Viking's Prize (6 page)

“Nay!”
Elienor planted her heels. “I’ll not leave him!”

He
shoved her this time. “Aye, you will,” he apprised. “Now walk of your own
accord, wench, or I will haul you out myself!” When she wouldn’t comply, his fingers
dug into her upper arm in warning. “Walk!” he demanded.

There
was no doubt in Elienor’s mind that he would, indeed, carry her out as he’d
warned, but it was the only way she would leave, she vowed. If he would steal
her from her home, she would not go easily!

Muttering
another savage curse, the Viking leader lifted her up, and for the second time
this night, flung her over his hefty shoulders.

CHAPTER
6

Three longships were beached upon the narrow
embankment, the largest of them monstrous, over eighty feet long. Spanning more
than sixteen feet in the midsection, it held no seating; the oarsmen used
great-footed war chests in their stead, their surfaces weather-beaten and
smooth from use. Moonlight glinted off the polished wood, casting deep shadows
into the planking.

Elienor was dumped unceremoniously into the belly
of the largest vessel, into the shadows, next to a young woman she recognized
by name as Clarisse, Brouillard’s fille de chambre. And then, cursing roundly,
the Viking simply turned his back and stalked away.

“I shall see you rue this day!” she swore
tearfully.

Never had she felt such loathing for another human
being. Indeed, never had she even considered it possible! She might have
forgiven him anything—anything! Stealing her away from her home, the raid
upon Count Phillipe’s castle—anything but the killing of an innocent boy!

“Oh, God... Stefan.”

Her throat tightened.

In her mind she could see him again so clearly,
his innocent young eyes widening the instant he recognized death. “Unfair,
unfair, unfair,” she sobbed. Her gaze bore into the Viking’s back as he assumed
his position at the helm. Curse him—a thousand times curse him! The Norse
fiend had been three times Stefan’s size, and likely claimed three times his
skill!

Trembling with fear and fury, Elienor sat in
bitter silence and watched as the last of the Vikings boarded, seating
themselves upon their sea chests. At once they took up their oars.

“M’lady?” the young woman beside her ventured
timidly. “You should not fault yourself. I... I saw it all... It was the
boy’s...” She swallowed visibly. “It was Stefan’s...”

Elienor shook her head adamantly, refusing the
comfort offered.

“Aye, m’lady!” Clarisse insisted. She began to sob
quietly, disconsolately. Elienor thought she might be weeping for Stefan, for
she knew they, too, had been close. Impossible not to care for young,
lighthearted, sweet, smiling Stefan. “It was his duty to defend you!” Clarisse
maintained. “My lord Phillipe would have expected it so!”

“He was so young!” Elienor cried. “So very young!”

Hot tears blurring her vision, she swallowed and
met Clarisse’s gaze. She swiped at the fiery wetness upon her cheeks, and shook
her head. “If... if only... I’d not struck the demon…”

She averted her gaze, unable to continue, grief
and remorse wrenching her heart.

Through misty eyes she watched as the Vikings
launched their dragon ships into the River Seine. It was like naught she’d ever
seen before. In one fleeting moment the castle was in plain sight, in another
It was gone, vanishing into the night mist without a trace, so swiftly did they
glide away. And with it, their last chance for deliverance.

Would her uncle know where to seek her? Would he
bother? And what of Count Phillipe? The Viking had said he lived. Could it be
true?

She dared to hope.

Against her will, her gaze was drawn again to the
helm, where the King of Demons stood peering out over the waters.

Murderer! her heart screamed.

His back was to her this instant, but even at this
distance, she knew him. Aye, she knew him—never would she forget those
silver eyes, so cold and hostile!

The men surrounding him were large of stature, yet
he towered over them still, his fair hair glowing pale beneath the silvery
moonlight. Bound with a braided leather strip about the forehead, its silky
length fell well below his nape, catching the light so that it gleamed. The
thought occurred to her suddenly, bitterly, as she stared transfixed, that
she’d never seen the likes of his hair before, not even the fairest ladies of
Francia’s court had such beautiful tresses as did he. She found herself
wondering over the feel of it.

Would it be as soft as it appeared?

The instant she considered it, she recoiled. Sweet
Jesu, but whose thoughts were those? Surely not hers.

She shivered as the breeze swept her hair into her
face, and she closed her eyes to pluck away the stinging strands from her
lashes. When she opened them again it was to meet the Golden One’s dark gaze.
The way he watched her never ceased to send quivers down her spine.

Faithless was what she was.

But nay, all it took to keep those thoughts at bay
was to remember Stefan’s face as he’d died. “Murderer,” she whispered, and
hoped he could read her lips. Still, she could not wrench her gaze away, and so
she willed him to know what was in her heart, every last trace of loathing! But
if her emotions were truly in her eyes, he seemed wholly unaffected by what he
saw, for his gaze never wavered. His lips merely curved at one corner, as
though to mock her, and then mercifully he turned to address his men, releasing
her at last.

With another shudder of her shoulders, Elienor
turned to meet Clarisse’s probing gaze, and gasped in surprise at being watched
so cannily. Chagrined at what thoughts might have been evident in her confused
expression, she wrenched her gaze guiltily away.

“M’lady?” Clarisse asked weakly. “What do you
suppose they will do with us?”

Elienor’s blue eyes were full of torment as she
turned to acknowledge the question. She had no notion what to say to allay
Clarisse’s fears. In truth, she had no inkling what lay in store for either of
them; the dream had ended in the chapel, with the screams of the wounded and
dying. She shook her head miserably.

Clarisse nodded, bowing her head, and Elienor
turned again to watch the men at their rowing.

Heathens though they were, they moved gracefully
together, in perfect accord with one other. Yet, as beautiful as their motion
was, the sound they made was diabolical. Keeping time with the head oarsman’s
pounding rhythm, the oars groaned eerily as they rolled over wet wood, lifting
and plunging again like savage beasts into the murky water. As the three dragon
ships soared over the night-blackened waters, the sound only escalated, grating
on Elienor’s nerves.

For the longest time, neither she nor Clarisse
spoke. She simply sat, watching all, seeing naught. Against her will, she kept
envisioning the Viking leader... the way his eyes had pierced her within the
chapel... the way he’d touched her... caressed her cheek so tenderly.

Those eyes.

She saw them again as he’d touched her within the
chapel… gently… more gently than any single person ever had. Not even Sister
Heloise had shown her such affection.

Troubled by the image, Elienor nipped at her lip.
How could he touch her so gently, and be so coldhearted? She closed her eyes to
ward away the memory and at once it was replaced with another.

Stefan.

“Sweet Jesu!” She moaned. Would she ever forget
the look on his face as he’d died? Never! she swore vehemently. “Never!” she
whispered.

All too soon, the three longships exited the mouth
of the River Seine and entered into the turbulent channel.

Water rose up to slap against the dragon vessel
like mighty wrathful hands. At once the rowing ceased and the rigging was
hastily raised, the sailcloth unfolded and prepared. In short time the red
diamond-patterned sails, which struck terror in the hearts of men, women, and
children alike, billowed sharply with the strengthening breeze.

Elienor’s heart wrenched as the sails filled and
the ship punched forward with a terrible fury, leaving the mainland of Francia
small in its wake.

She dared not weep.

With silent, stoic pride, she watched her homeland
vanish before her eyes, then squeezed her eyes shut, even as her heart
constricted with grief.

It was her duty to be strong, she told herself.
For Clarisse.

Beside her, Clarisse began to weep in earnest.
Burying her pallid face into the sleeve of her gown, the girl fell forward
against the planking to sob.

Hours later, as the sky began to lighten, Clarisse
lay weeping still, though quietly now. Elienor had no notion what to say to
comfort the poor girl. Try as she might, the words would not form. She scooted
to the maid’s side to soothe her the only way she knew how, the way Mother
Heloise had so often done for her. She stroked the back of Clarisse’s matted
hair, and when Clarisse’s sobs began to ebb at last, Elienor coaxed the girl’s
arm away from her face.

Clarisse resisted, whimpering, concealing her
eyes. She turned her back to Elienor, and it was then Elienor discovered the
sticky blood that coated the girl’s dark hair behind her head. “Clarisse!” she
exclaimed. “You’re injured! Jesu, why did you not say?”

Clarisse moaned and shook her head, refusing to
bare her face. “I... I... sorry, m’lady! So sorry...” She moaned pathetically.
“’Tis the light!” she complained.

As best she could, Elienor parted the girl’s hair
to find the gash little more than a graze. The welt beneath, however, was a
furious purplish crimson. She hesitated to touch it. “Does it pain you much?”
she asked, and then berated herself for the question. Of course it pained her!

Clarisse nodded emphatically, concealing her face
protectively into her sleeve, yet the gesture managed to bare her wound more
fully to Elienor. Elienor gasped to see the swelling so severe at the base of her
skull. She shook her head. “Sweet Jesu... what have they done to you?”

Clarisse responded by coiling herself protectively
into a little human ball.

“Clarisse, how can I help if you will not speak?”

“H... he...” Her breast heaved on a sob. “He struck
my head against the stairwell.”

There was no need to ask who. In Elienor’s heart
it wouldn’t have mattered who the guilty party was. She knew precisely at whose
feet to place the blame.

His.

“It aches more with every passing moment!”
Clarisse whined.

Cautiously, Elienor reached to probe the wound
with her fingers, gently, so as not to cause more suffering.

At Elienor’s touch, the girl wrenched herself away
with a shrill cry, rolling out of reach. Once again she began to sob, and
Elienor felt utterly helpless, wanting to aid her, yet knowing she had not the
means. Elienor looked to the helm, and this time, she rose determinedly, not
thinking, only feeling.

The very least these heathens could do was to
supply her with cloth and water to cleanse the wound!

Before she could rise fully to her feet, she was
shoved backward by the one called Red-Hrolf. He scowled fiercely at her and
began to bellow viciously in his garbled tongue. Elienor knew not a word, yet
understood him perfectly. He commanded her to stay—like a dog! Well, she
refused to be cowed! Clarisse needed aid and she’d not fail her!

As she’d failed Stefan, a little voice
beleaguered.

Resolved as Elienor was, she rose again, only to
be thrust backward once more.

“How dare...” She halted on a gasp, restraining
the angry words, and despite the trembling in her limbs, once more rose to face
the irate Viking. “I would speak to your jarl!” she demanded furiously. “I’ll
not sit idly by and watch this woman die! Have you no mercy at all?”

She didn’t stop to consider why she felt the jarl
would help her any more than the flame-haired one would.

Red-Hrolf continued to bellow, shoving at her arm
intermittently, and then abruptly he ceased his tirade to glower over her
shoulder.

“Since when do thralls demand aught?”

Elienor’s heart flew into her throat, and she
buckled to her knees. Sweet Jesu! Mary mother of God! She resisted the urge to
cross herself. She dared not rise, nor turn to look at him for fear that her
eyes would betray her. Her heart throbbed painfully as she waited for him to
speak again, but when he did, it was to address Red-Hrolf in their own tongue.

Red-Hrolf immediately sat down upon his sea chest.
Hushed and angry, he took up his oar once more, all the while glaring
resentfully at Elienor.

At once she was wrenched about to face the Viking
leader.