Page 36 of The Viking's Woman


  Late into the night they held each other and listened to the snow fall and the fire snap and crackle. They touched again and made love again, and when Rhiannon at last expressed concern about their son, Eric was certain that he would be all right until the morning and that no one would worry, for they were all aware that Eric had come after her.

  “And they know that we will be all right because you are invincible?” she asked teasingly.

  He laughed. “Aye, perhaps.”

  “You are very arrogant.”

  “And always will be, I’m afraid. Do you mind so very much?”

  She sighed with mock resignation. “I shall try to live with it.”

  “Will you? Bear in mind that you, my love, are willful and proud and impetuous, and that I will forever wear a scar from your arrow!”

  “You are demanding and autocratic as well as arrogant,” she reminded him sweetly, stroking the area of his scar and assuring him smilingly that she would spend many nights trying to atone for the deed. Then he held her again, loved her again, and they drifted into a lazy half sleep.

  Dawn came, and she turned in his arms and told him worriedly, “Eric, I never did betray you—or Alfred. I swear it. He is my king and was my guardian, and I love him and never would have defied him. I did not betray you.”

  He caught her hand and kissed it. “Hush, love, I know that.” He said no more, but his mind raced back, and again he saw Rowan alive and well in his saddle as they fought the Danes, and then he saw Rowan again, dead upon the ground, and he saw the dagger.

  He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. “I know, my love, I know.”

  Minutes later they rose, and he dressed her in his mantle and wrapped her in furs. Then they came outside, where the snow had stopped but where the world lay, a beautiful, pristine white cocoon. They mounted the white stallion and the great animal carried them home.

  A time of peace ensued, so very sweet that Rhiannon could scarce bear knowing that Eric would ride out any day. She clung to him through the nights, wishing that time could be magically arrested, the future kept at bay.

  But it could not. One bright spring morning the men prepared to leave. Rhiannon waited within the courtyard, Adela and Daria at her side, Garth within her arms, and she watched as Eric led the white stallion toward her. His mail covered his chest, his mantle emblazoned with his arms was draped about his shoulders. His helmet sat atop his head, and through the open visor she could see the startling blue of his eyes. She trembled, thinking how deeply and dearly she loved him and just how magnificent he was, even as he prepared to go to war.

  He pulled aside his helmet as he approached her. He tenderly kissed his son, and then handed the babe to his sister. He took Rhiannon into his arms, then, and kissed her long and tenderly, until she thought that her heart would break.

  A shadow of fear swept over her as he broke away. He was in so much danger. Mergwin would not have come with them to this shore if he were not afraid of danger to Eric. She could not let him go.

  “Eric …”

  “It will be over and I will be home before you know it, my love.”

  “No …” she whispered miserably.

  “I will come back. I have said that it shall be so, and so it will,” he assured her with a tender smile.

  “If only …”

  “What?” he demanded.

  She shook her head and lifted her chin. She would not send him into battle oppressed with her fears. “God be with you, my love. God, and all the deities of the house of Vestfald!”

  He held her tightly once again. “You’ll be safe and well. Patrick is staying to guard you, Daria is here, as well as Adela. Watch over our son, madam.”

  “I will.”

  “And Mergwin will be here.”

  “Mergwin!” Startled, she pulled from him. “Mergwin is staying here? He is not riding with you?”

  “He wishes to stay with you. He is a very old man. I am not pleased when he insists on riding to battle.”

  She nodded and felt a chill wind sweep over her. Then she managed to smile.

  Mergwin did not think that there would be danger for Eric. He thought that the danger would come for her.

  She kissed Eric again, warmly, passionately. Then he whispered that he must go, and they tore from each other. And she watched as, resplendent in his war apparel, he mounted the stallion, and she managed to smile and to wave until he was gone from sight.

  Then a sob ripped from her throat. She spun about, entered the house, and raced to her room, to their room, and there cried until she had no more tears to shed.

  Lying there, she prayed then in silence. God help him, God help him, God be with him.

  And pray you, dearest Lord, be also with me!

  18

  The fighting was swift and merciless.

  Within weeks they had forced the Danes to London, and in the days that followed they battled fiercely within the old Roman town. Alfred was like a man possessed, determined, driven. But then the events that had taken place in Eric’s absence had brought him to this bitter point.

  Gunthrum had signed a treaty in which he had agreed to settle East Anglia, but hearing of the assault on Rochester had apparently been too much for him, and he had rejoined the battle. Alfred had sent all of his available ships, including Eric’s, against Gunthrum on the Thames, and Alfred had prevailed, capturing Gunthrum’s fleet and all the treasures within it. But as Alfred had ordered his men toward home, the Danes had assaulted his heavily laden ships and won away all that had been lost and more.

  They had come this far, trailing carnage in their wake. Alfred had ordered countless villages and towns burned, and there had been tremendous bloodshed. The king was demanding absolute loyalty from the people and would accept nothing less.

  Now Eric sat atop Alexander and stared down upon the ruins of London. It was a charred and desolate place, unfit for human habitation. Men with carts carried away bodies and limbs; women and children were just beginning to appear among the debris, scrounging amid the ruins for food and sustenance.

  If nothing else, Eric thought wearily, it was over.

  And he had survived it all once again, he and Rollo and the vast majority of his men. Alfred had forgiven him his absence when he had crossed the sea to Ireland, and so, in all honor, Eric had felt himself obliged to ride forward in every fray, to bring his battle cry to his lips and race first into the battle line of the enemy. He was adept at warfare; life had given him that. But today, looking down at the ruins of the pathetic town, he was sick to death of the slaughter and pain and the desolation, and he was heartily glad that he would start for home within the next few days. Home …

  There was to be a new peace treaty. Scribes were already working on it. Gunthrum the wily Dane had also managed to survive the battle very well.

  England was to be divided into two parts. The boundary would run along the River Thames, then along the River Lea at its source, then directly to Bedford, then along the Ouse to Watling Street. The Danes would hold Essex, East Anglia, the Eastern Midlands, and the land north of the Humber. In the south Alfred would reign as king, and none would dispute his sovereignty again.

  There would be peace. If only the peace could last ….

  He turned the stallion away from the desolate scene and led the horse toward the multitude of tents on the outskirts of the city.

  He quickened his pace suddenly as he heard a high, drawn-out cry, followed by the clang of steel, and then again the sounds of fierce swordplay. He nudged the stallion to a gallop, and by a copse of trees he found a group of men, mainly his own and some of those belonging to the king’s closest retainers, vehemently engaged in battle with what seemed to be a Danish raiding party. Quickly he drew his sword and entered into it, finding Rollo already in the fray. Eric leapt from the stallion and hacked his way to his friend’s back, and there they formed a fierce and deadly fighting machine together. “By the halls of Valhalla!” Rollo roared out. “What is this? On the ve
ry day that a treaty is to be signed?”

  “I know not!” Eric claimed. Nor could he care at the moment. The enemy was coming at him two at a time, and it took ail his great strength to move his sword with sufficient speed to save his skin. He nearly tripped over one fallen attacker, but that proved to be his salvation, for a sword, ripping through the air, missed his skull. He straightened and skewered his assailant, then inhaled sharply as he noticed that high atop a knoll a single horseman was staring down at him. He squinted against the morning air, trying to make out the emblems on the man’s mantle.

  He swore, lifting his shield as the man raised his hand, then sent a small silver blade hurtling through the air toward him.

  The dagger caught on his shield with shattering force, and fell to the ground.

  The horseman quickly raced away.

  Eric knelt down and picked up the dagger. It was the same type that had killed Rowan. They might have been identical.

  The surviving Danes in the glade had melted away, disappearing into the trees. Eric shouted to Rollo that he had to catch the horseman, then went racing out to find the white stallion. He galloped from the glade, but the horseman was gone, and he had little clue as to his direction or destination. Swearing beneath his breath in every language he knew, Eric rode wearily back to the glade where Rollo and the others were gathering up their wounded.

  Young Jon of Wincester, a favorite of the king, was bending down by one Danish body. He rose with disgust as Eric came riding to his side. “What bloody treaty can we ever trust when men come forward such as this?”

  Edward of Sussex, Jon’s good friend and once a loyal companion to Rowan, came to Eric’s side as well. “I’ll be damned if I can understand it! It was as if they cared not for battle or gain but were intent upon murder and nothing more!”

  “Not so strange for Danes,” Jon said bitterly.

  “I don’t know,” Eric said, shaking his head. “Even for Danes. Men battle for gain or for defense. Why else?”

  None of them had an answer. They gathered the wounded and headed back to the camp. Eric washed the blood from his face and hands and changed his tunic, then made his way to Alfred’s tent. The king was there, listening as a scribe sent from Gunthrum rambled on and on about the particulars of the treaty.

  “There’s not a word of truth in the bloody thing!” Eric interrupted.

  Alfred looked his way. “We’ve already sent word to Gunthrum, accusing him of infamy and treachery. He has denied the attack and has sent me a daughter of his as hostage to verify his word.”

  “Then,” Eric said coolly, “there is some traitor among us. Some traitor who has wished me harm—rather, death—since I came to this shore. It began when your message failed to reach Rhiannon and my ships were so vehemently attacked. Then, when I went on your behalf, Alfred, to battle the Danes in the far south, they were warned of my approach. Moreover, I have very good cause to believe, Alfred, that young Rowan did not fall in simple battle in Ireland but that he fell to a murderer, to create greater turmoil within my house.”

  There was a shocked gasp from the opening of the tent. Jon of Wincester came striding in, decked in mail, his features tense. “By all that’s holy, my lord of Dubhlain! You say that Rowan was murdered?”

  Eric tossed the dagger that had been aimed at his throat upon the king’s table. Alfred and Jon both strode for it, Jon giving way for the king.

  Then Alfred studied the dagger and its design. Pain etched into his weary features and he fell back into his chair. “What is it?” Jon demanded.

  Alfred waved a hand that Jon might pick up the dagger. He did so. He inhaled sharply. “It’s William’s. William of Northumbria’s. ’Tis his dagger. There must be some … mistake.”

  William of Northumbria. Indeed William and Allen and Jon and Edward had all come into his house, into Rhiannon’s house, when Alfred had sent him orders to see to the Danes in the south. William had not accompanied them to Ireland, but there had been many men of Wessex with him, as well as many sent directly under Rowan’s command.

  “There is no mistake,” Eric said. “I’ve two daggers. One taken from Rowan’s back in Ireland, one just hurtled at me in the glade.”

  “In Ireland—”

  “Find a man called Harold of Mercia. If he has survived this latest warfare, he might shed some light upon these events,” Eric suggested.

  Alfred strode to the opening of the tent. He ordered his guard to find Harold, and then he paced back and forth upon the cold earth floor, his hands locked behind his back. In seconds the older man who had stepped forward at Rowan’s death in Ireland came hurrying into the tent. He knelt before the king. “My lord, you have summoned me.”

  “Get up!” Alfred commanded. Harold did so. Then his eyes fell upon Eric and Jon, and he paled visibly. He looked to the table and saw the dagger there and suddenly turned about in a raw panic. He started to run from the tent.

  Jon stepped before the opening. Eric seized Harold by the shoulder and dragged him back before the king.

  “Were you in the service of William of Northumbria when you went to Ireland?”

  “In William’s service? Why, no, no, my King. I served young Rowan, I did.”

  “Did you serve him?” Eric asked coldly. “Or did you slay him, for gold provided by William?”

  The man’s pallor sealed his doom. A harsh, anguished cry escaped Jon, and he stepped forward, his knife bared, and swiftly slit the man’s throat.

  Alfred turned his back on the scene, his pain and weariness evident in the slope of his shoulders. “By God, Jon, I have fought for this land to give it laws! You have done murder here and now!”

  “And I will gladly pay his survivors, and perhaps they will be as pleased to make gain upon death as this man was! By God, Alfred, he murdered Rowan!”

  “At William’s command,” Eric interrupted. “I’m going for William.”

  He hurried from the tent and made way quickly for the section where William and his followers were encamped. He strode past William’s men and threw open the flaps to his tent.

  There was no one there. Outside he caught by his shirt the first man he could find, and demanded to know where his master might be.

  No one knew, and no amount of threatening could change their story. William had ridden out that morning in the company of Allen of Kent, and he had not been seen since.

  As Eric stood there among William’s men, Jon, with Edward close behind him, came riding up hard upon him. “William has not been seen in hours. Neither has Allen. William must have known that you had the dagger—and proof against him. He has ridden south.”

  “We must follow,” Eric said.

  Jon glanced at Edward, then began speaking rapidly. “Aye, we must ride, and very quickly. We’ve already told your man, Rollo, and he is gathering your weapons and bringing your mount. We have to head for the coast, for your manor, with all haste.”

  Eric felt the cold enter him, felt the fear that had plagued Mergwin since they had come to this land.

  “To my manor? Why?” he demanded huskily.

  “Because we believe …” Jon began. He inhaled quickly, but Edward was continuing for him.

  “We believe that William of Northumbria has long coveted your wife. There were comments that he made to Rowan, things that we saw, others that we suspected. We used to joke about it. But he always thought that if Rowan was gone, or if Rhiannon lost the king’s favor, he would be the one to have her. And now he will have lost everything, and so we believe … we believe that he will make all haste to vent his hatred and anger upon her now.”

  Eric’s fingers tightened into fists at his side. He cast back his head and let out a battle cry tinged with anguish and with fury, a sound that shattered the very sunlight and the day. The battle cry of the house of Vestfald, the tearing, horrible cry of the wolf at bay.

  Rollo appeared upon a spotted mount, leading the white. Eric leapt on the stallion and started out at a hard gallop, and the others were
hard pressed to follow behind him.

  For Rhiannon the days passed slowly.

  It was spring, and the earth was coming alive. The fields seemed fertile with planting and there was an abundance of animals, squirrels and rabbits and countless deer. In the stables the horses were restless. Daria was anxious and restless, too, and despite her happiness and delight in her son, so was Rhiannon. Only Mergwin and Adela seemed calm, and Rhiannon wondered if age brought peace, or an ability to realize that time would pass at its own pace and that there was nothing to be done.

  There was news from the battlefront. Eric sent a man back every week, so she knew where battle had been engaged and that he was well, and the king also; and that the fighting was going in their favor. She knew that they had come to London; that it seemed that there would be a new peace treaty. But the treaty had yet to be signed, and until it was, she would worry about Eric. She knew that despite his apparent calm, Mergwin waited, too, and that he seemed to watch not only her but also the sky and the wind and the sea. Often he walked away alone; she knew not where, nor did she know what he did during his long absences. Until Eric came home, she would worry.

  She blessed Daria for being with her. Daria told her Norse tales about the gods Odin and Thor, and Irish tales about St. Patrick and about the little people who lived in the glades, and the banshees who came and cried when death was imminent. The two women laughed and joked about men, and Daria described her dream lover, and they spent long spring afternoons by the fire with the baby between them, whiling away the hours, and the endless days.

  But when William of Northumbria arrived at the gates one afternoon, Rhiannon was alone. Mergwin was out in the forest somewhere, and Daria had accompanied Adela to the shore, where a small ship had just arrived from Olaf and Erin, laden with gifts.

  The guards, recognizing William’s colors, had instantly opened the gates, and the servants summoned Rhiannon. She hurried to the door, certain that the news must be grave indeed if William, himself, had come to her home rather than a servant or a carl.