She moaned softly and buried her face in the pillow, yet there was no forgetfulness there. Last night hadn’t been enough for him. He had wanted more. That was what he had told her that morning, when she had pleaded for Rowan’s life. And she had promised him exactly what he wanted. Anything that he wanted. She had sworn that she would come to him as she had come to Rowan.
Rowan! Panic seized her. She could not remember his face. She could only recall the strong, hard features of the Viking, his startling blue eyes, eyes that pierced through her, that raked over her, that saw everything and invaded her intimately. No one had ever known her so thoroughly, no one had ever touched her so deeply.
She sat up in a fury. He would have no more of her, he would take no more from her. It was all one vast amusement to him. He didn’t want a wife, but he would take one to gain other things that he wanted. He was interested in battle, and in acquisition. Her life lay in his hands like a toy, and he thought that he would dictate his will to her.
How very amused he must have been, watching her plead for the life of a man who had already been granted that life.
Well, she had been tricked, and she would never fulfill any bargain that she had made with him. He could not expect her to do so. God could not expect her to do so!
He would not best her, ever. She did not know how or when, but she would win in the end. So help her, she would not surrender to the hell in which he planned to imprison her.
His haunting male scent rose up to meet her. She jumped up, casting the pillow from her. He had marched to battle. With God’s good grace he might have the decency to die.
But he wouldn’t. Shivers trailed along her spine. She feared for the others. She feared for the king. But she knew, she just knew, deep in her heart, that Eric would come back.
Swearing aloud, she hurried to the door and threw it open. Magdalene was not far from her door, her eyes half closed against the waning sunlight as she leaned against a tree and watched a child tend to a flock of geese. Rhiannon called out to her softly, and she quickly leapt to her feet.
“How may I serve you, milady?”
“My hair, Magdalene, brush it out for me, please. And help me dress. Quickly.”
“Aye, milady!”
Magdalene had magic in her fingers as she worked on Rhiannon’s hair. The woman began to chatter, talking about the fine display that morning when all of the men had started off to do battle. “The king is always so magnificent, and one never knows quite why. He is not taller, nor larger, nor more imposing, than other men. Still, he is Alfred. The Great. That is what men say. From other kingdoms, they call him Alfred the Great. So he is glorious in himself. But, milady, your lord is ever so imposing! He sits that great beast with such grace and confidence and beauty. And where his eyes fall, a maiden might well swoon. Oh, I tell you—”
“Please, Magdalene, do not tell me!” Rhiannon implored her. She smiled to take away the bite of her words. “They’ve all gone to war,” she said hastily. “We must pray for them.”
“Oh, your husband will survive, milady! He rode from here just like a god! He is magnificent, so tall, so golden, with such bronze muscles. Oh! I tell you—”
“Magdalene!”
“I am dreaming!” Magdalene continued despite Rhiannon’s warning. She dropped the hairbrush and fell back on the bed, running her hands over the sheets in a way that annoyed Rhiannon to an extreme. “I tell you, I shall marry one of them! I shall have a beautiful Viking husband such as yours.”
“He’s Irish,” Rhiannon found herself arguing perversely.
“He’s all Viking,” Magdalene said.
“Magdalene! The king and our good men have gone off to risk their lives against the Vikings. You mustn’t speak so.”
“Oh, of course!” Magdalene came quickly to her feet and began to wring her hands nervously. “I meant no treason, lady—”
“I know that you did not,” Rhiannon said wearily. “Help me with a shift and tunic, and I think that I will have you braid my hair. Then you may go.”
“The queen wishes to see you!” Magdalene remembered suddenly.
Rhiannon sighed. She did not want Alswitha’s sympathy. It was too late for that. But she had to see her and the other women, and she might as well get it over with.
She dressed quickly with Magdalene’s help, then made her way slowly to the manor house. The children greeted her in the doorway and she found herself picking up the little ones and hugging them close to avoid Alswitha’s eyes. But in time the queen insisted that she sit and have something to eat, and then it was all much worse than she had imagined. Alswitha tried to assure her that every woman’s wedding night was a misery, even if she married a gentle lord, even if she married a man she happened to love. As the queen assured her that it would get better, that the pain would go away, she found herself staring down at the table. She couldn’t speak, she could barely breathe.
“Did he hurt you so badly, then?” the queen demanded, distressed.
“No!” Rhiannon gasped out.
“Oh, dear—”
Rhiannon rose, clenching her fingers into fists at her sides as she fought for control. “He—he did not hurt me!” she said, vehemently. “Oh, please, for the love of God, Alswitha, must we talk about this?”
“No, no, of course, not.” The queen was suddenly silent, looking behind her. Rhiannon realized that someone had come into the hall, that someone was standing silently behind her. She spun about.
It was the old man with the endlessly long beard and wrinkled and weathered face. He wore long robes and a curious hat, and he watched her with grave, fathomless eyes.
“Rhiannon,” Alswitha said. “This is Mergwin, Eric’s …” She had been about to say “servant,” Rhiannon was certain. But looking at this man, she knew that no man or woman would ever dare call him a servant.
“I am Mergwin,” he said to Rhiannon. “Some call me Druid, and some call me madman, but I am loyal to the Ard-ri of Ireland, and to his house. I have come to take you home.”
“Home?” For a moment, Rhiannon’s breath caught, and her heart seemed to beat too quickly. Home. His home? Did he mean to take her across the sea? She would not go, they could not force her to do so.
“Back to the coast. We will await Eric there.”
“Oh.” Her breath escaped her. She wanted to deny him, because she wanted to deny anything that Eric might have a hand in.
But there was nothing for her here. She loved Alswitha and the children, but she felt a certain distance from them now too. Alfred was gone to war, as was Rowan. And Eric too.
“Perhaps you should stay—” Alswitha began.
“No! No thank you, but I think that I would like to go home.” She smiled at the ancient man with the long, tumbling beard. “Mergwin.” She watched his eyes. Dark eyes, ancient eyes. She remembered how he had smiled at her during the wedding. He had been her only assurance, a man she had never seen before.
He looked as if he could be a testy old fellow, she thought fleetingly.
But she liked him. She sensed something in him, something warm and trustworthy. “Yes, I’d like to go home.”
Alswitha said that arrangements would be made for horses and an escort, but Rhiannon was barely listening. She kept watching the old man.
Then she kissed Alswitha and the children goodbye and started out with Mergwin. In the yard before the manor, preparations were already being made. The majority of the men were with the king, but Rhiannon was to have an escort. Two lads, younger than she, were ready to ride, and old Kate from the kitchens was busy packing their bags so that they might have a fine meal when they paused for the evening.
Again Alswitha expressed her concerns, but Rhiannon kissed her quickly on the cheek, then mounted the bay mare Alswitha had supplied her.
For his age, Mergwin managed to mount his horse with a surprising agility and ease. He caught Rhiannon watching him and scowled. “When I’m too old to be useful, young woman, then I shall pass on to my just
rewards!” He sniffed, and Rhiannon wondered what he would consider his just rewards to be. She lowered her head, hiding a smile. With the children and the king’s household waving, they started on their way.
They hadn’t ridden far from the complex at Wareham before Rhiannon rode up by the Druid’s side.
“He will return, won’t he?” she said. “You know that he will. Eric of Dubhlain will return from this battle.”
He eyed her curiously. “Yes. He will come home.”
“And the king?”
“The king is destined for very great things.”
“Then he, too, will come home.”
“For now.”
“For now?”
The Druid’s eyes were on her intently. “This is but the beginning, milady. The hornet’s nest is being disturbed, and all hell will break loose. But it is all to come, and what happens as destiny unfolds is not clear to my understanding.”
“How do you know this?” Rhiannon demanded.
He arched a snow-white brow. “How do I know this? Listen,” he told her. “Listen to the trees, to the thunder in the ground, to the tempest in the sea. Listen and you will know.”
Rhiannon tossed back her hair. “You knew that Eric would marry me. Before he and Alfred agreed upon it.”
The Druid nodded.
“And you’re going to tell me that it was destiny.”
“Written upon the wind.”
“I tell you,” she cried suddenly, passionately, “nothing—nothing—is written on the wind! Or in the tempest of the sea, or in the breeze in the forest! We build our own destiny, and I shall have mine, despite your Irish prince!”
He was silent for a moment, ignoring her outburst. Then he smiled at her, amusement lacing his dark eyes. “He is your Irish prince now, wouldn’t you say, milady?” Then he nudged his horse and trotted forward, and Rhiannon was left to stare after him, wondering if indeed she had encountered a new enemy or found a new, intriguing friend.
She nudged her own mount to a faster gait. She was going home. If nothing else, there would be solace in that.
The foot soldiers followed behind while the men with mounts thundered down the field toward the fortifications at Rochester. The Danes had built their own siege fortifications, but even as the first English troops bore down upon the ramparts, it became obvious that the Danes had chosen retreat.
Eric skirted the wooden ramparts of the walled town and chased around its circumference, certain that the attackers had taken a slow leave from their posts and sought the forests before them. They dared not let those Danes escape, for the Danish force would still be full and vital and ready for another attack.
On the great white stallion, Eric charged his enemies. His battle cry could be heard on his lips, just as his deadly standard of the wolf flew nearby as his men followed his line of attack. At the edge of the forest they engaged in battle.
Eric’s first contestant was a fierce graybeard swinging a double-headed ax. From his position atop the stallion, Eric swooped low to avoid the deadly swing of the weapon and brought his sword down smoothly upon the man’s neck. He fell in silence, already dreaming of Valhalla.
It would be a quick and merciful battle, Eric thought.
He bested others, for it seemed that the strength of the gods, Christian and Norse, were with him that day. Opponents streamed toward him, yet he was not so much as nicked. Rollo fought near him, and he, too, seemed to lead a charmed life. No matter how many men charged toward them, they neither faltered nor failed, and as time passed, they realized they stood alone in their field of fallen enemies. There was a certain commotion to their left, down one of the deep gullies by the forest. They exchanged glances, then swerved their mounts and hurried along the ridge to come riding down hard upon the scene of action.
Saxons were engaged with a score of Danes—berserkers, from the looks of many. The Danes were outnumbering the Saxons two to one. Eric grinned to Rollo. “Shall we?”
“Who wants to live forever?” Rollo queried him.
“Aye, who wants to live forever?” Eric echoed.
Riding hard together, they came into the fray. The ground was too rugged to maneuver the stallion, and Eric dismounted. He was quickly attacked by a young redhead who assured him that he had best kiss the sweet taste of life good-bye. “Child of a she-goat!” The Dane snarled.
Eric parried his sword thrust, leapt back, and caught the man in the throat with the point of his blade. He stepped over his fallen enemy. “Lad, I assure you, you never saw any woman quite so magnificent as my mother.”
He looked across the gully. He was startled to see that several Danes, heavily weaponed and wearing chain mail and faceplates, were circling one lone Saxon defender.
The man was Rowan.
Certain death faced him, but the lad met it bravely and well, taunting his attackers. “Come, then, you sorry devils, come one, come all. Of course I shall die, but I shall take at least one of you with me. Who shall it be? Come, come on! You face me like a pack of women, you putrid and pathetic stench from hell. Come!”
Rowan was afraid, Eric sensed, but the man’s show of courage was more than admirable. He waved his sword in the air, and the weapon caught a ray of sunlight that streaked through the trees.
The Danes would be upon him in a minute.
Eric wasted no more time but leapt atop the stallion and raced quickly toward the scene, his sword slicing and hacking. Men screamed and fell away, stunned by the sudden attack. He leapt from the stallion and fought on savagely.
Rowan cried out and entered into the battle himself, stepping forward aggressively and engaging the men who had taunted him and come upon him as a deadly horde. Within minutes Eric realized that Rollo had joined him, too, and they were then three against the horde, their backs their walls of defense as they came close to fight any new threat.
But the battle was over. Men lay dead upon the ground in grotesque and haphazard abandon. Those Danes who had survived had fled.
Alfred came riding into the gully. He looked about at his own fallen men, at the number of the enemy. The king was silent for long moments. “We did not stop many,” he said.
“They seemed many enough,” Rollo commented dryly.
“Aye, good Rowan here was engaged with plenty,” Eric said.
Rowan glanced his way, flushing. He looked at the king. “I’d be dead now, Sire, were it not for the Prince of Eire.”
Eric shrugged and walked among the fallen, then stared up at the king. The priest, Asser, had come up behind Alfred. “We need to find and bury all of our dead. If the Danes decide to come back for the bodies—”
“We will take care of our own,” the king quickly assured him. Their eyes met. They had both survived many a battle. They had seen what the Vikings, as victors, could do. Prisoners might well be disemboweled, burned alive, or find their organs used for cooking skins. The injured were best off dead, and the dead were best off in hell.
Eric mounted the white stallion again and followed the king from the gully and toward the walls of Rochester. The gates were opening, and the starving populace was rushing forward to meet their deliverers.
That night in Rochester they learned that the Danes had truly run in haste. They had left behind their prisoners and many of their horses.
Alfred was glad to claim both.
That night they feasted within the hall of a manor in Rochester. The fire lay in the center of the room, with a flue to the night above. Deer and sheep taken from the surrounding countryside were set on spits above the flame to roast for the hungry defenders of Rochester, for the king and his retinue. Eric sat by the king as the great haunches of meat were sliced from the roasting animals and served to the fighting men by lads and wenches.
The mood within the manor was triumphant and wild. English storytellers rose to speak of the exploits of their king, and one of Eric’s Irish bards created a splendid recitation on his prince’s prowess during the day. Eric listened with a certain amusement,
but he was startled when young Rowan rose and lifted his cup to him. “To the prince who has twice saved my life! My undying loyalty, so I do swear it!”
Cheers went up. Eric rose, startled that he could feel so awkward among men. Rowan was advancing toward him. He knelt before him. “Your servant, my lord, always,” Rowan swore humbly.
Eric reached down and forced the man to rise, taking him by the shoulders. “No, Rowan,” he said smoothly. “Be not my servant. Be my friend.”
The cheers went up louder and louder. Rowan’s youthful, winning smile touched something deep inside of Eric. The young man was no coward, and no fool. There was strength about him, and humility and honor.
Rowan had loved Rhiannon, and Rhiannon had loved him. It had been easy to dismiss their youthful infatuation before. Well, perhaps not easy, for a certain rage and jealousy had admittedly plagued him. But now he liked the lad, and he was sorry for the two of them. They had loved.
As he had loved Emenia.
As they stared at each other, a curious music was heard.
It came from a long flute, and once the music had begun, a hush settled over the room. The music was not the only entertainment beginning.
A dark-skinned girl with dark, almond-shaped eyes had moved before the fire. Her hair was ebony and fell well below her waist. She stood very still, and then her body began to sway subtly to the music before her limbs began to move.
She was incredibly graceful and beautiful. She was exotic beyond belief with her slanted eyes and warm, honey-toned skin, and when she moved, the sheer gauze drapery she wore floated about her and defined the full, sweet perfection of her figure. The music was slow, haunting; it swept into the flesh and the blood, and it was spellbinding.
Other than the music and the rustle of her movements, the room was silent. All eyes were upon the girl.
Eric watched her undulations, smiling for a moment. Then something about the dance reminded him of another such performance he had too recently witnessed. Rhiannon. When she had moved with sinuous grace, when she had told her tales with her soft, sultry siren’s voice …