it down!’
There followed the fearsome sound of axes in wood. Hilda let out a stifled sob of terror. The baby began to cry and in desperation she tried to quiet it, while little Ulric looked on, wide-eyed with fright. Elgiva looked from them to the door, which shook under the assault. In another minute the first blades were visible through a hole in the timber, a hole that grew larger with each blow. A few more moments and they would be through. With beating heart she backed away to the far side of the room, watching the splintering wood in helpless horror, struggling to control her growing fear. With her back to the wall, she closed her hand round the hilt of the sword and, taking a deep breath, drew the blade from the sheath.
As she did so the door burst asunder and the first three men fell into the room, followed by half a dozen more. Their greedy gaze fell immediately on the cowering group in front of them and they strode forwards, seizing upon the women servants. One man grabbed hold of Hilda, who clutched the baby in one arm and the terrified Ulric in the other. Osgifu strove to come between, but a heavy blow sent her reeling back into the wall. She hit her head and fell, stunned. Hilda shrieked, struggling wildly against the hands that held her, her screams mingling with those of the baby.
Outraged to see such treatment meted out to the weak and helpless, Elgiva stepped forwards.
‘Leave them alone! Let them go!’
It proved a futile protest, but the words drew attention from a different quarter and Elgiva found herself confronting another armed man. Tall and well made, fair of hair and beard, he might have been handsome save for the thin cruel lips drawn back in an indulgent sneer.
‘Well now, what have we here?’
Her face blazed with loathing and contempt and her hand tightened round the hilt of the sword.
‘Viking scum! You would make war on women and helpless infants! Come, try your luck here! I’ll slit your belly and spill your yellow guts for you!’
All eyes turned towards Elgiva, registering surprise, and then, on seeing the sword, amusement.
‘Have a care, Sweyn,’ called one of his companions in mocking tones. ‘That one is a regular fire eater.’
Sweyn bared his teeth in a smile, his cold grey gaze speculative. ‘A warrior maid, no less. One of Odin’s daughters, perhaps, and fluent in our tongue. That will be convenient when I give her instructions in bed.’
Appreciative grins greeted the words and the speaker turned away for a moment to share the joke with his companions. Elgiva darted in for the attack. From the corner of his eye he saw the flashing blade aimed at him and leapt aside. The thrust that should have pierced his heart merely gashed his arm. Incredulous, he clapped his free hand to the wound, staring at the dripping blood, amid roars of laughter from the rest. Undeterred, Elgiva laid on with a will and for several moments Sweyn was forced to defend himself most dexterously before the onslaught, being driven back several paces. However, very soon greater strength and skill began to tell and then it was Elgiva who was forced back step by step until she came up hard against the far wall. A heavy blow beneath the hilt numbed her hand and wrist and with a gasp of pain she dropped the sword, only to find the Viking’s blade at her throat.
‘Beg for mercy, vixen!’
Elgiva spat at him. She knew he would kill her now, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear, of hearing her plead. Lifting her chin, she let her gaze travel the length of the bloody sword until it met that of the man who held it. The tip of the sword pierced the skin and she felt the warm trickle of blood. With pounding heart she waited for the final thrust. For a long moment there was silence. Then the blade was lowered a fraction and for a fleeting second there was something like admiration in his eyes.
‘No,’ he said softly, ‘I will not kill you. What a waste that would be.’
‘You speak true, Sweyn!’ called a voice from the assembled group behind. ‘Take her to your bed. I wager you’ll never have a livelier piece.’
Another shout of laughter went up. Elgiva felt her cheeks flame as she heard Sweyn laugh, saw his hot gaze strip her.
‘I’d rather be dead.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ he replied. ‘Not yet.’
He sheathed the sword and, stepping close, seized her by the waist, bringing his mouth down hard on hers amid shouts of encouragement from the watching men.
Elgiva struggled in furious revulsion, but to no avail. In desperation she bit down on his lip. With a cry of pain and outrage, he released her abruptly, his hand moving to his mouth where the blood welled. Giving him no time to recover, Elgiva brought her knee up hard. Instinct made him move, though he still caught a glancing blow. She heard a grunt of pain and he reeled backwards while his companions redoubled their mirth. Elgiva didn’t wait to see how badly she had hurt him, but turned and fled across the room. Hilda was still struggling in the arms of the young man who had first seized her, but, hampered by the baby, could do little. The crying Ulric was standing beside the still figure of Osgifu. Elgiva reached him and flung her arms around him.
Across the room Sweyn staggered to his feet. Seeing the movement, Elgiva looked up and, as her gaze met his, she saw the murderous rage in his eyes. He crossed the intervening space and with a crash flung open the shutters. The room flooded with light. Then he tore Ulric from her arms and raised him aloft. Realising his intent, Elgiva screamed.
‘No!’
Sweyn’s lips twisted in a chilling smile.
Then a much louder voice sounded above all. ‘Hold!’ There was no mistaking the tone of cold command. ‘Enough! Put the child down, Sweyn.’
Elgiva, very pale, tore her gaze from the man by the window and risked a glance at the speaker. She had a brief impression of a tall, dark-haired warrior in a mail shirt. His face was concealed behind the plates of his helmet, but it was clear that all the intruders knew him and that he had authority with them for the room fell silent. His blue gaze locked with that of the other man. Frantic, she looked back across the room at Sweyn. For one hideous moment it seemed as though he would follow his intent, but then, to her unspeakable relief, he slowly lowered Ulric to the floor. Bewildered, the little boy ran to Elgiva, who held him close. Ignoring them, Sweyn confronted the other man.
‘Did we not swear to avenge Ragnar with fire and sword?’
‘Aye, man to man. Do men make war on babes?’
‘A mewling Saxon brat. What does it signify?’
At this casual dismissal of helpless innocence Elgiva, sickened, thought her heart might burst with rage. She missed the casual glance that the dark warrior threw her way before his gaze locked again with Sweyn’s.
‘Slaves are valuable, no matter what their age, and we have need of them. There will be no more killing here this day.’ The tone was calm, but no one missed the inflexion of iron beneath.
Sweyn shrugged. ‘Whatever you say, Wulfrum.’ He turned back to Elgiva. ‘Even so, I have a reckoning to settle with this one.’
Elgiva struggled to her feet and, thrusting Ulric towards one of the serving women, backed away. Sweyn came on. She turned and fled for the door.
She never reached it for in her blind flight she hurtled headlong into the warrior who had spoken before, stumbling
