had Grim been gone that long? Sometimes it seemed as if it was only months ago; sometimes it seemed as if it had been for ever.
The Norseman gave her a nod. To call it encouragement would have laughed in the face of his stern expression. It was more of an urging to continue. She could not help but notice how the flickering candlelight painted his features in a soft light, making his eyes mere slits of shadow that held his thoughts secret, while illuminating the pleasing turn of his jawline and high cheekbones. His hair seemed darker where he had pulled it back and secured it with a cord of some sort. The raw masculinity he exuded had her very aware that he was a man and he was in her bedchamber.
Turning her gaze from him while still keeping him in her periphery, she said, ‘Until Sigurd’s visit there were no Norse here. The Danes were well to the east and, while Wilfrid believed that they might attempt expansion, he had been able
to negotiate a peace of sorts. He paid their taxes and no one threatened him. They were too busy with their other wars.’ She took a deep breath, trying to articulate all that she had learned in the years since. ‘Sigurd was an outsider. He did not bow to the Danes, so he would no doubt refuse to bow to Wilfrid. Wilfrid had heard that Sigurd was preparing to set up a camp just north of here. He sent word to the Danes, but he wanted it stopped. He could not wait for a reply before he and Grim—’
She paused, quite certain that the name Grim would be unfamiliar to him. Then another, far worse, thought came to her. Had Rurik been one of the warriors with Sigurd back then? Had he fought with him? Been one of the men to take Grim captive and torture him? This nightmare seemed to get worse. What if she had kissed the man who had delivered the death blow to her husband?
‘Grim?’ he prodded.
Her throat had seemed to close, as if the horror of that thought had been too terrible to let anything in or out. Finally, she was able to force out the words. ‘Wilfrid’s only son. My husband.’
Rurik’s gaze had been on the candle, but it darted up to meet hers. Surprise lit his eyes and relief flooded her that he did not seem to know of Grim, but she had to know for certain.
‘Were you there...to the north when Wilfrid and Grim met with Sigurd?’
‘I was at home in Maerr.’ He shook his head, but did not elaborate.
With no choice but to believe him, she continued. ‘They took men north to confront Sigurd. I do not know the details of those talks, but I do know they ended badly.’
‘Badly? How did they end?’
Death.
‘There was a battle. Sigurd provoked it.’ That was Wilfrid’s claim. Unfortunately, unlike Cedric, Wilfrid had always had a temper that burned hot. She could very well see him insulting Sigurd and provoking a fight. Cedric had stayed behind to guard Mulcasterhas, because they had believed there could be Norse watching who would attack when Wilfrid left. That had turned out not to be true. For the thousandth time she wondered how things might have been different had his level head gone along.
Falling For Her Viking Captive (Sons 0f Sigurd Book 2) Page 7
