The Viking's Captive

by Julia Byrne

‘You killed Jankin?’ Shocked comprehension wrenched Yvaine from the stupor induced by Rorik’s announcement. She took a step towards Othar, knowing the answer as surely as if she’d seen it happen.

  ‘How do I know?’ he said, casting her a look of scorn.

  ‘I didn’t stop to ask his name, you stupid woman.’

  ‘He was my friend,’ Yvaine said quietly. ‘My only friend.’ And without warning her hand flashed upwards, striking Othar across the face so hard the impact whipped his head to the side.

  Every female serf in the hall screamed and fled from Othar’s vicinity. With a screech of rage, Gunhild went for Yvaine’s face, her fingers curled into vicious claws.

  Anna, whom, until then, Yvaine had thought lost in the crowd, tried to fling herself in front of her mistress. She was roughly shoved aside by Othar, who recovered from his stupefaction at having been hit by a woman, and leapt forward.

  He met Rorik’s shoulder, bounced off, and was sent sprawling on the floor.

  Rorik stepped in front of Yvaine just as Gunhild lashed out. He grabbed his stepmother’s wrist. ‘You were just extolling vengeance, Gunhild,’ he purred with silky menace. ‘Would you deny my lady that same right?’

  Gunhild’s eyes were wild with rage, but when she cast a glance at her husband, Yvaine saw sudden caution flash through the anger. With an effort that turned her pale, she pulled a rigid mask over her temper.

  ‘As you say, Rorik.’ Jerking her arm free, she turned on her heel and retreated to the smaller bench against the far wall.

  ‘As you say,’ mimicked Egil with a harsh laugh. ‘A rare show of meekness, wife. You may sit there on the women’s bench and contemplate your likely lot if you insult any woman of Rorik’s.’

  Leaning heavily on the arm of his chair, he turned on Othar, his eyes flashing. ‘And you, boy! Have you learned nothing yet? Get back on your feet when a man knocks you down, even when it’s justified. By the Gods, if you can’t behave like the son of a jarl—’

  He broke off, his face going deathly pale. Sweat sprang out across his brow. Gasping, he bent forward, pressing a clenched fist to his chest.

  To Yvaine’s horror no one went to Egil’s aid. Even Gunhild seemed more concerned with gesturing to Othar to leave the hall than anxious about her husband. Looking nervous, she remained on the women’s bench, her hands folded in her lap in a pose of meek obedience. But before her eyes lowered, Yvaine caught the look of hatred directed at her and knew the woman wouldn’t forgive her for striking the son she obviously adored.

  Everyone else seemed torn between watching Egil and nudging each other as they exchanged low-voiced comments. She noticed Thorolf standing with his arm around Anna, and realised that he must have moved to break the girl’s fall when Othar had pushed her aside.

  She was suddenly aware that her palm was stinging painfully. She cast a quick glance at Rorik. His face was impassive as he watched his father, but as if aware of her gaze, he glanced down and she saw concern in his eyes. He really cared about the old man, she thought, and, in an impulsive gesture, reached out to take his hand.

  His mouth curved briefly. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the palm that had struck Othar.

  ‘Well, Rorik,’ Egil slumped back in his chair. His voice was hoarse, and his eyes had sunk far back in his skull, but whatever pain he’d suffered seemed to have passed. ‘Is this an example of what we can expect if you marry your little wildcat?’

  Rorik grinned. Still holding Yvaine’s hand, he kicked a bench around at an angle to his father’s chair and sat, drawing her down beside him. ‘Very likely,’ he said.

  Egil snorted, but half-amused respect flickered over his face as he peered at Yvaine. ‘You’ll have your work cut out taming her,’ he muttered to his son. ‘I don’t blame you for wanting the task, but you don’t have to marry the wench to do it.’ A look of urgency came into his eyes. ‘If you want a wife, there’s Harald Snorrisson’s elder girl, grown into a fine strapping woman who’ll bear sturdy sons, and he’ll probably give her that piece of land adjoining ours as her dowry.’

  Rorik shrugged. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  Egil watched him for a moment, then sighed. Now seeming very weary, he lapsed into a long, brooding silence.

  The crowd continued to wait. Like an audience at a mummers’ play, Yvaine thought uneasily. Watching for the slightest movement, listening for the faintest murmur. She wondered what they’d say if she told Egil he didn’t have to worry about his son marrying an English captive, that—

  ‘Your mother’s blood calls you,’ the old man murmured, jerking her attention back to him.

  From the women’s bench, Gunhild gave a derisive sniff. The sound seemed to rouse Egil further from his reverie. He sat up straighter and nodded at Rorik.

  ‘So be it. A man can’t escape the fate woven for him by the Norns, and since they stand ready to cut my thread you’d best marry today.’ He paused, nodding again as though hearing some unspoken question. ‘Aye, let it be now, in my presence, and whilst Thorolf’s here as witness.’

  ‘An excellent notion,’ Rorik agreed. ‘I was going to suggest it, myself.’

  ‘What!’ Yvaine came to life as abruptly as Egil. Letting a mythical betrothal float past her was one thing; when reality was snapping at her heels it was time to act.

  ‘I thought…’ When Rorik turned to her, she realised she didn’t know what she’d thought. There hadn’t been time to think. But now—

  Oh, now it was clear, she decided furiously as he raised an enquiring brow. He was going to uphold her honour in a way that allowed him to take what he wanted.

  Well, it wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t let it happen.

  ‘I won’t be forced into marriage,’ she hissed in a furious undertone. ‘I don’t care what everyone thinks. We can go on being betrothed if you like while you send—’

  ‘Mention Edward one more time,’ he interrupted softly, ‘and I won’t be answerable for the consequences.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘My father’s wish is clear.’

  ‘Your father’s wish!’ Sheer frustration threatened to propel her straight off the bench. ‘Do you think me deaf and blind? Your father doesn’t want you to marry me any more than the rest of your family do.’

  ‘They’ll get used to it. So will you, little cat.’

  The careless endearment was too much. Yvaine promptly forgot their interested audience. ‘Will I?’ she said through her teeth. ‘Well, here’s something you can get used to, you arrogant, thick-headed male. You can force me to marry you, but I’m still English. I’ll still consider myself free. I’ll still make you wish you’d never—’

  The rest of her tirade strangled in her throat when Rorik wrapped one big hand around the nape of her neck and hauled her against him. The fierce purpose in his eyes had her blinking in sudden feminine alarm.

  ‘You may consider yourself still English, lady,’ he began in a soft voice that nevertheless managed to reach every corner of the hall. ‘That is your choice. But let me assure you that, by morning, this arrogant, thick-headed male will have made you feel very married indeed.’

  Before she could argue, his mouth came down on hers. It was a kiss of sheer male annoyance. She could only endure, fuming.

  When he finally raised his head, everyone except Egil and Gunhild broke into cheers and delighted laughter.

  The air of merriment still prevailed several hours later. At least, it prevailed among the slaves and house karls, Yvaine amended silently as she watched them clear away the remains of the wedding feast. Egil had retired immediately after the ceremony, Thorolf had left to visit his mother, and Gunhild’s expression was more sour than ever.

  From her seat beside Rorik, she cast a glance at the woman who occupied the central position on the side-bench. Gunhild had taken great pleasure in pointing out that, after today, she, too, would sit there, since Norsewomen ate apart from the men.

  The thought of sharing a household with suc
h a spiteful creature, let alone the women’s bench, had tears of frustration and anger stinging her eyes. She forced them back with a swallow of ale, then thumped her drinking horn down on the table, causing it to sway precariously.

  Rorik instantly covered her hand with his, steadying the vessel. ‘There’s no need to be nervous, sweetheart,’ he murmured, misunderstanding the cause for her clumsiness. ‘I have no intention of hurting you.’

  Yvaine closed her mind to the dark velvet of his voice and glared at him. From the moment Egil, Thorolf, and another jarl, hurriedly fetched from a neighbouring farm, had declared them wed, he’d been treating her with gentle patience. Probably because he thought he’d achieved his purpose, she decided grimly.

  ‘’Twould not matter if you did,’ she retorted. ‘I have no intention of letting you do anything to me.’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ he growled. ‘We’re married.’

  ‘A few heathen words over a cup of ale doesn’t make me your wife.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He released her hand and rose. ‘I think we’ll continue this conversation elsewhere.’

  Yvaine immediately sprang to her feet—and was abruptly thankful she hadn’t eaten much; her stomach seemed to turn over with the movement.

  ‘I don’t know what your custom is,’ she said, trying to keep any hint of pleading out of her voice. ‘But I would like some time alone.’

  He inclined his head in a gesture that was oddly formal. ‘That is our custom, lady. Some of the women will escort you to the marriage bed and make you ready.’ He signalled to the women, then seemed to hesitate before touching her hand lightly. ‘I regret that one of them has to be Gunhild, little one, but to exclude my father’s wife would be a grievous insult.’

  ‘I understand,’ she said, equally formal. And refused to meet his gaze.

  Bad enough that Rorik watched her like a hawk as Gunhild and two other women led her from the hall. Reason and logic would fail her entirely if she saw the masculine assurance in his eyes. The assurance of a predator who knows his prey has been captured.

  She shivered as the big room disappeared from view and she was ushered into a small chamber off the entrance passage. The first thing she noticed was that there was no way out except through the doorway. The single window, similar to those in the hall, was too small to allow any escape.

  She glanced at the wide bed, illuminated by an oil-lamp standing in one corner beside a wooden chest. The bed was so huge, only a narrow L-shaped space was left at its foot and on one side. She remembered the vision that had sent her fleeing from Rorik on the ship, and tiny claws skittered up her spine.

  ‘No doubt you expected to take my bedchamber, and the household keys as well,’ Gunhild said spitefully as soon as the door closed behind them. She gestured to the wrinkled old crone who’d accompanied them into the room to start removing Yvaine’s clothes. The other woman was apparently waiting outside in the passage. ‘But you and Rorik will have to wait.’

  ‘I’ve no wish to take anything from you,’ Yvaine said with perfect truth. She drew back as a gnarled, claw-like hand reached for one of her brooches. ‘And I’d prefer to undress myself, or for Anna to do it, if we must have all this ceremony.’

  ‘Such ignorance,’ Gunhild sniffed. ‘’Twould not be proper for an Englishwoman to escort Rorik’s bride to the marriage bed. The witnesses must be trustworthy, isn’t that so, Ingerd? It must be proven that you’re a virgin, that no man but Rorik enters this room tonight. And let us hope he won’t regret doing so in the morning.’

  The ancient crone cackled shrilly at this patently insincere hope. She was obviously Gunhild’s creature, but she cringed as Yvaine turned a haughty look on her.

  ‘Guard me then, if you must, but I will undress myself.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Gunhild shrugged. ‘I’ve no wish to play servant to your ladyship.’ She made a scornful sound as Yvaine began to divest herself of her clothing. ‘Well, see what we have here, Ingerd. ’Tis as I’ve always said. Englishwomen are skinny and over-delicate. This one doesn’t look capable of bearing sons, even if Rorik stays around long enough to get her with child.’

  ‘You expect him to leave?’ Yvaine asked. Smarting under the indignity of being naked in front of hostile eyes, but determined not to show it, she climbed beneath the bearskin Ingerd was holding back for her, head held high. The bed felt surprisingly soft, but, at that moment, she didn’t have attention to spare for unexpected luxuries.

  ‘Of course.’ Gunhild cast her a mocking glance before opening the door. ‘Do you think ’twould take Rorik eight years to avenge twenty, even thirty, men? I expect that task has long been done. He’s developed a taste for raiding, and he’ll need more incentive than your paltry charms to keep him at Einervik. Then we’ll see who rules here.’

  The door shut quietly behind the two women.

  The instant Yvaine heard the key turn in the lock, she leapt from the bed and grabbed her under-shift from the pile of clothes Ingerd had left on top of the chest. Gunhild’s spite was forgotten as she pulled the garment over her head. She had too many other things to worry about.

  Not least of which was the possibility of angering Rorik beyond patience by putting all her clothes back on in defiance of custom.

  She glanced down at herself and hesitated. Perhaps the shift was a reasonable compromise. The garment fell only to her knees and wasn’t the sturdiest of coverings, but at least she felt less vulnerable. If nothing else, it might slow him down for a second.

  Her stomach clenched on a wave of nervousness. Something that felt very like fear gathered in the dim corners of the room; helplessness hovered in the shadows. The combination threatened to fog her mind. And she had to think. She had to find an answer to the dilemma she now faced.

  What was she to do? Try to resist him? Lie passive? Give in to the urge to respond that grew more powerful every time he touched her? Continuing to deny she was married was useless. Rorik considered himself her husband no matter what she said. But what had happened to the time he’d promised her? How was she to know him better when she was faced with a wedding night scant hours after setting foot in Norway?

  Why should it even matter, she wondered, sitting down on the bed. Why was she fighting herself? She was realistic enough to know that women were given little choice in such matters. Five years ago, she’d even been willing to do her duty by Ceawlin, terrified though she’d been at the time. What was it that sent tremors coursing through her every time she thought of Rorik claiming his husbandly rights?

  ‘Oh, fool!’ she exclaimed, springing to her feet and wrapping her arms about herself. She was being ridiculous. Wasn’t she already tempted to surrender, to give in to her curiosity and his desire?

  But what else would she be surrendering?

  The question had her starting to pace in the small rectangle at the foot of the bed. ‘That isn’t the point,’ she muttered ‘’Tis the way he sees me that’s important. I’m more than a captive who should be grateful he’s married me. I’m more than a possession who can run a man’s household and bear his children. I’m a person. I’m me!’

  She turned at the wall and paced faster. ‘He’s already trapped me in another household where I’m despised and resented. He’s not going to turn my whole life upside down and expect me to submit without a murmur. He’s not going to take my body and leave my heart shattered. He’s not—’

  Oh, God.

  She jolted to a stop, staring blindly in front of her. Her lungs were burning; she couldn’t get enough air. She stood there, barely breathing, unable to move, while the truth pounded in her head until she could have screamed aloud in a desperate bid to drown it out.

  How had she not known? Blessed Mother save her. How had she not known that her heart was involved?

  Groping blindly, she lowered herself to the bed, slowly, as if any sudden movement would have her shattering inside. She put her hands over her face, dragged them down, pressed her fingers to her lips.

&n
bsp; Of course she’d known. She’d known since the night of the storm, in that swift, clear moment of acceptance when she’d crouched beneath the mast with the image of Rorik, defying wind and rain and lightning, etched in her mind for all time.

  She’d known, and had hidden from the truth, denied it, told herself it was gratitude, dependence, anything. Until he’d whipped away the shield of her honour by marrying her, forcing her to confront her real fear: that to love him and surrender to nothing more than desire would ultimately destroy her.

  Even marriage wasn’t enough, she realised in that moment. Because without love, desire would surely burn itself out; without love, obligation and honour would become shackles he might one day resent. Unless…

  Could she win his heart in return?

  She straightened, letting her hands fall to her lap. The task seemed overwhelming. She thought Rorik would always protect her, but given the total lack of any softening influence in his life, he might not be capable of love.

  And yet…She’d seen him hold a dying man’s hand around a sword hilt, his own fingers clenched so hard his knuckles had shown white. He’d cared enough about her fellow captives to see they had a chance at a reasonable future. Indeed, had only kept them on the ship for her sake.

  He was relentless in his determination to have her, but when he’d touched her, held her, hadn’t she sensed something more? Not merely gentleness. Tenderness, deeply hidden, but waiting.

  And she already loved him. Given that, there really was no choice. If she was to surrender her freedom, her heart, then she had to fight for the chance to win his love in return. Even if it meant fighting him and her own instinct to yield.

  And as that realisation struck, the key rattled in the lock.

  Yvaine sprang to her feet as the door opened. She heard Rorik speak to someone in the passage, then he stepped into the tiny chamber and pushed the door closed. The room immediately shrank to the size of a closet.

  Without thought, she leapt on to the bed, landed on her knees and scuttled to the centre of the bear-skin covered expanse.

  Rorik’s brows rose. He locked the door and turned to eye her consideringly. ‘Don’t you think this is taking maidenly nervousness a little too far?’ he asked.