Viking's Prize (28 page)

Sweet Jesu, how could she?

It was unthinkable!

She had lost herself in the heat of the moment?
She was faithless! Wanton! Wicked!

“Aaaarghhh!”

The angry snarl roused Elienor at once.

With a startled shriek, she bolted upright, and
any shame she’d felt over the night before vanished at the sight of Alarik springing
from a stool like a demon enraged. With a cry of surprise, she ducked under the
furs as he suddenly hurled the boot he held in his hand. It missed her,
striking the floor somewhere near the bed.

“Flea ridden mongrel!”

It took Elienor an instant to discern that he was
speaking of the pup, not of her, and that furthermore the pup was racing toward
the bed, whimpering as it skid beneath the bed. Petrified for the animal,
Elienor scrambled toward the edge, and poking her head out, thrust her hands
down to snatch the pup into her arms.

“Did you see what the little cur did to mine good
boots?” Alarik bellowed.

Blinking at the question, Elienor drew the
cowering pup under the covers beside her. Both stared out from beneath the
covers. Alarik continued to stare expectantly, and she shook her head in
answer.

“Damned witless beast!”

Alarik bent, retrieving the boot from the floor
where it landed. “I’d like to return the favor—chew his accursed hide!”
He waved the boot lividly at the pair huddled together beneath his
furs—his furs!—though he was appeased somewhat by the way the pup
trembled at the sound of his voice. Elienor, on the other hand, merely stared
at the mangled boot sheepishly.

He snarled as he glanced again at his ruined boot,
tossing it aside in frustration. Like as not, the pup had gnawed all night to
have ravaged it so completely.

And he’d slept soundly like the exceptionally
sated.

He pivoted abruptly, heading for the coffer across
the chamber.

Elienor gave the pup a reproachful glance. “Look what
you’ve gone and done!” she whispered.

Muttering, Alarik jerked open the coffer. The
wooden lid struck the wall so violently that it bounced back, catching his
fingers. “By the jaws of Fenri!” he exploded, snatching his fingers out of the
way and waving his hand in pain.

Elienor gnawed at her lower lip to keep from
giggling. At the instant, rather than appearing threatening as he did so oft,
he seemed more like a sullen boy who’d lost his favorite toy. Strange that
during his moments of cold ire and calculating aloofness, she’d dreaded this
explosion of tempers, yet to see him in the throes of it now did naught more
than amuse her.

“I’ll skewer the cursed beast!” he threatened,
thrusting a hand into the coffer, yet somehow, as Elienor glanced down at the
calming pup, now lapping at her hands in gratitude, she didn’t believe him. Her
brows drew together. He wouldn’t harm the dog... she sensed that as strongly as
she did the knowledge that something more than mere coupling had occurred
between them last night. He would rant and he would rave, but he wouldn’t harm
the pup... or her.

The realization jarred her.

He would threaten, and he would frighten... but he
had kept his promise.

As much as it shamed her to acknowledge it, he’d
taken nothing from her without her consent.

Nay, he wouldn’t harm her.

He’d protected her all along.

Hadn’t he spared Clarisse by her word alone?
Banished his man because of her?

As she stared in wonder, he snatched out another
pair of boots and sat upon the stool to lace them, all the while continuing to
curse the dog... nevertheless accepting her protection of it... despite the
fact that he could easily have taken the dog from her.

With his boots on, he stood, giving them both a
black look before stalking from the chamber without another word.

Elienor glanced from the door as it slammed, to
the boots, to the dog, and never felt more bewildered.

So now what was she supposed to feel?

As the days wore on, so did the uncommon cold.

The manor fell into a routine; Elienor, as well.
Slowly, she was becoming accustomed to the Norse habits. For one, they ate only
twice a day instead of three. As she was accustomed, they broke their fast with
dagver
,
the morning meal, but then ate only once more during the day. That mealtime
they referred to as
nattver
. Yet she found to her surprise that this new schedule
suited her just as well. Be it the clime or the strange hours they kept, she
never experienced hunger pangs between meals.

Alarik spent most of his time with unresolved
domestic issues. Yet that suited her as well, for she’d yet to determine what
her feelings were for this enigmatic man. Olav, on the other hand, spent much
time in the
kirken
with her and Brother Vernay, sometimes merely listening as Vernay dictated and
Elienor transcribed. Other times, he asked Elienor about her past, her life in
the priory, and such.

Elienor thought she liked him, though she sensed
in him a fever raging nigh out of control. He was impassioned when he spoke of
Christ and the church, yet his eyes held little compassion for those who
renounced it.

The combination did not bode well.

Elienor listened quietly, trying to determine what,
if aught this quest had to do with her terrible vision.

Something, she knew... but what? She would
discover it soon, she was certain, for it seemed to be hovering just out of
sight. She only hoped it was not too late.

This morning as she made her way to the
kirken
, frost
billowed about her face. This, she thought, was one thing she’d never become
acclimated to—the incredible chill! Had she truly thought Francia cold?
Forsooth, even within the heated manor house it was unbearably frigid. It was
no wonder Alarik risked the possibility of fire to have heat within his own
chamber. A simple brazier would never have sufficed!

Snow fell so incessantly that men were forced to
scoop away mounds of it periodically in order to excavate the entryway, lest
they be trapped indoors. Only the servants dared brave the storm, for with the
storehouses set apart from the manor, they had no choice.

Nor did Elienor.

Bundled tightly in Alarik’s mantle, each day she walked
the short distance to the vale. Not a soul ever spoke to her along the way. It
was as though they saw in her something vile, for the look in their eyes spoke
volumes as she passed them by. They blamed her for something... yet what?

It was she who had the right to cast blame, after
all.

She might have felt bad, but these were not her
people—let them despise her if it was their bent! While she no longer had
Clarisse, she did have Alva, as well as Brother Vernay—and God. He was
with her, she was certain.

And then there was Mischief.

A smile trembled at her lips as she drew the
mantle more securely about herself and the pup snuggled within her arms. She
giggled, thinking that he’d surely earned his name. No sooner had Alarik left
the bedchamber the day his boots had been ravaged than the pup was once again
into devilment. Elienor had risen to dress and had been preoccupied only a
moment before she’d found him excavating the fire pit! Already clothed in the
blue silk, Elienor had hoisted up her skirts and had coerced herself into the
pit to clean up Mischief’s mess before Alarik might return and find ashes and
earth scattered to the four corners.

And now, with the little church in sight, she
again lifted her skirts, and holding the pup close, ran the distance to it,
eager to be out of the cold. As she opened the door, her breath coming in white
puffs, Brother Vernay smiled brightly in welcome. She liked him, she’d decided.
He tested her sorely, but she liked him, for he reminded her in many ways of
Mother Heloise. Olav, too, was present today. He came forward to take her
mantle as she removed it, chuckling heartily as the pup bounded out to the
floor.

Upon inspection of the fjords, It was evident no
one would be sailing before spring thaw. In mere days, the ice had begun to
thicken again, so that the ships were now forced aground. Despite the fact that
Alarik had not relished the thought of setting out so soon after returning, the
knowledge that he could not, even if he’d wished to, set his teeth on edge.

Or mayhap it was more the fact that once again he
was lured to the
kirken
like metal to a cursed lodestone!

That, along with the probability that he would
find Olav there before him, spurred his black humor.

Having abandoned his men at the manor, he rode
with the fury of a maelstrom toward the confounded little building that had
caused him so much strife, his crimson mantle swirling behind him with a wrath
like unto Hel itself.

“’Neither do men light a candle, and put it under
a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the
house,” Vernay announced.

Elienor blinked. “What?”

Vernay waved a hand in admonition. “Copy! copy,
ma petite
!
‘Let your light so shine before men’”

Elienor blinked again, in puzzlement. “Let my
light—”

“Nay, nay! Again from the beginning, ‘Neither do
men light—’ “

Her gaze fell. “
Je m’excuse
, Brother Vernay—I
simply cannot think to copy today,” she apologized.

“You are so unhappy, Elienor?”

Elienor turned toward the sound of Olav’s voice,
her blue eyes growing suddenly liquid. Alarik’s zealous brother sat in the
shadows, upon a small bench, his hands linked before him. “What think you, my
lord?” she asked softly, her eyes beseeching him to understand. “Having been
taken against your will... to a strange land not of your choosing... could you
be content?” Her heart twisted even as she voiced her predicament, for it made
it all the more true.

Olav shrugged, his hand going to the hilt of his
sword in an absent gesture as he stood. “Alarik’s mother came to the Northland
just so,” he pointed out. “As I understand it... she even came to love my
father.”

Elienor’s gaze fell momentarily. “My lord...
surely I cannot speak for Alarik’s mother,” she told him. “But for me...”

Olav held up a hand to stop her. “You need not say
it,” he told her, coming forward. Sighing, he placed a comforting hand upon her
shoulder, patting her, and then moved behind her to peer at the parchments
spread before her upon the small writing table. “I suppose I understand.”

He scrutinized the pages a long moment, immensely
pleased by what he saw, despite the fact that he’d yet to truly learn the Latin
tongue. Feeling as though he should repay her somehow, he announced suddenly,
“I tell you what I would do. Grant me your word you will copy until all is
complete here, and then mayhap I could persuade mine brother to release you.”

Hope flared within her breast—hope that she
refused to dampen by acknowledging the immediate pang of loss she felt at the
thought of leaving Alarik. She peered over her shoulder at Olav. “You would do
such a thing?” she asked, stunned.

“I would... though I can promise nothing save that
I will speak to him. I fear mine brother has a mind and will of his own. The
truth is I cannot force him where he will not.”

“My lord!” Elienor exclaimed. “That is all I could
ask of you!” For her conscience, for her soul, she needed to go home.

“Tell me,” Olav prodded. “Have you someone to take
you in... if you were to return to Francia?”

“My uncle!” Elienor proclaimed at once. She
fumbled for the leather string about her neck, lifting her beloved ring up out
of her gown. She then raised it over her head and handed it to Olav. Olav
accepted it, examining it.

“If you give my Uncle Robert that ring... he will
know, at least, that you tell him true.”

Olav stared at the ring a moment longer and then
his gaze returned to Elienor. “And if mine brother refuses to set you free?”