Читать книгу Rescued By The Viking - Meriel Fuller - Страница 11

Gisela walked quickly along the alley, away from the beach, away from him, eager to reach the safety of her lodgings. The shadowed light made her step disjointed, uncertain; a couple of times she stumbled and her hands flew out to check her fall, scraping against rough exterior walls. Her hem, weighed down with thick, drying mud, clagged unhelpfully around her ankles, hampering her gait. Tears wobbled in her chest. She had only needed a few more days of working on the salt pans to earn enough money for them all to cross the river and be out of this place. Why, oh, why had she agreed to go out on to the mudflats with those children?

Desolation rolled over her, the air catching in her lungs. She had had no choice. The master had told her to go out there. If she hadn’t followed his orders, then she would have had no work at all. But, because of what had happened out on the salt marsh, they would have to leave this place as soon as possible. Tonight, at least. A pair of sparkling green eyes punctured her vision. The Dane. Because of that man, they would have to leave. It wouldn’t take him long to tell others of his suspicions about her. She whipped her head around, checking that no one followed her, disquiet threading her nerves, making her increase her pace.

The foul smell of the town’s midden, stinking and sour, washed over her as she approached the tiny cottage that served as their lodgings. Wrinkling her nose, she pushed against the wooden door, stepping down on to the earth-packed floor. Thick smoke hazed the chamber. She coughed, waving her hand in front of her, trying to clear the smoke so she could see. A fire burned feebly, smoke coiling up to the hole in the rafters, a chimney of sorts. Marie, her older sister, sat on a low stool, poking a stick fretfully into the damp, smouldering wood. Her golden braids, long plaits falling to her waist-belt, shone out in the gloom. She stared miserably across to Gisela, her face streaked with tears.

‘Where is he?’ Gisela’s heart filled with trepidation. A swift glance around the chamber told her that her father was not there. ‘Where’s he gone, Marie? Tell me!’ A rising fear laced her voice.

‘Oh, Gisela, he wanted to do something! Something to help you. He hated the way you were working so hard to make coin, while we sat around all day!’

‘But he can’t work...’ Gisela spluttered. ‘His leg...’

‘He felt so useless. Surely you can see that?’ Marie’s voice pleaded with her. ‘As I do, Sister. This is all because of me! I feel so guilty, I should have... I should have married...’ Her eyes, a stunning turquoise colour, wavered with tears as her sentence trailed away to a desperate silence.

‘No! Don’t say it!’ Gisela responded angrily. ‘Don’t ever say such things again! We did the right thing, Marie, even if our brother was taken.’ She crouched down, taking her sister’s hands into her own. ‘None of this is your fault, do you hear me? That man...that man is a monster, the way he treated you...’

Marie’s hand reached out, touching the brooch that secured Gisela’s linen headscarf around her neck. The intricately wrought silver glittered as her fingers grazed the metal. ‘And the way he treated you, Sister. For that I am truly sorry.’

‘It was a small price to pay.’ Gisela’s eyelashes fluttered down with the memory of that horrific day: the swift retort of the sword, the slice of blade against her neck, the blood. But she had held on to Marie, held on to her sister as if her life depended on it, dragging her away from that awful man, dragging her to safety.

Marie’s hand fell back to her lap. ‘Not that small,’ she responded sadly. ‘Does the scar pain you?’ Dropping the stick, she hugged her knees, rocking slightly on the stool like a child. Despite being three years older than Gisela, her delicate beauty, her frailty, made Marie appear younger. Her ethereal looks attracted attention wherever she went, however much they tried to hide it, making her vulnerable. It was for this reason, as well as the fact that she was physically stronger, that Gisela had sought work in the town. Her plain features and short muscular body drew few glances, an attribute she was glad of while living among these Saxons; she could slip unnoticed through a crowd. Up to now. A shudder gripped her as a male voice barged through her thoughts, speaking in French. Is it because you are a Norman?

Gisela shoved the unwanted memory away, pinning a bright smile on her face. ‘It’s fine.’ Her response was clipped. She had no wish to talk about her injury, or to go over the details of that day, the regrets and recriminations. She had no wish to worry Marie any more than was necessary. At this moment, the only thing she wanted to do was find their father.

Marie was peering at her, suddenly noticing the mud caking her sister’s clothes, her wan, drained features. ‘Gisela? Did something happen to you today? You’re much later than usual.’

‘No, nothing. We had to work later, that was all. Further out in the mudflats.’ Easing herself up from her crouching position, she rolled her shoulders forward, trying to relieve the ache along the back of her neck. Although she was used to using her body physically, the days at the salt pans were long and hard, and the buckets of brine were heavy to lift. Her upper arm pained her, a sore bruised spot where the Dane had gripped her; she chewed on her bottom lip, resentful, annoyed at him, at the way he had unwittingly managed to spoil their plans.

She sighed. ‘Tell me where Father is.’

‘He’s gone to the inn. The one in the market square.’

Her heart sank, fluttered wildly. ‘But why, Marie? What could he possibly hope to achieve by going there?’

Marie hung her head, a listless, defeated gesture.

Gisela folded her arms, mouth compacting into a stern, forbidding line. ‘He’s gambling again, isn’t he?’ Darting to the corner of the cottage, she opened one of the three travelling satchels that were stacked against the wall, pulling out the few personal items that lay at the top and flinging them on the floor. Two cloth sacks full of gold coins nestled at the bottom of her father’s satchel.

One sack was missing. ‘He took a third of the ransom money, Marie! A third! Why didn’t you stop him?’ Distraught, she turned back to her sister. ‘You know how long it’s taken us to save up that amount!’

‘I tried, Gisela. I’m so sorry.’ Marie hunched her shoulders, winding her arms across her chest. ‘But he was adamant; you know how he is.’

Gisela knocked her fist against her head, straightened up. ‘Hell’s teeth, Marie! What does he think he’s going to do? The town’s awash with a Danish fleet that’s just come in! They’ll take it from him in an instant!’

‘He’s good at dice.’ Marie’s voice quavered with doubt. ‘He knows how to win.’

‘Maybe against these dim-witted townspeople,’ Gisela replied harshly. ‘But against the Danes?’ She stared fiercely at the floor, toed the packed earth angrily with her boot. ‘We were so close, we almost had all the money. We almost had our brother back. Why did he decide to risk this now?’

Marie’s fingers fretted with the end of one of her blonde plaits. ‘He wanted to help, Gisela. He thought he was doing the right thing.’

Gisela drew a length of coarse red wool out of her own travelling bag, wrapping it around her shoulders, a makeshift shawl. ‘I’ll have to go and find him.’

Rising from the stool, Marie nodded. Reaching out, she snared Gisela’s hands with her soft fingers. ‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t stop him.’

Gisela gave her sister’s hands a quick little squeeze, a gesture of reassurance. ‘You know we can’t let him lose that money. I must track him down before it’s too late.’

A frustrated anger at her father’s behaviour drove her on, driving out her fatigue. Stepping out into the alley, Gisela held her heavy, mud-clagged skirts high above her ankles, her stride rapid and light through the maze of narrow streets. In the gap between the thatched roofs, the sky had darkened to a midnight blue, pinpointed with stars, a waxing moon. The cold, ethereal light picked out the street for Gisela as she hurried along, the constant roar of men’s voices drawing her towards the town’s main square.

Something brushed against her ear; her headscarf had worked loose, slipping back over her silky hair. Ducking into a shadowed doorway, she un-pinned the brooch at her throat, quickly adjusting the material. As her fingers fumbled with the silver pin, she heard masculine voices, loud and strident, coming down the street, moving closer to her. Panic flared in her chest. Her nervous fingers dropped the brooch and it clattered down on to the muddy cobbles, the filigreed silver sparkling in the moonlight. As she dipped down to reach for it, a meaty hand scooped the brooch up before she had time to curl her fingers around it.

‘Give that back to me!’ Gisela demanded, straightening up.

A flush-faced Saxon man peered closely at her. ‘Who do we have here, eh lads?’ He grinned at his friends, swaying in various stages of drunkenness around him. Before Gisela had time to stop him, the man snatched the scarf away from her hair and pushed his hand around her chin, forcing her head up so he could see her face more clearly. ‘A beauty, methinks, and no mistake! What are you doing out on your own, maid? Touting for business in this busy town?’

They thought she was a whore! Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips, trying to find her voice, the blood hurtling through her veins in terror. ‘Get your filthy hands off me,’ she spat out fiercely.

‘William...’ a young man stepped forward, his mouth coiling with disgust. ‘Are you out of your mind? Look at her! Look at her neck! Someone’s dealt with her, good and proper. Why would you want to bed that?’

The man’s gaze slid to the scar on her neck, the line of puckered skin that stretched from behind her ear to a point just shy of her windpipe. ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he muttered. His hand dropped away, the scarf and brooch dropping from his shocked fingers to the ground. ‘No wonder you’re out on your own, girl. No one will touch you, marked as you are.’ Turning away, he spat on the ground, ushering his friends away. ‘Keep moving, lads, before she gives us the evil eye.’ The men moved off down the lane, sniggering, jostling each other.

She listened to the sound of their laughter, their whispering and tittering as they staggered off. Tears pooled in her eyes as the familiar shroud of humiliation descended; her skin hummed with shame as she bent her knees to retrieve the brooch and scarf. Why was she so surprised? What had happened then was precisely the reason she kept her scarf wrapped securely around her neck. She had experienced similar expressions of disgust aimed at her in the past, masculine declarations of snide revulsion; why should she subject herself to any more derision than was necessary? She knew she was ugly, that she would never marry or have children because of what had happened to her.

Emerging into the open area from the narrow street, Gisela lifted her gaze across the cobbled square, across the smiling faces of Danes and Saxons, the tethered horses, the dogs trotting to and fro, sniffing the ground, eager for scraps. Even in the freshening breeze, the air was thick with the smell of ale and mead, roasting meat. Fires burned beneath iron skillets; glowing sparks flew up, reflecting against chainmail hauberks, jewelled sword helms. The small Saxon town had gone to a great effort to welcome these Danish warriors.

Her feet teetered on the cobbles. She took a deep shaky breath, her flesh still trembling from her encounter with the Saxon men. Where was her courage? She needed it now, yet those men had driven it from her with their disparaging glances, their ugly words. Forget it, she told herself firmly, forget them. Your father needs you now. And yet, as she stared across the square to the inn, the sign of a gilded angel swinging above the entrance, her heart sank. Was she really going to have to fight her way across this crowded space to the inn and pull her father out? Suddenly all she wanted to do was to turn around and fly back to Marie. There was a possibility that her father might win more coin, after all, and return home unscathed.

She pressed her lips together, hugging her arms about her middle, staring at the heaving mass before her. It was a remote possibility, at the very least. If she failed to retrieve the ransom money before her father lost it all, then her brother’s life would be in jeopardy. And it would be her fault. Come on, Gisela, she chided herself, you are made of sterner stuff than that; as a family, they had come too far and gone through too much to give up now.

Snapping her shawl across her body, she ducked her head, plunging into the fray, squeezing and sliding her way through the crowds, her eyes pinned firmly to the ground. Nobody spared her a second glance, the huge blond Danes intent on slugging back their tankards of ale and singing their songs. Some had their arms firmly fastened around dark-haired Saxon maidens, claiming them already for the night ahead. Edging her way around the horses tied to the wooden rail at the front of the inn, Gisela stopped for a moment, gathering her breath and her resolve.

Over to the left, a group of Danes were gathered around what looked like a bundle of clothes on the ground. One man dropped to his haunches, reaching his arm out, shaking something, then another man crouched by his side. Nay, she realised, not clothes; it was a man, stretched out on the cobbles. She twisted her mouth into a sneer: these Danes were renowned for drinking themselves into a stupor. Twitching her gaze away, she stared back at the inn, light flickering out through the cracks in the wooden shutters. How was she going to go in there, a woman, without everyone turning to look at her as she came through the door? Sweat prickled her armpits, a cold sliding sensation coiling in her belly.

Then something made her turn back to the man on the ground. There were more men around him now, voices raised in consternation, the thick Norse vowels floating across to her. They had managed to shift him into a sitting position, his grizzled head cradled in his hands as he slumped against the wall. Between the calf-length boots of the Danes, she could see the man’s scuffed short boots, green woollen braies. Not a soldier, by the looks of him. Her heartbeat increased by a notch, then began to pound, her knuckles whitening around the wooden rail. She knew who the man was.

‘Father!’ she yelled, careful to use the Saxon language. These Norse barbarians would understand her. She raised her fists, thumping against the broad phalanx of Danish backs, criss-crossed with leather straps over shining mail-coats. ‘Let me through!’ As the men turned in surprise, Gisela pushed forward, squeezing through the jumble of thickset bodies. One man placed his arm in front of her, barring her way. ‘Nay, mistress, ’tis not for you to see.’

But she had already seen. The hunched body of her father, crumpled against the wall, head cupped in his open palms. The grey grizzled hair and beard, matted with blood. His face, deathly white, scored by familiar creases. Blood trickled down over his large bony wrists, dripping to the ground.

‘What have they done to you?’ Her voice was a long, low moan. Sliding to her knees beside him, she untied her shawl, wrapping it around her father’s shaking shoulders. ‘What happened?’

Her father’s dull stare lifted to her face, his eyelashes flicking up in recognition. He cleared his throat, licking his parched lips. ‘I won, Gisela, I won a lot. And they took it all.’

Fury seized her, a white-hot blinding anger at the unfairness of the situation, at her father’s stupidity to attempt such a foolhardy deed. Her eyes dropped to her father’s sword, the hilt gleaming from his belt. With no thought other than to exert revenge on those that had stolen from her father, Gisela grabbed at the hilt, wresting the shining blade from the leather scabbard. Springing up like a cat, she jumped to her feet, turning on the watchful circle of Danes.

‘Which one of you took his money?’ she cried out, slicing the air with the knife. The blade gleamed ominously, catching the light of the fires from the market square. ‘Who did this?’

‘Nay, not us, mistress,’ one of the men replied. ‘You are mistaken.’ His blond hair straggled down over chainmail clad shoulders. ‘We found him like this, unconscious and bleeding. It was us that helped to sit him up.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ Gisela planted her feet firmly apart, as if bracing herself for a physical fight. Her fear of these warriors slipped away at her father’s plight; she had to retrieve the money, one way or another: their situation was desperate. ‘We all know what you Danes are capable of. Why not attack an old man and take his money? He’s easy prey, after all.’ She swung the sword around in a half-circle, the movement haphazard, jerky. ‘Give it back to me, now! I’m warning you, I know how to use this!’

‘But we don’t have it, maid,’ another man explained, holding his hands out, trying to placate her. ‘We...’

‘What is going on here?’ From the back of the group, a voice rang out, deep and commanding. Immediately the men bowed their heads, forming a gap to let another man step forward. Half a head taller than his companions, with seal-dark hair and eyes of molten brown. A young man, who carried himself with the arrogant swagger of authority, his head cocked to one side as he listened to a rapid explanation from one of the men. He swept a cursory glance down at her father. Keeping his distance from her blade, surrounded by the burly Danes, he stared at Gisela, narrow lips curling with disdain.

Sweat prickled from her fingers against the leather hilt, but she held her ground, her expression mutinous, fierce, the blade tipped up in front of her.

‘What is all this nonsense, maid?’

‘Are you the leader of these men?’

‘Aye, I am Eirik Sweynsson.’ He wound his arms across his leather-bound chest. ‘Tell me, what goes on here?’

‘Your men, your godforsaken men, have taken all my father’s money, and his winnings!’ Her challenging blue gaze swept over the men, fully expecting one of them to step forward and admit his guilt. ‘They attacked him!’

Eirik smiled slowly. ‘But I think you are mistaken, maid, for they tell me that they did not. On the contrary, they helped him.’

‘And you believe them?’ Aghast, Gisela’s speech juddered out. ‘You need to search them, at the very least!’

‘Why should I believe you over my own men?’ Eirik lifted his chin, regarding her with contempt. ‘A lowly Saxon maid, dressed in rags.’ He cast a disparaging eye across her patched gown, the drab linen scarf around her head and neck. ‘For all I know, it probably isn’t your money anyway. You probably stole it from someone else.’

His goading words ripped through her; her temper flared. ‘How dare you?’ she cried out. Forgetting the sword in her hand, she lunged forward, wanting to hit out, wanting to wipe the smug, supercilious smile off his handsome, self-satisfied face.

Whipcord arms snared her waist, a punishing, bruising grip, jolting her roughly away from her intended target. She was lifted, feet dangling as if on strings, then crushed back against an iron-hard body. Fingers twisted into her wrist, pinioning the flesh, until the sword slipped from her hand and clattered to the ground. Swinging her legs, she kicked her heels furiously against the shins of her unseen opponent, pushing down angrily on the muscular forearm clamped around her waist.

‘Cease, maid, if you know what’s good for you.’ A voice, horribly familiar, drilled into her ear. Her belly plummeted in recognition., No, not him, not the Dane from the beach! Gisela began to struggle more, desperate to extract herself from his tight, unforgiving hold.

Watching her futile efforts, Eirik laughed, a mocking sound. ‘I wish I could applaud your efforts, maid. But it’ll take more than a short sword to do away with the likes of me.’ He raised his gaze above her head, catching the eyes of the man who held her. ‘I owe you one, Ragnar—’ he grinned ‘—although I’m not sure my life was in any danger.’ His eyes dropped to the blade glinting on the ground, the smile vanishing from his face. ‘Make sure she’s punished for what she’s done.’ He turned away, clapping his arm around the man next to him. ‘Come, we’re missing valuable drinking time here! Ragnar will sort out the girl.’

Ragnar. So that was the name of the man who held her. The same man who had pulled her from the mud. Not a gentle name, but one that suited his flashing eyes and the craggy angles of his face, the tall muscular body that spoke of the open sea, of lands unexplored: a restless soul. As she watched the Danes walk away, his chest pressed into her spine. The dusky scent of leather and salt, a fresh vitality, poured from him, enveloping her.

She closed her eyes, a flush rising across her cheeks; her breath caught, then emerged in staggered gasps at the intimacy of her situation. His honed thighs riding against her hips, nay, cradling them! His thick arm grazing the underside of her breasts. Sweet Jesu, she had never been this close to a man! And after what had happened to her and her sister, she had vowed to keep away from them for ever. But now? Now heat flickered, deep in her belly, spiralling upwards: a slow sensual climb. Her heart lurched in despair.

‘Let me go,’ she croaked. Her mind danced chaotically as she tried to think what she should do next, but the thoughts flicked away from her, flighty, ephemeral.

Around her waist, the burly forearm released fractionally, allowing her feet to slip to the ground. Hands planted heavily on her shoulders, spinning her around. His chin was on a level with the top of her head, clean-shaven, shallow grooves on each side of his generous mouth defining his jaw.

Gisela tipped her head up, catching his emerald gaze. ‘Those men have my father’s money.’ Fatigue swept over her and she swayed a little beneath his firm grip. ‘I must go after them. I must get it back.’ The tiredness leached through her voice, draining it of conviction.

‘There’s no need,’ Ragnar said calmly. ‘They don’t have it.’

She rolled her shoulder irritably beneath the weighty impact of his hand. If only he would go and leave her alone, for then she would at least be able to think in a logical manner. His direct green gaze muddled her, turning her brain into useless pulp. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she said grumpily. ‘Shouldn’t you be off drinking with the rest of them?’ She was so close to him that her knee nudged against his thigh; she wrenched her leg away in annoyance, jolting against him as she did so.

* * *

Ragnar laughed. For such a little thing, the maid showed astonishing courage. Either that or complete stupidity, he hadn’t decided yet. As he and Eirik had approached earlier, she had been completely surrounded by his fellow men, those big lumps of masculinity who towered above her. And yet she had seemed completely in control, swishing that small blade around as if she would tackle each and every one of them in hand-to-hand combat.

Was she even afraid of him? Of what he might do? Eirik had asked him to punish her. Not a trace of fear showed in her face. Her skin glowed, fine marble in shadowy light; a delicate rose colour flushed her cheeks. The sapphire sparkle of her magnificent eyes dominated her face, flashing with defiance. Her whole frame bristled with undisguised hostility; he should have been annoyed, but strangely, he found himself drawn to her shrewish, belligerent manner. He liked it. The majority of women he met, and that was not many, to be fair, seemed pathetic and feeble, pale ghosts compared to this firebrand.

He brought his hand up, deliberately cupping her cheek, knowing such a gesture would rile her. ‘Did we spoil your little game, maid?’ His thumb rubbed across the satin pelt of her skin, a cursory touch; she flinched at the contact, jerking her head away.

‘Game?’ she flared at him, jerking her head at her father’s defeated posture. Her red shawl looked incongruous around his shoulders, the one bright spot of his drab attire. ‘That is my father sitting there! Attacked and left for dead, his money stolen...by them...’ She jabbed a finger in the direction that Eirik had taken his men. ‘I wanted them to give it back.’

‘So you thought that pushing a knife into the King of Denmark’s son would be the solution?’ Ragnar stuck his hand through his hair, no doubt leaving the vigorous blond strands sticking upwards, haphazard. His gaze narrowed. ‘What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?’

‘You mean that dark-haired oaf is a prince?’ she replied scathingly.

‘Aye, maid,’ he confirmed, his mouth twitching with amusement, ‘that dark-haired oaf, as you like to call him, is the heir to the whole of Denmark. So you had better watch your step.’

‘But the money—’

‘Hell’s teeth, woman, are you completely stupid? Leave it alone. Go home and shut the door and try not to go around threatening to stick knives into people. Do you understand? No wonder your poor father has his head in his hands, with a daughter like you! First the mud and now this!’

Gisela glared at him, her mouth compressed into a wilful line.

Ragnar shook his head at her, a boyish grin pinned to his face. ‘And don’t you look at me like that, maid. You can hate me as much as you like, but you know I speak the truth. Go home. You might be foolhardy, but you’re certainly not stupid.’ He brought the harsh contours of his face closer to hers. ‘And your use of the Saxon language seems to have improved since I saw you last.’

* * *

Shock flooded through her, a chill shudder of foreboding. How could she have forgotten? Somehow she had given herself away out on the salt marsh. Ragnar had spoken to her in French, but she hadn’t responded. He hadn’t guessed her true identity, had he? For, as far as she could remember, she hadn’t uttered a word of her mother tongue in his presence.

Down on the ground, her father was trying to scrabble to his feet. To her surprise, the Dane leaned down, grabbing his upper arm to help him up. Gisela leapt to his other side, and together they brought the older man on to his feet.

‘Which way?’ Ragnar said companionably as he laced her father’s arm around the back of his neck.

Gisela, her arm supporting her father’s waist on the other side, peered around to Ragnar in astonishment. Suddenly, her father’s fragility was all too apparent, his gaunt frame hanging off the Dane’s broad shoulder. A wave of vulnerability washed through her. ‘We don’t need you,’ she replied resentfully. ‘Don’t you think you and your lot have done enough for this evening?’

A look of disdain crossed his lean features. ‘As you wish.’ He pulled away roughly so that her father’s full weight fell heavily against her. She staggered backwards, heels striking the wall as she fought to hold him upright. Her slight frame buckled beneath her father’s bulk and she wondered whether she was even capable of taking one step forward. She hated the fact that the Dane watched her, saw her weakness with his knowing eyes.

‘I can do it!’ she whispered fiercely as he came towards her.

Scooping the man’s arm around his neck, Ragnar regarded her coolly. ‘No, maid, you cannot. Even I am not so heartless as to leave you here, at the mercy of a town full of drunken Danes.’