The Viking's Woman (13 page)

But now it stretched before him as a great and vast prize. He had to go to war to defend that land, and then it would be his. He had to go to war … and accept a fire-haired menace who might very well have betrayed her king, as a wife. That was part of the contract, and it seemed a very small payment when compared with the quickening of his heart and the triumph in his soul.

Seeing the harbor and the meadows and the cliff stretch out in all of spring’s sweet majesty, he felt that he could be generous. He would offer her peace. He wondered if a peace between them was possible and remembered the way she had looked at him, silver daggers in her eyes, and then he recalled the way she had spoken so vehemently. Nay, there would surely be no peace.

He shrugged dismissively. He would seldom need to see her. If he could deal gently with her, he would. He would leave her to herself and to her hatred. But they would be united under God, he thought, and the quickening, the love of the land, came to him again. Men sought out land to create great dynasties, and he was no different. He had wandered the earth long enough. He wanted heirs. Certainly she understood her duty there.

Curiously his pulse began to thunder, and a rising heat seized his body. She did not elicit tender emotion within him, but she had reached into the savage recesses of his heart. In anger, in pain, he had felt a
blossoming in his loins. He had desired her. Yet he did not like the depth of that desire within himself. He was no barbarian. He had sown his wild oats in his youth. He was as proud of his father’s people as he was his mother’s, for he knew the civilized side of the Viking—had learned it from his father and had seen the great potential of the sea-roaming race. When they did not engage in warfare, the Norse were great builders. They farmed the land in summer and created beautiful carvings when the north winds blew. They spun sagas of challenges met, of daring. They set down laws and lived by them. They built towns and brought commerce and trade to many peoples.

His jaw tightened. They were not savages.

Not barbarians.

“Eric?”

Rollo rode up behind him. Eric spun the magnificent white horse around. A long trail of his men stretched out behind, awaiting him.

“We ride to Wareham!” he said. He raised his shield, a shield of wolves, and sent forth his battle cry. Answering shouts rose high upon the wind, tossing and echoing from the sea to the land. The white stallion reared and snorted, and his forefeet plunged back to the earth.

Then the ground was a-thunder as the party rode out for Wareham.

Eric, pensive, kept ahead. He observed his journey carefully over the hills and vales and through the Roman roads that marked the way through dense forests. And all the way he felt the land. He raced upon the flowers of spring and sailed through the freshness of the air. Fawns leapt before them, and
pheasants set up a mighty whir, rising from the tall grasses to streak upward into the sky.

With the coming of darkness, they neared Wareham. Eric ordered that the party stop and camp for the night. He could see the walls of the king’s home before him, but he was not ready to enter those walls. A curious brooding was upon him, and he wanted solitude.

They set up fires and cooked their meals. Eric kept his distance, leaning against a tree, drinking English mead and watching the light in the night that denoted the king’s walled manor and surroundings. He admired Alfred greatly. The King of Wessex was a man of action who longed for finer pursuits. A king who shed blood but lamented the deed.

Eric drank deeply of his mead and wondered what would come of the wedding. He feared that there would be battle if the girl chose to dishonor the betrothal. Christian banns had been cried, and the honor of not only himself but his men was at stake. He shrugged, trusting in the king. Alfred would not risk insulting him again.

“Take heed, young lord!”

He turned, aware that Mergwin had followed him. The Druid stood tall. The moon fell upon him, whitening his beard and his hair, until he appeared as a mad magician. His ancient face was weathered, infinitely wrinkled.

“I always take heed, Mergwin. If you followed me across the sea to warn me to watch my back, know it is a lesson I’ve learned well.”

But Mergwin didn’t smile, and he didn’t turn away. “I cast your runes again today.”

Eric lifted his cup vaguely. “And?”

“Hegalez. And then the blank rune.”

“Hegalez warns of storms, of tempests and great power, of thunder on the earth. And we know that is destined to come, for we ride to fight the Dane at Rochester.”

“I read the same runes for your mother once,” Mergwin muttered.

Eric felt that the old man was digressing, that his great age was beginning to tell on him at last. It seemed that he had lived forever, for Mergwin had served Eric’s grandfather, Aed Finnlaith, Ard-Ri of all Eire, since he had been a boy.

Eric spoke gently then, because he did love his ancient mentor greatly. “Mergwin, do not fear for me. I face the truth of battle and do not fear death. Nay, rather I fear the life in which a man could forget that death is one day his keeper, whether he is brave or a wretched coward. I will watch my back when we fight the Dane. I will stay in close union with Rollo, and we will be like an impenetrable wall.”

Mergwin walked over to him. He leaned his back against the tree and sighed. “There is some darkness closer. Clouds hover and I cannot read them.”

“Clouds are a part of life.”

The Druid pushed away from the tree. He stared at Eric intently, then he wagged a finger at him. “Take care, for the treachery looks close. It is not the enemy that you see but the enemy that you
cannot
see.”

“Mergwin,” Eric said wearily, “I will heed all your warnings and take great care. For tonight, though, I am suddenly quite tired.” He clapped the old man on the back and turned away.

He did not want to be with his men that night. He sought the earth beneath him, and the moon over his head, and the darkness and solitude of the night.

He carried Vengeance with him, though, for the Druid’s words had hit their mark, and Eric was ever wary. He walked until he came to a bubbling brook and sat there, listening to the sound of it. It was a lulling, peaceful melody, and his soul wreaked havoc with him. He laid out his mantle there and slept.

Dawn came.

Rhiannon quietly left the manor. She wore her warm mantle, but she knew that she would have no need for the jewels she had sewn so carefully into the hem of the garment.

She would meet Rowan. She would meet him because she had loved him, because they had dreamed together. She would meet him because they had really been in love and because she had to say good-bye. But she would no longer dream of an escape.

She would not run away with him.

It was not fear of Alfred that had brought her to obedience to his will. It was fear of the bloodshed that could follow if she refused to honor the pledge to the Irish prince. Alfred would be forced to war with the very men he had summoned to be his strength against the Danes. The king, himself, would fight, and endless men might die. She had seen enough bloodshed on the coast.

And if the Norse-Irish and the men of Wessex decimated one another, the Danes would take the victory in the end. She did not think that she could be responsible for such horror.

At the stables she hastily chose a dappled gray mare, saddled her, and rode out. If the grooms were awake, they did not notice her. When the sentry at the gate saw her, he merely waved, and let her pass.

At the oak she waited.

Dawn broke in the east and Rowan didn’t come. Heartache seized her, and she grieved for the time that might have been theirs. Rowan was another reason she could not run. If Rowan was caught with her, he could be slain. If war broke out again between the Irish and English troops, that blood would lie at her feet. She had longed for rescue and fought the demons in her heart, but she could not flee.

She heard a rustling in the bush and turned, half expecting that she was to be dragged back to Wareham by the king’s men, half praying that her love had come to her at last.

“My heart!”

The urgent whisper filled her with gladness. She pushed away from the tree and ran through the brush to greet him. She cast herself into his arms, forgetting that she was soon to be another man’s bride. He did not push her away, and for a moment she forgot that she had come to say good-bye. He held her tight as his mouth found hers and melded to it. He ran his fingers through her hair and gazed into her eyes, then he kissed her again, delicately plunging his tongue into her mouth.

It was just a kiss, she thought. A sweet remembrance to hold her through the aching, empty years. God would understand and forgive her.

She was about to be wed. Legally wed in a binding Christian ceremony.

But her heart was being torn in two, and she could not pull away from the warmth of Rowan’s tender kiss.

It was he who pulled away. He drew her to his chest.

“I love you!” she sobbed. “I love you so dearly!”

“And I love you! We will be together.”

“Oh, Rowan! We cannot be together—ever again.”

He seemed not to hear her. He held her more closely to him, whispering. With his arms around her they fell down gently together into the tall grass. It was barely daylight and they were alone. Rhiannon forgot her fears that someone might come after them. She forgot that she was to become the Viking’s bride. She gave way to the beauty of the dawn. Who could they hurt by sharing these last few minutes of words and whispers, and aye, a final kiss or two?

Rowan, dear Rowan, gazed down upon her, caressing her cheek. He sighed. “I linger. We must make haste!” he said.

He hadn’t understood yet. He still thought that she had come to run away with him. She shook her head sadly and Rowan frowned. “We must make haste, love, for they will discover us gone. I would lay down my life for you but I would rather be with you.”

“Damn the king!” she swore softly.

“Love, suppress such words. They are treasonous.” He kissed her fingers, and she stared with love into his eyes, at his manly features.

“Damn him, Rowan,” she repeated. “That we have come here now is treasonous—even if just to say good-bye to each other. What greater harm can I do with words?”

“But we will flee—”

“Nay, Rowan, listen to me. We cannot.”

It took him time to understand her brokenly stated words.

“He would catch us,” she whispered miserably. “He could slay you.”

“Ah, love! I cannot watch you go to him!”

“You must. Oh, God, Rowan! I have weighed this so carefully in my mind! I have no choice, except to be the cause of endless death! Would that it could be otherwise. Oh, Rowan, it breaks my heart, shatters it, to cause you pain!”

Indeed it did, for he looked down upon her with such anguish that she could not bear it.

“Oh, Rowan!” she cried. “You will always have my heart, I swear it! I do love you so very much.”

“My God, and I love you!” he vowed, and the passion and pain were so intense in his words that she suddenly found herself in his arms again, held tightly and fiercely. And his lips were hot with ardor upon hers. The kiss was sweet, intoxicating.

And then … it was more.

She did not know who seduced who, or how things went so very far so very quickly. It was the moment, it was the bitter pain of parting, it was the pain of love. She was touching his shoulders, and they were bare. And his hands were upon her naked flesh, for her mantle and tunic had been swept away. And then she was whispering anew.

“I love you, I love you. I am pledged to a viperous rodent, a vile Viking bastard, but I love you.”

Then his whisper caressed her, heated, tender. She realized what they had come to, what she was about
to do. It had to be right. She loved him. And words filled with his love were falling passionately from his tongue.

It was not right and she knew it. She was pledged to another man. She would marry him before God.

“Rowan!” Her wrenching cry stopped him. His eyes touched hers and he saw the sadness, the agony.

And the passion between them faded. He held her still but gently.

For these few moments she would feel no guilt. She held tightly to him and heard the song of a bird, thinking that she would cherish those few moments alone with him forever.

She did not know that they were not alone at all.

Eric, Prince of Dubhlain, stood hard and cold not twenty feet away.

In the night he had dreamed of serpents.

Wicked, evil creatures, they had raised their heads around him, and he had risen with Vengeance to fight them. With all his strength and power, he did battle, but they sprang back from the earth. Emenia was beside him, and he knew that she had lain there; he had felt her gentle touch, had known that her hair entangled him, that her limbs had been entwined with his. He fought the serpents and slew them again and again. But when he reached for her, a cry of agony welled within him, rising to the heavens and beyond in endless anguish. The blood was upon her and sprang from her. He took her into his arms and tried to breathe his life into her, but the blood rose around them like a storm, like a tide. And then he knew that it wasn’t Emenia at all but another woman
who lay with him, another woman whose hair entangled him. He tried to sweep the blood-soaked strands of hair from her face, but she began to sink in the ever-rising red pool. The serpents were dragging her down. He reached for her and she screamed again ….

He awoke shaking in the night. He jumped to his feet, Vengeance in his hands.

Slowly he began to breathe evenly again. He mocked himself for fearing a dream when he did not hesitate to meet the whole of a Danish army.

He lay back down. He looked at the moon, and sleep eluded him while memories haunted his mind. At last he slept again, deeply.

He felt the coming of the morning, the kiss of the dawn, the faint touch of the sun. He heard the gentle gurgling of the brook in a pleasant state between wakefulness and sleep. Vaguely he heard rustling in the wood. The sound was furtive, and he knew that it presented to him no danger, so he did not rise. Some maiden came, he realized dimly. She seemed to crave silence and was in no mood for company. Let the girl be. He’d not destroy her solitude by alerting her to his presence.