The Viking's Heart

Lucien scowled at having drawn this duty, but he pulled his destrier around as Agravar kicked his into action and raced across the meadow.

Chapter Three

Agravar came upon them at the stream by Fenman’s forge. He spotted a flash of color through the trees. They had stopped, perhaps watering the horses. Reining his destrier, he slid onto the ground and crept up on foot, staying close to the thicket. Quietly, he unsheathed the new sword from his scabbard and held it low lest some of the sunlight filtering in through the canopy catch the steel.

They were just ahead, the man and woman. She was bent over by the stream. Her hair, the color of dark honey strewn with sunlight, was loose and thick, left unbound in the maidenly fashion. Her face, in profile, was striking in its clean lines—straight nose, strong chin, generous mouth and deep-set eyes under a delicate pale brow.

A noblewoman. Could this be Rosamund Clavier? Agravar wondered, for she was no one he had seen before in these lands. If so, what had happened to her traveling party? And who was this man with her?

The man in question watched the woods as the woman bent over the shallow waters to ladle water with her cupped hands. He wore a jaunty red hat with a ridiculous plume stuck in it. It appeared he was nervous, but he allowed her to linger long enough for Agravar to move closer.

“Come,” the man said, touching the woman on the arm. “We must make haste.” When she didn’t respond, he said more insistently, “Lady Rosamund.”

Her head snapped up. She stood. And Agravar stood.

First he caught her eyes, bright, rounded orbs of pale honey brown. Agravar cleared three long steps before anyone moved. Raising his weapon, he crept up behind the man in the red hat. That one finally realized someone was coming up behind him and whirled about.

“Step away. I am Agravar the Viking and have come to fetch the lady to safety.”

The look of horror on Rosamund’s face, her single, reflexive step backward as if in recoil, stung him. He was used to people reacting to his Nordic looks, his size, his heavily muscled frame, but the stark fear in those grave eyes slipped under his defenses like a stiletto wheedling inside the links of mail.

His gaze snapped back to her companion, who had drawn his sword. Agravar raised his own blade to meet the challenge and issue a silent threat. The damnable thing felt like a feather. Agravar wished for the comfort of his old familiar broadsword.

He spoke. “Be reasonable, wretch. You cannot hope to best me. Your ransom is lost, if that was your aim.”

The man with the ridiculous headgear advanced nonetheless, holding his weapon in front of him as if it were a cross wielded to ward off evil spirits. “You’ll not take her whilst I stand.”

“Fool—the game is lost.”

The man’s dark eyes glittered. “I will not leave behind my gain, sir!”

But the gain left without him. The lady in question whirled in a gentle swirl of hair and skirts and fled without a sound.

Agravar decided he had tarried long enough with this nonsense. He struck. The jab of his weapon was lightning quick but lacking in substance. Unused to the lighter weight, he felt off balance, cursing under his breath. Mentally correcting for the difference, his next try made more of a threat as it sliced a neat little gash across the man’s tunic.

The man brought the hilt of his dagger down in an unskilled move, hoping only to deflect the blow. A strange sound split the air as the fine, gleaming steel—imported from Spain for its superior quality—snapped off!

It fell into the dirt with an inauspicious ping. Amazed, Agravar held up the hilt and its paltry stub of steel.

“You broke my sword,” he bellowed in an accusing voice.

The man seemed horrified to see what he had done. “Sir, I am sorry. I—”

He said no more, for Agravar took advantage of his consternation to close the gap between them in two quick strides and lay a crushing blow to the man’s jaw. His red hat flew off in one direction, the feather in the other, and the brave fool crumpled into a heap.

Agravar shoved his embarrassingly damaged weapon into his belt and set off after the woman.

If she reached the horses, she might have a chance, Rosamund thought, hiking her skirts up and running as hard as she could. Not since she was a child, romping in the forests of Hallscroft with the peasant children from the nearby farms, had she pushed her body this hard.

She would never outrun that terrifying Viking. The thought pushed her harder, her legs pumped faster. The horses—if she made it to them, freedom was hers.

The need to know if he was behind her was hard to resist, but she was not about to lose one precious second in glancing back. Wait! She skidded, caught her balance and turned. This was not the way to the horses. This path didn’t look familiar at all. She circled again, panic rising.

A loud, splintering crash sounded from up on her right, where a slight ridge ran parallel to the path she had just come down. Whirling, she saw him as he leaped into the air, his face grim, teeth bared in a bone-chilling snarl that drained the blood out of her body in a single heartbeat. His hair streamed out behind him, pale and shiny, catching dappled sunlight and throwing it back into the forest.

She was so shocked she didn’t think to get out of his way. He landed in front of her, squarely on two feet, but his momentum carried him into her. His hands clutched her waist as they fell, twisting them both so that when they struck the loamy turf, it was he who landed on his back. She fell on top of him, cushioned nicely on his great chest.

He let out a sound that was half grunt, half sigh as the hard ground and her slight weight compressed his mighty form from either side. His arms held her, but loosely. She waited only a moment to catch her breath before pushing herself up and away.

The thick arms tightened immediately, making her struggles impossible. But her hands were free. They struck something solid and cold, giving her an idea. Stilling her body’s movements, she stretched out her fingers, grazing their tips against her boon. Nimbly she worked her hand forward and closed her grip.

He rolled, bringing her under him. She found herself trapped by his arms on either side of her and the broad-shouldered mass of him overhead. As neatly caged as a prisoner, she peered up at the face that hovered only inches from hers.

“Are you the Lady Rosamund Clavier?”

His voice was deep, and at this proximity, the rich tone reverberated throughout her whole body. He smelled vaguely of sweat and a faint hint of soap, perhaps from his shave, for his chin and cheeks were bare.

She nodded, not wanting to try her voice.

“I am sent by your cousin, the Lady Alayna. Be easy, my lady, for I mean you no harm. If I allow you up, will you listen to what I have to say?”

Again she bobbed her head.

He hauled himself up, moving quickly and with surprising agility for one so large. She slipped her hand behind the long panel of her surcoat as she climbed slowly to her knees and then to her feet, her back to him.

“Lady Rosamund, I—”

In one giddy, unpracticed motion, she whirled and brought up what she thought was his dagger in both her hands. “Let me be!” she cried, and jabbed the weapon out at him in a threatening gesture meant to ward him off.

The broken-off hilt of a blade was displayed before her.

Her eyes fastened on it, then shifted to his face. He was watching her with dancing eyes. They were very blue, like a cold north sea. Perhaps that was just her fanciful association from the knowledge that he was a Viking.

“And exactly what do you intend to do to me with that?”

She blinked rapidly, trying to think. “It is more weapon than any you can claim,” she said bravely.

“And what makes you think I am in need of a weapon, my gentle woman?” A blur caught the corner of her eye. And then her hand hurt. She looked at it to see what could be causing the pain and was amazed to find it empty.

“Now we are evenly matched,” he said, stepping forward.

“How can you think so? You are twice my size.” She fell back a few paces. He advanced again, closing the gap and then some.

“I would guess three times or more, but what difference does it make when you possess such cunning?”

“What will you do with me?”

“Nothing worse than rescue you, my lady.”

“Ha! You think I will come easily under that pretty lie?”

A great shoulder lifted and fell. “It matters not, for I’ll have the result either way, although it would be less of a bother if you would cooperate.”

His steady advance, and her retreat, had backed her against a log. It caught under her knees and she stumbled. In a trice, he was beside her, his hands at her waist to steady her and pull her upright.

“Safety, my lady,” he said, and his tone was completely changed from the sharp admonishment of only a moment ago.

His touch was unbearably hot, encompassing part of her back and the side of her hip in one broad palm. His breath fanned down against her cheek, whispering across her flesh and making her shiver…from terror, she thought.

“Please do not touch me.” It was a soft, ineffectual plea.

But he complied. He dropped his hands and stepped away. “Will you come willingly with me, or shall I fling you over my shoulder and bear you like a sack of grain to Gastonbury?”

“You are taking me to Gastonbury?” she asked.

“First I must gather your companion and your horses, then find your guard and my other men, but we should clear the castle walls before darkness.”

At her quiet consideration of this news, he asked, “Does that not reassure you, my lady, that what I have pledged is true? ’Tis not harm I intend you, but deliverance to the safety of your cousin’s care.”

She thought good and long before replying, considering her options, and the possibilities. “Aye, sir. You have my trust.”

By his dubious expression, she could see he was not completely reassured.

And well he should not be, she reflected as she followed his lead.

Chapter Four

With the highwayman slung over one horse, Rosamund seated on another and Agravar in the lead, they came to the clearing just east of the stream.

Other men were assembled, Rosamund saw; both her soldiers and presumably Gastonbury’s. A great welcome went up at their arrival. A man approached the Viking and he dismounted. She heard the name Agravar. The Viking’s name, she supposed. Yes, he had said it before. Agravar.

The man who approached looked like a demon, with a wild mane of dark hair and eyes that were almost black. He turned to Rosamund and she tensed, causing her horse to shy.

The Viking—Agravar—was beside her in a flash, grabbing the reins and steadying the beast. “Come, this is your cousin’s husband.”

This was the legendary Lucien de Montregnier! He stood beside the Viking and nodded. “I know you have had a trying adventure. We shall rest and refresh ourselves before setting out for home. My wife will be anxious to see you.” He ran his hand through his hair and tried to smile. He was almost handsome when he did so. “And I would be grateful if your nerves were made calmer before we resume your journey, else I be taken to task as it was my tardiness that was at fault.”

“Aye, of course,” she said. Agravar helped her dismount. His nearness was as disconcerting as it had been before. She wriggled away from him once her feet touched the ground. His hands fell to his sides.

A screech split the air and Hilde came charging toward Rosamund from the other side of the glen, arms outflung, skirts flying. Rosamund braced herself.

“You are safe, ah, praise the saints and the sweet Lord in heaven!” Slamming into her mistress, Hilde squeezed until tiny pinpoints of light began to dance on the periphery of Rosamund’s vision.

“Hilde,” she choked, pushing the woman away. Hilde pulled back, took another look at her and swept her to her bosom for a second strangling clinch.

“Come,” Agravar said, wrapping strong fingers about Rosamund’s arm. He managed to get her away from the effusive maid without a struggle, mostly because the woman gaped at him with a mixture of awe and terror that made her grip go lax. As polite as any courtier, Agravar led Rosamund to a good-sized rock. “Take your rest while the men water the horses. It will be but a moment to prepare them for the short ride back to the castle.”

Rosamund kept her eyes averted, fighting a flush of shame at his surprisingly gentle attentions. She stared at his boots and gave a perfunctory nod. The boots turned and she lifted her gaze, watching him walk back to the horses and untether his prisoner.

The man with the red hat—that affectation now stuffed unceremoniously into the top of one battered boot—was awake now. As he was led to the opposite side of the glade, just along the edge of the brush that formed a semicircle behind them, she saw his eyes were on her and they blazed bright and vigilant.

She lowered her lashes again, thinking fast. After a while, she said to Hilde, who was engaged in a manic monologue about the dreadful events that day, “I am thirsting. Please fetch me a tankard of water.”

“Yes, my lady. Oh, certainly, my good lady. How happy I shall be to do it, my sweet, safe lady.”

Agravar gave his report to Lucien as Lady Rosamund’s guards were rounded up, their wounds seen to as best as could be arranged before they got to the castle. Agravar overheard one of them saying, “The man had me down. He could have slain me, but he rode on.”

Stopping, he inquired, “Do you claim these bandits showed mercy?”

“Not to me,” another, older man grumbled, showing three stubs where the fingers had been severed. “Dicky here was lucky enough to get a young one. You get ’em young, an’ they don’ have the taste of blood yet.”

Thinking of the single member of the bandits they had managed to capture, Agravar asked, “What is the significance of that ridiculous hat? Did others wear one?”

“Nah. He’s the only one I saw, bloody cur,” the grizzled soldier said, turning his head to spit, as if to illustrate his opinion of the whole lot of them. “The rest of them scattered, like they knew these woods.”

Agravar frowned. “Local thieves.”

A woman’s voice—an annoyingly familiar woman’s voice—startled Agravar. “Oh, Lord, she’s taken again. Ah! He’s got her!”

Muttering a curse under his breath, Agravar turned to Hilde. “What is the matter now, woman?” he demanded.

“My lady! She’s gone again, and him as well—the bandit. Fine ones you are at protection when an innocent lamb gets stolen out from under your very noses. He took her, I say. They’re gone!”

“God’s breath!” Agravar swore. “That woman has proved to be a great deal of trouble this day. Lucien! She is missing again.”

Hilde leaped up and hung on to his arm, holding him as steadfast as an anchor. “Oh, no, sirrah! She is the most darling, sweet child, she is.”

The woman clutched so desperately as she regaled him with the many virtues of the Lady Rosamund, Agravar feared he might be forced to strike her to disengage himself. He did finally manage to get away without resorting to such measures. The woman’s plaintive wails followed him as he trotted up to his men.

“Pelly, go see to that servant,” he ordered, ignoring the other knight’s sudden pallor. “Put the guard on alert. The rest of you, with me!”

Swinging up into his saddle, he paused and nodded to Lucien, who himself was already mounted. “A-Viking,” he said. It was their old war cry.

Lucien nodded, yanking his horse around to follow. “A-Viking,” he agreed.

Agravar and the others raced into the woods.

The man in the red hat veered down into a gully, ducking under a tight weave of low-lying shrubs. Behind him, Rosamund plunged, hissing in pain as tiny branches tore at her hair and the delicate wrists exposed by the trailing sleeves of her dress.

“Here, my lady,” he said, reining in his steed to point the way. “The meeting place is up beyond the ridge. I arranged it just after we separated for escape. The others shall be waiting there.” He paused. “At least, they should be. I paid them well enough.”

Rosamund drew her horse up beside him, taking note of the path to which he pointed. When she saw him pitch forward slightly and put his hand to his brow, she reached out a solicitous hand to his shoulder, “Davey, are you well?”

He shook his head as if attempting to rid himself of a cobweb in his brain. “That cursed Viking knocked me but good. My head’s a thick one, I was always told, but it’d have to be made of iron to withstand that mighty fist.” He shot a sheepish grin at her. “Come to think of it, ’twas my lord, your brother, what told me that most times.”

“Then it must have been true, for Harold never lied.”

Davey tried to laugh, but it turned into a wince instead and he pressed his fingers hard against his temple. “Come. It will not be long until they find we are gone. You have earned us one slim chance at escape, though I do not know if it was brave or foolish. Let us not waste it in conversation.”

“I couldn’t let them hold you, not when you have done so much for me.”

He looked at her with adoring eyes. “All that and more, I do gladly.”

Noises behind them spurred them into action. They came out of the gorge and began climbing a ravine.

Rosamund’s heart began to pound heavily with excitement. Almost there! The top of the ravine was just ahead. Once they cleared it, they would be out of sight. She was thinking they were actually going to succeed when Davey fell off the horse and rolled back down into the fertile gully.

She reared her mount when she turned it too sharply, but was luckily not unseated. She raced down to Davey’s side and slid off the horse.

He was dazed. Whether from this recent tumble or still scrambled from Agravar’s blow, it was difficult to tell. He pushed away her frantic hands. “Go without me. Go! This is your only chance.”

“No, Davey. Come, please. That Viking beast will kill you if he catches up with us.” But as she helped him to his feet, she saw he was in no condition to outrun a band of trained soldiers—two, for her own guard would be on them as well as the men from Gastonbury. With a sinking feeling, she knew they were outmatched.

It was over. There would be no freedom for her.

The daring escape, cleverly disguised to seem an abduction, had seemed a brilliant inspiration. Now it seemed merely desperate and not inspired at all. A folly to cost a dear friend’s life, for Davey, who had been her only companion through her years of solitude after her brother had died, would almost certainly be killed.

That made her decision easy. “What—?” Davey murmured, for he was slipping into confusion again as she helped him into the saddle and lashed his hands around the horse’s neck with the reins. Giving the beast’s hindquarters a strong whack, she watched as man and horse disappeared into the brush, still verdant in these late days of summer.

He would find his way out of the woods later. For now, he need only be hidden. As for herself, her independence would have to wait another day.

She began to run, this time back the way they had just come, in the direction of the soldiers.

It might be of helpful effect if she were to scream, she thought, trying to imagine how Hilde would do it and set about in a fair imitation of the chubby maid’s hysterics.

In a trice, they found her. De Montregnier arrived and was about to dismount when he was eclipsed by the massive Viking. Agravar swung his leg over his horse’s head, dropping to the ground by her side before the huge beast had come to a full stop.

His gaze raked her from head to toe. It was all she could do not to flinch from his searching eyes. His closeness made her feel trapped. Could he suspect she was false, she wondered, or was that merely conscience pricking her?

She drew in a shaky breath. “The man…he was taking me away when he fell into the water, on the cliff path that runs along the river.” She was hopeful her very real anxiety would help her appear convincing. “The current took him. It was horrible. I saw him only for a moment, and then he and his horse went under, never to reappear.” She shut her eyes and feigned a shiver. “I was afraid I would fall as well, so I dismounted and ran back here.”

She had seen such a place on their way, and thus knew it was a feasible tale she told. There was a pregnant moment while she waited to find out if they would find it so.

Lucien said, “We will watch for the body to wash up when the tide comes in. Let us go home. It is a long enough day without dredging a river.”

Rosamund bit her lips to keep from crying out in relief. Davey was safe, she thought. But she was as cursed as when she had started this dreadful journey.

She made no protest as a strong pair of hands enfolded her, lifting her up as if she were but a babe being borne in a father’s arms. A soft voice instructed her to put her leg here, the other there, and she found herself astride a horse. A very tall horse. Looking down, the ground seemed dizzyingly far-off. Then the saddle jerked as the one who had carried her to this lofty perch swung up beside her. She knew who it was. She remembered his scent and recognized the muscled arms with a fine feathering of fair hair upon them. They came around either side of her to take up the reins. She knew the voice as it called out the command to proceed homeward.

She was in the arms of the Viking, and she began to tremble.

It was a curious thing to have a woman in the saddle with him, Agravar thought. A curious and new thing. He had never shared a saddle like this before.

Not unpleasant, no, and yet by the time Gastonbury’s walls came into sight, his nerves hung in shreds.

There was her perfume. It was a blend he was not used to. It made him slightly light-headed. And the way her rounded bottom rested neatly against his thighs, which drove him to distraction. Her long legs dangled on one side, tucked neatly under his. Her hair tickled his nose when the wind caught it. It was soft and curly, like spun gold.

He scoffed at such poetic thoughts, then bent his head slightly and inhaled. Mayhap he was growing used to the scent of her, for the pleasant aroma did not make his head swim too much this time.

“How far is the castle?” she asked.

“Just up ahead. ’Twas lucky you were so close when the bandits struck, else we never would have reached you in time.”

There was a long pause. “Lord Lucien seemed concerned as to the welfare of my cousin. Is she ill?”

“Not ill, no. Just beside herself with worry at your delay, and will be quite upset, I’ll wager, when she learns of what occurred.”

“Are these dangerous lands?”

“They are some of the safest you will find in England, but what place is completely impervious to evil?”

“Evil abounds everywhere, sometimes even in those we trust.”

It was such a strange utterance, and so soberly spoken. “It can be true,” he agreed.

“Oh, it is true,” she said, then fell silent.

Lucien rode up to them after a while. “You do not seem the worse for your trials, Lady Rosamund. We shall offer you comfort and rest soon enough inside the walls of our keep, and therein my lady wife shall be glad to welcome you.”

Agravar felt her tense, saw her glance down and away, her only response an incomprehensible mutter he could not hear. He exchanged a look with his friend, and as Lucien was not well-known for his facility or tact with the fairer sex, he quickly kicked his destrier to move on past them.

“Has my lord and liege displeased you?” Agravar asked gently.

Her blond head shot up, almost striking him in his chin. “Nay. I…I am sorry. Did I seem unpleasant to him, do you think?”

“Rest easy, my lady. Lucien doesn’t know what insult is—his hide is too thick to feel anything less than full assault.”