Viking's Prize (9 page)

Then too, she was a little sad for him; Robert of
Francia knew firsthand the pain and agony of losing a loved one, for he too had
fallen victim to such manipulations. His first marriage had been annulled in
much the same manner as was her own father’s, and his love thereafter confined
to the priory.

But as grateful as she was, she could not help but
feel a little bitter over all that had been taken from her as a child. The pain
her mother had endured.

But it was best not to dwell on that, she knew.
She tried to focus instead on the good things in her life: She was learned in
the scriptures, knew her histories, and could tally her numbers well, for
Mother Heloise had been priming her to become abbess in her stead.

With a sigh, she curled her legs into the mantle
that had appeared upon her so mysteriously the morning of the second day and
wondered again to whom it belonged. It was not Red-Hrolf’s, she was certain.
Nor did any of the others seem overly concerned with her welfare.

She had a suspicion to whom it belonged, for it
smelled of him; an elusive combination of wind, sea, and man. It was insane,
she knew—to know his scent, when she knew him not at all, but she did.

The wind howled about her, hissing like a viper
through the sails, and Elienor made certain Clarisse was covered by the mantle
as well. Leaning over her, she tucked the coverlet gently beneath her, and then
peered out over the gunwales. Nothing but angry gray swells met her gaze. They
were so far from anywhere.

The unfathomable depth of the ocean made her
shiver abruptly. She felt so vulnerable out here, almost as vulnerable as she
had on that fateful day when she had been ripped from her mother’s breast…

The sea was so dark—as dark as she’d so oft
imagined her mother’s grave to be.

She shivered again and hugged herself for warmth,
cursing her lips, for they burned incessantly—even in the cold, damp
darkness. She raised her fingers to them as though that brief touch might ease
them.

She wasn’t so much afraid to die, she told
herself. Rather she was terrified that if she did, they would toss her body
into the sea—to the dreadful creatures that dwelled within it. With a
miserable groan, she glanced down at Clarisse.

Moonlight glinted off the young maid’s face,
making her skin seem too pale, her eyes black and eerie. The thought occurred
to her suddenly that Clarisse might not survive the sea voyage. Once again she
was failing. As she’d failed Stefan.

Swallowing the thickness in her throat, she tilted
her head skyward.

Had God truly forsaken them?

Her hand covered her mouth. In the darkness, with
no eyes to see her and the rising wind to carry away the sound, she began to
sob quietly.

Fifteen winters she’d spent within the priory.
Fifteen long, lonely winters. And Phillipe had been her greatest hope.

Above her, the sails rippled violently, twisting
the mast windward. Shuddering, Elienor crossed herself. What fate was this God
had given her? To see poor Stefan die—and now mayhap to watch Clarisse
suffer and do the same? Well, by God, she’d not allow it!

As though her fury had become tangible, the wind
suddenly lifted, pitching the ship viciously and jostling those aboard.

“Clarisse?” she cried out.

There was no response from the weak form beside
her.

Frantically, Elienor shook the girl’s shoulder as
the ship listed once more. “Clarisse!” she shouted.

Still no answer. Clarisse lay unmoving.

“Nay! Oh, nay!” Panicking, Elienor felt for a
pulse at Clarisse’s neck, and finding it fragile, breathed a shaky sigh of
relief. With trembling hands she fumbled for the skin of water behind her. It
was the fever, she was certain. If she could but cool her somehow. She found
the skin instantly, but the moment her fingers lit upon it, the ship listed yet
again, sending the skin flying behind her. She turned to catch it and was
startled to find Red-Hrolf awake, watching them. Grinning balefully, his boot
came down upon the skin, halting its slide across the planking. Fearful to
retrieve it on her own, Elienor held out her hand for him to return it, hoping
against hope that he would.

His grin only widened, and Elienor’s heart
twisted. Nevertheless, knowing Clarisse had need of the water, she dared to
reach for it now, uncertainly at first, keeping her gaze on Red-Hrolf. Yet to
her alarm, before she could grasp it, the ship listed once more, this time
violently.

Chaos erupted.

With a terrified shriek, Elienor rolled atop
Clarisse, striking her hard enough that she rose up only to bounce down upon
the planking, her head landing with a sickening smack that Elienor could hear
even above the sound of the wind and the waking shouts of the crewmen. To her
horror, Clarisse’s body began to convulse beneath her, bucking as though
possessed. Elienor screamed, taken aback by the sight and feel of Clarisse
twisting and writhing beneath her.

And seeing Clarisse, Red-Hrolf began to shout. He
jumped to his feet in revulsion. “She is afflicted!”

“Nay!” Elienor denied, “she is but ill!”

Clarisse continued to buck and twist. Elienor couldn’t
stop her. Her tongue lolled limply from her mouth, and her eyes opened and
crossed, the sight appalling enough to terrify even Elienor.

“’Tis a plague from Hella!” Red-Hrolf shouted. “We
will all perish! Shrivel away to bones!”

Fear clawed at Elienor’s heart. Before her eyes
she saw again her mother’s accusers, heard their chanted convictions:
Witch! Kill the
witch! God’ll strike us dead for her sins! Kill the witch!

She closed her eyes to ward away the bitter vision
and prayed for strength. Merciful heaven. She must remain strong!

“Pitch the whore to the sea!” someone shouted.

Kill the witch! Aye! Kill them both! The daughter’s a filthy witch,
too! Send them both to Hades from whence they came!

“Nay!” Elienor shrieked at the memory. “Nay!
Please! Please!”

“Pitch them both to the sea!” another echoed in
French, glaring at her.

“Nay!” Elienor shrieked, wild with terror now.
“Nay! Nay! Have mercy—I beg of you! Sweet Jesu! Have mercy!” She rose up,
clinging to Red-Hrolf’s tunic, begging. “Jesu Christ—please!”

Red Hrolf thrust her away in revulsion. “Filthy
Fransk whore!” He lifted up his oar to frighten her away.

Frantic now, Elienor rose up with him, pleading
incoherently with fear. “Please, please, leave her be—oh, please!”

There was no time to avoid the blow, even had she
been aware of it.

She screamed as the pinnacle of an oar struck her
head. Her eyes widened at the sound of her flesh ripping, so loud it seemed to
come from within her.

Oh, God… had her visions been so wrong?

Was she to die as well?

Something wet and warm blanketed her temple,
blood, she thought vaguely.

Blood.

Before her eyes a hazy blackness settled in, and
it seemed an eternity passed as she fought the inevitable. A hollow ringing
shrieked in her ears, blocking out all other sound.

And then silence.

The silence of her mother’s grave.

In that instant, she felt as though she would
retch, so violently ill did she become. She opened her mouth to call for aid,
but the words never formed.

Who did she expect would aid her? No one, a little
voice sneered. “No one,” she whispered weakly, her vision fading swiftly to
gray.

To her shock, the face that swam before her in
that instant was not her uncle’s, not her mother’s, not the kind old abbess’s,
not Count Phillipe’s, nor Stefan’s, nor Clarisse’s... but
his
.

She tried to look toward the helm, to plead for
help, but abruptly the world spun away.

Accustomed to frequent heated matches amongst his
bored crewmen whilst at sea, Alarik had paid the sudden upheaval little mind,
until he heard the scream. He turned in time to see her collapse to the
planking.

With a hoarse cry, he hastened to her side,
lifting her face up. Her blood flowed freely into his hands from a gash at her
temple. He turned his wrath upon Red-Hrolf, who was the only one near enough to
have inflicted the mighty blow. “What need was there for this?”

“She’s mad!” Red-Hrolf defended, his expression
indignant. And then uneasy over the way Alarik glared at him, he insisted, “She’s
mad, I tell you! and the other is afflicted!” His face reddened under Alarik’s
censure, but as he caught an assertive nod from Bjorn, he dared to speak up
once more. “Anyway, why should you object to what I’ve done to the whore, jarl?
She’s just a filthy Fransk! We ought to toss them both overboard and be done!”

As though the Gods of Asgard held their breath for
Alarik’s response, even the winds abated in that instant, and the uncanny hush
that followed Red-Hrolf’s inquiry taunted him. In truth, It was a question he’d
asked of himself already. Though as yet there was no answer. Still, he’d not
have the wench mistreated, and the vehemence with which he said his next words
stunned himself more than it did his men.

“I care!” he snarled, “because she is mine!” He
slammed a fist against his chest and shot his brother a contemptuous scowl,
cautioning Bjorn to take care, for he’d not missed the encouraging look his
brother had given Red-Hrolf.

Bjorn’s eyes widened in startle, and when Alarik
was satisfied that his warning had been interpreted correctly, he turned to all
within plain view and reiterated. “The Fransk is mine to do with as I will! I
dare any who thinks otherwise to defy me!”

Again he met each of their gazes; one by one heads
shook in negation, shrinking from the challenge.

No one dared even to speak.

Feeling the warmth of her blood flow over his
hands, Alarik glanced down, and with his salt-sprayed tunic, he swiped at the
blood streaming so swiftly from the wound, baring the flesh of her temple only
momentarily before another rush of her blood covered the open gash. As he’d
feared, there was a fairly deep laceration just below the temple, a very
delicate spot, he knew. And concerned by the gravity of her injury, he scanned
the storm-tossed waters.

The wind was rising once more, but there was
little choice to be made if he wished to aid the wench. He was the best
navigator aboard, but in light of the circumstances, he felt he could trust no
one to minister to the Fransk.

Sigurd, he thought, could skillfully guide the
ship in foul clime... It was just that he preferred to sail himself at such
times. Why did he always feel the need to do everything himself?

No matter, those were his choices; to sail himself
and let the woman die, or minister to her and possibly kill them all in the
process.

In that instant the Goldenhawk pitched to one
side. With a muttered curse, Alarik braced himself, but he was too late. He was
flung down upon her.

So small.

She was so small beneath him.

He couldn’t let her die. His hands tangled in her
bloody hair. Nay, he wouldn’t let her die!

As long as he lived he’d never comprehend the pull
she seemed to have over him, but he made his insane vow nonetheless—to
save her life at all cost, even at the risk of his own, and those of his men.
Why he would make such a treacherous pact with himself was beyond
comprehension. He only knew that something beyond his power of reasoning
compelled him unto it.

As the drakken turned its prow into the whitecaps
once more, he peeled his body from hers, his gaze slicing through the sea-spray
and mist to see that the man at the helm was struggling at best.

Sigurd would simply have to attempt it. His
decision made, not even Thor himself could have swayed him from it. Not
understanding his own motives, Alarik turned to Sigurd. “Replace Ivar at the
helm! Quickly!”

Sigurd’s jaw dropped with disbelief, his eyes
widening. “But jarl—”

“Go!” Alarik roared. “Now!”

Shaking his head, Sigurd went.

Laying the woman’s head upon the planking, gently,
so as not to cause her further injury, Alarik watched him go, his hand reaching
for his bone-handled dagger as he came to his feet. The wind battered his tunic
as he held the hem within his fist, ready to slash it. He glared at Red-Hrolf
as he rent a wide strip of his garment, baring his chest to the biting wind.

Red-Hrolf stood, shaking his head, torn between
his fear of a watery grave and Alarik’s wrath. “You’ll kill us all!” he
accused.

Hoping Alarik would change his mind, Sigurd halted
abruptly, turning to hear Alarik’s reply.

In the meantime Bjorn dared to speak his mind. As
Alarik’s brother, he maintained certain privileges others were deprived
of—at least that much was granted him. “Alarik, brother, you are the only
one who can guide us through this storm!”

Alarik stood silent, his legs braced apart, his
eyes gleaming dangerously.

Bjorn’s face screwed with disbelief. “You would
kill us all over a worthless Fransk bitch?” Almost at once, he regretted his
boldness. Noting the ire that danced like fiery daggers in Alarik’s dark eyes,
he shuddered, never having seen his brother so furious.

Clasping his dagger firmly, Alarik slashed another
strip of material from his blood-smeared tunic, oblivious now to the numbing
chill. He fixed a warning glare upon Sigurd. “Take that helm,” he said coldly.
While his warning seemed directed at Sigurd, it was in fact meant for his young
brother, and he issued the last of it as he turned to Bjorn. “Or ’tis you I’ll
toss overboard, not the wench.”

He turned again to Red-Hrolf and added pointedly,
his eyes burning with fury, “I’ll not have my words questioned—ever! Do
y’ heed?”

Knowing Alarik’s words were not mere threats,
Sigurd immediately took to the helm.

“And you, Bjorn,” Alarik warned. “I shall take
little more insolence from you—brother or nei. Now lower the accursed
sails!”