Unbidden, the memory returned of another pair of eyes, blue this time and bright with welling tears. The face was harder to recall now, though once it had occupied his every waking thought. Freya: golden-haired, gentle, quiet…her beauty had captivated the youth he had been. Captivated for a while, at least. In the final analysis he had been a poor husband to her.
No doubt Lady Anwyn’s lord was smart enough to know what he had; a woman of fire with wit allied to beauty and courage. He caught himself then—where was her husband? If the lady had found it necessary to deal with the situation herself it argued that her man was away—fighting, no doubt. It was a common enough occurrence. Had he not done the same?
He sighed. It was too late for regret or remorse, though he had experienced both. We are the decisions we make. It was true, thought Wulfgar, which was why he found himself wandering the earth with a group of mercenaries: fighting, feasting, living for the day. It wasn’t a bad life, take it all in all. Anyway, what else was there now? Eventually, of course, his luck would run out, or the gods would tire of him, and he would meet his end on some field of battle. So long as he died with a sword in his hand and could take his place in Odin’s hall, the time and place of his demise mattered little. All that mattered was the readiness.
The afternoon’s encounter had also left Anwyn much preoccupied and not a little concerned. It dominated her thoughts even after she had retired. By now Lord Ingvar would have heard the tale and would, no doubt, be greatly displeased. She could almost certainly expect another visit from him in the near future. As if that were not enough a force of trained mercenaries was presently encamped on her land, or as good as. Now that there was leisure to reflect, she wondered if her earlier decision had been the right one. She sighed. It was too late for that. If they chose to take advantage, she would be caught between a rock and a hard place. Yet their leader had not seemed treacherous to her. On the contrary.
Unbidden, his face returned in sharp relief. The memory was disturbing. She had never met anyone quite like him; he bore all the trappings of the warrior, radiated an aura of strength, but she had not felt personally threatened. He did not make her feel as Ingvar did when in her company; as Torstein had made her feel. Indeed, when she had ridden away the sensation had been quite different, almost as though something had been lost. It was difficult to account for, difficult and perturbing. Unable to sleep, she crept from the bed and, wrapping herself in a mantle against the night air, went silently to the adjoining chamber where her son lay sleeping. For a long time she watched him. He was the one good thing to come from her marriage. His birth had been long and hard, but Eyvind made sense of all the rest; he was the reason she kept on living, the reason she submitted to Torstein’s will.
Anwyn shivered and pulled her mantle closer. Torstein was dead. Her son was safe from him. She bent over the child and dropped a kiss on his forehead. He stirred a little, but did not wake. Looking at him lying there, she suddenly felt fiercely protective. As long as she had breath in her body no harm should come to him. She must look after his interests until he grew to manhood. Nothing else mattered now. It would not be easy; her family was ambitious and, as Jodis had said, a woman alone was vulnerable.
Returning to bed, Anwyn curled up, pulling the coverlet close. Tired now, she closed her eyes and let her body relax, pushing the day’s events from her mind. Gradually the bed grew warmer and sleep eventually claimed her. However, it came with the same troubling dreams…
Somewhere she heard a door opening, heavy footsteps in the outer chamber, a hand drawing aside the partitioning curtain to reveal her husband’s ursine figure silhouetted against the dim light beyond. At forty Torstein was more than twice her age. Though only of average height, his bulk reinforced the impression of bearlike strength. The dome of his head was bald, the remaining fringe of hair worn long and tightly braided into numerous thin plaits that hung past his shoulders like rats’ tails. A moustache and bushy, grizzled beard concealed a thin mouth and hid the lower part of a heavily lined face from which small black eyes surveyed the world with quiet cunning. Now they came to rest on her and glinted.
Crossing the intervening space to the bed, he threw aside his cloak and, unfastening his belt, pulled off his tunic and tossed it after the mantle. His shirt followed, revealing the mat of crisp black hair that covered his torso. Anwyn stiffened, feeling the mattress sag beneath his weight. He unfastened his breeches and then reached for her. She tried to turn away, but strong hands dragged her back and a gust of fetid breath hit her in the face. Sickened, she turned her head aside.
‘Torstein, it’s late and I’m tired.’
‘You’ll do as you’re bid.’
He fumbled for her linen kirtle and dragged it up around her waist so that her lower body was naked. Involuntarily she shuddered. As he leaned closer his hairy paunch scratched her belly, the beefy, leering face within inches of hers.
‘I thought I’d schooled you in obedience,’ he went on, ‘but perhaps I was mistaken.’
She bit back the reply that she wanted to utter, knowing better. ‘My lord, you are not mistaken.’
‘No? Let’s see, shall we?’
Anwyn woke with a start, panting, heart pounding, staring wide-eyed into the furthest corners of the room. Nothing moved. Her gaze came to rest on the bed. The place beside her was empty. She was alone. Slowly she let out a long breath as her mind assimilated the knowledge. Torstein was never coming back. As the minutes passed, horror was replaced by relief so intense it left her trembling. She swallowed hard and lowered herself onto the pillows again, waiting for her heartbeat to quiet a little. Torstein was never coming back. Now Ingvar waited, biding his time.
‘Never,’ she murmured. ‘Not while I have breath.’
To think that once, long ago in another life, she had dreamed of being married, of having a man’s love. She smiled wryly. How naïve she had been then to think that the two things went together. All such girlhood fantasies were long gone; if love between husband and wife existed in this world it was for others, not for her.
Chapter Four
The following morning Wulfgar left Hermund in charge of the ship and, accompanied by Thrand, Beorn and Asulf, set off for Drakensburgh. Built on a low hill and surrounded by a deep ditch and a high, spiked wooden pale, it wasn’t hard to find.
‘Balder’s toenails! The place is a fortress,’ said Thrand. ‘Whoever lives here is a man of some importance.’
‘Is this a good idea, my lord?’ asked Beorn. ‘It could be a trap.’
All three men looked at Wulfgar. He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, but keep your wits about you all the same. Come on.’
They reached the wooden bridge that spanned the ditch and, when challenged, identified themselves. It seemed they were expected. There followed sounds of a bar being removed and then the small wicket gate swung open to admit them. From there they were escorted across a large compound in which stood various buildings. Wulfgar noted a barn, storehouses, workshops and small dwellings before at length they came to a large timbered hall. Fantastically carved pillars flanked the great oaken doors. However, the atmosphere within was more sombre. The only light came from the open portal and the hole in the roof above the rectangular hearth pit where the remains of a fire smouldered in a bed of ash. Through the gloom Wulfgar made out smoke-blackened timbers adorned with racks of antlers and wolf masks. Trestle tables and benches were stacked against the walls, but at the far end of the room on a raised platform was a huge oaken chair, carved with the likeness of birds and animals. The air smelled of smoke and ale and stale food.
‘Wait here,’ said the guard. With that he departed and left them alone. The four looked around.
‘A gloomy lair,’ muttered Asulf.
Thrand nodded. ‘You said it. What manner of man lives here?’
‘A powerful one. That chair looks more like a ruddy throne.’
‘Let’s hope its owner is as gracious as his lady.’
In the event it was Lady Anwyn who came to greet them a short time later. Wulfgar felt a pleasurable sense of recognition. She was accompanied by the old warrior he had seen before: Ina. With them was a young boy—the one on the pony, he assumed. Even if the facial likeness had not been apparent, the red-gold hair and green eyes would have proclaimed him her son. Just for a moment he was reminded of another child and another hall and his throat tightened. Forcing the memory from him, he watched his hostess approach.
When word was brought of the men’s arrival Anwyn had wondered if Lord Wulfgar would be one of their number. Indeed, in some part of her mind she had hoped he might. Even so, seeing him there caused her pulse to quicken a little. Last time they met she had been on horseback. She had not realised just how tall he was.
‘Good morning, my lady.’
Recollecting herself, she returned the greeting. ‘You are come to use the forge.’
‘The carpenter’s shop, too, if you have no objection.’