by Bobbi Smith
“You terrified the poor servant girl,” she said.
“She came at me with a knife,” he growled.
“You know very well that she was here at my bidding.”
“To slay me?” He glanced up at her mockingly.
“Slay you? Hardly. She was sent to shave you.”
“Slay or shave, it does not matter. Either way, as badly as her hand was shaking, I thought my life in jeopardy. One slip of her hand at my throat and—”
“Had you not intimidated her so fiercely, she would have been fine.”
“There is no need for the beard to be shaved.”
“It will go,” she stated firmly.
“I have worn a beard since I was old enough to grow one.” He raised one thick brow mockingly, his gaze challenging as it met hers.
“You are still not fully recovered and must stay abed for a while longer. You will not be so fond of your long hair and beard if it gets infested with lice. It will be much easier to keep you clean while you are recuperating if you are clean-shaven and your hair is shorter.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You cannot. You are my patient.”
“I am your prisoner,” Brage stated flatly.
“Either way,” she said with a grin she could not hide, “you are at my mercy. If you do not agree to let me shave you . . .”
“You will shave me?” he asked quickly.
“I will shave you,” she repeated with emphasis. “But if you resist, I will call in the guard and have him hold you down till the task is done. Either way, by the midday meal, you will be clean-shaven and your hair will be trimmed. Which will it be, Viking? Will you fight me or surrender?” Once again, Brage had to admire her courage. She did not flinch before him as the silly maid had done. It had been a simple thing to send the maid running from the room with one threatening look. Dynna, however, was made of sterner stuff. His reluctant admiration for her grew. “I find the thought of you taking a blade to me far more appealing than trusting the wench who just fled here in terror.”
“If I were you, I would be more worried.”
“If you had wanted to see me dead, my lady, it would have been a simple matter to let me die from the fever. I doubt my life is in danger from your hand.”
“Only your hair and beard will suffer a cruel fate from me, unless, of course, you are foolish enough to move while I work. Come, sit on the chair, so I can reach you easily.”
Brage mumbled something unintelligible, frustrated that there was no escaping this new torture she had devised. He took the seat and then gritted his teeth as she closed in on him.
Dynna tried to comb some semblance of order to his thick hair. Then with great care, for the blade was sharp, she began to lift sections of his dark mane and trim it short.
Brage sat perfectly still as she moved quietly about him, gently tugging his hair in her effort to shear him. He despised the idea of being made to look like his captors, yet he realized in a way she was doing him a favor. Should the opportunity to escape present itself, he would be far less likely to stand out among the people clean-shaven and with shorter hair.
Dynna’s hands upon him were soft, and the perfumed scent of her was heady and teased him whenever she leaned near. He reminded himself that this woman was his enemy, and yet . . . Brage found himself frowning at nothing in particular.
Dynna was trying to be gentle as she trimmed away his long locks. His hair was thick, and it took her a while to finish with the heavy mane. When at last she was done trimming, she stepped back to survey her handiwork. Though his unruly beard still dominated his face, his hair lay neat and tamed.
“Better. Much better.”
“I am glad you think so,” he told her, staring down at the hair on the floor.
“Now, for your beard.”
He said nothing, but met her eyes as she came to stand before him. He knew there was no escaping the fate she had set for him, and he set his jaw against the degradation of his position. He, the Black Hawk, had been reduced to this—being shorn by a woman, and a Saxon woman at that. Still, he had to admit as she began to trim away the longest part of the growth, that she was one fine-looking Saxon woman.
On several occasions as Dynna labored at her self-appointed duty, Brage was tempted to squirm. It was not an entirely painless ritual, but somehow he maintained his control and did not move. When at last the heaviest part had been cut away, she stood back to look at him.
“Are you done?” he asked hopefully, rubbing his chin to discover that there was still a stiff growth remaining on his jaw.
“No. Not yet.”
Dynna got a bowl of water and soap and rubbed a lather to apply to his cheeks to soften the rest of the bristle. He growled as she turned and came toward him.
“Surely you will not give me trouble now. The guard is but a call away,” she reminded him, feeling quite powerful as she stood over him ready to lather him, knife still in hand.
“In truth, my lady, a knife in your hand when you are angry would give me more pause than any threat from the weakling guard,” he countered.
Dynna could not help but smile as she leaned closer to put the soap to his cheeks and then scrape the last of the offending growth from his face.
Brage could have finished the task himself—if she would have trusted him with the blade. But they were enemies, and he knew she would not hand it over.
As she moved about him, her breath was sweet upon his cheek and her body brushed against his as she strove to shave him cleanly. The touch of her against him stirred him, and that surprised him. He told himself she was merely a woman, a lovely one, but still just a woman. It was normal that he would find her attractive, even if she was the enemy. It was then the realization came to him that he didn’t think of Dynna as an enemy. What foe would have tried to save him, not once but several times, in spite of his own near violent rebuff? What adversary would have stayed by his side night and day to nurse him, when it would have been far easier to let him die? She was not his enemy. But if not that, then what?
Dynna would never have admitted it openly, but she was enjoying the intimacy of shaving Brage. It had been one thing to think of him as an attractive man while she had nursed him, but now that he was up and recovering, she felt an attraction to him that both frightened and excited her. She told herself that even though he had kept her and Matilda from harm, he was not her friend. As Anny had pointed out, he was a Viking. And yet, there was something there that drew her to him, and she knew she had to fight it.
Brage was feeling more and more naked as she finished shaving him. When she moved in front of him to scrape the last remaining whiskers from his chin, the look on his face was thunderous. She paused, fearing she had truly hurt him in some way.
“Are you in pain?”
“The only pain I suffer is that of being made to look like the Saxons,” he told her, grimacing as he ran a hand across the bare nape of his neck.
“It is an improvement, I say.” And she meant it. The shorter hair brought more emphasis to his eyes and then-penetrating, blue intensity. His jaw, bared to her gaze now, was firm and strong. He had been intriguing before, but now, seeing his face clearly for the first time, she found the hard, masculine lines of his face mesmerizing.
He grunted as he rubbed his jaw again and found it smooth.
“I think perhaps having you at my mercy is not such a bad thing.”
“You do hold the blade.” He glanced down at the weapon she held, knowing he could take it from her in an instant—if he wanted to. But even as he considered it, he also knew that this was not the time. He needed to regain more strength, so that when he did make his escape he could travel far and fast.
“And there is the guard,” she reminded him almost sweetly.
“It would seem that fate has decreed that I am to be in your power. But I wonder, Lady Dynna, how you expect me to remain this clean-shaven? Would you shave me every day or leave me the knife so that I might do the deed myself?
”
“I think, perhaps, one of the servants will tend to it from now on.”
He smiled slightly, remembering how easy it had been to intimidate the one woman. If Dynna was not wont to shave him, he might have his beard back sooner than he thought.
“The men are well versed in shaving,” she went on, after seeing the look in his eyes. “I am sure there are any number of Sir Thomas’s guards who would derive pleasure in taking a knife to you. Now I will be back later to look in on you.”
His smile faded as she left him. He heard the door being barred after she had gone, and he was reminded once again of his situation. For a moment, while she had been there, he had managed to think of other things besides his captivity, but alone again, he knew he had to start planning. He forced himself to stand and tried to walk around the room. The sooner he got his strength back, the better.
Hereld traveled as quickly as he could, but there was no fast or easy way to Anslak’s village. It had been several years since he had last met the Viking leader, and while Hereld knew the general location, he was not certain of the exact site. It took him two extra days, but he finally located the fjord that led to the secluded and protected settlement.
Hereld could almost smell the gold that would soon be his. It would not be long now. All he had to do was meet with Anslak, get him to agree to the ransom, and then set up the meeting place so the exchange could be made. He would soon be a very well-to-do merchant. He mentally rubbed his hands together in delight over the idea as he sailed toward the village landing area.
The horns sounded his coming, and the people came down to meet the ship. Hereld was welcomed cautiously into their midst.
“What brings you to our village?” Lynsey, one of the men, asked as Hereld climbed from his craft and walked up the bank toward those gathered there.
“I am Hereld, trader and merchant by profession. I have come seeking Anslak. This is his village, is it not?”
“Aye, you have found the right place. What do you wish to see him about?”
“It is an important matter, so it would be best if I spoke to him directly.”
“Very well. I will take you to his house.”
Hereld left his small crew behind on the ship as he followed the villager up the rocky hillside toward the town. They reached Anslak’s home, and Lynsey called out for him.
Tove emerged from inside.
“We have a visitor, Tove,” Lynsey informed her. “He wishes to talk to Anslak.”
“My husband is not here right now.” She turned to look at the stranger. “What is it you needed of him? I am his wife. Perhaps I can help you.”
Hereld thought for a moment, and then decided to tell her of his mission. Certainly, word of his coming might reach the Viking leader faster if he knew how crucial the matter was.
“I have come bearing news from Lord Alfrick’s land.”
Ulf had seen the stranger speaking to Tove and approached curiously. When he heard him mention the Saxon lord, he interrupted.
“What of Lord Alfrick?” His manner was tense and threatening as he loomed over the smaller man.
Tove was glad Ulf had joined the conversation, for she was not quite sure what to make of this man.
“Who are you?” Hereld demanded.
“I am Ulf. Anslak is my father. What news do you bring about Lord Alfrick?”
“Tell your father that Lord Alfrick has sent a message for him. Tell him that after your raid, something very valuable was left behind. Tell him that Lord Alfrick wants a ransom for the return . . .”
Ulf’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you talking about? Do not speak in riddles. Tell me straight out what it is you know.”
Hereld decided to blurt out everything. “I have come bearing news that Lord Alfrick holds the Black Hawk prisoner. He knows that the Black Hawk is the son of Anslak, and he will ransom him back to his father for six hundred pounds of gold.”
“You lie!” Ulf exploded, snatching the man up by the front of his tunic, giving him a violent shake. Fear lanced Ulf’s heart. Brage could not be alive. They had seen him slain. They had searched for him.
“Lie?” Hereld protested. “Why would I lie?”
“For gold, of course.” His icy gaze pinned the man with contempt. “I have dealt with your kind before. You will get no fool’s gold from us. Be gone, before my father thrashes you himself.”
“I will not leave! Lord Alfrick has sent me here to tell Anslak that the Black Hawk lives, and I have proof to back up my words!”
“Proof ?” Kristoffer had heard Ulf’s exclamations and had come out of the house to learn more. “What proof could there be? We saw him killed. You dare to give us hope that our brother survived!?”
“You saw him wounded, and wounded he was—severely. But Lord Alfrick has seen to it that he was healed. He holds him now for the ransom. Will you pay? Or shall I return and tell him he was mistaken, that the Black Hawk’s life is of no importance to you?”
His challenge increased Ulf’s fury. “What proof do you have?”
“His vest . . .” Hereld dug into his pouch and drew out Brage’s vest. “See the rend and the bloodstains? The wound was serious, but it was not fatal. Your brother is alive and a captive of Lord Alfrick.”
Ulf snatched the garment from his hands and knew immediately that it was his brother’s. “How did you come by this?”
“It was taken from him when they treated his wounds. Once they discovered who he was, they could not let him die. They will take fine care of him until you pay the ransom.”
“Lynsey, go find my father. Kristoffer, ride with him,” Ulf ordered brusquely as he crushed the garment in his hands. Doubt raged through him. This man had to be a liar—an opportunist who had come on his own to stake a false claim to riches. He had to be, and yet, if Brage were alive . . . They would have to proceed, but they would have to be careful.
Tove invited the trader in and served him a drink as they waited for Anslak’s return. As they sat in the Viking leader’s home, Ulf wondered how his father would respond to the news, if he would believe this man. The whole village had been grieving since learning of the deaths of Brage and his men. He hoped this was not a scheme invented by a greedy merchant to fatten his coffers.
More than an hour passed before Lynsey and Kristoffer arrived back at the house with Anslak.
“Tove! Ulf! What is this story that Lynsey and Kris have brought me?” Anslak bellowed as he stormed inside. “Where is this merchant, that I may look in his eye as he speaks and see the truth of his words?”
Since hearing the tale, a fragile bud of hope had been planted in Anslak’s breast. He was trying with all his might to temper it. He had accepted, albeit painfully, the news of his son’s death, and now . . . It would be cruel to nurture hope, if these were lies the man was telling. It was Anslak’s dream, his heart’s wish, his one and only hope that Brage would be alive. If this man could show him real proof that his son lived, he would pay any price to have Brage back.
“Anslak, it is good to see you again. I am Hereld. We dealt together some time ago in Birka.”
“I remember our meeting,” he said, recalling their encounter at that trade center and eyeing him cautiously. He knew the man to be a shrewd bargainer. “What is this news you bring of my son Brage? All who sailed with him believed him to be dead, and yet you bring news that he lives?”
“I do, and I have proof to show you.” He gestured toward Ulf, who still had the vest.
Ulf held it up for his father to see.
“That is his,” Kristoffer confirmed.
“But it is no proof that he lives,” Ulf argued. “This is only proof that you found his body on the battlefield.”
“He was found, wounded but alive, at the scene of the fighting. He was taken before Lord Alfrick, and when he was recognized as the Black Hawk, Lord Alfrick decided to ransom him back to you.”
Anslak went to Ulf and took the garment from him. He studied the slash across the b
ack and the dried blood upon it. “It was indeed a grievous wound,” he said in a harsh voice.
“Alfrick knew he was valuable, so he saw to it that a healer nursed him. The Black Hawk is recovering.”
Anslak was still staring down at the vest. His son might be alive . . . Brage might be alive!! His hope was growing, and his heart swelled to near bursting with the good news. His eyes burned with tears he could never shed. “How much does Lord Alfrick demand for my son’s life?”
“Six hundred pounds of gold.” Hereld complimented himself on being so cagey.
“And what is your part in all of this?”
“I am to return with your answer and one hundred pounds of gold as proof of your intent. I am to arrange the time and place where the meeting is to be held so the exchange can be made.”
Anslak nodded. “Leave us, Hereld. I must speak with my sons.” He waved the man from the room.
Tove took Hereld outside, leaving Anslak, Ulf, and Kristoffer alone to talk.
“Does he lie, my sons?” he asked them, valuing their counsel.
“It is hard for me to believe a word of what he says,” Kristoffer said.
“I do not trust the Saxons. But this trader . . .” Ulf was skeptical.
“I have had dealings with him,” Anslak explained. “I know he is a sly one when it comes to turning a profit, but I do not think he would needlessly put his own life at stake. There is truth to his words, but how much truth, I am not certain. Even so, dare we risk that Brage is alive and we do nothing to save him?”
“No. We must rescue him. We must pay the ransom.” Ulf was firm.
“We must save him from the Saxons,” Kristoffer agreed.
“It is settled then. For Hereld’s purpose, we agree to Alfrick’s demand. For our own purpose, we will talk more after the merchant sets sail.”
The two sons nodded in assent, and the trader was brought back to them.
“We will pay the ransom for my son’s freedom.”
Hereld’s eyes lit up at the knowledge that by adding the extra hundred pounds to the ransom, he had just made himself a fine purse. He was pleased. “When do I sail with the first payment of the gold?”
