Her father had had two lawful wives and three bedslaves, all of whom had given him numerous children. The count had been twenty at his death, and Erika had been close to none of them except her true brother, Ragnar. Their mother had been the second wife. The first wife had given the old man four daughters and three sons, all much older than the rest.
In fact, the oldest son, who took their father’s place in their Danish lands, had three daughters himself for whom he would be concerned with finding husbands before he would think to arrange marriages for Erika and his one other sister still unwed. And with most of the young men in the area having left to seek their fortunes in new lands, it was little wonder she had supposed she would never have a husband or a home of her own.
But her brother had been one of those to leave home to find a place for himself elsewhere, with great success. And it had been one of the happiest days of Erika’s life when he had sent for her to live with him in his newly conquered East Anglian holdings. She had had few expectations, was merely pleased to leave a home overcrowded and rife with petty jealousies, where she had never felt truly welcome or even needed.
But Ragnar had shared his new wealth with her, had given her the highest authority in his home, that of the lady of the manor, and complete command in his absence. No longer was there no hope of a marriage. She had had five offers already from Ragnar’s men, stalwart Vikings, all, which he had turned down himself. He had higher aspirations for her, a wealthy lord at least, with many men at his command. This was their new home. It was time to strengthen their position with alliances. And now Ragnar had gone with his men to seek marriage contracts for them both.
Erika should be ecstatic. He had promised her she would be well pleased with the man he brought home for her, and she had little doubt she would be, for Ragnar wanted her to be happy. The trouble was, a husband of her own was no longer such a hoped-for circumstance. Her brother had given her so much—spoiled her, actually—that she was perfectly happy to remain where she was. Even her desire for children was answered in Ragnar’s son, Thurston, whose upbringing she had taken over.
In truth, she did still want a husband, and did still hope for love to come her way, and she prayed often that the man Ragnar found for her would be that love. But she was so content as she was, that she feared a change, feared she wouldn’t be as happy as she was now.
She supposed her fears were normal, the same shared by most women when faced with imminent marriage to an unknown man. Herlife would change again, when she was not long used to the one she had.
Yet she knew her lot would change anyway when Ragnar married again. That was inevitable. And although she would be welcome in Ragnar’s home for the rest of her life if she chose to stay here, she didn’t care to feel useless and unneeded again.
So she hadn’t mentioned her preference when the subject first came up, nor did she ask for a year or two of grace before she must wed. Ragnar thought he was giving her her fondest wish. She let him think so. But she wasn’t all that happy about it. She simply wished that things could remain just as they were now. But then, she had no idea that things were about to change drastically, and much sooner than she expected.
Chapter 5
THE OXCART TRUDGEDslowly down the wooded lane, an old woman, hands gnarled, gray hair straggly, sitting behind the reins. A young woman limped beside the cart, though without pain, the limp caused by one leg being shorter than the other, a phenomenon she was born with. The stench of death met them long before they came upon the bodies in the road. It was a smell old Valda welcomed. It was a smell her young niece, Blythe, abhorred, but had grown used to.
Seeing the corpses finally, Valda guided the cart to the side of the road and eagerly jumped down. She was spry for an old woman, and swift to move through the dead, searching through a pocket here, turning a body over there.
It wasn’t long before Blythe heard her grumble. “Faugh, scavengers have beat us to them.”
She should have saidotherscavengers, for Valda supported herself and her niece on the leavings of the dead. The wars that had ravaged the land for so many years were a boon to her and her kind, and she would followin the wake of the Danish armies. With the excuse that she was looking for her son, no one would bother her as she picked through the bodies of the fallen, pocketing whatever coin or jewelry came easily to hand.
But what Valda had said was true. Other scavengers had already found these dead men and picked them clean. All the boots save one hole-ridden pair were missing; all the cloaks, the leather, the weapons, the wool. Only two tunics remained, these rent so badly by the inflicted wounds as to make them unwanted even by a scavenger. Most of the men still had their braies on, bloodied and stinking of death, though their chausses were gone. Two were completely naked, even their underwear fine enough to warrant taking. Lords, likely, those two.
Blythe stood upwind of the carnage, patiently waiting for her aunt to finish. Valda was angry that naught had been left behind for her, and was yanking off one of the remaining tunics. Blythe knew that she would wash the garment, stitch it, and sell it at market for a hot meal.
Blythe was loath to touch the dead bodies herself, and her aunt never insisted she help, which she was grateful for. She did the selling of whatever they found, and the selling of herself when times were lean. Valda had raised her, and it was the only life she knew. But Valda was getting on in years and yearned for a roof over her head instead of an oxcart and the cold ground for her bed.
It was not a vain hope, at least now it wasn’t, for Valda had heard that her cousin’s wife had died, and she and Blythe were on their way to visit him in Bedford. It was Aldrich’s wife who wouldn’t take them in before when they had asked, but his wife was dead now, and it was Valda’s hope that he would marry Blythe and give them the home she so desperately wanted. Blythe was also hopeful that it would be as Valda predicted. Aldrich was much older than she, but not a mean or ugly man, so she wouldn’t mind marrying him. Also, he had always looked kindly on her, despite her deformity. And a home and food every day would be nice, very nice.
Her eyes wandered as she waited for her aunt to finish. She hated death, had seen so much of it, yet her eyes were drawn to it still in morbid fascination. And her gaze came back to one man repeatedly, until she finally approached him.
He was one of the two men who had been picked clean, and Valda had turned him over—grunting and swearing the while, he was so big—looking for rings on his hands. He must not have worn any, for none of his fingers were missing, which was the quickest way for a scavenger to remove a ring that bloated joints would not release.
His was a fine young body, without a wound that Blythe could see, though with enough scars to claim him as a fighting man. His was also the longest, largest body she had ever seen. But it was his face she couldn’t take her eyes from, the face of an angel, so beautiful it broughtpain to her chest. And for the first time in all the years that she had seen men dead like this, tears gathered in her eyes.
It was typical of his effect on women that Blythe, who didn’t know him and had never seen him before, could cry over the death of a man who looked like him. This she was doing, unbeknownst to her aunt, and she even dropped to her knees beside him, her hand drawn to his cheek. The skin was warm and supple, which brought a gasp of surprise from her. But she jerked her hand back with a shriek when she felt his breath on it.
“Aunt Valda, this man is not dead!”
Valda looked up from folding the tunic she had claimed and said with no concern, “So? He will be soon.”
“But he has no wound on him either!”
Valda came to her side to look down at the man. She had wrestled long enough with his back to get it turned that she knew it bore no wound now hidden. She bent down to lift his head with both hands to feel there, and found the lump that had struck him down, the size of her small fist.
She let his head drop back to the hard ground without a care for the pain it might cause him. He made not a sound.
“His skull has been cracked,” she said offhandedly. “They rarely waken from that.”
“But he could?”
“Aye, he could, with constant care, which he will not be getting out here. Now, come along. I am finished—”
