The Viking's Defiant Bride. Joanna Fulford
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were not stirring yet. They had taken their fill of Ravenswood’s bounty the previous evening and there was none to mark her passage along the row of stalls to the one where Mara was tethered. Hearing her approach, the bay mare turned her head and whinnied gently. Elgiva reached for the bridle hanging on the peg and slipped into the stall. Minutes later she was leading the horse out. Once in the open air, she vaulted astride and headed for the gate. The watchman roused himself and, responding to her greeting, swung the portal open. Elgiva held Mara to a walk as they passed the houses in the hamlet. Here were signs of life: a spiral of smoke from a roof, a dog scratching itself before an open door. She suspected it would be much later before those in the hall roused themselves. Glad to have escaped for a time, Elgiva breathed the cool morning air gratefully, though it could not dispel her sombre mood or the memories that occasioned it. Later she would return and play her part before them all.
Pride and a sense of family honour had led her to spare no expense in the celebration of the betrothal feast. It was, after all, a cause for celebration, an excellent and judicious match. The union would not only unite two great Saxon houses, but would bring advantage to both sides. She had entered into the arrangement of her own volition. Her future husband was a man she could respect. Why, then, in the face of such good fortune, did her heart feel so heavy?
Elgiva was startled out of these sombre thoughts when her horse shied. She tightened her hold on the reins, looking about her, but could see only shadows beneath the trees and curls of mist in the hollows. The wood was locked beneath an eerie silence. The mare snorted uneasily and Elgiva frowned, her gaze taking in the details of the surrounding woodland. The silence stretched out around her, unbroken by any breath of wind, or birdsong or sound of any living thing. Then she discerned movement ahead through the trees where a lone horseman was approaching, bent low over the saddle. Elgiva hesitated, wondering whether the safest course was to flee, but something about the rider’s posture gave her pause. He was swaying and for a second she wondered if he were drunk. Just as quickly, she rejected the idea, for as he drew closer she could see he had come far. The horse was lathered, its chest and flanks darkened with sweat, its legs and belly all bespattered with mud. Pulling up, she let the rider approach. Mara whinnied and sidled, but Elgiva kept a firm hold on the rein. The oncoming rider was a man of middle years and, like his horse, all muddied. His face was grey and lined with pain and she could see the side of his tunic was stiff with dried blood. He stared at her as if she had been an apparition and then she recognised him.
‘Gunter!’
Her uncle’s steward—he must have ridden far. It was a two-day journey and from the look of him he had ridden fast. His horse was all but spent, and he too. Every word cost him effort.
‘I bring urgent news for Ravenswood, my lady.’
‘We are not far from home. Come, let me take you there.’
He nodded and together they retraced Elgiva’s path. As soon as they were within the gates, she summoned help. Grooms came running to take the horses and another helped Gunter into the hall. Men were stirring now and looked up in surprise at their entrance. Elgiva saw Aylwin there with several of his men. He hastened over to her.
‘Gunter, my uncle’s steward,’ she explained. ‘He is wounded. I don’t know how badly.’
Aylwin took one look at the dark stiffening patch on the man’s tunic. ‘He has lost much blood. His hurts must be tended.’
Elgiva dispatched a servant for her box of medicines. Another brought a goblet of water and helped raise the injured man a fraction so she could hold it to his lips. He drank greedily, but Elgiva would only allow him a little to begin with. Then she and Osgifu set about dealing with the wound. It was a sword thrust, deep but clean. As far as she could tell it had not pierced any internal organs, though it had bled copiously. Between them they stanched the bleeding and cleansed the wound, before fastening a clean pad over it with long strips of linen cloth. Gunter bore these ministrations in silence, though his face was very pale. Then she allowed him a little more to drink.
‘You must rest now and try to recover your strength.’
‘Lady, I must speak. My news will wait no longer.’
‘Say on then, Gunter. Does it concern my uncle?’
‘Aye, my lady, and ill news it is.’
‘What of my uncle? Is he sick?’
‘Nay, my lady. He is dead with all his kin and his hall is burned. A great Viking war host marches north.’
A deathly silence followed as those present tried to grasp the enormity of the news.
‘The rumours are true,’ murmured Aylwin.
‘Aye, lord. We had little warning of their coming, but even if we had, it would have made no difference for the sheer weight of their numbers. Those Saxons who were not slain were enslaved. I was wounded and left for dead. When I came to, the hall was a blackened ruin and my lord was dead. I found a stray horse and got away under cover of darkness.’
‘It was as well you did,’ said Elgiva. She glanced at Osgifu, who looked as shaken as the rest.
‘You are right, child. We should have had no warning else. As it is, we must prepare to defend ourselves as best we may.’
‘Truly spoken,’ said Gunter, ‘for the sons of Ragnar Lodbrok seek a terrible revenge for their father’s death.’
‘We had heard of this,’ replied Aylwin. ‘There were tales of a great Viking war fleet a year or so ago, but we had thought the raiders much further south.’
‘That is so, lord,’ Gunter continued, ‘though not by design. It seems they set sail for Northumbria, but their ships were blown off course and brought them instead to the Anglian coast. Since then they have swept through that kingdom with fire and sword. We heard that they looted the abbeys at Ely and Crowland and Peterborough. ’Tis said that at Peterborough Hubba killed eighty monks himself.’
Startled exclamations greeted this and men looked at each other in mounting horror.
Gunter drew in a ragged breath. ‘They have taken Mercia too. Now that York has fallen, all of Northumbria is threatened.’
Aylwin’s hand went automatically to the hilt of his sword. ‘What of King Ella?’
‘They captured him and acted out their revenge. His ribs were torn apart and folded backwards to resemble a spread eagle. Then they threw salt in the wound and left him to die.’
Elgiva felt her stomach churn. She had heard many times of the brutality of the Norsemen, but never anything so barbaric. Beside her Osgifu paled, and she heard several sharp intakes of breath from those around.
‘You must prepare to defend yourselves,’ said Gunter. ‘The Viking host wintered at York, but the spring thaw draws them forth again. It is only a matter of time before they come.’
‘But surely if Ella is dead they have what they want now,’ replied Osgifu. ‘They will leave with their plunder as they always do.’
‘This time they want more than plunder. Halfdan has let it be known they want land and they plan to take it.’
‘Land? Do the pirates mean to stay?’
‘It would seem our shores are more fertile than their northern fastness.’
‘They will find the price dear.’ Aylwin’s face was grim. ‘My sword is ready, and those of my kin.’
Elgiva could see the determination on the faces all around her and knew a moment of shame that he was ready to fight on her behalf when she had earlier had misgivings about her betrothal to him, putting thoughts of her happiness before Ravenswood. As she looked up he caught her eye and smiled.
‘I swear, no harm shall come to you while I live, lady.’
Elgiva began to feel distinctly guilty. ‘I thank you, my lord. If it comes to a fight, my family will be much in your debt.’
‘They are soon