He had no doubt as to Elgiva’s mind on the matter. In truth, she was a spirited piece as Lord Halfdan had said, and brave too. Her defiance of Sweyn demonstrated that beyond doubt. Not that he blamed the man for wanting her. She was a rare beauty and it must have cost him a pang to lose her so soon. Wulfrum had not forgotten the look in his eyes when the girl had spurned him, nor again when Wulfrum claimed her for his own. If Ironfist and the others had not been there, Sweyn might have disputed the matter further. Even if he had, Wulfrum knew he would have fought to keep her for, from the moment he set eyes on the wench, he knew he wanted her for himself. Wanted her and intended to have her. Halfdan had seen it too. It was why he had urged Wulfrum to take her to wife and settle the matter once and for all. Wulfrum knew that a week ago he would have dismissed the suggestion out of hand. Today he had embraced it. After all, he was five and twenty and should have taken a bride long since. He would have if he’d ever found one he wanted. It had seemed a hopeless quest. That situation had just changed. Besides, he could think of many a worse fate to befall a man. Recalling the kiss he had stolen from Elgiva earlier, he grinned. If looks could kill, he knew he’d be a dead man now. Too bad—he was determined that kiss would be the first of many. Let her fight him tooth and nail; it would avail her naught. She would yield in the end. He would strip away her defences as he intended to strip away her clothes.
‘My lord?’
Jolted back to the present, Wulfrum focused his attention on the man before him.
‘Well?’
‘Lord Halfdan requests your presence in the hall.’
‘I will come.’
When he returned, he made his report and then looked about him with curiosity. He could see that the Saxon healers had not been idle. They had organised matters so that those men who had been badly injured had been lifted onto makeshift pallets and, having been tended, were watched over now by some of the serfs. Elgiva and her companion continued on to see to the walking wounded, of whom there was a goodly number.
‘Those women know what they are about,’ observed Halfdan, noting the direction of Wulfrum’s gaze. ‘It is useful to have experienced healers to call on. They will serve you well.’
He turned aside then to speak to one of his men, leaving Wulfrum free to observe. Across the hall he could see Elgiva with her latest patient, bandaging his arm. It seemed that Halfdan was right—she worked with assurance, her hands moving swiftly and competently about their task. From her hands he let his gaze travel on across the graceful curves of her figure, from the swelling bosom and narrow waist to the gently flaring hips. A thick golden braid hung down her back, though several tendrils of hair had escaped to curl about her neck and cheek. Just then her profile was towards him and he missed nothing of the delicate bone structure beneath that flawless skin. She was lovely, a prize indeed. As if sensing herself watched, she turned her head and looked round, perceiving him immediately. He saw the dainty chin tilt upwards before she looked away, and smiled to himself. She was safe enough for now; there were many more wounds to stanch and bind and he had still many matters to attend to, including a trip to the Danish encampment.
‘After that, my lady,’ he murmured, ‘we shall see.’
Elgiva and Osgifu worked on. It was late in the day when the last of the wounded were carried in. Among them was Aylwin, his face waxen beneath the dirt and gore. He had taken a deep sword thrust in the side and his tunic was dark with blood, yet a faint pulse testified that he lived. Swiftly they cut away the tunic and the shirt beneath. The wound gaped, wide and ugly, but it looked clean. Several superficial cuts marked his arms and livid bruises attested to the ferocity of the fighting. Elgiva set to work to stanch the bleeding. As she did so a shadow fell across them and she glanced up. Her heart skipped a beat to see Halfdan standing there. He surveyed the injured man a moment and then the pile of discarded clothing. Even soiled, it could never pass for the garb of a peasant.
‘Who is he?’
Elgiva felt her throat dry. Then she heard Osgifu speak.
‘This is Lord Aylwin.’
‘A Saxon lord.’ Halfdan looked from her to Elgiva. ‘Your father, perhaps?’
‘No. My father is dead.’
‘Ah, your husband, then?’ His hand moved to his sword hilt.
Elgiva bit back a cry of alarm, her mind racing. If Halfdan’s earl intended to marry her as he had said, then she could not have a husband living. If he thought that the case, he would rectify the matter.
‘He is not my husband, but I am betrothed to him.’
The Viking relaxed his grip on the sword and he laughed. ‘Not any more.’
As she watched him walk away Elgiva let out the breath she had unconsciously been holding. Exchanging a brief glance with Osgifu, she set to work again with trembling hands to stanch the wound and bind it. She wondered if Aylwin would last the night and thought it unlikely. It might be better if he did die. The alternative was a life of slavery beneath the Viking yoke, something he would never submit to. Nor would he suffer another man to take his betrothed without a fight. Elgiva swallowed hard. Aylwin had been allowed to live for now, but for how much longer?
She and Osgifu worked until all had been attended to. The sun was going down before they finished and both women were exceedingly weary. Elgiva wondered if she would ever get the stink of blood and death from her nostrils. Every part of her ached from the effort of bending or stretching and her gown was soiled with blood and dirt. She retired with Osgifu to the women’s bower and, having assured herself that the children were safe in the hands of one of the older women, she turned her attention to herself, bathing her hands and face in an attempt to cleanse away the memory of the past hours.
‘Oh, Gifu, so many good men slain.’
The battle today had been a rout in the end despite all the Saxons had been able to do. No one could have withstood the invaders for long. Now they were the masters here and every last Saxon soul who survived was in their power. One taste of it was enough to strike terror into the heart.
‘Aye, yet not all our warriors fell in the battle. The Vikings have already sent men out to search for fugitives, but they will not find them all.’
‘I fear it will be too late to be of help here.’ Elgiva met her gaze, unaware of the desperation in her own eyes as, unbidden, the memory of a man’s face intruded into her thoughts, a strong, chiselled face and disconcerting blue eyes. She forced it down and strove against rising panic. She would not wed the Viking.
Osgifu broke into her thoughts. ‘The forest is large and there are many places of concealment.’
‘Aye, there are for those who know its secrets.’
Elgiva moved away as, through the haze of fear and desperation, the germ of an idea formed in her mind. She knew the forest paths well for, with Osgifu, she was used to spending time there, gathering the plants she needed for her medicines. She could not wait to see if Aylwin survived, if there would ever be a Saxon uprising. All that would take time, and time was the one thing she didn’t have. Elgiva found suddenly that she was shivering with delayed reaction and the atmosphere seemed stifling. She moved to the doorway.
The place seemed quieter now—the evening meal was preparing in the hall and beyond the palisade the majority of the Viking host had encamped for the duration. The smoke from their cooking fires was already rising into the evening air. The women’s bower was situated behind the hall where over the years various rooms had been added according to need. Looking around now, Elgiva could see the bodies of the slain lying where they had fallen and beyond them a few of Halfdan’s men moving around outside stables and barn. However, there seemed to be no one at the gate just then and the broken timbers hung wide. Not far away the forest beckoned. Elgiva bit her lip. If she could somehow reach the gate without being spotted, there might be a chance of reaching the trees. The Viking encampment lay in the opposite direction and, while it would mean skirting the edge of the village, she could be fairly certain no Saxon would give her away. Once in the forest she would stand a reasonable chance of eluding pursuit. What she would do then she had no clear idea, but it seemed to her that there must be Saxons who had escaped the Viking host. If there were enough of them, they might return by stealth and put the invaders to the sword in their turn. Failing that, she might be able to find help elsewhere in those lands where the Danes held no sway. Anything was better than remaining here to become the bride of a conqueror.
Looking round the room, she saw the empty bucket and with it the idea. A trip to the well would serve as a plausible excuse for leaving the bower. She made for the door.
‘What are you doing?’ Osgifu looked at her in concern.
‘I can’t stay here, Gifu.’
‘Elgiva, think.’
‘I have thought. I will not do what they want.’
‘If you run, they will find you and bring you back. These men are ruthless. Who knows what punishment they may inflict?’
‘It cannot be worse than what they’re already planning.’
‘Don’t do it, I beg you.’
‘I will not stay here to be married off to a Viking warlord. I must get help. You said yourself that some of our men have fled into the forest. I will find them.’