The Viking's Woman (10 page)

The only way, Eric thought. Alfred wanted him there and was willing to compensate him handsomely. But he could not give him the land without a battle—unless Eric took the girl as his wife.

What did it matter? Eric wondered, a coldness settling over him. Marriage was a contract, and he would enter into a contract—nothing more. She would be his to command till death did them part, and perhaps that was the greatest payment she could ever make.

He was being offered his place at last. His own land—good land, rich and verdant, with a fine harbor. Not inherited or granted but earned.

He had to have the land. He could taste it, he could feel it. Excitement ripped through him. He wanted it; he wanted to be the lord of this coast. He would tame
her. One way or another he would tame her. If she could not reconcile herself to life in her own home, all the better. He would send her to Ireland and be free of her.

Marriage was a matter of convenience. It was the very substance of pacts and lands and alliances.

For a swift, shattering moment he remembered the feel of her beneath him. Remembered the feel of her flesh, the rage and passion in her eyes and their startling cerulean color. He remembered the violent surge of desire that had seized him and that in those seconds he could have taken her—like a Viking, like the barbarian she called him.

This had been her land! She had sent arrows flying against him. There had been a traitor here ….

If she had played treacherously against him, against the King of Wessex, if all that blood of the Irish, the Norse, and the English that so wastefully drenched the coast was her doing, she would pay—dearly, for every day of her life to come. If the king would not see to it, then Eric, himself, would.

And he would have the freedom to do so. He would wed her, as the king demanded.

None of his emotion and none of his thoughts were betrayed in Eric’s features. Alfred knew that the Irish prince was thinking, but his thoughts were a mystery, hidden in the swirling arctic mists of his eyes.

Eric walked back to the table. He poured more mead into their two handsomely appointed chalices.

“To a long and lasting friendship,” he said, offering one chalice to the king.

“To the death of the Danes,” the king pledged.

“To their destruction.”

The king swallowed his mead, staring at Eric. He was quiet for a moment, watching the foreign prince.

Any maid would want this man! he thought, trying to assure himself. Once the girl had seen him she would not be so displeased. Within him ran the blood of kings, the strengths of two warrior nations. He was noble in appearance and in bearing. He was as honed and muscled and sleek as the finest-bred war-horse, and his features were startling, strong, and handsome, his eyes mesmerizing ….

And as chilling as ice at times.

Nay, any maid would want him. He was cultured and fair. He spoke many languages and had learned wisdom as well as warfare.

Any maid …

Except Rhiannon.

He shoved such thoughts from his mind. He was the king and had learned wisdom as well as warfare himself. Like the hard blond warrior before him, he had learned a certain amount of necessary ruthlessness.

Alfred lifted his chalice once again. “To your marriage, Eric of Dubhlain. Come, we’ll call our scribes and cast our seals upon this pact, and it will be as we have said.”

Though the king was gone from Wareham, the meadow was filled with his men.

Men who prepared for war.

Throughout the day the sounds of it could be heard. The shouts, the orders, the commands.

And always the clash of steel.

Rhiannon didn’t think she would ever be able to hear that sound without reliving the horror of what had happened on the coast, without seeing the bloodshed and the death. All through the hours of light it went on, and with each clang and clamor she winced anew, envisioning the deadly yield of the mace and the ax and the sword.

In the king’s household she spent her time with the children. Alfred was deeply dedicated to learning. She knew that he regretted the interruption of his own education, which he longed to resume, and had determined that it should not be the same for his sons and daughters. He spoke often of the sorry state they had come to, for England had passed a golden age a century ago, Alfred thought, lamentingly. Then the monks had created the finest scripts, and the words of the poets were gifts to less eloquent men. Alfred had tutors for his children to teach them Latin and science
and mathematics. Rhiannon spoke Welsh, which Alfred considered an important language for his offspring, since he and the Welsh kings were either making pacts to fight the Danes, their common foe, or making war against each other.

Three days after the battle Rhiannon sat in the king’s house with his younger children and spoke to them in her father’s language. But her mind wandered, for she could hear that endless clash of steel and could not concentrate on her lessons. She determined that she would take the children into the meadow, then behind the house, still well within the walls of fortification. To feed the geese was their job, for in the king’s household everyone worked.

Edmund, the oldest of the children in her charge, raced forward with his handful of barley, and the other children followed happily. Rhiannon let them scamper ahead of her, then she sank down into the spring daffodils and idly chewed upon a blade of grass.

She could not believe that the king had sent for the foreigners to help him fight the Danes. Viking against Viking—it seemed inconceivable! And now, too, while she was here and safe within the king’s own compound, it was impossible to believe that the invaders were overrunning her home, the place where she had been born, where her parents had lived and loved.

Alfred would move them with all haste, she assured herself.

But some foreboding filled her heart, and she shivered despite herself. She had never seen the king so enraged as he had been over the battle. Surely he
believed her that she had known nothing about his invitation! Dear God, her people had died there; they had lain down in pools of blood and given up their lives. And they hadn’t even had a chance, for most of her carls, trained fighting men, were here at the king’s disposal.

He would not let the Vikings remain in her home, she promised herself. He could not. He was her cousin—and her protector. By all honor he would see justice done.

It was not so difficult to convince herself then. He claimed that he had called forth an Irish prince, but she had seen a crew of bloody, barbaric Norsemen. She prayed suddenly, hastily, that the king would not live to regret his unholy alliance. Tears stung her eyes suddenly. He did not need these men! All of England loved and respected Alfred. He had pushed back the foe again and again, and men rallied to him. He would ride forth to Rochester and free the besieged town, she was certain.

And yet again her heart seemed to tremble, for she had believed that her father was immortal. He was beautiful and courageous and fine … but he was flesh and blood and had died like the next man.

The children were laughing. Spring had come and it was right that they should feel the renewal of life and laughter. She watched as they ran in the tall grass, allowed the tempest in her soul to fade, and then had dared to smile. She loved little Edmund. He had his father’s serious eyes and dark crop of hair, but he had something of his mother’s features and was a beautiful child.

She wondered what her children would look like
and if they would resemble Rowan or herself. Rowan’s coloring was much like the king’s; he had wonderful mink-brown hair, a fine mustache and dark beard, and expressive hazel eyes. He was taller than the king, lean but strong, and—Rhiannon decided—was entirely wonderful.

She lay back for a moment in the tall grass, closing her eyes. Rowan was with Alfred now, and she prayed that he would soon return. When he took her into his arms, all would be well. She would forget the nightmares and would cease to fear the ice-eyed stranger.

And when the king had finished with the Danes at Rochester, she would marry Rowan. Alfred had been too preoccupied with war to sanction their union yet, but when the king returned, she would beg him to have the banns called from the church. Alfred was fond of Rowan, she knew. He would not protest. He had always smiled benignly on their love affair.

It was an appealing daydream. The king would give her to her bridegroom, and Alswitha would laugh with her and give her warnings about the night to come. But she was in love and not afraid of the bridal bed. Rather, she had loved the slow, sultry kisses that she and Rowan had exchanged, and she had been sweetly eager to know more. To give herself to Rowan seemed but a natural and beautiful thing to do. She loved to imagine being with him through the night, at his side.

She started, her reverie broken, as she felt a thundering against the earth. Edmund was shouting excitedly and drawing his sisters through the high grass. Rhiannon scrambled to her feet and saw that the gates were opening. The king was returning.

Looking toward the manor, Rhiannon saw Alswitha come from the house. She did not rush to meet her husband but waited. Alfred gave the order that his men were free to engage in leisurely pursuits, then he turned his mount toward the house. He dismounted, and there, as a groom came for his horse, he greeted his wife. Rhiannon watched them for a moment, glad of their love, and then she searched through the crowd of returning horsemen until she saw Rowan. Her heart went out to him, for he appeared tired and very forlorn, and she wondered with a new rush of fury what had happened on the coast for him to appear so pained. Like Alfred and his important aldermen—Allen, Edward of Sussex, William of Northumbria, and Jon of Wincester—Rowan was heading toward the manor, after the king. There was to be some kind of a council meeting, Rhiannon thought. But perhaps Alfred would allow her a moment with Rowan, a quick greeting, before he took sole use of the hall.

“Children, come!” she called to them. “Your father has come home!”

She did not need to tell the little ones, for they were already racing toward the manor. She followed, first at a run, then more discreetly, as befitted her station in life. But when she came to the house, she burst through the door as quickly as the children.

Serfs were already busy supplying the king and his men with ale. Alswitha was greeting them cordially. The children ran to their father, demanding his attention. Alfred’s eyes glanced at Rhiannon and slid away, and she was startled, for the king always looked everyone, man or woman, straight in the eyes. Edmund
had reached him. He hugged his son and turned his back on Rhiannon. She stiffened. So he was still angry with her. Yet none of it was her fault.

She did not care, she thought, but she did. She did not love him so much because he was the king but because of his value as a man. She loved his quick wit and intuition and loved to listen as he expatiated on his dreams. Alfred saw an England in which learning and culture flourished once again.

Rhiannon bowed her head, acknowledging Allen, Edward, William, and Jon. She was fond of Jon and Edward; they were both men near her own age, quick to laughter and the use of flowery phrases, and ever her defenders. Allen she found too grim, yet she forgave him, for it was easy to understand his ever-serious nature. William sometimes frightened her. He watched her and studied her, twirling his fine, dark mustache as he did so, making her wonder what cunning lurked in his mind. He made her uneasy, but she nodded to him, anyway. Then she realized that they were all three staring at her and that each of them seemed very grave and serious and grim. She couldn’t understand it, for they had come back with their full number, so the Irish prince must have negotiated. There couldn’t have been another battle.

The king still held little Edmund, so Rhiannon felt that she was free to smile at the others and hurry past them in her efforts to reach Rowan. She quickened her pace as she neared him, casting herself into his arms.

“Rhiannon!” He whispered her name painfully.

Something was wrong. She knew it instantly. She stared into Rowan’s eyes and was certain that she saw
a glaze of tears there. Nor would he hold her. He caught her arms and held her from him, and the confusion was almost more than she could bear.