Rescued By The Viking. Meriel Fuller

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       Chapter Two

      As the Danes jumped from the longships, calf-length leather boots splashing through the shallows, the Saxon townspeople crowded on to the strip of shingle, slapping the tall seafaring warriors on the back, shaking their hands. Smiling widely, the men accepted flagons of mead from the dark-eyed Saxon maidens, hefted steaming meat pies from passing wooden trays, eating with real appreciation. Ragnar ran an eye along the bows of the longships, making sure all vessels were drawn up high enough against the incoming tide. The six boats had carried more than two hundred men across the North Sea; Harald’s larger fleet would bring double that number in the next few days, swelling their ranks to a sizeable army to help the Saxons throw off the Norman yoke.

      ‘Torvald has found us an inn for the night.’ Eirik walked over to him, handing back his empty tankard to one of the Saxon maids. ‘The men can sleep in the ships, but I, for one, wouldn’t mind a comfortable mattress, as I’m sure you would.’

      ‘Age getting the better of you, Eirik?’ Ragnar grinned.

      Eirik laughed. ‘Perhaps. I have the choice so I may as well be comfortable.’ His gaze fell on a nearby Saxon maid, her face blushing with attention as she moved deftly around the crowd with a tray of ale tankards. ‘This town is as good as any for us to spend the night.’ His mouth twisted with a rueful grin as he pushed strands of dark hair from his eyes.

      ‘Too bad you’re married,’ Ragnar said. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

      ‘Aye,’ Eirik said wistfully. ‘But you’re not. Sure you won’t take what’s on offer?’ He jabbed Ragnar in the ribs.

      His short hair, thick golden strands, riffled in the sharpening breeze. ‘No, Eirik.’ Guilt crashed over him, black, coruscating. A flock of geese flew low over the mudflats, necks stretched out, honking wildly, and he followed their path in silence, his body gripped with regret.

      ‘It’s a shame.’ Eirik folded huge leather-bound arms across his chest. He looked out across the water.

      It’s only what I deserve, thought Ragnar, after what had happened to Gyda. His younger sister was worsening by the day, a thin pale effigy of the maid she once had been, shrinking before his eyes, before his parents’ eyes. Her silent presence haunted his days, as she brushed past him like a ghost, or perched, mute, at the end of the table. She hadn’t spoken a word since she’d been brought back from this godforsaken land.

      ‘What I could never understand, though,’ Eirik continued, ‘was why Gyda decided to travel to England with Magnus in the first place? On a raiding mission, of all things.’

      Because I told her to do it, thought Ragnar. By Thor, I encouraged her! I could see how much in love with Magnus she was and could see how against that love our parents were. I told her to go, that I would explain everything to our parents: Gyda and Magnus would marry in England and return to Denmark as husband and wife. All would be well. But then, suddenly, it wasn’t.

      Raised voices nearby yanked Ragnar’s attention from his memories. He was thankful. He had no wish to dwell on his sister’s plight any longer than was necessary. His eyes traced the shadows, hunting out the sound of an argument. Beneath the overhanging thatch of a building, a woman tugged at a man’s tunic sleeve, a large bulky man, his flabby red-flushed face slack from alcohol. She was pointing desperately, gesticulating with her fist out to the mudflats, her voice a shrill cackle, pitched with urgency. Not many people were around now; the crowd by the longships had drifted away, eager to show their Danish visitors the delights of the town, funnelling eagerly up the narrow streets that led from the shore. Only Eirik and Ragnar and a few of their men remained on the shingle.

      Lifting one meaty fist, the man clouted the woman around the ear, shoving her backwards. ‘You have no right to speak to me like this. Get away! I told you, I’ll fetch her when the tide comes in.’

      Hunching over, her hand cupping her throbbing ear, the woman replied sullenly, ‘The tide is coming in, you senseless oaf! The maid’s up to her knees in it already. You need to do something, otherwise she’ll drown.’

      Staggering back against the uneven cob wall of the building, the man lifted his tankard and took a huge gulp. The ale trickled down his chin. ‘Let the girl drown, then! What do I care?’

      ‘She rescued little May, did the children not tell you? That’s why she’s in the mud. She stepped off the planks to save her.’

      Anger flaring in his gullet, Ragnar covered the shingle in three long-legged strides. To see a man hit a woman like that filled his mouth with sour distaste. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked the woman, touching her elbow with concern. Clutching her ear, she stared up at Ragnar in astonishment, then nodded slowly.

      As Eirik came up beside him, the drunk man raised his head, regarding the tall Danes with a churlish, guarded look. ‘’Tis our business.’ He cleared his throat noisily. ‘Go into town with the rest of your men.’

      Sensing an ally, the woman lifted her eyes to Ragnar, plucking nervously at his tunic sleeve. ‘The maid is stuck in the mud!’ Her cheeks were pinched, crusted with salt. ‘And the tide is coming in so fast, she will surely drown!’ Guided by her pointing finger, Ragnar scanned the bluish-brown marshes, the clumps of stiff grass, his gaze snagged by the deep grooves cut into the thick brown ooze. The setting sun flashed against something, a brooch, or a ring, he knew not what, and his eyes honed in on that spot. And then he saw. The silhouette of a figure calling plaintively through the twilight. The foaming edge of tide swilled around her knees, floating out the hem of her dress. The woman was correct: time was not on her side.

      ‘Fetch a long rope from one of the ships,’ he ordered one of their men who had followed Eirik and him across the beach.

      ‘You’re not going out for her, are you?’ Eirik frowned. ‘Let these people rescue their own, I say. We should not involve ourselves in the business of the town.’

      ‘Then what in Odin’s name are we doing here?’ Ragnar lifted brindled eyebrows, burnished arcs of copper below his flaxen hair. ‘We’re supposed to be helping them throw off the Norman yoke, yet we can’t rescue a Saxon maid from the mud? She is going to die out there, unless we do something. Do you want that on your conscience?’

      ‘Nay, of course not.’ Eirik grimaced, his expression rueful, as if ashamed of the way his thoughts had run. Despite his superior rank to Ragnar, they were friends first and foremost, having grown up together on neighbouring estates in Ribe.

      ‘Besides, you’re not going out there.’ A muscle quirked beneath Ragnar’s high cheekbone and he smiled. ‘The King of Denmark’s son, wading through the mudflats? Your father would never let me hear the end of it.’

      ‘Then go with Thor’s blessing,’ Eirik replied, as their man returned with the unwieldy coil of rope slung around his neck and torso. ‘Let’s hope she’s alive by the time you reach her.’

      * * *

      Gisela’s throat was dry, scraped raw by her continued shouting. Exhaustion made her head swim, her thoughts dancing about with chaotic abandon. Crossing her arms over her chest, hugging herself, she wished for the hundredth time that she had worn her cloak that day and not just her thin gowns and chemise. She was cold, shivering uncontrollably now, the icy mud СКАЧАТЬ