The Viking's Defiant Bride. Joanna FulfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
hearts swelled. Ragnar’s courage was legendary. He would make a brave death. That it should not be in battle was a dire misfortune indeed, for he would not win his place in Valhalla and feast in Odin’s hall.
‘You did not seek to avenge Ragnar?’ demanded Hubba.
‘To what end? We were a handful against hundreds.’
Hubba’s hand went to the axe by his side, but Halfdan shook his head.
‘Sven is right. To try to attack Ella under such circumstances would have been madness. Worse, it would have been stupid. Now he will fight another day.’
Hubba glared at him. ‘Are you saying that Ragnar died for nothing?’
Wulfrum, silent and intent, waited for the reply, feeling all around him the same curbed rage.
‘No. Ragnar shall be avenged and by an army greater than any yet seen.’ All eyes were upon Halfdan as he rose to face the assembled throng. ‘We shall send a fleet of ships four hundred strong.’
Wulfrum regarded his sword brother with admiration. What he was proposing would be the greatest Viking raid ever known. Almost instantly he corrected himself: not a raid, an invasion.
‘Let every man who can wield an axe or sword prepare,’ Halfdan continued. ‘We shall sweep through Northumbria like flame through tinder. We shall beard Ella in his castle and he shall know the taste of fear. His death shall not be swift, but he will long for it before the end. This I swear by my own blood and by the sacred blood of Odin.’
He drew the blade of his knife across his palm, his gaze meeting those of his brothers. Immediately they followed suit and mingled their blood with his. Then his gaze moved past them and rested on Wulfrum. In it was an invitation, an acknowledgement of friendship and brotherhood. Wulfrum’s eyes never left Halfdan’s as he unsheathed his dagger and drew the bright blood forth before mingling it with theirs. Bound by the blood oath, their honour was now his honour, their purpose his purpose. Halfdan nodded in approbation, then turned back to the silent watching crowd.
‘Who will sail with us to avenge Ragnar Lodbrok?’
A roar of approval shook the rafters and every hand was raised. He looked round the hall, gratified to see resolution in each face. Then he raised his hand for quiet.
‘Make ready. Three moons from now the sea dragons sail for England.’
Another roar greeted this.
‘A fitting revenge for Ragnar,’ Wulfrum observed.
‘We shall have more than revenge, brother,’ replied Halfdan. ‘There will be rich rewards too for those who serve well—land and slaves to work it. And women.’
Wulfrum grinned, knowing whither the conversation tended. ‘And the Saxon women are reputed fair, are they not?’
‘Aye, they are, and it’s high time you took a wife. A man must get sons.’
‘True. And when I find a woman who pleases me enough, I shall wed and breed sons aplenty.’
‘Your standards are high, but even you might lose your heart to a Saxon beauty.’
‘I have never lost my heart to a woman yet. They satisfy a need like food and drink, but they have no power to hold us long.’
‘You say so for you have never been in love.’
‘No. Nor am I like to be. It is not necessary to fall in love to get sons.’ Wulfrum laughed. ‘My heart is my own, brother, and I guard it well.’
Chapter One
Northumbria—867A.D.
Elgiva sat on the goatskin rug before the fire, her arms clasped about her knees and her gaze on the flames. It was said that some had the skill to read the future there. Just then she would have given much for such a glimpse to help resolve the chaos of her thoughts. The present dilemma was desperate, but what to do for the best?
She glanced once at her companion, grateful for that comforting presence. To Elgiva, Osgifu had been both mother and confidante. The older woman had entered the service of Lord Egbert as a nursemaid when her husband died. At forty she was comely still, a tall elegant figure, for all that there were lines on her face and white strands in her dark hair. Her grey eyes saw more than other people, for she was known to have the second sight, to see those things hidden from ordinary mortal view. Her skill lay with the runes, not the fire, but the accuracy of her words was sufficient for people to regard her with awe, even fear. Elgiva had never been afraid, only curious. Osgifu’s mother had been a Dane, a trader’s daughter, who married a Saxon husband. From her she had inherited the gift of the sight and a wealth of stories besides.
When Elgiva was a child, Osgifu had entertained her with tales of the Norse gods: of Thor, who wielded the thunderbolts; of Loki the trickster of Odin; and Fenrir the wolf. Elgiva had listened, enthralled by stories of Jotenheim, the realm of the frost giants, and of the dragon, Nidhoggr, who constantly gnawed at the roots of Yggdrasil, the mighty ash tree connecting earth and heaven. Osgifu had taught her the Danish tongue too, albeit in secret, for she knew Lord Egbert would not have approved. When they were alone, the two of them spoke their secret language and knew their words would be safe from other ears. She alone knew the secrets of Elgiva’s heart and it was to her Elgiva turned in times of trouble.
The younger woman sighed and, turning her gaze from the glowing flames in the hearth, looked full at her mentor.
‘I don’t know what to do, Gifu. Ever since my father’s death Ravenswood has slid further and further into chaos. My brother did nothing.’ She paused. ‘Now he is dead too, and his sons are but babes. The place needs a capable hand.’
She did not add, a man’s hand, but Osgifu heard the thought. She also acknowledged the truth of it. Lord Osric, concerned only with skill at arms and with hawking and hunting, had taken little interest in the running of his late father’s estate, preferring to leave it to his steward, Wilfred. A good man at heart, Wilfred had performed his duties well enough under Lord Egbert’s exacting rule, but after, with no master’s eye on him, he began to neglect small things, putting off until the morrow what should have been done today. The serfs under his control took their example from him, and Elgiva, on her daily rides, had begun to notice the results. Ravenswood, which had hitherto always looked prosperous, began to take on an air of neglect. Fences were not mended, repairs botched. Weeds grew among the crops and the livestock were not properly tended. The roofs of the barns and storehouses leaked, and she felt sure that the stored grain and fodder within were not as strictly accounted for as they had been. When she had mentioned these things to Osric, he had brushed her aside. The problem grew worse. She had spoken to him again and received short shrift.
‘A woman’s place is in the house, not meddling in matters that do not concern her.’
‘Ravenswood is my concern,’ she’d replied, ‘as it should be yours.’
‘You take too much upon you, Elgiva.’ He had eyed her coolly. ‘If you had a husband and children of your own, you would have no time to interfere in the affairs of men. You should have been married long since.’
Her brother was right about that and Elgiva knew it. Had Lord Egbert lived, he would have found a bridegroom for her. There had been no shortage of suitors. She had loved her father dearly and he had made no secret of the fact that she was the child of his heart. Her company had been congenial to him for she knew how to make him laugh. A fearless rider, she had often accompanied him on the chase. His death three years earlier had changed everything, and for the worse. Osric, careless, feckless, had become the Thane of Ravenswood. Elgiva, well tutored in domestic matters, saw to it that the household ran smoothly, but she could do nothing about the wider problem. However, their conversation had put Osric in mind of his responsibilities towards his sister.
‘I shall find you a husband. These are troubled times and a woman should not be without a protector, even if there is truth in only half the tales we hear of the Viking raids.’
That