by Julia Byrne
‘Let her pass, Othar.’
‘Did you hear the way she—?’
‘Stand aside!’
Rorik’s voice cracked behind her with the force of a whip. Yvaine jumped. He must have handed over the steering oar and moved like lightning. She flinched as he closed his hand over her arm, but didn’t try to avoid his touch.
Othar scowled and moved aside, his face reddening when some of the nearer men sniggered.
Yvaine didn’t wait to see anyone else’s reaction to the unpleasant little scene. She hurried towards the tent, painfully aware of Rorik keeping pace by her side, of his hard fingers gripping her arm. And still she didn’t shake him off. How could she? She needed him. Without his protection she’d have no choice but to throw herself overboard before the crew fell on her like dogs snarling over a bone.
But his protection came at a price.
Fixing her eyes on the shelter, she quickened her pace; a hunted creature seeking the safety of its den.
‘Another lesson,’ he murmured when they reached it.
‘When the quarry flees, the hunter is all the more determined to catch it.’
‘I’m sure you consider me already captured,’ she retorted, refusing to look at him. ‘That being so, you could at least allow me the privacy of my prisoner’s quarters.’
‘You’re a long way from captured, sweet prisoner. The trick, in this instance, is the bait.’
‘Wallow in delusion if you must. You have nothing I want. Except the means to my freedom.’
‘Stubborn little cat.’ He laughed softly, and sliding his hand down to hers, he spread her fingers wide, lacing his between them with a slow insistent pressure that, for some odd reason, made her legs go weak, as if…Dear God, as if he’d laid her down and was spreading…
No! She shook her head; struggled to keep her footing against the wave of terrifying vulnerability that threatened to drag her under.
‘Such big eyes,’ he murmured. ‘Such a tiny hand. You fear me now, little maiden, because you’re innocent. It won’t always be so.’
‘Because you intend to rob me of my innocence!’ She flung the words at him, looking up at last.
‘No,’ he corrected. ‘Because you’ll learn not to fear me.’
‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she denied. ‘And you’ll take nothing from me that I don’t want to give.’
Rorik’s eyes narrowed briefly. Aye, you will be mine, little cat. Already you know it, without knowing. ’Tis why you fight so hard.
But he couldn’t tell her that. Not when the confusion in her eyes belied the gallant angle of her chin. Not when she stood there, so small and soft, in the midst of male violence.
Something exquisitely painful pierced his chest even while his free hand clenched against the need to pull her against him, to press his body to hers and find some ease from the ache that had tormented him from the moment he’d touched her. He wanted to see fire in her eyes, not fear. He wanted her willing.
Aye, and how willing was she likely to be when he’d taken her from her home and dumped her in conditions that could test the hardiest of men?
The question came out of nowhere, blind-siding him. Rorik shook his head. Gods! Was he now doubting his actions? He’d taken her. ’Twas done.
But he looked down at her, at the sweet, tremulous curve of her mouth, at the way she kept her gaze on his, glaring, without yielding an inch, and was shaken by an overpowering urge to give her something, anything, to ease the shock of that transition.
‘Would you like a bath?’ he murmured.
Her eyes blinked wide. ‘A what?’
Despite the ache of frustration, he smiled. ‘Tonight we’ll beach near a river. After that we won’t sight land until we reach the Jutland peninsula, two days’ sailing away. I thought you might like a bath.’ Bracing himself for the tearing sensation he knew would follow, he separated their hands.
Yvaine stared at her fingers. They were still there, still hers, but they pulsed gently from the pressure of his, a faint throbbing that was echoed somewhere deep inside her. A sudden longing swept over her. For something familiar. Something safe. Something utterly mundane. Like a bath.
‘Without you,’ she blurted out. Then blushed wildly when his brows shot up. ‘I meant as a guard,’ she muttered, scowling.
He laughed wryly. ‘At this moment, sweet lady, you’ll be safer with Orn Hooknose. He has granddaughters older than you.’
‘More shame to him, then, that he’s on this ship.’
‘Hmm. I’m beginning to see what my uncle meant about his wife’s tongue. Don’t worry, little cat, Orn won’t touch you. He’ll be there for your protection.’
‘You mean he’ll be there to make sure we don’t escape.’
Every trace of amusement vanished from his face. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he bit out with icy precision. ‘’Twould be as foolish as your attempt to jump overboard the other day.’
Yvaine lifted her chin. ‘I knew what I was doing. I can swim.’
‘Indeed?’ His expression turned sardonic. ‘A useful accomplishment. But if you run off into the Danelaw you’ll be in well over your head. The English aren’t very popular there at present, thanks to your enterprising cousin. A girl alone, and as beautiful as you are, would be forced into a whorehouse so fast you’d think slavery a blessing in comparison.’
When she didn’t answer, his eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps a bath wasn’t such a good idea, after all.’
But Yvaine wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip out of her grasp. The possibility of escape beckoned. The promise of ridding herself of the pervasive odour of sheep fat almost outweighed it.
‘Even a bath in the sea would be welcome,’ she murmured wistfully. And Rorik felt his heart melt.
‘Tell the other women,’ he instructed curtly, and turned away, now regretting his offer but utterly incapable of disappointing her. ‘You’d best all bathe together.’
Yvaine stood in the opening of the tent and watched him stride away. He never faltered, never swerved from his path, never doubted his purpose.
Oh, for a tithe of that sureness, that strength. She felt as if she’d just been pummelled by the heavy stones used by the laundresses to press water from the wash. Her legs shook, her arms hung limply at her sides…
‘My lady? Are you all right? You’ve been gone so long I was worried.’
Yvaine turned. And suddenly not only her legs, but her entire body was trembling. ‘Anna.’ She almost collapsed against the girl. ‘I just realised. I’ve been bandying words with a Viking, and—’
She stopped, shook her head. ‘Bandying. What a useless description. I argued with him, defied him, angered him…but he didn’t…’
‘Hurt you?’ Anna ventured, steering her into the tent.
‘No, he didn’t hurt me.’ Yvaine gazed blankly at her surroundings. ‘I think…in some way…’twould have been easier if he had.’
When Anna stared at her, uncomprehending, she made a small, dismissive gesture. ‘Pay no heed to me, Anna. I spoke without thought. No woman wishes to be hurt.’
‘No, lady.’ The girl continued to eye her doubtfully. ‘Perhaps you should sit down. ’Twill be an hour or two before the ship is beached.’
‘Aye.’ She sank to the bearskin, grateful for the reprieve. The battle had exhausted her. A mere battle of words, of wits—that she’d actually thought she might win.
Oh, foolish arrogance. Reckless pride. What had made her think such a thing when for five long years she’d surrendered every battlefield, refused every fight, schooled herself never to show anger, never to betray fear, never to give in to wrenching loneliness. At first because she wouldn’t give Ceawlin the satisfaction, and then—
And then, when fear had finally worn thin that first winter at Selsey, the young girl, who’d married to please the only family she had left, was gone, and she’d turned cold. Cold all the way through. So cold she’d thought her heart had been buried forever beneath the frozen snowdrifts
surrounding the manor.
Now spring had come with a vengeance; feeling overwhelmed her. Wave after wave of anger and fear and something…urgent. She felt it with every part of her being, as if all her nerves were thrumming like lute strings too violently plucked. She wanted to pace, needed desperately to move to escape the sensation, and had to force herself to stillness, while her heart beat like the wings of a hundred birds fleeing the turbulence of a summer storm.
And through it all, carried on the winds of confusion that swirled through the tempest, the vision that had sent her fleeing from the Viking leader played over and over in her mind, like an ancient bard who remembers only one verse.
With a tiny sound of despair, she wrapped her arms around her upraised knees, laid her head down and closed her eyes.
What had he done to her?
They bathed in a small pool, formed by a collapsed section of the riverbank where the low-lying leafy branches of an ancient oak created an illusion of privacy. The westering sun, filtering through the leaves, sent light and shadow rippling across the shimmering surface. Further out, a path of liquid gold flowed lazily towards the shore. Later, when the tide turned, the flow would drift inland, towards the forest—and freedom.
Yvaine gazed into the trees, and counted the hours until nightfall.
She’d finally found a measure of peace, had told herself that Rorik had done nothing more than kidnap her. She wasn’t the first woman to be so used, nor would she be the last. Indeed, in these uneasy times it happened frequently; sometimes for revenge, but more often because the woman was an heiress and a man was looking for a wealthy bride. At least she didn’t have to worry about those two possibilities.
And though she’d never admit as much to Rorik, she suspected he had saved her life by kidnapping her. She hadn’t known about Anfride’s potions at the time, but three times in the past few months she’d been overcome by stomach pains and illness for no apparent reason. The feeling of impending danger that had been growing on her since the last episode had spurred her to seize the chaos of the Viking raid as cover for her escape.
Her plan had failed, but that didn’t mean she’d willingly stay with the man who’d carried her off because he’d rescued her from another violent male.
‘You are very quiet, lady. Does your back pain you still?’
Yvaine glanced over her shoulder. They’d bathed and Anna was braiding her hair. Though soap had still been lacking, one of their guards had produced a bone comb and brusquely shoved it into Britta’s hand. She and little Eldith sat watching as Anna’s nimble fingers moved through the thick strands of hair.
‘No. At least, only a little. If I’m quiet, ’tis just that this is our last night in England, and—’
‘You’re not thinking of running, lady,’ Britta glanced from Yvaine’s face to the forest. ‘Those warriors Rorik sent to guard us might have their backs turned, but I warrant their ears are alert to every sound.’
‘Besides, where would you go?’ Anna asked. ‘’Tis a long way to Selsey and you’d have to cross the Danelaw.’ She tied Yvaine’s hair with a scrap of cloth torn from her kirtle and leveled the comb at her. ‘We may be captives here, but at least we have some protection.’
‘I know, but…’
She let her protest fade. Anna was right. So was Rorik, come to that. This part of England was firmly held by the Danes, despite Edward’s efforts to reclaim it so he could fulfill his father’s ambition of a united England. There would be little safety here and, if the other girls were truly reconciled to their fate, she would be completely alone.
The knowledge sent chills through her, but how could she persuade the others to escape against their will, especially with a child? Danger, hunger and fear would be their constant companions, and who was she to say their lives would be no better in Norway? Anna claimed to have been little more than a slave; Britta looked as though grinding labour had been her lot since she could remember; and poor little Eldith would have suffered the fate of orphaned children, and become a slave anyway in exchange for food and shelter.
She alone had somewhere to turn, but how was she to get there?
Nothing helpful occurred as they were herded back to the beach. They cleared the forest and the ship came into view, still some distance away. Indecision racked her. She glanced back towards the river, her footsteps slowed. Sheer madness to run now; they were surrounded. But the forced waiting raked at her nerves like tiny claws.
‘Better you not fall behind lady,’ said a gruff voice beside her. ‘Night draws close, and the Bearslayer’s patience isn’t boundless.’
Yvaine turned her head. A pair of light blue eyes in a crinkled nut-brown face stared back at her, not unkindly. Above the man’s grizzled beard was a hawk-like nose of truly impressive proportions. Hooknose without a doubt.
‘Bearslayer,’ she echoed sceptically, answering him in Norse, although he’d used enough English to make himself understood. She ignored the flicker of surprise in his eyes. ‘I suppose you, too, are going to tell me he killed an ice-bear.’
‘He did, lady. Not that I saw the deed myself, but—’
‘No, nor anyone else, I warrant.’
‘You speak with haste and without thought, mistress. That puts you at a disadvantage when dealing with my lord, gentle though he’s been with you.’
‘Gentle!’ Yvaine sniffed. ‘I’ve seen little evidence of it.’
‘Now you speak without knowledge. An hour in Ketil’s company would change your mind.’ Orn jerked his head, indicating a group of men walking towards them. With dismay, Yvaine recognised the three dice-throwers.
‘Othar,’ muttered Anna, moving to her other side as she halted. ‘He makes my flesh creep. You wouldn’t think he and Rorik are brothers, would you?’
‘Brothers?’ Startled, Yvaine looked at the boy, using the small crowd as a shield. The vague sense of familiarity she’d experienced earlier was now explained, but she had to agree with Anna. Othar was tall and fair, but he seemed a mere shadow of his brother, his sullen face a blurred image of Rorik’s stern, cleanly etched features, his build already that of a man who spent more time in an ale-house than on the jousting-field.
But the main difference was in the eyes. Rorik’s grey eyes held the chill of winter in their glittering depths, but she’d also seen them warm with amusement, or blaze with sudden, fierce desire. Othar’s blue eyes held the flat, inward stare of a man who sees only himself. And their expression turned ugly when he heard Anna’s remark.
‘You won’t be on the ship forever, wench, so watch your tongue or I’ll cut it out the minute we reach Kaupang.’
His gap-toothed friend apparently found the prospect appealing. He grinned, before turning a curious stare on Yvaine. The third man was already watching her, his eyes as cold and unblinking as a snake’s.
‘Try not to spoil a peaceful summer evening, Othar.’ Hooknose spoke with an impatient authority she could only hope was effective. ‘We have to get these thralls on board before Rorik returns.’
‘Don’t give me orders, old man. If you let them linger overlong at their bath the consequences rest on your head.’
‘Aye. Enjoy the watch, did you, Orn?’ Gap-tooth roared with laughter at his own wit.
His friend’s expression never altered. ‘Orn fears the Bearslayer’s wrath too greatly for that.’
She felt Orn stiffen beside her. ‘And you, Ketil? Do you fear it no less that you address me against his orders?’
Ketil flicked a glance at Orn, but remained silent.
‘Ketil spoke to me, Orn.’ A ripple of unease crossed Gap-tooth’s face. ‘We don’t want any trouble. You know what Rorik said about private feuds while we sail with him.’
Othar snorted. ‘You mew like a new-born kitten, Gunnar.’ Barrelling forward, he thrust his arm against Orn’s chest. ‘Out of my way, greybeard. I’ll show you how to hurry these thralls along.’
‘I doubt it,’ Orn scoffed, standing his ground. ‘If I were you, Othar,
I’d not rely too heavily on your brother’s protection. As I told the lady—’
‘Lady? I see no lady here.’ Othar shoved Orn aside and seized Yvaine’s braid in a grip that forced her face up to his. ‘She’s nought but a thrall who’ll learn who’s master. Isn’t that so, wench?’
She gave him her coldest stare. ‘You are not my master. And I am not a slave.’
Othar clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. ‘When Rorik’s finished with you, you’ll be a slave and nothing more. Then I’ll take my turn. You think it won’t happen?’ He grinned. ‘I’ll show you.’
Tightening his grip, he bent his head, but Yvaine was already struggling. She whipped her arm up and had just aimed a blow at his ear when she was abruptly released.
Othar was spun away from her so fast she almost fell. She had one brief glimpse of the rage on Rorik’s face, before he slammed his fist into Othar’s stomach.
The boy doubled over, falling to his knees and retching. Before he’d hit the sand, Rorik had turned on the others. ‘Get everyone back to the ship,’ he snarled at Orn. ‘And you two, go with him. One word out of either of you, and you’ll be left here for the Danes to find.’
Neither Ketil nor Gunnar argued.
Shaking, Yvaine reached for Anna’s hand.
She was jerked away from the girl before she could blink. Rorik pulled her to his side but spared her neither word nor look. ‘Get up,’ he ordered his brother.
Othar staggered to his feet. ‘You’ll be sorry for that, Rorik. When our father hears of this—’
‘And keep your mouth shut.’
Othar shut his mouth, scowling.
‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself absolutely clear two days ago,’ Rorik began. His voice could have frozen hellfire.
‘The Lady Yvaine is not a thrall. You will not treat her as one. Ever. Now apologise.’
‘Apolo—’
Othar saw his brother’s free hand clench and bit off the rest. His bottom lip stuck out. ‘Your pardon, lady.’
She nodded, scarcely listening. Othar was the least of her worries. When he swung about and strode back to the ship, she forgot him instantly. Danger stood beside her, not with a sulky youth. Danger cloaked in a form of protection she dare not trust.
