"Lord Hakon, I must speak to you!" Olav whispered anxiously. He had walked up to their table so suddenly and quietly that neither of them had heard him.
Annoyed at the interruption, Hakon's voice was gruff. He did not take his eyes from Gwendolyn's face. "Yea, Olav, tell me your news, but be quick about it."
Olav leaned close to the high seat. He kept his voice low, so the guests nearest Lord Hakon's table would not hear him. "A great bonfire has been sighted atop the tallest mountain peak that rises above the Sogn, and others have been lit all along the fjord leading to the settlement," he said urgently. "'Tis the Jarl of Lade's signal, my lord!"
Hakon set the goblet down abruptly, the contents splashing out upon the linen tablecloth. Grim-faced, he rose to his feet. "Stay here and enjoy the feast, Anora. I will return shortly," he murmured, brushing a light kiss against her cheek. He then strode quickly out of the hall with Olav close behind him. Several guests noticed his hasty departure, but they quickly returned to their revelry. The skald, a singing poet, had begun to recite the heroic deeds of long-dead warriors, capturing everyone's attention with his lilting, high-pitched voice.
What could Olav have meant? Gwendolyn wondered. Surely it must have been something important, or Hakon would not have left the feast. She sat there listening with the others to the skald for what seemed a long time, her mind racing with unanswered questions. And when he had finished his songs at last and the drinking had begun again in earnest, Hakon still had not returned.
As the night wore on, it was obvious tempers were beginning to flare from the copious quantities of mead that had been consumed. Two Viking warriors suddenly fell over one of the tables, fiercely grappling with each other. Several women screamed, but no one moved to break them apart. There was so much laughing and loud boasting going on that it seemed very few of the guests were paying any attention to the battle being waged in the center of the hall.
Gwendolyn watched wide-eyed as the two men drew their swords, the cold steel of their blades ringing out from the mighty blows. Still no one intervened. Berta had told her that Viking warriors tried to get themselves into what they considered a godlike state of total drunkenness several times a year, believing it was a foretaste of the endless drinking, fighting, and feasting in Valhalla. But she had not believed it until now. She suddenly recalled a story Ansgar had told her of one Yuletide feast during the reign of Magnus, Hakon's father, when, after hours of drinking, the mead-soaked hall had been strewn not only with the bodies of guests who had passed out peacefully, but those of the dead and wounded.
She sighed with relief. At least this battle had ended without bloodshed. One of the Vikings had collapsed in a drunken heap on the floor, unharmed, and the other warrior had sat down on top of him, laughing uproariously, another full goblet of mead in his hand. Aye, they were barbarians, she thought heatedly.
The air in the hall was becoming increasingly warm and stuffy, dense with smoke from the blazing fireplaces and the sputtering torches. Gwendolyn coughed, her eyes smarting. Where was Hakon? It had been at least two hours since he had left with Olav. Rising to her feet, she wrapped her cloak about her and walked quickly to a side door leading out of the hall. She had to get some fresh air, else she would surely faint.
Gwendolyn pushed open the door and stepped outside. The air was cold and frosty, but it felt wonderful. She drank it in with deep breaths, immediately feeling refreshed. Leaning against the rough-timbered wall, she looked up at the night sky. Countless winking stars glittered like so many jeweled stones, covering the heavens as far as she could see. It was a clear night, with a half-crescent moon that shone in a long sliver of light across the surface of the fjord. The ground was lightly dusted with snow that had fallen earlier that day, glowing white in the moonlight.
A bright orange glow burning atop a distant mountain caught her eye. So, that must be the bonfire, she thought. And there were others dotting the rugged peaks all along the fjord as well. She could see a large group of men gathered near the docks, and from what she could tell, they were loading casks and other supplies aboard Hakon's longship. Suddenly she heard his voice carry out across the hillside.
"Yea, and we will need plenty of fresh water and food for the journey. I leave that to you, Olav. Egil, see to it that the men who sail with me on the morrow are not too far gone in their cups to pull the oars. 'Twill be a long, hard row in front of them. Now, it is time I returned to the feast."
Hakon, sailing in the morn? Gwendolyn's forehead creased in thought. What could be of such urgency that he would leave in the middle of Yuletide celebrations? Well, whatever it was, she would find out soon. At least he was finally returning to the hall.
Aye, it was time she also went back inside, she thought. Shivering, she reached for the door. She was beginning to feel cold, and she knew that Hakon would no doubt be displeased if she was not in the hall to greet him. She had almost opened the door wide enough for her to slip through when it was suddenly slammed back into place.
Gwendolyn gasped as two large hands gripped her about the waist, spinning her around. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened in horror at the grinning ram's mask that loomed above her. She heard low, throaty laughter as the tall man wearing the mask captured her in his arms, drawing her slender body crudely against his own. He clapped a hand over her mouth.
"What a fair prize I have found this night," he murmured huskily. "Odin could not have blessed me with better fortune!"
Gwendolyn struggled wildly, but he pressed her back up against the timbered wall, pinning her arms cruelly between their bodies. She could not move. Suddenly he tore the mask from his face.
She blinked in astonishment at the resemblance the man had to Hakon. He was taller and of broader build, with a ruddy complexion and long, flowing red hair and beard, but his startling blue eyes gazed at her with a heated intensity that was achingly familiar.
"Would that I might see the expression on my brother's face when he finds I have taken his favored wench," the man muttered fiercely, "but we shall be far from here by then."
Sweet Jesu! 'Tis Rhoar Bloodaxe! Gwendolyn thought, her mind racing. It must be! Hakon had told her much of his bastard brother during one of their nights together; how he had hated and despised his younger brothers, almost drowning Hakon one day in the fjord when he was just a lad, and of the oath of blood vengeance he had sworn against them when he had learned he would not inherit the wealth and power of their father, Magnus Haardrad.
Rhoar brought his face close to hers, his warm breath fanning against her flushed cheek. "Come now, wench, don't look so frightened. I'm sure my caresses will please you far more than those of my brother," he sneered, putting special emphasis on the last word. The depth of his venomous hate for Hakon flashed from his eyes.
Nay, this cannot be happening! Gwendolyn once again tried to twist free of his grasp, but he was so big, so powerful, that it was impossible. Suddenly she sank her teeth into the palm of his hand, drawing blood. He grunted in pain, moving his hand from her mouth just long enough that she could scream. And scream she did, with all the force she could muster.
Hakon stopped in his tracks along the path to the great hall, then broke into a run. That was not the pleasured scream of a serving wench enjoying a tumble with one of his men, but an anguished cry for help. He ran swiftly up the hill, drawing his broadsword from the scabbard at his belt as his keen eyes searched the darkness. The scream was cut off abruptly, though it still echoed eerily about the surrounding mountainsides.
Rhoar had clapped his huge hand back over Gwendolyn's mouth, but he knew it was too late. Looking over his shoulder, he cursed violently. He could see Hakon's form rushing toward the great hall. Thor's teeth, he was not prepared to take on his brother this night!
He had only sneaked into the settlement to see for himself the strength of Hakon's forces, joining in the Yuletide festivities as part of his guise. He had almost been ready to ride out to meet some of his men, who were waiting for him in the dense trees surrounding the settlement, when he spied the wench leaving the hall through the side door. It had been a temptation he could not refuse. He had desired her from the first moment he had seen her in the hall, swearing to himself that she, too, would one day be his. But now he knew that he would have to leave her behind if he was to make good his escape. Her kicking and struggling would only slow him down.
"Your scream has saved you from me this day, wench, but soon you will be mine!" Rhoar whispered fiercely. "Give my brother this message. Tell him the days are few before I will seek my revenge!" He crushed her to him, seizing her lips savagely with his own, plundering her mouth with his tongue.
Gwendolyn could not breathe. Choking from the force of his kiss, she tried to fight against the blackness that was beginning to overwhelm her. With one last effort she brought her hand up and raked her nails down the side of his face.
Rhoar started and drew back, though he still held her tightly with one strong arm. He rubbed his stinging cheek. A wolfish grin spread across his bearded face as he looked at the red blood staining his fingers. "I prefer bedding a wench with fire and spirit, and shall consider these scratches only a promise of the pleasure you will give me!" He released her suddenly, laughing. She fell back heavily against the timbered wall, then slipped to the cold ground. When she looked up he had disappeared into the night, though she could still hear his crude laughter growing fainter and fainter.