The Viking’s Touch(48)

 Eyvind nodded solemnly.

 ‘I’ll see you again soon.’ With that he handed the boy to Beorn. ‘Go.’





It was, thought Anwyn, like being trapped in an evil dream in which she was forced to take part and from which there would be no waking. Her forced renunciation of Wulfgar and the equally forced ceremony that bound her to Ingvar had all the eerie quality of a nightmare. Only thoughts of Eyvind and her unborn child kept her going now. Somehow she must keep both of them safe.

 Beside her, Ingvar rose. Then, taking her hand, he led her from the table. All about them his men rose, too, roaring approval. Her heart hammered in her breast. The noisy escort accompanied them to a house nearby. Though smaller than the hall, it was nevertheless the most imposing of the other buildings and she guessed it formed Ingvar’s private quarters. He stopped at the door and, no doubt for the benefit of the spectators, took Anwyn in his arms for a lingering kiss. Sickened, she forced herself to endure it. The embrace was greeted with further cheers and lewd jokes. Ingvar took it all in good part and then dismissed his men with the injunction to return to the hall and consume the remaining ale. Then he drew Anwyn with him into the house and shut the door behind them, barring it securely.

 ‘I do not mean to be disturbed tonight.’

 Resuming his hold on her arm, he led her through the first room into chamber beyond. The edges of the room remained in shadow, but a small lamp revealed a chair, two wooden chests bound with iron and a large bed covered by a huge bear skin. Ingvar followed her gaze and smiled faintly. Then the catlike eyes returned their attention to her.

 Dry-throated she watched him approach, saw him reach for the neck of her gown. She felt a swift downwards jerk and heard fabric part. Ingvar’s eyes narrowed and his gaze stopped in the region above her breasts. His brows drew together. Anwyn’s hand flew to the ring whose presence she had temporarily forgotten. Ingvar reached out, slid a finger beneath the ribbon, scrutinising the object hanging there. The gold-brown eyes locked with hers and he tutted softly.

 ‘You disappoint me, Anwyn.’

 His hand closed round the ring. The other unsheathed the dagger at his side. The cold edge came to rest against her skin. Anwyn shut her eyes, heart thumping so hard she felt sure he must hear it. Would he hurt her? Maim her, perhaps? It seemed that wasn’t his intention. The ribbon parted and she felt him pull it free. Risking a glance, she was in time to see him fling the ring aside. It hit the wall and bounced off to land in the rushes across the room. Ingvar’s gaze locked with hers once more.

 ‘Don’t test me again.’

 Her mouth dried. ‘Forgive me, lord.’

 ‘That will depend on how well you please me.’ He re-sheathed the blade while his gaze travelled the length of her and back. Her belly was still flat; he would not guess her secret yet. Even so her flesh crawled. Without taking his eyes off her, he removed his upper garments. Then he stepped closer and reached down to the fastenings of his breeches where a bulging erection was already evident.

 ‘Kneel, Anwyn.’

 As the implication dawned she shook her head, sickened. ‘No, please…’

 ‘If you disobey me, I will hand your son over to Grymar tomorrow, and you shall watch while he is thrashed.’

 ‘I think not,’ said a voice from across the room.

 He swore and spun round to see the tall figure standing in the doorway, sword in hand.

 Anwyn’s heart missed a beat. ‘Wulfgar?’ The realisation was followed with relief and joy so intense she felt suddenly faint.

 ‘Aye, my sweet, I’m here.’

 ‘You’re a bigger fool than I took you for,’ Ingvar sneered. ‘You have no business here now.’

 ‘I have come to collect what is mine.’

 ‘Lady Anwyn is no longer yours, Viking. She has renounced you and taken me for her husband.’

 Wulfgar’s eyes glinted. ‘Did you gain her consent for that by the same means I heard you use just now?’

 Anwyn’s eyes widened. How long had he been there? How much had he heard and seen? Hot colour dyed her neck and face as joy was replaced by an overpowering sense of shame. Hurriedly she drew the edges of the torn gown across her breasts.

 ‘I shall pleasure her all night before your eyes,’ taunted Ingvar, ‘and then I shall kill you—slowly.’

 ‘Again, I think not.’

 Ingvar bent and retrieved his sword, drawing it free of the scabbard. ‘Let us make a test of that.’

 The two men closed and the blades clashed. Anwyn gasped and scrambled away across the bed, watching in horrified fascination. Then, from somewhere outside, the quiet was split by running feet, a deafening roar of voices and clashing swords.

 ‘I did not return alone,’ said Wulfgar.

 Ingvar glared and renewed the attack, driving him back a couple of paces and forcing him to parry swiftly. Wulfgar was quick to recover and returned him blow for blow. The noise without intensified, too, the clash of metal interspersed with shouts and curses and the cries of injured men. Ingvar heard it with grim satisfaction.

 ‘You have just sentenced the boy to death.’ Hearing Anwyn’s stifled cry he smiled. ‘Too bad.’

 ‘The boy is quite safe,’ replied Wulfgar. ‘I freed him a while ago.’

 As fast as they had plummeted, Anwyn’s spirits rose. Ingvar glowered.

 ‘You lie. Only I have a key to his prison.’

 ‘Ah, his prison. That’s something else I wanted to discuss.’

 Wulfgar’s sword thrust under Ingvar’s guard and slashed across his ribs. Ingvar jumped backwards with a snarl, clapping a hand to his side. Blood dripped through his fingers.

 ‘I take his maltreatment much amiss,’ continued Wulfgar. ‘I also take it much amiss that you should lay hands upon my wife.’

 The sword caught Ingvar across the arm. Blood flowed from the cut. Ingvar’s eyes blazed with fury and hatred.

 ‘She belongs to me now.’

 He flung himself at his foe, pressing him hard, but each time his blade was turned.

 ‘Not only laid hands on her,’ Wulfgar continued, ‘but suffered her to endure public humiliation and private shame.’

 Ingvar’s lip curled. ‘The shame is yours, Viking. If you cannot protect a woman, then you shouldn’t be surprised if another looks upon her nakedness.’

 Wulfgar’s gaze became as cold as frosted steel. ‘For that alone I will cut out your heart and feed it to the crows.’

 Ingvar sensed the tide turning against him and his swordplay grew wilder and more desperate. Darting a glance around, he grabbed a stool and flung it. Wulfgar ducked and the missile sailed past, crashing harmlessly against the wall. Ingvar threw himself sideways and dived across the bed towards Anwyn. With a shriek she turned to flee, only to be brought up short as an arm locked around her neck. The point of his sword checked Wulfgar’s furious advance.

 ‘One step more, Viking, and she dies.’

 Wulfgar stopped in his tracks. ‘Let her go, Ingvar.’

 ‘Did I not tell you she was mine?’

 ‘I will never be yours,’ Anwyn ground out.

 ‘We’ll see.’ Ingvar looked across at Wulfgar. ‘Throw down the sword.’ Seeing him hesitate, he lifted his own blade to his captive’s throat. ‘I said throw it down.’

 In impotent wrath Wulfgar obeyed. ‘This will gain you nothing.’

 Ingvar edged towards the door, dragging Anwyn with him. A test of his hold disabused her of the thought that it might weaken. He smiled sardonically and tightened his grip until she gasped.

 ‘I’ll hurt you if I must, Anwyn.’

 Wulfgar’s eyes blazed fury. ‘Let her go, coward.’

 Anwyn drew a breath and felt Ingvar’s hold slacken a little. Without warning she bent her head and sank her teeth into his arm. She heard him swear. His hold loosened and she tore free. Wulfgar dived for the fallen sword, grabbed the hilt and swung the blade at Ingvar’s leg. With the full force of his arm behind it the blow would have severed the limb. As it was Ingvar yelled and staggered, blood flowing from the wound in his calf. Wulfgar sprang to his feet and came on, driving his enemy remorselessly back. Forced into a corner, Ingvar had nowhere to go. His face registered fear and he cast aside his weapon.

 ‘I yield. Don’t kill me!’

 Wulfgar’s lip curled in contempt. ‘The world will be well rid of you, filth.’ He lifted his sword.

 ‘Wulfgar, no!’ Anwyn’s voice rang out.

 Wulfgar checked, the point of his blade hovering over Ingvar’s throat. ‘What madness is this, Anwyn?’

 ‘He has yielded, Wulfgar. You cannot cut him down. If you do, then you are no better than he is.’

 ‘After what he has done he can expect no mercy.’

 ‘And yet mercy may still be shown.’

 ‘So that the snake can recover and attack again?’

 ‘No. He must swear to leave and never return.’

 ‘You think he will honour such a bargain?’