The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham
The room had been silent then too. Her hair had cascaded about her in sunset and golden waves as she taunted the men the way this vixen did now. She had held them all captive with her sway.
Even now, watching this almond-eyed temptress, he was reminded of his wife. He clenched his teeth and swore silently. He did not want to be reminded of her in his every waking moment. Nor did he want to dream of her.
Rollo sat down beside him. The smoke from the fire was rising. The girl seemed more and more a creature of myth and mystery, magical, elusive.
“She is one of the Dane’s prisoners, left behind in their hurry to escape, so the steward here has told me. She was taken in a raid along the Mediterranean Sea, and it is whispered that she seeks a new master. It seems to me that her eyes are frequently falling upon you.”
Were they? Eric didn’t know. He had stared at the girl but had been lost in thought.
She swirled before him, to a faster, more exotic rhythm. The gauze about her was slowly disappearing as she cast various veils off and away from her body. Honeyed arms and shoulders and the mounds of her breasts were revealed. Slim pants hugged her hips, and a narrow band of the gauze barely concealed the tips of her breasts. She moved faster and faster, spinning before him in her bare feet. The music rose then suddenly ceased. She tossed her head back and forth and came to her knees before Eric.
Again the room was very still. There was not even the sound of music now. Eric could clearly hear the rise and fall of the girl’s breath. She raised her head slowly, and her almond eyes touched his.
He felt the gaze of everyone in the room. He smiled slowly, then applauded.
The king spoke. “The girl is a slave. She is giving herself to you.”
There was nothing in Alfred’s voice to betray his thoughts. Eric was certain, however, that the king had a definite opinion on the proper way to handle the situation.
He turned to Alfred.
“I fought for your banner here today, Alfred. All that is taken today falls into your coffers, to be divided by you among the men.”
The king, irritated, waved a hand, dismissing the woman. Unhappily she rose. Slowly, with several backward glances, she left the central hall of the manor.
The hounds began to nuzzle about the outskirts of the fire, seeking bones and leftovers. Men began to move again, rustling the rushes beneath their feet.
Eric stared at the king. “Neither of us watched this girl tonight, Alfred. Both of us were thinking of another such performance.”
“One that brought you a wife.”
“And you an alliance. The marriage was a contract between us.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “So you intend to take the heathen harlot?”
Eric grinned and slowly shook his head. “Nay, Sire. I intend to give her to another.”
The king’s brows rose.
“Rowan,” Eric said. “The lad has lost much. I think perhaps he deserves recompense.”
Eric rose, suddenly very weary. He was losing his mind. He should not have given the girl away. He should have kept her to remind them all that he was his own man, that he would not be ruled by a woman, be that woman his wife and kin to the king.
He stared down at Alfred. The king looked up at him and said, “I am well pleased with our alliance. I would offer you anything taken here today.”
“Even the girl?”
Alfred winced. “Even the girl.”
Eric hesitated. “I don’t want her,” he said. “Good night, Alfred, King of England. She has reminded me that I am eager to return to what will be my home. There is much damaged, and I would see it righted.”
He turned and walked from the hall. There were rooms surrounding the central hall in the manor with its warm central fire, and he had taken one for his own.
A rich down mattress lay atop a large rope bed, and there he stretched out. He closed his eyes; his sword, Vengeance, at his side, his hand upon it. He never slept out of reach of it.
The events of the day played before his weary mind, and then he began to drift toward sleep. He saw the almond-eyed girl dancing before him, half naked. Then the girl changed and she was his wife. Rhiannon.
Her hair flowed about her like the softest curtain of flame. It cascaded over her naked limbs and tumbled around her. Then she lay on her back, and the sounds around them were the sounds of a babbling brook. She beckoned to him, she smiled, she urged him to come to her. He lowered himself between the softness of her thighs and pressed her back into the lush green foliage of a sweet-smelling and verdant earth.
He stroked her hair and moved his fingers upon her, and he felt something sticky; it was blood.
He awoke with a sudden start.
All was still darkness around him. His door to the hall lay ajar, and men still lay about the fire sleeping or passed out cold, as if dead.
She was in no danger, he thought. Why did thoughts of her death haunt him so?
It was rather she who longed for his throat, he reminded himself.
He needed to sleep. The only physical wound he had received had been from her, but still, the day had been long and hard, if victorious. And tomorrow he wanted to ride like the wind. He had paid his part of his agreement, and he would continue to pay it. The Danes would certainly rise again to avenge the battle here today.
But for now …
He wanted to wake in the morning and ride like the wind. He wanted to claim what was his.
He lay back down and closed his eyes.
He dreamed again and slept restlessly. He kept dreaming that she was in danger, and he woke again and again.
She was in no danger. She was in Mergwin’s care, and he would protect her from all things that a warrior might, and then some.
The dawn had barely broken when he gave up and rose. Irritated, he strode from the room and found Rollo by the fire, his great head cradled in his arms. Eric gave him a shove with a booted foot.
“Rouse the others,” Eric commanded. “It’s time to ride.”
Rollo blinked, then quickly rose. There was movement as men began to awaken.
Eric walked out to meet the cool spring morning. Dew lay on the grass, and a soft misty fog closed around him. Rochester was an impressive town. The Danes had wanted it badly.
They would come back.
He called to a young lad and asked that his horse be brought from the stables and that word be sounded that he intended to ride with his men. Minutes later his men were ready with the Danish riches they had plundered from the fortifications. Eric was startled to see Rowan mounted to ride with him, the dancing girl seated behind him.
“The king does not come now,” Eric said, riding to his side.
“I know. He has agreed that I should serve you,” Rowan said.
He stared at the boy hard, his gaze cold and level. Rowan had proven to be many things—could he prove to be a traitor too?
He was master of his own will, and of his own house, Eric reminded himself. Rowan was welcome to ride with him. He would keep a keen eye upon the lad and on Rhiannon.
“Then we ride!” Eric told him.
He called out to his men and started forward.
For home, he thought.
And for his … wife.
And, he thought, a slow smile touching his features, for all of the promises she had made to him.
He would see that she kept them. Every single one.
11
It had been good to come home.
So many people near and dear to her were gone now, lost in the senseless battle with Eric’s men. And still it was good simply to come home, to come to her own manor.
Nothing within her house had been touched, and in the time since she had fled the coast, much that had been damaged had been rebuilt.
And coming home, she had found Adela at last.
Her mother’s cousin, Adela was nearing sixty. She was a sprightly lady with a keen eye and a quick wit, and she had been with Rhiannon for years. She had been hiding out in the h
“Peter and his family were quite good, and they took a grave risk in shielding me!” Adela told her sagely, glad to dress again in her own clothing after she had bathed and stretched out on her large rope bed with the fine down mattress. “But, oh, what a place! Wee little ones everywhere, and a pile of straw and a dusty blanket upon the floor. Oh, my dear, I do tell you, my aching arse! Ah, but I do go on! What of you, my love?”
The question had been asked so tenderly that Rhiannon had taken great care with her reply.
“I’m fine. I—I fled from here to Alfred, and then, and then Alfred came here—”
“I thought that the king had come!” Adela said. “But I didn’t dare come out in case he hadn’t. That blond giant made a quick stop to any of his men abusing the people, but I didn’t know what he might think about kin to the lady of the manor! So now, tell me more, how have you managed to come back?”
“I married the blond giant,” Rhiannon told her quietly.
“Oh!” Adela said, stunned. “Oh, of course. But what of Rowan?”
“Well,” Rhiannon said, trying to smile, trying very desperately to find a bit of humor to offer Adela, “I believe this means that my marriage to Rowan is off.”
“Oh, my dear child!” Adela clucked, her soft blue eyes very tender upon the girl. Then she, too, managed to smile brightly. “Ah, well, the Viking is quite a magnificent man! You should have heard his voice ringing with command—”
“I’ve heard it ring with command, thank you.”
“A fierce fighter, yes, but a man of mercy.”
“Mercy!” Rhiannon exclaimed.
Adela nodded gravely. “Once the battle was done, he would allow none to be harmed. Oh, my dear Rhiannon! Are you suffering so very much, then?”
“Of course not,” Rhiannon lied. “The king requested that I marry, and I have done so. This is my land and these are my people, no matter what the Viking may think. I will not relinquish what is mine. Most marriages are made for convenience. I shall be quite all right. Now tell me more. So Peter and his family are alive and well. I am so very pleased.” She hugged her cousin again. “And I am so very grateful to see you, what with poor Egmund dead and so many others!”
Egmund had been given a decent Christian burial, Adela was able to assure her, and so had the others. “Beneath the great oak by the eastern gate, we shall go and pray for their souls, if that will please you, my dear.”
Rhiannon had prayed for Egmund and the others. She had visited the tenants and the serfs, she had expressed her grief at their losses, and she had promised to help them with the rebuilding of what had been destroyed. Then she had proclaimed a day that was to belong to the people only—they would do no work in her fields or for the manor but use all their time for their own devices. She had deer roasted that night, and ale from the manor given to all the people. Not one of the Vikings in residence had lifted a hand to stop her in any of her charities. Not even the tall redhead with the massive shoulders who seemed to be in charge, the one called Sigurd. If he protested her giving away the contents of his master’s larder, he made no comment. He barely spoke at all, not when he supped with her and Mergwin and Adela in the morning or at night.
She always knew, though, that he was there. That he watched her.
Standing upon the parapets with the dawn, looking out over her small walled town, Rhiannon could see that life was going on very much as before for the serfs and tenants and artisans. Men were at work in the fields. It was spring, and the most salient fact to the average man was that it was planting season. They all must eat to live.
Rhiannon knew that her relationship with her people was a good and an important one. The serfs were hers, not slaves but very much like slaves. They were born to her manor, and they would live out their lives there. They would work to serve her all of their days, or if someone chose to move on, then that person would need Rhiannon’s blessing. She was a kind mistress, careful to fulfill the laws that had been set down for all men, and fair in disputes.
But a serf’s service to his master or mistress was an ancient payment in return for protection. She had failed sadly to protect her people. Even if it had not been her fault, even if her fighting forces had been with the king, even if she had been betrayed, she had nevertheless let down her people, and it grieved her.
She sighed softly, watching the oxen and men move out on the multicolored fields. The Vikings had come. Eric had men in the house who, though painstakingly polite to her, watched her constantly. They made no move to interfere with her now that she had returned, but when she came down to sup in the morning or in the evening, they were there. Where poor Egmund should have sat was a Viking.
They might claim to be Irishmen, but they were Vikings.
She shivered. Would they say such a thing of her children in twenty to thirty years? Nay, they are not English, they are Vikings!
She paled at the thought. She could not possibly have children with the blond giant who so recklessly and heedlessly claimed his own way. He was a stranger.
He was no stranger, she thought. Not after their wedding night. A flush touched her cheeks, and she remembered the long ride home with Mergwin and her escort. She had been fascinated with the old Druid who had entertained her with various tales on the way home. He had told her about the coming of St. Patrick to Eire, and how he had chased all of the snakes away, and about the meaning of Irish hospitality and how no man could be turned away if he needed a bed or a meal; about Aed Finnlaith, the great Ard-ri, who had gathered the many kings together to meet the Viking threat.
“And still,” she remarked, “the Vikings took Dubhlain!”
Mergwin smiled and shrugged. “And formed a pact with the Ard-ri. And since then, other than sporadic Danish raids, there has been peace. The Ard-ri spends much time in Dubhlain, and his many grandchildren tame the land and subdue restless nobles. Olaf the White, the Wolf of Norway, speaks the Irish language far more frequently than his own. He dresses in Irish royal splendor and creates strong Irish fortifications. He is far more the defender of the land than an invader.”
“Now,” Rhiannon insisted. “But he came as an invader.”
“His children are part of Eire. Just as the child you carry now will be part of Alfred’s united England.”
She gasped, staring at him sharply. “I carry no child—”
“But you do.”
“You can’t know that! You can’t possibly know that!”
He shrugged. “As you would have it. But it is a boy, and you will call it Garth.”
Again she had gasped, because if she had ever had a son and a choice, she would indeed have named him for the father she had loved so dearly and so briefly. If a Viking would allow such a thing. How could this man know such things?
“You have been talking to Alfred,” she murmured.
He didn’t answer her, and she knew that was not the case. And now, staring out across the fields blindly, Rhiannon remembered his words so clearly. He could not know! No one could know so very soon.
She sucked in her cheeks. She could not bear the Viking’s child. A legal heir was something he might truly want, and she couldn’t bear the thought of giving him anything that he desired.
She closed her eyes and remembered the night of their wedding, wondering if it could be true. “Dear God, by all the saints, preserve me!” she whispered aloud, then shuddered. “I shall not listen to the heathen gibberish of a Druid!” she swore.
Then she started, staring hard over the parapet.
Riders were coming. At first she could only see the great mass of a large group of riders on the horizon. They were racing hard. Dirt flew and spewed about them. Then, as they came closer and closer, sh
And in the front she could see the great white stallion and the chain mail that Eric of Dubhlain wore to battle glinting in the sun. He rode with his visor up, his silver helmet atop his head, and he rode with the confidence of a god. Behind him, a man rode with his standard carried high, the sign of the wolf.
They’d come back! And so very quickly too. She had prayed for the king’s victory, but she had not expected it to come so soon.
She had not expected to see Eric of Dubhlain so soon.
The horns began to sound, heralding the warriors’ return. Rhiannon stared down from the parapet for what seemed like forever, feeling the pounding of her heart. Then she determined that she would come down, greet him, doing so with tremendous dignity.
She didn’t owe him anything—he had tricked her—but she would greet him.
She hurried down the steps and into the manor and to her own room. She looked around, feeling a strange quivering seize hold of her again. Her room, yes, but he had claimed it when he had come. His trunks were there—trunks filled with clothing and furs and with weapons, and maps and books painstakingly created by Irish monks in monasteries. She had tentatively, then boldly, searched through his belongings, and she had thought most seriously about choosing another place to sleep. But despite her unwillingness to admit it, she was afraid of him. Or perhaps what she felt was not so much fear. Perhaps it was merely that she was coming to know him very well. If he chose it, then perhaps his wife might be allowed to sleep elsewhere. If he did not choose, then he would hunt her down and drag her back, and he would consider it his right.
And all the laws of England would uphold him.
She found her brush upon her dressing table and drew it through the length of her hair, then smoothed down her tunic and quickly assessed her choice of clothing for the day. She wore a white linen tunic with finely stitched embroidery about the bodice and sleeves. It was not a gown for a royal occasion, but it was an attractive one that enhanced the color of her hair.