The Viking's Defiant Bride(21)

‘I will give instruction for your things to be moved in here.’

‘I have my own bower.’

‘Henceforth you will share this room with me,’ he replied. ‘Love me or loathe me, you will discover how real this marriage is going to be.’ The tone was soft enough, but utterly implacable. Unable to withstand his gaze longer, Elgiva looked away. Wulfrum smiled. Then, to her unspeakable relief, he opened the door and let her pass.

Elgiva made her way back to her bower and sank weak-kneed and shaking on to her bed. The tears she had been holding back spilled over and fell unchecked, all the fears and tensions of the last week pouring out in great racking sobs. She cried for the loss of her kin and her home and for the knowledge of a past life that could never be regained. She cried for a long time. Osgifu, peeping in unnoticed, saw her and retreated again to let her have her cry out. The grieving was long overdue.



When it was over, she brought hot water and helped her mistress wash away the scent of the bedroom. Then she helped her to dress again in a clean kirtle and the blue gown. She combed out the golden hair and braided it down Elgiva’s back in a neat and sober plait. When she was done, it seemed to her that no trace remained of the frightened girl at the end of her tether and that in her place was a poised and lovely woman.

By now life was stirring in the hall and Elgiva had no wish to meet any of the Viking war band. She slipped out and, after checking that the coast was clear, went to the stables where her bay mare was stalled. Hearing her footstep, the horse whinnied softly, turning her elegant head to look at the approaching figure. Her soft muzzle snuffled the proffered palm and Elgiva wished she could have found an apple to bring. She stroked the glossy neck and looked the animal over with an expert eye, but to her relief the horse was unscathed by recent events. A look around the stables made it clear they all were. It was evident the Vikings held livestock too dear for indiscriminate slaughter. The mare’s bridle still hung on the peg at the stall’s entrance and for a moment Elgiva was swept with longing to get out of Ravenswood, to ride away from everyone and everything. Another moment’s reflection assured her it would never be permitted. She might be Wulfrum’s wife now, but she was a captive for all that and would not be allowed out of sight. The war band would leave soon and Ravenswood would be in Wulfrum’s hands, as would she. He would certainly never permit her to ride and so provide the means for her escape. Elgiva sighed. The horse was a symbol of the freedom she had lost and would never have again. Ravenswood was no longer her home, it was her prison and she shackled irrevocably to her gaoler. Nothing could change that now except death. In that bleak moment it seemed in many ways preferable to the future that awaited her. Then she remembered Osgifu’s words and knew she could not abandon her people. That dark future beneath the Viking heel was theirs too; somehow she and they must dredge up whatever remained of courage and resilience and find the means to face it. The old days were over. Sad at heart, she gave the horse a final pat and reluctantly quit the stall.

As she left the stables, she became aware of other people all moving in solemn procession towards the burying ground. For a moment her heart misgave her and she wondered who else was dead. Then she remembered. Wulfrum had promised that the Saxon graves might be blessed. Fear was overlaid by relief and a measure of surprise. He had kept his word. Though his men were everywhere in evidence, they made no attempt to interfere. She noticed Sweyn in the background. He gave her a sardonic smile. Elgiva ignored it and looked away, focusing her mind instead on the priest and the words of the blessing.

Standing in the midst of the crowd, she became aware of the man next to her. He seemed familiar, but it was hard to see his face for he wore a hood that concealed his features in its shadow. Then he turned just for a moment and she started. Brekka!

She stared at him aghast. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I had to speak with you, my lady.’

‘Why?’

‘Lord Aylwin sent me.’

Elgiva paled and for a moment thought she might faint. With a severe effort she regained her self-control.

‘Aylwin lives?’

‘Aye, he lives.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In the forest with those of our warriors who survived the battle.’

‘Is he well?’

‘Well enough, though his wounds are not completely healed.’ Brekka paused. ‘He bade me tell you to be of good cheer and to say that he will come for you.’

Elgiva drew in a sharp breath. ‘Brekka, he must not. The Vikings will kill him if they catch him.’

‘They will not catch him. When he is recovered, he will gather a force to retake Ravenswood.’

She stared at him in consternation. ‘It is madness. It will but lead to more bloodshed.’

‘That is unavoidable, my lady.’

‘Tell him he must not do this thing. Tell him to get away, far away—Wessex, perhaps. Anywhere the Vikings hold no sway.’

‘I will tell him what you say, my lady, but I think he will not heed it.’

After that they spoke no more, being unwilling to draw the attention of the Viking guards. However, Elgiva’s mind was in turmoil. Aylwin was alive. He had survived against all the odds. The news made her glad and at the same time much disquieted. He would not lightly relinquish what had been his, but this plan was madness. He had too few men. Surely he must see that. She prayed he would heed her message and go before Wulfrum found out. She shivered, not wanting to contemplate the thought. She was married to the Viking earl and he would keep her. He had made that plain enough. Plain too, what would happen if she disobeyed him again. If he thought for a moment that she plotted his overthrow with her former betrothed, his wrath would be terrible indeed. She had meant it when she said there had been enough bloodshed. Pray God Aylwin saw sense. She could not speak of this to Wulfrum—to do so would be to betray her own people. However, it sat ill with her to deceive him, though she could not have said precisely why.



Halfdan’s war band left the next day and Sweyn with them. Elgiva watched him go with a certain sense of relief, for soon he would be far away and she would never see him more. Besides, there were other things on her mind quite apart from Aylwin—Wulfrum had let it be known that he would decide on the fate of the Saxon prisoners taken in the forest. Suddenly she wondered if her optimism had not been misplaced. Would he really kill them, or exact some other fearful penalty? There was no way of knowing.



At midday the prisoners were dragged in their chains to stand before him on the greensward outside the great hall. Having been chained in the open for several days, prey to the elements and fed on scraps, all were filthy and ragged and fearful now for their lives. Wulfrum had given them time to ponder their fate, time for their defiance to leach away. Now he had their full attention. He surveyed them keenly, flanked by two of his most trusted warriors, Ida and Ceolnoth. Behind him the rest of his men waited in silence, flanking the fearful Saxon villagers who had been rounded up to watch the punishment. Off to one side stood a brazier full of hot coals in which irons were heating. Beside it was a large wooden block where stood Olaf Ironfist, leaning on the handle of a great axe. From time to time the prisoners eyed him with distinct unease.

Elgiva slipped out of the bower and along the side of the hall unnoticed, coming to a halt on the leading fringe of the Danish group. She could see her husband quite clearly, but his face was impassive and it was impossible to tell what was in his mind. Then he turned and said something to Ida. As he did so, she saw him look beyond the man to the place where she was standing. Her heart beat faster. Would he command her to leave, tell her this was men’s business, that she had no place or right here? However, Wulfrum said nothing, turning back to the prisoners. Elgiva moved closer. Then she heard him speak again, this time to Ironfist.

‘These are all the men who were taken in the forest?’

‘Aye, my lord. Cowardly dogs all that fled after the battle.’

‘Indeed.’ Wulfrum let his eyes rest on them. ‘They will learn that there is no escape. This land and its people belong to me now and I will guard well what is mine.’

Elgiva shivered, recalling how he had used the words to her on another occasion. Their import was the same, but the tone was grimmer by far.

‘The penalty is clear enough for slaves who run: the loss of a foot or the cutting of the hamstrings.’

The prisoners shifted in their chains, looking with horrified understanding at the brazier and the guards who flanked it, then at Ironfist. Elgiva drew in a sharp breath, shooting a fearful glance at Wulfrum as the implications sank in. Surely he could not really be going to do this. It was inconceivable. With thumping heart she moved forwards. For a moment his glance flicked towards her but the handsome face remained stern and he made no other acknowledgement of her presence.

‘Bring forwards the first prisoner.’

Elgiva watched appalled as the guards moved to obey, seizing the nearest man, a serf called Drem, who, panic stricken, began to struggle. Several heavy cuffs about the head subdued him while they unfastened the length of chain that joined him to the others. Then he was dragged forwards and thrown at Wulfrum’s feet. The earl glanced down a moment and then turned to Elgiva.