The Viking's Woman (24 page)

He did not look her way. The troops were moving. Already the banners were flying and the ranks forming. He called out a command to his Irish and Norse troops. There was thunder against the earth, and he rode out at the king’s side.

Eric of Dubhlain, the Viking lord.

Her husband.

“The men of Rochester have held out against the Danes all through the winter,” Alfred told Eric as they rode at the front of the king’s great host of men. Astride the white stallion, Eric listened to the king while he shifted on his mount to watch the columns behind them.

His men were mainly upon horseback. He knew that it was a Viking habit that led them all to ride the horses of the land where they had made a conquest as they continued to do battle in that very land. The Saxons did not ride, or very few did so, and those who did were the captains of the forces and the king’s closest advisers. The priest Asser was with them, not riding far behind, a quiet, often grave man who seemed to carry about him an air of wisdom. Rowan rode down the ranks, as did William and Allen and several other men. The ranks of Saxons walked in formation, clad in their leather armor. The house carls, or professional soldiers, were well armed, while the simple men, the small householders and landowners, carried whatever weaponry they had been able to gather together. Some walked with pitchforks, and some with scythes, and some with clubs they had fashioned from the heavy boughs of oaks.

His own men seemed remarkably well prepared for war in comparison. Irishman and Norseman alike, the men of Dubhlain had learned their lessons well. The truce that had been formed between Eric’s Irish grandfather and Norwegian father had been beneficial to all Ireland. The Irish had learned shipbuilding, and a great deal about the fighting techniques of the Danes, for the Norse and the Danes were alike in many ways.

To a large part of the Christian world they were one and the same, Eric reflected—assailants, plunderers, rapists, robbers, and murderers all.

To his wife they were all the same. Vikings.

Annoyed with the rush of warmth that suffused him at the thought of Rhiannon, he determined to give his attention, and his advice, to the king. “If the Danes have been at the siege this long, they’ll have built up their own fortifications.” He paused, shifting in his saddle again to look back on the long file of men. Then he smiled to Alfred. “I’d dare make a wager, though. If word of the size of your army has reached the Danish jarls, they might well have quit their assault upon Rochester.”

“You think them cowards?”

Eric shook his head gravely. “No Viking is a coward, Alfred. You know that. A Viking sets out to win glory and conquest. Death is not the Viking’s fear, rather an inglorious death that might bring down shame upon him. To rest in the halls of Valhalla is a reward that goes only to the brave. And no man lives forever. ’Tis better to die a hero on a battlefield than to die in a battle against time, old and weathered and wrinkled.”

“I have been fighting Danes all of my life,” Alfred said. “I know about as much about the Viking as you do yourself, Eric Olafson,” he said.

Eric smiled. “Not quite, for I am the son of a Norse Viking,” he said, a smile of amusement curling his lip. “I don’t deny any of my heritage. Even if my sire has come to be something of a hero upon the shores of Eire, he did come in conquest. And I have ridden dragon prows on journeys of conquest and adventure. I’ll admit that once my father had settled down, he suggested that my uncle take me on journeys that threatened no Christian kingdoms. I rode to the conquest of pagans, and therefore such exploits were palatable to the Irish as well as to the Norse.”

“You sound cynical,” the king said, watching him.

Eric shrugged. “I have come to fight an invader with you. I am the son of an invader—and a proper Christian princess of Eire, I’ll grant—but it is all an interesting dilemma. Very interesting. There are those who say that my father conquered much of Ireland. Those who know say that Ireland conquered my father, and that he is more a part of Eire than many a native son.” He looked at Alfred and smiled again. “No matter how many times you beat the Danes, Sire, they will have made their conquest. Saxon lasses will bear Danish babes, and the names given to streams and rivers and hills and ridges by the Danes will often remain. The Viking, whoever he may be, has a habit of leaving his mark.”

Alfred watched him long and carefully in return. “Well, I have already accepted one, haven’t I? And close enough to my own kin.”

“Sire?”

“A Viking. A man who sailed across the sea in a dragon prow. I’m curious, Eric Olafson. Will you conquer your little patch of England? Or will England conquer you?”

Eric laughed, unoffended. “That is simple. England has already conquered me. Lulled, seduced, and conquered me. I have seen the land that beckoned to me, and you have made it mine. Therefore I am fighting not as any mercenary, not as any invited prince, but as a West Saxon, as yourself. That makes me more dangerous than my Danish cousins.”

“But you say that they will be gone.”

“I think it likely. They are no cowards, but neither are they men who will fight if they are grossly outnumbered. Not unless they are cornered.”

“We shall see, Eric, we shall see,” Alfred replied. He watched the younger man broodingly for a moment. “You’ve mentioned land. You’ve yet to mention your other Saxon acquisition.”

“And that is?”

“Your wife,” Alfred said with a certain irritation.

“Ah,” Eric murmured.

“The lady is my kin, and my ward,” the king reminded him.

“Your kin, Sire, no longer your ward,” Eric replied mildly.

“My concern,” the king amended.

Eric was silent for several moments. “I trust that you left her well,” Alfred said.

“How did you think that I would leave her?” Eric inquired.

A slight coloration touched the king’s cheeks, and
he stared straight ahead. “You’d certain reasons for anger—”

“And I am, Irish prince or no, a Viking,” Eric finished for him. “I assure you that I did not cut her into little pieces and feast upon her for breakfast. Nor did I beat or abuse her, Alfred.”

The king still did not seem satisfied. He inhaled and exhaled, looking ahead. “Did you find that your marriage was one … made in the good faith that we promised you?”

“Did I find my bride as innocent as your physician assured me that she was?” Eric asked with amusement. “Yes, I did.”

“So you are well pleased with the marriage and Rhiannon is happy?”

“Oh, I don’t imagine that she’s terribly happy,” Eric said. “But I would say that she is reconciled to me. And if she is not—well, then, she shall be very shortly.”

Alfred wasn’t particularly pleased with this answer, but there was no more that he could say, and there was no more that he had a right to ask a groom about a marriage that he, himself, had arranged.

He smiled, suddenly very sure that Rhiannon had suffered no truly grievous harm during the night.

“What is it?” Eric asked him.

“You dealt well with Rowan,” Alfred told him.

Eric arched a brow.

“Well, he lives, and is no longer your enemy. I have heard that he is, in fact, your ever-devoted servant now.”

“Tell me, Alfred, are you well pleased with your devil’s bargain, then?”

“My devil’s bargain?”

“Yes, that which you made with me.”

The king smiled. “We’ll know that once we’ve faced the Danes, I believe.”

“If
we face them,” Eric commented.

“Oh, we will face them,” Alfred guaranteed him. “If we do not do so now, most assuredly we will do so soon.”

“You will have your pact of blood,” Eric said.

“You have already received much of West Saxony,” Alfred reminded him. “Yes, I will have my pact of blood.”

“How strange,” Eric commented easily as they rode. “It seems to me that you are speaking more about a woman than you are about land.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Then let me assure you,” Eric said, slowly, carefully, trying to hide the irritation in his voice. “Rhiannon is fine and will continue to do well enough. She is my wife—as was your will, not mine. But I take care of what is mine. In honesty, King Alfred, I do not trust her. Not for one moment. I am certain that she would dearly love for you to return with my head upon a platter for her. However, I find this amusing to a certain extent. I will live, Alfred, through all and any odds—to spite her wish, if for no other reason. Unless she crosses or betrays me, she will have nothing to fear from me.”

“Perhaps she fears you, yourself,” Alfred commented softly.

Eric shook his head. “No. She might despise me, but she does not fear me. Perhaps,” he suggested to Alfred, “it would be better if she did. We still don’t
know what happened at the coast when I arrived. If she did not defy your wishes, who did? And yet you are her kin, a man she well loves.”

“Loved,” Alfred said in a weary breath. He still speculated about the night that had passed. Rhiannon had doubtlessly fought. And Eric had just as doubtlessly demanded his right to his wife. Rhiannon would surely be more than bitter against her king now.

Most women went to their marital beds with no choice, Alfred reminded himself. Yet he could not help but feel how deeply he had betrayed his godchild. Eric had allowed Rowan to live. He was a civilized man and showed a Christian spirit, but still …

The things that went on between a man and a woman were different from all others.

“Rhiannon did not betray me,” Alfred said flatly. Then he wearied of the conversation, which was annoying Eric in any case. “It is growing dark. We will camp ahead, and in the morning we will reach Rochester.” He called out to his men. The great body behind them came to a halt.

The king knew his country. They were not far from a stream where a secluded valley would give them cover for the night.

The ranks split. Eric and his men formed their camps, as did the Saxons. There were no fires lit, for they did not want to give the Danes warning of their approach.

There was a quiet as the men settled down to horns and skins of ale and cool water and dried, smoked beef and fowl and hard cheeses and bread. The only sounds to be heard as darkness fell were rustling
noises and the occasional clink of steel as men cleaned and honed their swords and pikes and battle-axes.

Eric wandered from the camp, as was often his custom the night before a battle. By a heavy oak laden with the lush leaves of spring, he paused and stared up at the stars. The night was clear and cool and beautiful. He could hear the faint bubbling of the stream, the quiet movements of the men. Looking north and east, he could see the fires of Rochester. The Danes would have built woodwork and earthwork fortresses. They would have dug in deeply. Outside the walls of Rochester they would have plundered the countryside, taken the sheep and cattle, survived well off the rich offerings of the season. They were natural aggressors. He knew, Eric realized, because he had a certain affinity with them.

He still resented his wife’s assumption that he was nothing more than an invader. His wife …

He sank down by the tree, his fingers knotting tensely together. She was a wayward child who must be dealt with. No … she was more too.

He would never forget the fire that burned in her eyes when she looked at him. Never forget her hatred, her arrows, her strength …

But there was more now that he would never forget. He would never forget what it felt like to be entangled with her in the silken cape of her hair. He would never forget the curve of her hip, or the fullness of her breast, or the sway and undulation of her body beneath him. He imagined now in the night air that he could inhale the intoxicating sweetness of her scent, that he could taste the nectar of her flesh, feel the frantic pulse of her heart.

If he closed his eyes, he could see hers. See their vibrant color, their shimmering passion, their fury, their surrender ….

Indeed, last night had been his.

Or had it?

He had expected a fight. He had expected her hatred and her fury, and he had expected tears. He had known that they would enter into battle, and he had known that for their future it would be imperative that he win.