Free The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham

the flame. “So tell me, Mergwin, you who knew of this danger, what was the cause of this wasteful bloodshed?”
    Mergwin shrugged, then stared very intently into the flames. “I cannot tell you the cause. I am not a seer.”
    “Oh, you’re not,” Eric said dryly. He lifted the ale to his lips. He was very thirsty and downed it quickly. There was a knock at his door. He called out and Rolloentered. He was anxious and dragged a lean priest before him, pressing the nervous man toward Eric.
    Eric arched a brow at Rollo. “What is this?” he asked in Norse.
    “Speak up, Father, and quickly,” Rollo urged the monk.
    The little man wet his lips, and his eyes seem to grow wider as he stared at the blond giant seated before him. He was clad only in a short leather tunic; his shoulders were bare, the muscles of his arms massive and sleek and taut. Eric rose, towering above the monk. The priest crossed himself, then tried to step forward; he stammered out some words. Eric crossed his arms over his chest, annoyed and amused. “Come, good father, speak up. We are not barbarians here.”
    The monk seemed to doubt those words sincerely, but he found his tongue. “I am Father Paul, of the old order of Saint Bede. I have come from the king, Alfred of Wessex.”
    “Have you?” Eric said sharply. He tensed. The feeling of betrayal scratched along his spine.
    “Please, dear Prince! The king is distressed and knows no more of this treachery than you, but he swears that he will discover it. He has sent you mead and wool and furs and jewels created by his finest goldsmiths and silversmiths.”
    “The king would give me what he fears I might take,” Eric said.
    The monk drew himself up with impressive dignity. “Alfred is a great king. He is a man of his word and afraid of no fight.”
    “Well said,” Eric murmured.
    “And true,” Mergwin added quietly. The monkstared at the Druid’s back with some fascination. Eric walked over and leaned against the mantel. Mergwin’s poultice was at work on his leg, and he felt as if new strength and vigor had worked themselves into his limbs. He rubbed his bearded chin with his fingers, eyeing the monk, who continued to seem fascinated with Mergwin’s back.
    “What does the king wish?”
    “He would—uh—er, that is, the king would meet with you here. He awaits you beyond in the wood and would take a hostage first, for he expects your anger.”
    “I’ll give no hostage,” Eric began, but Mergwin, tall and lean and ever like the crow, stood. “Aye, my prince. I will go, as the English king bids.”
    Eric frowned. The Druid was oft a thorn in his side, but he was also as dear as any blood relative, and Eric was loath to risk the man. “Nay, you should not.”
    “And why not?”
    “You are too old for this game.”
    “When I am too old, I will die.” Mergwin bowed low and respectfully to Eric, then he turned to the monk and smiled at the gaping man. “Shall we go?”
    The monk stared at Eric. Rollo laughed. “He is no black magician, Father. Merely my lord’s hermit. Mergwin will not turn you into a blackbird.” He paused and gazed at Mergwin. “Will you, Druid?”
    Mergwin shrugged. “Nay, not this day.”
    “I don’t know if a madman will suffice—”
    Eric cut him off. “Tell your king that he holds someone precious, my mentor, a man who is oft my strength, in his hands. Tell him that he holds a treasure, and if there is treachery now, all England willpay. Then you may tell him that I await his leisure. We will talk in this fine hall.”
    The men left him, the monk more nervous than when he had come, Mergwin stoic. Rollo awaited their departure and left himself, amused. When they had gone, Eric finished his meal, then he set to dress. Sometime during the night Rollo had brought his trunk, and he determined that since he would meet a king, he would dress as the son of one and the grandson of two. He chose Irish dress, warm woolen hose, a soft blue fur-trimmed tunic,