The Viking's Defiant Bride(17)

‘There is no escape, is there?’ she said at last.

‘No.’

‘I’d rather be dead.’

‘Then who would protect your people from the vengeance of the Vikings?’ demanded Osgifu.

‘It will make no difference to them whether I live or die.’

‘It will make all the difference. As Wulfrum’s wife you will have great influence.’

‘I will have no influence.’

‘Then you are not the woman I took you for.’

Elgiva stared at her, but Osgifu’s gaze remained steadfast.

‘The man is clearly besotted. You must use your power over him.’

‘Besotted?’ Elgiva gave a hollow laugh. ‘Hardly.’

‘I have seen the way he looks at you.’

‘He looks at me with lust, that is all.’

‘Then why does he take you to wife? He could have had you the day the Vikings took this place and then kept you as a concubine or handed you over to his men for a plaything. Instead he offers you a place of honour at his side.’

‘Honour? You call it an honour?’

‘In his view, aye. By doing so, he puts you beyond reach of all others, beyond danger. Consider the alternative.’

Elgiva lapsed into a confused and angry silence. Seeing it, the older woman pressed her point.

‘This situation is not of your choosing or of your making, but you can turn it to advantage. You have beauty and wit. Use them.’

‘You overestimate my powers, Gifu. Wulfrum will do as he wills.’

‘A beautiful woman can make a man do as she wills. A clever one can make him think it was his idea.’

In spite of herself, Elgiva smiled. ‘Truly you are cunning.’

‘A woman must be cunning to survive. You will survive because you are strong. Aye, and brave too. You will do what must be done.’

Elgiva knew she was right. Now that Osric was dead and Aylwin a fugitive, it was her place to protect her people in so far as it lay within her power to do so. Just then she did not believe that amounted to much.

‘And by that you mean I must marry Wulfrum on the morrow?’

‘There is no other choice,’ replied Osgifu.





Chapter Six




The ceremony was held outdoors in a forest glade hard by, the better to accommodate the number who would attend. Even if the church had been intact it could not have held so many. In the midst Father Willibald waited in resigned reluctance, surrounded by the warrior host. Unaware of the priest’s discomfiture, the warriors talked and jested among themselves until the arrival of Wulfrum with Olaf Ironfist and Lord Halfdan. A cheer went up and the jesting increased. Wulfrum smiled, letting it wash over him, and cast a swift glance around. The priest, looking up at the three of them, swallowed hard and tried to conceal his nervousness. His gaze moved past them to the assembled Saxons whose presence the earl had likewise commanded, seeing in their expressions his own doubt and fear. Of the Lady Elgiva there was no sign.

‘And the bride, my lord?’ he asked diffidently.

‘She is coming,’ replied Wulfrum.

An imposing figure, he was dressed in a scarlet tunic of fine wool over blue leggings. A cloak of dyed red wool, embroidered at front and hem, was thrown over his shoulders and fastened by a silver dragon brooch. His shoes were made of good leather and by his side he wore a fine sword.

Halfdan and Ironfist were also attired in their best to do honour to their friend. They glanced once at Father Willibald and then ignored him, a state of affairs that suited him perfectly.

The minutes passed with still no sign of the bride and Halfdan exchanged glances with Ironfist, though he said nothing. Wulfrum felt a twinge of unease, but forced it down. It was, after all, a woman’s privilege to keep her groom waiting on her wedding day. It occurred to him that Elgiva might consider flight, but, if so, she would soon have found it impossible: Ravenswood was well guarded and by his own men. A cat could not slip out unnoticed. No, this marriage would take place as planned. It was an important symbol, announcing that the Norsemen were there to stay and that they would ally themselves with Saxon blood. He knew too that if he intended to rule these people, it would be far better to show them that their lady was held in a position of respect. To see her demeaned as his whore would have added to existing resentments. In many ways it was a political move, though, if he were honest, not entirely. He did not deceive himself that Elgiva entertained any tender feelings on his account; given the chance, she might well drive a sword into his heart.

‘Where is the wench? What keeps her?’ demanded Halfdan.

Distracted from his thoughts, Wulfrum frowned. The assembled crowd was growing restless. If Elgiva was playing some petulant female trick, he would return to the hall and drag her forth himself. The flicker of doubt grew into a spark of annoyance. Would she dare to humiliate him before his men, before his overlord? By Odin’s beard, if she tried it—

He never finished the thought, aware suddenly that the conversation around him had stopped and all eyes were drawn to the far edge of the glade. He turned and looked, then looked again, and all anger died in an instant. Elgiva, attended by Hilda and Osgifu, moved across the greensward towards him. For a moment he wondered if she were real or some sprite from the forest. Glancing sunlight caught her in its rays, enfolding her in a halo of light. Clad in the golden gown with her golden hair loose about her shoulders and restrained only by a circlet of flowers, she seemed some ethereal being, so graceful in her movements that she might have floated above the earth rather than walked on it.

‘Thor’s thunderbolts,’ muttered Olaf Ironfist, ‘but she is fair.’

Beside him Halfdan nodded. ‘I’m starting to wonder if I wasn’t too hasty in letting Wulfrum have the wench,’

Wulfrum forgot his anger and his doubt and felt in his heart the first stirring of pride that this Saxon maid was to be his wife, along with the knowledge that every man present wanted to be in his shoes.

Elgiva walked with unhurried step across the glade with head held high, looking neither to left nor right, giving no sign that she was aware of the attention focused on her. When she reached Wulfrum’s side, she made a brief and graceful curtsy, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment before he took her hand.

‘You shine like the sun, my lady.’

There was no mistaking the admiration in his eyes, but Elgiva returned it with coolness.

‘You are all kindness, lord.’

If he noted the ironic tone he gave no sign and led her forwards to the waiting priest. She concealed her surprise to see Father Willibald there, knowing that many of the Vikings had yet to embrace the Christian faith and worshipped their old gods. She realised she had no idea of Wulfrum’s beliefs. Part of her had expected to endure a pagan ceremony, something that could never have been regarded as binding by the Saxon population. Had Wulfrum known that? One moment’s reflection assured her that he had. This marriage was intended to be binding in every way. Her heart pounded. There was to be no escape.

The ceremony went without the least hitch. Contrary to all her hopes there was no timely interruption, no divine intervention, and no Saxon army to save her at the last moment. The words were spoken, the rings exchanged and the air was split by a rousing cheer from the assembled crowd as Wulfrum took his bride in his arms and sealed the moment with a kiss. Elgiva permitted that embrace but did not respond.

Wulfrum’s lips brushed her hair as he whispered, ‘You will kiss me, Elgiva. I shall hold you thus until you do.’

She knew it was no idle threat and had perforce to yield to a much longer and more intimate embrace. The roar of approval from the gathered crowd echoed through the forest and flocks of birds rose startled into the air. Wulfrum drew back a little and looked into her face, now a deeper shade of pink, and he smiled. Elgiva laid a hand on his breast.

‘My lord, there is something I would ask.’

‘Ask, my lady. I will refuse you nothing if it be reasonable and within my power to grant it.’

‘It is that the graves of the Saxon slain should be blessed by the priest.’

He regarded her in silence and then nodded. ‘Very well, it shall be done.’

Elgiva let out the breath she had been holding. It was a conciliatory gesture that would please her people and she suspected he knew it. It was part of the role he played, for all he was a Viking warlord and their conqueror still. She had no time for further reflection because Wulfrum’s men pulled him away from her and she saw him raised shoulder high. Then strong arms swung her off her feet.

‘By the breath of Odin, ’tis a woodland fairy after all!’ exclaimed Halfdan.

‘How so?’ demanded Olaf Ironfist.

‘See for yourself.’

He tossed her lightly to Ironfist, who caught her with ease.

‘By the breath of Odin, you’re right.’

Ironfist laughed and threw her up to sit on his shoulder, an arm about her knees, supporting her feet in one huge hand. Then, surrounded by the cheering throng, he carried her along beside her lord, back towards the hall for the feast. Elgiva was set on her feet before the door with Wulfrum beside her. He took her hand and led her across the stepped threshold to another rousing cheer. The bride had not stumbled and the auspices were good.



The feasting lasted all day and into the night, with songs and jests and tests of strength while the mead horns overflowed. Many a health was drunk to the newly-wed couple, along with toasts to the gods. Elgiva watched it all with a growing sense of detachment, aided in part by the amount she had drunk. It was little enough in comparison to the men all around her, but, taken on a stomach almost empty, it went to her head quickly and added to a growing sense of unreality. From time to time she felt herself being watched and would look up to see Wulfrum’s gaze resting on her. From the number of times his horn was replenished she had hopes he might drink himself insensible before the night was out, but to her growing dismay the mead seemed not to touch him. To be sure he laughed and joked with his men, but the blue eyes remained watchful for all that.