The Viking's Defiant Bride(10)

‘Elgiva, wait!’

The words fell on empty air for Elgiva was already heading for the well. Picking her way among the bodies all around, she tried to ignore the rising stench and darted covert glances all about her, fearing at every moment to hear someone raise the alarm. However, no one did challenge her and she reached the well a short time later. Putting down the bucket, she took another furtive look around but could still see no one at the gate. Summoning all her courage, Elgiva made towards it at a steady pace, not wishing to draw eyes her way by careless haste. At every step her heart hammered; she expected at each moment to hear the shouted challenge and the sound of pursuit. It never came and she reached the shattered entry. Cautiously she walked through the gateway and looked about her. The way was clear. Picking up her skirts, she ran, sprinting across the open ground betwixt her and the edge of the trees, ignoring everything but the need to escape and put as much distance as possible between herself and Ravenswood. Focused on her goal, she did not see the horseman approaching fast at an oblique angle to cut off her route.

By the time she heard the thudding hoofbeats, he was much closer. One horrified glance over her shoulder revealed the approaching danger in a brief impression of a great black horse and the warrior who rode it. Elgiva summoned every remaining vestige of energy and put on a last desperate spurt. The trees were no more than a hundred yards away now. If she could but reach them, she would have a chance of escape. Behind her the hoofbeats sounded louder, thudding in her ears like the sound of her own heartbeat as she willed herself on. It was a vain effort. The rider leaned down and a strong arm reached out and swept her off her feet. Elgiva shrieked as she was thrown face down over the front of the saddle, held firmly across the rider’s knees. For some further distance every bone in her body was jarred before the horseman reined to a halt. Fury and fright vied for supremacy as she fought to recover her breath. Then she heard a familiar voice.

‘Whither away, Elgiva?’

Her stomach lurched. Wulfrum! Frantically she strove to push herself upright, but a firm hand between her shoulders kept her where she was, his well-trained mount standing like a rock the while.

‘Let go of me, you clod. You Danish oaf.’

‘Clod? Danish oaf? These are grave insults indeed.’ Wulfrum regarded his struggling captive with a keen eye. ‘It seems to me that you need to learn better manners.’

‘You have the nerve to lecture me about manners, barbarian?’

‘I think you were not attending to me earlier, wench, for I warned you what would happen if you defied me again.’

Suddenly she did recall the words and her face grew hotter as she divined his meaning and realised the extreme vulnerability of her present position.

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Is that so?’

The flat of his hand came down hard, eliciting a yelp of indignation and further futile struggles.

‘Let me go, you bastard! You swine! Let me go!’

It was an unfortunate choice of words for half a dozen sharp whacks ensued. Elgiva yelled in rage but bit back any further insults, knowing he would avenge himself if she uttered them.

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ was the pleasant rejoinder. ‘You belong to me now and I will hold what is mine.’

Fuming, she forgot her former resolve in the face of this breathtaking arrogance. ‘I will never belong to you, you loathsome Viking filth.’

That last was a mistake—the hand descended several times more and much harder. Elgiva gasped.

‘Anything more?’ he asked. ‘I can keep this up indefinitely if you can.’

Indeed there were plenty more things she could have found to say, chiefly concerning his lowly birth, probable ancestry and certain destination in the hereafter, but with a monumental effort she forced them back. Only a very small exhalation of breath escaped, a sound that reminded him of an infuriated kitten. Wulfrum waited a moment, but there was nothing more. His lips curved in a sardonic smile; touching his horse with his heels, he let it move forwards at a walk. Elgiva gritted her teeth in helpless fury as they headed back towards Ravenswood and a dreadful suspicion grew that his retribution wasn’t over yet.



In this she was right. Wulfrum took his time about the return journey, knowing full well the helpless ire of his captive and her present discomfort. He had been visiting the Viking encampment earlier and was returning when he caught sight of the running figure heading for the forest. He had recognised her at once and knew a bid for freedom when he saw it. He also knew she must not be allowed to get away. How she had got so far was a mystery, one for which the guards would get a roasting later. As for Elgiva, she would discover that it did not pay to disobey him. Right now he knew she was smarting, as much from the humiliation as from his hand. It had been most tempting to put all his strength behind it and beat her soundly, but he had resisted the notion and tempered the punishment. As it was, she would think twice before crossing him again. Like all the Saxons she would learn that rebellion came at a price.

In consequence Elgiva was held across the saddle bow all the way back to the outer door of the women’s bower. If she had thought then he would let her slide from the saddle and slink indoors, she was mistaken for Wulfrum dismounted first and dragged her off the horse after. Tucking her under one arm, he carried her inside in another casual and humiliating demonstration of superior strength. When at last he set her down she was hot and breathless and, to Wulfrum’s eyes, most attractively dishevelled, for the golden mane had escaped its braid and fell in tumbled curls about her shoulders.

Furious, Elgiva glared up at him, wishing anew for a sword to cut the arrogant brute down to size. However, he was very big and to her cost she knew his strength. She hated to think what other retribution he might take if she angered him further for she was uncomfortably aware of the bed on the far side of the room and of the dimming light and of his dangerous proximity.

It was not hard to discern some of her thought but, far from being perturbed in any way, Wulfrum smiled, thinking that anger heightened her beauty for those wonderful eyes held a distinctly militant light. He was sorely tempted to take her in his arms and kiss her again, but he suspected that if he did, he would not be able to stop there. Better to let her think about what had happened, to understand the futility of attempting to escape him. She was no fool and the lesson would be well learned. Besides, time was on his side now.

For the space of several heartbeats they faced each other thus. Then, to her inexpressible relief, he moved towards the door, pausing when he reached it.

‘You will remain here until I say otherwise. I should perhaps point out that there will be a guard outside from now on.’

He left her then, closing the door behind him. Weak with relief, Elgiva collapsed against it, listening with thumping heart to the muffled hoof falls as he rode away.





Chapter Four




In the days following an atmosphere of deep gloom hung over Ravenswood along with the stench of death and corruption. Carrion birds flapped among the bodies or perched in readiness on the palisade as the demoralised Saxons, with an air of bitter resignation, went about the business of digging graves. Since the church had been burned and the priest taken prisoner there was little chance that he might bless the graves, a grievous lack that added to the pain of loss. The living had perforce to be content with murmured prayers and the laying of flowers.

Osgifu and Elgiva helped with the laying out of the dead, working in silence and in grief for the lives snuffed out so soon. Aylwin lived yet, though he was much weakened from loss of blood. The Vikings kept a close watch, but they made no move to harm him. Elgiva did what she could for him, but there were many others requiring her attention too, and her time was spent in tending the wounded, changing dressings, applying salves and balms, dispensing the medicines that dulled pain. Some men were beyond help and died; others like Aylwin clung desperately to life. His troubled gaze followed Elgiva as she moved among her patients, an attention that had not gone unnoticed.

Waiting until Elgiva was not by, Wulfrum made his way towards the pallet where the Saxon lay, regarding him dispassionately. He made no attempt to sit, thus putting the other at an added disadvantage by compelling him to look up at his visitor. At first neither man spoke. Then Wulfrum broke the silence.

‘Your wound heals?’

‘It heals.’

‘Elgiva is skilled.’

At the mention of her name, the older man’s eyes narrowed and his hand clenched at his side.

‘What is it you wish to say?’

‘That I know of your former betrothal to her…’ Wulfrum paused ‘…a betrothal you would now do well to forget.’

‘Elgiva is mine.’

‘Not so. She belongs to me, as does this hall and these lands, and I shall take her to wife.’

‘By God, you shall not!’ The injured man started up, then winced as his wound protested.

Watching him fall back upon the pallet, Wulfrum raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? And how will you prevent it?’

Aylwin remained silent, knowing too well the futility of any reply he might make. More than anything he wanted to be left alone, but his tormentor lingered still.

‘You should have wed her when you had the chance.’