The Viking's Woman (11 page)

“Rowan, what is the matter?”

“I—I’ve no more right to hold you,” he said softly, and only then did she realize that everyone in the room was staring at her—the king harshly and coldly; Alswitha with confusion; and each and every one of the men sorrowfully and with a keen discomfort.

They all knew something she did not.

“What has happened?” she demanded.

Whatever it was had to be awful, she knew. She looked at Rowan again. His features were taut with pain and he held her tightly but away from him. A slow chill swept through her. It took root at the base of her spine; swept upward, catching her nape; then spread to her limbs.

“Rowan—”

“The king must tell you,” he said. He set her from him and quickly addressed Alfred in a choking voice. “I would leave now, Sire.”

The king nodded. Rhiannon stared at Alfred, demanding an answer with her eyes.

“What is it?” she asked again at last. She tried to keep her voice low. Then she knew. They had not been able to dislodge the Viking from her land. Viking? she thought bitterly. Nay—the Irishman. The king kept insisting that the usurpers were Irish.

“My home,” she said. “It is lost.”

“All of you, leave us,” Alfred said.

“Alfred—” Alswitha began.

“Leave us!” the king repeated to his wife.

She heard the men turn and leave. She didn’t see
them; her eyes were locked with the king’s. She was dimly aware that Alswitha called to the children, and then Rhiannon was alone with the king, and an awful terror filled her heart.

“Alfred, tell me!” she cried hoarsely.

For a moment she thought that he meant to stall, to speak to her as gently as possible and to try to soften the cruelty of his coming words.

But then he spoke flatly, in a tone of voice he had never used to her before.

“You are to be married.”

Married. She had just been dreaming of such a blissful state. But if she were to marry Rowan, there would not be this awful tension in the room.

“Married?” she repeated, and her tone was as cool as his.

“Immediately.”

“To whom, may I ask, my noble king?” The tone of her voice was subtly sarcastic. The inflection was not lost upon Alfred.

“I am sorry to hurt you in any way, Rhiannon, but I am doing what I must. I have betrothed you to Eric of Dubhlain. The wedding will take place here, in two weeks.”

She could not believe him. The words washed over her and then seemed to fall at her feet like cold droplets of rain.

She shook her head. “No. This is some jest.”

“Nay, Rhiannon, no jest.”

The cold seized her. It surged through her. He meant to give her to some unknown prince. To an Irishman, a foreigner with Norse blood. He had used
her like some playing piece in a game, as an appeasement for what had happened.

“Alfred, you cannot mean this. You cannot do this to me. I am in love with Rowan and he with me.”

“Rhiannon, love is a luxury I cannot allow you at this time. Rowan has understood that I had no choice. You must do the same.”

Seconds elapsed. She stared at him, stricken. For the first time in her life she did not know how to deal with the king.

Supplication, she thought swiftly. She had always been one of his favorites. She must plead.

“No. Please!” she whispered, and she hurried to him, falling upon her knees before him. “Alfred, however I have offended you, I beg your pardon! And I beg your mercy! Please—”

“Stop it! Stop it!” he roared at her. “Get off your knees. You have not offended me. This is no punishment. You will do as you are told, for I have commanded that it will be so. I have done you no injury! I have given you to the son of a king, and the grandson of the great king of all Ireland. You will not shame me by protesting this arrangement.” He jerked his hand away and turned from her. “Get up.”

Stunned, amazed, Rhiannon stared at him. She could not believe that he would turn so callously from her.

She stood slowly, staring at the back he presented to her. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “I cannot. I will not do it. Perhaps your Irish prince never stepped ashore, but his Norse henchmen destroyed my town and my people. I will not marry the man.”

He swung around in fury. “You will!”

“No,” she said softly, emphatically. She felt so very cold, almost numb. The king was not angry. He was not seeking revenge, and she could not plead her case before him. He was a man obsessed; he had set his mind and issued his command. And he
was
the king.

“You have no choice,” he told her flatly. “If you continue to argue with me, I will have you imprisoned until the day of the wedding.”

“Do what you will, I will not marry this man!” she vowed.

“You force my hand, Rhiannon.”

She remained silent. “Allen!” he called out sharply.

“What are you doing?” she demanded desperately. She hadn’t wanted to lose her control, her dignity. Now he was calling upon one of her least favorite of his men to … to do something with her.

Her control snapped. He was her cousin, her guardian. Tears formed in her eyes and hovered on her lashes. She sprang to life, her dignity abandoned, and raced toward him. She slammed against him with passion and fury, beating against his chest. He caught her arms and her hands fell futilely against his chest. She met his eyes and thought that he was glad of her wrath, that he welcomed the storm of her fury, for it somehow absolved him.

“Alfred, whom the English hail as great!” she whispered scathingly. “I will never forgive you for this. Nor will I marry this man!” she promised.

For one moment it seemed that he would soften. His lips parted as if he would speak, his hands moving as if he would stroke her hair. He did not. He thrust her from him. “Allen!” he called again.

Allen came at the second call. Rhiannon kept staring
at the king. Allen touched her arm, and she jerked free of him, approaching the king heatedly once again. “I’ll not do it! You cannot force me! I will run to the holy sisters, I will seek refuge in Paris—I will go to the Danes!”

The last caught the king’s attention. He spun around and returned to her.

“Nay, lady, you will not. I will keep you under lock and key until the moment you are wed. And if you persist in this infamy, I will pray that he is more Viking than Irishman and that he will take all necessary measures to silence you! Allen!” he roared. “Take her from my sight!”

Allen grasped her arm hard. She turned to face him and saw that there was a malicious gleam in his eye, as if he enjoyed her discomfort.

“Let go of me, Allen!” she demanded. “I will walk where you so choose. Just keep your hands off me.”

His smile straightened, his mustache falling low over his mouth. His gaze upon her darkened. “Lady, I would watch your noble tongue!” he warned her.

“I will watch nothing!” she said. She jerked free and hurried past him, storming out the door. Within seconds he was behind her. He caught hold of her arm just as Edward reached them both. “Please, let me take her!” Edward implored.

She didn’t look at Allen; she was too close to tears. It seemed that he acquiesced, for Edward was leading her then. She stumbled, amazed that the sun could still be shining, that the clash of steel could still be heard as men practiced the arts of war.

But now there was no one close to the king’s house.

“I’m sorry, Rhiannon,” Edward said to her. “So very sorry.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“The spring house.”

It was a small, unfurnished structure down the slope of the valley, usually used for storage. There was nothing at all within it now. One single high window let in the light.

“Don’t bolt me in. Let me escape,” she pleaded.

“You know that I cannot,” Edward told her sadly.

She managed to square her shoulders and step into the small building. She slammed the door of her prison, and sank down to the dirt floor.

Then she burst into tears, trying to muffle the sound so that no one set to guard her might hear her. She cried in silence until the darkness descended. No one came near her. No one brought so much as a drop of water. She sat through the dark, silent night in abject misery, her resolve stiffening.

She slept, but her dreams were filled with terror. The Irish prince had turned her over to his blond Norse henchman, and the man was stalking her. Her arrow protruded from his thigh, and blood cascaded down his leg as he shouted at her, “Pray, lady. Pray that we do not meet again.”

In the morning the queen came to her. Rhiannon was pale and exhausted and bitter.

She told Alswitha that she wanted to see the king.

Alfred had betrayed her. The king had cast her to the enemy, but she would not consent to his decree. Somehow she would elude them all. And they would never suspect.

Alswitha brought her to Alfred. Rhiannon knelt down before him and whispered that she acquiesced to his will.

She could not face him as she lied; yet a lie was her only road to freedom.

He took her into his arms again and held her tightly. He whispered that he was glad and grateful that he loved her and would always be there for her.

I hate you!
she cried inwardly.

But she didn’t really hate him. She remembered her father and knew that Alfred could die at any time. She held him tightly in return; she could not obey him but she did love him.

She just couldn’t forgive what he had done. She could not accept it. There seemed to be a coldness that wound around her heart and turned it to ice. He was unrelenting. She could be the same, Rhiannon knew, yet if she did not pretend to accept his will, then she would have little chance to change her fate.

She had already bought her freedom from the spring house.

The next morning she went out to the stables. She longed to take the roan that had brought her there and fly with the creature, fly into the wind, to the north, to the south, to oblivion. She knew that she had to be patient, though, and cunning. She fervently wished that she had not fought the king so forcefully when he had first brought the news to her, for now she would have to cultivate his trust carefully. Today she would just stay here for the morning and stroke the soft noses of the animals. She would whisper to them and choose her mount. She needed the strongest
and swiftest of them. She could not judge them easily here, but she was familiar with horseflesh and breeding and could choose a sound mount to ride when the time to escape rolled around.

She smiled, pausing where the roan was stalled. He was not the finest beast but had delivered her once from imminent danger. She paused to stroke the creature and then heard her name whispered softly, brokenly, and heartrendingly.

“Rhiannon!”

She turned; she knew the voice. Rowan stood there, tall and handsome in his linen chemise, short leather tunic, and sturdy hose. His sword was at his side, his eyes plagued by misery. His face remained ashen, yet she thought that it had taken courage for him to come there after the king had spoken on her fate.

She cried out his name and rushed to him. His arms tightened around her. He swept her from her feet and carried her to a mound of hay, and they fell there together. He held her as if she were a priceless treasure. She reached up and touched the curling locks of his hair that fell to his neck, then moved her palm lovingly over his bearded chin. “Rowan!” she whispered, and sobs bubbled up within her.

He saw the tears in her eyes. He touched her lips with his fingers. And suddenly she remembered everything about him, remembered why she loved him. He had been with the party that had returned her father’s body to the coast when Garth had died, and when she had fallen over his form in tears, Rowan had taken her up. When the horror had been too much, he had lifted her into his arms. And in the days that
followed, he had spoken of her father’s courage and determination. He had given much of Garth back to her, and for that alone she could have adored him.

He held her away and stroked her cheeks, staring at her face as if he could imprint the memory of it forever on his heart. She felt a new surge of fear, for she now realized how fully he had accepted the king’s will and realized that she truly had no help for it.

“We should have married before,” he said dully. “We should have married ere now and the king could not have done this thing.”

“It is not done yet,” she murmured.

“Rhiannon …” He pressed her back against the hay and moved over her. She suddenly felt keenly aware of the moment, of all sensation. The scent of the hay rose up, and she heard each shuffle of the horses’ hooves, felt the very texture of the flesh on his palms. The day was ridiculously beautiful, she knew, beyond the paneling of the barn. It was spring in Wessex; the grass was green and the brooks and streams bubbled and laughed. And she loved the man here beside her.

If they were caught together, though, they would both be condemned as guilty of defying the king’s will. Nay, it went further, for she knew that it was not only Alfred’s will but his honor, as well, at stake.

Alfred’s honor—and perhaps Rowan’s life.

She scrambled up upon the hay. “Rowan! If someone saw you come here … I am afraid.”

“Hush. No one saw me. I would not jeopardize your future so.”

“My future!” She reached out again, needing to touch him. He had kissed her before, had held her.
She knew his touch and cherished it. Perhaps she felt no great stirring wonder, but she did feel loved and secure in his embrace.

Suddenly, bitterly, she wished that she had given herself to him before. She could not believe in honor now; she had been sold to a heathen, and so honor could matter little. She might have gone forth from there with one sweet memory of having been loved. She smiled at him tenderly. “Think not of my honor, love, for such a thing is suddenly not my own at all. I fear for you, dear Rowan. The king has spoken.”

“Aye, the king has spoken,” he agreed tonelessly. “And I am left a fool, bereft.”

“I will not marry him,” Rhiannon vowed. She came to her knees, and he pressed his face against her chest.

“God, that I could have been your husband!” he breathed.