Читать книгу The Viking's Touch - Joanna Fulford, Joanna Fulford - Страница 10

Anwyn darted a glance at the silent warrior band and felt her heartbeat quicken. For a brief instant she wondered if she had not made a terrible mistake: visions of capture and slavery loomed large. Then resolution reasserted itself. She had come too far to back down now.

Turning her horse, she rode the last few yards towards them. They let her come. What she saw left her in no doubt that Ina was right: they were professionals, bearing themselves with the quiet confidence of men who have nothing to prove. Far from showing any expression of hostility, their faces revealed a very different range of emotions. These covered everything from rapt interest to amusement and frank enjoyment. For some reason it was far more disconcerting than warlike intent could ever have been. Anwyn lifted her chin and took a deep breath. Then, under the gauntlet of their eyes, she sought out the man who led them.

‘Which one of you is chief here?’

From the van of their ranks a man stepped forward. ‘I am.’

For the space of a few heartbeats they surveyed each other in silence. Her gaze took in a lithe and powerful figure clad in a mail shirt worn over leather tunic and breeches. One hand held a fine sword, companion no doubt to the dagger that hung from his belt, and on his left arm he carried a linden-wood shield embossed with iron. The upper part of his face was hidden by the guards of a helmet whose crest bore the likeness of a hunting wolf. Below it she could make out the strong lines of his jaw and mouth. Undisturbed by her scrutiny, he turned and handed the shield to one of his men. Then he removed the helmet and tossed that over, too. As he turned back again, Anwyn’s breath caught in her throat. The face with its chiselled clean-shaven lines was striking for its good looks. A vivid blue gaze met and held hers. In it she saw the same light of amusement she had detected before in his men. Her chin lifted a little higher.

‘Do you have a name?’

‘Do you?’ he replied.

‘I asked first.’

His lips twitched. ‘Lord Wulfgar, at your service.’

‘I am Anwyn, Lady of Drakensburgh.’

‘I beg you will forgive our trespass, my lady. My ship was damaged in the storm yester night and we sought a quiet haven in which to carry out repairs.’

‘A quiet haven?’ she replied. ‘It has hardly been that.’

‘No, but matters would have been much worse had you not intervened.’ He paused. ‘Why did you?’

‘Because I would not have blood shed here for no good cause.’

‘Your neighbours do not share that view.’

‘They had no right to pronounce on the matter.’ Anwyn met his gaze. ‘Yet their suspicions were perhaps not without foundation.’

‘We intend no harm if that is what you mean. We have business elsewhere and once our repairs are complete we will leave.’

‘I see. May I ask whither you are bound?’

‘We go to join Rollo.’

‘Rollo? But he’s a notorious pirate.’

‘That’s right.’

Anwyn paled a little. ‘You are mercenaries then.’

‘Correct.’

This frank admission was deeply disquieting, and rendered all the more so by her inability to read what lay behind that outwardly courteous manner.

‘However,’ he continued,’ until we can repair our vessel all else is irrelevant.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Have we your permission to stay and do the necessary work?’

She took a deep breath. ‘I think you have no choice since your ship cannot leave without it.’

‘We could leave under oars,’ he replied, ‘but the next large wave we encountered would likely sink us.’

‘How long will it take to mend the damage?’

‘With luck, a few days only.’

Relief washed in. She nodded. ‘Very well. Carry out your repairs if you will.’

‘I thank you.’ He paused. ‘One thing more I would ask.’

‘And that is?’

‘The use of a forge if you have one—and a carpenter’s workshop.’

‘That’s two things.’

He smiled. ‘So it is. But then, as I am a mercenary, it cannot surprise you that I should try to secure the best possible bargain.’

His words drew a reluctant answering smile. Inwardly she wondered if she could trust him or whether this was some kind of trick. All the same, the only way to be free of the problem now was to help him.

‘We have both things. Send some men to Drakensburgh tomorrow and we will show them where.’ She pointed to the dunes. ‘The way is yonder, due west about half a league distant.’

‘Again, my thanks, lady.’

Anwyn nodded and turned her horse’s head. Then, accompanied by Ina, she rode back to where Jodis and Eyvind were waiting. Wulfgar looked on in some surprise; he had been so preoccupied with events that he not noticed the presence of the other two figures at the edge of the beach. They were too far away for him to make out details, but again his curiosity stirred. Who were they? What was their connection with Lady Anwyn? He watched as they exchanged a few words and then all four rode away through the dunes.

‘A mighty pretty woman,’ said Hermund, when the last of the riders was gone from view. ‘Courageous, too.’

‘Aye, she is,’ replied Wulfgar.

His companion chuckled softly. ‘I thought that Grymar oaf was going to explode. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when he gets back.’

‘So would I.’

‘His master doesn’t sound much better.’

‘Ingvar?’ said Wulfgar. ‘No matter. We’re not like to meet him anyway.’

‘Small mercies, eh?’

‘As you say.’

‘Well, now that peace has broken out I guess we can get on with those repairs.’

Wulfgar nodded. Then, divesting himself of weapons and armour, he rejoined his men and set to. However, although his hands were busy, his mind returned to recent events and he smiled to himself. Hermund was right; the woman was courageous. He’d never met anyone quite like her. Anwyn. He wouldn’t forget the name or the face, either. No man would. Yet it was the eyes he remembered most clearly; eyes as green as a summer sea and deep enough to drown in …

Unbidden, the memory returned of another pair of eyes, blue this time and bright with welling tears. The face was harder to recall now, though once it had occupied his every waking thought. Freya: golden-haired, gentle, quiet … her beauty had captivated the youth he had been. Captivated for a while, at least. In the final analysis he had been a poor husband to her.

No doubt Lady Anwyn’s lord was smart enough to know what he had; a woman of fire with wit allied to beauty and courage. He caught himself then—where was her husband? If the lady had found it necessary to deal with the situation herself it argued that her man was away—fighting, no doubt. It was a common enough occurrence. Had he not done the same?

He sighed. It was too late for regret or remorse, though he had experienced both. We are the decisions we make. It was true, thought Wulfgar, which was why he found himself wandering the earth with a group of mercenaries: fighting, feasting, living for the day. It wasn’t a bad life, take it all in all. Anyway, what else was there now? Eventually, of course, his luck would run out, or the gods would tire of him, and he would meet his end on some field of battle. So long as he died with a sword in his hand and could take his place in Odin’s hall, the time and place of his demise mattered little. All that mattered was the readiness.

The afternoon’s encounter had also left Anwyn much preoccupied and not a little concerned. It dominated her thoughts even after she had retired. By now Lord Ingvar would have heard the tale and would, no doubt, be greatly displeased. She could almost certainly expect another visit from him in the near future. As if that were not enough a force of trained mercenaries was presently encamped on her land, or as good as. Now that there was leisure to reflect, she wondered if her earlier decision had been the right one. She sighed. It was too late for that. If they chose to take advantage, she would be caught between a rock and a hard place. Yet their leader had not seemed treacherous to her. On the contrary.

Unbidden, his face returned in sharp relief. The memory was disturbing. She had never met anyone quite like him; he bore all the trappings of the warrior, radiated an aura of strength, but she had not felt personally threatened. He did not make her feel as Ingvar did when in her company; as Torstein had made her feel. Indeed, when she had ridden away the sensation had been quite different, almost as though something had been lost. It was difficult to account for, difficult and perturbing. Unable to sleep, she crept from the bed and, wrapping herself in a mantle against the night air, went silently to the adjoining chamber where her son lay sleeping. For a long time she watched him. He was the one good thing to come from her marriage. His birth had been long and hard, but Eyvind made sense of all the rest; he was the reason she kept on living, the reason she submitted to Torstein’s will.

Anwyn shivered and pulled her mantle closer. Torstein was dead. Her son was safe from him. She bent over the child and dropped a kiss on his forehead. He stirred a little, but did not wake. Looking at him lying there, she suddenly felt fiercely protective. As long as she had breath in her body no harm should come to him. She must look after his interests until he grew to manhood. Nothing else mattered now. It would not be easy; her family was ambitious and, as Jodis had said, a woman alone was vulnerable.

Returning to bed, Anwyn curled up, pulling the coverlet close. Tired now, she closed her eyes and let her body relax, pushing the day’s events from her mind. Gradually the bed grew warmer and sleep eventually claimed her. However, it came with the same troubling dreams …

Somewhere she heard a door opening, heavy footsteps in the outer chamber, a hand drawing aside the partitioning curtain to reveal her husband’s ursine figure silhouetted against the dim light beyond. At forty Torstein was more than twice her age. Though only of average height, his bulk reinforced the impression of bearlike strength. The dome of his head was bald, the remaining fringe of hair worn long and tightly braided into numerous thin plaits that hung past his shoulders like rats’ tails. A moustache and bushy, grizzled beard concealed a thin mouth and hid the lower part of a heavily lined face from which small black eyes surveyed the world with quiet cunning. Now they came to rest on her and glinted.

Crossing the intervening space to the bed, he threw aside his cloak and, unfastening his belt, pulled off his tunic and tossed it after the mantle. His shirt followed, revealing the mat of crisp black hair that covered his torso. Anwyn stiffened, feeling the mattress sag beneath his weight. He unfastened his breeches and then reached for her. She tried to turn away, but strong hands dragged her back and a gust of fetid breath hit her in the face. Sickened, she turned her head aside.

‘Torstein, it’s late and I’m tired.’

‘You’ll do as you’re bid.’

He fumbled for her linen kirtle and dragged it up around her waist so that her lower body was naked. Involuntarily she shuddered. As he leaned closer his hairy paunch scratched her belly, the beefy, leering face within inches of hers.

‘I thought I’d schooled you in obedience,’ he went on, ‘but perhaps I was mistaken.’

She bit back the reply that she wanted to utter, knowing better. ‘My lord, you are not mistaken.’

‘No? Let’s see, shall we?’

Anwyn woke with a start, panting, heart pounding, staring wide-eyed into the furthest corners of the room. Nothing moved. Her gaze came to rest on the bed. The place beside her was empty. She was alone. Slowly she let out a long breath as her mind assimilated the knowledge. Torstein was never coming back. As the minutes passed, horror was replaced by relief so intense it left her trembling. She swallowed hard and lowered herself onto the pillows again, waiting for her heartbeat to quiet a little. Torstein was never coming back. Now Ingvar waited, biding his time.

‘Never,’ she murmured. ‘Not while I have breath.’ To think that once, long ago in another life, she had dreamed of being married, of having a man’s love. She smiled wryly. How naïve she had been then to think that the two things went together. All such girlhood fantasies were long gone; if love between husband and wife existed in this world it was for others, not for her.