The Viking's Defiant Bride(6)

Her face blazed with loathing and contempt and her hand tightened round the hilt of the sword.

‘Viking scum! You would make war on women and helpless infants! Come, try your luck here! I’ll slit your belly and spill your yellow guts for you!’

All eyes turned towards Elgiva, registering surprise, and then, on seeing the sword, amusement.

‘Have a care, Sweyn,’ called one of his companions in mocking tones. ‘That one is a regular fire eater.’

Sweyn bared his teeth in a smile, his cold grey gaze speculative. ‘A warrior maid, no less. One of Odin’s daughters, perhaps, and fluent in our tongue. That will be convenient when I give her instructions in bed.’

Appreciative grins greeted the words and the speaker turned away for a moment to share the joke with his companions. Elgiva darted in for the attack. From the corner of his eye he saw the flashing blade aimed at him and leapt aside. The thrust that should have pierced his heart merely gashed his arm. Incredulous, he clapped his free hand to the wound, staring at the dripping blood, amid roars of laughter from the rest. Undeterred, Elgiva laid on with a will and for several moments Sweyn was forced to defend himself most dexterously before the onslaught, being driven back several paces. However, very soon greater strength and skill began to tell and then it was Elgiva who was forced back step by step until she came up hard against the far wall. A heavy blow beneath the hilt numbed her hand and wrist and with a gasp of pain she dropped the sword, only to find the Viking’s blade at her throat.

‘Beg for mercy, vixen!’

Elgiva spat at him. She knew he would kill her now, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, of hearing her plead. Lifting her chin, she let her gaze travel the length of the bloody sword until it met that of the man who held it. The tip of the sword pierced the skin and she felt the warm trickle of blood. With pounding heart she waited for the final thrust. For a long moment there was silence. Then the blade was lowered a fraction and for a fleeting second there was something like admiration in his eyes.

‘No,’ he said softly, ‘I will not kill you. What a waste that would be.’

‘You speak true, Sweyn!’ called a voice from the assembled group behind. ‘Take her to your bed. I wager you’ll never have a livelier piece.’

Another shout of laughter went up. Elgiva felt her cheeks flame as she heard Sweyn laugh, saw his hot gaze strip her.

‘I’d rather be dead.’

‘You’re not going to die,’ he replied. ‘Not yet.’

He sheathed the sword and, stepping close, seized her by the waist, bringing his mouth down hard on hers amid shouts of encouragement from the watching men.

Elgiva struggled in furious revulsion, but to no avail. In desperation she bit down on his lip. With a cry of pain and outrage, he released her abruptly, his hand moving to his mouth where the blood welled. Giving him no time to recover, Elgiva brought her knee up hard. Instinct made him move, though he still caught a glancing blow. She heard a grunt of pain and he reeled backwards while his companions redoubled their mirth. Elgiva didn’t wait to see how badly she had hurt him, but turned and fled across the room. Hilda was still struggling in the arms of the young man who had first seized her, but, hampered by the baby, could do little. The crying Ulric was standing beside the still figure of Osgifu. Elgiva reached him and flung her arms around him.

Across the room Sweyn staggered to his feet. Seeing the movement, Elgiva looked up and, as her gaze met his, she saw the murderous rage in his eyes. He crossed the intervening space and with a crash flung open the shutters. The room flooded with light. Then he tore Ulric from her arms and raised him aloft. Realising his intent, Elgiva screamed.

‘No!’

Sweyn’s lips twisted in a chilling smile.

Then a much louder voice sounded above all. ‘Hold!’ There was no mistaking the tone of cold command. ‘Enough! Put the child down, Sweyn.’

Elgiva, very pale, tore her gaze from the man by the window and risked a glance at the speaker. She had a brief impression of a tall, dark-haired warrior in a mail shirt. His face was concealed behind the plates of his helmet, but it was clear that all the intruders knew him and that he had authority with them for the room fell silent. His blue gaze locked with that of the other man. Frantic, she looked back across the room at Sweyn. For one hideous moment it seemed as though he would follow his intent, but then, to her unspeakable relief, he slowly lowered Ulric to the floor. Bewildered, the little boy ran to Elgiva, who held him close. Ignoring them, Sweyn confronted the other man.

‘Did we not swear to avenge Ragnar with fire and sword?’

‘Aye, man to man. Do men make war on babes?’

‘A mewling Saxon brat. What does it signify?’

At this casual dismissal of helpless innocence Elgiva, sickened, thought her heart might burst with rage. She missed the casual glance that the dark warrior threw her way before his gaze locked again with Sweyn’s.

‘Slaves are valuable, no matter what their age, and we have need of them. There will be no more killing here this day.’ The tone was calm, but no one missed the inflexion of iron beneath.

Sweyn shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Wulfrum.’ He turned back to Elgiva. ‘Even so, I have a reckoning to settle with this one.’

Elgiva struggled to her feet and, thrusting Ulric towards one of the serving women, backed away. Sweyn came on. She turned and fled for the door.

She never reached it for in her blind flight she hurtled headlong into the warrior who had spoken before, stumbling against him, her hands slamming into chain mail as she tried frantically to push him aside. He stood like a rock. Strong hands closed round her arms, bringing her flight to a dead stop.

‘Not so fast.’

The voice was low and even, the tone amused. Elgiva’s gaze, currently level with a broad chest, travelled upwards, took in a powerful jaw and strong sensual mouth, parted now in a smile. She twisted in his hold, but her efforts made no impression except that, if anything, his smile widened.

‘I’ll take the wench, Wulfrum.’ Elgiva’s pursuer halted a few feet away. ‘I’ll teach the Saxon bitch to mend her ways and that right soon.’

He took another step forwards and Elgiva spun round, shrinking back involuntarily against Wulfrum for the expression in the other’s eyes was terrifying.

‘By Odin’s blood, it looked to me as if she was teaching you a thing or two, Sweyn,’ said a warrior, who stepped forwards to stand beside Wulfrum.

Amid the mirth and jests that greeted the remark Elgiva looked round and then froze. The speaker was a fearsome figure, a giant of a man all bedaubed with blood, and a good head taller than any present. Grey mingled with the brown of his hair and beard, and his weathered face was seamed with lines, but his dark eyes were cool and shrewd. In one fist he held a great bloodstained axe.

‘Ironfist is right!’ called another. ‘She’s too hot for you, Sweyn!’

Sweyn glared. ‘We’ll see.’

‘You are careless with your captives,’ said Wulfrum. ‘You let the wench escape. I caught her. She is mine now.’

Elgiva looked up in alarm, but Wulfrum’s gaze was fixed on Sweyn. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other on her shoulder.

‘True enough,’ said Olaf Ironfist. ‘We all saw it.’

Murmurs of agreement greeted his words.

‘Nay, Wulfrum. I say she is mine.’

‘Not so. You let her get away.’

‘Wulfrum speaks true,’ said another.

A chorus of agreement greeted this. Sweyn darted angry looks to left and right, but could find no support. Elgiva held her breath, praying that he would not prevail, quailing to think of the revenge he would take. It was in her mind to run but, as if he read her thoughts, Wulfrum tightened his hold a fraction.

‘Take the bitch, then,’ replied Sweyn. ‘’Tis but a wench after all.’

‘Aye, and there are plenty more,’ said a voice from the doorway.

All heads turned in the direction of the speaker and the men fell silent, parting to let Lord Halfdan enter. Although only of average height, he was powerfully made and, like Wulfrum, carried with him an aura of authority. When he reached the group around his sword brother, he took in the scene at a glance.

‘There are women and slaves aplenty in England and land enough for all.’ His voice carried without effort across the room. ‘Therefore there is no reason to quarrel.’ He bent his gaze upon Elgiva, scrutinising her. ‘A comely wench, Wulfrum. She will fetch a good price in the slave market, unless of course you plan to keep her.’

‘I do intend to, my lord.’

‘Well then, keep her close.’

‘I shall, my lord.’

‘Put the matter beyond dispute.’ He glanced across the room at Sweyn. ‘It seems to me she would make a fine Viking bride.’

‘Never in a thousand years!’

The words were out before she could stop them and Elgiva felt her throat dry as both men turned their attention towards her. Wulfrum laughed and his arm closed about her, ignoring the resistance it encountered.

‘A spirited piece,’ said Halfdan, ‘and impudent too. She must learn who her master is.’

‘I will never acknowledge any Viking as my master!’