Hearts Aflame (39 page)
“What!” Kristen gasped. “When?”
“When I was gone those two days, I went to Raedwood to speak to Corliss’s father. He was not too disappointed that I did not want his daughter, when I offered Darrelle for his son, Wilburt, instead.”
“This was the surprise you said you had for me?”
“Nay, your own wedding was the surprise, though I was not sure you would agree. You were tricked into admitting you love me, and I have not heard you say it since.”
“You really meant to marry
me?
”
“Aye.”
“Oh, Royce!” She threw herself at him, knocking him back onto the bed.
“Then you do love my daughter?” Brenna interrupted their kiss.
“Mother!” Kristen rolled over. “God’s teeth! I have heard none of this before, and now I must hear it in front of you, and by coercion? Is that any way—”
“Be quiet, love. I have no time to cater to your sensibilities. ’Tis no fault of mine if he has not told you until now, but I will hear him say it.”
Royce said it. “I love her.”
“It means naught when you are forced to say it,” Kristen grumbled.
He caught her chin, bringing her eyes to his. “Do you really think I could be forced to say it, vixen? I love you.”
Behind them, Brenna chuckled. “Your father came just as late to admitting it, Kristen.”
Kristen was smiling quite bemusedly. She did not even hear her mother. But Royce could not ignore Brenna’s presence, no matter how much he wished her gone at the moment.
Soberly he said, “And now what?”
“Now I have my answers I will leave as I came, and hope I can talk some sense—”
“Brenna!”
Royce saw both women cringe at the sound of that booming voice outside the window. It raised the hairs on his own neck.
“God save us, I knew it was too much to hope he would not find me gone.”
“Brenna, answer!” Garrick bellowed again.
“Your father?” Royce ventured.
“Aye.”
“And he speaks the Celtic tongue, too?”
“I told you his mother was Christian. She was a Celt—”
Brenna cut in sharply. “You had best make haste below, Royce. Garrick has no doubt awakened your men. See they do not leave the hall armed, or they will be cut down.” She did not wait to see if he obeyed, but rushed to the window, calling down, “God’s teeth, Viking, you do not have to shout down the hall. I am here, safe, and Kristen is with me. Nay! Do not come inside, Garrick. I will come to you.”
Kristen had moved to the window beside her mother the moment Royce left the chamber. Torchlight illuminated the whole yard below, and what she saw were more than a hundred Vikings—helmeted, armed with sword and axe, and ready to storm the hall. She could only pray Royce would not call his men to arm. They would not stand a chance.
“
N
ay! Nay, Thorolf, you cannot mean it! Let me speak to him.”
It was morning, but the hall was still quiet. Women cried silently and prayed. The men solemnly sharped their weapons.
Brenna had gone back to Garrick, but he had not allowed her to return. Thorolf had been sent instead to tell them what had been decided. The Vikings had withdrawn outside the walls again. Kristen had waited with Royce throughout the rest of the night. They had waited for an attack, an ultimatum, but not for what Thorolf had been instructed to say.
She stood with Royce by the entrance, where they had met Thorolf. He had come unarmed at first light. His jaw was twice its size, testimony to her uncle Hugh’s hot temper. He had spoken only to her, leaving it to her to interpret his words for Royce. She had not done that yet.
“You can come with me now to see him,” Thorolf told her plainly. “But if you leave this hall, your Saxon loses his only bargaining power. I do not think you want that.”
“Then bring him here to me.”
Thorolf shook his head. “He will not come. He trusts no Saxon.”
“You came!”
“Aye.” He grinned. “But I trust in your ability to
keep your man from slitting my throat. Your father has not witnessed the power you have over him, as I have.”
She was angry enough to say, “For minor things, mayhap, but not over something that pertains to the safety of his people!”
Thorolf was not daunted. If he was going to be cut down, it would have been done already. But the Saxon just stood beside them, his face inscrutable. He did not even seem impatient to learn what they were arguing about.
“Do you tell him?” he asked. “If I have to, he may not understand clearly.”
“Thorolf, please! This cannot happen. I love them both. There can be no winner for me!”
“I do not think that has been taken into account. Sixteen of us have been enslaved, forced to labor for these Saxons. Not all want revenge for that. A few would even like to stay and settle here, if they could do so as free men. But those who do not want revenge have brothers and fathers here now who do.”
“Oh, unfair!” she cried. “’Tis the risk they took when they raided here!”
“They do not see it so.”
“God’s teeth! Did my mother not speak to my father at all?”
“They spoke long—or, more like, argued. It was afterward the decision was made.”
“Did my mother approve this?”
“Nay, she did not, but like yourself, she had no say in it. As Jarl, your uncle is in command. He has the final say, and he agreed. And your father was chosen unanimously, the feeling being he bears the most enmity against the Saxon because of your involvement. Now tell him, Kristen. The hour grows near.”
She looked at Royce. Her face was stark, bloodless. Abject misery poured from her eyes. How could she tell
him? She had to tell him. God help her, she was going to be destroyed this day.
Her voice was hollow. “You are challenged, milord. They have chosen their champion and you will fight only him. Do you defeat him, they will leave.”
Royce trampled on her heart by smiling at her. “This is better than I could have hoped for, Kristen. Why do you look so? Do you fear I cannot win?”
“There is that,” she said wretchedly.
“Very well. What will happen if I am defeated?”
He exuded confidence. She could not meet his eyes. “Alden will still have me to bargain with. ’Tis my uncle Hugh who is in command. He does not think you will kill me, but he is not so sure about another Saxon. Hugh will not risk my life. They will leave if I am given to them. Your people will be safe either way.”
“So ’tis only me they bear malice against?”
“Aye. A Viking would rather die in battle than be enslaved, for there is no honor in capture. You forced on them what they hate the most.”
“And yet they will be satisfied if I win?”
“They are fighting men, Royce. They fight for sport or the slightest insult; it matters not why. Men die at our feasts from what could begin as a simple argument. Friends fight friends—’tis the challenge they thrive on. But the victor is always revered as the better man. They send you their best. They do not think you can defeat him, but if you do, you will have proved your strength and be respected for it.”
He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “Yet this still distresses you? Do you want me to refuse this challenge?”
She groaned. “You cannot. My mother must have told them you will not harm me no matter what. As I said, my uncle is sure of it. They will attack your hall if
you do not fight, Royce. You have no choice if you want to spare your people.”
“Then they could attack even now, yet they challenge me instead. ’Tis fair, Kristen. So do not fret so. I cannot lose.”
She choked, then turned and ran toward the stairs. Royce frowned after her until she disappeared above. Then he glanced sharply at Thorolf.
“What did you tell Kristen that has upset her so?” Royce demanded.
Thorolf’s head hurt from trying to follow their rapid conversation. He had given up after he was certain the Saxon knew he was challenged. But he must know why Kristen would naturally be upset. He must mean something else.
Thorolf shrugged. “Garrick furious with Selig…lose ship…bring Kristen here. Will likely thrash.”
Royce continued to frown. Could worry for her brother make her look so stricken? Mayhap so, when combined with worry over the outcome of this fight.
“When does your man come?” he questioned.
“Have time only to prepare.”
“Does he come fully armed?”
“Aye.”
Royce dismissed Thorolf with a nod. He sent a man to his chamber to get his armor while he told Alden what was to happen, and gave him instructions on the unlikely chance he was defeated. A short time later he was helmeted and weighted down with chainmail. Alden was sharpening his sword when the call came from outside.
Royce stepped outside, his sword in one hand, his shield in the other. The Vikings had all come inside the yard, yet they had spread out along the outer walls, their shields and swords lying at their feet as a sign they were only there to watch. Seeing this, Royce’s own men
began to come outside the hall, and he gave the order that they were likewise to put down their weapons. He saw Kristen’s mother, gripping the arm of the huge, barrel-chested man beside her. Kristen’s father?
Royce did not wonder long, his attention drawn to his opponent, standing only a few feet away. He was a big man, mayhap even an inch or two taller than Royce. Powerful legs were spread apart and thickly gartered with leather, his only covering besides the conical helmet with its long noseguard that concealed most of his face. Muscles bulged across the wide chest and were tight across the flat stomach. The arms were like meaty clubs. Wide golden armbands circled his wrists, etched with dragon serpents. His large shield was covered with leather, with a two-inch spike in its center. And his double-edged sword was one of the finest-wrought weapons Royce had ever seen, the hilt richly engraved and inlaid with silver and gold.
Royce saw all this at a glance. That the man was bare-chested was a sign of contempt he could not ignore. He called Alden over to help him off with his own mail.
“Are you mad?” Alden wanted to know.
“Nay, he has the advantage if I am weighted down and he is not. I do not think this will be over with quickly, Cousin. I do not intend to give him any advantage.”
A cheer went up from the Vikings when Royce bared his own chest. His opponent had stood there and let him. Alden handed him back his sword and shield, and Royce approached the man he must kill. And then he froze, seeing the aqua eyes staring out at him from beneath the eyeguards of the helmet. He swore violently, stepping back. He swore again, throwing his sword down on the ground between them.
Garrick lowered his own sword. “By Thor, she did not tell you, did she?”
“I cannot fight you!” Royce snarled angrily. “’Twould destroy her!”
“Is that the only reason you will not fight?”
The tone was insulting enough that Royce could not mistake the slur of cowardice. He nearly retrieved his sword. But Kristen’s stricken face appeared in his mind and he clenched his fists tight against the impulse.
“Send me another to fight,” Royce gritted low. “Send me that bear who stands next to your wife.”
“Nay, my brother is in no condition to meet a man of your size and youth, though he would not admit it. You fight me or no one. Or did my daughter also neglect to tell you what would happen if you refuse to fight me?”
“She told me!”
“Then pick up your sword, Saxon. You know you have no choice.”
“Are you sure you are not too old for this yourself, Viking?” Royce sneered. “I train in warfare daily, in preparation to meet your brethren the Danes. Yet I understand you are no more than a merchant.”
“Oh, ho!” Garrick guffawed. “Now I have been well and truly challenged. You have one second before I start hacking you to bits, child.”
Royce dove for his sword, rolling with it, and coming up on Garrick’s left side. He had only that promised second before the first blow landed on his shield. Another followed before he found solid footing.
Brenna had been right. Kristen’s father did want his blood. He did not let up once in his attack, raining blow after blow, driving Royce back across the yard. No Dane Royce had ever drawn his sword against had been this merciless. But then, no Dane had had such motivation. He was fighting an enraged father first, a Viking
second. He was being made to pay for every time he had taken Kristen to his bed.
In the upstairs window of Royce’s chamber, Kristen stood like a statue, watching the combat below. It was torture to watch, yet she could not pull her eyes away. Half a dozen times her heart had already dropped to her feet, when it looked as if Royce could not raise his shield in time, when he slipped and her father’s blade had come within inches of him, when he finally began denting her father’s shield.
They stood like bulwarks now, hammering away at each other, blow for blow. Kristen’s lips bled where she bit them to keep from screaming. How long could they last like this? How long before…
Royce was knocked to the ground with the force of the last blow. Garrick swung at his right side, but Royce’s feet tangled in his and Garrick went down as well. Royce was quicker to rise, and he had a clear opening to the Viking’s midsection. He did not take it. He stuck his sword in the ground instead and threw off his helmet.
“I am done!” he snarled. “I could have killed you then!”
Garrick was slower to rise. He put his swordpoint to Royce’s chest and held it there for an agonizing moment, then stuck it in the ground, too. He also tossed his helmet aside, shaking loose his thick mane of golden hair.
“Aye, we would both be fools to continue, for I cannot kill you, either. But I feel no such qualms about this.”
The fist caught under Royce’s jaw, putting him flat on his back again. But he rolled over quickly and, with a mighty thrust, plowed his shoulder into Garrick’s belly. The fight was still in earnest, but with fists now instead of swords.
Upstairs, Kristen began to cry in relief. Across the yard, Brenna turned away to hide her own tears. Both women smiled, sure now that their men would live. The Vikings did not so much care that the thrust of the fight had changed. They still cheered on their man, as did the Saxons across from them.