Gressa watched Tyra and Bjorn’s wedding, but it was not her childhood friends she saw standing before the altar. She saw herself with Strian. They had been so young when they married, but she had been so certain that they would have a long and happy life together. Instead, they had only married a few months before war separated them, and the enemy took her as a thrall. As the ceremony continued, Gressa’s mind wandered back to when she first arrived in Wales.
“You would do well to make a good first impression,” her still nameless captor told her. Gressa looked around as she took in the settlement, she supposed was her new home. She watched as a well-dressed couple approached, and people moved out of their way as they passed.
When the couple stood before her, the woman yanked on her arm.
“Bow,” she hissed.
“Magda, I see you’ve brought us quite a few new servants. Even pretty ones,” a woman’s lilting tones made Gressa look up. Standing so close, Gressa noticed the woman’s unblemished skin was like cream, her blue eyes were the hue of sapphires, and her hair was even darker than Gressa’s. The woman was beautiful in a way Gressa had never seen before. The woman turned to the man standing beside her, but they spoke in a language she did not recognize. When they finished speaking, the woman turned to Gressa. “What are you called?”
The two women relied on Magda to translate.
“Gressa.”
Gressa received an elbow in her still sore ribs.
“That’s ‘my lady’ to you. You’re in the presence of the prince and princess.” Gressa had not noticed her male captor now stood on her other side. She wondered why it would matter if the couple could not understand her.
“She is new to our land. Do not punish her. She will learn soon enough.” Gressa did not miss the edge that had crept into the princess’s voice, and Magda reinforced it as she murmured beside Gressa. When she glanced up, she noticed the princess was not looking at her but at her husband, who in turn, was staring at Gressa will unmistakable lust.
The woman pushed her down the board until she stepped on a wooden dock. Gressa stumbled off the ship, her leg and back wounds still causing excruciating pain that she attempted to hide. As she stepped foot on the dock, the world began to close in as her periphery turned black. She swayed and tried to take a deep breath, but the world tilted. She managed two steps towards the royal couple before the harbor and people faded to black.
Gressa remained ill will a raging fever for a fortnight, and it was another six weeks before she was on her feet and able to walk more than the distance across her chamber. During that time, she learned as much Welsh as she could, wanting to understand what happened around her and what people said about her. Gressa’s first meal in the prince and princess’s great hall was exhausting. Walking to the hall and the noise were tiring to her body, but the attempts to be polite when people stared at her, along with not understanding the all of the language, frazzled her nerves. She was glad to escape. The prince’s covetous looks made the entire experience one she wanted to avoid for as long as possible.
Gressa intended to stay as far from the royal couple as she could, but it was only a fortnight later that the prince summoned her to his private chambers. It filled Gressa with trepidation entering the room that held an enormous bed, and the only other occupant was the prince.
“Gressa, it pleases me that you came so quickly.” The prince, Dafydd ap Llywelyn, was a handsome man in his early twenties. Gressa had already learned that he purported to love his wife, but she was pregnant and would not welcome him into her bed. “As you can imagine, I have been lonely these past weeks with Princess Enfys being unable to keep me company.”
Gressa stepped back against the door. She wanted nothing to do with the man, nor any other man, but she feared what her rejection would mean for her safety.
“I sympathize with the princess and how unwell she feels. I suffer the same malady each morning, and even well into the afternoon.” Gressa had not told another soul that she was expecting, having only had it confirmed by a midwife that morning. She had been feeling ill for weeks but assumed it was her injuries. As her body recovered, she could not explain why she felt weak and nauseous until she counted back to the last time she had her courses. It had been before she married Strian. Now, she prayed it would be enough to discourage the prince. She watched his expression as it passed from surprise, to disgust, to anger. She slid her palm onto the door handle in case she had to run.
“And who would be the lucky father? You have not been here very long. How could you know already?” Dafydd sneered.
“The father is my husband.” Gressa did not want to give him more information, and she was not sure how much information would keep her safe.
“Husband? You never mentioned you were married.”
“I was never asked.” She watched the anger on his face grow and added, “Your Highness.”
“And where would this husband of yours be? Did he not protect you from becoming a thrall? That doesn’t seem like much of a husband to me.”
Gressa’s mind raced as she tried to devise a way to escape without infuriating the prince further. She was beginning to see a temper that truly frightened her. Even her father’s ranting and raging did not convey such a danger.
“My husband searched for me, but I was too weak to call out to him. He fought our jarl and other men, but they outnumbered him.”
“That seems a weak excuse. If he loved you, he would not have given in so easily.”
Gressa recognized the manipulation for what it was. Dafydd wanted to sow the seeds of doubt, so he could undoubtedly be the one to come to her rescue. She just prayed it was Strian who came instead.
Dafydd inched forward as though he were approaching a skittish mare. He offered her a smile that others might believe was sincere and charming, but the hardness in his eyes put Gressa on edge even more. The nervousness made her stomach churn, and in turn, made her feel nauseous. Her hand covered her mouth as she tried to choke down the bile rising in her throat. The burn only made her body want to cast up her accounts even more. She tried to shake her head as the prince continued to inch forward.
“Your Highness, I’m not feeling---” Gressa could not squeeze out any more words before she darted to the chamber pot and threw up.
“Woman!” The prince’s enraged face only made Gressa heave for a second time. “Get out! Do not show yourself again in my presence.”
Gressa wiped her mouth with her sleeve and bolted for the door the prince now held open. She did not stop running until she reached the tiny chamber they had assigned her. Once there, she breathed a sigh of relief that she had thwarted the prince’s attention. For now.
“Gressa. Gressa.” Strian watched the faraway look in Gressa’s eyes as she faced the altar where Bjorn and Tyra had been standing only moments ago as they pledged their love and fidelity. “Gressa?”
Strian gave her a little nudge and was grateful that she looked at him, even if her eyes were misty.
“What’s wrong?” Strian whispered.
Gressa shook her head but did not offer an explanation. Strian continued to watch her as she seemed to come back from wherever her mind took her. She was beautiful in the deep blue gown Lena lent her. It was a perfect match for her eyes, and Strian suspected Lena had done that on purpose. Gressa’s long dark hair cascaded over her shoulders and back. She looked so much like the young woman he had married all those years ago, before the same altar. Strian had wondered if she was remembering as he had, but the flash of fear and pain made him question whether she was thinking of their wedding, and if she was, why it caused her fear and pain.
“Tell me, Gressa,” he beseeched. “You’re frightening me.”
Gressa snorted at Strian’s admission, knowing little frightened him, but his expression showed he was not exaggerating.
“You don’t need to worry about me anymore, Strian. I’m not your responsibility.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Strian, I re
leased you from the bonds of marriage years ago, even if you didn’t know.”
Strian staggered back.
“You really did give up on us, on me.”
Gressa would have done anything to retract her words as she watched the same anguish cloud Strian’s eyes as when they discovered Strian’s mother dead, violated and murdered in his parents’ chamber.
“I didn’t give up so much as accepted fate and reality.”
“You believe we were fated to never have a happy marriage? A marriage at all?”
“That’s what fate has shown us.”
“And if we were wrong, and fate has brought us together because that’s where we belong?”
“Ten years is a long time for fate to make up its mind.”
“That’s only because you weren’t around to see Tyra and Bjorn,” Strian muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just that it took Tyra and Bjorn just as long to admit their feelings and marry. Clearly, fate believed they belonged together and made it so.”
Gressa turned away and walked towards the jarl’s longhouse where the wedding celebrations were already under way. Strian followed but did not speak, too lost in his own thoughts.
When they arrived at the longhouse, Strian reached to take Gressa’s hand to lead her to the high table where he saw they had left two seats for them. Their fingers grazed one another, but Gressa was moving in the opposite direction. She weaved through the crowd until she arrived at the door to the kitchens. She lifted a heavy tray from a young girl. She moved towards the first table where she placed bowl after bowl of food. She neared the end of the table when Strian, who still stood in the doorway, watched a man throw his bowl of skouse at Gressa’s chest. The meat stew splattered the neck and skirts of her gown, but it soaked the linen across her breasts. The saturated material left little to the imagination. She scrambled to lean forward to pick up the bowl and in the process pull her tunic away from her breasts. Her new position created a host of lewd comments, and one man stood up behind her, grasped her hips, and pretended to thrust into her.
Strian plowed through the crowd, shoving anyone in his path. When he came to the last table that stood between him and Gressa’s assaulter, he leaped onto the bench then stepped over the table before launching himself at the offending man. Strian pummeled the offender as they landed on the ground, tipping over a bench. Strian saddled his opponent, raining down blow after blow. It was not long before the man’s face was mangled and unrecognizable.
Strian stood, looking around for Gressa and finding her backed into a corner by five women. One had her hair wrapped around her fists. Two other women pulled at her gown, attempting to strip her while the last two screamed obscenities and threats, accusing her of seducing the men. Strian stepped over his now dead opponent to go to Gressa, but Freya was already on her way. She barreled through three of the women and landed a punch squarely in the woman's jaw who held Gressa’s hair. She was not through; she punched the two shrews by the time Strian made it to the second fight. He pressed his way between the women, refusing to lay a hand on any of them for fear of being accused of something later.
Gressa watched Freya come to her rescue in stunned silence. The woman had barely spoken to her since Strian found Gressa in Scotland. She argued with Strian when he wanted to stay behind with Gressa, and she blamed Gressa for ruining Strian’s life. But now, Freya fought as though no time had passed, and they were loyal friends. Strian stepped forward and lifted his arms, but she flew into them before they were to his waist. Gressa buried her face against his chest as she grabbed fistfuls of his tunic as though frightened he might disappear.
The brawl was over just as quickly as it began. Freya turned to the couple and sneered at Gressa.
“Don’t think this means I forgive you for abandoning Strian and don’t think this means I like you. No woman should have a man touch her in such a way. That’s the only reason I defended you.” Freya spun on her heel and marched back to her chair beside her husband.
Strian brushed hair from Gressa’s face and examined it for any damage.
“Can’t we leave?” Gressa whispered.
“Under the circumstances, I think Ivar and the others would understand if we excused ourselves without asking.”
Strian led Gressa to the door, neither looking anywhere but straight ahead. When they stepped outside, Strian pulled Gressa against him and backed her against the wall. His lips crashed into hers with no finesse. It was raw passion born of fear and relief. It was need that he could not put into words. Gressa matched his ferocity as she tugged at his tunic as though he could get closer even with their clothes in the way.
“Gressa.” His voice a tortured moan.
Gressa welcomed his tongue into her mouth as they tangled and stroked before she sucked softly. The sensation made Strian rock his hips forward until his hard length rubbed against her mons. Gressa squirmed trying to find a position that would ease the growing ache in her belly. They both knew there was only one way to satisfy a need like this, but they both knew they were in the wrong location for such intimacy. They broke apart, staring into one another’s eyes, each wondering what the other was thinking.
Strian took Gressa’s hand once more and stepped away from the wall. They turned to walk towards Strian’s home, but they only made it a dozen steps before Gressa stepped toward a building a few over from Strian’s home.
“Where are you going?” Strian had a sneaking suspicion.
“To the servants’ quarters.”
“You don’t need to live there.”
“I do. You brought me here as a thrall, and while you may have made me a free woman, I am still a servant.”
Strian stared at her as though she was a puzzle to be solved.
“You aren’t a servant. You are a wife and a shield maiden. Your home is with me, and you belong in the training yard with the other women.”
“I might be one but not the other.”
Strian swiped a hand through his hair before scrubbing his face with it.
“You want to go to sleep, unprotected, in the exact same building as the women who just attacked you. Is that what I’m supposed to understand? Because that is both crazy and stupid.”
Gressa clenched her teeth and hissed, “I may be crazy, and I may be stupid. I might even still be a shield maiden, but I am not your wife. I’m not your problem. You don’t get to dictate to me. When will you understand that?”
“When you can tell me you don’t love me.”
Eight
Gressa felt as though Strian knocked the air from her. Strian had played his hand well and knew it. Gressa would not lie to him, and she knew she had already admitted it twice. It was the truth, but it did not change the circumstances in which they found themselves. At least, it did not in Gressa’s mind.
“Gressa, I will continue to sleep by the hearth and you in the chamber. I will not touch you unless you ask me to, and I won’t pressure you. But you aren’t safe sleeping anywhere else.”
“If my safety is in such danger, then let me go.”
“I would feel the same way about Bjorn or Leif. I would offer the same to Tyra or Freya. Even if you never agree to be my wife again, I will never turn you out to fend for yourself. If for no other reason than our past. You were my family.”
Gressa stood without moving or speaking for so long Strian was convinced she would turn him down. But she saw the sensibility in Strian’s offer, and she knew her resolve was running out. Even in her own mind, the reasons to push Strian away were thinning to strands she could not grasp. Continuing to argue with Strian about their living arrangements was only a matter of pride. She knew she would give in to all Strian’s demands if she agreed to live with him. She wanted to, but as much as a life with Strian called to her, her home in Wales called just as loudly. She could not plant roots here that had already been severed. She needed to return to Wales. Perhaps, if she could repair some damage to her relationship with Strian, he m
ight let her go. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was ludicrous. Strian would never voluntarily let her go, so she hoped she could convince him to travel with her even if she refused to admit to her reasons.
“I will accept your offer under those conditions, but only those.” She cocked an eyebrow in defiance, her pride still holding her hostage.
“Very well. But there is one more thing. Gressa, I can’t overlook the danger you are in. And it exists only because I insisted you return here. Perhaps I should have let you remain in Scotland to return with the other warriors to Wales. But I could not see reason. I could only see the woman I have loved for half my life, the woman who was my wife. Gressa, for your safety, please consider letting the others believe we’ve reconciled, let others believe we are still married. You will have the protection of my name. You will always have the protection of my sword, but this will keep anyone from questioning you.”
“Strian, that asks too much. You would have us lie to everyone? And if, no when because it’s inevitable, they discover we’ve been deceiving them, then what?”
“Why would anyone know? What we do or don’t do in our home is our business. If we can stand to be cordial to one another in public, then what is there to question? It would allow you to train again which is when you would spend the most time in public. You wouldn’t even be training with me.”
“And when we dine with the others?”
“We are newly reconciled. Much like newlyweds, why would we want to leave the privacy of our home?”
“So, you would have everyone think you’re fucking me like rabbits?” Gressa’s temper flared at the notion that others would think she was little more than a bed slave even if Strian called her his wife.
“I would have them think I am making love to my wife. A wife everyone knows I have grieved for. A wife everyone knows I never recovered from losing. A wife more beautiful than any other woman in this tribe. Who would blame me?”
Gressa looked around and noticed for the first time that they were drawing attention from the few people milling about and those leaving the evening meal. She saw the suspicious expressions. She noticed a handful of women glaring at her, and she knew it was because Strian had staked his very public claim by coming to her defense. His anger had not surprised her, not even his violence that killed the other man in front of the entire tribe. He had always been protective of her. She realized now, though, there would be others who did not view their reconciliation with as much eagerness as Strian did. While there were several other handsome men in the tribe, women had always considered Strian the most attractive. She knew from the women he had bedded before her. They had been equally good looking, and they had said more than one unkind word when Strian chose her over the others before they wed. She recognized these looks of envy and covetousness. While Strian believed he might protect her from everyone in the tribe who wished her harm, she knew his protection would only extend to the men. Their relationship, whatever it might be, would fuel the fire of the women’s hatred and put her in more danger.
Strian (Viking Glory Book 4) Page 5
