by Joanne Rock
She’d been right all along. Gwendolyn of Wessex wasn’t the kind of woman he could take as a concubine. He wanted more than that from her, and he wanted the guarantee that came with a public declaration in front of witnesses. In no uncertain terms, he wanted sole rights to this woman forever.
He knew this as she shuddered against him with the aftershocks of her own release. He understood it all the more as he stroked her hair while she slept.
By dawn, he recognized the path to claiming her wouldn’t be easy, especially with a dark past hanging over his head and tainting his future. He wanted Gwendolyn. But in order to have her, he would have to vanquish the ghosts of the past.
12
GWENDOLYN CLUTCHED HAPPINESS to her chest like a secret.
She held it tight as she walked through the dirt paths of the Danes’ small encampment, guided by Wulf’s cousin Elsa, Erik’s sister. Gwen probably had no business feeling so glad when Wulf’s people were openly suspicious and resentful of her. Elsa had looked at her as though she would rather tear out her own hair than allow Gwendolyn to borrow a gown, as Wulf had requested.
Apparently, Wulf’s people viewed her presence here as inappropriate in any capacity other than a slave. Her ties to King Alfred were not appreciated since the Danes had battled long and hard to establish a presence in Alfred’s kingdom.
But with the memories of the tenderness Wulf had shown her the night before to comfort her, Gwendolyn could not be discouraged today. The effects of the pleasure were long lasting indeed, for she felt a new wellspring of joy within her whenever she remembered the delights they had shared.
“Thank you again for the garments,” Gwendolyn remarked, undeterred by Elsa’s dark glare over one shoulder. “They are very fine. I can trade you a ring for them when I recover my things from Wulf.”
Elsa stopped her hurried step to confront her head-on. Almost a head taller than Gwen, the Dane was broader of shoulder and appeared strong as a weaver. Her flaxen hair was harnessed by an unforgiving braid straight down her back.
“The rings that were once yours already belong to us.” She spoke clearly in Gwendolyn’s native tongue, though the words were heavily accented. “And you are as much our possession as the rings. That is the way of the Danes.”
Not even Gwendolyn’s relentless good mood could brush off those comments. She wished Wulf did not have to call a meeting of his most important advisers this day. He had assured her the matter was of some urgency, even intimating he might devise a plan for dealing with Harold, so Gwen had agreed to put herself in the women’s care for a few hours.
“You’ve taken my things? The way of the Danes is to steal things without asking?” She fumed to think of strangers touching her mother’s rings. And she could not even fathom the loss of her father’s journal. Had she risked so much to keep them safe, only to lose them now? She should have left them behind at Alchere’s keep.
“Woman.” Elsa drew her shoulders back as if gathering steam. “It is enough that you wear garments we labored all winter to craft. Do not think to insult our people because of the weakness of your men to protect their possessions.”
Did she need to be so difficult? Gwendolyn bristled at the reminder that she was no better than a possession. An object.
A small crowd had gathered about them. Women traveling to the shore’s edge with washing paused to listen. Children darting through tent doors slowed to eavesdrop on the conversation. Even the village elders hushed their chatter around a fire pit to watch.
Gwendolyn regretted her decision to antagonize the woman. She could always ask Wulf about the rings privately. And she would plead with anyone she could for the sake of the journal. But arguing with Wulf’s cousin in front of his people would not further her cause.
“I’m sorry.” Gwendolyn did not bend her knee to the woman, but she did dip her chin to bow her head in public concession of the point. “I only meant to thank you for the clothing.”
While the humility before another woman did not come easily, it was at least accepted. Elsa gave a brusque nod and, gripping her hand a bit more forcefully than necessary, led her on their way.
“You are welcome.” Elsa walked shoulder to shoulder with her the rest of the way through the short main street of the village. “You are wise to respect our ways. That will make life easier for you here. We share all that we have and work together to increase our stores. If you are to be one of us, you are entitled to all we have.”
They paused in front of the last tent on the makeshift street, a small, humble affair that reeked of incense and herbal smoke.
“I’m grateful.” Gwendolyn said as much, but privately wondered why Elsa felt the need to put her in her place in front of the whole village earlier.
“Wulf has brought you here at a difficult time for us,” Elsa continued, flipping her long braid behind one shoulder as she waved a greeting to another woman. All of the residents of the encampment were tall and blue eyed, their heritage evident in more than their garb. “Harold has declared open war upon him after Wulf’s raid on Alchere that robbed Harold of his spoils. The decision to take you now, when Harold’s anger has festered…”
Elsa finished with an eloquent shrug that said more than any words. The Danes resented Gwendolyn because she’d been a catalyst in bringing things with Harold to a head. And no wonder these people were concerned about open war. Wulf might be the superior warrior, but Harold’s army severely outnumbered his from what Gwendolyn could tell.
“Do you think he will return me?” Gwendolyn knew Wulf did not wish to keep her, a fact which still tore at her for reasons she didn’t wish to think about too carefully. “Or trade me to Harold in amends for taking me in the first place?”
Either scenario frightened her to her toes. She’d found a man to admire in Wulf, but what were the chances any other Dane would treat her so well?
“Wulf chooses to keep you for now.” Her pale blue eyes skimmed over Gwendolyn’s features as if searching for an answer to the puzzle of why he would do such a thing. “That is not uncommon among our men, but it is unusual for Wulf. He does not tend to take captives in raids.”
Elsa turned to open the incense-spewing tent, as if she’d said all that she needed on the subject. But Gwendolyn was more confused than ever. Did Wulf not take captives because of Hedra? Did he still love her?
The idea stung more than it should have.
Elsa waved Gwen forward. “Come. Wulf asked me to bring you here.”
Gwendolyn recalled the brief exchange between Wulf and Elsa earlier. Words had been traded in their harsh, guttural language even though both of them spoke hers well enough. Gwen had assumed that Wulf had merely repeated his order to Erik’s cousin to take care of finding proper clothing. But apparently there had been other instructions she’d missed. Had he not mentioned them on purpose?
The happiness she’d been clutching close to her heart deflated a bit in the harsh light of day. Perhaps the things Wulf had confided in her last night had been more to warn her away than a chance for her to understand him better.
“Who lives here?” she asked, following Elsa into the tent.
The question hardly needed to have been asked once she stepped into the smoke-filled hut. The sweet scent of burning herbs was so strong she draped a loop of her hair and veil across her nose and mouth to lessen the potency. From the sticks affixed to the roof hung webs fashioned of rough wool twine. Some of them held beads at the intersection of the weaving, others contained bits of what looked like bone and hair tucked into the corners.
Herbs hung to dry overhead, while on the dirt floor sat an old crone humming and chanting over a small flame surrounded by jet-black rocks. The woman’s garb was unlike any other female in the village. The sleeves were embroidered with rune staves, some of which were familiar to Gwendolyn, and some that were not. Either way, it was obvious they had reached the hut of the local wise woman.
“Mother, our guest has arrived.” Elsa bowed low to the crone, who paid
little attention to her.
Instead, the woman’s eyes fixed on Gwendolyn and she felt a hint of fear skitter up her spine like the spider climbing to its oversize web over her head.
“I’m Gwendolyn of Wessex,” she explained, wondering if “Mother” was a deferential title or if the woman was family to Erik and Elsa.
The moment of fear passed when sunlight streamed in through the tent as the door behind her opened. She knew who would be there before she turned. Not even the heavy scent of burning herbs could mask her senses enough to hide Wulf’s arrival. She felt the man in her veins, her body instantly alert to him whenever he neared.
She turned to see Erik at his side. The two men entered the tent together. Both of them bowed their heads to the crone.
“Wulf.” Gwen longed to reach for him, to take his hand and gather comfort from his presence, but he did not spare her a glance.
Did his kindness to her extend only to the bedchamber? A bit more of the day’s happiness dwindled.
“Mother, I ask you to cast the bones for Gwendolyn and for me.” He asked this in Gwen’s language, so at least he did not leave her in ignorance of their purpose here.
Still, she would have her future read? Gwendolyn knew such an activity would be frowned upon by her priest, but once more she reminded herself of her parents’ teachings—the respect for other cultures—and she chased away some of the fear inherent in such an act.
The old woman muttered under her breath, then drew a bag from her voluminous robes and chanted foreign words over them. Then, with the flourish of a great hall performer, she cast the contents of the bag onto the dirt floor where another twine spider web had been carefully arranged in the packed earth.
Swallowing down her fears, she wondered silently what Wulf hoped to accomplish through this. Did he really believe the old woman could see their futures? Gwendolyn did not even like the idea that their futures were available for the woman’s review since she preferred to think none of it had been decided yet.
“The Saxon brings wealth and lands.” The wise woman pointed a gnarled finger over some of the runes she’d tossed to the floor. Most were red in color, although a few were bleached white around the edges from use. “These you must take.”
Did the hag tell him to make war on her overlord Alchere? Or did the woman refer to the lands the king held in trust for Gwendolyn’s firstborn son? Alchere oversaw the holding where Gwendolyn had grown up. He’d been charged with its safekeeping when he’d been charged with her upbringing. Did Wulf mean to take the lands where she’d been raised?
Her gaze flew to Wulf. He remained expressionless, his eyes fixed on the seer’s work. In fact, Erik and Elsa appeared equally serious and raptly interested as the old woman preached advice that would be deadly for Gwendolyn’s homeland.
“Wulf, you cannot mean to—”
“Shh.” Elsa hushed her at once, her hand encircling Gwen’s wrist like a shackle. She gave a fast shake of her head, eyes full of warning.
“In Wessex, you turn Harold aside, but at a grave price,” the crone continued, her high voice creaking with age like an uneven step. “Our people will follow you and your seed proves fruitful.”
His seed?
Gwendolyn blinked. She peered over at Wulf once again, but his stoic expression had not registered the slightest disquiet or pleasure. Did the woman refer to her? Could she carry Wulf’s child?
For a moment, she wondered if Wulf had taken her to secure her wealth and lands after all. What if he’d known that her dowry was attached to her having a son?
“These are good omens.” The wise woman straightened and gave them a toothless grin. “You will prosper well, Wulf Geirsson, but do not delay your preparations. My knees warn me our fair weather will not last beyond the sennight.”
Wulf nodded, the only hint of deference Gwendolyn had ever spied in him.
“I will tell the men of the fortuitous tidings. Thank you.” He took Gwendolyn’s arm as if to usher her from the hazy, sweet-smelling tent.
She gathered her breath and dug in her heels. “You cannot mean to implement—”
“Not here,” he warned, his low voice rumbling like thunder in the distance. “Come.”
She wanted to call the old woman a trickster and a teller of falsehoods, but the crone had returned her attention to chanting a foreign song and collecting the bones. And hadn’t Gwendolyn told herself she would wait to speak to Wulf privately? She just hadn’t expected a visit to the tribal sage could possibly turn into a war council with her homeland as the target. Had she understood the wisewoman’s words correctly when she told Wulf to take her wealth and lands?
Clenching her teeth together with an effort, Gwendolyn maintained her silence as she followed Wulf out of the tent. He did not lead her back to his quarters, but toward the edge of the woods nearby.
“Gather the men,” he called over his shoulder to Erik while leading Gwen away from the encampment. “I will address them shortly.”
Stunned into silence, Gwen could hardly find her voice. And when she did, she scarcely knew where to begin addressing the problem.
“You cannot seriously determine battle strategy within a soothsayer’s hut.” Fear for her birthplace and the people who lived there made her heart race at a frantic pace. “Do you truly mean to wrest my lands and wealth from Alchere? From the king himself? Believe me, Alchere does not oversee all that belongs to my firstborn—”
She tripped on a tree root and he righted her. Unconcerned for her throbbing toe, she clutched his tunic to draw his attention, desperate for some reassurance that he did not mean to wage open war on her homeland. For all that she despised Alchere and always had, she did not want to bring that kind of destruction to the people she’d lived with for many moons.
Wulf’s stony expression looked like a man ready for battle, but perhaps seeing her distress, he softened his tone. “Gwendolyn, your overlord sold you off to a man who hurt you and he would do it again without blinking. Do you believe your father’s lands are in good hands with him?”
Her overlord had kept her all but imprisoned, guarding her like a fire-breathing dragon guarded gold.
“But what of your rule?” She could not believe she even considered it as a possibility. “You would unleash the furor of the Danes on innocents who never asked to serve Alchere? And why would you follow the advice of a wise woman who has never lifted a sword?”
Nearby in the village, Gwen could see people filling the main street through the huts as they made their way toward the shore where most of the warriors already gathered. A hum of excitement filled the air for these vagabond Danes, while Gwendolyn felt naught but despair.
Wulf frowned. “The wise woman speaks for our ancestors in Valhalla. She does not tell me what to do, but relays the guidance of my fathers. It is always up to the leader to decide how to use their wisdom.”
“But you have already decided.” Gwendolyn’s heart cracked at the thought of him taking over her keep and bringing many wives to fill the halls with blue-eyed children.
“I need a base to battle Harold and this will be it.” He kissed the top of her head, but it felt like an afterthought while his thoughts raced ahead to raiding and conquering.
But hadn’t she known all along that was the way of the Danes? Tears burned the corners of her eyes, but she would not be foolish enough to let him see. She hadn’t followed her head in caring about Wulf, but had trusted the misleading pleasure he had shown her.
Indignation and hurt washed through her, drawing her down into misery like a rogue wave.
“That is all that concerns you, isn’t it? Battle strategy and besting your opponent. It’s why you took me in the first place.” Releasing his tunic, she straightened to face him, knowing she could not soften toward him again. “Not because you wanted me. You took me so that your enemy could not.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, WULF decided when he arrived in Valhalla his first order of business would be to confront the Norns in Helheimr, the worl
d of the dark goddess of spinning and weaving, the deepest realm of the Underworld. Would those ancient sisters be able to explain why he had been confronted with the impossible task of protecting Gwendolyn’s physical well-being while safeguarding her womanly heart?
Right now, it seemed he could not do both. She was not some tavern maid that he could keep safe merely by providing her with a tent and a meal every day. She was a Saxon heiress coveted by many. Her king and her overlord collected rents on her properties. Her dead husband’s family sought the wealth that would belong to the man who fathered her child. Wars were fought over women that valuable. So if he wanted to keep her out of Alchere’s hands and out of Godric’s hands, Wulf had to install her somewhere with walls and gates, guards and weapons. Thanks to his feud with Harold, he did not have those things. But Gwendolyn did. It made the most sense to take the properties that would be hers one day anyhow.
Yet, this practical need made him appear calculating and greedy in her eyes, just like all the other men who wanted control of her. He’d hurt her today.
He watched her now from the edges of the night’s bonfire. His people toasted the warriors in preparation for their upcoming battle. The women gave themselves to the men in private couplings all around the woods, taking hold of precious life while they could and making the most of it. But his fickle widow was apart from the revelry after having ignored him all day.
She currently attempted to steal a horse. Not just any mount, either, but his. He wondered why she did not settle for one of the smaller mares that would have been easier to manage. But nay, the woman who strode the battlements during an invasion and dove off a longship into treacherous waters had to choose his oversize, battle-hardened warhorse for her latest escape attempt.
