“He gives us naught but pretense, milady,” Wulnoth said in the local dialect.
Erika had been teaching these people Danish, the language she wanted them eventually to use, but it was a slow process, and when she was not around, she knew they reverted to Anglo-Saxon. Wulnoth, in particular, clung to his own language even when she was present, and although she could understand it well enough, she refused to answer in kind, forcing him to switch to Danish or get no further conversation from her.
It was typical of the man’s character to play this little game of dominance with her every time they had words together. She supposed he hoped to catch her up at least once, to hear her answer him in Anglo-Saxon. He would feel he had won some sort of victory over her if she did. It was a source of satisfaction to her that she never made that mistake.
“He pretends ignorance of our language,” Wulnoth continued, “and he pretends to be so weak he cannot even stand, when you have only to look at him to see his strength.”
Erika was looking at him, and Wulnoth was correct. The strength was there, couldn’t help but be there, in a very wide and muscular chest, and in the arms that stretched so tautly above his head that every thick cord in them stood out. And unnoticed before, because Wulnoth had stood in front of him, was that his feet did not dangle just above the floor, as the position of the chains was supposed to ensure. The man’s feet were planted firmly on the ground and his knees were actually bent, suggesting that he would tower over the captain if he were standing erect.
So much for the puzzle of needing six men to get him here, Erika mused. A man this large and tall would weigh a very great amount, and these local men who now paid allegiance to her brother could not compare in size. But he was indeed pretending weakness. That, or mayhap he was just so exhausted he couldn’t remain awake. Less likely things were known to happen. Or mayhap Wulnoth had already tortured him vilely, though she was sure he would not dare.
His clothes were those of a serf, but that could be a disguise. His long hair hadn’t been altered, though. Raven-black it was, clearly suggesting Celtic origins.
She replied to Wulnoth in Danish, once again spoiling his hope that she might forget and speak his tongue. “The man could as like be tired as weak. And a Celt may not know your language, but a spy would of necessity know mine. Did you try mine?”
His reddened face told her he had not. And a new voice told her she had guessed correctly.
“You speak Danish?”
The prisoner had lifted his head to ask that, and Erika could do no more than stare and continue staring, until she realized what she was doing and color crept hotly into her cheeks. But she excused her bemusement immediately. Her eyes were not deceiving her. The man had a face so handsome it defied description. Beautiful was all she could think to call him, and even that didn’t do him justice.
Oh, he could learn secrets easily enough—from women. But women rarely knew the secrets of war…Erika was appalled at how quickly she was ready to dismiss the charges against him because she found him handsome, incredibly handsome—unbelievably handsome. She would have to guard against that, judge him only on the facts.
She finally answered him. “What else would I speak? But you speak Danish well yourself, for a Celt. Of course, you would have had to learn it in order to spy here.”
It was as if he hadn’t heard her, for his next question was unrelated. “What is a Dane doing in Wessex?”
“Ah, so now we know for whom you spy.”
“Answer me, wench.”
Erika stiffened in something close to outrage, though she curbed it well, adding, “And that you are used to command. But we will ask the questions here. I am Lady Erika, sister of Ragnar Haraldsson, who holds Gronwood and these lands hereabouts. In his absence, I am the authority you must answer to, and you may begin with your name.”
“You sound as bossy as my sister.”
The grin he gave her had Erika blushing again and even forgetting the demeaning name he had called her. It also caused a warmth to uncurl deep in her belly. She couldn’t say why she felt his words to be a compliment, or why that should please her. And then she groaned inwardly. She was reacting to his handsomeness again, like some silly maid who had naught better to do than sigh and simper over his flattery. She could have none of that if she wished to maintain her authority.
“Your name?” she snapped again.
He sighed, and seemed to slump a bit farther down the wall. Why he would stretch his arms so torturously when he had only to stand up to relieve the pressure…?
“I am Selig the Blessed, of the Haardrad clan of Norway.”
Erika heard Turgeis stir behind her. He would be sympathetic to another Norwegian. She hoped he didn’t credit such an obvious lie, and it annoyed her that the man couldn’t have come up with a better one than that.
“Your looks betray you,” she scoffed, then heard herself offer, “I have heard the Cornish Celts are giants, and ’tis more like you are one of them. Why would you lie? We are not enemies with them. They have even helped our men against the Saxons.”
“How do you come to be in Wessex?”
His evasion infuriated her, as did the confusion he portrayed so convincingly. She had given him an identity that would have benefited him, could have allowed her to let him go, yet he hadn’t accepted it, had in fact ignored it. Loki take him, then, for she would be damned if she would attempt to aid him again.
“You are in East Anglia, as if you did not know, near Bedford.”
“’Tis not possible.”
Now he called her a liar? Tight-lipped, she turned to Wulnoth. “Why is he accused of spying?” Her very expression warned him not to answer in anything but Danish, and so he did, and fluently.
“The returning patrol found him lying outside the wall, trying to escape their notice in the dark, and ’twas just opposite the wall where the changing of the guard was being discussed.”
The prisoner addressed that before she could. “I was sitting, not lying, and I wanted their notice because I doubt I could have moved another step on my own.”
“His sack was full of newly cooked food,” Wulnoth quickly added, “that could have come from our kitchen. Mayhap he hurt himself climbing over the wall to escape, since the gate had been locked.”
Erika’s brow tilted. “So now you would have him as our thief, too?”
“One or the other,” Wulnoth insisted. “Or mayhap even an escaped slave.”
She could see Wulnoth was determined to have a victim, but the last was a moot point. If he was an escaped slave, she doubted he had always been so, and he was welcome to his freedom. Others had sought sanctuary with the Danes and found it more often than not, just as Danish slaves escaped to Wessex and West Mercia. As for him being their thief…
“The food came from a goodwife north of here,” the prisoner said, sounding almost drunk with weariness. “It would be a simple matter to find her and question her.”
Erika was inclined to believe that just because she could not believe this beautiful giant had been able to come into the manor without being noticed. But a spy he could definitely be, and her brother would deal harshly with him. There were too many years of war and surprise campaigns, in which thousands of lives were at risk if plans were not kept secret, for Ragnar not to have him killed outright. That they were supposedly at peace now would make no difference.
But his fate was in her hands, not Ragnar’s.
She couldn’t simply dismiss the charge out of hand. Sneaking and hiding both warranted suspicion, as did a Celt’s fluent grasp of the Danish tongue. But they were at peace, which did make a difference. And the changing of the guard, what he was supposed to have been overhearing, was no great secret, could be figured out by anyone keeping watch on the manor. She could be generous.
“As to thievery, your story will indeed be looked into,” she told him. “But what excuse have you for being found where and how you were found?”
She thought he was refusing
to answer when he shook his head, but he replied, slowly, “I was seeking aid. My head…I was injured—clubbed, I believe—when my party was attacked by thieves.”
Immediate concern assailed Erika, so that she snapped at the captain, “Check his head for injury, Wulnoth!” and stood there anxiously waiting while he did so. It would explain much—the man’s weakness, his confusion—but not what he was doing in East Anglia.
“I find no abnormality,” Wulnoth stated.
Anger came again, that she could be so gullible, and so quick to pardon the man. His bright gray eyes had closed, and she heard him sigh.
“Your man lies,” he said to her. “The knot was there this morn. It could not have gone so quickly. Feel for yourself, wench.”
Erika gritted her teeth. If he called her wench one more time, she would leave him to Wulnoth’s tender care. As for touching him herself, it showed churlish arrogance on his part even to suggest it.
“Whether you are injured or not does not say why you are in East Anglia,” she told him, then pointed out the obvious. “Who better to spy for a Saxon than a Celt, who would be less suspect if found.”
“I do not even speak their tongue.”
“So you say.”
“But I do come from Wessex.”
“The truth at last.”
Selig tried to focus on her again, but his vision had gone blurry when that Wulnoth had pressed his fingers against the lump on his head. The pain was nigh unbearable now, but he had to bear it. He sensed it was important that he appease the woman—eyes the color of a midday sky, brows gently arched. He wondered why she sounded so sarcastic. Or was it just disbelief he was hearing?
He had trouble believing what he had been told as well. Someone had brought him north? For that to be so, days must have passed that he had no memory of—honey-gold hair sprinkled with cinnamon—the hollow ache in his belly was turning him fanciful, but, this wench was truly lovely, and he didn’t need to see her clearly now, as she stood in front of him, to still picture her in his mind. She wasn’t as tall as Kristen, mayhap a few inches shorter, and much slimmer, though no thin wisp. There were ample breasts there for his hands—spying? Odin help him, that was a grand jest.
He was a man blessed, smiled on by the Norse gods, tolerated by the Christian god, healthy, strong, and pleasing to the eye, with a wonderful family, a fine home he had helped build with his own hands, his own ship to aid in making his fortune—and all the women a man could ask for. He could not possibly be in this predicament. And with a woman accusing him, no less. She should have had him released immediately, should be fussing over him, should drown him in tender care. His head should be resting comfortably between her breasts. Nay, not hers.
He shook his head again, though the pain stabbed at him. He couldn’t keep it straight that she was the lady here, was accusing him, was apparently his judge, when all he wanted to do was entice her, she was so fetching.
Her voice reached his ears through the haze. “If you are a spy, there was naught for you to learn here other than we prosper, are well settled and well defended, a good thing for your King Alfred to know.”
The blurring cleared, but now he saw two of her pacing before him. “I doubt he would care,” he managed to say. “He defends, he does not invade.”
She ignored that to add, “My brother would simply have you killed, but he is not here and I am more practical. If you have ken or a lord who would pay Danegeld for your release, name him now, and I will send word to him.”
“I can pay for my own release.”
“Show me your coin, or do you think me stupid enough to have you taken to it?”
He would not involve Kristen in this absurd dilemma. It was a woman he had to deal with—lush, inviting lips, a stubborn chin, a contradiction—how hard could it be to charm her into letting him go?
He smiled at her, the smile that had won him so many hearts. “You want the truth, sweetling? I was indeed on King Alfred’s business. There were five others with me, including a bishop who held contracts to set before your king, offering three Saxon damsels, fair of face and richly dowered, to be given to whichever high-ranking Danes Guthrum chose to favor. But we were attacked by Saxon thieves before we even left Wessex, the others all killed as far as I know, and myself…I cannot say how I came to be here. My last memory was of the attack, yet I woke this morn just north of here.”
She didn’t look appeased. She stood still now, those azure eyes glaring at him. “And I am to believe that? And you would also have me believe you are a Norse Viking? A Viking doing a Saxon king’s bidding? By Odin—!”
“By Odin, I swear ’tis so,” he cut in before she worked herself into a lather. “That I associate with Saxons is due to circumstance, in that my sister has wed one, no small feat, since she had been his captive slave first, and my father had already rescued her.”
Erika was ready to scream with frustration. His other tales were bad enough, utter nonsense, but this last? Slaves marrying their captors? Did he think her a complete idiot?
She refrained from commenting on what he had just told her, too vexed to do so without losing her temper completely, strained as it was. “If you will not give me a name, mayhap I will send word to your King Alfred.”
“Nay, you will not, for your king, newly made Christian that he is, would not like it when Alfred lodges his complaint, that one of his emissaries has been falsely accused and treated so.”
“Falsely accused?” she repeated dryly. “When all you have to tell us are lies? If there is no one to ransom you, merely say so.”
Selig had no more strength for this. The dizziness was coming on again, and he was not even moving to cause it this time. He feared the fever he had sensed earlier was returning also. Nor was he sure who his antagonist was from one moment to the next, just that she was so lovely—and he hadn’t tried her yet.
He could barely concentrate to say, “You and I are not enemies, could never be enemies. Release me, wench. I am in need of a bed, yours if you like.”
Erika’s temper exploded this time, for him to be so crudely insulting, and in front of her men. “You dare! Mayhap a lashing will give you a civil tongue by the time I question you again, if I question you again. I am more of a mind to let you rot in here!”
He didn’t notice the shadow that followed her out of his prison. All he saw was the malicious smile of the captain of the guard before he gave in to the pain and let the blessed blackness claim him once more.
Chapter 8
ERIKA HAD MARCHED no more than twenty paces when the horror of what she had just done broke through her fury and she stopped abruptly. Turgeis would have run into her if he didn’t know her so well. But he had hung back, expecting her to reverse her decision.
She was not cruel. Had the insult been dealt another of her station, she would have let the decision stand—it was warranted. But for herself she would turn the other cheek, just as she would take the blame unto herself. He wished she wouldn’t do that also, but she would.
He was correct. She was appalled by her actions. She had lost control.
The prisoner had made her lose it, but still, she was ultimately at fault for letting him. Yet no one had ever offended her like that Celt had done, and done so repeatedly. He deserved a lashing for that, truly he did, but she would swallow her gall and reverse her order. Nor would she hand him or anyone else over to Wulnoth for punishment. Even when a lashing was necessary, she ordered that another administer it. Wulnoth simply took too much pleasure in inflicting pain.
She turned to have Turgeis see to the matter, for she didn’t trust herself to deal with the Celt again. Her emotions turned to mush in his presence, her reactions beyond the norm, and that was unacceptable for someone in her position. But a shout from the hall drew her attention there first.
“Milady, come quick! ’Tis Thurston. He took a fall and I fear broke his arm.”
All else was instantly forgotten. Her nephew had been hers to care for since he was a bab
e of only two winters. Her motherly instincts took over, had her running toward the hall and through the doors, her heart slamming against her ribs, her complexion gone white, and whiter still when she heard the boy’s screams as she neared the bedchamber that was his.
He was on the bed. Two of the servants were trying to still his thrashing about. Their healer was already at his side, trying to soothe him. But this was Thurston’s first experience with serious pain. He continued to scream, holding the arm that was bent oddly, and Erika wished fervently that she could take the pain unto herself for him, but she couldn’t. All she could do was ease his fear of it, and she went immediately to his side to do that.
“Hush, now, my lad,” she said softly, cupping his dear face, a miniature of her brother’s, in her hands. “It hurts now, but in a few days you will be showing it off to your friends and telling them how brave you were.”
“But—but I am not!” Thurston wailed.
“But you will be now that you know Elfwina will fix it good as new.” She turned to the healer. “Is that not so?” Her tone and expression positively dared the old woman to deny it.
“I will splint it—” Elfwina began.
“You will straighten it first,” Erika snapped at the woman. “’Tis his sword arm—will be his sword arm. He must have full use of it, and I have seen it done. Do it.”
The healer shook her head fearfully. “But I have never. I have not the strength—”
“Turgeis!”
Erika didn’t look to see if he was there. He was always there. And he came to the opposite side of the bed and, without being told, took hold of Thurston’s wrist.
“Hold him,” was all he said to her.
She did, gathering the boy up gently into her arms and whispering against his cheek, “This may hurt a bit more, dear heart, before it gets better. ’Tis all right for you to scream once more.”
He did, right in her ear, before he slumped in her arms, unconscious. She carefully laid him back down, wiping the tears from his cheeks, ignoring her own, glad he had fainted for the while. She caught Turgeis’s eye, was about to thank him, but remembered instead. The prisoner. And again the color drained from her face.