Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (113 page)

“By God!” Alarik exploded. “Odin has cursed me!”

“My lord!” Vernay reproached, turning to wag a finger at Alarik, the sight so ludicrous—Vernay as small as he was, and Alarik as immense as he was—that Elienor’s brows furrowed with incredulity. “You should not speaketh the name of God in the same breath with that other!”

A muscle ticked in Alarik’s jaw. “So you’ve said, holy man! I weary of this and have much to do. Best you speak whilst you have my attention, or lose the occasion until it suits me.”

At that, Vernay immediately tore his gaze away from Elienor and turned to Alarik. “Ah, yes, m’lord! As to that—”

“Alarik!” another voice shouted, a feminine voice this time.

Elienor glanced upward in time to catch Alarik rolling his eyes yet again, and then she heard Brother Vernay’s answering groan. Scanning the path ahead, Elienor spied the cause: A figure descended toward them, a woman, with her long, golden hair plaited thickly and resting seductively over her left shoulder.

‘That, m’lord,” Vernay interjected quietly, “is the matter I wished to address.”

“Nissa?” Alarik asked, his brows rising.

Brother Vernay nodded, grimacing.

The woman smiled and held her arms outstretched as she came into Alarik’s reach. “Finally, you are home!” she declared in a French that was heavy with Norse inflections.

Evidently she spoke it for Vernay’s sake, for she eyed the monk sharply, yet Elienor found herself grateful that she’d spoken French, for she could hardly have borne the uncertainty of not knowing of what they spoke.

“I have worried so!” Nissa chided sweetly. But she froze as she spied Elienor standing behind Alarik, her ice-blue eyes centering at once upon the hand he held locked within his fist. Her brow furrowed softly and she retreated a step. “Of course... ’tis a woman’s lot to wait and worry, is it not?” She gestured at Elienor. “Who—”

“Someone I’ll wish you to tend,” Alarik broke in. He drew Elienor forward to stand between them. “I’d have you go and make ready for her in my chamber,” he directed.

Elienor’s dark lashes flew wide. “Nay!” she shrieked, and tried to shake her wrist free.

“In your chamber!” Nissa exclaimed.

Elienor’s gaze flew first to Nissa’s; the woman’s expression mirrored Elienor’s horror. And then twisting free of Alarik’s death grip, she spun to face him.

“
In my chamber,”
Alarik repeated, ignoring Elienor and looking past her at Nissa. “I’d have you bring her something to sup on, for I’ll not be dining in the
eldhus
tonight. I’ve much to see to first.”

Nissa shook her head, unquestionably flustered by his request. “B-But...”

“As I will it,” Alarik countered, his tone unyielding.

Nissa recovered herself at once, though Elienor didn’t miss the gleam of repressed tears in her eyes as she straightened her spine.

“As you will it,” the girl said softly. She averted her gaze. “Sleipnir awaits you at the summit, jarl,” she disclosed in a choked voice. “I... I... I shall walk back.”

Alarik nodded in appreciation. “Ride with Bjorn,” he advised. He glanced at Vernay. “You I shall speak to anon!”

Vernay nodded. “Aye, m’lord.” He glanced circumspectly at Nissa.

And then Alarik was urging Elienor up the incline once more. She stumbled but acquiesced, knowing she had very little choice in the matter. Vernay followed silently. Nissa didn’t stir, and as Elienor glanced backward at the woman, she couldn’t help but feel wretched for her. It was clear that Nissa was either mistress or wife—in either case, little esteemed and little loved.

She glanced impulsively up at Alarik, and was shocked to find herself conceding that he was a striking man, in profile even more so. But if he thought he would take her virtue without a battle, he was sorely mistaken.

“Put me in your chamber as you may—alas I’ve no choice in the matter—but rest assured naught else will come easily,” she swore vehemently.

He glanced down at her, his eyes cold. “I made you a vow, wench. You go to my chamber for your own protection,” he told her.

“Protection?” Elienor asked incredulously, though deep down she knew it was so. Still she could not bear to concede even that. “Protection from whom?” she asked bitterly.

“Care to extend me the same welcome you planned for my brother?”

Nissa was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t see or hear Bjorn approach. She started at his husky whisper at her ear then shrugged out from under the hand he placed upon her shoulder. “Hardly!” she said petulantly.

Both watched as Alarik and his prisoner reached the summit; he placed her at once upon his horse, Sleipnir, and then hauled himself into the saddle behind her.

“I wonder if you wouldn’t happen to have my horse saddled and waiting, as well?”

At Bjorn’s question, Nissa’s humor was restored. “I wonder,” she replied lightly, her smile returning.

Bjorn grinned, though as he turned to see Alarik and the Frenchwoman disappear from view, he shook his head in disgust. “You should have seen them aboard ship.”

“Oh?” Nissa cocked her head inquiringly.

“He risked us all for that shrew!”

Red-Hrolf’s words had implanted the seed of doubt within his heart, but it was Alarik’s inconceivable need to protect her that had nurtured those seeds to root. He still could not credit the change that had come over his brother in such short time.

“How so?” Nissa’s blue eyes narrowed cannily.

“It matters not,” Bjorn snapped. “All you need know is that he did. At any rate, there is no loss to you, my love, for I’ve told you before he has no interest in you, at all.”

Nissa snorted, her brow rising slightly. “I’d take offense... yet I know what lies beneath your words.” She eyed Bjorn astutely, her smile widening. “You would still have me in your bed, Bjorn, Erik’s son,” she purred. “Would you not?”

Bjorn smiled at her usual frankness. “How canny of you, my love.”

She laughed abruptly, trying to sound indifferent. “Alas, I am loathe to disappoint you, but my father would not receive you well at all.” She moved closer, whispering into his ear. “Though truth to tell,” she relented with a sigh, “were my heart not already given... mayhap, then I would.” She shook her head regretfully. “Though as comely as you are, ’tis the position of Alarik’s wife I crave. My father wishes it so.”

“Your father need not agree to your choice of husband,” Bjorn reminded her.

“My father is not a man to thwart,” she countered. “Besides,” she added, laughing as Bjorn’s mouth opened yet again to contest her, “you forget that Alarik is the one
I
desire as well! After all, he is master of his own.” She poked at his chest in sport. “And you, Bjorn, cannot claim any such honor, can you?”

Bjorn’s eyes narrowed as he returned the playful poke to her breast. “I wonder if you shall open your eyes someday?”

“Doubtless not,” Nissa retorted, her hand going to her breast. She narrowed her eyes in censure. “Pardon whilst I go and do my love’s bidding,” she purred, and then turned her gaze up the cliff side, in the direction Alarik had ridden. “I believe I shall have the servants prepare him a grande fare to tempt his palate tomorrow eve. That should indubitably please him. Likely, he’s had naught more than scraps for meals aboard that beloved ship of his.”

She turned to Bjorn, fluttering her lashes coyly. “What do you think?”

Again Bjorn sighed, deeply. “An arrow never lodges in stone,” he replied, wisely. “And it oft recoils upon the sender.”

Nissa wrinkled her nose at his remark.

“You don’t listen, Nissa,” he persisted. “And you strive for naught. Alarik has never been interested.”

Nissa paid him little mind.

Bjorn doubted she’d even heard him for she turned, not bothering to acknowledge his counsel, and made her way up the cliff. He watched her go, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into his heart. Was he always destined to have his brother’s leavings?

And in this case, he wouldn’t even get that.

A
larik’s bedchamber was crude at best, no more than a large square room with no windows and thus no natural light. Skins were draped everywhere, doubtless to keep what little warmth there was from escaping.

In the center of the chamber was a small, rectangular, stone-rimmed hearth, where dying embers flickered in defiance of the dark, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Smoke escaped through a small opening in the ceiling above.

After bringing her here, Alarik had abandoned her forthwith, without so much as the courtesy of a parting explanation—not that Elienor would have cared to bandy words with the man! She wished she’d never need speak to him again, though it was doubtful she’d be so fortunate. It wasn’t likely he’d take her back to Francia in the near future—and curse him if he didn’t speak the truth: He was her only protection against these barbarians.

Shivering, her gaze settled once again upon the bed—an immense oaken piece, intricately carved with birds of prey—hawks, she believed, though they were much too embellished in form to be certain. At the sight of the bed, she began to pace anew, refusing to consider whether she’d occupy the monstrous berth herself come nightfall.

Glancing about uneasily, she wondered if night had yet fallen. With no windows to peer from, it was impossible to judge time, yet there was naught to be gained in fretting over it, and so she dismissed the bed from her thoughts, once and for all.

She ran her fingers across the rich grain of the oaken walls. There were skins draped next to horrifying weapons suspended from pegs—weapons of every ilk: axes, swords, spears. At the sight of them, Elienor couldn’t help but shudder—such a passion for violence! And little could she comprehend why. What glory could possibly be had in a warring life, and death?

Her gaze was drawn across the room, to the coffer of wood that had been carried in earlier by servants. Atop it lay a coat of mail, the same Alarik had worn that first night, she surmised. The links glimmered like brilliant diamonds in the light of the dying fire. Above it, dangling by a peg, hung a rounded shield, painted blood red with a gilded hawk soaring through its middle.

Mesmerized, Elienor stared at the hawk... trying to recall what it was about the shield that was so eerily familiar. Had he carried it that first night? Likely so... yet it was something else that plagued her...

Something from her dream? But what?

Sweet Jesu, what could it be? Rubbing her arms for warmth, she shook her head, thrusting her musings away. She couldn’t remember, and in truth, didn’t want to!

At once, her eyes reverted to the thick oak door. Tempting as it was, she’d already tried it and found it locked. Yet surely there’d been no need to lock her within. Alas, where would she have gone?

“Home,” she murmured wistfully, her eyes burning.

Mother Heloise would have heard by now and would be wringing her poor hands raw with worry. But what of Count Phillipe? Her uncle? Had they forgotten her already? Elienor felt like weeping, for it was likely so. Never had anyone exacted judgment upon the Northmen with any measure of success. It was one of the reasons they were so feared, for oft there was no worthy recourse to be taken against them. They came swiftly to wreak their brand of terror, and disappeared more swiftly yet, into the unknown. Only this time, Elienor had vanished along with them.

Would anybody care?

“Nay,” Elienor whispered softly, aching.

Nobody but Mother Heloise had ever truly cared for her, she thought mournfully. Hugging herself, her gaze fell to the floor, her eyes stinging. God help her, but she was unable to stifle the tears that trickled past her guard. Yet she refused to cry aloud, refused to let them witness her defeat!

Her gaze returned to the bed, and she vowed again to fight him to the death if need be. Throwing herself upon it, she buried her face into the mattress to stifle her tears.

She fell asleep worrying over what the Viking would do if he found her in his bed.

Alarik understood now what it was that Brother Vernay had been trying to tell him. It seemed that from the moment he had walked out of his chamber, he’d been assaulted with a bevy of complaints, requests, and accounts—nearly all concerning Nissa. He shook his head at the thought of speaking with her, for of everyone, she was the one person he never looked forward to seeing.

Ejnar’s daughter was a bother at the least, with her ceaseless questions and meaningless banter, and a detriment at worst, for Alarik knew very well the risk he took in permitting her to remain when he had no intention of ever accepting her as his wife. But it seemed that every time he’d attempted to inform her father of that fact, Ejnar the Dane found a way to make him reconsider his eldest daughter. And reconsider Alarik had, more times than he cared to count; yet no matter that he did, he still could not stomach the thought of her in his bed—not that she wasn’t comely. In truth, she was exceptionally fair to the eyes, but that alone did naught to recommend her, for Nissa was also a terrible shrew who had no qualms over using the artifice of tears when her tongue did not gain her what she wished.

Abruptly, a vision of Elienor as she’d appeared within the chapel came to him. The little vixen had stood proudly while he’d appraised her, with no trace of tears. In comparison, how many times had he cursed Nissa for hers? More times than he could count. And how many tears had he seen her shed over petty things?