Viking's Prize (39 page)

CHAPTER
34

With
everyone so preoccupied over defeating Olav, they had somehow managed to escape
the battle without notice. Fools! For mere hours now the battle had been ended
and already there were rumors bandied about that Olav had been spied making
away in one of the Jomsviking’s ships.

Alarik
knew better.

They’d
come straightaway to the steading. For his part, he’d never felt emptier than
he did at this moment. And the Gods curse him! He’d never loathed himself more.

Elienor
had yet to waken, and for that too he could only blame himself. His chest
heaved with emotions he could not express.

If only
he’d left her in Francia.

He’d
had no right to her then—nor did he have a right to her now!

God—she’d
risked her life for him! He could still see the image of her bursting through
the flames at him, and the vision would haunt him every last day of his life.
She’d taken the blow meant for him, he realized. Had she not leapt at him,
shunting his course, twisting his body with the impact of her own, so that it
had struck her instead, that axe would have embedded itself between his
shoulder blades.

And he
would have lain eternally with Olav.

His eyes
stinging, he made his way into the dark but familiar
skali
with Elienor’s unconscious,
battered body draped across his weary arms. Alva led the way before him with
torch in hand. Sigurd and then Brother Vernay followed solemnly, along with
Nissa, her face grave and distressed. Within his chamber he laid her gently
down upon his bed, and then turned to Nissa, feeling an anger toward her he
could not define. All he could think in that moment was that she’d been the
last to see Elienor before her abduction. “Leave us!” he commanded, his voice
hoarse.

Nodding
anxiously, Nissa fled the chamber.

Elienor
lay so quietly and unmoving upon his bed, as pale as death itself, that
Alarik’s gut twisted violently at the sight of her.

“For what
it’s worth, jarl,” Sigurd proffered, “I faith she’ll heal.” Alarik peered up at
him, his dark eyes glittering. “You know how many broken bodies I’ve tended
after battle. Her flesh has not the taint of death about it.” He nodded
hearteningly, and seeing the longing in his jarl’s eyes, hoped it was so.

Alva
shook her head. “‘Tis the truth he tells you,” she added, though with less
certainty.

Alarik’s
jaw tightened. Closing his eyes, he shut out the raging emotions that battled
within him. He could little bear the thought of losing her now—now that
he finally knew the depth of his love for her.

Aye,
love, he cursed himself! Fool that he was, he would not see it! He’d not lose
her now, by God!

Not
before he was given the opportunity to make it up to her. He would give her her
heart’s desire... send her back to Francia if It was her wish—anything
she requested of him.

Anything!

If only
she would come back.

Looking
into her slumbering face, Alarik felt the moisture well in his eyes. He covered
his face with his hands, growing angry with this unwanted turn of fate. His
massive hands slid down to shadow his quivering mouth as he demanded between
clenched teeth, ‘Is there aught more you could do for her this eve?” His gaze
turned from Sigurd to Alva to Vernay. “Any of you?”

Sigurd
shook his head, as did Alva and Brother Vernay. “Nay, my lord,” Vernay replied
softly, his own eyes watering shamelessly. “Unless she were to... to...”

“Then
leave me!” Alarik demanded, refusing to hear the monk out. She’d not die. He’d
not let her, by God! “Go!” he shouted when they were too slow to comply. He had
no wish to disgrace himself further by weeping like a woman before them.
Keeping his tone completely devoid of emotion, he added, “And Sigurd...”

Sigurd
turned, though Alva and Brother Vernay did not. The two of them hurried away to
give privacy.

Alarik’s
voice was gruff. He waited until both had left them and then said, “I’d have
you take the watch. I’ve no idea what will come of the battle, but for certain
I’ll not let any usurp what is mine.”

Sigurd
nodded, his expression as sullen as his lord’s, for though Alarik’s words held
every trace of their former strength and determination, they lacked the
passion. Never before had he beheld him so crestfallen. “Very well, my lord,” he
avowed and again turned to go.

“Apprise
me the instant you see Bjorn, will you?” Alarik added grimly. “If he dares show
his deceiving face.”

“Would
you have me tell him aught?” Sigurd asked, turning at the door to look over his
shoulder at him.

Alarik
shook his head, trying to think coherently, unable to do so. “Tell him...” He
shook his head again. “Tell him nothing. Merely send the bastard to me when he
comes—if he comes...”

Sigurd
nodded, departing at last, closing the heavy door behind him.

Alone,
Alarik knelt at the bedside, his eyes closed in anguish.

Elienor
had been through all this because of him. Only God knew what she’d endured in
the last weeks under Hrolf’s hand. “You shall live!” he demanded arrogantly.
“You shall!” His gaze softened, moisture burning at his eyes. He squeezed his
lids shut and touched his brow, awkwardly beginning the sign of the cross as
he’d seen Brother Vernay do so oft.

Odd how
he found solace in the ritual when it was done.

After a
long moment, he found his voice again, gruff as it was. “I am, Elienor...” He
shook his head in self derision. “A stubborn, arrogant, fool! Too long have I
felt the need to be as mine sire... so much so that I’ve done as he did to the
last; I’ve denied the love of my heart... as did he... as it was his way to
deny all emotions not manly.” His voice faltered. “Christ... fool that I am, I
believed him. I believed his way was the true way of men. God... I was
mistaken, Elienor... forgive me.” He laid his head against her breast. “In the
name of your God, open your eyes!” he cried hoarsely.

Elienor
remained unmoving, and he lifted his face, vaguely aware that a tear, the first
he’d ever shed, rolled down his cheek and fell upon her ashen face. Blinking,
he touched the crystalline droplet with a finger, stunned unto death to see it,
his heart hammering, unsure what to do next. With a low cry, he swiped it away,
and bent to kiss her lips. Taking her head in his big hands, he whispered
hoarsely, “Come back to me, Elienor—oh, God, come back!”

For the
longest time, he merely gazed down at her angelic face, so pale in the dim,
flickering Light of the single torch. He felt like cursing. He felt like
howling. He felt like committing murder. He did none of those. Instead, there,
upon his knees, he kept a silent vigil, and cursed Hrolf Kaetilson to a death
without a place in his precious Valholl! He’d not been able to avenge himself,
for he’d not seen Hrolf again, and he prayed Hrolf had died without a weapon in
his traitorous clutches.

Losing
track of the hours he spent at Elienor’s side, he thought of everything Elienor
had endured at his hands, at his men’s hands, and knew that never again would
he take man or woman against their will. It was wrong, and looking at her too
still form, the wound on her forehead—his finger gently traced the scar
that had completely healed, and then moved into her hair to search out the lump
caused by the axe handle. There was no open wound, but it could have killed
her—might still kill her. And then there were the bums on her legs, not
grave, for they’d plummeted into the water well before her dress could fully
ignite, yet still there, a loathsome reminder of all she’d suffered for his
indulgence.

Every
moment, he prayed for her recovery, but with the Light of the new day, it still
had not come. In its stead came utter exhaustion. The physical toll of battle
and his raw emotions drained him, but he refused to close his eyes.

Nearly
asleep upon his knees, he removed his boots and blood-stained shirt, and clad
in naught more than his breeches, crawled into the bed beside Elienor.

And
still he fought exhaustion as he watched her every unconscious gesture.
Reaching out, he grasped a lock of her beautiful hair, and feeling it between
his fingers, he again imagined Olav’s red-gold hair within his fist. Felt again
the moment his brother’s body slipped from his grasp to the sea, and a hoarse
cry escaped him.

More
tears.

But he
didn’t care.

He’d
lost too much to care.

When
Elienor had not roused by the following morn, he felt like shaking her awake.
His endurance was near to the breaking point. He felt helpless as a babe simply
staring. There had to be something he could do to aid her... something...

With
that notion he felt compelled to go to the
kirken
. Elienor had spent so much time within
the small building—mayhap there he would find answers. He didn’t bother
changing his clothing. Restless as he was, he left his chamber dressed in
naught more than his leather breeches.

The
instant he walked out of the s kali, Nissa hurried within, toward his chamber.

Alarik
didn’t note it And he didn’t bother with his mount.

Instead
he ran the distance, releasing his frustrations in the course of it Midway
there, he let out a tormented cry and fell to his knees, pounding the ground
with his fists in outrage.

“Damn
you, Olav!” he shouted to the heavens. “Damn me! Damn your obsession with your
God!”

Loki
take him, not even Svein Forkbeard, who was well on his way to converting the
Danemark, employed such harsh persuasion as had Olav! So absorbed was Alarik in
his wrath that he did not hear the approaching footfalls.

He did
note the shadow that fell over him, and swung about... to face his brother.

Bjorn’s
face was pale, his eyes wide. “’Tis true,” he declared, shaking his head as
though disbelieving his eyes. “You live?”

“Aye!”
Alarik snarled. “Does it gall you, bastard?” He surged to his feet to face him.
Anger and disillusionment burned in his dark visage.

If
Bjorn had been relieved at seeing Alarik, his relief faded in the flaring of his
anger. “Ya!” he exploded. “By Odin! I am bastard—as you’ve so often
reminded me!”

Alarik
was momentarily stunned by the accusation, for he’d never used the term in
reference to Bjorn before. He’d done so this time only in anger.

“You’ve
not heard that from my lips,” Alarik denied. His fists clenched at his sides.
“If you have been reminded... ’tis by your own self alone, for you will recall
that I am bastard, too!”

“Ya?
And what ills has your bastardy brought you, mine brother?” Bjorn countered.
“You have had aught in life you’ve desired. I!—I am the one who has had
naught all my years! Naught!—do you heed? And for once I had opportunity,
can you not see that?”

“I see
only a sniveling fool,” Alarik broke in, stalking him now. Bjorn retreated
slowly. “A fool who has betrayed kin and country, both! In the same
breath—a fool, Bjorn, and naught more! Know you what price you have paid
for your treachery? Your honor! Kinship! The Northland’s future—not to
mention its king!” He stopped before Bjorn, his stance deathly still yet
bespeaking the violence in his heart. “And the knowledge that you carry the
blood of brothers on your treacherous hands!” Alarik laughed then, but there
was little mirth in the sound.

“You
live!” Bjorn pointed out, and the declaration sounded more an accusation. “As
for Olav—” His brows furrowed, and he shook his head. “Olav was never
mine brother!” Bjorn said vehemently. “Only yours!”

“Spoiled
whelp!” Alarik lunged at him, his fury too violent to contain any longer. The
two wrestled fiercely, until Alarik, exhausted as he was, could exert no more.
He fell atop Bjorn, pinning him beneath him with an arm to his neck, his face
crimson with anger. “You think he was not, bastard!” he shouted. “You think
not? Is that why he defended your filthy heathen hide to the last? Even in the
face of mine anger and accusations, even when I condemned you with proof. Aye,
Bjorn, Erik’s son, I know well you met with Hrolf, for I spied you with mine
own eyes coming out of the grove! Olav defended you even then!” His voice
broke.