Loe raamatut: «The Viking's Defiant Bride»
“You can fight me all you like, lady, but you will kiss me.”
“Why, you arrogant, conceited—”
The words were lost as his mouth closed over hers. Elgiva struggled but there was no chance of escape and he took the kiss in his own good time.
“Let go of me! How dare you treat me like this?”
“I shall not let you go. As to what I dare….”
Elgiva’s cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink at the warmth and the nearness of the man, the faint scent of leather and musk.
He kissed her again, the pressure of his mouth forcing hers open. Thereafter the kiss grew gentle and lingering. Elgiva shivered but her hands ceased to push him away. The thought returned: no man had ever kissed her like this.
The Viking’s Defiant Bride
Harlequin®Historical #934—February 2009
MILLS & BOON
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Author Note
The idea for The Viking’s Defiant Bride came to me in a gift shop on the green below Bamburgh Castle in Northumberland, England. That was where I found a copy of Roy Anderson’s wonderful little book, The Violent Kingdom, easily the best purchase of the whole trip. One paragraph and I was completely hooked.
Amongst other fascinating details, there was an account of the great Viking invasion of 865 AD. As soon as I read it, I knew what my story was going to be about. With such a turbulent history, Northumberland is powerfully atmospheric on many levels, truly a historian’s delight, so it was no hardship at all to explore the area and do the necessary research. Some happy hours were then spent collating the material in The Anchor at Seahouses. It’s just possible that there may be better lobster bisque in England, but I seriously doubt it.
THE VIKING'S DEFIANT BRIDE
JOANNA FULFORD
Available from Harlequin® Historical and JOANNA FULFORD
The Viking’s Defiant Bride #934
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For my parents and for Brian who, between them,
have supported me in every way possible.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Prologue
Denmark—865A.D.
The only sound in the great hall was the crackle of flames in the hearth. Flickering light from the torches cast a ruddy hue over the assembled warriors who sat stony faced before the implications of the news they had just received. In every heart was burgeoning sorrow and disbelief. All eyes turned to the three brothers at the high table. The sons of Ragnar Lodbrok surveyed the messenger quietly enough, but their eyes spoke of incredulity, of grief and rage.
‘Ragnar dead?’ Halfdan’s voice was grim, his fist clenched on the arm of his chair. ‘You are certain of this?’
‘Quite certain, my lord.’
Beside Halfdan, at his right hand, Earl Wulfrum was very still, his face expressionless save for the blue eyes, now two chips of ice. Involuntarily, his own hand tightened round the hilt of a wicked-looking dagger in a gesture that mirrored his sword brother’s, even as his mind struggled against the knowledge of Ragnar’s death. Ragnar the warrior, the war leader, fearless, powerful, respected, a prince among his people; Ragnar the Terrible, whose ships, once sighted, struck terror into the hearts of his enemies; Ragnar, who had been as a father to him, who had found him that day when, a ten-year-old boy, he had stood alone in the smouldering ashes of his home, the bodies of his slain kin all around; Ragnar, whose rough and careless kindness had taken in the son of his oldest friend and raised him as his own, who had given him his first sword, taught him all he knew, and raised him to the warrior caste in turn. And now he was gone, his fire quenched for all time.
Wulfrum revealed nothing of these thoughts, hiding his pain as he had all those years ago. What ill fate was it that he was always spared when those he loved were slain? Too much care and love made a man vulnerable. It was a lesson he had learned early in life, a lesson harshly reinforced now. If you did not love, there could be no hurt. Was it thus, then, that a man must protect himself? His jaw tightened. There would be a reckoning here. The blood feud that killed his kin had had a far bloodier resolution when the boy grew to manhood. How much more then the slaying of Ragnar?
He was drawn from his thoughts by Halfdan, voicing the question that was in his own mind.
‘How?’
‘As we neared the Northumbrian coast, a fearful storm arose and many of our ships were wrecked. Those of us who reached the shore were attacked by King Ella’s soldiers. We were heavily outnumbered and many were slain. Lord Ragnar was taken prisoner. The king ordered his immediate death.’ He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. ‘He had him thrown alive into a pit of poisonous snakes.’
A collective gasp followed his words as the magnitude and horror of it sank in.
‘And how did you come to survive, Sven?’ Invarr’s voice was cold and his eyes raked the messenger from head to toe, but the man met his gaze and held it.
‘We fought our way back to the ship and put to sea. After nightfall we turned back and at first light Bjorn went ashore. He speaks the Saxon tongue and he learned the truth from some in the market place. ’Twas said that before he died Ragnar sang a death song in which he prophesied that his furious sons would avenge him, and then he laughed. They said he died laughing.’
As they listened it seemed to each man there that he could hear the echo of that laughter, and their hearts swelled. Ragnar’s courage was legendary. He would make a brave death. That it should not be in battle was a dire misfortune indeed, for he would not win his place in Valhalla and feast in Odin’s hall.
‘You did not seek to avenge Ragnar?’ demanded Hubba.
‘To what end? We were a handful against hundreds.’
Hubba’s hand went to the axe by his side, but Halfdan shook his head.
‘Sven is right. To try to attack Ella under such circumstances would have been madness. Worse, it would have been stupid. Now he will fight another day.’
Hubba glared at him. ‘Are you saying that Ragnar died for nothing?’
Wulfrum, silent and intent, waited for the reply, feeling all around him the same curbed rage.
‘No. Ragnar shall be avenged and by an army greater than any yet seen.’ All eyes were upon Halfdan as he rose to face the assembled throng. ‘We shall send a fleet of ships four hundred strong.’
Wulfrum regarded his sword brother with admiration. What he was proposing would be the greatest Viking raid ever known. Almost instantly he corrected himself: not a raid, an invasion.
‘Let every man who can wield an axe or sword prepare,’ Halfdan continued. ‘We shall sweep through Northumbria like flame through tinder. We shall beard Ella in his castle and he shall know the taste of fear. His death shall not be swift, but he will long for it before the end. This I swear by my own blood and by the sacred blood of Odin.’
He drew the blade of his knife across his palm, his gaze meeting those of his brothers. Immediately they followed suit and mingled their blood with his. Then his gaze moved past them and rested on Wulfrum. In it was an invitation, an acknowledgement of friendship and brotherhood. Wulfrum’s eyes never left Halfdan’s as he unsheathed his dagger and drew the bright blood forth before mingling it with theirs. Bound by the blood oath, their honour was now his honour, their purpose his purpose. Halfdan nodded in approbation, then turned back to the silent watching crowd.
‘Who will sail with us to avenge Ragnar Lodbrok?’
A roar of approval shook the rafters and every hand was raised. He looked round the hall, gratified to see resolution in each face. Then he raised his hand for quiet.
‘Make ready. Three moons from now the sea dragons sail for England.’
Another roar greeted this.
‘A fitting revenge for Ragnar,’ Wulfrum observed.
‘We shall have more than revenge, brother,’ replied Halfdan. ‘There will be rich rewards too for those who serve well—land and slaves to work it. And women.’
Wulfrum grinned, knowing whither the conversation tended. ‘And the Saxon women are reputed fair, are they not?’
‘Aye, they are, and it’s high time you took a wife. A man must get sons.’
‘True. And when I find a woman who pleases me enough, I shall wed and breed sons aplenty.’
‘Your standards are high, but even you might lose your heart to a Saxon beauty.’
‘I have never lost my heart to a woman yet. They satisfy a need like food and drink, but they have no power to hold us long.’
‘You say so for you have never been in love.’
‘No. Nor am I like to be. It is not necessary to fall in love to get sons.’ Wulfrum laughed. ‘My heart is my own, brother, and I guard it well.’
Chapter One
Northumbria—867A.D.
Elgiva sat on the goatskin rug before the fire, her arms clasped about her knees and her gaze on the flames. It was said that some had the skill to read the future there. Just then she would have given much for such a glimpse to help resolve the chaos of her thoughts. The present dilemma was desperate, but what to do for the best?
She glanced once at her companion, grateful for that comforting presence. To Elgiva, Osgifu had been both mother and confidante. The older woman had entered the service of Lord Egbert as a nursemaid when her husband died. At forty she was comely still, a tall elegant figure, for all that there were lines on her face and white strands in her dark hair. Her grey eyes saw more than other people, for she was known to have the second sight, to see those things hidden from ordinary mortal view. Her skill lay with the runes, not the fire, but the accuracy of her words was sufficient for people to regard her with awe, even fear. Elgiva had never been afraid, only curious. Osgifu’s mother had been a Dane, a trader’s daughter, who married a Saxon husband. From her she had inherited the gift of the sight and a wealth of stories besides.
When Elgiva was a child, Osgifu had entertained her with tales of the Norse gods: of Thor, who wielded the thunderbolts; of Loki the trickster of Odin; and Fenrir the wolf. Elgiva had listened, enthralled by stories of Jotenheim, the realm of the frost giants, and of the dragon, Nidhoggr, who constantly gnawed at the roots of Yggdrasil, the mighty ash tree connecting earth and heaven. Osgifu had taught her the Danish tongue too, albeit in secret, for she knew Lord Egbert would not have approved. When they were alone, the two of them spoke their secret language and knew their words would be safe from other ears. She alone knew the secrets of Elgiva’s heart and it was to her Elgiva turned in times of trouble.
The younger woman sighed and, turning her gaze from the glowing flames in the hearth, looked full at her mentor.
‘I don’t know what to do, Gifu. Ever since my father’s death Ravenswood has slid further and further into chaos. My brother did nothing.’ She paused. ‘Now he is dead too, and his sons are but babes. The place needs a capable hand.’
She did not add, a man’s hand, but Osgifu heard the thought. She also acknowledged the truth of it. Lord Osric, concerned only with skill at arms and with hawking and hunting, had taken little interest in the running of his late father’s estate, preferring to leave it to his steward, Wilfred. A good man at heart, Wilfred had performed his duties well enough under Lord Egbert’s exacting rule, but after, with no master’s eye on him, he began to neglect small things, putting off until the morrow what should have been done today. The serfs under his control took their example from him, and Elgiva, on her daily rides, had begun to notice the results. Ravenswood, which had hitherto always looked prosperous, began to take on an air of neglect. Fences were not mended, repairs botched. Weeds grew among the crops and the livestock were not properly tended. The roofs of the barns and storehouses leaked, and she felt sure that the stored grain and fodder within were not as strictly accounted for as they had been. When she had mentioned these things to Osric, he had brushed her aside. The problem grew worse. She had spoken to him again and received short shrift.
‘A woman’s place is in the house, not meddling in matters that do not concern her.’
‘Ravenswood is my concern,’ she’d replied, ‘as it should be yours.’
‘You take too much upon you, Elgiva.’ He had eyed her coolly. ‘If you had a husband and children of your own, you would have no time to interfere in the affairs of men. You should have been married long since.’
Her brother was right about that and Elgiva knew it. Had Lord Egbert lived, he would have found a bridegroom for her. There had been no shortage of suitors. She had loved her father dearly and he had made no secret of the fact that she was the child of his heart. Her company had been congenial to him for she knew how to make him laugh. A fearless rider, she had often accompanied him on the chase. His death three years earlier had changed everything, and for the worse. Osric, careless, feckless, had become the Thane of Ravenswood. Elgiva, well tutored in domestic matters, saw to it that the household ran smoothly, but she could do nothing about the wider problem. However, their conversation had put Osric in mind of his responsibilities towards his sister.
‘I shall find you a husband. These are troubled times and a woman should not be without a protector, even if there is truth in only half the tales we hear of the Viking raids.’
That too was beyond dispute, but she had assumed that he would forget the matter as he did with everything not immediately concerned with his own interests. She had been quite wrong. One day, about a month after the former conversation, he announced that Lord Aylwin had asked for her hand. At first she had not known whether to laugh or cry. A wealthy and respected Saxon lord, wise governor of rich lands, Aylwin was a near neighbour. He had been the friend of her father and, his own wife having died some years earlier, he sought a new bride. At forty he was old enough to be her father and his sons were grown men, but he was still strong and vigorous. Elgiva had baulked. Although she had nothing to say against Aylwin as a man, she knew she could not feel for him what a woman should feel for a husband. In truth, she had never felt it for any man of her acquaintance. However, women of her rank did not marry for love. If both partners respected each other, it was enough. But not for her, she thought, not for her. Osric had not understood.
‘Do you know anything against Aylwin?’
‘No.’
‘You know he is wealthy and of good reputation? A man to be respected?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why should you refuse him?’
As Elgiva sought for the words to explain, Osric had pressed his advantage.
‘You know Lord Aylwin sought your hand long since.’
‘And I said then I did not love his lordship.’
‘Love? What has love to do with it? This is an advantageous match.’
‘I do not deny it. He is also old enough to be my father.’
‘He is in his prime and will make you an attentive husband.’
‘I will not consent to such attentions.’
With that she had marched out of the room and there the matter had rested. Osric, for all his faults, still had a certain fondness for his sister and would not force her to a marriage that was distasteful to her. Life had gone on much as before until, a month ago, Osric’s horse put its foot in a hole while they were out hunting. Horse and rider fell with force—the former breaking its foreleg and the rider his neck.
The shock had been great and the sorrow also. At a stroke Elgiva found herself alone with all the care of a large estate and two young children. Osric’s wife, Cynewise, had died in childbed at the age of twenty. It was a common enough occurrence and, for women, one of the hazards of marriage, but for Elgiva it had been an added shock. She knew that Osric would have married again, in time, for a man might well have several wives in his lifetime. For a woman alone the future looked bleak. When she had told Osgifu that she didn’t know what to do, it had been prevarication and they both knew it. She must marry and soon. But Aylwin?
‘What do the runes say, Gifu?’
Elgiva knew already what they would say, but she needed to have it confirmed. The runes never lied. Carved out of ash, a tree sacred to Odin, and indelibly marked with ancient esoteric symbols, they would point the way as they had done before. Osgifu regarded her with a steady gaze.
‘Ask your question.’
Elgiva drew in a deep breath. ‘Shall I marry Aylwin?’
She waited, hands locked together, as Osgifu scanned the rune cast. The silence lengthened and her grey eyes narrowed, a sharp line creasing her brow.
‘Well? Shall I marry?’
‘Aye, you will be married, but not to Aylwin.’
‘Not Aylwin?’ Elgiva was puzzled. ‘Then who?’
‘I do not know the man.’
‘What does he look like?’
‘I cannot tell. The upper part of his face is hidden behind the plates of his helmet. He wears a shirt of fine mail and in his hand he carries a mighty sword, as sharp as a dragon’s tooth.’
‘A warrior? A Saxon lord, then. Shall I meet him soon?’
‘You will see him soon enough.’
Thereafter she became strangely reticent and all of Elgiva’s questions could draw nothing more from her.
The mystery stayed with her but, as the days passed, she knew she could not wait indefinitely for some stranger to ride by and rescue her from all her problems. A woman alone was vulnerable. A woman with wealth and land was doubly so once it became known she had no protector. It was not unknown for such to be married under duress to an ambitious and ruthless lord with a strong retinue and no aversion to the use of force. She shivered. Better to wed a respected man who would treat her well and restore Ravenswood to its former self. It came to her that she must wed Aylwin and soon. Love was all very well in stories of high romance: real life wasn’t like that. Her brother had been right. It was an advantageous match. Perhaps, with time, she might come to love Aylwin. Certainly she would make him a dutiful wife and bear his children. Her mind glossed over the details, unwilling to dwell on the matter. Should she be so nice when, every day, girls of thirteen or fourteen were married off to men thrice their age? The question now was how to bring this about. She had refused Aylwin’s suit. Could she now go a-begging?
In the event the matter was solved for her when, a few days later, the servants announced the arrival of Lord Aylwin accompanied by a small group of armed men. She received him in the great hall and, having bid him welcome, offered his men refreshment and allowed him to take her to one side. She wished that she had had more warning—she was suddenly aware of her sober-hued gown and her hair braided simply down her back without ribbon or ornament. It was hardly the dress of a woman receiving a suitor. However, Aylwin seemed to find nothing amiss and smiled at her. Of average height, he was stocky and powerfully made for all that the brown hair and beard were grizzled with grey. The expression on the rugged face was both sympathetic and kind, but the eyes spoke of admiration.
For a while they spoke of Osric and he said all that was proper, but it did not take him long to come to the real purpose of his visit.
‘Your brother’s death leaves you alone and in a most difficult situation, my lady. In these times a woman must have a protector.’
Elgiva heard in his words the echo of her brother’s and felt a frisson along her spine. Heart beating much faster, she knew what was coming and waited for it.
‘I would like to be that man.’ He paused, eyeing her with an unwonted awkwardness. ‘I am no longer in the first flush of youth, but I am still in good health and well able to protect you. I can also swear my undying loyalty and devotion.’
Elgiva felt her face grow warmer and for a moment her amber eyes were veiled. Aylwin, mistaking the reason, drew in a deep breath.
‘Let me protect you, Elgiva. I do not ask you to love me now, but perhaps in time that may come. Meanwhile, be assured that you will be loved, my lady.’
Hearing an unmistakeable note of sincerity, she looked up swiftly, meeting his gaze.
‘Does it surprise you to hear that?’
‘I had not thought…that is—’ She broke off, floundering.
‘Have you any idea how beautiful you are?’ he went on. ‘From the first day I saw you I wanted you for my wife. My Gundred has been dead these five years and a man grows lonely. I think you are lonely too. May not two such comfort each other?’
Elgiva nodded. ‘I think that perhaps they may, my lord.’
For a moment he did not move, the dark eyes intent on her face. ‘Then you will marry me?’
‘There would be certain conditions.’
‘Name them.’
‘That the rights of my nephews are protected and that you act as overlord of Ravenswood until they can act for themselves.’
‘Agreed. If you wed me, they shall be reared as my own sons.’
‘I would also ask for a decent interval of mourning for my brother.’
‘It shall be as you ask.’
‘Then on midsummer’s day I will become your wife.’ Elgiva’s voice was perfectly level as she gave him the commitment he sought.
Taking her hand, he pressed it to his lips. ‘It is an honour I scarce hoped to have.’
‘I will try to make you a good wife,’ she replied.
The proposed date was three months hence, but if Aylwin had hoped for an earlier wedding, he said nothing. Having got what he wanted he was prepared to give a little ground, knowing it would do his cause no harm.
‘Will you pledge your hand to me openly, Elgiva?’ he asked then. ‘I do not ask for a huge feast—I know it must be repugnant to you in the circumstances—but perhaps a small gathering?’
Elgiva was not surprised by the request. What it meant was a public declaration of intent. It also made clear to all concerned that Elgiva and thus Ravenswood were spoken for, that both lay under the protection of a rich and powerful lord. From the moment their betrothal was announced she was as good as his and no man would touch her. It also meant a respite, time to grow used to the idea of the bargain she had just struck.
‘It shall be as you wish, my lord.’
He smiled. ‘I am content.’
She had wondered if he would try to kiss her, but to her relief he made no further attempt to touch her. He took his leave not long after that and Elgiva watched him ride away with his men. Then she went in search of Osgifu.
The older woman listened in silence, her face impassive as she took in the news.
‘Do you think it was wrong to accept him?’ Elgiva asked at length.
‘You did what you thought you had to do, child, both for yourself and for Ravenswood.’
‘Aylwin will be a good husband and he will restore these lands to their former glory. I cannot bear to see things thus.’
‘I know.’ Osgifu hesitated. ‘But, can you be a wife to him?’
‘I must, Gifu. There is no choice now. Surely you see that?’
‘Yes.’ She put her arms round the girl’s shoulders. ‘I think you have nothing to fear. It is my view that he will be a doting and most indulgent husband.’
Elgiva nodded and tried to think positive thoughts. Neither of them mentioned the rune cast.
The betrothal feast went as planned, a small and select gathering of neighbours and friends who came together to see the couple pledge to each other. It was in every way a most suitable match and no one thought anything of the discrepancy in the ages of the pair who were soon to marry. It was widely held that Aylwin was a clever and knowing man for at a stroke he doubled his holdings and gained a most beautiful wife into the bargain. Elgiva in her blue gown, embroidered at neck and sleeve, her golden hair braided with matching ribbons, looked very fetching indeed. It was noticed that her prospective groom could hardly keep his eyes off her and was most assiduous in plying her with food and wine, carving choice cuts of meat and serving her with his own hands.
In truth, Elgiva had little appetite but did her best to hide it. Her heart was unwontedly heavy but, unwilling to disappoint her guests with a glum face, she smiled graciously and tried to look as though she were enjoying herself. As she noticed the gaze Aylwin bent upon her, the reality of the situation hit her with force—in three months’ time they would be married and he would take her to his bed. She must give herself to him whenever he wished and, eventually, she would bear his children. He had fine sons already, but, if the look in his eye was aught to judge by, he intended to sire more. Elgiva took another sip of wine to steady herself. She had wanted this, had agreed to it of her own free will. Now she must live with the consequences. If he was to be her husband she must get to know him, to learn his likes and dislikes, to discover what would please him. She had no doubt of her ability to run his household efficiently for she had been schooled in domestic duties from childhood. The rules of the bedroom were unknown territory, though familiar to him. She reminded herself sharply that it was not necessary to love for a marriage to work. As long as there was respect. Please, God, she prayed silently, let it be all right.
The feasting done and the hour growing late, the women retired, leaving the hall to the men. Elgiva knew the hard drinking was about to begin and had given orders to the servants to keep the guests plied with ale and mead as long as they wanted it. She was not sorry to make her excuses and bid her future husband a goodnight. He kissed her hand and pressed it warmly. From his flushed face and the hot glow in his eyes it was clear he had had a lot to drink, but his speech was unslurred and his balance still unimpaired.
‘Goodnight, Elgiva, and sleep well. Would this were our wedding night that I might share that bed with you.’
She managed a smile. ‘In good time, my lord.’
Then she was gone, leaving the hall behind and seeking the sanctuary of the women’s bower.
In spite of the late night, Elgiva woke early and for several moments lay still beneath the fur coverlet, enjoying the comfortable warmth of the bed. Though the first grey light of the spring dawn was filtering through the shutters, she could hear no sound of birdsong and the cock had yet to crow. Only Osgifu’s gentle snores broke the heavy stillness of the new day. The nurse would not stir for a while yet. Elgiva rose and dressed quickly for the air was chill, pulling the gown over her linen kirtle and sliding her feet into leather shoes. Then, throwing a mantle about her shoulders, she moved to the doorway, pausing once to glance back. Osgifu slept on. For a moment Elgiva watched, her feelings a strange fusion of love and disappointment. She had trusted her. Even now she could hear her words: The runes never lie. But the runes had lied, and Osgifu had been wrong. Immediately Elgiva upbraided herself. Why should she be surprised to discover human fallibility? She wasn’t a child, for heaven’s sake. It was time to face facts and shoulder the responsibilities that fell to her.
Elgiva left the women’s bower and made her way through the hall. It was not her most direct route out, but she was hungry and knew there would be a fair chance of finding something to eat without summoning a servant. All about her, men lay snoring on the rushes among the scraps of food, or sprawled on benches and tables among the debris of the feast. After the copious quantities of mead and ale they had drunk she had no fear of waking the sleepers and guessed there would be a few sore heads this morning. She retrieved part of a loaf from the table and broke a piece off. It was growing stale, but it would do for now. Chewing on the bread, she made her way silently among the sleeping forms, wrinkling her nose at air thick with the reek of smoke and spilled ale and male sweat, skirting the hearth where the remaining embers of the fire smouldered in mounds of grey ash. Hearing her approach, two wolfhounds looked up from their slumber, but the low rumbling growl died in their throats as they recognised her. One got to his feet, wagging his tail, shoving his nose into Elgiva’s hand. She stroked his wiry head absently and then moved on towards the door, eager to be gone for the confines of the hall were stifling and a sharp reminder of things she wished to forget.
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
