The Viking's Woman (9 page)

He came downstairs, where certain of his men sat around the great fire. Mastiffs roamed the great hall now, and it seemed that the serfs were back at their work. The blessing of being a slave! Eric thought wryly. For if a master was a decent one, a serf did not change his or her position much in life—no matter who triumphed, no matter who ruled.

Hadraic, Rollo, and Michael of Armagh ringed the fire, drinking ale. Hadraic was the son of one of his father’s men and an Irish maid. Rollo was a Norseman through and through, and Michael was as Irish as Queen Erin. Watching them, Eric thought that his father’s alliance with his grandfather had been a good one. They had learned friendship and had prospered. These three men were important to him. They fought together, cared greatly for one another, and were fiercely loyal.

Yet, like him, they were seeking … something. Conquest, perhaps, of their own.

Rollo gazed up at Eric as he came down the stairs. “We’ve ordered a feast prepared for the King of Wessex. He has sent us a young noble of East Anglia as hostage, and we have now sent an escort to meet with his party. I was thinking that we should now ride out and meet the King of Wessex at the gates.”

“Fine, we shall ride.” Eric came before the fire and warmed his hands. Then he gazed sharply at Hadraic. “Have we taken any prisoners during the night?”

“Nay, Eric. We’ve taken the men at the battle’s end, and the women, but none is of the manor. We’ve got farmers, serfs, and craftsmen. They have all taken their oath to you.”

Eric nodded. “Good.” There would have to be a
renegotiation with the English king, but he would not relinquish this place.

Still, he wished that he had the girl. He would like to take her bow and arrows and crack them over her backside.

Or perhaps she needed a few nights in solitude with nothing but bread and water ….

He stepped away from the fire and looked at his three men. “Shall we go?”

Michael, Hadraic, and Rollo nodded. Eric led the way out into the courtyard. It was another day already, he saw. Pigs and chickens were moving around; farther out he could see a boy urging his oxen forward. His own men were up and about. Some leaned against the barn and whittled, as was the Scandinavian way. Some were wary, their hands on their weapons, their gazes ever sharp.

Denis of Cork came forward at the sight of Eric, leading a massive white stallion. He grinned from ear to ear. “He’s a beauty, my lord Eric! Finely bred, finely built, fast and strong. I was pleased when I saw him here, and I knew he could go to none but you.”

“Aye, he’s a fine one,” Eric agreed. He moved his hand in a caress over the animal’s soft muzzle. The stallion snorted and pranced, and Eric felt his great power. He smiled back at Denis. “Aye, Denis, you serve me well.”

He mounted quickly, then lifted a hand to his men. Their cry went up and he lifted the stallion’s reins. With his captains behind him, he rode for the gate.

High upon the hill overlooking the town, Alfred watched as the dangerous prince he had asked onto
his land galloped forward. Eric of Dubhlain was unmistakable; his stature surpassed all rumor. He rode the great horse with a warrior’s ease, tall in the saddle, a forbidding sight with his towering size and burnished mane. The horse’s hooves pounded the earth, fresh and fragrant from the storm.

The king assessed the Irish prince carefully, looking for some fault. There was none. The blue eyes that assessed him in return were unblinking, hard—ruthless, perhaps. They met his with a demanding look, a certain wariness, and an undisputable honesty.

“Alfred of Wessex?” the formidable warrior demanded.

The king nodded. “Eric of Dubhlain?”

Eric nodded in turn. For several moments tension lay heavily on the air; suspicion was rife. Alfred was attended by several horsemen—noblemen, by their dress. In those initial moments, though, neither the king nor the prince noted those around them. The import of the meeting lay in their impressions of one another, and in whatever faith they could find to give one another.

Alfred nudged his mount forward and offered his gloved hand to Eric. Eric barely paused before accepting the proffered handshake. The man had courage to meet him so, or he believed in Eric’s reputation for honesty, or so hated the Danes that he would take any risk against them. Gazing at the king, Eric liked what he saw. Alfred was a man of medium build, with sharp hazel eyes and brown hair and beard. He would miss little, Eric thought. He appeared wise and weary. Intelligence rested in the depths of his eyes.

And Mergwin had believed in him, Eric remembered as he felt the firmness of Alfred’s hand in his.

“We’ll move back to the town,” Eric said. “The women are busy at the fire, creating a feast of welcome for the great Alfred of Wessex.”

The king nodded, watching him, and Eric was aware that Alfred knew he had laid claim to the town and had determined not to dispute him. He noted that the king was an excellent horseman, and he realized that they had both been fighting the Danish enemy since their births, though it seemed that the king was perhaps five years or so older than he was.

They came back through the gates, Eric and King Alfred and their retinues. It seemed that both parties were loath to leave their leaders alone—trust came more slowly to their followers. But when they had reached the Great Hall, the king ordered his men to wait outside, and Eric nodded to Rollo and the others. They were alone then in the manor’s vast hall. Eric commanded that mead be brought to them and then he and the king sat in facing chairs, and openly surveyed each other again.

Eric waited for the king to speak, for he was the one with an explanation to give. Gravely he watched Alfred.

The king leaned across the table. “I cannot tell you what our life has been—nay, I suppose that I need not imagine you do not know, for the Danes have harried the Irish coast forever.”

“My father fought the Danes, and my grandfather fought the Danes, and I fight them too.”

“As do I.”

Eric sipped his mead, sitting back. He eyed the
king over his chalice. “Then tell me, Alfred of Wessex, why were my ships attacked when I came in answer to your plea for assistance?”

Alfred shook his head and slumped back in his chair. Eric was convinced of his sincerity. “There is some treachery here, but from where I know not. I swear, though, that I will not rest until all is discovered. Many believe that one of the men slain by your troops was the traitor, preferring to fight you rather than welcome you.”

“What of the girl?”

“The girl?” the king said.

“The Lady Rhiannon. It was her land. Did she betray you?”

“Nay, nay!” Alfred assured him hastily.

“How can you be so certain?”

“She is my godchild. And my kin.”

Eric did not believe that the girl could be found innocent so easily, but he chose to say nothing more of the matter at the moment.

“I take this hall and this land,” he told Alfred.

“You have already done so,” Alfred admitted with dry—perhaps bitter—humor.

“There has been much ill will created,” Eric said.

“Aye,” Alfred agreed. Again he leaned toward Eric, and the fever of his quest burned in his eyes. “But you came to fight the Dane. It is not your native soil you seek to defend, but I will make sure that your rewards are great.”

Eric rose, swallowed down his drink, and wandered over toward the great fire, resting against the mantel to look back at the king. “What rewards?”

Alfred started. He, too, rose and came to the fire. It
blazed between them like the passionate hatred they shared for their enemy. “What would you have?” the king demanded.

“More land,” Eric replied flatly. “I want the surrounding coves and some coastal land north of here that borders the sea. There is a protected bay and, around it, high-rising cliffs. No one could take that land were it protected. The valley there is fertile. It grows rich and green. It is a natural harbor; I saw that from the sea.”

Alfred hesitated.

Eric coolly lifted a brow, and the king saw that the man’s eyes could quickly turn to ice. “Is that too much to ask for the blood you ask of me?”

“Nay, it is not that. I would freely give you the land, but it is not mine.”

“Then tell your lord, your alderman, that he must take another parcel. We will wrest one from the Danes.”

“’Tis no lord that owns it,” Alfred muttered. Eric frowned. “It, too, belongs to my goddaughter, the Lady Rhiannon.”

Eric nodded slightly in acknowledgment. “Then she should be very willing to give to your cause.”

“She has already given,” the king said with some humor. “This was her town, won by her father.”

A picture of the fire-haired maiden with blood lust in her heart flashed through his mind, and Eric smiled with a certain malice. “So this, too, I would take from the Lady Rhiannon?”

“Aye,” the king murmured. He walked back to the table. “Rhiannon is lady of this coast, all of it. Her father, Garth, was a fine warrior. He fought long and
with great loyalty, and the people remember his name. To dishonor his daughter I will have to fight my own people.”

“I will not give up this land,” Eric said flatly. And, he would not. The blood of his men lay upon it. Nor would he ever return a handful of dirt to the Lady Rhiannon.

Alfred frowned. He was angry with the implacable prince, and angrier still with Rhiannon. Eric of Dubhlain would not change his mind; the king saw it in his glacial eyes and in the unrelenting set of the man’s jaw. And Alfred saw his dream of peace within Wessex fading before him. He could fight and he would, and by all that was holy, he would win. He was a great king.

But he could not go to battle without more men. Englishmen had sprung to his aide. Untrained warriors had died for him. And now a great reckoning was upon him. He wanted these fighting Irish-Vikings with him. He wanted these warriors with their fearlessness and their courage and pride and sheer strength and training. He wanted the power to
win
.

“We could do fierce battle here again—my forces, your forces—were I to strip Rhiannon of all that is hers,” Alfred said.

“Ah, well, then, I wonder if we can come to terms at all, for I feel that there are things I also need to settle with the lady,” Eric said softly.

“With Rhiannon?”

“She ordered my ships attacked,” Eric said. He wondered why he chose not to tell the king about their more intimate meeting.

Alfred moistened his lips. “All right. I will give you
the Lady Rhiannon as your wife, and therefore all of her land—more than you have requested—shall be yours.”

“What?” the Irish prince said, startled.

“I will give you the Lady Rhiannon to take as wife, and therefore you will be lord of all her lands. The people will accept a marriage in Christ, and they will see that we are bound together by these ties. And when I give you my own goddaughter, your men will know that treachery did not come by my hand.”

Alfred was surprised to see the look of pure amusement that came to the Irish prince’s ruggedly handsome face. “But, Sire,” Eric of Dubhlain protested, “I do not wish a wife.”

The king drew back, offended. Every noble in his court and from far abroad had vied for Rhiannon. God had created no angel more beautiful, nor had he ever granted a woman such grace.

Or given her such fine lands to boot.

“Eric of Dubhlain,” he said sharply, and his fingers drummed against the table. “We speak of a woman of my own blood, a child of the Royal House of Wessex and a descendant of two of the royal houses of Wales. And We give you land that far surpasses a dream of conquest, for it is exceptionally fine land, land that you, yourself, crave.”

Eric gritted his teeth. He wanted vengeance; he did not want a wife. He had learned what it was to love once and had lost that love. He’d never been able to call Emenia wife, and now he wanted no other. His heart had hardened. It was one thing to find pleasure in the company of a talented whore,
quite another to take a wife. Even the thought of it repelled him.

And Alfred spoke of not just any wife. He would wed Eric to the girl with the fire in her hair and the rage in her heart.

Eric almost laughed aloud. That would truly be a match made in hell!

“Alfred, I do not mean to offend you. First, I remind you, I am the son of a king, the grandson of the Ard-Ri of all Ireland, and also the grandson of a very powerful Norwegian jarl. I do not offer myself lightly at any bargaining table.”

“I would not take you lightly, sir. I offer you my own blood.”

“I doubt that the lady would be amenable to such a betrothal.”

“She will do as she is told. I am her guardian and her king.”

Eric shrugged. He almost smiled. It did have its ironies. He had warned her that she should pray that they not meet again. Surely her prayers were going quite unheeded. The king, in his passion, was determined.

Suddenly Eric felt a cool draft. He looked to the doorway and saw that the door had opened. The king’s men, as well as his own, stared in upon them expectantly. They were all hopeful of an alliance, that the treachery and the battle and the blood between them could be put aside.

He did not want to marry her! He despised her and her ignorance, which caused her to abhor all things Norse with no understanding. She was spoiled and willful and arrogant, and he wanted to wreak vengeance
on her. He did not want to honor her as his wife.

“Damn you, man!” the king swore. “There is no more beautiful woman in the world. I tear out a piece of my heart to offer her to you!”

Eric arched a brow slightly, watching the king. “Alfred, the lady will not agree to this marriage.”

“She will,” Alfred said. He was the king; his word was law.

He clamped his jaw down hard. It had taken all of his willpower to offer her to another man when he knew that she was in love with Rowan, when he had allowed her to believe that she and Rowan would be given his blessing to wed. But now he could not afford to remember that she loved Rowan and that Rowan loved her. The battle against the Danes was more important than Rhiannon or Rowan—or love.

“It is the only way!” Alfred said harshly.