The Viking's Defiant Bride (21 page)

‘Let me see.'

He extended the arm to reveal a ragged gash. It wasn't deep, but it had bled copiously, staining the shirt and the leather tunic.

‘That must be cleaned and bound when we return,' she said, ‘lest it should fester.'

Wulfrum didn't argue, for in truth the wound was beginning to ache. Looking at it, Elgiva was reminded again of how much he had risked for her sake and what she might have lost.

Further reflection was denied her by the approach of the oncoming riders. The huntsmen halted a few feet away, led by Olaf Ironfist. He looked at the waiting pair and then at the dead beast.

‘By Odin's beard, a fine boar,' he observed. ‘He must have put up a worthy struggle.'

‘Worthy enough,' acknowledged Wulfrum with a wry grin.

The two men exchanged a few words about the transporta
tion of the dead pig, then, having seen the instructions carried out, Ironfist went to retrieve the horses now grazing quietly a few yards off. Wulfrum turned to Elgiva.

‘Come, my lady, it grows late. We should return.'

 

It was a considerable relief when Ravenswood came into view half an hour later. As soon as they had dismounted Elgiva drew Wulfrum aside and led him indoors, calling to the servants to fetch hot water and cloths. Once in their chamber, she helped him unfasten his belt and remove the leather tunic. The shirt sleeve beneath was soaked in blood. With great care she removed that garment too, her practised gaze assessing the damage.

‘You were lucky, my lord,' she said then. ‘It isn't deep, but it does need cleaning.'

Wulfrum vouchsafed no comment, but seated himself as she prepared the things she would need. He had seen her tend others so many times but had little thought he would one day be the subject of her ministrations. He watched as she worked, her expression intent on the task, her small, deft hands cleaning the blood away from the wound, moving gently across his skin. The ride had brought the fresh colour to her cheeks and loosened tendrils of hair from her braid to form a halo round her face, a face whose contours were so familiar to him now he could summon them with his eyes shut. He could remember all too clearly the touch of those lips on his, the taste of her mouth, the subtle erotic scent of her flesh.

Elgiva broke into his thoughts. ‘A boar's tusks are dirty, my lord. This cut must be washed with wine, but…I'm afraid it will hurt.'

‘I'll live.'

The level tone suggested indifference, but the sudden sharp intake of breath as wine met torn flesh told a different tale.

‘I'm sorry,' she said.

Wulfrum set his jaw against the pain and made no reply, but
the sudden pallor of his cheek spoke louder than words. Unwilling to prolong the agony, she worked fast and, having sluiced the wound clean, prepared a poultice of herbs. These too would help prevent infection. Having slathered the mixture over the gash, she bound it firmly.

‘That should stay on for three days. Then I'll change it.'

‘As you will.' Wulfrum flexed his hand. ‘It eases already.'

Seeing some of his natural colour returning, she smiled. ‘I'm glad.'

He looked up and met her gaze. ‘Thank you.'

‘It was the least I could do.'

He rose from his chair and took her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. Every fibre of her being thrilled to that touch, for the memory of the earlier scene in the forest was etched on her consciousness. Supremely aware of his nearness, of his warmth, of his scent, she knew only that she wanted him. If he kissed her now…Closing her eyes a moment to steady herself, she felt him release her hand. Then he moved past her to the door. Elgiva bit her lip. She heard the door close and then the soft thud as the bar dropped into place. For a second its significance escaped her. Then she was very still, hardly able to breathe, hardly daring to hope—until she felt his hands on her shoulders.

‘I would thank you properly, Elgiva.'

Very gently he turned her to face him and then his arms slid around her waist and shoulders. For a brief moment he looked into the face tilted up to his before his mouth closed on hers. He felt her quiver, felt her mouth open beneath his, tasting again its honey sweetness on his tongue. Elgiva shivered, but not with fear, her body surrendering to the embrace, relaxing against him, answering his kiss with her own. She felt his hands move to her waist, felt him unbuckle her belt and heard it fall before he turned his attention to her tunic, unlacing the fastenings and sliding the garment down over her shoulders. The shirt followed a moment later. Then he loosened her hair from its braid,
running his fingers through its silky length, twisting a hank around his hand to draw her head back. A longer, deeper kiss ensued. He bent and slid an arm under her knees, carrying her to the bed. There he drew off the rest of her clothing before removing his own.

His love-making was tender and passionate, he controlling his desire in order to increase hers. He had waited too long to spoil this with haste. So he prolonged the exploration of her body, whose beauty he already knew, and, paradoxically, knew not, relearning the curves of breast and waist and hip, stroking, caressing and arousing, by turns both tender and insistent. Elgiva's pulse leapt, her flesh burning beneath that knowing touch, every sense alive to the lithe power of the body pressed so close against her own. Wulfrum moved lower, exploring the warm hollows of throat and collarbone and thence to her breast, lingering there, teasing the nipple to tautness, sending a thrill of pleasure along her flesh. She felt his knee move between her thighs, felt the answering slick warmth. Deep within, the sensation intensified, growing, mounting until it seemed that blood became fire. Every last defence overcome, she knew only that she wanted him. Her breathing quickened. She felt his weight shift and then the hardness of him as he entered her. The pressure increased and there was a moment of exquisite pain. Then it was past and he moved deeper in a slow rhythm that stoked the fire laid down before. Elgiva gasped, closing her legs round him, drawing him into her, yielding all of herself, moving with him as the rhythm became stronger, building to its shuddering climax. She heard Wulfrum cry out, felt the surge of energy between them in a moment of heart-stopping delight.

For a while afterwards neither one spoke, too shaken by the intensity of the experience to find the words. She felt his arm draw her close, holding her in the hollow of his shoulder. Beneath her hand she could feel his heartbeat and the sheen of sweat along his skin. He glanced down and smiled.

‘I've wanted to do that from the first, but I never imagined it would be so perfect.'

She looked into his face but saw only truth there.

‘I was afraid,' she replied. ‘First of you, and then of myself.'

‘You have no cause to be afraid, Elgiva. I would never hurt you.'

He propped himself on one elbow and looked into her face, tracing a finger lightly along her cheekbone to her lips and chin and throat as if he would memorise every part of her. Even now he could scarcely believe what had happened. While he knew her nature to be passionate, its depths had astonished and delighted him. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined such a magnificent surrender, and he had dreamed of it often. Yet even as the knowledge sank in, he found other thoughts intruding, thoughts he could never have imagined before he met her. Elgiva had yielded her body, but what of her heart? It had never mattered before. Women had satisfied a need. While he had ever treated them with gentleness, their thoughts and feelings were of no interest. This was different.

Unable to fathom his thought, Elgiva had yet to own to surprise. She heard that men were brutal or indifferent after making love. Wulfrum was neither. He had been gentle too, more than she could have hoped or imagined. For all that, his handling of her spoke of a man experienced with women. They held no secrets for him. Was she just another woman to him? Even at the height of their passion he had not said he loved her. Why should he? She was his wife, married by force out of political necessity. He had not prosecuted his right before because he had no need to. As he had said, time was all on his side. A consummate strategist, he had intended to have her submission and he had won. And yet it had not seemed like defeat. What manner of man was he, this enemy who could make surrender taste so sweet? More than that he had shown her what lay in her own heart. Wulfrum might have died today in the forest. A
few short months ago the notion would have been most pleasing, but somehow a shift had taken place—there was no trace left of the hatred she had once felt. It had been replaced by something far worse. She could no longer evade the awful truth that she did care for him. It was bad enough that he was the enemy of her people, a conqueror, who had taken her as a prize of war. Now, in spite of her best efforts, he was stealing her heart, as well, and her case was perilous indeed, for who knew what was in Wulfrum's mind, or in his heart?

‘H
e saved your life?' Osgifu stared at her. ‘How so?'

The two women had taken their sewing outside and were enjoying the sunshine by the door of the bower. It was peaceful there and private too; a place conducive to confidential conversation. As Elgiva summarised the events that had taken place on the hunt, the older woman listened with rapt attention.

‘It would seem we owe him much,' she observed when the tale was concluded.

‘He took the matter so lightly, Gifu, as though it was a perfectly normal thing to do, and yet he risked his life for me.'

Osgifu smiled. ‘Men always make light of such things.'

‘Do they?'

‘Of course. They prefer to say little and hide their feelings for fear of showing too much.'

Before Elgiva had time to ponder the words, she heard a footstep and looked round, thinking to see Hilda or one of the other servants. Her heart missed a beat to discover Wulfrum in the doorway. For a moment he said nothing, taking in the quiet domestic scene. Then he smiled.

‘I thought I might find you here.'

Elgiva laid aside her sewing and rose from her stool. ‘Was there something you needed, my lord?'

‘Will you bear me company awhile?' He glanced at her companion. ‘I'm sure Osgifu can spare you.'

The servant inclined her head and hid a smile. Elgiva, knowing her well, was not deceived, though she could not see the occasion for this hidden amusement. She had no chance to dwell on it, though, with Wulfrum so close by. He offered her his good arm and, rather diffidently, she took it.

For a little while they walked in silence. Elgiva glanced up at him, wondering why he had sought her out. They seemed to be heading for the stables.

‘I thought you might like to check on Mara,' he said.

Elgiva looked up in surprise. Any opportunity to visit her horse was welcome. How had he known? He did not enlighten her on the point, but stood aside to let her enter the building. Then together they made their way along the stalls until they came to Mara's. The horse turned her head and whinnied as Elgiva approached.

‘Here. She might appreciate this.' Wulfrum produced a withered apple from inside his tunic. ‘It is from last year's store, but I don't suppose she'll mind too much.'

He was right. The mare crunched the fruit with obvious enjoyment. As she stroked the glossy neck, Elgiva regarded her husband out of the corner of her eye. This was the hidden side of him once more, the one she had glimpsed when he was with Ulric. He liked children and he liked horses too. Glancing across the stable, she could see his stallion tethered nearby. At seventeen hands, the powerful horse took some riding, but with Wulfrum's hand on the rein the black was meek enough. She wondered at their partnership, for it was clear he had trained the animal himself.

‘How long have you had Firedrake?'

‘Two years.' He grinned. ‘He was a handful at first, wild and mighty contrary.' He glanced down at Elgiva, thinking that, in
some ways, the two were perhaps not so very different except, of course, that the stallion now obeyed his every command.

‘He's a beautiful animal,' she acknowledged.

‘So is the mare. Your father chose well.'

For a moment Elgiva remained silent, her eyes on the horse, stroking the velvety muzzle. Recalling the last time they had been in the stables and had spoken thus, Wulfrum could only wince. He seemed to recall his words then had been more than a little tactless.

‘Do you still intend to breed her?' she asked at length.

‘Not without your consent. After all, she is your horse.'

Her surprise was evident, for he saw warm colour rise in her cheeks, but the look in her eyes said more. It was a moment or two before she could speak.

‘Thank you, Wulfrum. She means a great deal to me.'

‘I know.'

Elgiva's heart was suddenly beating much faster, but her pleasure at his words was great. More, he had shown a true regard for her feelings. She laid a hand on his sleeve.

‘Mara means a great deal, but it means even more to me to hear you say that.'

Wulfrum knew a deep inner glow, but, not knowing quite what to say, he smiled and remained silent.

Having left the horses, they walked a while and came to the orchard. It was a fine day and enjoyable to stroll in the dappled shade beneath the trees. For some time they did not speak, being content to share the quiet and the moment. Presently Wulfrum stopped and spread his cloak on the grass.

‘Sit and rest a while, Elgiva. It is most pleasant out here.'

She sat down to join him, very aware of his nearness, of the lithe strength of the man. Her eyes drank in the powerful line of his jaw, the blades of his cheekbones, the sensual curve of his mouth, remembering its pressure against her own. Shocked by the direction of her thoughts, Elgiva looked away.

If he was aware of her confusion, he gave no sign. Indeed, Wulfrum's thoughts were on the scene around him, on the land, his land. Here in this rich earth was wealth indeed, a place where a man could set down roots and belong. He thought back to the country of his birth, of the farm where he had been a boy. Back then it had seemed very fine, but he had had nothing like this to compare it with. It seemed to him that in England a man could put a stick in the ground and it would grow and thrive. Back there the land yielded a living far more grudgingly. He thought of it as back there rather than home. This was his home now, the place he intended to stay, and the place where his sons would be raised—one day. He glanced at Elgiva. It was a strange fate that had brought him to this place, to her. The two were inextricably bound up. In some ways she was this place for him and always would be.

Unable to follow his thought, she surveyed him closely. ‘Is there something on your mind, Wulfrum?'

‘I was thinking of the strangeness of destiny and how it brought me here.'

Elgiva remembered the evening in the bower when she had asked Osgifu to cast the runes. It was but a few months since, but already it seemed a long time ago. In her mind she heard the voice saying,
The runes never lie.

Wulfrum stretched out beside her, hands behind his head, looking up through the leafy branches to the sky beyond. Watching him, Elgiva felt the truth of his words: it was a strange destiny that brought him here, a destiny with its beginnings in an ancient feud. So many lives, yet all were strangely linked. Osgifu had long ago told her of the Nornir, the three old women who spun the threads of fate. It had seemed then like just another fabulous tale. Now she wasn't so sure. Wulfrum had told her something of his past. It was as if a corner of that mysterious web had been lifted, allowing her a tantalising glimpse of the man she had married. He
had learned early to conceal his thoughts, to use his head and not his heart. Though he had not said so, she knew his life must have been hard, but he had survived and become strong, a man whom other men would follow. They trusted him, respected him, and obeyed him. It made her want to know more.

‘Was it in Lord Ragnar's hall that you met Olaf Ironfist?'

‘Aye. He and I go back a long way. He saved my life.'

‘Tell me.'

There was a note in her voice he had not heard before, curiosity and something else that was harder to define. Withal there was an earnestness in those amber eyes that would not be resisted.

‘We were hunting wolves and had a beast at bay. It was a fearsome creature, weighing full as much as a man, and savage with hunger. I came upon it first and, being young and foolish, thought to take it on armed merely with a belt knife.'

Elgiva laughed out loud. ‘Never! What happened?'

‘The beast attacked and I gashed it with the knife, which only made it madder. It went for my throat. I managed to hold it off for a little while, but my strength was waning and I knew I was going to die. Fortunately for me, Olaf appeared and grappled with the creature. He throttled it with his bare hands.'

‘How old were you then?'

‘Three and ten.'

‘It is surprising you lived to manhood.'

‘But for Olaf I might not have. He was five and twenty back then, and already well known for his feats of strength. I have seen him kill a bull with his bare hands. I can see him now, standing over the body of the dead wolf; how he laughed when he saw that belt knife. Then Ragnar arrived on the scene and of course he had to be let in on the joke. I swear, I thought the two of them would die laughing.' Wulfrum smiled, remembering it. ‘It took me a while to live that one down.'

‘And you and Olaf became friends.'

‘Yes. He mistook my stupidity for courage, you see. But, like Ragnar, he taught me much, and we have stood together in the shield wall many times. He is a brave warrior and a good friend. There is no man I'd rather have at my back in a fight.'

‘I believe it. Truly Olaf Ironfist is well named.'

‘Indeed he is.'

They lapsed into companionable silence, Elgiva pondering the things he had told her and keen to hear more. Even so, she would not press him. Confidence could not be forced. If he wanted to tell her about the past, he would do it in his own time. Once, not so long ago, such a conversation would have been unthinkable. She could never have envisaged then that she would discover so much—or that she would wish to.

For a long time they stayed together beneath the tree, soaking up the afternoon warmth, neither one in any hurry to move, both knowing that something important had changed and fearing to do anything that might break the fragile balance that had been established. The sun was setting before they eventually started back to the hall.

 

Preparations for the evening meal were well underway and the hall already lively with talk and laughter when they entered. Many eyes turned in their direction and several knowing smiles appeared on the faces of the observers. Elgiva knew what they were thinking: two lovers returning from a cosy tryst. It wasn't altogether wide of the mark either. Somewhat embarrassed, she glanced up at her husband. However, he seemed not in the least discomposed and paused to exchange greetings with some of his men. She would have slipped away but his hand on her arm forbade it.

‘Stay, Elgiva.'

‘Whatever you say, Wulfrum.' The tone was demure enough, but he was undeceived. She saw him laugh.

‘I'd like to think so, but I'm not so naïve.'

 

Later that evening, when they retired to their chamber, he made love to her again. Again he was gentle and patient, wanting her to enjoy the experience as much as he did. He found her willing, even eager now, responding to his passion with warmth and he lost himself in her, forgetting the past and all the brutality of the world. Nothing existed for him then but her. And afterwards, when they lay in drowsy slumber, he dreamed of the future they would carve out together. He had heard it said that behind every successful man was a strong woman. He had not believed it until now. With Elgiva at his side he felt invincible, that anything was possible. No other woman had ever made him feel that way, think that way. He couldn't even remember what those women looked like now, but it didn't matter. He knew he had found the one he sought, a woman to cherish and to trust.

 

As Wulfrum continued to familiarise himself with the land and its people, he found increasing pride in this rich and fertile domain with its warm, dark soil and fields of growing crops. Under his hand, Ravenswood had begun to resemble its former self. Elgiva watched too, and knew her husband a capable ruler of men. The Norsemen might be warriors and of fearsome appearance, but they also worked hard, and gradually the Saxons began to view their presence, if not with gladness, at least with a grudging acceptance.

From time to time they received news from further afield. Halfdan had established his rule in York and his war bands had roamed far and wide through Northumbria. Much more of the kingdom was now within their hold. It was not welcome news to Saxon ears, but there was naught to be done about it. They heard that the southern kingdom of Wessex stood out against the Danes, and some secretly hoped that the resistance would spread. Others prayed it would not, being tired of slaughter and
destruction. From time to time pockets of rebellion flared up across Northumbria, but these were dealt with ruthlessly. The Danes would not tolerate any such infraction and the perpetrators were hunted down and killed.

Elgiva shivered when she heard these tales, praying that as she had heard nothing of Aylwin for a while he had abandoned his former plans and gone to safety. It seemed to her that she had seen enough bloodshed and killing to last a lifetime. War meant waste and destruction, a ravaged land that could not support the people. Peace meant a future for all. It came at a price, but there was nothing to be done about that, either. It was futile to try to live in the past. They must make the best of now. Accordingly she set her shoulder to the wheel and, when not accompanying Wulfrum, turned her skilled attention to the household affairs.

Wulfrum observed more than he ever said, but he found no fault with her management of domestic affairs. Food was well prepared and appeared on the table to order; the serfs knew their tasks and obeyed her; the hall was well kept. It was a comfortable place and one that men, hungry and tired, looked forward to returning to. He noticed how his men would greet her now when they returned from work, sometimes with a jest, but always within the bounds of decorum. They knew that if one of them got a cut or a splinter she would tend it, and came to have a respect for her skill with herbs and potions. It occurred to Wulfrum that his marriage to Elgiva had been more than a shrewd move: it was a decision that pleased him more with every passing day. More than ever he looked forward each night to the time when he would be alone with her and she would share his bed. He knew other men envied him his good fortune. He saw them follow her with their eyes. Elgiva never returned such looks or showed she was aware of them, never once gave him cause to doubt her. How should she? In her was only goodness and sincerity. He was proud that she was his wife and he trusted her.