But Mergwin didn’t smile, and he didn’t turn away. “I cast your runes again today.”
Eric lifted his cup vaguely. “And?”
“Hegalez. And then the blank rune.”
“Hegalez warns of storms, of tempests and great power, of thunder on the earth. And we know that is destined to come, for we ride to fight the Dane at Rochester.”
“I read the same runes for your mother once,” Mergwin muttered.
Eric felt that the old man was digressing, that his great age was beginning to tell on him at last. It seemed that he had lived forever, for Mergwin had served Eric’s grandfather, Aed Finnlaith, Ard-Ri of all Eire, since he had been a boy.
Eric spoke gently then, because he did love his ancient mentor greatly. “Mergwin, do not fear for me. I face the truth of battle and do not fear death. Nay, rather I fear the life in which a man could forget that death is one day his keeper, whether he is brave or a wretched coward. I will watch my back when we fight the Dane. I will stay in close union with Rollo, and we will be like an impenetrable wall.”
Mergwin walked over to him. He leaned his back against the tree and sighed. “There is some darkness closer. Clouds hover and I cannot read them.”
“Clouds are a part of life.”
The Druid pushed away from the tree. He stared at Eric intently, then he wagged a finger at him. “Take care, for the treachery looks close. It is not the enemy that you see but the enemy that you cannot see.”
“Mergwin,” Eric said wearily, “I will heed all your warnings and take great care. For tonight, though, I am suddenly quite tired.” He clapped the old man on the back and turned away.
He did not want to be with his men that night. He sought the earth beneath him, and the moon over his head, and the darkness and solitude of the night.
He carried Vengeance with him, though, for the Druid’s words had hit their mark, and Eric was ever wary. He walked until he came to a bubbling brook and sat there, listening to the sound of it. It was a lulling, peaceful melody, and his soul wreaked havoc with him. He laid out his mantle there and slept.
Dawn came.
Rhiannon quietly left the manor. She wore her warm mantle, but she knew that she would have no need for the jewels she had sewn so carefully into the hem of the garment.
She would meet Rowan. She would meet him because she had loved him, because they had dreamed together. She would meet him because they had really been in love and because she had to say good-bye. But she would no longer dream of an escape.
She would not run away with him.
It was not fear of Alfred that had brought her to obedience to his will. It was fear of the bloodshed that could follow if she refused to honor the pledge to the Irish prince. Alfred would be forced to war with the very men he had summoned to be his strength against the Danes. The king, himself, would fight, and endless men might die. She had seen enough bloodshed on the coast.
And if the Norse-Irish and the men of Wessex decimated one another, the Danes would take the victory in the end. She did not think that she could be responsible for such horror.
At the stables she hastily chose a dappled gray mare, saddled her, and rode out. If the grooms were awake, they did not notice her. When the sentry at the gate saw her, he merely waved, and let her pass.
At the oak she waited.
Dawn broke in the east and Rowan didn’t come. Heartache seized her, and she grieved for the time that might have been theirs. Rowan was another reason she could not run. If Rowan was caught with her, he could be slain. If war broke out again between the Irish and English troops, that blood would lie at her feet. She had longed for rescue and fought the demons in her heart, but she could not flee.
She heard a rustling in the bush and turned, half expecting that she was to be dragged back to Wareham by the king’s men, half praying that her love had come to her at last.
“My heart!”
The urgent whisper filled her with gladness. She pushed away from the tree and ran through the brush to greet him. She cast herself into his arms, forgetting that she was soon to be another man’s bride. He did not push her away, and for a moment she forgot that she had come to say good-bye. He held her tight as his mouth found hers and melded to it. He ran his fingers through her hair and gazed into her eyes, then he kissed her again, delicately plunging his tongue into her mouth.
It was just a kiss, she thought. A sweet remembrance to hold her through the aching, empty years. God would understand and forgive her.
She was about to be wed. Legally wed in a binding Christian ceremony.
But her heart was being torn in two, and she could not pull away from the warmth of Rowan’s tender kiss.
It was he who pulled away. He drew her to his chest.
“I love you!” she sobbed. “I love you so dearly!”
“And I love you! We will be together.”
“Oh, Rowan! We cannot be together—ever again.”
He seemed not to hear her. He held her more closely to him, whispering. With his arms around her they fell down gently together into the tall grass. It was barely daylight and they were alone. Rhiannon forgot her fears that someone might come after them. She forgot that she was to become the Viking’s bride. She gave way to the beauty of the dawn. Who could they hurt by sharing these last few minutes of words and whispers, and aye, a final kiss or two?
Rowan, dear Rowan, gazed down upon her, caressing her cheek. He sighed. “I linger. We must make haste!” he said.
He hadn’t understood yet. He still thought that she had come to run away with him. She shook her head sadly and Rowan frowned. “We must make haste, love, for they will discover us gone. I would lay down my life for you but I would rather be with you.”
“Damn the king!” she swore softly.
“Love, suppress such words. They are treasonous.” He kissed her fingers, and she stared with love into his eyes, at his manly features.
“Damn him, Rowan,” she repeated. “That we have come here now is treasonous—even if just to say good-bye to each other. What greater harm can I do with words?”
“But we will flee—”
“Nay, Rowan, listen to me. We cannot.”
It took him time to understand her brokenly stated words.
“He would catch us,” she whispered miserably. “He could slay you.”
“Ah, love! I cannot watch you go to him!”
“You must. Oh, God, Rowan! I have weighed this so carefully in my mind! I have no choice, except to be the cause of endless death! Would that it could be otherwise. Oh, Rowan, it breaks my heart, shatters it, to cause you pain!”
Indeed it did, for he looked down upon her with such anguish that she could not bear it.
“Oh, Rowan!” she cried. “You will always have my heart, I swear it! I do love you so very much.”
“My God, and I love you!” he vowed, and the passion and pain were so intense in his words that she suddenly found herself in his arms again, held tightly and fiercely. And his lips were hot with ardor upon hers. The kiss was sweet, intoxicating.
And then … it was more.
She did not know who seduced who, or how things went so very far so very quickly. It was the moment, it was the bitter pain of parting, it was the pain of love. She was touching his shoulders, and they were bare. And his hands were upon her naked flesh, for her mantle and tunic had been swept away. And then she was whispering anew.
“I love you, I love you. I am pledged to a viperous rodent, a vile Viking bastard, but I love you.”
Then his whisper caressed her, heated, tender. She realized what they had come to, what she was about to do. It had to be right. She loved him. And words filled with his love were falling passionately from his tongue.
It was not right and she knew it. She was pledged to another man. She would marry him before God.
“Rowan!” Her wrenching cry stopped him. His eyes touched hers and he saw the sadness, the agony.
And the passion between them fade
d. He held her still but gently.
For these few moments she would feel no guilt. She held tightly to him and heard the song of a bird, thinking that she would cherish those few moments alone with him forever.
She did not know that they were not alone at all.
Eric, Prince of Dubhlain, stood hard and cold not twenty feet away.
In the night he had dreamed of serpents.
Wicked, evil creatures, they had raised their heads around him, and he had risen with Vengeance to fight them. With all his strength and power, he did battle, but they sprang back from the earth. Emenia was beside him, and he knew that she had lain there; he had felt her gentle touch, had known that her hair entangled him, that her limbs had been entwined with his. He fought the serpents and slew them again and again. But when he reached for her, a cry of agony welled within him, rising to the heavens and beyond in endless anguish. The blood was upon her and sprang from her. He took her into his arms and tried to breathe his life into her, but the blood rose around them like a storm, like a tide. And then he knew that it wasn’t Emenia at all but another woman who lay with him, another woman whose hair entangled him. He tried to sweep the blood-soaked strands of hair from her face, but she began to sink in the ever-rising red pool. The serpents were dragging her down. He reached for her and she screamed again ….
He awoke shaking in the night. He jumped to his feet, Vengeance in his hands.
Slowly he began to breathe evenly again. He mocked himself for fearing a dream when he did not hesitate to meet the whole of a Danish army.
He lay back down. He looked at the moon, and sleep eluded him while memories haunted his mind. At last he slept again, deeply.
He felt the coming of the morning, the kiss of the dawn, the faint touch of the sun. He heard the gentle gurgling of the brook in a pleasant state between wakefulness and sleep. Vaguely he heard rustling in the wood. The sound was furtive, and he knew that it presented to him no danger, so he did not rise. Some maiden came, he realized dimly. She seemed to crave silence and was in no mood for company. Let the girl be. He’d not destroy her solitude by alerting her to his presence.
But then she was joined by a man.
He heard fragments of her whispers. He wanted to leave the lovers together but could not go without being seen.
He saw their garments seem to slide away. He saw the exquisite beauty of her back, naked even of her hair, for it had been bound high and knotted in a braid. She had been achingly beautiful, the curves of her breasts just visible to him, her fine, molded buttocks flaring out from a tiny waist and touched with delicate dimples on either side of the small of her back. Her neck was long and graceful, and her shoulders were beautifully sloped and supple. He caught his breath as he watched her, and then he again longed to be far away, for he did not wish to disturb a pair of star-crossed lovers.
Then he heard their words clearly, and within moments he realized who the woman was.
Rhiannon. His betrothed.
Fury exploded within him.
He could not allow it. He had not wanted to enter her life, but she had been given over to him, and what was his he guarded carefully.
She was to be his wife!
The rage swept through him and he fought to control it.
Perhaps the lovers had met and mated here, in the tall grasses, many times before.
He was not about to let them betray him now, or ever again. He stood hastily, reaching for his sword, lest the foolish young buck think to fight him.
He did not have a chance to reach the lovers, for the quiet clearing by the brook was suddenly shattered by the sounds of hoofbeats. “Find them!” someone shouted. “By the king’s honor, find them!”
Rhiannon cried out and jumped to her feet. She hadn’t time to dress, but her lover rose with her, casting her mantle about her.
“Run!” he urged her. “Reach the clearing!”
“Nay, the king will not kill me. He could well slay you! Oh, Rowan, if harm comes to you—”
“Go!” the young swain ordered her. He shoved her toward the place where Eric stood.
“Nay, not until you return! You run. If they do not find us together, they cannot charge you with my disappearance, or with—” She broke off, her voice trailing away miserably.
“I will run!” he promised her, and he propelled her onward again.
She came stumbling through the foliage. Eric stood still, fighting his rage. Riders thrashed their way through the grasses, and he knew that she was desperate to elude them. She came crashing through the water of the brook, and she stumbled right before him. She saw the hem of his mantle and grabbed it.
“Sir, kind sir, I beg of you, help me! My guardian is marrying me off to a Viking bastard, and I am desperate to elude pursuit at this moment. Please! My life shall be spent with a viperous rodent, but I—”
Her silvery blue eyes at last rose to his, filling with amazement. She recognized him, but Eric realized then that she didn’t know just who he was. Stunned terror followed the amazement, and her ivory skin grew pale and as white as snow.
Rhiannon realized with numbing horror that she had come upon the Viking. There was no help here. Nay, she faced disaster.
“Oh, no!” she gasped. “You!”
She had to elude this man. She rose with lightning-quick speed and spun around. But before she could run, he reached for her. His boot fell upon her mantle, and it tore from her shoulders. He spun her around, and she came, naked, into the brutal grip of his arms.
Maybe he had forgotten her.
No, he had not.
He remembered her—that was all too evident. He remembered her arrows—and her knee, no doubt. She had never seen such a dark fury lay hold upon a man’s face before. A weakness filled her. He was surely the Irish prince’s bloody henchman. He would return her to Alfred or to his own liege lord. Or perhaps he would slay her and not even the king would protest.
“Have mercy!” she whispered, tossing her head back. Her braid tumbled down. The heavy locks broke free from their twining and came cascading down her back. She longed to sweep it about her to clothe herself.
But he did not look at her nudity; he stared into her eyes and a dark, brooding hatred remained within his own.
“Mercy?” he inquired. It was voiced softly and yet with a deadly menace. “Mercy?”
She cried out as he dragged her closer, slamming her against the heated power of his chest. He gripped her hands so tightly that she feared he would crush her wrists, and she was forced to feel the hard, towering length of him, and the brutal anger that coursed icily from his eyes into her own and onward to her heart.
“I fought you because I thought we were under attack!” she told him swiftly. “I would not have caused you injury had I known that you came at the king’s invitation. Please, let me go now! You must have mercy because—”
“No, lady, no. I do not think so.”
“But—”
“It has nothing to do with the deadly arrow you meant for my heart, the one that struck my thigh and causes me to limp to this day. Nor does it have to do with your delicate knee slamming against my groin or your elegant fists tearing into my chest. Nay, lady, all of those I could perhaps forgive.”
“Then—”
“You shall have no mercy from me because I am, you see, that viperous rodent; the bastard, barbaric Viking to whom you are betrothed.”
Her mouth parted and fell into an O of horror. And then she cast back her head and screamed in sheer, mad panic, jerking her wrists desperately to free herself. She screamed again and again as horror filled her, cold, icy, seeping throughout her. She was in his power. Naked and vulnerable, crushed against him. She felt acutely the awful strength of his chest, thighs, and arms.
“You!” she breathed.
“Aye, lady, me!”
This could not be the Irish prince!
“Oh, God, no!” she whispered, and she pitted herself against him again, as wild as a tigress. There was nothing left t
o salvage; she had to escape him and flee.
She could not ease his hold upon her, and she tried to bite his flesh. When that failed, she raised her knee with wicked insinuation against him again.
“Hold!” he raged at her, and swept her up and furiously cast her down upon the earth. Breathless, her hair tumbling all about her like a heavenly fire, she stared up at him. Her breasts lay bare beneath the fall of her hair. She realized her vulnerable state, and a desperate sound escaped her as she tried to rise.
He stepped over her fallen body, placing one booted foot on either side of her hips, catching her hair beneath his tread so that she could not move.
Then he came slowly down himself, straddling her. She lifted her fists to beat against his chest, but his hands seized her wrists and he pressed them hard to the earth on either side of her head. His body was against hers, hard and merciless. Powerful and vibrant, like heated steel.
She could not free herself.
Yet as he stared at her, his mouth a line of fury, his hold a touch of iron, she realized with a searing dread that her dream had been prophetic—her Viking adversary was the prince of Dubhlain.
“We meet again, lady,” he said softly. The ice-blue fire of his eyes entered her very soul, searing her. She wondered just what he had seen, what he had heard.
Everything …
“And under such … interesting circumstances. I had nearly determined that there might be a slim chance of peace between us, and yet I come to Wareham for my wedding, and what do I discover? My bride, naked to the core, awaiting me.”
He moved away from her at last, still straddling her hips, balancing his weight upon his haunches. The cold morning air swept over her flesh, causing her breasts to swell beneath his gaze, her nipples to harden. He had barely seemed to notice her nakedness before; now he inspected her with brazen disdain, and the touch of his eyes brought fire to her flesh.
Life returned to her. She twisted beneath him, trying to evade the hold of his thighs. “Let me up, free me!” she commanded.
“Nay, lady, nay!” he promised her softly. His Nordic eyes impaled her, striking her heart like a shaft of cold steel. He leaned closer to her once again, his breath touching her lips. “Not until the day you die, my sweet.”