Twin Passions (30 page)

"Lord Hakon, I must speak to you!" Olav
whispered anxiously. He had walked up to their table so suddenly and quietly
that neither of them had heard him.

Annoyed at the interruption, Hakon's voice was gruff.
He did not take his eyes from Gwendolyn's face. "Yea, Olav,
tell
me your news, but be quick about it."

Olav leaned close to the high seat. He kept his voice
low, so the guests nearest Lord Hakon's table would not hear him. "A great
bonfire has been sighted atop the tallest mountain peak that rises above the
Sogn, and others have been lit all along the fjord leading to the settlement,"
he said urgently. "'Tis the Jarl of Lade's signal, my lord!"

Hakon set the goblet down abruptly, the contents
splashing out upon the linen tablecloth. Grim-faced, he rose to his feet. "Stay
here and enjoy the feast, Anora. I will return shortly," he murmured,
brushing a light kiss against her cheek. He then strode quickly out of the hall
with Olav close behind him. Several guests noticed his hasty departure, but
they quickly returned to their revelry. The skald, a singing poet, had begun to
recite the heroic deeds of long-dead warriors, capturing everyone's attention
with his lilting, high-pitched voice.

What could Olav have meant? Gwendolyn wondered. Surely
it must have been something important, or Hakon would not have left the feast.
She sat there listening with the others to the skald for what seemed a long
time, her mind racing with unanswered questions. And when he had finished his
songs at last and the drinking had begun again in earnest, Hakon still had not
returned.

As the night wore on, it was obvious tempers were
beginning to flare from the copious quantities of mead that had been consumed.
Two Viking warriors suddenly fell over one of the tables, fiercely grappling
with each other. Several women screamed, but no one moved to break them apart.
There was so much laughing and loud boasting going on that it seemed very few
of the guests were paying any attention to the battle being waged in the center
of the hall.

Gwendolyn watched wide-eyed as the two men drew their
swords, the cold steel of their blades ringing out from the mighty blows. Still
no one intervened. Berta had told her that Viking warriors tried to get
themselves into what they considered a godlike state of total drunkenness
several times a year, believing it was a foretaste of the endless drinking,
fighting, and feasting in Valhalla. But she had not believed it until now. She
suddenly recalled a story Ansgar had told her of one Yuletide feast during the
reign of Magnus, Hakon's father, when, after hours of drinking, the mead-soaked
hall had been strewn not only with the bodies of guests who had passed out
peacefully, but those of the dead and wounded.

She sighed with relief. At least this battle had ended
without bloodshed. One of the Vikings had collapsed in a drunken heap on the
floor, unharmed, and the other warrior had sat down on top of him, laughing
uproariously, another full goblet of mead in his hand. Aye, they were
barbarians, she thought heatedly.

The air in the hall was becoming increasingly warm and
stuffy, dense with smoke from the blazing fireplaces and the sputtering
torches. Gwendolyn coughed, her eyes smarting. Where was Hakon? It had been at
least two hours since he had left with Olav. Rising to her feet, she wrapped
her cloak about her and walked quickly to a side door leading out of the hall.
She had to get some fresh air, else she would surely faint.

Gwendolyn pushed open the door and stepped outside. The
air was cold and frosty, but it felt wonderful. She drank it in with deep
breaths, immediately feeling refreshed. Leaning against the rough-timbered wall,
she looked up at the night sky. Countless winking stars glittered like so many
jeweled stones, covering the heavens as far as she could see. It was a clear
night, with a half-crescent moon that shone in a long sliver of light across
the surface of the fjord. The ground was lightly dusted with snow that had
fallen earlier that day, glowing white in the moonlight.

A bright orange glow burning atop a distant mountain
caught her eye.
So, that must be the
bonfire,
she thought. And there were others dotting the rugged peaks all
along the fjord as well. She could see a large group of men gathered near the
docks, and from what she could
tell,
they were loading
casks and other supplies aboard Hakon's longship. Suddenly she heard his voice
carry out across the hillside.

"
Yea,
and we will need
plenty of fresh water and food for the journey. I leave that to you, Olav.
Egil, see to it that the men who sail with me on the morrow are not too far
gone in their cups to pull the oars. 'Twill
be
a long,
hard row in front of them. Now, it is time I returned to the feast."

Hakon, sailing in the morn? Gwendolyn's forehead
creased in thought. What could be of such urgency that he would leave in the
middle of Yuletide celebrations? Well, whatever it was, she would find out
soon. At least he was finally returning to the hall.

Aye, it was time she also went back inside, she
thought. Shivering, she reached for the door. She was beginning to feel cold,
and she knew that Hakon would no doubt be displeased if she was not in the hall
to greet him. She had almost opened the door wide enough for her to slip
through when it was suddenly slammed back into place.

Gwendolyn gasped as two large hands gripped her about
the waist, spinning her around. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes widened
in horror at the grinning ram's mask that loomed above her. She heard low,
throaty laughter as the tall man wearing the mask captured her in his arms,
drawing her slender body crudely against his own. He clapped a hand over her
mouth.

"What a fair prize I have found this night,"
he murmured huskily. "Odin could not have blessed me with better fortune!"

Gwendolyn struggled wildly, but he pressed her back up
against the timbered wall, pinning her arms cruelly between their bodies. She
could not move. Suddenly he tore the mask from his face.

She blinked in astonishment at the resemblance the man
had to Hakon. He was taller and of broader build, with a ruddy complexion and
long, flowing red hair and beard, but his startling blue eyes gazed at her with
a heated intensity that was achingly familiar.

"Would that I might see the expression on my
brother's face when he finds I have taken his favored wench," the man
muttered fiercely, "but we shall be far from here by then."

Sweet Jesu! 'Tis
Rhoar Bloodaxe!
Gwendolyn
thought,
her mind
racing.
It must be!
Hakon had told
her much of his bastard brother during one of their nights together; how he had
hated and despised his younger brothers, almost drowning Hakon one day in the
fjord when he was just a lad, and of the oath of blood vengeance he had sworn
against them when he had learned he would not inherit the wealth and power of
their father, Magnus Haardrad.

Rhoar brought his face close to hers, his warm breath
fanning against her flushed cheek. "Come now, wench, don't look so
frightened. I'm sure my caresses will please you far more than those of my
brother," he sneered, putting special emphasis on the last word. The depth
of his venomous hate for Hakon flashed from his eyes.

Nay, this cannot
be happening!
Gwendolyn once again tried to twist free of his grasp, but he
was so big, so powerful, that it was impossible. Suddenly she sank her teeth
into the palm of his hand, drawing blood. He grunted in pain, moving his hand
from her mouth just long enough that she could scream. And scream she did, with
all the force she could muster.

Hakon stopped in his tracks along the path to the great
hall,
then
broke into a run. That was not the pleasured
scream of a serving wench enjoying a tumble with one of his men, but an anguished
cry for help. He ran swiftly up the hill, drawing his broadsword from the
scabbard at his belt as his keen eyes searched the darkness. The scream was cut
off abruptly, though it still echoed eerily about the surrounding
mountainsides.

Rhoar had clapped his huge hand back over Gwendolyn's
mouth, but he knew it was too late. Looking over his shoulder, he cursed
violently. He could see Hakon's form rushing toward the great hall. Thor's
teeth, he was not prepared to take on his brother this night!

He had only sneaked into the settlement to see for
himself the strength of Hakon's forces, joining in the Yuletide festivities as
part of his guise. He had almost been ready to ride out to meet some of his
men, who were waiting for him in the dense trees surrounding the settlement,
when he spied the wench leaving the hall through the side door. It had been a
temptation he could not refuse. He had desired her from the first moment he had
seen her in the hall, swearing to himself that she, too, would one day be his. But
now he knew that he would have to leave her behind if he was to make good his
escape. Her kicking and struggling would only slow him down.

"Your scream has saved you from me this day,
wench, but soon you will be mine!" Rhoar whispered fiercely. "Give my
brother this message. Tell him the days are few before I will seek my revenge!"
He crushed her to him, seizing her lips savagely with his own, plundering her
mouth with his tongue.

Gwendolyn could not breathe. Choking from the force of
his kiss, she tried to fight against the blackness that was beginning to
overwhelm her. With one last effort she brought her hand up and raked her nails
down the side of his face.

Rhoar started and drew back, though he still held her tightly
with one strong arm. He rubbed his stinging cheek. A wolfish grin spread across
his bearded face as he looked at the red blood staining his fingers. "I
prefer bedding a wench with fire and spirit, and shall consider these scratches
only a promise of the pleasure you will give me!" He released her
suddenly, laughing. She fell back heavily against the timbered wall,
then
slipped to the cold ground. When she looked up he had
disappeared into the night, though she could still hear his crude laughter
growing fainter and fainter.

Hakon felt a cold chill course through his body at the
sound of the laughter. It was vaguely familiar, but he could not place it. Yet
he could swear he had heard it somewhere before. Dashing around the corner of
the great hall with several of his guards now accompanying him, he saw a
huddled figure struggling to rise from the ground. He held his sword in front
of him, his eyes darting about warily as he and his men approached what now
appeared to be the cloaked form of a woman. A flash of terror seized him. Thor,
it couldn't be! His heart jumped to his throat. Anora! He quickly slid his
broadsword into the scabbard at his belt, then bent down and gathered Gwendolyn
up into his arms.

Chapter 28

"'Twas Rhoar, my lord!" Gwendolyn moaned
softly. She felt suddenly safe as he held her tightly against his broad chest.

Rhoar! Hakon's face set in hard lines, his mouth grim.
He turned to his men. "Search the grounds. If you find him, bring him to
me," he commanded, his voice low. The Viking guards rushed to obey.

So, he
had
known the laughter, Hakon thought fiercely, though he had not heard it in more
than ten years. He looked down at Gwendolyn, alarmed by the ashen pallor of her
skin. He felt shaken to the depths of his being. Thor, if he had not heard her
scream . . . if he had lost her . . . He could not bear to finish the thought.
Yea, by the blood of Odin, for this Rhoar would surely die! He strode angrily
toward his hall, clutching Gwendolyn to his breast.

She looked up at him. His handsome face was inscrutable
in the faint moonlight. "But what of the Yuletide celebration?" she
asked faintly, listening as the raucous sounds from the great hall faded away
into the distance.

"'Twill
go
on without us,
my love," Hakon replied, brushing a gentle kiss upon her forehead. He
kicked open the door to his hall and strode quickly across the main room into
his chamber. The room was dark except for the reddish glow from the large
bronze brazier in the comer. He lay Gwendolyn gently upon the wide bed and
covered her with the thick fur blanket, then went and lit several of the small
oil lamps about the room.

Crossing back over to the bed, he sat down and gathered
her into his arms, resting her tousled head against his shoulder. His strong
fingers gently stroked her silver-blond curls. "Tell me what happened,
little one."

Gwendolyn sighed raggedly. Even now she could not
believe how close she had come to being abducted by the renegade Viking. "I
saw him first in the hall this night, though I did not know then who he was. He
wore the mask of a ram, and drank from my goblet."

Hakon started in surprise. Thor, the bastard had walked
to within three feet of him, and he had not known it! How he must have gloated!
Rage swelled within him, yet it was tempered by his own humility. He recalled
an old saying that Ansgar had taught him once: Let whoever opens a door make
certain there are no enemies hiding behind it. Yea, he had learned an awful
lesson this night. And it could have been far worse . . .

"It grew so warm in the hall, and the smoke from
the fireplaces was burning my eyes," she murmured, shaking her head. "There
was so much yelling and fighting, I had to get some fresh air."

"So you disobeyed my orders, Anora," Hakon
said softly, though he knew he could not blame her. He had not planned to be
gone so long, but there were so many preparations to be made. If he had been
there with her, he could have accompanied her outside, and perhaps none of this
would have happened. "Why did you not call a guard to accompany you?"