The Viking's Gift

by Anna Markland

  *

  Wulfram was reluctant to draw out the parchment from his gambeson, but realized it was the only way to convince the cooper. He held the missive close to his chest hoping only Godric could see the royal seal. “You understand why I cannot break the seal and show you the contents, but I am confident you’ve heard of the murder of the tax collectors in your town. The king wants revenge.”

  Godric closed one eye and arched the other brow. “An’ he means to slaughter all o’ we?”

  Wulfram nodded.

  “An’ burn the town? Nay, our earl won’t allow a yuletide massacre.”

  “He’ll have no choice if he values his and his family’s lives. But we must hope he will be glad to find the city empty when he sets about the destruction.”

  Godric raked filthy nails through his bushy red beard for so long Wulfram feared the grating sound might drive him mad. Finally, he tightened the ties of his leather apron. “I’ll get folk together to spread the word. Fulbert the Fletcher, mayhap and Judith the Alewife…”

  “We must avoid panic. Get an orderly exodus going to the abbey at Pershore without alerting the authorities.”

  “Aye,” Godric agreed. “Leave it to me.” He strode away a few paces but then turned and came back. “I thank ye fer yer bravery. And yon lass, too.”

  I Only Wish

  The next day, Wulfram delivered Roswitha, a full purse and an empty cart to her dwelling in Pershore, dismayed to discover she lived in a hovel that wouldn’t be considered fit for his family’s thralls back home.

  He’d enjoyed her company on the journey from Worcester and was glad she seemed to have lost some of her nervousness, even leaning back against him on the horse.

  He’d bought a salve for her sore hands from an apothecary and the pleasant minty aroma filled his nostrils.

  He dismounted and lifted her down, reluctant to leave. She gripped his shoulders and he wanted to hold her to his body, but her stepfather’s growl and Sandor’s grin dissuaded him. The expectation in her green eyes turned to disappointment.

  Her stepfather didn’t rise from the stone on which he sat. It was worrisome that they exchanged no words of affection. Roswitha handed over the bulging purse. The old cripple merely nestled it at his groin, then grunted and spat when she explained who they were. His attention seemed fixed on the scores of folk trudging by on their way to the abbey.

  “Your daughter has helped save hundreds of lives,” Wulfram told him. “You should be proud.”

  The old man scowled at Roswitha as if he didn’t know her, then squinted up at Wulfram. “Ye be a Dane.”

  He balked at explaining once again that he was from Jomsborg so he got to the heart of the matter. “These folk are from Worcester. They seek sanctuary at Pershore Abbey from King Harthacanute’s wrath.”

  “Said there’d be trouble on ‘count o’ the killin’. They bin traipsin’ by all day,” was the response.

  Roswitha touched Wulfram’s arm and stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “He sometimes drinks too much ale when the pain in his legs is bad.”

  He drew her away and held her cold hands. “I am loath to leave you here, Roswitha. When the king learns of what I’ve done, I will be banished.”

  Tears rolled down her frost-reddened cheeks. “You’ll leave England?”

  He brushed away a teardrop with his thumb. “Don’t weep for me. I shall be glad to return home to Jomsborg. I only wish…”

  *

  Roswitha wished with all her heart she could go with Wulfram to the homeland he loved so dearly and had talked about almost without surcease. He’d hinted he needed a wife, but that didn’t mean…

  She’d never wanted to be anyone’s wife, having witnessed her mother’s suffering, though she doubted Wulfram would ever use his fists on a woman.

  But her duty lay here, in Pershore, helping her stepfather. “I wish you Godspeed then, Wulfram,” she croaked, avoiding his gaze.

  Her heart careened around her ribcage when he folded her in his massive arms, and lifted her to his hard body. “Come with me, Roswitha. I want you for wife.”

  His mouth was so close to hers, she could almost kiss him. She’d dreamt of his lips on hers since he’d kissed her hand. But such was a foolish notion. She shook her head. “You barely know me.”

  “I know enough. My heart and my body tell me you are the one.”

  Her stepfather brandished a crutch. “Leave her be, Viking, and be gone.”

  She pushed against his chest. “Best you put me down or he’ll be angry.”

  He obeyed, his jaw clenched. “Is he ever not angry?”

  She was torn. “He has suffered a lot. You cannot blame him.” She spoke the truth, though she’d never reveal Kennald’s goading of the tax collectors had incensed them to brutality.

  Wulfram’s brother whistled.

  “You are needed,” she said. “See them safely to the abbey.”

  He tucked an errant curl behind her ear. “I want to kiss you goodbye, Roswitha, but I am hesitant to bring your stepfather’s wrath down on your head.” He reached into his gambeson and drew out something that he pressed into her hand. “Take this as a remembrance of me.”

  As he strode away and mounted Banki, she uncurled her fingers. He’d gifted her an amulet—a drop of amber with a tiny blue flower blooming forever at its center. She clutched it to her breast. “I will treasure it always,” she whispered tearfully.

  Inexplicable Forces

  Wulfram had thought never to part with the talisman his mother had given him. Audra had a special place in her heart for the bluebells she liked to call Pixies’ Thimbles.

  It was fitting he’d gifted it to Roswitha as a token of his love, for he admitted the feelings swelling in his heart and loins were proof he loved her. And she likely needed luck more than he did.

  That notion was cast into doubt when he and Sandor espied a group of mounted men amid the excited throngs gathered in the abbey grounds.

  “Trouble,” Sandor warned.

  They rode ahead until they were challenged by a soldier. “What business have ye with the earl?”

  “Earl Leofric is here?” Wulfram asked, taking the missive from his gambeson. “I have a message for him from the king.”

  The soldier eyed him skeptically and he was relieved when Godric the Cooper pushed his way out of the crowd. “He speaks true. ’Tis as I bin tryin’ to explain to the earl.”

  The aforesaid earl chose that moment to ride up, his lady not far behind.

  Wulfram dismounted and went down on one knee, bowed his head and held the parchment high. “I am Wulfram Sigmarsen, my lord, son of the Governor of Jomsborg, and I carry a message from King Harthacanute.”

  Leofric dismounted, took the scroll and tapped it against his thigh. “On my way home from Coventry I found all these people here who have fled Worcester. Then Godric tells me the king wants me to destroy my town and slaughter my own people—at Yuletide. No son of King Canute would expect such a thing.”

  Wulfram risked looking up. “He speaks true. Harthacanute is not the devout Christian his father was. He seeks vengeance for the murder of his tax collectors.”

  Leofric glanced at his ashen-faced wife, then turned his attention back to Wulfram. “And I assume it was you who told Godric of the contents of this private letter?”

  Wulfram swallowed hard, wishing he had the amber talisman. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You are a Dane, yet you betray your Danish king to an English earl.”

  Wulfram had hoped Leofric would know of Jomsborg, but decided this wasn’t the time to point out that his homeland wasn’t in Denmark. However, he had to make his motives clear. “We are all interested in the wellbeing of the English, my lord. I took the liberty of assuming you would be obliged to carry out the destruction of Worcester, but it would weigh heavily if you had to slaughter your own people.”

  Lady Godiva urged her horse forward. Wulfram couldn’t recall ever seeing tresses so long nor a face so fair. “This
man knows you well, Husband,” she said softly, “though he has never met you before.”

  Leofric smiled grimly and ripped open the parchment. He scanned the contents quickly then stuffed it into his gambeson, signaling for Wulfram to rise. “Indeed, you are right that I must lay waste to a town I have striven to make prosper, but I thank you for relieving me of the burden of the slaughter of innocents.”

  He remounted and declared loudly. “My wife will remain here with our people while I attend to my duty as a loyal subject of the king.”

  People cheered, though it was clear they were dismayed at the fate that had befallen their earl and their town. They slowly trooped into the abbey, shepherded by the monks.

  Leofric leaned down to speak to Wulfram. “My advice is to flee England and find a place where Harthacanute will never think of looking. The man is dying anyway so you won’t have to hide for long. Rumor abounds that he has summoned his half-brother back from exile in Normandy. Edward the Confessor will likely be named heir to the throne, thanks to his mother’s influence.”

  Wulfram smiled, gladdened by the prospect of leaving the turmoil of English politics behind. “I know the perfect hiding place.”

  *

  Frozen to the bone, Roswitha hurried along the path to the abbey, clutching the amber talisman fastened around her neck. She prayed all would be well and she would arrive in time. She wore her only other prized possession—her mother’s shawl.

  If Leofric sentenced Wulfram to death, she had to speak for him, even if it meant putting her own life in jeopardy.

  Upon hearing the thud of horses’ hooves, she scrambled to hide in a ditch behind a clump of bushes. A man she recognized as the earl galloped by at the head of a large troop of soldiers. She’d feared he might expect Wulfram to ride with him to destroy Worcester, but her Viking wasn’t among them.

  Heartsick, she hurried on, breathlessly chanting a prayer for the folk in Worcester who hadn’t listened.

  Panic threatened to stop her heart. If Wulfram wasn’t with Leofric, then mayhap he had already fled—without her. Had she left it too late to come to her senses?

  Out of breath, frozen limbs aching, she paused as the abbey came into view. There was no going back to a life of degradation and hardship with her stepfather. She’d done what she could and hadn’t kept any of the coin from the Worcester market.

  And then she saw them. Wulfram and Sandor, riding at a gallop out of the abbey precinct. In the opposite direction.

  She fell to her knees, calling on the Holy Infant and the spirit of the talisman to come to her aid.

  *

  Wulfram’s parents had taught him that there are forces at work in the world that cannot be explained by ordinary mortals. They often told the story of dark, magical events they’d witnessed firsthand years ago in the desolate English wasteland of Dartmoor.

  He paid heed, therefore, when a voice in his head whispered that Roswitha would come to him.

  He reined to a halt. “Hold, Sandor,” he shouted to his adopted brother. “She will come.”

  He turned, scanning the path to Pershore Abbey one last time. His heart threatened to burst out of his chest when he caught sight of Roswitha kneeling on the frozen ground. He urged Banki to a gallop.

  She got to her feet and waved both arms.

  He leapt from the beast, cupped his hands on her bottom and lifted her to his body, not sure if coherent words would emerge from his constricted throat. “I knew, I knew you would come.”

  “Forgive me, Wulfram. I wanted to flee with you, but I was afraid and I thought it my duty to stay with my stepfather. But he doesn’t love me.”

  “I do love you, Roswitha,” he said truthfully.

  Tears welled. “As I love you, courageous Jomsviking. You are my Yuletide gift.”

  “My kiss is my pledge of fealty to you, Roswitha of Pershore.”

  He kissed her then, elated when she opened with just a little coaxing and allowed his tongue entry, sucking happily as a babe sucks at a mother’s teat. Could it be she was a woman of passion as well as loyal, beautiful and brave? His pik thought so and rejoiced.

  The need for breath, and urgent shouts from Sandor, broke them apart.

  “Leofric advised us to flee,” he warned. “We face a long and perilous journey to Jomsborg.”

  The trust in her green eyes awed him. “I’ll never be fearful again with you as my champion,” she whispered.

  He lifted her onto Banki. “Much as I loved having you ride in my lap, we’ll make better progress if you cling to my back.”

  They quickly joined Sandor and galloped boldly into a future that held more promise than he’d ever dared hope.

  Responsibility

  Worcester was the furthest from Pershore Roswitha had ever ventured. She had no notion where they were headed, even though Wulfram had told her Sandwich was on the east coast. His deep voice and the lilt of his accented English fascinated her more than the details of the longboat he spoke of with great pride. She’d never seen the sea, or a boat for that matter.

  For most of the first leg of their journey, she clung to Wulfram, trembling. The ride to Worcester had been unsettling. The speed at which they rode now was terrifying. She kept her eyes tightly closed and didn’t see anything of the unknown towns and villages. Entrusting her life to a boat loomed as an act of lunacy, as did the prospect of living in a foreign land with a man she barely knew.

  The bitter cold added to her conviction that leaving Pershore had been a mistake. By the time they stopped to water the horses and see to their needs, she couldn’t form a coherent thought or move frozen limbs.

  Wulfram dismounted and lifted her down. “I’m a thoughtless brute,” he rasped, enfolding her in his embrace. “You felt warm against my back, but you’re freezing.”

  She wanted to reassure him his warmth had kept her alive, but she seemed to have no control over her chattering teeth.

  He shrugged off his fur mantle and wrapped it around her. “You’ll soon feel better,” he said, rubbing her forearms.

  His ministrations and the look of concern in his eyes melted the ice in her veins and restored hope in her heart. Only her feet remained frozen.

  “Find yourself a private spot in the bushes,” he said with a smile. “I’ll have something to keep your feet warm when you return.”

  She waddled off in the fur cocoon, stunned by the novelty of having someone anticipate her needs. Her late mother had tried her best, but Kennald cared not a whit for her wellbeing.

  When she returned from the bushes, Wulfram lifted her onto a massive fallen log and went down on one knee before her. He took off her sandals and rubbed her feet, one by one. She stared at him, open-mouthed. What manner of man was this Viking? Delwyn was the only person of her acquaintance who ever showed kindness to anyone, and folk reckoned it was only because he was simple-minded.

  He glanced up and caught her staring. “What’s amiss?”

  She snuggled deeper into the mantle. “No one has ever touched my feet before.”

  She was hesitant to admit the press of his thumbs into her soles was sparking pleasant sensations in other, even more private parts of her body. When he kissed her toes and massaged the pad of each one, she was lost in a flood of lustful craving. “Wulfram,” she whispered.

  He arched both brows, a gleam of mischief in his eyes, as if he knew she lusted for him. “Now for the leggings,” he said. “All I could find for the moment.”

  She watched in awe, almost moved to tears as he carefully wrapped lengths of deer-hide around her feet and secured them with laces. He’d cut up his own leggings to provide her with warmer footwear. “I always thought Vikings were brutes,” she confessed.

  A hint of annoyance flashed in his eyes, but it passed quickly. “Well, you never met a Jomsviking before.”

  He carried her to Banki, and mounted. “Let’s go,” he snarled at Sandor, who seemed to find something amusing.

  She supposed she did look odd with her feet wrapped
in Wulfram’s leggings.

  *

  Wulfram worried about the long journey ahead. He and his brother were used to fending for themselves and living off the land. Roswitha had led a difficult life, and it was his responsibility to make sure she not only survived the journey, but was as comfortable as he could make her. Taking care of a woman was a new and awesome responsibility, and he knew in his heart she was the right mate. For the first time, he understood his father’s assertion that cherishing a woman completed a man.

  He and Sandor had no intention of risking an encounter with Harthacanute by detouring to Winchester to retrieve the few belongings left there. The weather would hopefully warm as they traveled south. If they made good progress, he planned to make the five-day journey in three. The hospitality of other Jomsvikings who’d settled in various parts of England was a given.

  Then they’d be at sea for a sennight. He’d never been a man to lust after women. Now that Roswitha had captured the interest of his pik, he couldn’t set his mind to anything other than taking her to his bed. However, she was a precious gift from God, brought to him in this holy season of Advent. He had no intention of taking her maidenhead until they were wed.

  Eight days at close quarters would test his mettle.

  *

  On the first night of their journey, Roswitha curled into the fresh-smelling linens of the tiny bed and stared at the three little children asleep in front of the hearth. Their parents had insisted they give up their bed for her and they’d done so without complaint.

  Close by, Wulfram and Sandor sat at a deeply-grooved wooden table conversing in hushed tones with a man and woman they’d apparently met before. Earlier, she’d sat at the same table and filled her belly with a delicious rabbit stew.

  Wulfram smiled across at her reassuringly from time to time, obviously aware she didn’t understand a word of the language they spoke. The flames illuminated the chiseled lines of his ruggedly handsome face and turned his fair hair into a glowing halo.