The Viking's Woman (25 page)

He had even been aware that there was truth in Alfred’s assertion that Rhiannon was perhaps the most beautiful woman in all his kingdom. Her hair carried the fire of her spirit, her eyes flashed with the silver sparkle of the tempest within her soul. There was beauty in her very motion—he had not known just how much until last night.

His hands clenched and he stretched his fingers out before him, trying to ease the strain within him. She had been glorious that morning, coming before him clothed in her linen sheet, going down upon her knees.

To plead for the life of her lover.

Glorious, as perfect in her beseeching as she was in all the other roles she had chosen to take on. Seeing her, he had wanted her, wanted her with a desire that had stormed his senses, seared his loins, and swept violently through him, pervading his every nerve ending.

It was not such a bad thing to want one’s wife.

But she was no ordinary wife. It was dangerous to want her with such a desperate abandon. She was a dangerous woman and determined to see that a
sword blade slit his throat if a Danish ax did not cleave his head.

And yet she had promised him ….

She had promised him what she had already given another, he reminded himself. He had awakened her passions, he had found a root of sensuality deep within her that she could not deny, yet she did not love him for it. Rather, he reflected, she despised him all the more. Yet he could not forget how she had appeared in the forest with Rowan. How magical it had seemed when she would offer herself and everything that she could give to a man she loved ….

He knit his brow. He did not love her. Love was an emotion he had experienced with the recklessness of his past, and he was not fool enough to love Rhiannon.

But she haunted him. He had taken her, and yet she had invaded him. And he had been pleased this morning that she still thought she had a bargaining power with him. To save Rowan’s life she would do anything.

She was hoping fervently that her husband would be slain, Eric mused.

But he wouldn’t be killed. Come what may, he would live. He had not lied to the king. He would live to return to his wife, no matter what.

Determined, he rose and returned to camp. Rollo, ever faithful, awaited him with a horn of ale. He took it and drank deeply.

“We’ve a victory tomorrow,” Rollo said. “I feel it. I feel it on the wind.”

“Careful,” Eric warned him. “you’re starting to sound like Mergwin.”

Rollo laughed. “’Twas Mergwin who assured me of
victory. I tell you, Eric, I miss him when he is not about, plaguing us all.”

“I admit I miss him too.”

“Why didn’t he come? He hates to see you off to war alone.”

“He was needed.”

“Needed?”

“To watch my wife,” Eric said. He finished the ale and handed the horn back to Rollo. “Sleep well, my friend. It never pays to be too assured of victory. Death comes quickly to the unwary.”

“Death comes eventually to us all,” Rollo reminded him.

Eric grinned and withdrew his sword from his scabbard. Starlight glinted down upon the steel blade of Vengeance. “Eventually,” Eric agreed with Rollo. “But eventually is not going to be tomorrow. Not if it would mean that I would spend my eternity with every hero in Valhalla.”

He turned, ready to seek sleep for the night. “Eric,” Rollo called to him.

Eric paused.

“You’re supposed to be a Christian prince.”

Eric grinned. “For all the promises of heaven, Rollo, I will not die tomorrow!” he said. “Nay, I vow it. I will not die.”

Her first day as a bride was a truly wretched experience for Rhiannon.

It seemed that she remained furious for hours. Her cheeks flamed, her heart thundered, and when she would try to calm herself, she would remember the amused blue ice in her bridegroom’s hard arctic eyes
and she would feel herself flame anew. And it seemed that there was no forgetting him. His scent remained about her—it touched the pillow where he had slept, it lingered on the sheets, it haunted and tormented her until she longed to scream aloud. To her horror she could relive the night, she could remember his words, his touch, and more. She could remember with a shameful clarity just how he had demanded things from her, just how he had subdued her … and how he had seduced her.

And then she realized that it wasn’t so terrible that he had forced her to be his wife, but it was agonizing to recall the way he had made her feel, and the passion she had all too easily displayed.

She moaned softly and buried her face in the pillow, yet there was no forgetfulness there. Last night hadn’t been enough for him. He had wanted more. That was what he had told her that morning, when she had pleaded for Rowan’s life. And she had promised him exactly what he wanted. Anything that he wanted. She had sworn that she would come to him as she had come to Rowan.

Rowan! Panic seized her. She could not remember his face. She could only recall the strong, hard features of the Viking, his startling blue eyes, eyes that pierced through her, that raked over her, that saw everything and invaded her intimately. No one had ever known her so thoroughly, no one had ever touched her so deeply.

She sat up in a fury. He would have no more of her, he would take no more from her. It was all one vast amusement to him. He didn’t want a wife, but he would take one to gain other things that he wanted.
He was interested in battle, and in acquisition. Her life lay in his hands like a toy, and he thought that he would dictate his will to her.

How very amused he must have been, watching her plead for the life of a man who had already been granted that life.

Well, she had been tricked, and she would never fulfill any bargain that she had made with him. He could not expect her to do so. God could not expect her to do so!

He would not best her, ever. She did not know how or when, but she would win in the end. So help her, she would not surrender to the hell in which he planned to imprison her.

His haunting male scent rose up to meet her. She jumped up, casting the pillow from her. He had marched to battle. With God’s good grace he might have the decency to die.

But he wouldn’t. Shivers trailed along her spine. She feared for the others. She feared for the king. But she knew, she just knew, deep in her heart, that Eric would come back.

Swearing aloud, she hurried to the door and threw it open. Magdalene was not far from her door, her eyes half closed against the waning sunlight as she leaned against a tree and watched a child tend to a flock of geese. Rhiannon called out to her softly, and she quickly leapt to her feet.

“How may I serve you, milady?”

“My hair, Magdalene, brush it out for me, please. And help me dress. Quickly.”

“Aye, milady!”

Magdalene had magic in her fingers as she worked
on Rhiannon’s hair. The woman began to chatter, talking about the fine display that morning when all of the men had started off to do battle. “The king is always so magnificent, and one never knows quite why. He is not taller, nor larger, nor more imposing, than other men. Still, he is Alfred. The Great. That is what men say. From other kingdoms, they call him Alfred the Great. So he is glorious in himself. But, milady, your lord is ever so imposing! He sits that great beast with such grace and confidence and beauty. And where his eyes fall, a maiden might well swoon. Oh, I tell you—”

“Please, Magdalene, do not tell me!” Rhiannon implored her. She smiled to take away the bite of her words. “They’ve all gone to war,” she said hastily. “We must pray for them.”

“Oh, your husband will survive, milady! He rode from here just like a god! He is magnificent, so tall, so golden, with such bronze muscles. Oh! I tell you—”

“Magdalene!”

“I am dreaming!” Magdalene continued despite Rhiannon’s warning. She dropped the hairbrush and fell back on the bed, running her hands over the sheets in a way that annoyed Rhiannon to an extreme. “I tell you, I shall marry one of them! I shall have a beautiful Viking husband such as yours.”

“He’s Irish,” Rhiannon found herself arguing perversely.

“He’s all Viking,” Magdalene said.

“Magdalene! The king and our good men have gone off to risk their lives against the Vikings. You mustn’t speak so.”

“Oh, of course!” Magdalene came quickly to her
feet and began to wring her hands nervously. “I meant no treason, lady—”

“I know that you did not,” Rhiannon said wearily. “Help me with a shift and tunic, and I think that I will have you braid my hair. Then you may go.”

“The queen wishes to see you!” Magdalene remembered suddenly.

Rhiannon sighed. She did not want Alswitha’s sympathy. It was too late for that. But she had to see her and the other women, and she might as well get it over with.

She dressed quickly with Magdalene’s help, then made her way slowly to the manor house. The children greeted her in the doorway and she found herself picking up the little ones and hugging them close to avoid Alswitha’s eyes. But in time the queen insisted that she sit and have something to eat, and then it was all much worse than she had imagined. Alswitha tried to assure her that every woman’s wedding night was a misery, even if she married a gentle lord, even if she married a man she happened to love. As the queen assured her that it would get better, that the pain would go away, she found herself staring down at the table. She couldn’t speak, she could barely breathe.

“Did he hurt you so badly, then?” the queen demanded, distressed.

“No!” Rhiannon gasped out.

“Oh, dear—”

Rhiannon rose, clenching her fingers into fists at her sides as she fought for control. “He—he did not hurt me!” she said, vehemently. “Oh, please, for the love of God, Alswitha, must we talk about this?”

“No, no, of course, not.” The queen was suddenly silent, looking behind her. Rhiannon realized that someone had come into the hall, that someone was standing silently behind her. She spun about.

It was the old man with the endlessly long beard and wrinkled and weathered face. He wore long robes and a curious hat, and he watched her with grave, fathomless eyes.

“Rhiannon,” Alswitha said. “This is Mergwin, Eric’s …” She had been about to say “servant,” Rhiannon was certain. But looking at this man, she knew that no man or woman would ever dare call him a servant.

“I am Mergwin,” he said to Rhiannon. “Some call me Druid, and some call me madman, but I am loyal to the Ard-ri of Ireland, and to his house. I have come to take you home.”

“Home?” For a moment, Rhiannon’s breath caught, and her heart seemed to beat too quickly. Home.
His
home? Did he mean to take her across the sea? She would not go, they could not force her to do so.

“Back to the coast. We will await Eric there.”

“Oh.” Her breath escaped her. She wanted to deny him, because she wanted to deny anything that Eric might have a hand in.

But there was nothing for her here. She loved Alswitha and the children, but she felt a certain distance from them now too. Alfred was gone to war, as was Rowan. And Eric too.

“Perhaps you should stay—” Alswitha began.

“No! No thank you, but I think that I would like to go home.” She smiled at the ancient man with the
long, tumbling beard. “Mergwin.” She watched his eyes. Dark eyes, ancient eyes. She remembered how he had smiled at her during the wedding. He had been her only assurance, a man she had never seen before.

He looked as if he could be a testy old fellow, she thought fleetingly.

But she liked him. She sensed something in him, something warm and trustworthy. “Yes, I’d like to go home.”

Alswitha said that arrangements would be made for horses and an escort, but Rhiannon was barely listening. She kept watching the old man.

Then she kissed Alswitha and the children goodbye and started out with Mergwin. In the yard before the manor, preparations were already being made. The majority of the men were with the king, but Rhiannon was to have an escort. Two lads, younger than she, were ready to ride, and old Kate from the kitchens was busy packing their bags so that they might have a fine meal when they paused for the evening.

Again Alswitha expressed her concerns, but Rhiannon kissed her quickly on the cheek, then mounted the bay mare Alswitha had supplied her.

For his age, Mergwin managed to mount his horse with a surprising agility and ease. He caught Rhiannon watching him and scowled. “When I’m too old to be useful, young woman, then I shall pass on to my just rewards!” He sniffed, and Rhiannon wondered what he would consider his just rewards to be. She lowered her head, hiding a smile. With the children
and the king’s household waving, they started on their way.

They hadn’t ridden far from the complex at Wareham before Rhiannon rode up by the Druid’s side.

“He will return, won’t he?” she said. “You know that he will. Eric of Dubhlain will return from this battle.”

He eyed her curiously. “Yes. He will come home.”

“And the king?”

“The king is destined for very great things.”

“Then he, too, will come home.”

“For now.”

“For now?”

The Druid’s eyes were on her intently. “This is but the beginning, milady. The hornet’s nest is being disturbed, and all hell will break loose. But it is all to come, and what happens as destiny unfolds is not clear to my understanding.”

“How do you know this?” Rhiannon demanded.

He arched a snow-white brow. “How do I know this? Listen,” he told her. “Listen to the trees, to the thunder in the ground, to the tempest in the sea. Listen and you will know.”

Rhiannon tossed back her hair. “You knew that Eric would marry me. Before he and Alfred agreed upon it.”

The Druid nodded.

“And you’re going to tell me that it was destiny.”

“Written upon the wind.”

“I tell you,” she cried suddenly, passionately, “nothing—
nothing
—is written on the wind! Or in the tempest of the sea, or in the breeze in the forest! We
build our own destiny, and I shall have mine, despite your Irish prince!”

He was silent for a moment, ignoring her outburst. Then he smiled at her, amusement lacing his dark eyes. “He is
your
Irish prince now, wouldn’t you say, milady?” Then he nudged his horse and trotted forward, and Rhiannon was left to stare after him, wondering if indeed she had encountered a new enemy or found a new, intriguing friend.