Viking's Prize

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Desperate to be away from so many pairs of eyes, she thrust open the door to Alarik’s chamber and escaped within, slamming it behind her in desperation.

  Alarik shrugged at Olav. He had no inkling what had come over Elienor so suddenly, but whatever it was he would discover it, by God!

  She’d looked at him with such dazed terror once too often!

  He followed her into his chamber and found her lying abed. As he opened the door, she bolted upright, her face pallid.

  Elienor could not stop trembling. “It was Olav!” she murmured full of anguish, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

  “What did he do?” He took her hands. They were damp and sticky with cold sweat. He thought he’d kill his brother if he’d harmed her in anyway.

  Still the possibility that she might not have given him the ring of her own volition filled him with a reckless hope.

  He hung his head suddenly, confounded. Guilt ridden. By Odin’s breath, he knew not what to feel. Olav was his brother, by the blood of their sire. His brother!

  “H... he jumped,” Elienor stammered. “And then you came... and there was blood!” She peered up at him a little wildly. “But there wasn’t... there wasn’t any blood,” she said, suddenly pensive.

  She nibbled her lip.

  “You speak in riddles!” Alarik accused her, kneeling before her now. “Elienor?” He took her hand in his. “Are you unwell? Did Olav do aught to harm you? Tell me!”

  Elienor shook his hand away. How could she explain when it could mean her life? Her gaze returned to his face, his handsome, troubled face.

  How could she not at least attempt it? She couldn’t simply let him die.

  Could she?

  He looked at her as though she were mad, and a quiver raced down her spine as she recalled the way her mother had been persecuted, and therein lay the awful truth—she was cursed if she told him, cursed if she didn’t! Her mother had been murdered for naught more than predicting the course of an infant’s illness.

  Nay, she could not tell him. He would never understand.

  Besides, she didn’t fully comprehend the vision herself. Despite the fact that it came to her exactly the same each time, it was much too chaotic to comprehend fully. She only knew that there would be no happily ever after for her.

  Take what happiness you can, bien aimee... while you can.

  She didn’t even blink at the words spoken so clearly in her head, accepting them unquestioningly. Would it be so wrong? she asked herself. Nay, she determined. She took a breath, calming herself, and assured, “It was naught... I’m fine.” She became aware of his hands in her hair, stroking the length of it, the look in his eyes peculiar.

  “Mayhap you should rest,” Alarik suggested, noting the pallor of her skin.

  Elienor nodded, and he rose from his knees. Still, he peered down upon her, as though searching her soul.

  The back of his fingers grazed her cheek. “Sleep then. Alva will bring supper later.”

  Elienor nodded again, lying back upon the immense bed. She closed her eyes so that Alarik would see that she was ready to comply, and was surprised by the languor that came over her so swiftly.

  Mayhap she was simply overtired.

  Mayhap this time her dreams would not hold true.

  As she lay there, considering that, daring to hope, she drifted...

  Alarik watched over her a moment longer, contemplating the terrorized look she’d had in her eyes as she’d looked upon him in the skali, and then he lifted the furs to her chin, tucking her within, noting that she shivered still. In fear of him? In loathing? He remained only until he was certain she slept, and then he left to seek out Alva.

  If anyone knew how to glean information from reluctant souls, It was she, and the woman lying so serenely within his bed had secrets to withhold.

  By the rood of her God, he intended to find out just what they were.

  CHAPTER 28

  Elienor awoke to find the chamber bathed in shadows. She wondered at once where Alarik was—wondered, too, if it were day or night. With no windows to peer from, it was difficult to judge. Stretching to ease the stiffness in her bones, she rose, yawning, and no sooner had she thrust her feet over the edge of the bed than Alva cracked the door open, peering in.

  “Oh! You’re awake?” Entering, she bore in her hands a small tray. “I’ve brought bread and cheese,” she revealed in a cheery tone. “You’re ravenous, I’m certain!”

  Surprised to find it was so and wondering why, Elienor nodded that she was, and concealed another yawn, and then recalled that she’d not partaken of nattver. “Thank you,” she said when she could.

  Alva placed the tray next to Elienor upon the bed. “The jarl said you were feeling unwell?”

  “A little,” Elienor concurred. “But ’tis passed now. How long have I slept?”

  “Not very long.” Alva sighed. “The jarl said you came here directly from the eldhus.”

  “I did,” Elienor acknowledged, cocking her head in curiosity. “Alva... why do you call him jarl... instead of Alarik?”

  Alva shrugged. “I suppose ’tis because he is jarl,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “I’ve never considered addressing him by his given name. Why?” She took up a poker and proceeded to stir the fire pit back to life.

  Elienor chose a hunk of bread from the tray, shrugging. “I simply wondered, is all.” She took a bite, and watched curiously as Alva lingered over her task. “And what did you call him before he became jarl?”

  “Nephew,” Alva answered, with an indifferent shrug. “The jarl has never been one for familiarities,” she assured Elienor.

  “I see,” Elienor replied, though truly she didn’t. Her brows knit as she recalled the way Alarik had demanded she use his given name.

  ‘Tell me, Elienor...”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Was it your belly that ached?”

  “Oh, nay,” Elienor replied softly, wishing it were so simple. Nevertheless, she felt it unwise to elaborate. “Where’s Alarik?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “I’m not certain,” Alva said quickly. ‘Tell me... was it your head?”

  Elienor sighed deeply. Her head, indeed. “Aye,” she admitted, setting down the unfinished chunk of bread. “It was my head that ached.” Suddenly, she didn’t feel so hungry. “Alva... have you by chance... a sprig of rosemary?” she asked cautiously.

  Alva ceased her task suddenly, peering at Elienor over the rekindled fire, her brows knitting. “Rosemary?”

  “Rosemary,” Elienor affirmed with a nod. Mother Heloise had sworn the herb warded away nightmares, and though it oft failed to perform, this time she was desperate. “To put under my pillow...”

  Alva’s round face contorted. “Strange cure for an aching head!” she declared, and then seeing Elienor’s dismal expression, she relented. “But if it will ease you, then I shall see.” She wagged her head. “Mayhap ’tis that wound of yours still plaguing you,” she suggested.

  Elienor’s fingers went to her temple. All that remained was a thin raised scar. It hurt naught at all. “Mayhap,” she lied.

  A faraway scream caught her attention suddenly.

  Her brow furrowed. “Alva... did you hear that?”

  Alva cocked her head. “I...I’m not certain. I did hear something...”

  All at once it sounded as though a stampede of wild beasts burst through the hall beyond. Without a word, Alva raced to the door, throwing it wide. She watched, shocked, as every last soul hurried from the skali, and then she turned to Elienor, her face pale. “Fire,” she said softly, swaying as though she would swoon.

  ‘The kirken is afire!”

  Alarik burst from the hall, grateful to see that Sleipnir remained where he’d been abandoned. Bounding into the saddle, he didn’t wait to see whether he was followed.

  Already, the eerie orange brightness of fire blazed into the night sky.

  The sound of its roar intensified as Sleipnir flung behind them earth
and snow, racing the distance toward the vale. Fury burned at Alarik’s gut, as he urged his mount faster—not that he feared the fire would spread. The remote little church sat too far from the rest of the steading to endanger any but itself, and the remaining snow upon the ground would further arrest it. Reaching the raging inferno well before the others, he leapt from his mount, swearing profusely.

  They were too late.

  The small structure was completely engulfed.

  Olav reined in, slipping from his saddle, muttering in anger, and Brother Vernay, who had run nearly back to the manor house after Alarik, came staggering behind.

  After him hurried his people, many shouldering buckets hastily filled.

  “My lord!” Vernay panted, his face scarlet in the raging reflection of the fire. “’Twas Hrolf! I...” He paused to catch his breath, and looked as though he would weep. “I... I could not stop them! Lost!” he lamented, his breath a white mist against the frosty fire-lit night. “All lost!” He threw a hand skyward. “All our precious labors!”

  “Heathen pigs!” Olav shouted wrathfully, staggering backward as the roof exploded into glowing fragments.

  Helpless in his rage, Alarik swore again, batting the fiery flakes away from his face and hair as they rained down upon him.

  “M-My lord,” Vernay continued, still breathless. Alarik turned toward the monk, his gaze burning hotter than the fire at his back. Vernay fell to his knees. “They dispatched me with a message for you. Hrolf said... he said to tell you that if you value what you hold... you will not rebuild the kirken.”

  A staggered murmur erupted from those gathered, yet all fell immediately silent as Alarik advanced upon Vernay.

  Vernay stumbled backward at the look in Alarik’s eyes. “M-My lord?” he appealed. “I am but the messenger! This little church bore my hopes, as well! My lord!”

  “No one!” Alarik bellowed, seizing Vernay by his frock in frustration, “no one tells me what I can—or what I cannot build upon mine own land!”

  At his declaration, Bjorn elbowed his way to the fore. “I thought you cared not for the kirken, mine brother?” he challenged. “I thought you built it simply to appease Olav? Why should you care now that it lies in ruin?”

  Only silence met his imputing questions. Alarik released the trembling monk. Vernay fell at his feet. For the briefest instant, Alarik’s wrathful gaze sought out Olav’s, sharing Olav’s question: Had Bjorn been party to the fire?

  The evidence seemed weighted against him, for he’d left the skali earlier and had never returned...

  Until now.

  And he had met with Hrolf.

  Still, some part of him could not accept the possibility. He turned to his youngest brother, holding his rage in check. Yet Bjorn would not let it go.

  “Let it he in its filthy ashes!” Bjorn persisted. “Mayhap then you would send the Fransk shrew back whence she came!”

  A feeling of hysteria unlike anything Alarik had ever experienced swept over him at the merest thought of Elienor leaving. “Nei!” he exploded, lunging at Bjorn. He seized Bjorn by his woolen tunic, nigh renting it in his wrath. He shook his brother violently. ‘I’ll not! do you hear? I’ll not! The kirken shall be re-erected!” He glanced about at his wide-eyed people. They shrank back from him, never having seen him in such a fury. “Any man who thinks to oppose me,” he roared, meeting their gazes one by one. “Any man!—including you, Bjorn—” his gaze returned to his brother, and he shook him once more, “will taste of Dragvendil, by God!”

  Bjorn’s eyes accused him. “Which god, mine brother?” he asked softly. Even dangling by his tunic, and under the heat of Alarik’s gaze, he dared ask once more, “Which god?”

  Alarik fair shook with fury. “It matters not!” he snarled. “What I believe in mine own soul concerns me, and none other!” he declared, meeting his people’s gazes once more.

  He swallowed as his burning eyes returned to Bjorn—eyes that stung from smoke, and tears he could not shed—would not shed. He wanted to accuse Bjorn in that moment, wanted to ask him what demons had possessed him that he would betray his only brother.

  He wanted to fall to his knees and weep with sorrow for the brother he’d loved and would have died for. But he said naught of those things. His face grew red with silent fury, and then he shoved Bjorn back into the melting snow, with a violence barely suppressed. “I would have plucked out mine eyes, brother—” he said the word with contempt, and a touch of melancholy, “and handed them to you... had you only asked!” And with that declaration, he turned, bellowing out orders for the dousing of the fire.

  It was daybreak when Alarik returned.

  As had the rest of the steading, Elienor witnessed the scene at the kirken, but with tempers so high, Alarik had ordered her at once back to the longhouse, fearing for her safety. He was well aware that some followed Bjorn’s way of thought... though unlike Bjorn, they wouldn’t have betrayed him. Unlike Bjorn, they seemed to know he would never force their hearts, for if he’d intended to, he’d have done it long ago, back when Olav had first taken up the cross.

  He stormed into his chamber, soot blackened and sodden with sweat and melted snow. He found Elienor sitting upon his bed, wringing her hands. She gasped in surprise at the sight of him, leaping up as he entered the room.

  He looked like a demon, his face covered in ashes and soot, his fine tunic tattered and blackened, yet Elienor had to fight the incredible urge to fling herself into his arms. She’d feared for his safety.

  Dear God, how she’d feared for him.

  He tore his gaze away and slammed the door behind him. “Olav awaits me in the stables!” he told her more sharply than he’d intended, for he still could not vanquish the image of her ring about Olav’s neck.

  Elienor wrung her hands. “You will seek out Hrolf?” she asked tentatively.

  Grimacing, Alarik peeled off his tunic, hurling it to the floor. “I will,” he said, meeting her gaze.

  Elienor’s heart turned over at the pain nestled in his piercing silver eyes. Confused, she averted her own gaze, her heart twisting... in dread? Her vision came back to her swiftly, and she feared for his safety. More than anything, she wanted to tell him of it, but she knew better.

  It would be a fool thing to do, for he’d not believe her... even if he chose not to persecute her for it.

  He moved toward her in silence, lifting her chin with a finger. ‘Tears?” he asked in astonishment. “Elienor...” He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you cry?”

  Elienor tore her gaze away. She shook her head unable to speak.

  “The kirken?”

  She nodded the lie, swiping away the tears that rolled so shamefully down her cheeks.

  Disappointed, Alarik sighed wearily, and nevertheless drew her within his embrace. “The church shall be restored,” he assured her. “That I pledge you.”

  Elienor raised her tear-stained face to his, fighting back a new flood of tears. “You... you will take care?”

  He blinked at her question, as though startled by it, and then his eyes lit with rare emotion as he gazed down upon her, stunned by her behest. He opened his mouth to speak, but knew not what to say. He swallowed, afeared to hope. Cupping Elienor’s chin within his palm, he nodded. He bent to kiss her lips, those lips that had made him burn from the first, those lips that shocked and plagued him still. “You take care as well, my little nun,” he whispered, lifting his mouth from hers. He bent once more, unable to resist. Her delicate lids closed as he kissed them too. He wrapped his arms about her, holding her close. “To be certain... I shall leave my best man, Sigurd Thorgoodson, to watch over you.”

  The tender spell of the moment shattered. A vivid picture of Sigurd, dancing nude over the bodies at Phillipe’s castle, was conjured within Elienor’s mind, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Nay!” she gasped, breaking free of him.

  A shadow passed over his features. “I trust him more than I do mine own kin,” he assured her, his tone somewhat strained.
>
  Sensing the pain beneath his words, Elienor nodded her acquiescence, her gaze dropping against her will to his bare chest. The sight of it made the blood course through her, and she stared as though transfixed.

  His answering chuckle was low and rich. It sent quiver after quiver through her.

  Gratified with the way she gazed upon him in that moment, Alarik drew her into his arms, and bent to kiss her, unable to take his leave without partaking once more of the sweetness she offered. With a hand to the small of her back, he coaxed her forward, parting her lips with gentle pressure. Elienor opened willingly unto him, arching to accept his hunger, and his body quickened in response.

  He reveled in the taste of her. Never would he have imagined he’d enjoy such a thing so well.

  Alas, it seemed the Fransk were good for more than swords and wine.

  By God, it would be so easy to lose himself... so easy to stay. Shuddering over the need that coursed through his veins like terrible jolts of thunder, he crushed her to him, devouring her mouth without mercy.

  Her hands entwined about his neck and he groaned his torment, knowing he could not have her just now.

  Damn him, he was loath to leave, but he could not linger... lest the filthy culprits escape him in the meantime.

  Now he had yet one more reason to kill Hrolf Kaetilson.

  “Elienor,” he murmured huskily. He took a deep breath, tempering himself. His heart hammered like that of a fresh-faced youth. “If only you knew what you do to me...” He groaned in regret. “Later,” he promised, and bent to nip her gown where it cloaked the tip of her breast, a guarantee of his word.

  To Elienor’s shame, she delighted in his wicked promise. Leaving her weak-kneed with anticipation, he turned his back on her, and she watched as he strode to his chest, lifted up the lid, and removed from it a fresh tunic. After it, his mail, laying it aside as he donned his tunic, and then, kneeling, he beckoned her to him with a wriggle of his finger. “I cannot arm myself alone,” he told her, a ghost of a smile twisting his lips. “Come aid me, Elienor.”