Free The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham Page B

meet the King of Wessex at the gates.”
    “Fine, we shall ride.” Eric came before the fire and warmed his hands. Then he gazed sharply at Hadraic. “Have we taken any prisoners during the night?”
    “Nay, Eric. We’ve taken the men at the battle’s end, and the women, but none is of the manor. We’ve got farmers, serfs, and craftsmen. They have all taken their oath to you.”
    Eric nodded. “Good.” There would have to be arenegotiation with the English king, but he would not relinquish this place.
    Still, he wished that he had the girl. He would like to take her bow and arrows and crack them over her backside.
    Or perhaps she needed a few nights in solitude with nothing but bread and water ….
    He stepped away from the fire and looked at his three men. “Shall we go?”
    Michael, Hadraic, and Rollo nodded. Eric led the way out into the courtyard. It was another day already, he saw. Pigs and chickens were moving around; farther out he could see a boy urging his oxen forward. His own men were up and about. Some leaned against the barn and whittled, as was the Scandinavian way. Some were wary, their hands on their weapons, their gazes ever sharp.
    Denis of Cork came forward at the sight of Eric, leading a massive white stallion. He grinned from ear to ear. “He’s a beauty, my lord Eric! Finely bred, finely built, fast and strong. I was pleased when I saw him here, and I knew he could go to none but you.”
    “Aye, he’s a fine one,” Eric agreed. He moved his hand in a caress over the animal’s soft muzzle. The stallion snorted and pranced, and Eric felt his great power. He smiled back at Denis. “Aye, Denis, you serve me well.”
    He mounted quickly, then lifted a hand to his men. Their cry went up and he lifted the stallion’s reins. With his captains behind him, he rode for the gate.
    High upon the hill overlooking the town, Alfred watched as the dangerous prince he had asked ontohis land galloped forward. Eric of Dubhlain was unmistakable; his stature surpassed all rumor. He rode the great horse with a warrior’s ease, tall in the saddle, a forbidding sight with his towering size and burnished mane. The horse’s hooves pounded the earth, fresh and fragrant from the storm.
    The king assessed the Irish prince carefully, looking for some fault. There was none. The blue eyes that assessed him in return were unblinking, hard—ruthless, perhaps. They met his with a demanding look, a certain wariness, and an undisputable honesty.
    “Alfred of Wessex?” the formidable warrior demanded.
    The king nodded. “Eric of Dubhlain?”
    Eric nodded in turn. For several moments tension lay heavily on the air; suspicion was rife. Alfred was attended by several horsemen—noblemen, by their dress. In those initial moments, though, neither the king nor the prince noted those around them. The import of the meeting lay in their impressions of one another, and in whatever faith they could find to give one another.
    Alfred nudged his mount forward and offered his gloved hand to Eric. Eric barely paused before accepting the proffered handshake. The man had courage to meet him so, or he believed in Eric’s reputation for honesty, or so hated the Danes that he would take any risk against them. Gazing at the king, Eric liked what he saw. Alfred was a man of medium build, with sharp hazel eyes and brown hair and beard. He would miss little, Eric thought. He appeared wise and weary. Intelligence rested in the depths of his eyes.
    And Mergwin had believed in him, Eric remembered as he felt the firmness of Alfred’s hand in his.
    “We’ll move back to the town,” Eric said. “The women are busy at the fire, creating a feast of welcome for the great Alfred of Wessex.”
    The king nodded, watching him, and Eric was aware that Alfred knew he had laid claim to the town and had determined not to dispute him. He noted that the king was an excellent horseman, and he realized that they had both been fighting the Danish enemy since