The Viking's Touch. Joanna Fulford

       Crossing the intervening space to the bed, he threw aside his cloak and, unfastening his belt, pulled off his tunic and tossed it after the mantle. His shirt followed, revealing the mat of crisp black hair that covered his torso. Anwyn stiffened, feeling the mattress sag beneath his weight. He unfastened his breeches and then reached for her. She tried to turn away, but strong hands dragged her back and a gust of fetid breath hit her in the face. Sickened, she turned her head aside.

       ‘Torstein, it’s late and I’m tired.’

       ‘You’ll do as you’re bid.’

       He fumbled for her linen kirtle and dragged it up around her waist so that her lower body was naked. Involuntarily she shuddered. As he leaned closer his hairy paunch scratched her belly, the beefy, leering face within inches of hers.

       ‘I thought I’d schooled you in obedience,’ he went on, ‘but perhaps I was mistaken.’

       She bit back the reply that she wanted to utter, knowing better. ‘My lord, you are not mistaken.’

       ‘No? Let’s see, shall we?’

      Anwyn woke with a start, panting, heart pounding, staring wide-eyed into the furthest corners of the room. Nothing moved. Her gaze came to rest on the bed. The place beside her was empty. She was alone. Slowly she let out a long breath as her mind assimilated the knowledge. Torstein was never coming back. As the minutes passed, horror was replaced by relief so intense it left her trembling. She swallowed hard and lowered herself onto the pillows again, waiting for her heartbeat to quiet a little. Torstein was never coming back. Now Ingvar waited, biding his time.

      ‘Never,’ she murmured. ‘Not while I have breath.’ To think that once, long ago in another life, she had dreamed of being married, of having a man’s love. She smiled wryly. How naïve she had been then to think that the two things went together. All such girlhood fantasies were long gone; if love between husband and wife existed in this world it was for others, not for her.

      Chapter Four

      The following morning Wulfgar left Hermund in charge of the ship and, accompanied by Thrand, Beorn and Asulf, set off for Drakensburgh. Built on a low hill and surrounded by a deep ditch and a high, spiked wooden pale, it wasn’t hard to find.

      ‘Balder’s toenails! The place is a fortress,’ said Thrand. ‘Whoever lives here is a man of some importance.’

      ‘Is this a good idea, my lord?’ asked Beorn. ‘It could be a trap.’

      All three men looked at Wulfgar. He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, but keep your wits about you all the same. Come on.’

      They reached the wooden bridge that spanned the ditch and, when challenged, identified themselves. It seemed they were expected. There followed sounds of a bar being removed and then the small wicket gate swung open to admit them. From there they were escorted across a large compound in which stood various buildings. Wulfgar noted a barn, storehouses, workshops and small dwellings before at length they came to a large timbered hall. Fantastically carved pillars flanked the great oaken doors. However, the atmosphere within was more sombre. The only light came from the open portal and the hole in the roof above the rectangular hearth pit where the remains of a fire smouldered in a bed of ash. Through the gloom Wulfgar made out smoke-blackened timbers adorned with racks of antlers and wolf masks. Trestle tables and benches were stacked against the walls, but at the far end of the room on a raised platform was a huge oaken chair, carved with the likeness of birds and animals. The air smelled of smoke and ale and stale food.

      ‘Wait here,’ said the guard. With that he departed and left them alone. The four looked around.

      ‘A gloomy lair,’ muttered Asulf.

      Thrand nodded. ‘You said it. What manner of man lives here?’

      ‘A powerful one. That chair looks more like a ruddy throne.’

      ‘Let’s hope its owner is as gracious as his lady.’

      In the event it was Lady Anwyn who came to greet them a short time later. Wulfgar felt a pleasurable sense of recognition. She was accompanied by the old warrior he had seen before: Ina. With them was a young boy—the one on the pony, he assumed. Even if the facial likeness had not been apparent, the red-gold hair and green eyes would have proclaimed him her son. Just for a moment he was reminded of another child and another hall and his throat tightened. Forcing the memory from him, he watched his hostess approach.

      When word was brought of the men’s arrival Anwyn had wondered if Lord Wulfgar would be one of their number. Indeed, in some part of her mind she had hoped he might. Even so, seeing him there caused her pulse to quicken a little. Last time they met she had been on horseback. She had not realised just how tall he was.

      ‘Good morning, my lady.’

      Recollecting herself, she returned the greeting. ‘You are come to use the forge.’

      ‘The carpenter’s shop, too, if you have no objection.’

      ‘None,’ she replied. ‘What is it you require?’

      ‘We’re going to need a new yard, and there’s a crack in the ship’s rudder that needs reinforcing. If we can fashion a couple of steel plates, that should do the trick. We could also use some bolts.’ He paused. ‘Naturally we will pay a fair price for the wood and the iron.’

      ‘Naturally.’

      He thought he caught a gleam of something like amusement in her eyes, but it was so quickly gone he couldn’t be certain. All the same it intrigued him. He saw that she was wearing a different gown today. The soft mauve colour suited her, enhancing the delicate pink and whiteness in her cheeks and providing a foil for that wonderful hair, confined in a neat braid. He tried to visualise what it looked like unbound, what it felt like to touch.

      Aware of his scrutiny but unable to read his thoughts, Anwyn became unwontedly self-conscious and looked away. Mentally chiding herself, she took a deep breath. She was no green girl to be discomposed by a man’s casual regard.

      ‘I’ll show you the forge,’ she said.

      Even as she spoke she knew there was not the least need for her to go with them; Ina could have done it. On the other hand they were visitors here and it was a courtesy. She averted her eyes from Wulfgar’s. Courtesy had nothing to do with it. The truth was that she did not want to lose this man’s company just yet.

      They left the hall and set out across the compound. He fell into stride beside her, leaving the others to follow. Despite the decorous space between them every part of her being was aware of him, every part alive to his presence. He made her feel strangely self-conscious, and yet she could not have said why. It was not an unpleasant sensation exactly; rather it was unaccustomed.

      For a moment or two neither of them spoke. Then Wulfgar glanced in the child’s direction.

      ‘Your son?’

      ‘Yes. Eyvind.’

      ‘A fine boy. His father must be proud of him.’

      ‘His father is dead.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ He paused. ‘Recently?’

      ‘Ten months ago.’

      ‘It cannot be easy for a woman alone.’

      ‘I manage well enough.’

      ‘So I infer if yesterday is aught to judge by.’

      Something in his tone brought a tinge of colour to her cheeks. Quickly she changed the subject.

      ‘You are not from these parts, Lord Wulfgar.’

      ‘No, I grew up in Northumbria.’