Viking's Prize

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Alarik’s gaze riveted on the monk as he considered the ring. He glanced at his brother and knew without a doubt that Olav would be less inclined to approve of his keeping Elienor if he suspected that a man as influential and pious as Robert of Francia was her kin. “Nei,” he said after a moment, averting his eyes. “She has not said.” Again, his gaze returned to spear the monk. “And your only interest in the wench is merely to guide her in copying the holy writ?”

  Brother Vernay’s lids lifted, and his eyes widened in stunned surprise as he caught Alarik’s meaning. “Of course, my lord! I assure you my passion is with God alone!”

  Alarik nodded. “Very well then, she can begin on the morrow...” He turned to consider his brother. “If Olav has no objections.”

  Olav shook his head, his mouth contorting as he considered the way Alarik had so easily yielded to his request. Never had he so easily. “Not at all,” he assured. “In truth, it would please me greatly.” He ran a speculative hand across his jaw and reclined further within his chair, considering what had just transpired.

  Brother Vernay, on the other hand, beamed. “Well then! Will you summon her now and speak to her, jarl, or would you have me appeal to her in your stead? She could not deny me, I assure you!”

  Alarik’s scowl returned, for he disliked being manipulated. He grunted with irritation and said sharply, “I shall speak to her, myself, though not just now. I grow weary and would seek mine bed!”

  “Then I look forward unto the morrow.” Olav proclaimed, straightening as Alarik turned to leave. “Oh, and Alarik?”

  Alarik turned, beginning to think it a conspiracy to keep him from his chamber. He tried to keep the impatience from his face and tone, but felt as agitated as a stallion in a brood mare’s stall, separated from his obsession by mere walls and the will of others. He stole a look over his shoulder at his chamber door. As the stallion with the mare, he was keenly aware she was there.

  “What might be the name of this wench I’ve not yet met?”

  “Elienor,” Alarik answered on a sigh, “of Baume-les-Nonnes.” He turned to go, vowing no one would keep him from his destination this time. “God natt, Olav!”

  “Rest well, mine bror” Olav returned.

  Brother Vernay nodded approvingly. “Baume-les-Nonnes!” he murmured. “My lord! Somebody must have valued her highly, for it took good coin, I warrant, to ensconce her within those walls.”

  “Aye,” Olav agreed, settling back as he watched Alarik stoop to pick up a small yapping pup before continuing on to his chamber.

  “My lord?” Vernay said more quietly. “I believe we may finally have found the perfect way to persuade your brother!”

  Olav nodded, again smoothing his hand along his jaw, watching shrewdly as Alarik carried the animal within his chamber. “Mayhap,” he agreed. “Mayhap we do, at that.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Elienor awoke in the midst of the nightmare, uncertain whether the sound that had roused her was her own whimper or that of the door opening. She made an effort to orient herself, for the chamber had grown dim with the fire’s waning, and after an instant she could discern the sound of footsteps. She knew it would be Alarik, yet she dared not move in hopes that he would think her asleep and leave her in peace.

  He made his way across the chamber, and Elienor watched through her lashes as his dark form stooped along the way to set something upon the floor.

  He sensed at once she was awake.

  Elienor watched with bated breath as he came nearer, his silhouette dark and forbidding against the dull orange glow of the firelight.

  He stared down at her for an interminable moment.

  “Did you dream again?”

  Elienor averted her gaze, terrified that despite the darkness, he would discern that she had, and worse, he would inquire of it. How could she tell him? And yet how could she not? Her fingers twisted the bedsheets. She understood now what the dream revealed—had dreamt it so often that she could recall every vivid detail.

  According to her divination, Alarik would die, betrayed, though that part of it she could not yet discern.

  In truth, she should have been elated at the notion, yet she wasn’t. She was terrified.

  He hovered silently above her, waiting for her to reply. Swallowing, Elienor avoided his question, distracting him with another. “You... you banished Nissa and Red-Hrolf?”

  “’Tis none of your concern!” he declared.

  Why was it that his response seemed to deflate her spirit somehow? And why had she thought he’d banished them for her? Because he’d held her so tenderly in her dream—silly fool! she berated herself. It had been no more than a dream, after all. There was naught between them. Naught.

  Naught!

  “Tell me, Elienor...”

  Elienor swallowed, averting her eyes, sensing what he was about to ask yet again. She turned to her side, clutching the blankets to her breast.

  “What demons haunt you so that you cannot sleep through the night?”

  Elienor’s grip upon the bedsheets tightened. She balled it within her fist, daring to say nothing, not trusting her voice. His shadowed eyes seemed to peer directly into her soul.

  “Surely something?”

  “Nay,” she croaked, swallowing. “I... I merely dream of my mother,” she improvised. Not wholly a lie, yet not the truth, either. She reminded herself that it was a sin to lie, yet rationalized that the truth might very well find her burned at the stake.

  And she was a coward.

  “Your mother?”

  “Her death,” Elienor murmured in explanation. “It was senseless.” Guilt plagued her. How could she, in all good conscience, let a man perish when God, or Lucifer, had seen fit to forewarn her of his death? Shouldn’t she use her gift to the good of mankind?

  Mayhap it would be for the good of mankind did he die, she argued.

  Yet was she much better than he was though she simply allowed him to perish without a single, solitary warning?

  Her heart leapt in confusion and growing desperation. Her mother had been courageous enough to speak freely of her visions. Why couldn’t she?

  Because you’re a coward!

  She glanced up to be certain she’d not spoken the self-depreciating accusation aloud. His expression was unchanged, brooding, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he sensed her lie.

  She suddenly heard a faint whimper, and her brows knit as she watched Alarik bend to the floor and lift something up. To her surprise, he placed a whining pup upon the bed, and her eyes widened as she recognized it as the same one Nissa had booted and Red-Hrolf had abused. She peered up at him in surprise.

  “I thought you might like to have it,” he disclosed in a husky whisper, his eyes spearing her through the shadows.

  Her heart hammering, Elienor said naught, yet the hand that clutched the bedsheets suddenly released their hold and reached out to accept the pup. She drew it into her arms protectively and sat up to examine each leg for injury, finding none.

  Alarik watched. “Do you loathe me so much?”

  Elienor’s heart turned over, her breath choking her. He could not know, she assured herself—could not know of the dream—could not know that she’d chosen to deny him the knowledge that might save him! In reality, how could she even be certain that her dreams were anything more than her own fancy, she reasoned.

  Mayhap It was only coincidence, after all?

  The silence between them lengthened.

  “How is it you came to be raised in a nunnery?”

  Elienor dared not look at him. His presence beside her was becoming much too disconcerting. Releasing the dog, she raised the bedsheet and scooted backward in self-preservation—not that she supposed he might harm her. They’d been alone enough that she knew he’d not. She simply felt undone with him so near, was all. The dog followed her, whining as it reached up to lap at her lips, begging for affection. Elienor couldn’t suppress a soft giggle at its effort, and at once she recommenced stro
king its head and back.

  Her unexpected laughter jolting him, Alarik watched Elienor’s fingers move gently over the pup, his body quickening as he imagined those same fingers moving just so over his own flesh.

  He had no notion why he’d carried the accursed animal in, only that the image of her with her anguished expression when Red-Hrolf had abused it had prompted him to it.

  Keeping him centered was the simple fact that she would not even look at him—and that if she did, her smiling expression would revert at once to that of loathing. No matter how he treated her, how he spoke to her... that he kept his vow, she saw him only as she saw fit—as a demon, butcher, slayer of innocents. No matter how he strove to, he could not seem to banish the sound of her accusing voice from his thoughts... and now her laughter lingered; the two sounds were incongruous, yet equally tormenting.

  “Why do you wish to know of my days in the priory?”

  “Simple curiosity.”

  “I entered the priory when my mother died,” she relented.

  “And you say ’tis her death you dream of?”

  “Aye,” Elienor replied.

  “You need not speak of it... if it pains you.”

  Elienor nodded.

  “But... there is something I would have you tell me,” he prompted, settling upon the edge of the bed. Her violet eyes watched him warily. “I would know your relation to Robert of Francia.”

  “He is my uncle,” Elienor said.

  Without realizing he did so, Alarik exhaled in relief. The tension in his body eased.

  Again the uncomfortable silence.

  “Would it please you to know we have a kirken here?” he asked suddenly.

  Her brows knit. “A kirken?”

  “A church.”

  Elienor snorted. “A heathen church!”

  “Nei, Elienor, not a heathen church... a Christian church.” He was silent a long moment, weighing his words, and then continued. “You will discover it soon enough... mine brother has taken your faith.”

  Her eyes widened at the revelation, though she seemed to recover herself at once and inquired, “Your brother? Not you?”

  Alarik grunted. “He was converted by a soothsayer in the Scilly Isles,” he explained, “and confirmed with the English king Ethelred as his godfather.” His eyes seemed to smolder as he looked down upon her, assessing her reaction to his disclosure.

  “I see,” she said stiffly, raising her brows. “Am I supposed to feel at ease now that you’ve revealed this to me? Because I do not! You’ve taken me far from everyone I’ve loved, everything I—”

  “So you loved Count Phillipe?” he asked sharply, his eyes piercing her through the shadows.

  “Nay,” Elienor snapped, glaring back at him. She shrugged. “How could I? I did not know him long enough to love him. You saw fit to that!”

  Sensing that further interrogation would gain him naught and stir up much discord, Alarik decided to forego further questioning. Instead, he informed her of Brother Vernay and the holy writ to be copied for Olav. Elienor was so astounded by the request to aid the monk that she remained speechless, gawking at him, her lovely face flustered.

  “You wish me to copy for you?”

  “For Olav,” Alarik amended. “Do you know how?”

  “Aye,” she murmured softly. “But...”

  “Should you agree to the request, then you’ll spend the majority of each day with Brother Vernay... at the kirken,” he revealed. “The rest of the time you will spend with me, tending mine needs.”

  Elienor’s chin lifted, heartened by the knowledge that he could argue all day it was God’s will, but if she chose not to assist Brother Vernay, then he could never force her. Mayhap Alarik had spared Clarisse, but she could not forget Stefan. “And if I do not agree?”

  His lips twisted wryly. “Then you’ll spend the majority of each waking day tending me, instead.”

  Elienor quivered. “Then I shall be delighted to assist Brother Vernay!” she relented at once, choking on her pride. “May it never be said I resisted God’s will,” she ceded ruefully.

  “’Tis settled then. You shall begin in the morning,” he told her. Something about his tone made her feel that he was somehow displeased with her reply... yet he’d gotten what he wished of her, hadn’t he? He withdrew her ring from about his neck, his look sullen. “You’ll be wanting this back, I think,” he said, offering it to her.

  When Elienor merely stared at it, stupefied, he dropped it over her head and watched as it settled at her bosom. Her fingers went to it at once. “Did your uncle give it to you?”

  Elienor closed her fist about it, her eyes locking with his. “Aye,” she murmured.

  “An acknowledgment of your kinship?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” She glanced down at the ring in question. “For my eyes alone, for I can never be acknowledged as my father’s issue.” She glanced up, assessing his expression.

  “Why?”

  “Because I was disinherited at the age of four in the eyes of both church and state—my mother as well—so that my father might take to wife an heiress more suitable to his needs.”

  Her lashes lowered, black as midnight against her pale flesh, and once again Alarik wondered that one so dark could be so fair.

  At her forlorn expression, Alarik felt an overwhelming compassion for her, a kinship even, separate from any carnal emotions he’d possessed before; yet he couldn’t afford those sentiments and so he dismissed them, severing the moment abruptly.

  “You should go back to sleep,” he suggested, commencing to undress at once. “’Tis late.” He lifted his tunic up over his head and tossed it upon a coffer and then began to unlace his breeches.

  Elienor gasped, averting her eyes. “Where shall you slee...”

  The aversion in her voice twisted his gut. “Atop you if you don’t move yourself over!” he said impatiently, and his stomach turned as she propelled herself to the far side of the bed, going so far as to place the pup between them.

  CHAPTER 21

  In her dream Elienor endured Phillipe’s sloppy kiss. It was her duty, she told herself. Her body grew taut, and she endeavored not to cry out in disgust, counting herself fortunate that he never did more than this. Still, it sickened her and she worried how she would abide it when they were wed. She’d find a way, she was determined.

  She’d find a way...

  It was a long befuddled moment before she could rouse herself sufficiently to realize it was not a human tongue at all, for It was much too large—and wet!

  Her eyes flew open to find an eager pink tongue lapping at her face. Sputtering in surprise, she sprang upward, grappling with the clumsy animal that seemed suddenly all the more determined to devour her face!

  A soft chuckle reached her ears. “I wondered how long it would take you to rouse,” a husky voice remarked.

  Elienor’s eyes found him at once, leaning casually, arms crossed, against the chamber door. To her alarm her first emotion was relief—relief that it was him, and not Count Phillipe.

  Yet that was ludicrous, was it not?

  He was dressed, though scarcely, wearing mere linen breeches and a tunic thrown over one shoulder, and she caught her breath at the sight of his bare chest, so immense. Seeing him thus was unsettling, to say the least.

  An arrogant smile curved his lips as he noted the direction of her gaze, and his silver eyes gleamed. The thought of him standing there, scrutinizing her in sleep while she was entirely unaware of it, unnerved her. Elienor nudged the pup aside peevishly. “Why didn’t you simply waken me?”

  “Because you needed rest.”

  Elienor’s brows knit. How was she supposed to continue to loathe him when he said such things? Worse, how was she supposed to forget her nightmares? Though she couldn’t be certain the dream was prophesy, she reminded herself. Self-preservation kept her silent. The memory of her mother’s persecution, for so much less, plagued her.

  She met his gaze boldly, trying to se
em unaffected by him. “I’d have thought you’d have better things to do with your time, my lord Viking,” she said with easy defiance, “than to watch your prisoners slumber?”

  “The name is Alarik,” he asserted, his sensuous lips curling as though on the edge of laughter. “And nei, I’ve naught better to do at present, Elienor... though you do.”

  He broke into a smile at her confused expression, but said only, “I’ve arranged for a bath.”

  Elienor tried not to notice the bridled power in his arms. “A bath?” Against her will, her eyes returned to his bared chest, and she swallowed, feeling a new wash of shame as she stared at the satiny smooth flesh there. She swallowed, trying to speak past the lump in her throat. “I... I would very much appreciate a bath.”

  Amusement flickered in the eyes that met hers. “Come,” he demanded softly, shoving away from the door abruptly.

  Had Elienor any choice but to obey? As she thrust away the covers and stepped out of the bed, he opened a small coffer, lifting out a crimson mantle. “You’ll be needing something more than your kyrtle,” he disclosed, wrapping it about her shoulders. And than without bothering to cloak himself, he snatched her by the elbow, leading her out of the bedchamber and through the skali.

  To her surprise, he led her outside, and from there to a small outbuilding where smoke drifted up through the rooftop. He opened the door revealing a well-lit chamber within and an immense sunken tub in its center, grand enough for at least six people to sit and bathe. Eight flickering torches, each set in beautiful ornate iron braces, illuminated the chamber. On the right wall, two torches flanked an enormous hearth, and dancing beneath the smoke-blackened kettle in its gaping mouth burned a torrid fire. Elienor surmised the kettle was there to warm the bath water. Additionally, luxuriant furs were strewn about the floor and fresh drying rags were stacked upon a single wooden stool.