to the left, a group of Danes were gathered around what looked like a bundle of clothes on the ground. One man dropped to his haunches, reaching his arm out, shaking something, then another man crouched by his side. Nay, she realised, not clothes; it was a man, stretched out on the cobbles. She twisted her mouth into a sneer: these Danes were renowned for drinking themselves into a stupor. Twitching her gaze away, she stared back at the inn, light flickering out through the cracks in the wooden shutters. How was she going to go in there, a woman, without everyone turning to look at her as she came through the door? Sweat prickled her armpits, a cold sliding sensation coiling in her belly.
Then something made her turn back to the man on the ground. There were more men around him now, voices raised in consternation, the thick Norse vowels floating across to her. They had managed to shift him into a sitting position, his grizzled head cradled in his hands as he slumped against the wall. Between the calf-length boots of the Danes, she could see the man’s scuffed short boots, green woollen braies. Not a soldier, by the looks of him. Her heartbeat increased by a notch, then began to pound, her knuckles whitening around the wooden rail. She knew who the man was.
‘Father!’ she yelled, careful to use the Saxon language. These Norse barbarians would understand her. She raised her fists, thumping against the broad phalanx of Danish backs, criss-crossed with leather straps over shining mail-coats. ‘Let me through!’ As the men turned in surprise, Gisela pushed forward, squeezing through the jumble of thickset bodies. One man placed his arm in front of her, barring her way. ‘Nay, mistress, ’tis not for you to see.’
But she had already seen. The hunched body of her father, crumpled against the wall, head cupped in his open palms. The grey grizzled hair and beard, matted with blood. His face, deathly white, scored by familiar creases. Blood trickled down over his large bony wrists, dripping to the ground.
‘What have they done to you?’ Her voice was a long, low moan. Sliding to her knees beside him, she untied her shawl, wrapping it around her father’s shaking shoulders. ‘What happened?’
Her father’s dull stare lifted to her face, his eyelashes flicking up in recognition. He cleared his throat, licking his parched lips. ‘I won, Gisela, I won a lot. And they took it all.’
Fury seized her, a white-hot blinding anger at the unfairness of the situation, at her father’s stupidity to attempt such a foolhardy deed. Her eyes dropped to her father’s sword, the hilt gleaming from his belt. With no thought other than to exert revenge on those that had stolen from her father, Gisela grabbed at the hilt, wresting the shining blade from the leather scabbard. Springing up like a cat, she jumped to her feet, turning on the watchful circle of Danes.
‘Which one of you took his money?’ she cried out, slicing the air with the knife. The blade gleamed ominously, catching the light of the fires from the market square. ‘Who did this?’
‘Nay, not us, mistress,’ one of the men replied. ‘You are mistaken.’ His blond hair straggled down over chainmail clad shoulders. ‘We found him like this, unconscious and bleeding. It was us that helped to sit him up.’
‘I don’t believe you!’ Gisela planted her feet firmly apart, as if bracing herself for a physical fight. Her fear of these warriors slipped away at her father’s plight; she had to retrieve the money, one way or another: their situation was desperate. ‘We all know what you Danes are capable of. Why not attack an old man and take his money? He’s easy prey, after all.’ She swung the sword around in a half-circle, the movement haphazard, jerky. ‘Give it back to me, now! I’m warning you, I know how to use this!’
‘But we don’t have it, maid,’ another man explained, holding his hands out, trying to placate her. ‘We...’
‘What is going on here?’ From the back of the group, a voice rang out, deep and commanding. Immediately the men bowed their heads, forming a gap to let another man step forward. Half a head taller than his companions, with seal-dark hair and eyes of molten brown. A young man, who carried himself with the arrogant swagger of authority, his head cocked to one side as he listened to a rapid explanation from one of the men. He swept a cursory glance down at her father. Keeping his distance from her blade, surrounded by the burly Danes, he stared at Gisela, narrow lips curling with disdain.
Sweat prickled from her fingers against the leather hilt, but she held her ground, her expression mutinous, fierce, the blade tipped up in front of her.
‘What is all this nonsense, maid?’
‘Are you the leader of these men?’
‘Aye, I am Eirik Sweynsson.’ He wound his arms across his leather-bound chest. ‘Tell me, what goes on here?’
‘Your men, your godforsaken men, have taken all my father’s money, and his winnings!’ Her challenging blue gaze swept over the men, fully expecting one of them to step forward and admit his guilt. ‘They attacked him!’
Eirik smiled slowly. ‘But I think you are mistaken, maid, for they tell me that they did not. On the contrary, they helped him.’
‘And you believe them?’ Aghast, Gisela’s speech juddered out. ‘You need to search them, at the very least!’
‘Why should I believe you over my own men?’ Eirik lifted his chin, regarding her with contempt. ‘A lowly Saxon maid, dressed in rags.’ He cast a disparaging eye across her patched gown, the drab linen scarf around her head and neck. ‘For all I know, it probably isn’t your money anyway. You probably stole it from someone else.’
His goading words ripped through her; her temper flared. ‘How dare you?’ she cried out. Forgetting the sword in her hand, she lunged forward, wanting to hit out, wanting to wipe the smug, supercilious smile off his handsome, self-satisfied face.
Whipcord arms snared her waist, a punishing, bruising grip, jolting her roughly away from her intended target. She was lifted, feet dangling as if on strings, then crushed back against an iron-hard body. Fingers twisted into her wrist, pinioning the flesh, until the sword slipped from her hand and clattered to the ground. Swinging her legs, she kicked her heels furiously against the shins of her unseen opponent, pushing down angrily on the muscular forearm clamped around her waist.
‘Cease, maid, if you know what’s good for you.’ A voice, horribly familiar, drilled into her ear. Her belly plummeted in recognition., No, not him, not the Dane from the beach! Gisela began to struggle more, desperate to extract herself from his tight, unforgiving hold.
Watching her futile efforts, Eirik laughed, a mocking sound. ‘I wish I could applaud your efforts, maid. But it’ll take more than a short sword to do away with the likes of me.’ He raised his gaze above her head, catching the eyes of the man who held her. ‘I owe you one, Ragnar—’ he grinned ‘—although I’m not sure my life was in any danger.’ His eyes dropped to the blade glinting on the ground, the smile vanishing from his face. ‘Make sure she’s punished for what she’s done.’ He turned away, clapping his arm around the man next to him. ‘Come, we’re missing valuable drinking time here! Ragnar will sort out the girl.’
Ragnar. So that was the name of the man who held her. The same man who had pulled her from the mud. Not a gentle name, but one that suited his flashing eyes and the craggy angles of his face, the tall muscular body that spoke of the open sea, of lands unexplored: a restless soul. As she watched the Danes walk away, his chest pressed into her spine. The dusky scent of leather and salt, a fresh vitality, poured from him, enveloping her.
She closed her eyes, a flush rising across her cheeks; her breath caught, then emerged in staggered gasps at the intimacy of her situation. His honed thighs riding against
