Читать книгу The Viking Warrior's Bride - Harper St. George - Страница 12

Chapter Three

Gwendolyn had not figured out a way. Despite her best efforts, she was stuck in this marriage arrangement. Rodor and Jarl Eirik stood at the table where their tankards of ale had been pushed to the side and the two scrolls stretched out before them. One of them was from the chest in her chamber, and the other had been produced by Jarl Eirik. She could tell from her seat at the head of the table that they were identical even before Rodor stood back and gave her a solemn nod.

Tightening her grip on her tankard, she tossed back the rest of the ale and contemplated how many cups she could drink that night. If she finished off an entire pitcher, would it be enough to make her forget that this was her life now? That these men who sat at her table would be here to stay? That that man...Vidar...would be her husband? Nay, she sincerely doubted there was enough ale in Alvey to make her forget.

‘Well, Lady Gwendolyn, as you can see the documents support my earlier statement. I’m within my rights to replace Magnus with Vidar.’ Jarl Eirik pushed back from where he’d been leaning over the documents to stand beside Rodor.

For all his bluster earlier, Rodor kept his hand resting lightly on the sword at his hip. It was a casual pose, but she realised it for the support it was. If she commanded it, he’d turn on the Danes. He’d hate every moment of it, but he’d do it.

Her gaze went down the length of the table and then further around the large chamber. The candles flickered overhead and a large fire burned in the hearth, illuminating the room while keeping the corners in shadow. All eyes had turned to her and there was a tension in the room that had rarely been present in a home that was so well cared for. She counted roughly three score of the Danes. Her own men numbered nearly that many, but there were more lingering outside. Their women were suspiciously absent from the great chamber on this night, leaving only herself and Annis.

If Gwendolyn called for a fight, then her men would eventually overpower the Danes, though not without some loss of life. If they moved fast enough, they’d even be able to attack the Danes still left in their ships. Though it was anyone’s guess if the Danes would move fast enough to escape on their ships. If they did escape, then they’d return to avenge their Jarl. It might be weeks or months, but they’d come back with hellfire. She was confident in Alvey’s ability to withstand a siege, but she had no real idea of how many Danes they’d come back with. It would be a risk.

If she went through with the marriage and allowed Jarl Eirik to leave in peace, she’d still be able to attack the men he left behind. A year...maybe more would pass before he realised something was amiss, but eventually he’d send a contingent of men and he’d see what she had done. Then Alvey would still need to contend with the hellfire he’d rain down upon them. And she’d have to face the fact that she’d killed her own husband in cold blood.

Neither option was very appealing. Both of them would lead to the deaths of at least a few of her men. What Rodor had said earlier rang true. A true leader must put everyone else first.

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she said, ‘Aye, Jarl Eirik, I can see that you are within your rights.’ She studiously avoided looking at Vidar, who was still seated near his brother’s side. He’d yet to weigh in with his opinion and she couldn’t take the smirk she was sure to find on his face. ‘I’d like to know why the substitution was necessary.’ Would Magnus have been any better than Vidar?

The Jarl inclined his head as if he’d expected the enquiry, but his grimace made her think he wasn’t completely pleased with having to relay the information. ‘Magnus is the leader of Thornby, our most powerful settlement. He was injured in battle and a Saxon woman took him in and healed him. After his stay in her village, he was able to quell a rebellion by the Saxons and decided to marry the woman. I felt his influence there was necessary for peace in the area.’

Gwendolyn wondered if the woman had agreed to the marriage, or if she’d had it thrust upon her, but she kept silent.

Jarl Eirik continued, ‘I chose Vidar to replace him because I trust him to see to Alvey’s protection. He’s learned everything he knows at my side.’

Finally, Gwendolyn allowed her gaze to move to Vidar, who was sitting at the table. He leaned back in his chair with an ankle propped on one knee, almost indolent in his regard of the situation. There was nothing for Gwendolyn to do but nod her acceptance of the Jarl’s explanation.

Jarl Eirik smiled. It crinkled the sun-bronzed skin around his eyes and made him seem genuinely good natured rather than smug. ‘Good, then let’s move ahead to talk about the ceremony.’ He took his seat and reached for the ale he’d pushed to the side. Rodor walked around the table and sat down across from him, taking the vacant seat next to Annis. ‘Unless you’d prefer a substitution of your own?’ he asked after Rodor had seated himself.

‘What do you mean?’ Gwendolyn asked.

‘Your father calls for his daughter to wed my best man. He doesn’t specify which one.’ Jarl Eirik’s gaze wandered across the table to where Annis sat with her back ramrod straight. Her fingers were laced together in front of her, but her knuckles had turned white because she’d clasped them together so hard. The colour had drained from her face as soon as she’d sat down at the table with the men. She was obviously afraid. Gwendolyn was suddenly very glad that she was the one who had to deal with this. If it were Annis, she feared her sister wouldn’t survive it.

Forcing a smile, Gwendolyn said, ‘I’m afraid that I’m the only daughter available for the task.’

‘Then I’m a lucky man.’ Vidar spoke for the first time since they’d started this meeting. His voice was deep but smooth and pleasing to the ear. It matched his appearance. He was well groomed with fine features and she suspected that he left a trail of admirers wherever he went. But it would take more than surface charm to win him any favours here.

Gwendolyn met his gaze and found that he was indeed as amused as she’d thought he might be. Though he wasn’t smirking, his eyes were lit with some inner light that told her he found the situation amusing. Of course he found her discomfort amusing. He was clearly a barbarian.

‘You’re more beautiful than I expected,’ Vidar explained, raising a brow. She recognised it for the challenge that it was rather than a compliment to her appearance.

‘You’re younger than I expected,’ she countered. He was younger than she’d thought he would be, she realised as she saw him clearly for the first time. She’d prepared herself for an older man, someone like Rodor. Jarls were supposed to be older men. But Jarl Eirik didn’t appear to be that old and his brother was obviously quite a few years younger. He was probably only scarcely older than her own twenty winters. Although there was nothing about him that said anything other than full-grown man. His chest was broad and she could tell from the way the fabric of his tunic hugged his shoulders that his muscles were well developed.

‘Young and virile,’ he quipped, somehow putting extra emphasis on the word virile. ‘Isn’t that what was called for in the agreement?’

She felt heat rise on her cheeks. An image of his nude body flashed through her mind and there was no place in this discussion for that.

Jarl Eirik cleared his throat, clearly uneasy with the direction the conversation had taken. ‘I can have Rodor, or someone else of your choosing, taken down to the ships and shown the bride price to reassure you.’

Gwendolyn nodded, having trouble getting that virile thought to stay out of her head. ‘In the morning will be soon enough.’

Jarl Eirik inclined his head. ‘Then we should speak of the actual ceremony. I must apologise, but I’d have it take place sooner rather than later. I’m needed at home.’

Her mind raced with a hundred excuses. If she could put it off for years, then she would. But much to her surprise, Annis spoke first. ‘The ceremony should take place with the new moon.’

Gwendolyn stared at her sister, certain that she had imagined the interruption from the meek woman. But then her sister spoke again, her gaze on the Jarl. ‘I know my sister doesn’t put much faith in the stars, but I believe they tell us more than most of us ever realise. Our parents’ marriage and even my own marriage began with a new moon, and I believe hers will be most fortuitous if allowed to follow the tradition.’

Gwendolyn looked at her sister, confused by what amounted to a betrayal. Annis knew how she felt about this marriage. The new moon was in three days. Three days to prepare to become that Dane’s wife. Three years wouldn’t be long enough to prepare for that. Before she could utter an objection, Jarl Eirik’s smile broadened. ‘Perfect. If your family has a tradition, then I most certainly do not want to be the one to break it.’

Annis smiled and blinked as if she was a little stunned that her suggestion had been accepted. ‘Wonderful. That gives us three days to plan and prepare a feast.’

Gwendolyn opened her mouth to protest, but Rodor kicked her leg underneath the table and she ended up swallowing a yelp of pain. Her gaze again found Vidar’s across the table and she was surprised to find that he frowned, his brows pulled together as his gaze narrowed on hers. In the light of the candles flickering overhead, she realised that his eyes were the clearest shade of blue she’d ever seen. Not grey, or flecked with green, but clear like the bluest sky. And at that moment there wasn’t a speck of kindness in them. She didn’t understand what a life with him would mean for her and that sent a wave of anxiety tumbling through her. Would he be cruel? Would he expect her to be a wife like Annis? Someone sweet and biddable and unconcerned with things outside her own home? Would he try to take away the only life she’d ever known?

‘In three days, then,’ he agreed, sending her heart plummeting to her stomach.

Perhaps it was possible that he didn’t want this marriage either. His attitude made her think he wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement. If she talked to him, perhaps he’d agree that the marriage should be in name only.

It was her last hope, but something about him...something about the way he looked at her made her think she wouldn’t be successful.

* * *

The preparations for the wedding feast began the next morning. Annis had sent a messenger off to her farm to fetch Eadward who would bring goats for the celebration. The hunters had been sent to bring venison and the fishermen were at the river to bring fish to the table. The servants began preparing the pork over the roasting fires.

Gwendolyn had barely slept the night before. She’d spent part of the night tossing and turning in her bed and the rest of the night pacing around her chamber. There was nothing for it. She was well and truly obliged to marry this Dane. Vidar and Jarl Eirik had already been at her table when she’d emerged from her chamber the next morning. She’d barely been able to bring herself to look at either one of them. After a quick breakfast, Jarl Eirik took her to the ships so that she could verify that the payment he’d brought was sufficient.

He didn’t call it payment. He called it mundr. It was the bride price her father had demanded from him. Whatever its proper name, it was the gold, jewels and horses that Jarl Eirik had paid for the privilege of having his man marry her. Apparently the barrels and chests were her worth. She wasn’t worth a coin more or a jewel less. Her stomach churned as she looked it over.

Seeing it made the betrothal suddenly seem real and it made her think of her first betrothal. Cam had asked her father for her hand on the eve of her seventeenth year. As Rodor’s son, he had nothing but the wealth his family had earned working for her family. He had his sword arm, his strong mind and his friendship with her brother that he’d use to support them and their eventual children. There’d been no talk of gold exchanging hands. She’d always known Cam and her father had approved of him. That was the way it was meant to be. These strangers were not supposed to be here.

Closing her eyes, she turned away from the treasure. It would do no good to think of the past. A quick glance at Rodor found him looking at her, the sober expression on his face seeming to repeat his warning of the previous day.

‘Think of the consequences to our people. A true leader must put everyone else before himself...or herself.’

‘Everything appears to be in order,’ she said.

Rodor nodded. ‘It does. You honour us with your mundr. I accept in place of her father.’

Gwendolyn bit her tongue lest she dispute him. As if they had any choice in accepting the payment. As if the Jarl had any intention of ‘honouring’ her with the payment. He wanted to expand his holdings and this marriage was the only way to do that. For generations the Alveys had existed comfortably in the north with no need for such arrangements.

But that era had come to an end and it was time to accept that.

Drawing herself up to her full height, she forced herself to nod in acknowledgement of the gift and Rodor’s acceptance. ‘Thank you, Jarl Eirik.’ The words tasted bitter on her tongue and nearly choked her on their way out, but she said them because that was her role here as Lady of Alvey. She would not allow these Danes to take that away from her.

Rodor continued speaking with the Jarl to make arrangements for unloading it as well as where the rest of the Danes could make camp. She waited as long as she could before making her excuses about needing to see to feast preparations and leaving. She stalked up the hill, her breath coming in short huffs as she made it to the front gate of her home.

Annis had the preparations well underway so there was no need for Gwendolyn’s help. Instead, she stormed directly to the practice yard. The warriors spent every morning sparring and she was in need of her sword to work off her anger and frustration. She practically ran to the yard, which was on the back side of the granary. Yet when she turned the corner, she skidded to a halt because Vidar was standing there with his sword strapped to his back, calling out orders to the men. Her men.

He had two score of them lined up in rows of two facing each other. Each of them stood in squares drawn off on the ground with sticks or lines of small stones. At his command, they began sparring with their swords and struggling not to step out of the box. His own men, the Danes, lazed around the edges of the sparring field, watching with amusement.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked before she could think to stop herself, rushing towards them. As she ran, some of the men had already started tripping over the walls of their boxes, hitting the ground with groans as they fell outside their designated spaces.

Vidar spared her a glance over his shoulder before he went back to instructing the men. ‘Good warriors never lose ground. You must learn to fight without backing away from your enemy. Get up and try again.’

‘What are you doing to them?’ she asked. ‘You’ll have them injuring themselves.’

The corner of his mouth tipped up in that smirk that was becoming all too familiar, but he didn’t look at her as he watched the two warriors nearest him battling each other. ‘Then it will help them to learn.’ When the smaller of the two engaged in the sparring contest stepped backwards, Vidar sharply rebuked him. ‘Never step backwards from an armed opponent.’ The man responded by holding his ground with his feet, but he bent backwards as he locked swords with his opponent who was clearly stronger. The smaller man wasn’t able to push the stronger man back.

‘What good is a warrior who is injured?’

‘He’ll be smarter for it,’ Vidar answered. Without looking at her again, he walked away from her and between the groups of men, offering critique where he thought it necessary.

Despite the obvious fact that Vidar was younger than half of them, he commanded them with the authority of a seasoned leader. He wore a leather tunic that left his arms bare so that his shoulder and arm muscles bulged as he gestured. He was definitely stronger than most of them, despite his youth.

Rage prickled her skin, washing over her in a sweep that left her skin hot and tight. It wasn’t only because he’d taken over their training without consulting with her or Rodor. It was that he did it so effortlessly, as if he was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. As if it was already his right to have command of the warriors when they weren’t even married yet. What made it even worse was that her warriors were listening to him as if he was right in all of those assumptions.

‘Halt!’ Her voice rang out over the sparring field with authority.

Vidar whipped his head around to look at her, the smirk and swagger he wore so easily wiped from his face. She had to fight to keep herself from smiling, but she wouldn’t stoop to his level. The men closest to her stopped their sparring, but the pairs further away continued. She called out halt again just as one of the men fell over his barrier and stumbled to the ground. The others who hadn’t heard her clearly before heard her this time and stood down with their weapons.

‘This is not how we train.’ She spoke to all of them, but her gaze settled on Vidar.

‘Perhaps it’s not how they were trained before, but it’s how they’ll train going forward,’ Vidar said, crossing his arms over his chest. He levelled her with a glare that was as cold as it was hot with anger. She had no idea how the two ideas could exist in the same gaze, but he managed to pull it off.

‘That’s not for you to decide.’

That was met with a murmur of voices that made her realise the Danes were watching the display from the side of the field. Behind him, the men who’d been lounging in the grass rose to their feet to watch. Realising that she was quickly making their spat a spectacle for all to see, she inclined her head in the only conciliatory gesture she could muster. ‘Let us talk privately.’

Vidar glared at her. His blue eyes were fierce as he stared her down as if he’d not be sorry to see her engulfed in flames where she stood. ‘After the sparring session is over.’

She clenched her teeth against the harsh words that threatened to spew out whether she wanted them to or not. Despite that he was in the wrong, she was ever vigilant of her role as peacekeeper amongst her men. It wouldn’t do to antagonise Vidar more than she already had, but neither would it be wise to allow him to disrespect her in front of her men. She’d worked too hard to earn their respect—particularly after Cedric’s death—to risk losing it now.

‘The sparring session is over now.’ She made certain that her voice was loud and clear so that it would carry to the Danes at the edges of the field.

Vidar dropped his arms to his sides, his hands clasped into fists. If it was possible, a near tangible wave of apprehension moved through her warriors as silence descended.

Her heart pounded wildly in her chest, but it wasn’t from fear. For the first time since these Danes had arrived on her land, she saw an end, a release, to the impotent rage that had been building inside her. Her heart beat with anticipation of meeting him head on.

The sound of a bell ringing shattered the silence. Gwendolyn blinked to break the spell of the tension and looked away from Vidar to the source of the sound. The bell was hung from a wooden brace near the hall’s entrance. It rang three times during the day. To signal the beginning of morning chores for the warriors, to signal the start of afternoon chores and to call the men to the evening meal. Morning chores for the warriors began after their training. Gwendolyn had been so lost in the battle of wills with Vidar that she’d lost all track of the time.

But as she looked towards the bell, she saw Rodor standing beside it, leaving her to wonder if he’d rang it to end the confrontation. If the disapproval etched deeply into his features was an indication, that’s exactly what had happened.

Her warriors didn’t move a muscle. They stood in their places, watching her and Vidar until the last strains of the ringing had died out. ‘Go about your work,’ she said in a quiet voice.

For a moment no one moved and then eventually, one by one, they slowly filed away, leaving the sparring field. The last to leave was Wulf. The Danes at the edges of the field hadn’t left, but their postures relaxed and a few even sat on their haunches, though they hadn’t looked away. Vidar hadn’t looked away, either. He stared her down with that cold savagery that only he could manage to pull off.

When all of her men had gone away, he took the few steps that would put him in front of her. In a low voice laced with steel, he said, ‘You will not defy me.’

‘I have not defied you...yet.’