Surrender My Love (6 page)

Fortunately, prisoners were judged quickly, so they didn’t have to spend much time in the pit. And if men or women could not meet the fines of their crimes, then Erika preferred the local custom of enslaving them for a period of time, usually no more than a year, rather than Wulnoth’s custom of whipping them half to death.

But spying was a different matter altogether, without a fine attached to it, since it dealt with war and defenses, and strategies gleaned that could wipe out whole armies. Hanging would be a merciful death for a spy caught in the midst of war, and since Erika had to deal with this one, she could be glad the wars were over and the charge not so serious in her mind. Ragnar, who had fought in those wars, would be of a different opinion. But he wasn’t here.

Wulnoth was still there when the guard let her into the shed. One torch was burning, not enough to light the whole area, but enough to put a blanket of smoke over their heads and burn the eyes. She indicated that the door should be left open, making it easier to breathe. The pit was Wulnoth’s domain, but did he never have it cleaned?

Turgeis settled inconspicuously against the wall that the door was set in, where the light barely reached. The prisoner was chained to the far wall, his arms stretched high above his head. But that was all that was seen of him, since the stocky Wulnoth stood directly in front of him, blocking him from her view. Wulnoth had, in fact, been gripping the man’s hair to hold his head up when she came in, but he let go now and stepped aside. The man’s head had already slumped to his chest, as if he were unconscious.

Erika stiffened, her temper rising, but all she did was lift a questioning brow at Wulnoth, whose expression mirrored not guilt, but a definite degree of frustration.

“He gives us naught but pretense, milady,” Wulnoth said in the local dialect.

Erika had been teaching these people Danish, the language she wanted them eventually to use, but it was a slow process, and when she was not around, she knew they reverted to Anglo-Saxon. Wulnoth, in particular, clung to his own language even when she was present, and although she could understand it well enough, she refused to answer in kind, forcing him to switch to Danish or get no further conversation from her.

It was typical of the man’s character to play this little game of dominance with her every time they had words together. She supposed he hoped to catch her up at least once, to hear her answer him in Anglo-Saxon. He would feel he had won some sort of victory over her
if she did. It was a source of satisfaction to her that she never made that mistake.

“He pretends ignorance of our language,” Wulnoth continued, “and he pretends to be so weak he cannot even stand, when you have only to look at him to see his strength.”

Erika was looking at him, and Wulnoth was correct. The strength was there, couldn’t help but be there, in a very wide and muscular chest, and in the arms that stretched so tautly above his head that every thick cord in them stood out. And unnoticed before, because Wulnoth had stood in front of him, was that his feet did not dangle just above the floor, as the position of the chains was supposed to ensure. The man’s feet were planted firmly on the ground and his knees were actually bent, suggesting that he would tower over the captain if he were standing erect.

So much for the puzzle of needing six men to get him here, Erika mused. A man this large and tall would weigh a very great amount, and these local men who now paid allegiance to her brother could not compare in size. But he was indeed pretending weakness. That, or mayhap he was just so exhausted he couldn’t remain awake. Less likely things were known to happen. Or mayhap Wulnoth had already tortured him vilely, though she was sure he would not dare.

His clothes were those of a serf, but that could be a disguise. His long hair hadn’t been altered, though. Raven-black it was, clearly suggesting Celtic origins.

She replied to Wulnoth in Danish, once again spoiling his hope that she might forget and speak his tongue. “The man could as like be tired as weak. And a Celt may not know your language, but a spy would of necessity know mine. Did you try mine?”

His reddened face told her he had not. And a new voice told her she had guessed correctly.

“You speak Danish?”

The prisoner had lifted his head to ask that, and Erika could do no more than stare and continue staring, until she realized what she was doing and color crept hotly into her cheeks. But she excused her bemusement immediately. Her eyes were not deceiving her. The man had a face so handsome it defied description.
Beautiful
was all she could think to call him, and even that didn’t do him justice.

Oh, he could learn secrets easily enough—from women. But women rarely knew the secrets of war…Erika was appalled at how quickly she was ready to dismiss the charges against him because she found him handsome, incredibly handsome—unbelievably handsome. She would have to guard against that, judge him only on the facts.

She finally answered him. “What else would I speak? But you speak Danish well yourself, for a Celt. Of course, you would have had to learn it in order to spy here.”

It was as if he hadn’t heard her, for his
next question was unrelated. “What is a Dane doing in Wessex?”

“Ah, so now we know for whom you spy.”

“Answer me, wench.”

Erika stiffened in something close to outrage, though she curbed it well, adding, “And that you are used to command. But we will ask the questions here. I am Lady Erika, sister of Ragnar Haraldsson, who holds Gronwood and these lands hereabouts. In his absence, I am the authority you must answer to, and you may begin with your name.”

“You sound as bossy as my sister.”

The grin he gave her had Erika blushing again and even forgetting the demeaning name he had called her. It also caused a warmth to uncurl deep in her belly. She couldn’t say why she felt his words to be a compliment, or why that should please her. And then she groaned inwardly. She was reacting to his handsomeness again, like some silly maid who had naught better to do than sigh and simper over his flattery. She could have none of that if she wished to maintain her authority.

“Your name?” she snapped again.

He sighed, and seemed to slump a bit farther down the wall. Why he would stretch his arms so torturously when he had only to stand up to relieve the pressure…?

“I am Selig the Blessed, of the Haardrad clan of Norway.”

Erika heard Turgeis stir behind her. He would be sympathetic to another Norwegian.
She hoped he didn’t credit such an obvious lie, and it annoyed her that the man couldn’t have come up with a better one than that.

“Your looks betray you,” she scoffed, then heard herself offer, “I have heard the Cornish Celts are giants, and ’tis more like you are one of them. Why would you lie? We are not enemies with them. They have even helped our men against the Saxons.”

“How do you come to be in Wessex?”

His evasion infuriated her, as did the confusion he portrayed so convincingly. She had given him an identity that would have benefited him, could have allowed her to let him go, yet he hadn’t accepted it, had in fact ignored it. Loki take him, then, for she would be damned if she would attempt to aid him again.

“You are in East Anglia, as if you did not know, near Bedford.”

“’Tis not possible.”

Now he called
her
a liar? Tight-lipped, she turned to Wulnoth. “Why is he accused of spying?” Her very expression warned him not to answer in anything but Danish, and so he did, and fluently.

“The returning patrol found him lying outside the wall, trying to escape their notice in the dark, and ’twas just opposite the wall where the changing of the guard was being discussed.”

The prisoner addressed that before she could. “I was sitting, not lying, and I wanted their
notice because I doubt I could have moved another step on my own.”

“His sack was full of newly cooked food,” Wulnoth quickly added, “that could have come from our kitchen. Mayhap he hurt himself climbing over the wall to escape, since the gate had been locked.”

Erika’s brow tilted. “So now you would have him as our thief, too?”

“One or the other,” Wulnoth insisted. “Or mayhap even an escaped slave.”

She could see Wulnoth was determined to have a victim, but the last was a moot point. If he was an escaped slave, she doubted he had always been so, and he was welcome to his freedom. Others had sought sanctuary with the Danes and found it more often than not, just as Danish slaves escaped to Wessex and West Mercia. As for him being their thief…

“The food came from a goodwife north of here,” the prisoner said, sounding almost drunk with weariness. “It would be a simple matter to find her and question her.”

Erika was inclined to believe that just because she could
not
believe this beautiful giant had been able to come into the manor without being noticed. But a spy he could definitely be, and her brother would deal harshly with him. There were too many years of war and surprise campaigns, in which thousands of lives were at risk if plans were not kept secret, for Ragnar not to have him killed outright. That they were supposedly at peace now would make no difference.

But his fate was in her hands, not Ragnar’s.

She couldn’t simply dismiss the charge out of hand. Sneaking and hiding both warranted suspicion, as did a Celt’s fluent grasp of the Danish tongue. But they were at peace, which did make a difference. And the changing of the guard, what he was supposed to have been overhearing, was no great secret, could be figured out by anyone keeping watch on the manor. She could be generous.

“As to thievery, your story will indeed be looked into,” she told him. “But what excuse have you for being found where and how you were found?”

She thought he was refusing to answer when he shook his head, but he replied, slowly, “I was seeking aid. My head…I was injured—clubbed, I believe—when my party was attacked by thieves.”

Immediate concern assailed Erika, so that she snapped at the captain, “Check his head for injury, Wulnoth!” and stood there anxiously waiting while he did so. It would explain much—the man’s weakness, his confusion—but not what he was doing in East Anglia.

“I find no abnormality,” Wulnoth stated.

Anger came again, that she could be so gullible, and so quick to pardon the man. His bright gray eyes had closed, and she heard him sigh.

“Your man lies,” he said to her. “The knot was there this morn. It could not have gone so quickly. Feel for yourself, wench.”

Erika gritted her teeth. If he called her
wench
one more time, she would leave him to Wulnoth’s tender care. As for touching him herself, it showed churlish arrogance on his part even to suggest it.

“Whether you are injured or not does not say why you are in East Anglia,” she told him, then pointed out the obvious. “Who better to spy for a Saxon than a Celt, who would be less suspect if found.”

“I do not even speak their tongue.”

“So you say.”

“But I do come from Wessex.”

“The truth at last.”

Selig tried to focus on her again, but his vision had gone blurry when that Wulnoth had pressed his fingers against the lump on his head. The pain was nigh unbearable now, but he had to bear it. He sensed it was important that he appease the woman—eyes the color of a midday sky, brows gently arched. He wondered why she sounded so sarcastic. Or was it just disbelief he was hearing?

He had trouble believing what he had been told as well. Someone had brought him north? For that to be so, days must have passed that he had no memory of—honey-gold hair sprinkled with cinnamon—the hollow ache in his belly was turning him fanciful, but, this wench was truly lovely, and he didn’t need to see her clearly now, as she stood in front of him, to still picture her in his mind. She wasn’t as tall as Kristen, mayhap a few inches shorter, and much slimmer, though no thin wisp. There were ample breasts there for his hands—spy
ing? Odin help him, that was a grand jest.

He was a man blessed, smiled on by the Norse gods, tolerated by the Christian god, healthy, strong, and pleasing to the eye, with a wonderful family, a fine home he had helped build with his own hands, his own ship to aid in making his fortune—and all the women a man could ask for. He could not possibly be in this predicament. And with a woman accusing him, no less. She should have had him released immediately, should be fussing over him, should drown him in tender care. His head should be resting comfortably between her breasts. Nay, not hers.

He shook his head again, though the pain stabbed at him. He couldn’t keep it straight that she was the lady here, was accusing him, was apparently his judge, when all he wanted to do was entice her, she was so fetching.

Her voice reached his ears through the haze. “If you are a spy, there was naught for you to learn here other than we prosper, are well settled and well defended, a good thing for your King Alfred to know.”

The blurring cleared, but now he saw two of her pacing before him. “I doubt he would care,” he managed to say. “He defends, he does not invade.”

She ignored that to add, “My brother would simply have you killed, but he is not here and I am more practical. If you have ken or a lord who would pay Danegeld for your release, name him now, and I will send word to him.”

“I can pay for my own release.”

“Show me your coin, or do you think me stupid enough to have you taken to it?”

He would not involve Kristen in this absurd dilemma. It was a woman he had to deal with—lush, inviting lips, a stubborn chin, a contradiction—how hard could it be to charm her into letting him go?

He smiled at her, the smile that had won him so many hearts. “You want the truth, sweetling? I was indeed on King Alfred’s business. There were five others with me, including a bishop who held contracts to set before your king, offering three Saxon damsels, fair of face and richly dowered, to be given to whichever high-ranking Danes Guthrum chose to favor. But we were attacked by Saxon thieves before we even left Wessex, the others all killed as far as I know, and myself…I cannot say how I came to be here. My last memory was of the attack, yet I woke this morn just north of here.”