The Viking's Defiant Bride. Joanna Fulford

she watched him walk away Elgiva let out the breath she had unconsciously been holding. Exchanging a brief glance with Osgifu, she set to work again with trembling hands to stanch the wound and bind it. She wondered if Aylwin would last the night and thought it unlikely. It might be better if he did die. The alternative was a life of slavery beneath the Viking yoke, something he would never submit to. Nor would he suffer another man to take his betrothed without a fight. Elgiva swallowed hard. Aylwin had been allowed to live for now, but for how much longer?

      She and Osgifu worked until all had been attended to. The sun was going down before they finished and both women were exceedingly weary. Elgiva wondered if she would ever get the stink of blood and death from her nostrils. Every part of her ached from the effort of bending or stretching and her gown was soiled with blood and dirt. She retired with Osgifu to the women’s bower and, having assured herself that the children were safe in the hands of one of the older women, she turned her attention to herself, bathing her hands and face in an attempt to cleanse away the memory of the past hours.

      ‘Oh, Gifu, so many good men slain.’

      The battle today had been a rout in the end despite all the Saxons had been able to do. No one could have withstood the invaders for long. Now they were the masters here and every last Saxon soul who survived was in their power. One taste of it was enough to strike terror into the heart.

      ‘Aye, yet not all our warriors fell in the battle. The Vikings have already sent men out to search for fugitives, but they will not find them all.’

      ‘I fear it will be too late to be of help here.’ Elgiva met her gaze, unaware of the desperation in her own eyes as, unbidden, the memory of a man’s face intruded into her thoughts, a strong, chiselled face and disconcerting blue eyes. She forced it down and strove against rising panic. She would not wed the Viking.

      Osgifu broke into her thoughts. ‘The forest is large and there are many places of concealment.’

      ‘Aye, there are for those who know its secrets.’

      Elgiva moved away as, through the haze of fear and desperation, the germ of an idea formed in her mind. She knew the forest paths well for, with Osgifu, she was used to spending time there, gathering the plants she needed for her medicines. She could not wait to see if Aylwin survived, if there would ever be a Saxon uprising. All that would take time, and time was the one thing she didn’t have. Elgiva found suddenly that she was shivering with delayed reaction and the atmosphere seemed stifling. She moved to the doorway.

      The place seemed quieter now—the evening meal was preparing in the hall and beyond the palisade the majority of the Viking host had encamped for the duration. The smoke from their cooking fires was already rising into the evening air. The women’s bower was situated behind the hall where over the years various rooms had been added according to need. Looking around now, Elgiva could see the bodies of the slain lying where they had fallen and beyond them a few of Halfdan’s men moving around outside stables and barn. However, there seemed to be no one at the gate just then and the broken timbers hung wide. Not far away the forest beckoned. Elgiva bit her lip. If she could somehow reach the gate without being spotted, there might be a chance of reaching the trees. The Viking encampment lay in the opposite direction and, while it would mean skirting the edge of the village, she could be fairly certain no Saxon would give her away. Once in the forest she would stand a reasonable chance of eluding pursuit. What she would do then she had no clear idea, but it seemed to her that there must be Saxons who had escaped the Viking host. If there were enough of them, they might return by stealth and put the invaders to the sword in their turn. Failing that, she might be able to find help elsewhere in those lands where the Danes held no sway. Anything was better than remaining here to become the bride of a conqueror.

      Looking round the room, she saw the empty bucket and with it the idea. A trip to the well would serve as a plausible excuse for leaving the bower. She made for the door.

      ‘What are you doing?’ Osgifu looked at her in concern.

      ‘I can’t stay here, Gifu.’

      ‘Elgiva, think.’

      ‘I have thought. I will not do what they want.’

      ‘If you run, they will find you and bring you back. These men are ruthless. Who knows what punishment they may inflict?’

      ‘It cannot be worse than what they’re already planning.’

      ‘Don’t do it, I beg you.’

      ‘I will not stay here to be married off to a Viking warlord. I must get help. You said yourself that some of our men have fled into the forest. I will find them.’

      ‘Elgiva, wait!’

      The words fell on empty air for Elgiva was already heading for the well. Picking her way among the bodies all around, she tried to ignore the rising stench and darted covert glances all about her, fearing at every moment to hear someone raise the alarm. However, no one did challenge her and she reached the well a short time later. Putting down the bucket, she took another furtive look around but could still see no one at the gate. Summoning all her courage, Elgiva made towards it at a steady pace, not wishing to draw eyes her way by careless haste. At every step her heart hammered; she expected at each moment to hear the shouted challenge and the sound of pursuit. It never came and she reached the shattered entry. Cautiously she walked through the gateway and looked about her. The way was clear. Picking up her skirts, she ran, sprinting across the open ground betwixt her and the edge of the trees, ignoring everything but the need to escape and put as much distance as possible between herself and Ravenswood. Focused on her goal, she did not see the horseman approaching fast at an oblique angle to cut off her route.

      By the time she heard the thudding hoofbeats, he was much closer. One horrified glance over her shoulder revealed the approaching danger in a brief impression of a great black horse and the warrior who rode it. Elgiva summoned every remaining vestige of energy and put on a last desperate spurt. The trees were no more than a hundred yards away now. If she could but reach them, she would have a chance of escape. Behind her the hoofbeats sounded louder, thudding in her ears like the sound of her own heartbeat as she willed herself on. It was a vain effort. The rider leaned down and a strong arm reached out and swept her off her feet. Elgiva shrieked as she was thrown face down over the front of the saddle, held firmly across the rider’s knees. For some further distance every bone in her body was jarred before the horseman reined to a halt. Fury and fright vied for supremacy as she fought to recover her breath. Then she heard a familiar voice.

      ‘Whither away, Elgiva?’

      Her stomach lurched. Wulfrum! Frantically she strove to push herself upright, but a firm hand between her shoulders kept her where she was, his well-trained mount standing like a rock the while.

      ‘Let go of me, you clod. You Danish oaf.’

      ‘Clod? Danish oaf? These are grave insults indeed.’ Wulfrum regarded his struggling captive with a keen eye. ‘It seems to me that you need to learn better manners.’

      ‘You have the nerve to lecture me about manners, barbarian?’

      ‘I think you were not attending to me earlier, wench, for I warned you what would happen if you defied me again.’

      Suddenly she did recall the words and her face grew hotter as she divined his meaning and realised the extreme vulnerability of her present position.

      ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

      ‘Is that so?’

      The flat of his hand came down hard, eliciting a yelp of indignation and further futile struggles.

      ‘Let me go, you bastard! You swine! Let me go!’

      It was an unfortunate choice of words for half a dozen sharp whacks ensued. Elgiva yelled in rage but bit back any further insults, knowing he would avenge himself if she uttered them.

      ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ was the pleasant rejoinder. ‘You belong to me now and I will hold what is mine.’

      Fuming,