‘Come, Wulfrum! Have you done your duty to your wife?’
‘Odin’s sacred ravens,’ bellowed Ironfist, ‘he’s had long enough to do it half a dozen times!’ A roar of agreement followed from those without the door. Wulfrum grinned as he looked into Elgiva’s bewildered face.
‘They seek proof of our union , my lady.’
For a moment her mind was blank. Then, as she recalled the earlier banter, her cheeks flamed. The banging continued and the voices without became more insistent. The door shook on its hinges. A little more and the entire Viking war host would be witness to their wedding night. Elgiva swallowed hard and closed her eyes. Suddenly she felt Wulfrum’s weight shift and the hold slackened on her wrists. When she looked again, it was to see him retrieve the fallen knife. In horrified fascination she saw him draw the blade across his arm and then the welling beads of blood as he gathered up the torn kirtle and opened it out before wiping the cloth across the wound.
Throwing a speaking look at his wife, he crossed the room and unbarred the door, opening it sufficiently to thrust the garment out to the waiting hands. For a moment there was silence, then a rousing cheer. Without waiting for more, Wulfrum slammed and barred the door again, letting out a long breath. Then he looked at Elgiva, who was kneeling on the bed, golden hair spilling wildly round her shoulders and over the pelt she was using to shield her nakedness. Her amber eyes were wide, her face ashen. Presently the noise outside diminished and retreating footsteps announced the departure of the intruders. Elgiva drew a ragged breath. They were going. Once again she became aware of Wulfrum. For a long moment their eyes met and she saw him smile. Then he became aware of the blood trickling down his arm and crossed to the basin to retrieve a cloth. She took a deep breath.
‘You’d better let me bind that.’
‘It’s a scratch, no more.’
Elgiva tucked the fur around her and quit the bed to join him at the basin. She poured a little water and, taking the cloth from him, wiped away the blood. As he had said, the cut was not deep, but it bled profusely nevertheless.
Wulfrum watched with quiet amusement, but stood quite still while she bathed the wound and stanched the bleeding enough for her to bind it. He said nothing while she worked, but his eyes never left her. Elgiva kept her eyes on the improvised bandage, hoping he would not notice how her hands shook. When she had finished, he glanced at her handiwork and nodded.
‘It is well.’ He turned her to face him. ‘Now, where were we?’
Elgiva shivered as his fingers brushed her shoulders and strayed across the tops of her breast, ill concealed by the fur pelt. Then his hand closed about her arm and he drew her back to the bed. This time she did not struggle, knowing there was little point. She knew his strength and hers could never match it. She lay beside him, felt him undo the pelt and then his weight as he leaned across her. He would take her now. It was his right. Elgiva closed her eyes and turned her head away. It would soon be over.
Wulfrum’s lips seeking hers brushed her cheek instead. He could feel the tension in her body, even though she no longer fought him. Her face was turned away from his, but there was no mistaking the expression of fear and reluctance. He frowned.
‘Look at me, Elgiva.’
Slowly she turned towards him and he could see tears welling in her eyes. It was the first time he had ever seen her afraid. Even when Sweyn wanted to kill her she had radiated courage. Now it seemed her store was exhausted. He was not altogether surprised, given the events of the past few days. She had shown greater resilience and determination than any woman he had ever known. With a gentle hand he smoothed the hair from her face.
‘You need not be afraid of me, Elgiva. I will not hurt you.’
She remained silent, but the amber eyes registered confusion. He thought ruefully that, had it not been for Lord Halfdan’s untimely interruption, he would have taken her. Ironic that his men had prevented the very deed they applauded. It was a good thing they were drunk enough to accept the proof he gave them. Even if they had been sober, it would have been inconceivable to them that he could be in bed with a beautiful naked woman and not possess her immediately and by any necessary means. Looking at the body lying next to his, he thought they had a point.
Seeing Wulfrum’s smile Elgiva felt her confusion grow for she could not fathom his thought. Was he trying to lull her into a sense of false security, only to pounce when her defences were down? It would be just like him. He had no shame. Like all his vile race, he took what he wanted without regard to others. He had married her because he willed it, because she was as much a prize as these lands and this hall. As a captive her views had not been considered. The only choice had been to wed him or take Sweyn. Thinking of her likely treatment at those hands, Elgiva shuddered. She might not have survived the revenge he would have exacted. This marriage to Wulfrum had saved her from that fate. In his arms lay her safety. His men would not touch her and Halfdan’s were leaving on the morrow, Sweyn with them. She would not be sorry to see them go. They would find other lands to conquer, other plunder to seize, other captives to take, but Wulfrum would not be with them. He was here and here to stay and nothing now could ever be the same.
Fatigue washed over her, along with the soporific effects of the mead, and Elgiva felt her eyelids grow heavy. She fought it. She must not relax her guard. However, pressed close to Wulfrum, the warmth of his flesh beneath the coverlets added to her drowsiness and her tired body relaxed of its own volition. Her eyelids drooped again, fluttered once and then closed.
Wulfrum glanced down, stroking back wisps of golden hair from her cheek. She stirred slightly, but did not wake, unaware of the gaze that drank in every line of her face. Truly, he thought, she was beautiful. And she was his, nominally anyway. The rest would come. She would yield as he knew she must. A body like that was made for love-making. Lightly he stroked the warm skin of her breasts, tracing a path down the curve of her waist and the gentle flare of her hip, breathing in her scent. It was powerfully erotic. However, he resisted the temptation to wake her. After all, he had time enough now.
Chapter Seven
Elgiva awoke to broad daylight. For a few confused seconds she could not remember where she was. Then memory flooded back and with it shame. Beside her lay the man who was her husband now. Wulfrum slept on and for a moment or two she watched. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown behind his head in an attitude that seemed both abandoned and vulnerable. Her gaze travelled from the dark tousled hair to his face, exploring its chiselled lines, then moving on to the lips and chin and thence to his naked torso where the marks of her nails showed a harsh red. The welts looked painful, but she felt no remorse. It occurred to her as she watched him sleep that anyone with a blade could kill him where he lay, driving the point between his ribs and thrusting it in to the hilt. It would be no more than he deserved. Even as the thought formed itself, she rejected it—she could never kill a man in cold blood. Besides, had he not spared her from dire humiliation last night? Aye, and rape too. Why had he? It was his right to take her and yet he had waived that right. Truly the man was an enigma: on the one hand, a fearsome warrior, and, on the other, capable of tenderness and compassion. He intrigued even while he repelled.
Throwing the coverlet aside, she eased herself to the edge of the bed but was stopped short. Her hair was partly trapped beneath the weight of his body. With great care she eased it away. Wulfrum stirred, but did not wake. Elgiva drew in a deep breath as the strands came free. Cautiously she climbed out of bed, glancing around for her kirtle. Then she remembered what had become of it and her cheeks grew hot. Seizing a pelt from the bed, she wrapped it around herself and tiptoed to the window, peeping through a crack in the shutter. Nothing stirred, either in the courtyard or the meadow beyond the palisade where the majority of Halfdan’s force was encamped. No doubt many would feel like death this morning after the vast quantities of mead and ale they had consumed. She turned back into the room, thinking to retrieve her gown. It would not be so comfortable without the kirtle beneath, but there was no alternative unless she wished to leave the chamber clad only in a wolf pelt. The rest of her garments were in the chest in her bower.
Looking round the room, she saw the clothing that Wulfrum had discarded the previous night and with it his sword. Elgiva moved towards it, her bare feet making no sound on the wooden floor. With care she lifted the heavy blade from its resting place and studied the hilt in curiosity. It was made of iron, gilded, and bound with copper wire, the pommel set with red jasper. Closing her hand round the hilt, she drew the blade part way from its scabbard. It was a fine weapon and beautifully wrought—a true melding of iron and steel. Where the hammer had fallen on the metal, it had left wondrous patterns like wreaths of frozen breath, fantastic shapes that seemed to change with the light. Down the centre were hammered grooves to channel the blood. She had no need to try the edge of the blade to know it was keen. She would have wagered too, that it was finely balanced. In truth, it was a warrior’s weapon.
‘Were you planning to use that, Elgiva?’
She spun round to see Wulfrum watching her from the bed. Recovering her self-possession, she slid the blade back into the scabbard.