Читать книгу The Viking's Defiant Bride - Joanna Fulford, Joanna Fulford - Страница 11

The Viking attack came within days; the sentinels on Ravenswood’s boundaries returned in haste to report the sighting of a marching host hundreds strong. Elgiva had been sewing in the women’s bower with Osgifu when the peace was shattered by the wild ringing of the church bell. Her hands paused at their task and for a moment or two she listened before the implications sank in.

‘The alarm.’

‘Dear Lord, it cannot be.’ Osgifu threw down her sewing and hastened to the door, but her companion was before her. Both of them halted in dismay on the threshold; outside was a scene of urgent haste with men running to their posts, buckling on swords as they went. They stopped a man-at-arms who was hurrying to the palisade with a large sheaf of arrows.

‘What is it? What’s happening?’

‘The sentries have reported sighting a large enemy force, my lady,’ he replied. ‘It is advancing on Ravenswood.’

Osgifu paled, looking in alarm at the armed men running towards the ramparts. ‘An enemy force?’

‘Aye, the Vikings approach.’ He inclined his head to Elgiva. ‘Your pardon, lady, but I dare not stay longer. I must to my post.’ With that he was gone.

The two women ran to the hall where Aylwin was barking orders to his men. As they hastened to obey, he turned to Elgiva.

‘Go bar yourself in the upper chamber, my lady. It will be far safer. Take Osgifu and the children too.’

Before she had a chance to reply one of Aylwin’s men spoke out, throwing a dark glance at Osgifu.

‘I’ve been told that this woman is of Danish blood, my lord. How do we know she can be trusted?’

Elgiva surveyed him with anger. ‘Osgifu has served my family faithfully and well for many years. Her loyalty is not in question nor ever has been.’

The man reddened. ‘I beg pardon, my lady.’

Aylwin glared at him, then nodded towards the door. The other took the hint and beat a hasty retreat.

‘I’m sorry, Elgiva.’ Aylwin laid a soothing hand on her arm. ‘Such times make men cautious.’

‘So it seems.’

With an effort Elgiva forced down her indignation. It would not aid their cause to quarrel among themselves. She turned to Osgifu.

‘Fetch Hilda and the children and the women servants. Then go with them to the upper floor.’

If Osgifu had been in any way discomforted by the conversation, it was not evident. Returning Elgiva’s gaze, she asked, ‘What about you, child?’

‘I will come presently, but there is something I must fetch first.’

‘Make haste then, my lady,’ said Aylwin. With one last warm smile he hurried off to join his men outside.

Elgiva raced back to the bower and, throwing open the chest in the corner, retrieved the sword from the bottom. The familiar weight of the weapon was comforting. At least they should not be completely defenceless if the worst came to the worst. Closing her hand round the scabbard, she slammed the chest shut and went to join the others, barring the stout door behind her as Aylwin had instructed. Then she took up a station by the far window. The shutters were pulled to, but through a broken slat she could see much of the hustle and activity below as men ran to their posts. Aylwin had his plan ready days earlier and each one of his retainers knew where he was supposed to be. Within a short time they were ready, armed to the teeth, and grimly determined to defend their homes and their lives.

The clanging bell had brought the peasants from the fields and the wood to seek the relative safety of the pale. No sooner were they gathered within than the men on the wall called out a warning as the forward ranks of the Viking host appeared. Like an army of sinister wraiths, silent and intent, they emerged from among the trees into the pasture beyond. One of their archers loosed an arrow, killing a Saxon guard where he stood. Then, as though at a signal, a great shout went up from the invaders, splitting the stillness, and they surged forwards as one.

‘Merciful heavens,’ murmured Aylwin. ‘Surely this can be no ordinary raiding party. There are hundreds of them.’ By his private reckoning his men would be outnumbered five to one.

Beside him, his armed companion had made a similar calculation. ‘This is revenge indeed for their dead chieftain.’

What Aylwin might have said next was lost in a hissing rain of arrows. It covered the advance of the Viking vanguard that carried ladders to raise against the walls. Swiftly the defenders loosed their own arrows in reply, but each time one of the attackers fell he was immediately replaced and the assault renewed. The Saxons maintained a deadly fire from above, but to right and left the invaders swarmed up the ladders and over the walls. The first were cut down without mercy, but their comrades followed hard on their heels and soon fierce battle was enjoined, filling the air with shouts and the clash of arms.

Peering through the gap in the shutters, Elgiva stared in horror at the scene of carnage below and murmured a prayer. Everywhere she looked the Viking marauders were pouring in over the walls.

‘God in heaven, can there be so many?’

Giants they seemed, these fierce warriors, cruel with battle thirst, each face alight with lust for blood and conquest. With sword and axe they cut down all who stood in their way, crying out the name of their war god.

‘Odin!’

The cry was repeated from four hundred throats as the Norsemen drove forwards, fearless into the ranks of their foes. The defenders fought bravely but the sheer weight of numbers pushed them back, step by step, the enemy advancing over the bodies of the slain, remorseless, hacking their way on. As the defenders fell back, Elgiva could see another group of the enemy without the palisade, dragging a huge battering ram into position. It was the trunk of a tree, fresh hewn and drawn on a wheeled timber cradle. Under cover of ox-hide shields the marauders rolled the supporting cradle back and forth, building momentum until the end of the trunk crashed against the gate. The stout timbers creaked, but held. Elgiva stared in horrified fascination as with each swing the gate shook. Alive to the danger the nearest Saxon defenders rallied to the gate and swarmed to the rampart inside the palisade, raining arrows and rocks on to the men beneath.

For a little while it seemed that they had met with success; several of the Vikings fell and the momentum of the great ram was lost. It was a brief respite—in moments reinforcements arrived and other warriors stepped up to take the places of their fallen comrades. The assault on the gate began anew. The timbers shuddered and splintered. Amid the clash of arms and shouts of men a thunderous crack announced the breach, followed by a roar of triumph from the invading horde who poured through the gap like a tide beneath their black-raven banner.

Helpless, Elgiva could only watch as the Saxon defence crumbled and her retainers were beaten back towards the great hall. Beside them Aylwin and his men fought on, shoulder to shoulder, returning the enemy blow for blow. Half a dozen more men fell under Aylwin’s sword while all around him the group of defenders grew smaller and more desperate, redoubling their efforts, hacking and thrusting and parrying, each man determined to sell his life dear. Tireless they seemed, yet one by one they fell. Aylwin fought on, laying about him with a will, his sword smoking and bloody as it rose and fell, slashing and cutting until the bodies were piled before him. And then its edge struck the blade of a huge war axe. The sword shivered and Aylwin was left undefended. He hurled the sundered hilt at the foe in a last act of defiance before the enemy blade cut him down.

Elgiva’s hand flew to her lips, stifling her cry, and she closed her eyes a moment, forcing back tears. Weakness would not help Aylwin now, or any of the survivors who would depend on her. Striving to regain some measure of self-control she turned from the window, sombrely regarding the other occupants of the room. Seeing that stony expression, Hilda let out a terrified sob as she cowered, clutching the baby, Pybba, to her breast. The nursemaid was but six and ten years old and plainly terrified. Osgifu stood beside her, pale but silent, her arm about the three-year-old Ulric, who clutched her skirt and bit a trembling lip. Around them the women servants sobbed.

In the hall below were gathered a handful of men left for their defence. Violent banging on the barred outer doors announced the invaders’ intent and the great timbers shuddered. Elgiva knew it could only be a matter of time before they broke through for above the din she heard the sinister thunk of axes against timber. A woman screamed. Minutes later the door gave way amid a roar of voices and the clash of weapons as the defenders tried to stem the tide of invaders. Shouts and shrieks filled the hall. More invaders poured in through the shattered doorway. Several made for the stairway in pursuit of plunder. Elgiva heard the heavy footfalls and men’s voices. Someone tried the chamber door and found it barred. Then she heard a man’s voice.

‘Break it down!’

There followed the fearsome sound of axes in wood. Hilda let out a stifled sob of terror. The baby began to cry and in desperation she tried to quiet it, while little Ulric looked on, wide-eyed with fright. Elgiva looked from them to the door, which shook under the assault. In another minute the first blades were visible through a hole in the timber, a hole that grew larger with each blow. A few more moments and they would be through. With beating heart she backed away to the far side of the room, watching the splintering wood in helpless horror, struggling to control her growing fear. With her back to the wall, she closed her hand round the hilt of the sword and, taking a deep breath, drew the blade from the sheath.

As she did so the door burst asunder and the first three men fell into the room, followed by half a dozen more. Their greedy gaze fell immediately on the cowering group in front of them and they strode forwards, seizing upon the women servants. One man grabbed hold of Hilda, who clutched the baby in one arm and the terrified Ulric in the other. Osgifu strove to come between, but a heavy blow sent her reeling back into the wall. She hit her head and fell, stunned. Hilda shrieked, struggling wildly against the hands that held her, her screams mingling with those of the baby.

Outraged to see such treatment meted out to the weak and helpless, Elgiva stepped forwards.

‘Leave them alone! Let them go!’

It proved a futile protest, but the words drew attention from a different quarter and Elgiva found herself confronting another armed man. Tall and well made, fair of hair and beard, he might have been handsome save for the thin cruel lips drawn back in an indulgent sneer.

‘Well now, what have we here?’

Her face blazed with loathing and contempt and her hand tightened round the hilt of the sword.

‘Viking scum! You would make war on women and helpless infants! Come, try your luck here! I’ll slit your belly and spill your yellow guts for you!’

All eyes turned towards Elgiva, registering surprise, and then, on seeing the sword, amusement.

‘Have a care, Sweyn,’ called one of his companions in mocking tones. ‘That one is a regular fire eater.’

Sweyn bared his teeth in a smile, his cold grey gaze speculative. ‘A warrior maid, no less. One of Odin’s daughters, perhaps, and fluent in our tongue. That will be convenient when I give her instructions in bed.’

Appreciative grins greeted the words and the speaker turned away for a moment to share the joke with his companions. Elgiva darted in for the attack. From the corner of his eye he saw the flashing blade aimed at him and leapt aside. The thrust that should have pierced his heart merely gashed his arm. Incredulous, he clapped his free hand to the wound, staring at the dripping blood, amid roars of laughter from the rest. Undeterred, Elgiva laid on with a will and for several moments Sweyn was forced to defend himself most dexterously before the onslaught, being driven back several paces. However, very soon greater strength and skill began to tell and then it was Elgiva who was forced back step by step until she came up hard against the far wall. A heavy blow beneath the hilt numbed her hand and wrist and with a gasp of pain she dropped the sword, only to find the Viking’s blade at her throat.

‘Beg for mercy, vixen!’

Elgiva spat at him. She knew he would kill her now, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, of hearing her plead. Lifting her chin, she let her gaze travel the length of the bloody sword until it met that of the man who held it. The tip of the sword pierced the skin and she felt the warm trickle of blood. With pounding heart she waited for the final thrust. For a long moment there was silence. Then the blade was lowered a fraction and for a fleeting second there was something like admiration in his eyes.

‘No,’ he said softly, ‘I will not kill you. What a waste that would be.’

‘You speak true, Sweyn!’ called a voice from the assembled group behind. ‘Take her to your bed. I wager you’ll never have a livelier piece.’

Another shout of laughter went up. Elgiva felt her cheeks flame as she heard Sweyn laugh, saw his hot gaze strip her.

‘I’d rather be dead.’

‘You’re not going to die,’ he replied. ‘Not yet.’

He sheathed the sword and, stepping close, seized her by the waist, bringing his mouth down hard on hers amid shouts of encouragement from the watching men.

Elgiva struggled in furious revulsion, but to no avail. In desperation she bit down on his lip. With a cry of pain and outrage, he released her abruptly, his hand moving to his mouth where the blood welled. Giving him no time to recover, Elgiva brought her knee up hard. Instinct made him move, though he still caught a glancing blow. She heard a grunt of pain and he reeled backwards while his companions redoubled their mirth. Elgiva didn’t wait to see how badly she had hurt him, but turned and fled across the room. Hilda was still struggling in the arms of the young man who had first seized her, but, hampered by the baby, could do little. The crying Ulric was standing beside the still figure of Osgifu. Elgiva reached him and flung her arms around him.

Across the room Sweyn staggered to his feet. Seeing the movement, Elgiva looked up and, as her gaze met his, she saw the murderous rage in his eyes. He crossed the intervening space and with a crash flung open the shutters. The room flooded with light. Then he tore Ulric from her arms and raised him aloft. Realising his intent, Elgiva screamed.

‘No!’

Sweyn’s lips twisted in a chilling smile.

Then a much louder voice sounded above all. ‘Hold!’ There was no mistaking the tone of cold command. ‘Enough! Put the child down, Sweyn.’

Elgiva, very pale, tore her gaze from the man by the window and risked a glance at the speaker. She had a brief impression of a tall, dark-haired warrior in a mail shirt. His face was concealed behind the plates of his helmet, but it was clear that all the intruders knew him and that he had authority with them for the room fell silent. His blue gaze locked with that of the other man. Frantic, she looked back across the room at Sweyn. For one hideous moment it seemed as though he would follow his intent, but then, to her unspeakable relief, he slowly lowered Ulric to the floor. Bewildered, the little boy ran to Elgiva, who held him close. Ignoring them, Sweyn confronted the other man.

‘Did we not swear to avenge Ragnar with fire and sword?’

‘Aye, man to man. Do men make war on babes?’

‘A mewling Saxon brat. What does it signify?’

At this casual dismissal of helpless innocence Elgiva, sickened, thought her heart might burst with rage. She missed the casual glance that the dark warrior threw her way before his gaze locked again with Sweyn’s.

‘Slaves are valuable, no matter what their age, and we have need of them. There will be no more killing here this day.’ The tone was calm, but no one missed the inflexion of iron beneath.

Sweyn shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Wulfrum.’ He turned back to Elgiva. ‘Even so, I have a reckoning to settle with this one.’

Elgiva struggled to her feet and, thrusting Ulric towards one of the serving women, backed away. Sweyn came on. She turned and fled for the door.

She never reached it for in her blind flight she hurtled headlong into the warrior who had spoken before, stumbling against him, her hands slamming into chain mail as she tried frantically to push him aside. He stood like a rock. Strong hands closed round her arms, bringing her flight to a dead stop.

‘Not so fast.’

The voice was low and even, the tone amused. Elgiva’s gaze, currently level with a broad chest, travelled upwards, took in a powerful jaw and strong sensual mouth, parted now in a smile. She twisted in his hold, but her efforts made no impression except that, if anything, his smile widened.

‘I’ll take the wench, Wulfrum.’ Elgiva’s pursuer halted a few feet away. ‘I’ll teach the Saxon bitch to mend her ways and that right soon.’

He took another step forwards and Elgiva spun round, shrinking back involuntarily against Wulfrum for the expression in the other’s eyes was terrifying.

‘By Odin’s blood, it looked to me as if she was teaching you a thing or two, Sweyn,’ said a warrior, who stepped forwards to stand beside Wulfrum.

Amid the mirth and jests that greeted the remark Elgiva looked round and then froze. The speaker was a fearsome figure, a giant of a man all bedaubed with blood, and a good head taller than any present. Grey mingled with the brown of his hair and beard, and his weathered face was seamed with lines, but his dark eyes were cool and shrewd. In one fist he held a great bloodstained axe.

‘Ironfist is right!’ called another. ‘She’s too hot for you, Sweyn!’

Sweyn glared. ‘We’ll see.’

‘You are careless with your captives,’ said Wulfrum. ‘You let the wench escape. I caught her. She is mine now.’

Elgiva looked up in alarm, but Wulfrum’s gaze was fixed on Sweyn. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, the other on her shoulder.

‘True enough,’ said Olaf Ironfist. ‘We all saw it.’

Murmurs of agreement greeted his words.

‘Nay, Wulfrum. I say she is mine.’

‘Not so. You let her get away.’

‘Wulfrum speaks true,’ said another.

A chorus of agreement greeted this. Sweyn darted angry looks to left and right, but could find no support. Elgiva held her breath, praying that he would not prevail, quailing to think of the revenge he would take. It was in her mind to run but, as if he read her thoughts, Wulfrum tightened his hold a fraction.

‘Take the bitch, then,’ replied Sweyn. ‘’Tis but a wench after all.’

‘Aye, and there are plenty more,’ said a voice from the doorway.

All heads turned in the direction of the speaker and the men fell silent, parting to let Lord Halfdan enter. Although only of average height, he was powerfully made and, like Wulfrum, carried with him an aura of authority. When he reached the group around his sword brother, he took in the scene at a glance.

‘There are women and slaves aplenty in England and land enough for all.’ His voice carried without effort across the room. ‘Therefore there is no reason to quarrel.’ He bent his gaze upon Elgiva, scrutinising her. ‘A comely wench, Wulfrum. She will fetch a good price in the slave market, unless of course you plan to keep her.’

‘I do intend to, my lord.’

‘Well then, keep her close.’

‘I shall, my lord.’

‘Put the matter beyond dispute.’ He glanced across the room at Sweyn. ‘It seems to me she would make a fine Viking bride.’

‘Never in a thousand years!’

The words were out before she could stop them and Elgiva felt her throat dry as both men turned their attention towards her. Wulfrum laughed and his arm closed about her, ignoring the resistance it encountered.

‘A spirited piece,’ said Halfdan, ‘and impudent too. She must learn who her master is.’

‘I will never acknowledge any Viking as my master!’

‘Oh, I think you will—eventually.’ He smiled down at her.

Elgiva’s stomach churned.

‘She will learn,’ said Wulfrum.

‘From you?’ Her tone was blatant disdain. ‘I think not.’

‘Aye, from me.’ He took another look at the face turned up to his and all former reservations about marriage evaporated like mist in the sun as he made his decision. ‘For, by all the gods, I will have you to wife.’

‘I will never agree to that.’

‘You have no choice, my beauty. You belong to me now.’

‘No!’

‘Oh, yes. Unless you would prefer to go with Sweyn?’

She swallowed hard, every fibre of her being wanting to spurn him, but when she looked upon the alternative, her heart was filled with loathing and contempt.

‘Well?’

‘I will not go with a coward and a child slayer!’

Wulfrum looked from Elgiva to Sweyn. ‘The girl has chosen.’

‘Then I wish you joy of her,’ replied the other. The cool tone was at variance with the expression in his eyes.

It had no effect on Wulfrum. ‘I shall find joy enough, I have no doubt.’

‘Then it is settled.’ Halfdan turned back to Wulfrum. ‘You have done good service under the black-raven banner. From henceforth this hall and these lands shall be yours. The slaves too, to do with as you will.’

‘You are generous, lord.’

‘Aye, to those who serve me well.’ He glanced at Elgiva. ‘As for the girl, take her—she is a worthy prize.’

‘Indeed she is.’

Elgiva glared at them. The Viking chief threw her a mocking smile.

‘Your fate is clear, wench, and you had best submit.’ He turned to the assembled warriors. ‘Go down to the hall. Summon the others. I would speak to all.’

The men turned and began to troop out of the chamber, one carrying the screaming Hilda under his arm.

‘No!’ Elgiva fought the hold on her. ‘Take your filthy hands off her!’

On the floor Osgifu began to stir. Wanting to go to her, Elgiva strove harder.

‘Come,’ said Wulfrum.

‘I will not. Let go of me, you pirate scum.’

For answer she was thrown over a broad shoulder and, regardless of violent struggle and loud protest, was carried from the room. Only when they reached the hall did he set her down, but a strong arm about her waist prevented any chance of escape. Breathless and furious, Elgiva threw him a venomous glance and wished in vain for a sword to disembowel him with. Undismayed, Wulfrum grinned. Then his gaze moved on from her across the hall and she became aware that Halfdan was speaking.

‘Tonight we shall feast in celebration of our victory. We shall rest here long enough to bury the dead and tend our wounded. Then we push on until all Northumbria is ours.’

A rousing cheer tore from the throats of the assembled men. He held up his fist for silence.

‘Before we leave we shall witness the joining of Earl Wulfrum and this fair Saxon maid in marriage. She will bear him fine sons who shall inherit this land after him. Let it be known that the Norsemen are here to stay.’

Another cheer shook the rafters. Elgiva closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, determined to stifle the wail of terror rising in her throat. When she opened them again, it was to see Wulfrum watching her. Under that cool gaze her resolve stiffened.

‘If I am to take a wife, I would have a name to lay to her,’ he said.

For a moment she was tempted to refuse, but then common sense came to the fore. If she did not tell him, he might well beat it out of her.

‘I am Elgiva, daughter of Egbert, and sister to Osric, late the thane of this manor.’

‘Elgiva. The name is pleasing—as pleasing as the outward form.’

She felt herself grow warm beneath that keen scrutiny. Wulfrum smiled and removed his helmet. The face beneath might have been chiselled from rock, so strong were the planes of cheek and brow and jaw, the latter accentuated by a beard close trimmed and dark as the hair that fell over his shoulders. The eyes regarding her now were the startling blue of a summer sky. She saw their expression change and he reached out a hand, lightly touching the cut on her neck.

‘You are hurt?’

‘No. ’Tis merely a legacy of your brave friend, Sweyn.’

He ignored the gibe. ‘How is it that you speak our tongue so well, Elgiva?’

‘I was tutored in it by my nurse. Her mother was a Dane.’

‘It is an advantage I had not thought to find.’

‘An advantage indeed, for now I can call you the loathsome reptile you are and have you understand.’

Wulfrum was not so easily goaded. If anything, his enjoyment grew.

‘You could say it in your own language if you wished.’

Hearing him speak the words in fluent Saxon, she was temporarily at a loss.

‘I have learned much in my travels,’ he explained.

Letting his hand drop a little, he brushed the top of her gown. Elgiva instinctively took a step back. The smile widened.

‘Soon you will beg me to touch you, lady.’

‘That I never will.’

‘You say so now—you have yet to share my bed. May I say I look forward to it?’

Hot colour flooded her face and neck, but before she could reply Ironfist appeared beside them. He glanced down at her for a moment and then took her chin in one huge hand, turning her face to his.

‘By all the gods, not bad.’ He let his hand slide to her arm, encircling it easily. Then he looked at Wulfrum and grinned. ‘She’s a little slender for my taste, but to each his own.’

Elgiva glowered. Did these Viking clods think her a prize horse to be mauled thus?

‘I’m glad you approve,’ replied Wulfrum.

‘Thor’s beard, ’tis high time you took a wife. A man must breed sons.’

‘I intend to.’

‘I’ll cut out your liver first!’

Both men looked down at her in silence for perhaps the length of two heartbeats. Then they laughed out loud.

‘I do believe she’d try,’ said Ironfist. ‘You’ll have trouble with this one, believe me. Are you equal to the challenge?’

‘Trust me,’ replied Wulfrum. He turned her to face him. ‘Come, Elgiva. Let us seal our betrothal.’

Before she could anticipate him she found herself being forcibly kissed, drawn hard against him, held in strong arms and kept there at his pleasure in an embrace that left her breathless. No man had ever kissed her like that, a kiss that was both knowing and disturbingly assured. When he released her, the warmth of his mouth lingered on her lips. Her eyes blazed as she hit him, the crack ringing loud. There was a sharp intake of breath from others nearby and heads turned to watch the developments with keen interest. Not a man there but expected to see the mutinous wench laid at Wulfrum’s feet with one blow of his fist. To their surprise he merely grinned.

‘I suppose I deserved that.’

‘You said it,’ replied Ironfist.

Elgiva launched a second blow, but Wulfrum caught her wrist and held it. ‘Now that’s no way to behave towards your future husband.’

‘I will never take you as my husband.’

‘You will, Elgiva, believe me, and that soon enough.’

Before she could reply Lord Halfdan drew near.

‘Come, that’s enough romantic dalliance, Wulfrum. You can deal with the wench later. There is work to be done.’

‘As you say, my lord.’

‘Take her back to the upper chamber and put a guard on the door. Then join me outside.’

Wulfrum nodded and turned to Elgiva, ignoring her attempts to pull free.

‘Don’t you dare touch me!’

He raised an eyebrow and threw Olaf a speaking look. The hand round her wrist tightened and he strode to the stairs, drawing her after. Resistance was futile for his grip was like a vice. When they reached the upper chamber, he pushed her inside.

‘Until later, Elgiva.’

Then he left her, pausing only to issue instructions to the guards outside the door. Breathless and shaking, she watched him go.

When she was satisfied that he really had gone, she turned and looked fearfully at the scene before her. The two children were still there, apparently unharmed and being comforted by frightened servants. With enormous relief Elgiva saw one of the latter help Osgifu to her feet. The older woman was still dazed. Her lip was cut and a dark bruise was already showing down her cheek. Hastening forwards Elgiva guided her to a chair before pouring a little water into a basin and gently bathing the cut lip. Osgifu sat very still throughout, though her hands trembled slightly in her lap. As she had no access to her medicine chest, there was relatively little that Elgiva could do for she had no arnica or salve to hand. The best she could manage was a cool compress on the bruised area of the face.

For some time neither woman spoke, each trying to come to terms with the terrible events that had shattered the peaceful course of their lives and changed it for ever. Eventually it was Osgifu who spoke first.

‘Are you all right, child? They did not hurt you?’

‘No, I am quite well.’

‘Thank God for it. And the children?’

‘Both well too.’ Elgiva cast a glance at the open window and shuddered. If Sweyn had had his will, both her nephews would be dead, impaled on the spears of the horde beneath. It had been prevented. Remembering Wulfrum’s ringing command, she could only be thankful he had appeared on the scene when he did. Seemingly he had no taste for the slaughter of babes, either. He had kept her out of Sweyn’s clutches too. She knew that if he had not, the other would have exacted a terrible revenge for she had bested him and caused him to lose face before his comrades. It was not a thing he was likely to forgive. There could be no forgetting the expression in the cruel grey eyes.

Unable to read her mind, Osgifu guessed accurately enough the thoughts passing through it. She had been stunned for a short time, then disorientated, lying still until she could be sure of her bearings. None of the invaders had paid any further attention to her and she had heard much of the conversation in the room, listening with mounting concern for Elgiva. The girl turned to her now.

‘Did you hear?’

‘Aye, enough.’

Before they could speak further, Ulric broke free of the woman who had been holding him and came to them. Elgiva scooped him up and sat him on her knee, holding him close, speaking words of reassurance. The tears that had risen in her eyes unbidden were swiftly quelled. A show of weakness would not help anyone, least of all herself. If she hoped to survive the ordeals that lay ahead, she would need every ounce of courage she possessed. The trouble was that she had never felt so afraid in her life.