A single candle cast a subdued light in the small chamber. A narrow bed rested against one wall, with a large coffer at its foot. Covering the opposite wall was a large tapestry of a field of summer flowers with children frolicking. On another hung a highly polished steellike glass, with a narrow shelf below holding an assortment of items from jewel-studded pins and bone comb cases, to tiny colored bottles of floral scents, and a thickly padded bench before it.
A tall carved post stood in a corner of the chamber with wooden pegs running down its length, an ornament in itself, draped as it was with sheer veils and ribbons of different colors. At the only window hung strips of bright-yellow silk, a sheer waste of a most expensive cloth. There were two high-backed chairs set by a small round table with a painted ceramic vase of red roses on it.
The chairs were presently draped with the clothes of the two occupants on the bed. The chamber belonged to the woman, Corliss of Raedwood, a small-boned beauty of a score and one years, who was quite vain of her luxuriant red-gold tresses and eyes the color of rich chocolate.
Corliss was the betrothed of the man lying with her, Royce of Wyndhurst, one of King Alfred's nobles. Four years ago she had been offered to him for wife, but was refused. This past winter she had pestered and coerced her father as only a beloved daughter can, to offer her again, and this time she was accepted. But she knew she was accepted this last time only because she had managed to get Lord Royce to her chamber, where she had thrown herself at him, and he, drunk from her father's feast, had taken her.
Giving herself to Royce that night was no great sacrifice for Corliss, though she hoped he had not realized it, for she had been with one other man before him. Only one, though, for after that first time, she had decided that this part of the man-woman relationship was not to her liking at all. Yet she knew she would have to grit her teeth and bear it often once she was married to Royce.
It was a sign of her determination that in spite of disliking his lovemaking, Corliss still offered herself to Royce each time he came to visit her, which was fortunately not often. She was afraid that if she withheld herself from him now, before the wedding, he would break the betrothal. After all, he did not really want a wife. He was only a score and seven years, and in no great hurry to tie himself down. At least, that was the excuse he had used often enough to the fathers of marriageable daughters. There was another reason known too, though he never used it. He had been betrothed previously, five years ago, to a girl he had loved. He had lost her three days before they were to wed and had loved no other girl since.
Corliss was of the opinion that Royce would never love again. He certainly did not love her, nor did he pretend to. She did not even have an alliance with her father to dangle before him, for Royce and her father were friends. A marriage was not needed to keep them friends. She was as sure now as she had been when she first did it, that the offer of her body had been the only condition that had swayed him.
If Royce were not so desirable as a husband, Corliss would just as soon never marry. But the fact was, every maiden for miles around wanted Royce of Wyndhurst for herself, including Corliss's three sisters. It was understandable, for not only was he rich and favored by the King, he was also a handsome man, even if he was so incredibly big—more than a foot taller than Corliss, in fact. His combination of dark-brown hair and fathomless dark-hued green eyes was striking indeed. As his betrothed, she was the envy of all these women, and that suited her admirably, for Corliss loved being envied. She thrived on jealousy, too, and her sisters were certainly jealous of her now. That was worth whatever she had to put up with from Royce in bed, even his prolonged lovemaking.
The first time had been quick. But the other times, including now, seemed to go on forever, full of kissing and touching. The kissing she didn't mind so much, but the touching . . . ! He touched her everywhere, and she had to lie there in her humiliation and bear it all. She sometimes wondered if he prolonged it intentionally, if he had guessed that she didn't like it. But how could he know? She never protested or offered the least resistance. She lay there perfectly still and let him do what he wanted. What more could she do to let him know that she was willing?
He looked down at her, and there was bemusement in his eyes. She heard him sigh and stiffened, knowing this was the sign that he was ready at long last to mount her. A knock came at her door just as he fit himself between her legs.
"Milord! Milord, you must come now! Your man is below and says 'tis urgent he see you!"
Royce left the bed and reached for his clothes. That he was glad of the interruption did not show in his expression. Making love to Corliss was becoming a tiresome duty, fraught with frustration, that he no longer anticipated with any pleasure. It was confusing, too, for he did not seek her out. She brought him to her chamber each time, leading him to believe it was what she wanted. But once they were abed, Corliss was as passionless as dead meat, and he had done everything he could think of to make her enjoy their encounters.
That she did not wouldn't have mattered to most men, but Royce derived a good deal of his own pleasure from the pleasure that he gave. And if truth be known, he had more fun tumbling a lowly serf than he did this woman who would be his wife, no matter how beautiful she was.
After he strapped on his belt over the leather vest he wore, his only chest covering in the warm weather, he spared Corliss a glance. She had modestly covered herself the moment he left the bed. She begrudged him even the sight of her splendid nakedness. His anger rose for a moment because of that, but he tamped it down. He had to make allowances for Corliss's tender sensibilities. After all, she was a lady of noble birth, and like all such ladies of his acquaintance, she needed to be treated with care, or tearful scenes were likely to be the consequence.
"Milord, how can you leave me now?" Corliss asked plaintively.
Very easily, little one, he thought, but those were not the words he spoke aloud. "You heard your woman summon me. I am needed below."
"But, Royce, it seems so . . . as if you do not care . . . as if you do not want me."
Great tears were spilling from her eyes now, and Royce sighed in disgust. Why did they all have to do that? They cried so easily, for so little reason, clinging, demanding reassurances. His mother had been like that, his aunt, even his cousin Darrelle who lived with him now—how quickly they could burst into tears and make a man wish he were elsewhere. He would be damned if he would have this from his wife, too. Better to break her of the habit now.
"Cease, Corliss. I cannot abide tears."
"You—you do not want me!" she sobbed.
"Did I say so?" he snapped.
"Then stay. Please, Royce!"
He almost hated her at that moment. "You would have me ignore my duty to appease you, lady? Never will I do that. Nor will I coddle you, so do not expect it."
He walked out of the room before she could detain him longer, but the sound of her loud crying followed him down the hall, grating on his nerves. The scene had put him in a foul mood, and seeing the serf Seldon waiting for him below did not help it. A serf would not have been sent to him if the matter were important.
"What is it?" Royce barked at the little man.
"The Vikings, milord. They came this morn."
"What!" Royce picked Seldon up by the front of his tunic and shook him. "Do not say me false, man. The Danes are in the North, dealing with the revolts against their rule in Northumbria, and preparing to attack Mercia."
" 'Twas not Danes!" Seldon squawked.
Royce set him down slowly, a cold dread creeping over him. He could deal with the Danes, who now had control of two kingdoms in the country. They had already made their attempt at Wessex, Alfred's kingdom of West Saxons, in what was already called the Year of Battles, 871. The young Alfred had been only a score and two years when he succeeded to the throne that spring when his brother Aethelred died. And in the autumn, after nine battles had been fought with the two great Viking armies for control of Wessex, Alfred negotiated a peace.
It was peace no one expected to last, but Alfred had bought time for his people to regroup and prepare defenses in greater depth. His ealdormen, along with the lords and thanes of all the shires, had been training freemen and improving their own fighting skills as well as fortifying their manors these last two years. Royce had gone one further to even train some of his more able-bodied serfs in the arts of war. He was prepared to ride against the Danish Vikings, who were all intent now on settling the land. It was the Vikings from the sea that were never anticipated, that could take Wyndhurst by surprise and destroy it as they nearly had five years ago.
To have the last Viking raid at Wyndhurst recalled so clearly was anguish for Royce, a rekindling of the hate that had simmered for these five years, hate that had killed many Danes that summer of 871, for it was Danes who had raided Wyndhurst in 868, before going on to sack the monastery of Jurro. He had lost his father in that raid, his older brother, and his beloved Rhona, who was repeatedly raped in front of his eyes before her throat was slit, while he, unable to get to her because of the two spears that had pinned him to the wall, had to endure the agony of listening to her cry and beg and call for him to help her even as his own life's blood poured out of him. He should have died, too, and would have, if the Vikings had stayed for longer than they did.
"Milord, did you hear me? They are Norwegians, these Vikings."
Royce could have shaken the man again. What matter who they were? If they were not part of the two great Viking armies in the North, then they were raiding pirates from the sea, bent only on killing.
"Is there aught left of Wyndhurst?"
"But we beat them!" Seldon said in surprise. "Half are dead; the others, captured and in chains by now."
Royce did pick up the man again this time and shake him once more. "Could you not have told me that first, you fool!"
"I thought I did, milord. We won."
"How?"
"Lord Alden sent out a call to all the men to come for field maneuvers in the east field. But my cousin Arne was south on the river and did not receive the summons. It was he who saw the Viking ship."
"Only one?"
"Yea, milord. Arne ran straightaway toward Wyndhurst, but came upon Lord Alden's men in the east field. 'Twas only that they were armed and ready and so close to the river that prompted Lord Alden to attack. We had time, just enough, to prepare an ambush. The men took to the trees in the forest before the river and fell on the Vikings as they passed under them. So many were killed in the surprise attack that we were able to defeat those remaining."
Royce asked the dreaded question: "How many of our men killed?"
"Only two."
"And wounded?"
"Slightly more... eighteen, actually."
"Eighteen!"
"The Vikings fought like demons, milord—giant demons," Seldon said defensively.
Royce's expression grew taut and forbidding. "Let us be on our way, then, and I will see to the rest of those bloodlusting pirates."
"Uh, milord, Lord Alden was . . ."
"Not dead?" Royce groaned.
"Nay," Seldon said quickly, for he knew how close the cousins were. It was reluctantly that he had to add, "But he is sorely wounded."
"Where?"
"In the belly."
"God's mercy!" Royce groaned even as he ran from the hall at Raedwood.