скачать книгу бесплатно
Still in shock at her sister’s blasphemy, Elswyth’s gaze found the man leading the warriors. He sat proudly on his stallion with broad shoulders. His shirtsleeves had fallen back as he rode to reveal the defined muscles of his forearms flexing as he held the reins. His fur cloak hung low behind him, exposing the strong sweep of his cheekbones and his bearded jawline to the light cast by the wall’s torches. She couldn’t make out details, but she could tell—with some regret—that it was a handsome face. Much to her surprise, his gaze was fixed on the two of them. If she wasn’t so accomplished at keeping her thoughts to herself, she might’ve reacted, giving away how her heart pounded against her ribcage. Instead she levelled her gaze and stared back at him, too proud to let him know how afraid she was.
‘Rolfe!’ A boy near the gate called out to him and he forgot her, his mouth splitting in a grin as he surged forward, clearly happy to see the caller.
The warrior was attractive, but she would never admit that to her sister or anyone. It felt deceitful to acknowledge that attribute in her enemy. So instead, she focused on his hair. Ropes of the dark blond mass had been pulled back from his forehead and were secured at the crown of his head and left to fall well past his shoulders. No self-respecting Saxon man wore his hair in such a barbaric fashion. Her father would say that it was proof of their deviltry. She didn’t think it was quite so sinister, but neither was it civilised.
Pitching her voice low so she wouldn’t be overheard, she said, ‘I would be careful what you say, Ellan. You wouldn’t want word getting back to Father that you’re thinking of aligning yourself with our enemy.’
The ever-present mischievous spark in her sister’s eye glowed when she said, ‘What will Father do precisely? Come and take me back?’ Her arms widened as she indicated the thriving fortress around them. ‘The great and terrible Godric may rule Banford, but we are in Alvey now and this is where I plan to stay. Besides, the Danes are not our enemies any more. Lady Gwendolyn has made certain of that with her marriage to the Jarl. Father is only bitter because of what Mother did. He lives in years that have long since passed. You can go back home if you want. You always did enjoy work on the farm more than I did.’
Elswyth refrained from pointing out that she didn’t enjoy it as much as someone needed to care for the family after their mother’s abandonment. Instead the sight of the Danes flooding through the gates, filling the yard of the fortress as friends and loved ones came out to greet them, held her captivated. Lady Gwendolyn had married the Dane Vidar nearly two years ago. Since then the pair had been doing their best to make certain the Saxons and Danes in their corner of Northumbria lived peacefully together. There was no doubt that the Danes only allowed the peace because they had taken lands, silver and women in return.
Saxon lands, Saxon silver and Saxon women.
The Saxons were slowly being replaced by the invaders, or so her father claimed. She could understand his fear as she looked down at the powerful warriors below. They were formidable.
Elswyth and her sister had spent the autumn in Alvey at the request of Lady Gwendolyn, helping with her household. Elswyth had seen first-hand how the people co-existed within these walls. The Danes and Saxons could get along, but only here. Outside in the farms and villages there was still strain. Every week brought more stories of the Danes’ brutality to the south of England. Even in Alvey lands there were stories of men fighting over the women, who numbered too few to meet the demands of every Saxon and Dane warrior. Then there were women like Ellan—women like their mother—who willingly chose the Danes over the Saxons. Many Saxons were bitter about that.
A fight was likely to happen soon. Lady Gwendolyn might refuse to see it, but Elswyth had heard the discontent with her own ears. Her own family, with the exception of Ellan, it seemed, would champion a fight.
‘You speak blasphemy. Father would never agree to you marrying a Dane.’ Elswyth crossed her arms over her chest and met her sister’s eyes which were green like the waters of the lake back home. Sometimes it seemed their eyes were the only thing they had in common. Instead of hair as dark as her own, Ellan’s was striped with honeyed tones. Her sister had always been happy and free from the worries that plagued the rest of the family, while Elswyth had assumed the mantle of responsibility. Ellan was like their wayward mother in many ways and it was worrisome.
‘As I said, Father doesn’t have to agree. I’ll choose my own husband, thank you very much.’
While Elswyth was certainly fine with Ellan choosing her own husband, their father and brothers would not agree to a Dane. Danes were not to marry.
‘I think it best to get below,’ she said, giving her sister a dubious look. ‘Lady Gwendolyn will need extra hands for tonight’s feast.’ Elswyth led the way along the rampart to the steps set into the corner of the wall. The fires had been burning all day in preparation for the men arriving, so that the air was filled with the aroma of roasting meat and vegetables.
Ellan’s eyes were alight with an infuriating glow as she looked over the crowd below. ‘I wonder which of them I shall marry.’
Elswyth rolled her eyes. Tired of arguing, she said, ‘You’ve had months to ponder that with the Danes left behind while these were out raiding or whatever it is they were doing. Why haven’t you chosen one of them?’ She had known that a large group of warriors led by a warrior named Rolfe were due to winter here, but she had not been able to find out what they had been doing over the summer months. She was certain it was information her father would covet.
Ellan giggled. ‘Because these are new. Why limit myself when there are so many to consider?’
‘You haven’t the faintest idea how to choose a proper husband, Ellan. I fear for your future,’ Elswyth teased and stepped on to the hard-packed ground to make her way to the great hall, careful to stay near the wall and away from the arriving warriors. They were creating such an uproar with their celebratory shouts and bellows that they seemed as wild as the beasts in the forest.
‘You make it sound difficult. You simply pick a man with a pleasing look and a disposition to match and there you have a good husband,’ Ellan explained.
‘Ah, well then, I pity the task ahead of you. None of these wildlings have good dispositions.’ As if to lend weight to her words, a man was thrown free from the crowd to land with a crash against the stone wall before them. He settled on his bottom with a hard thud before standing and shaking the wild mane of dark hair from his face. Muttering something in his harsh language that made his friends howl with laughter, he tackled one of them and the two rolled on the ground in a skirmish. The rest of their group shouted encouragements and circled around them. Elswyth resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. She would never understand the Danes.
Ellan hurried to catch up as Elswyth stepped around the group. ‘Certainly not one of those. But there are some. Lord Vidar is acceptable. I thought I might make a search through the men closest to him.’
It was true. Lord Vidar was acceptable, as Danes went. In the months they had lived in Alvey, Elswyth had come to greatly admire Lady Gwendolyn. Where her family saw Lady Gwendolyn as a traitor to the Saxons, Elswyth had come to see how well she and Lord Vidar got along. He was crude and sometimes boorish, but he treated his wife well and had gained the respect of the people in Alvey, even the Saxons. She’d seen how he could be fair and reasonable. Their marriage had brought two groups of people together while avoiding the bloodshed of battle. Elswyth still pitied Lady Gwendolyn, but perhaps in this one instance marriage to a Dane had been necessary.
Still, the subject hardly bore considering for her and Ellan, but there was no use arguing with her sister. The girl did what she wanted and always had. Elswyth had no doubt that an ill-considered marriage with a Dane would send her running back to the farm within a year. ‘I wish you luck sorting through that madness. As for me, I’ll remain unwed for the time being.’
Ellan snickered, but she took Elswyth’s hand to soften her words. ‘Father won’t like that any more than he’ll like me with a Dane. You know he’d see you wed to Osric.’
‘Osric?’ Elswyth laughed.
‘Aye? Why is that funny?’
‘Osric is... Osric. He’s a dear friend, but I’d never marry him.’ Though she had to admit that it would be the natural choice. He was her father’s trusted man on the farm and they had been friends since she was born, but he wasn’t what she wanted in a husband. She couldn’t name what it was that she wanted from a marriage except that it was to be more than a farmer’s wife.
‘I expect Father will disagree.’ Ellan sniffed and took the lead.
‘Nay, he won’t like it, but he cannot force me to wed.’ Lady Gwendolyn would never stand for it.
* * *
‘I haven’t found proof, but my gut tells me that Godric is in league with the Scots.’ Rolfe tightened his grip on his tankard of mead and tossed back a swallow, savouring the honeyed sweetness. The stench of treachery might have soured his homecoming, but at least there was mead.
Vidar cursed under his breath and shook his head. ‘Godric has that entire village in his grip. Either he knew of Durwin’s treachery or he won’t believe it. The only certainty is that he will demand blood in return for the man’s death.’
Rolfe ground his molars as he remembered the fight with the Scots, anger at the Saxon’s presence there still burning hot within him. ‘They have blood in return. I wanted to take Durwin alive, but he fought, cleaving two of my men before he was felled. He’d gladly have killed us given the chance.’
‘Are they well?’
‘Aye, one will bear a nasty scar, but they’ll both recover.’
Vidar nodded and leaned back, turning his tankard absently between his palms. ‘We’ll keep Durwin’s death quiet for now. I’m certain the news will make its way here in time, but there’s no sense in announcing it.’
Rolfe was in firm agreement. Many of the Saxons within Alvey’s walls had already made peace with the Danes, but there were some holdouts. He wouldn’t have them using this whisper of rebellion as a reason to fight. ‘I’ve already talked to my men. They’ll hold their tongues about him.’
‘Good. How were the talks with Haken?’
‘He has agreed to align with us should the need arise. He has nearly two hundred men on Alba’s west coast. Says there were a few skirmishes, but he rarely sees more than twenty Scots at once. I doubt we’ll have need of his men.’ Rolfe took another long drink.
Aside from the matter of Durwin and his brother, Osric, the summer campaign had been a success. After spending most of it to the south with Jarl Eirik, Vidar’s eldest brother, Rolfe and his men had taken their boats north for the autumn. The meeting with Haken, the Dane Jarl to the north, had gone far in creating an alliance between his camp and Alvey.
Vidar nodded, but his eyes were troubled. ‘We cannot underestimate the Scots. They’ve been a nuisance to Alvey for ages and with our numbers increasing, they’re bound to be agitated. In the morning, after you’ve had time to refresh yourself, we’ll discuss plans for what to do with them. It’s time we meet and end this once and for all.’
‘You think a meeting is necessary?’
Vidar gave a short nod of his head. ‘The rumours of Banford turning to them get stronger and this could very well push Godric into it. I’d like to think they are only rumours, but we can’t take that chance. Godric is difficult. I fear we have no choice but to put an end to any potential alliance before it gets worse.’
‘You two look serious. Is there news?’ Lady Gwendolyn approached with baby Tova in her arms. Wyborn rose from his place at Rolfe’s feet, tail wagging as he greeted them both, giving the baby an enthusiastic sniff that made her babble gleefully.
‘Aye, some,’ Vidar said, shifting on the bench so that she could sit beside him. He indicated the sacks of coin on the table that Rolfe and his men had lifted from the Scots. ‘Rolfe encountered the Scots and this is what we have for the trouble.’ A smile lit his face as he took the baby and sat her on his knee.
Rolfe grinned, always happy to see the woman who had given Vidar his much-needed comeuppance. She, along with Tova’s chubby cheeks, were enough to brighten his mood. Now that Wyborn had moved back to his place at Rolfe’s feet, the baby stared at him, her blue eyes round in curiosity. ‘I see you’ve had a busy summer. She’s grown.’
Lady Gwendolyn settled herself on the bench beside Vidar, a soft expression on her face as she glanced over at her husband and child. ‘Very busy. Not yet a year old and she’s already trying to walk.’
‘Ah, she’s a determined one, like her mother.’ Lady Gwendolyn smiled, so he shifted his gaze to Vidar as he said, ‘I feared the babe would look like her father, but the gods have smiled on her and only given her his wheaten hair. She looks more like you now, Lady. She is beautiful.’ And indeed she was. Her cheeks were plump and rosy, her eyes bright and inquisitive.
Lady Gwendolyn gave him a playful glare while Vidar chuckled and the babe looked away, the sound of her father’s deep laugh drawing her gaze. An unexpected ache swelled in Rolfe’s chest at the scene. There was no doubt that his homecoming was victorious. Despite the traitors in their midst, he should feel pleased and content for a job well done. Instead, watching the little family before him made him aware of what was missing from his own life. It was a peculiar feeling, when he’d been content with his life for a while now.
To distract himself he reached forward and stroked Tova’s silken hair, stifling a grunt of pain as he pulled at the wound on his shoulder. ‘She’ll rule this place soon.’
‘You’re hurt, Rolfe!’ Lady Gwendolyn exclaimed. She rushed around to his back and pulled at his tunic. He grimaced as the blood that had dried to the linen under-tunic pulled at his wound and looked across the hall to distract himself as she prodded.
He’d been vaguely aware of the woman he’d seen atop the wall working across the hall this whole time. He found her now, trying her best to not appear as if she was curious about him as she filled cups with mead, all the while she kept stealing glances at their small group. Her expression was filled with the same wariness and grim determination he’d seen on her face outside. A thick braid of dark hair fell over her shoulder, across her lush breast and nearly down to her waist. She hadn’t been in Alvey when he’d left and he couldn’t help but wonder who she was.
‘There’s a good amount of blood,’ said Lady Gwendolyn and he grimaced as she poked the tender edges of the wound. The woman had many skills, but sensitivity to his pain didn’t appear to be one of them.
‘A spear tip, compliments of the Scots. It’s fine. It wasn’t very deep.’ It burned like fire, but a fever had yet to set in.
‘What happened?’ she asked and he gave her an abbreviated version of events.
‘A minor skirmish.’ He shrugged when he’d finished. ‘There were less than twenty of them.’ He’d leave it to Vidar to tell her about Durwin’s betrayal.
As she moved back around him to retake her seat, she followed his gaze to the girl across the hall. Giving him a knowing smile, she said, ‘Go upstairs and I’ll send someone to tend you.’
He thought about objecting, but the idea of possibly having some time alone with the girl was too pleasing to pass up. Grabbing a bag of loot that would be his portion from the stash on the table, he rose to his feet and sought his chamber.
Chapter Two (#ub43fd2ac-352f-5c77-84e3-73fafcc3a2c1)
Elswyth hadn’t thought that she would be attending the warrior named Rolfe in his bath. Yet there he sat in a tub of steaming water. His chest was thick and broad, roped with muscle above the rim of the tub which was too short for his large frame. His knees were bent, sticking up out of the water so that she could see the cords of muscle that shaped his powerful thighs. Water clung to his hair, making it a few shades darker than the blond it had been earlier. It hung free from its constraints, but had been pushed back to better reveal the chiselled planes of his face. His nose was a bit too prominent, his brow line too defined, his lips too hard, but somehow taken altogether those features were almost pretty on him. A masculine pretty that took her aback.
And that was before he looked at her. His eyes were the purest blue she’d ever seen. Not piercing, but intense and so vivid the colour almost didn’t seem real. There was a kindness lurking in their depths that helped her to step farther into his chamber and draw the door closed behind her. Lady Gwendolyn had made it clear to all when they’d arrived that she and Ellan were not here for the men’s pleasure. But this man was new and she didn’t know if he’d been advised. Wounded or not, he was powerful enough to do what he wanted with her and, though she could fight him, her axe was best thrown from a distance.
A soft growl from the corner warned her to proceed with caution, as a large mongrel with grey fur rose to his feet. ‘Down, Wyborn.’ The dog responded immediately to the warrior’s command and lay back down, but his ears were standing up as he watched her.
Casting her wary gaze from the mongrel to his master, she said, ‘I’ve brought herbs for your shoulder, Lord.’
‘I’m no lord.’ His voice was somehow smooth and rough all at the same time and pitched so low that the timbre of it was quite pleasing. She was surprised at how easily he spoke her language with barely any accent at all. His gaze dropped to the axe on her hip before he turned back to the task she had interrupted and splashed more water over his head, though he only used his right hand.
His chamber was larger than she’d thought. Shelves and chests lined one wall and a table and bench occupied the corner. Behind the dog, a bed was set into an alcove that could be curtained off from the rest of the room. It was larger than the one she shared with Ellan and piled high with thick furs. In the middle of those furs a red stone set amid pieces of silver and gold glinted back at her in the candlelight. She carefully averted her eyes from that treasure. It was stolen from a Saxon, no doubt. The thought gave her the surge of anger she needed to rediscover her courage.
‘What’s your name, girl?’
She set the tray holding the poultice, linens and herbs down on a chest a little harder than she’d intended to. So hard that he paused in his administrations and looked over at her. ‘I’m no girl,’ she said, mimicking his words to her. Whenever men wanted to keep her in her place they liked to throw that word around. It made them feel stronger and she found herself disappointed that a warrior such as him would feel the need to use it.
She expected him to let those unnaturally vivid blue eyes sweep down her body. To take in the curves of her breasts and hips. To make it clear that he understood that she wasn’t a girl after all. Her body could only belong to a woman who could only be here to please him with those very same curves. But he didn’t break eye contact except to take in her expression. Finally, he gave a brief nod and a tiny smile lurked around the corners of his mouth, hinting at a dimple in his cheek.
‘Nay, you are no girl. I can see that now.’
Those words felt like a compliment. In a life that had been short on compliments of late, it was most welcomed. Her cheeks burned and she looked down at the tray to make herself appear busy.
‘What are you called?’ he asked.
‘Elswyth.’
‘I’m Rolfe,’ he said and held out his hand.
She stared at it, half-expecting it to hold some danger, which was silly. It was simply a hand, calloused and rough looking with a complement of various nicks and cuts. However, men did not generally offer a hand to her, especially in her current capacity as servant. It was suspicious for its eccentricity alone. With a glance at his bare chest and the water lapping at his hips, she gave him her hand in a brief touch before quickly turning to secure a scrap of linen for a bandage. This man had unsettled her from the first. The sooner she could be done with this task the better.
‘You weren’t here when I left in the summer. Who are you?’ He, too, seemed content to go back to the task at hand and continued to sluice water on his body.
‘My mother was a distant relation of Lady Gwendolyn’s mother. My sister and I have served here for the past few months at the Lady’s invitation.’
With a gentle hand on his shoulder, she pushed him forward to take a closer look at his wound. His hair nearly covered it, so she was forced to take the thick mass in hand and move it aside. It was wet silk against her palm, smooth, yet strangely rough, too. The heaviness of it sliding against her skin seemed too personal. Everything about this seemed too personal. She should have very little to do with this man who was her enemy, yet here she was tending to him in his bath. He was naked beneath the water and her entire body burned in awareness of that fact.
Forcing a deep breath, she leaned in closer to examine the puncture. He was lucky that it hadn’t festered yet. The edges were slightly pink, but they weren’t swollen and angry. It was clear that someone had tended it after it had happened. Plunging the linen into the water, she gently ran it over the gouge to clean out the dried blood. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, though he hadn’t flinched.
The mongrel came forward, curiously sniffing around her as she worked on his master. She tried to ignore him, somewhat confident that the warrior would intervene should the mongrel overstep his bounds. Reassured that she meant his master no harm, the mongrel went back to his spot beside the bed and plopped down. Putting his front two paws out in front of him, he dropped his muzzle on to them and watched her, his deep brown eyes glittering in the candlelight.
‘Are you a healer?’ Rolfe asked.
‘I know enough to clean wounds and mix common poultices. It is one of my tasks back home.’ Satisfied that she’d done her best to remove the dried blood, she grabbed a bit of soap from the bowl that sat on the floor beside the tub. He clearly wasn’t able to use his left arm well, so his back was still marred with smudges of dirt and old blood from the wound that he hadn’t reached. With gentle strokes, she washed his back, the linen moving over his skin in a soft caress that allowed her to feel just how hard he was beneath his skin. His strength was powerful and could have been intimidating, but he merely hummed softly in approval of her touch and dropped his forehead to his knees, lending an odd peace to the moment.
When she was finished cleaning, she laid the linen across the rim of the tub and dipped a dish into the bucket of steaming hot water that had been left beside the tub, careful not to burn her fingers. ‘This may hurt a bit.’
He smothered a groan as she trickled the hot water over his wound. The water left streaks of reddened skin down his back. ‘I’ll need to do it once more to make certain the wound is clean. It helps the healing.’ He nodded, leaning forward a bit more to give her better access. This time he didn’t make a sound save for a swift exhalation of breath as the scalding water slid over him. ‘There. It’s done.’ The wound had reopened, but only a little blood seeped from it. It was a good sign that there would be no festering.
‘You’ve been sent to exact Saxon vengeance. Admit it.’ His blue eyes gleamed at her over his shoulder, that same almost-smile hovering at the edges of his mouth.
‘I’ll admit nothing,’ she quipped, squeezing out the linen and indulging this strange urge to tease with him. ‘But if a Saxon gave you this scratch, ’tis my duty to make it hurt more.’
He laughed and sat back against the rim, his eyes stroking her face. ‘Then I’m forced to disclose the truth. It was no Saxon, but a Scot. Are you under the same allegiance to the Scots?’
She had to force herself not to take in a breath or show any sort of reaction. He was teasing, but it was as close to the truth as anyone had come in the entire time she had served Lady Gwendolyn. She was not in league with the Scots, but her father very well might be by now. There had been rumours that he’d met with them before she’d left.
‘Not to my knowledge.’ She gave a shrug, hoping the comment sounded flippant and a part of the game.
‘That’s good to know. Otherwise I would worry about your axe.’
‘You’re not worried about it regardless? Saxon vengeance, as you said.’
His eyes fairly sparkled with merriment and she found herself unable to look away from them. It was as if someone had found a way to dye them the most vivid shade of blue she had ever seen. He slowly shook his head, a drop of water running down the side of his face. ‘It’s an interesting choice of weapon.’
She stared down at the axe attached to her belt because she had to look away from him. ‘It’s more tool than weapon. It’s useful on the farm and I’ve grown accustomed to wearing it.’ She didn’t mention that she was more accurate than any man when it came to hitting targets with it. ‘Lady Gwendolyn has been kind enough to give me archery lessons while I’m here. Perhaps you should worry about that tomorrow on the practice field.’
This made him grin and that dimple in his cheek shone. He was so handsome when he smiled that she had to look away again. He was likely to think she was a fool like Ellan with how she seemed suddenly unable to hold his stare. There were many ways that this man unsettled her. What was happening? Was he flirting with her? Was this teasing usual for the warrior?
Enemy, enemy, enemy, the mantra repeated in her head.
‘I’ll look forward to seeing that.’ Something about the way he said that, so firm and exact, made her believe it. It also made her chest swell with pride. Despite herself, it pleased her that a warrior of his renown wanted to watch her skill.
‘Is that where you were all summer?’ She busied herself by sorting the items on the tray and preparing the poultice. ‘Fighting the Scots?’ She told herself that she was asking out of curiosity, but the words of her father wouldn’t leave her. They made that feeling of unease churn deep in her belly. Any news about the relations between Danes and Scots would be useful to him.
‘Not all summer, but a fair bit of it. They’ve been active, but are so far no threat to Alvey.’
‘My home is to the north. Should I be worried about them?’ It was a fair question. She had spent many nights in her bed worrying about the Scots to the north and the Danes to the south, and her tiny village caught between them.
‘Nay, no need to worry yet. And, Elswyth...’ She nearly dropped the poultice when he reached out to touch her shoulder. His eyes were deep and solemn with concern. The warmth from his touch moved down her back to settle deep in her belly, wrapping itself around that knot of unease. ‘We’ll protect you from them if the time comes.’
And what if we are the reason the Scots have come? What if Father has done something that has brought them to our door?
