The Viking's Defiant Bride(47)

He and his companions covered the last miles in a short time and at length saw Ravenswood in the distance. On seeing their approach, the look-outs gave word and serfs came running from all directions. Wulfrum rode through the gateway at the head of his escort and drew rein outside the hall. Ida and several of his men came out to greet the new arrivals. Of Elgiva there was no sign. The feeling of foreboding grew stronger with every passing moment. Dismounting, he flung the reins at a serf and strode into the hall.

‘Elgiva!’

His voice echoed round the building, but brought forth no reply. Setting his jaw, he took the stairs three at a time, coming at length to their bedchamber. One glance revealed it to be empty. Wulfrum searched the other room, then went down again to the hall. In the women’s bower he accosted Osgifu, but she professed no knowledge of Elgiva’s whereabouts. His anger rising fast, Wulfrum grabbed hold of her and shook her.

‘Don’t lie to me, old woman. Where is she?’

Osgifu went pale. ‘My lord, I’m not sure.’

‘What do you mean, you’re not sure?’

‘She said she was going to the burial ground earlier this afternoon. I have not seen her since.’

‘The burial ground?’ Mentally Wulfrum saw the place. It was but a stone’s throw from the forest. He glared at Osgifu. ‘What more?’

‘My lord, I know nothing more, I swear it.’

‘If you’re lying to me, this day will be your last.’ He let go his hold. ‘Now fetch me one of your mistress’s gowns and be quick about it.’

Much disturbed, Osgifu scuttled off. Wulfrum turned to Ida.

‘Tell the kennel men to bring out the hounds and have someone saddle me a fresh horse.’

‘At once, my lord.’

As Ida disappeared, Wulfrum drew in a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts, to force his anger down. Ironfist’s voice broke the silence.

‘You think she’s run away.’

‘I don’t know yet, but I will find out.’

‘It’s possible she was taken by force.’

Wulfrum’s fists clenched. ‘It’s possible.’

‘Perhaps you should give her the benefit of the doubt.’ The giant met the basilisk glare unflinching. ‘I do not think her treacherous.’

Had it been anyone else, there would have been bloodshed. Wulfrum closed his eyes a moment, striving for control.

‘Tell the men to mount up.’

Ironfist walked away and for a moment Wulfrum followed his retreating figure. Then Osgifu returned with one of Elgiva’s gowns, hastily snatched from the coffer. It was the gold one she had worn for their wedding. The memory cut like a blade. Without a word, he seized the dress and strode out to the courtyard in the other’s wake. If they were to find his wife, the hounds needed a scent.



From the burying ground the trail was clear enough and they followed at a cracking pace, coming soon to the clearing and the now abandoned woodsmen’s huts. At that point the scent grew confused and there was no clear trace of Elgiva anywhere in evidence. Then, after some casting about, Ida called out, ‘A lot of horses were here, my lord. Fifteen or twenty, I’d say.’

For a moment Wulfrum was silent, his face deathly pale. Elgiva had chosen her moment well. By now she and her Saxon lord were well away. His fingers clenched round the fabric of the gown and he bit back the cry of rage and despair welling in his heart. Forcing his voice to a level tone, he turned to Ida.

‘We follow.’

The trail wasn’t hard to find and the fugitives had made no effort to conceal their passage. Moreover, they were travelling fast. Wulfrum pushed his horse hard, determined to narrow the gap. The party was riding west by south. That could only mean one thing. He gritted his teeth. If they once reached Wessex, Elgiva was as good as lost to him. Her face intruded on to his thoughts once more. How cleverly she had deceived him, using her beauty and her wit to lull him into believing she really cared, only to betray him so thoroughly in the end. Except it wasn’t the end, he vowed. Not yet. Not till he caught the fugitives. He would slay Aylwin with his own hand and then…Heartsick, he suppressed a groan for grief had taken on all the sharpness of physical pain, one deeper than any sword thrust. Yet even now, with all the evidence in front of him, he could not bring himself to believe her capable of such treachery. Could Ironfist be right? Could she have been taken by force? How much he wanted to believe that, to believe her innocent for he knew now that the alternative meant her death.



The Saxon fugitives rode until the sun was low on the horizon before stopping to rest the horses a while. Aylwin dismounted, lifting Elgiva from the saddle. Bone weary and sick with dread, she made no resistance now, knowing she was lost. Wulfrum was in York, would be for another day at least. He would return to find her gone. Worse, he would think she had gone of her own volition. His pain and his anger would be great indeed, but not as great as the desolation in her heart.

Throughout the long ride she had sought the means to escape, but none presented itself. She was kept in the midst of the riders and her horse was led. Besides, with her wrists bound, it would have been impossible to try anything. Even now they had halted, Aylwin was still taking no chances. On his orders, Elgiva was led aside and tied fast to a tree. The bonds were not cruelly tight, but they were secure enough when tested to preclude all hope of escape. Aylwin surveyed the proceedings with a rueful eye.

‘I’m sorry, Elgiva. I do this only for your own good.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘You do it for yours.’

‘I wish it had not been necessary.’

After he left her to speak with his men, Elgiva struggled again against the rope, but it yielded not a whit. Hot tears scalded her eyelids and she slumped into despair. She knew now that she would never see Wulfrum again.





Chapter Seventeen




Seeing a telltale cloud of dust some way ahead, Wulfrum experienced a sense of savage satisfaction. When the cloud dissipated, the feeling intensified. The Saxons had stopped. They weren’t expecting pursuit yet. Wulfrum reined in and raised a hand to halt his men. Then he gave the order to dismount.

‘We’ll move up as close as we can. Then we go in fast and we go in for the kill. Take no prisoners save one.’ He paused, drawing Dragon Tooth from the scabbard. ‘My wife is to be brought to me—alive and unhurt.’

In obedience to the command, the Viking host moved forwards with stealthy stride until they were within fifty yards of their prey. Then they surged forwards in open attack upon the startled Saxons. Wulfrum launched himself forward, Dragon Tooth in his fist, hacking and slashing at the hapless foe. Several fell before they had time to draw a blade. All around him he could hear shouts and curses and cries of pain in the ensuing mêlée. Though surprised and outnumbered, the remaining Saxons fought with desperate courage, determined to sell their lives dear. Surrounded on all sides by the battling throng, Wulfrum had but one immediate aim: to find Aylwin and carve the Saxon cur into small slivers. Seeking his man, he cut down three others on the way, his sword running with their blood. A moment later exultation became impotent rage to see his quarry locked in mortal combat some twenty yards off and half-a-dozen other fighting pairs between. Wulfrum’s wrath became incandescent when he saw who it was in that fatal conflict.

‘Sweyn!’

If the man heard that furious yell, he gave no sign. Even from his present position Wulfrum could see the fearsome light of battle joy on the berserker’s face, the savage delight with which he pressed the attack, forcing his opponent back step by step. Even in the midst of frustration and rage, Wulfrum had to admire the sheer gall of this man who dared steal his earl’s rightful opponent thus. Gritting his teeth, he carved his way forwards, determined not to lose this enemy to Sweyn. However, even as he slew one man, it seemed another rose up to take his place. Cursing, he fought on.



Elgiva struggled in desperation against the rope that held her, her terrified gaze following the conflict even as her heart leapt. They were Wulfrum’s men. He had come for her. Frantic, she looked for him among the heaving throng, but failed to spot him. She swallowed hard. Dear God, let him win. Let him come through unhurt. Her anxious eyes found Aylwin locked in deadly confrontation with a tall fair-haired Viking warrior. Anxiety became fear as she recognised his opponent: Sweyn! Appalled and fascinated together, she watched as the swords clashed, sparks leaping from their edges with each savage blow. Aylwin fought well, but he was twice the other man’s age and no match now for Sweyn in speed or stamina. Already his tunic was stained with the blood from half-a-dozen gashes. Beads of sweat stood on his forehead as he was pushed relentlessly back. Unable to see where he put his feet, he caught his heel on a rock and stumbled. He was off balance for no more than a second, but it was enough. Elgiva stifled a cry as Sweyn’s blade thrust deep into his opponent’s unprotected body. For a moment or two Aylwin hung impaled on its point before the blade was withdrawn and he buckled at the knees, sinking to the earth. The Viking paused a moment to look down at the fallen foe. Then he laughed, exultant. A moment later he was challenged anew by three furious Saxons who, having seen their leader fall, were bound on revenge. Sweyn fought like a madman, killing one and wounding another before the odds swung against him and the third sword thrust past his guard and through the ribs behind. Checked mid-stroke, he staggered and fell, dead before he hit the earth, the sword still in his hand and the ghost of a smile on his face. Elgiva shuddered and turned her head away.