by Josie Litton
“Grab her legs,” he yelled to the other two. Cymbra made to scream but he clapped a hand over her mouth. When she tried to bite him, he reared back and struck her hard across the face. Lights danced before her eyes again. As though from a great distance, she heard him snarling, “Bitch! Saxon whore! You're not fit for anything but this. Dammit, get her legs open!”
Someone was pulling at her ankles. She fought with all her strength but a dark cloud seemed to be sucking her down. She smelled the rank stench of ale and sweat mingling with rampant lust. The attacker slammed his hand over her mouth again, his fingers pinching her nostrils closed. She couldn't breathe; her lungs screamed for air. A last thought like a soundless sob welled up in her—Wolf.
Chapter NINETEEN
BRIGHT LIGHT MOVED BEFORE CYMBRA'S shuttered eyes, so bright that she flinched from it. She heard voices but they seemed to be far away. A hand touched her brow and she jerked weakly in response.
“Be easy, my lady. Everything is all right. You are safe now.”
Ulfrich, very close to her, his voice husky with concern. Slowly, she opened her eyes just enough to peer at him, closed them instantly against the light of flaring torches that seemed to fill the stable, then opened them again.
“Ulfrich … ?” Was that her voice, so faint and reedy?
His worn face creased in a smile of profound relief. “It is I, my lady, and glad I am that you know it.” He slipped an arm behind her shoulders. “Here now, I'm going to help you sit up just a little. If it pains your head too much, tell me at once.”
Her head did throb but not overly so. She held on to him as he lifted her with the utmost gentleness and steadied her. She smelled sweet hay and oats and realized she was still in the stall.
Her eyes were adjusting to the light. She could make out the shapes of men, some very close, many more just beyond. A torch flared suddenly and she caught a glimpse of Dragon, his face very hard and tight. He looked at her then, met her eyes, and for a moment she thought she saw surprise mingling with the greatest relief. Then he was gone and she tilted her head back against the wall, her eyes beginning to close.
“Lord …” Ulfrich again, sounding cautious … worried.
There was movement beside her, a sense of overwhelming strength and power. She reached out a hand and it was caught fast, pressed against a rock-hard chest.
“Wolf—”
He said nothing but drew her to him, cradling her in his arms, his big hand stroking her hair so gently as to bring tears to her eyes. Instantly, as she felt his touch, the sweet balm of relief flowed through her. She gasped, surprised by how quickly she could feel safe again, yet in another way not surprised at all. Her solitude was gone; she was joined to this man in a way she would never have believed possible. In truth, she would have feared it, believing as she had that she could exist in the world only when sealed off behind walls of her own making. Now she knew that was not true, and in the discovery she rejoiced.
Off to the side, Ulfrich spoke quietly. “There are bruises and scratches, lord, but otherwise she is unharmed.”
Memories surfaced like sharp, painful shards of ice yet seen as though from a distance, no longer having the power to hurt her. She tried to sit up only to be prevented by her husband, who continued to hold her with carefully measured strength.
“Brita … Magnus … ?” Her voice quivered.
“They will both be fine,” Ulfrich said quickly. “The lass took a blow to her head but she's already regained consciousness. She'd be here fussing over you herself if we let her. Magnus lost some blood but not so much that he won't recover.”
Cymbra offered up a silent, fervent prayer of thanks for the mercy shown this night even as the means of it remained inexplicable. “How did you … ?” She twisted slightly looking up into her husband's hooded gaze. “How did you find us?”
He stared down at her, his expression inscrutable. Only the jagged beating of a pulse in his jaw revealed the emotion he was keeping in savage check. “I heard you scream.”
She frowned, thinking she misunderstood yet knowing she had not. The stable was much too far from the feasting halls for anyone there to have heard anything, even without accounting for the noise of the feast itself. There was no possible way he could have known she was in danger. Yet he had known and he had come, otherwise she would not have been there now, safe in his arms, unhurt but for a few bruises.
A tremor raced through her, and another, as the meaning of his words became clear in her mind. She was suddenly shaking so badly she felt she might come apart. He held her as the storm broke, murmuring to her softly, his arms her shelter from the world.
Dimly, she was aware of him lifting her, carrying her from the stable. The murmur of voices fell silent as they passed, picked up again behind them. Cool night air touched her. She nestled her head against his chest and refused to let herself think of anything at all.
A large tub of steaming water had been prepared inside the lodge. Wolf set his wife down carefully on the bed and knelt beside her. He gazed for a moment at the torn gown but said nothing as he eased it over her head. To his great relief she did not protest or show any fear of him. He sensed the still watchfulness that had settled within her, guessed that she was carefully and cautiously trying to come to terms with what had happened. Her trust in him was one more blessing among all those for which he would give proper thanks in due time.
But first he had other matters with which to concern himself.
His big, callused hands were gentle as he caught her hair up and secured it at the top of her head with the pins he had seen her use for the same purpose. That done, he lifted her again and carefully lowered her into the bath.
As she sighed deeply and settled into the water, he had his first real chance to observe the damage done to her. His eyes glittered with deadly rage as he saw the rapidly darkening bruises on her arms and legs, and along her back. There were thin red scratches near her breasts where her gown had been torn, and one cheek was already swelling where she had been struck.
Slowly, methodically, he took note of each injury. Only the knowledge that it could have been much worse—indeed, would have been had he not arrived when he did—allowed him to suppress the red-hot, churning sea of rage that threatened to consume him. That and the cold, steel-edged resolve that had already determined how this would all end.
He lathered her lavender-scented soap between his hands and began stroking them over her silken skin, going most carefully where she was bruised. She made a soft murmur of contentment and let her eyes close. Beneath his touch, he felt her relax further and knew that to be yet more evidence of her trust in him.
When she was clean, he lifted her from the tub and, still with greatest care, dried her. She stood silently, allowing him to do as he would even when he knelt and gently patted the cloth over her buttocks and between her thighs. She shivered delicately at his touch. The shadows beneath her eyes and her unaccustomed passivity meant that the first wave of relief had come and gone, leaving her to cope with the shock of the attack.
When she trembled again, he knew she was remembering, reliving fragments as he himself had done in the aftermath of battles. Experience told him that would happen to her over and over, possibly for years to come.
Rage at the men who had done this surged so powerfully that for a moment he could see nothing but a red mist, hear nothing but the drumbeat of his warrior's heart. Only the overwhelming power of his will coupled with the vast love he bore her allowed him to force it back down and concentrate on what had to be done.
Just then, he would have given almost anything to be able to take Cymbra to their bed, to hold her chastely and protectively throughout the night. But this time the wishes of the man and the husband had to be subordinate to the duty of the jarl.
He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes when he dropped a fresh gown over her head and helped her draw her arms through it. Saw, too, the dawning awareness that this matter was not over yet. Indeed, could
not be until punishment had been rendered. He went swiftly then, finishing the job, hoping she had not yet realized what he and most likely every other resident of Sciringesheal already knew, namely that the jarl's Saxon bride had disobeyed him yet again.
Standing before her, aware of how very small and delicate she was in comparison to himself, he breathed in the warm, womanly scent of her skin as he loosened the pins holding her hair. As it fell, he caught masses of it in his hands, trailing the chestnut tendrils through his fingers.
He thought of the first moment he had seen her, coming down the stairs to the dungeon at Holyhood, the torchlight gleaming in the glory of her hair, her slim and supple body so graceful, her expression determined despite the fear he knew she must have felt. Never had he known a woman to show such courage. He prayed she would find that now.
“Come,” he said, and taking her hand in his, he led her from the lodge.
ACROWD TOO LARGE TO FIT INTO THE GREAT HALL had assembled just outside it. Torches set on poles in the ground defined a large circle in which firelit shadows danced ominously. Dragon stood just inside the rim of light, waiting.
Wolf gave Cymbra into his brother's care, strode to the center of the circle, and stood for a moment looking at the several hundred people gathered there. Many were his own people, warriors, merchants and their wives. Others were guests come from throughout the Vestfold. Without exception, their faces were tightly drawn with shock and anger, yet were they riven by conflicting loyalties. What had been intended as a feast of reconciliation threatened suddenly to become the beginning of all-out war.
Wolf stood unmoving, his feet planted firmly apart and his fists resting on his narrow hips. The summer tunic he wore revealed the massive breadth of his chest and shoulders. Torchlight rippled over the powerful muscles of his bronzed arms and legs. Inches taller than every man there save Dragon, superbly honed by a life of battles, he exuded an aura of power and command that none could mistake. What little sound there had been—the rustling of those still maneuvering for better position—died away. Into the silence, he raised an arm toward a point along the circle. “Bring them.”
The crowd parted. Guards led in the three attackers. Their weapons were gone and their hands were shackled behind their backs. The short, stocky one was plainly terrified; the taller, lanky one almost as much so; but the third, the one Cymbra thought of as the ring leader, wore an air of sneering bravado.
Wolf saw it, too. The mane of his ebony hair swayed against his shoulders as he bared his teeth in a feral snarl.
Looking from her husband to the attackers and back again, Cymbra saw several men she didn't know standing near Wolf. One was genuinely grieved although he struggled manfully to conceal it, while the others seemed more angry than sorrowful. Moreover, their anger appeared to be directed at the assailants. They barely glanced at the three before looking away in disgust.
She stiffened when she realized that Brita, too, was being led forward to stand before Wolf. Brother Joseph was beside her, lending his quiet support, but the Irish girl looked strong and composed. She stared directly at the would-be rapists, her head high and her gaze unflinching.
Next, Magnus was carried in on a litter. He was very pale, and the arm laid outside the blanket that covered him was wrapped in a bloodstained bandage. Ulfrich walked beside him, scarcely taking his eyes from his patient.
When they were all assembled, Wolf looked at Brita. Gently he said, “Tell us what happened.”
She did, succinctly and clearly, describing how she had been on her way to bed when the three attacked. She remembered being dragged behind the women's quarters and into the stable.
“Then one of them, I don't know which, hit me in the forehead. I lost consciousness and remember nothing further until I came to in the stall when it was all over.”
Murmurings spread through the crowd but were quickly hushed when Wolf turned his attention to Magnus. The young man struggled to rise from the litter, but Wolf quickly gestured him back into place as Ulfrich knelt with a word of admonishment. His voice weak but his words clear, he told what he, too, had seen and done.
“Then I explained to the Lady Cymbra that I could not leave my post. She went back inside and for a moment I thought she intended to do nothing further.” His mouth twisted at the memory of his foolishness. Wolf shot him a sympathetic glance that gave him the courage to continue. It was no easy thing to report on the behavior of the jarl's wife to the jarl himself.
“However, I quickly discovered my error when she climbed out a window and ran past me toward where the girl had been taken.” He looked directly at Wolf, his expression obviously apprehensive yet resolute. “I followed at once but when I entered the stall, they—” he paused, taking a breath that obviously pained him, “they struck the lady, and when I saw that happen I was so shocked for a moment that I hesitated. Thus were they able to gain the advantage and attack before I was properly prepared for them.” He hung his head, shamed by his failure. Softly, he said, “I beg your forgiveness, lord.”
Cymbra pressed her lips tightly together lest she cry out that the young man deserved no blame. The blame was her own for involving him.
Before she could declare that, Wolf went down on one knee beside the youth. He touched his brow lightly and said so that all could hear, “You were one against three. There is no need for apology; you fulfilled your duty.”
The young man's look of profound relief and gratitude brought tears to Cymbra's eyes. She was still blinking them away when she realized that her husband had summoned her to speak next.
No, not her husband. The hooded-eyed man who gazed at her without expression was not the man in whose arms she had lain, whose body had joined so passionately with hers, whose very heart had beat in unison with her own. She knew with sudden, stark certainty that she stood before the mightiest and most feared warlord ever to come out of the northlands. The man whose plans for accord among the Norse were threatened with ruin because of the choice made by one disobedient Saxon bride. Not for a moment did she doubt that he would judge her without mercy.
As she stepped forward into the circle, she was aware of the sudden stirring among the crowd, almost all of whom were seeing her for the first time. Men looked and looked again, their eyes widening at what they beheld. Many nodded to themselves, as though in sudden understanding.
She took a breath, painful against the band of tension constricting her chest, and said simply, “I left the lodge because I knew it was the only way to get help for Brita.” She turned to Magnus. “I am truly sorry for your injuries.”
At this unexpected apology from the wife of the Norse Wolf, who was observing them both, the young man paled yet further. Careful not to look at Cymbra directly, he mumbled, “There is no need for that, my lady. I wish I could have done more.”
Silence descended. Slowly, before the avid eyes of all assembled, the jarl of Sciringesheal walked across the space separating him from his errant Saxon wife. Slowly, he raised his hand. Cymbra had to draw on all her courage to stand unmoving. When his fingers closed on her chin, she stiffened but met his gaze without flinching. The silver fire of his eyes stole her breath and set her composure to flickering like the torchlight.
“You knew you were not supposed to leave the lodge.”
It wasn't a question but she answered all the same. “Yes, I knew.”
“And you knew why.”
“I knew you believed my appearance would cause trouble among your guests.” She paused. “You were right.”
“Yet did you disobey.”
“Yes, I did. To save my friend, I would do so again.”
She heard the sharp intake of breath that ran through the crowd, the quick murmurs of disapproval, but that was as nothing to her. There was only his touch, firm yet oddly gentle, and his gaze that seemed to look directly into her soul.
As though there were only the two of them alone in the world, she asked softly, “Do you think I was wrong?”
A faint smil
e flickered at the corners of his mouth. She had a moment to realize that he was a man who admired courage. He dropped his hand but continued to look at her. “It is true I require obedience but I recognize there are circumstances in which there may be a higher duty. Protection of a friend is one such.”
The crowd murmured again, this time united in agreement. It was wisdom indeed that a man of such strength and power could recognize when even his own laws must be exceeded.
“You made the right choice,” Wolf said. Relief sped through her but before it could reach very far, he added, “Yet even a right choice has consequences.”
He glanced at the three men, then again at the crowd. “Had the servant girl, Brita, been abused, it is our way that wergild would be paid. That she is in service to my wife and the insult therefore done to my house, the fine would be steep. A man could be ruined by such payment and left to hire out his sword as best he could to earn his bread. Yet would his life still be his own.”
He said what everyone already knew, and even if there were those, like Cymbra, who thought it grossly unjust that men could escape true justice for such a crime merely by paying for their offense, they kept silent.
His voice cut through the night like the great walls of ice that slashed the sea far to the north where the sky rained fire. “But that is not all that happened here. These—” He turned to the assailants and as his gaze settled on them, an unholy light flared deep within his eyes. “These animals laid hands upon my wife. My wife.”
Between one breath and the next, steel sang. Bathed in the bloodred glow of the torches, the sword that was as legendary as the man who wielded it moved like a living extension of Wolf's mighty arm to point directly at the miscreants.
Flatly, he declared, “Your lives are forfeit.” He looked at the youngest of the trio. “Thus does your father agree.” His gaze shifted to the other two. “As do your uncles. You have shamed your houses as you attempted to shame mine. For that you will die.”
