Free Viking's Prize by Tanya Anne Crosby Page A

mist to see that the man at the helm was struggling at best.
    Sigurd would simply have to attempt it. His
decision made, not even Thor himself could have swayed him from it. Not
understanding his own motives, Alarik turned to Sigurd. “Replace Ivar at the
helm! Quickly!”
    Sigurd’s jaw dropped with disbelief, his eyes
widening. “But jarl—”
    “Go!” Alarik roared. “Now!”
    Shaking his head, Sigurd went.
    Laying the woman’s head upon the planking, gently,
so as not to cause her further injury, Alarik watched him go, his hand reaching
for his bone-handled dagger as he came to his feet. The wind battered his tunic
as he held the hem within his fist, ready to slash it. He glared at Red-Hrolf
as he rent a wide strip of his garment, baring his chest to the biting wind.
    Red-Hrolf stood, shaking his head, torn between
his fear of a watery grave and Alarik’s wrath. “You’ll kill us all!” he
accused.
    Hoping Alarik would change his mind, Sigurd halted
abruptly, turning to hear Alarik’s reply.
    In the meantime Bjorn dared to speak his mind. As
Alarik’s brother, he maintained certain privileges others were deprived
of—at least that much was granted him. “Alarik, brother, you are the only
one who can guide us through this storm!”
    Alarik stood silent, his legs braced apart, his
eyes gleaming dangerously.
    Bjorn’s face screwed with disbelief. “You would
kill us all over a worthless Fransk bitch?” Almost at once, he regretted his
boldness. Noting the ire that danced like fiery daggers in Alarik’s dark eyes,
he shuddered, never having seen his brother so furious.
    Clasping his dagger firmly, Alarik slashed another
strip of material from his blood-smeared tunic, oblivious now to the numbing
chill. He fixed a warning glare upon Sigurd. “Take that helm,” he said coldly.
While his warning seemed directed at Sigurd, it was in fact meant for his young
brother, and he issued the last of it as he turned to Bjorn. “Or ’tis you I’ll
toss overboard, not the wench.”
    He turned again to Red-Hrolf and added pointedly,
his eyes burning with fury, “I’ll not have my words questioned—ever! Do
y’ heed?”
    Knowing Alarik’s words were not mere threats,
Sigurd immediately took to the helm.
    “And you, Bjorn,” Alarik warned. “I shall take
little more insolence from you—brother or nei. Now lower the accursed
sails!”
    At once, Bjorn leapt to do Alarik’s bidding,
knowing there was too little time to waste. In this Hel wind it would take very
little to devastate the sail cloth.
    “Leave the mast raised!” Alarik called after him.
He would need it later to raise a shelter. Then too, as soon as the wind abated
he would again hoist the sail and use the drift anchor. Best to make use of it
while they were able.
    Once more, the Goldenhawk tilted violently. With
hoarse shouts and curses, the men braced themselves against the tempest, lest
they tumble into the frothy sea. Alarik stood his ground like an effigy from
hell, not wholly real, but paralyzing in his towering might and intensity.
    Satisfied that he would have no more resistance from
his men, he gave his complete attention to the woman at his feet.

     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER
9

     
    “She’ll bring unrest,” Red-Hrolf said at Bjorn’s
back.
    Bjorn didn’t bother turning. “How so?”
    “She’s Christian,” Red-Hrolf declared. “Why else?”
    A prickling crept down Bjorn’s spine at
Red-Hrolf’s proclamation. He paused at his task, turning abruptly.
    Red Hrolf’s expression was filled with scorn.
“What else would a Frenchwoman be?”
    Shuddering over the notion, Bjorn frowned,
returning to the task of lowering the sails. He tugged violently at the lines.
“Why should that concern me? You heard as well as I... she is mine brother’s
problem! Speak to him if you would!”
    Red-Hrolf’s eyes narrowed balefully. “Are you so
blind, Bjorn? I say she is a threat to all of us.”
    “She’s naught but a puny