Читать книгу The Viking's Defiant Bride - Joanna Fulford, Joanna Fulford - Страница 13

In the days following an atmosphere of deep gloom hung over Ravenswood along with the stench of death and corruption. Carrion birds flapped among the bodies or perched in readiness on the palisade as the demoralised Saxons, with an air of bitter resignation, went about the business of digging graves. Since the church had been burned and the priest taken prisoner there was little chance that he might bless the graves, a grievous lack that added to the pain of loss. The living had perforce to be content with murmured prayers and the laying of flowers.

Osgifu and Elgiva helped with the laying out of the dead, working in silence and in grief for the lives snuffed out so soon. Aylwin lived yet, though he was much weakened from loss of blood. The Vikings kept a close watch, but they made no move to harm him. Elgiva did what she could for him, but there were many others requiring her attention too, and her time was spent in tending the wounded, changing dressings, applying salves and balms, dispensing the medicines that dulled pain. Some men were beyond help and died; others like Aylwin clung desperately to life. His troubled gaze followed Elgiva as she moved among her patients, an attention that had not gone unnoticed.

Waiting until Elgiva was not by, Wulfrum made his way towards the pallet where the Saxon lay, regarding him dispassionately. He made no attempt to sit, thus putting the other at an added disadvantage by compelling him to look up at his visitor. At first neither man spoke. Then Wulfrum broke the silence.

‘Your wound heals?’

‘It heals.’

‘Elgiva is skilled.’

At the mention of her name, the older man’s eyes narrowed and his hand clenched at his side.

‘What is it you wish to say?’

‘That I know of your former betrothal to her…’ Wulfrum paused ‘…a betrothal you would now do well to forget.’

‘Elgiva is mine.’

‘Not so. She belongs to me, as does this hall and these lands, and I shall take her to wife.’

‘By God, you shall not!’ The injured man started up, then winced as his wound protested.

Watching him fall back upon the pallet, Wulfrum raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? And how will you prevent it?’

Aylwin remained silent, knowing too well the futility of any reply he might make. More than anything he wanted to be left alone, but his tormentor lingered still.

‘You should have wed her when you had the chance.’

‘Would that I had.’ Aylwin regarded him with hatred. ‘But she asked me to observe a decent period of mourning for her brother. I would not expect you to understand, Viking.’

Wulfrum laughed. ‘I think I understand. The lady was not so keen as you to marry.’

Aylwin reddened for the words had touched a nerve. The same thought had occurred to him too.

‘You should be thankful—if you had married her, you would be dead now,’ the other went on, ‘for I would still have taken her from you. As it is, your claims on her are void and you had best accept it.’

‘Never!’ The word exploded between them.

Wulfrum smiled and, throwing the Saxon one last contemptuous look, walked away.

Two days later Aylwin disappeared. At first no one thought it significant. A man so badly wounded could not have gone far. However, an exhaustive search revealed nothing. Elgiva heard the news with deep concern. Even if he escaped as far as the forest, Aylwin’s weakened condition made him ill suited to such rough living and, without careful tending, he might well die. Angered that so prestigious a prisoner had slipped through their hands, the Vikings questioned everyone who had contact with him, including Elgiva and Osgifu.

Seeing their captors so disturbed, Elgiva knew only intense satisfaction. When Wulfrum questioned her, she was able to say with perfect truth that she knew nothing of the matter. However, she was unable to hide her feelings with complete success, a fact that he did not fail to note.

‘He could not have gone far alone. He must have had help.’

‘That is possible, lord,’ she replied.

‘Who was it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you wouldn’t tell me if you did know.’

‘No.’

It was a reply that was both honest and impudent in equal measure. With an effort, he curbed the urge to seize and shake her soundly. For all that air of quiet calm, the vixen was enjoying this. He didn’t think for a moment that she was personally responsible for Aylwin’s escape—she was under guard in the women’s bower at night—but her relief when they failed to find him had been quite evident. Perhaps she wasn’t as indifferent to the Saxon as he had first believed. The thought did nothing to improve his temper and he dismissed her before he did something he might later regret.

Relieved to be out of that unnerving presence, Elgiva returned to her work among the injured, conscious the while of the brooding blue gaze that watched her every move. The Viking would not find Aylwin now, she was sure of it. If he died, his friends would bury him in secret: if he lived, they would get him away to a place of greater safety—somewhere the Danes held no sway. The thought filled her with fierce pleasure and only with difficulty could she hide her elation. She might not have loved Aylwin, but she did rejoice in his freedom.

Unwilling to dwell too long on the chances of her former betrothed, Elgiva put her mind to more immediately pressing matters. Chief of these was the welfare of her nephews. After their recent treatment at the hands of the invaders she kept a watchful eye on them. Pybba was too young to know how near he could have been to death but, for some days after the coming of the Vikings, Ulric clung to Hilda, his nursemaid, staring wide-eyed and silent from behind her skirts if any of the men appeared. Elgiva, touched by his vulnerability, would take him on her knee and sing to him and he would snuggle against her, seeking her warmth and gentleness. With her and Hilda he knew he was safe.

In spite of her other responsibilities Elgiva spent time each day with the children. She also kept an eye on Hilda for the girl had suffered at the hands of the conquerors. In particular the young man called Ceolnoth sought her out as a companion for his bed. All her struggles and protests had availed her nothing. Elgiva knew there was nothing she could say to soothe that hurt and the girl’s strained expression was a cruel reminder of the fate she too might have suffered had their positions been reversed.

Thus far Wulfrum had not intruded into the nursery. It was women’s work and he was content to leave it so, and since he had become Lord of Ravenswood none of his men had laid a hand on any child, noble or base. However, one morning as he took a short cut through the rear of the hall, he was arrested by the sound of women’s laughter and the playful squealing of a child. Moving towards the source of the noise, he paused in the doorway. Elgiva was kneeling on the floor. In front of her the oldest child was lying on the rug, laughing and giggling as she tickled his ribs. Across the room the girl Hilda watched and smiled from her place beside the baby’s crib. It was a scene of innocent delight so different from anything he had known that Wulfrum was drawn and held in spite of himself. This was an Elgiva he had never seen, laughing and relaxed as though without a care in the world. The children were her nephews, but she tended them as though they were her own, with a gentle and loving hand. Watching, he smiled unawares as a new dimension opened up before him. One day he would have sons. His gaze warmed as it rested on his future wife. It would be good to have children with Elgiva. His smile grew rueful. One day.

Though he made no movement or sound, some instinct warned the occupants of the room that they were not alone. It was Hilda who saw him first. Her smile faded and a look of fear replaced it. Elgiva looked up and followed the direction of her gaze. Then she too froze. The child stared at him wide-eyed. In a moment the atmosphere in the room changed and became tense. He saw Elgiva rise and draw the child close.

‘My lord?’ The tone was anxious, even wary.

He surveyed her for a moment in silence, wanting to speak, but not knowing what to say. Then, ‘The children are well?’

‘They are well,’ she replied.

‘Good.’ He paused, then glanced at the toddler. ‘The boy is afraid.’

‘Has he no cause?’

‘None.’ He met and held her gaze for a moment. ‘He shall not be harmed if I have power to prevent it. Please believe that.’

Elgiva stared at him in surprise, but said nothing for her heart was unaccountably full. His expression and his words had seemed sincere. His former actions too had prevented harm coming to the children. He was their enemy but, perversely, in that moment she wanted to trust him in this.

Unable to follow her thought and seeing she remained silent, Wulfrum felt suddenly awkward. What did he expect her to say? That she believed him? Trusted the children to his care? Aware of how ridiculous a notion that was, he turned abruptly away. Trust could not be commanded, it had to be earned; thus far, he could see he had done little to earn hers.

As he left the hall, the memory of the scene stayed with him. It stayed throughout the morning as he supervised the work of the serfs. He could not forget the fear of Hilda and the child when they saw him or Elgiva’s wariness. What did they take him for? Then he remembered Sweyn and what he had been about to do before he was stopped. Wulfrum sighed. True enough, the child had cause to be afraid and the women too. It would not be easy to overcome it, either, but Sweyn would soon be gone and then they might learn there was nothing to fear from him or his men. While he lived no harm should come to them. He was their lord and their protection was his responsibility. For the first time he began to feel its weight.

It had taken several days to bury the dead for goodly numbers had fallen on both sides, but eventually it was done. Elgiva stood by the Saxon graves a while and said her own silent prayers since Father Willibald had not been permitted to officiate at the burials or to say a mass for the souls of the dead. To her surprise Earl Wulfrum had raised no objection to her attending the funerals or made any attempt to interfere. In any case, his men were taking care of their own dead. A few of the Viking warriors stood at a distance watching the events with a careful eye, their presence a reminder of the new order.

A cold breeze stirred the branches of the forest trees around and Elgiva shivered, drawing her mantle closer, fighting down the fear in the pit of her stomach. Like a leaf swept along on the current of a stream, she had no control over the events that would shape her future. Everything she had known and loved was gone as though in a past life. True enough, she thought, she had been someone else then. And now? Now she was a prisoner like all the rest, little better than a slave. Not quite, she amended. Ever since Wulfrum had announced his intention to marry, his men had regarded her as his domain. She had not been troubled or molested in any way, though they looked their fill whenever she appeared. Neither had a hand been raised to Osgifu, who came and went to her mistress’s bower without hindrance. To the best of her knowledge, the earl’s promise that there should be no more killing had been kept; now most of the Saxons serfs had been put to work, albeit under the watchful eyes of their conquerors. Only the fugitives rounded up in the forest remained chained and under guard. Rumours abounded as to their eventual fate, though Elgiva had been cautiously optimistic.