Heading north, the chalk track rolled away from them across the undulating hills, the landscape rising up from the flat wetlands around the estuary. Cow parsley lined the grassy verges, billowing like white lace. Ripe corn stretched across the sloping fields, a sea of rippling pale gold, basking beneath the thick afternoon heat. A muddy depression at the edge of the field drew swallows, their black angular shapes diving frantically to feast on the insects clustering above the stagnant water. High-pitched shrieks filled the air.
It was time for harvest. Beyond a copse of trees, Gisela could see peasants working, scything the stiff corn into stooks, heads protected from the strong sun with cloth wrappings. Almost in acknowledgement of their hard work, she tugged at her tight headscarf, trying to loosen it slightly, feeling the sweat beneath the fabric gather in the hollow of her throat.
Riding alongside her, the horses plodding in tandem, Ragnar caught her fractious gesture. ‘Why not take it off?’ he suggested, his voice breaking their companionable silence. ‘It’s far too hot.’
She rounded her eyes at him, scornful. ‘I can’t do that!’
‘Why not? It will make you feel more comfortable.’
‘But... I don’t...’ Her voice trailed away. What had she been about to say? That because of her scar, she had never taken her headscarf off in daylight before? Most women of her age and status would plait their long hair, as she did, but only cover their heads if the weather were cold, or inclement. She gripped the rough leather of the reins, indecision wrenching her nerves into a constrictive cage.
‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘Your scar does not trouble me, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
His blunt words stabbed at her; her chin lifted sharply as she narrowed her eyes on him. She remembered his lips on hers in the chamber at Bertune, his growling tones of regret after their kiss. A kiss of pity at the dreadful thing that had been done to her. Desolation rolled over her. Of course her scar did not trouble him; he was not bothered by such a thing, because she, Gisela, meant little to him. Her heart pleated with sadness.
‘Fine,’ she said, a hint of challenge edging her voice. She laid the reins across the horse’s neck, unwinding the cloth from her head, stuffing the material into the leather satchel resting on her hip. She tugged at her borrowed cloak, pulling the coarse, bulky folds away from her throat. The breeze sifted against her heated skin; she resisted the urge to lean her head back, to savour that delicious sensation lapping her neck.
The breeze ruffled the silky curls around Gisela’s forehead, tugging out golden-brown strands; they floated in the balmy air. The same colour as the ripe wheat in the field beyond, Ragnar thought. The gleaming rope of her plait curved lovingly around her neck, dropping over her rounded bosom to her waist. The curling end brushed against the point where her dress bunched on to the saddle, the fabric pillowing around her hips. A slow languorous heat rippled through him, building steadily. Had he made a mistake, encouraging her to remove her scarf?
‘And you can stop staring at me,’ Gisela snapped, acutely aware of his intense scrutiny. ‘You’ve seen it before. Remember?’
‘Seen what?’ he asked, bemused, dragging his eyes from the magnificent colour of her hair to her scowling expression.
‘Why are you doing this?’ She frowned at him in exasperation, touching her plait self-consciously. ‘My scar, of course!’
‘Oh, that,’ Ragnar murmured, distracted. ‘I wasn’t looking at that.’
His eyes darkened to the deepest green, shimmering pools that spoke of enchanted woodlands, magical places.
The air thickened with incredible speed. All movement slowed: the horses’ tails swishing away flies, swallows ducking and diving, the rustle of leaves in the oak trees up ahead; everything took time to push through the air, as if struggling through mud, or a thick, tangible fog.
Gisela flushed, a shuddering breath filtering through her windpipe. He stared at her as if mesmerised, as if she were some sort of beauty. Hunching her shoulders in defensive response, she tried to create some sort of barrier against his admiring appraisal. ‘Stop teasing me.’ Her fingers plucked in agitation at the scuffed leather saddle.
‘You’re a beautiful woman, Gisela.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ The dull force of her voice slapped down his words. ‘How can I possibly be beautiful with something like this?’ Suddenly all the hurt, the fear and anxiety that she had endured since coming to England coagulated into a massive lump of anger in her chest. His words inflamed her, unlocking the key to this suppressed emotion. Ripping the plait away from her neck, she revealed the silvery line of her scar, stretching her chin to one side so that he couldn’t fail to see the line on her neck. ‘Look properly, Ragnar. See my scar in daylight. You’re making things worse by pretending it isn’t there, by flattering me. It was all right before...before you came along! Now you make me think about it all the time!’
Ragnar shook his head incredulously. ‘Would you prefer it if I were nasty to you?’ he asked mildly, raising shaggy, wayward eyebrows, unmoved by her melodramatic behaviour. Half-rising in the saddle, he adjusted his position on the horse, flicking the hem of his cloak out behind him. Beneath tight-fitting braies, the firm line of his leg muscle clenched, then relaxed, revealing the honed contours of his thigh. Gisela swallowed, her throat tight, focusing her gaze on the plume of her horse’s mane, unwilling to acknowledge the tumult of thoughts cascading through her head. Yes, she thought. I would prefer it if you were nasty to me. It would make it easier for me to control my heart around you.
She twisted her mouth into the semblance of a smile, knowing she had to answer him. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Good, then at least we are in agreement about that,’ he replied. ‘Come, let us stop beneath those trees up there and have something to eat.’
As they pulled the horses to a halt beneath the wide-spreading oak, Ragnar jumped down from his destrier and came alongside the flank of her mare. Reaching up, he gripped her firmly beneath the armpits, swinging her down to the ground: a strangely intimate gesture. His large thumbs dug into the soft flesh at the side of her breasts. Heat flooded across her pearly cheeks.
Beside them, the horses stood indolently, tails swishing in the languorous air, mosquitoes dancing above their twitching ears. Ragnar held her for a moment, so she had a chance to regain her balance after the long ride, then turned away to rummage in his saddlebags. She watched in amazement as he produced all the trappings for them to eat: a woollen blanket, which he spread across the wispy grass beneath the tree, cloth-wrapped parcels of food and a leather flagon, no doubt full of mead. The sight of this large Dane involved in such gentle domestic activities seemed incongruous, oddly delightful.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her anger slipping away. ‘I have brought nothing.’
Ragnar knelt on the blanket and unwrapped the packages. Amusement lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘You have been a bit too busy to go to market, Gisela. This is all from our ship, anyway. Danes always bring provisions.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Will you come and eat?’
She knelt down slowly on to the rug; the stiff grass made a scrunching noise beneath the colourful wool. Her hips and the back of her legs ached from the long ride. ‘You seem oddly domesticated for someone who has devoted his life to battle,’ she muttered.
‘Even warriors have to eat,’ he replied, handing her a substantial slice of dark-brown bread. He laughed at her look of dismay. ‘This is rye bread. We eat this with smoked fish.’ He indicated the pinkish-grey slices lying on a piece of muslin.
Gisela bit tentatively into the bread. The only time she had seen bread so dark before was when it had burned. The taste was unusual, with a slight sourness, but it was not unpleasant. She chewed hungrily. ‘It’s good.’ Surprise laced her voice.
‘My mother makes it,’ Ragnar said, laying a slice of fish on top of his bread. ‘It keeps for ages before going stale. That’s why we take it on our travels.’
‘Your mother...?’ Her eyes rounded at him in astonishment.
He grinned. ‘I do have one, you know. And a father. I’m not the spawn of the Devil, whatever you might think.’
‘No, it’s not that...’ She brushed distractedly at the crumbs that had fallen from the bread on to the lap of her gown. ‘You’ve never mentioned your family before, that’s all.’
‘Maybe I’ve had other things on my mind,’ he replied. His emerald eyes gleamed over her. ‘Much has happened in the past two days.’ Since they met. Since he had hauled her, barely conscious, from the swirling brown water.
The sun had shifted position, sneaking beneath the cool shade of the tree, warming Gisela’s spine. The stretched tension in her muscles, the strain of the last few hours seemed to dissipate in the shimmering afternoon heat. Swallowing the remainder of the bread, she brought her knees up to her body, hugging her shins. ‘Where do they live?’ she asked.
‘My family, you mean?’ He chewed thoughtfully. ‘We have an estate to the west of Ribe, in Denmark. Ribe is a port, on the coast: the place where we sailed from, to come to England.’
‘Is your father a warrior, too?’ Gisela smoothed her palm across the bright colours of the rug, her heart fluttering at the ease of their conversation. If only it could be like this for the rest of the journey, if only they could travel as friends, then...then her heart might survive unscathed.
Ragnar laughed. ‘Nay, his raiding days are over. He devotes his life to farming our land now, with the help of a bailiff and my mother, of course. She keeps him in line.’ A note of tenderness laced his voice.
‘You sound as if you are very close to your parents,’ she said. Grief sifted through her as she thought of her own mother, of her wasted journey to England and the fear and sickness that had finally killed her.
In the shadowy light beneath the tree, Gisela’s face shone out, revealing her sadness, she was sure. Ragnar shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve been lucky,’ he replied carefully.
‘Your mother sounds formidable,’ Gisela said, straightening her spine. Feeling sorry for herself would not help this situation.
‘Aye, she is.’ Ragnar’s eyes twinkled with memory. ‘She’s hardly taller than you, yet she rules the household like a battle commander.’ He laughed, his gaze drifting across the rippling field, the pale heads of wheat. The sound of rustling grass filled the air, mingling with the occasional shout from the workers in the field beyond. ‘You would like her.’
Her heart pounded. What was he saying? That he would take her back to Denmark to meet his mother? A strange longing possessed her: an image of sitting beside a fire, opposite Ragnar, their feet stretched out towards each other, almost touching. Having someone to nurture and to love and to grow old with. That’s what he made her think about when he spoke of his family. A widening ache, heavy as a boulder, lodged deep in her belly. It was a dream that she could never hope to have and she would do well to dispel such a notion, unless she was to feel sad for the rest of her days.
‘I expect I would,’ she replied finally, her voice wooden. Raising herself on her knees, she started to wrap up the open packages, her movements brisk, succinct, trying to cover the hurt surging up within her.
‘Hold a moment.’ Ragnar’s hand shot out, clasping her wrist. ‘I haven’t finished eating yet.’
‘Sorry.’ She slumped back on to her heels, her fingers twisting in her lap. The tight waistband of her gown dug into her side. ‘I suppose there’s more of you, back in Denmark,’ she said, scouting around for something to fill the lengthening silence. ‘Have you brothers, or sisters?’
‘I have a sister.’ The warmth drained from his voice, freezing his low tone.
‘And is she as formidable as your mother?’ Gisela forced a teasing note into her voice. ‘A battle commander in the making?’
‘No, she’s not.’ Ragnar’s voice was brusque, harsh. He began to wrap up the packages quickly, rising from the rug to stuff them back into his saddlebags. The easy mood between them was broken, shattered. Her last question had ripped through their easy camaraderie like shears through silk. What in heaven’s name had she said to upset him?
‘Ragnar...’ The tender note in her voice faltered as she twisted around to look up at him. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve said something...that I shouldn’t have.’
His fingers stalled on the buckle of his satchel. The horse’s rump shimmered before his eyes, glossy and smooth, flies bobbing above the swishing tail. He saw nothing but the white, wretched face of his sister as she was carried off the ship at Ribe. Guilt surged around his heart, pinching cruelly. But his sister’s plight was not Gisela’s fault. Far from it. She did not deserve to be on the receiving end of his disgruntled shame.
He jabbed his boot into the baked mud at the side of the field, kicked at the crumbling earth. Could he tell Gisela what he had done to his sister? She had a low enough opinion of him already, so maybe such an admission would make no difference. But would it turn her against him for ever? He wondered, for a moment, if he could bear such a thing, to be the recipient of her hate, her disapproval. But what did it matter? Once they had helped each other, they would go their separate ways, back to their families, and they would never see each other again.
‘My sister...is not well.’ Ragnar’s voice, when it finally emerged, cracked with emotion. ‘She’s the reason I’m here, in this country.’ He chewed the inside of his cheek, tasted iron in his mouth. The situation with his sister was one that he scarcely voiced. Shame tingled through him, twisting his gut.
He tugged on the leather strap, forcefully, securing the satchel. His arm rested along the horse’s back. ‘About a year ago, my sister travelled to England with the man she loved,’ he said slowly. ‘And a month later, that same man’s body was brought back to Denmark. Without my sister. He had been killed and my sister had vanished somewhere in this hell-bound country.’ He stuck one hand through his hair, tousling the wind-blown strands. ‘No one knew what had happened. I came to England...with a few men, with Eirik, hoping to find her. And luckily, we did. But she is a changed woman.’ His voice dropped, a muted whisper. His lean tanned fingers worried at the stitching on his saddle.
He jumped. Gisela was beside him. Her step was so light that he hadn’t heard her approach. The heady scent of roses, that poignant smell of summer, filled his nostrils: the perfume of her skin. Her sleeve brushed against his elbow. His torso constricted abruptly in response to her nearness, the faint brush of her body. He drew strength from her, the courage to talk, to confide. ‘We took her back to Denmark, but we...my family...don’t know how to help her. She weeps continually and will not speak. My mother is afraid that she will take her own life if we don’t find out what happened to her in England.’
Her fingers crept along his arm to his hand; she squeezed his hard, warm flesh, rubbing the prominent bump of his wrist bone. ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘So this man you want us to find...’ Her voice trailed off, dismay lacing her tone.
‘Whoever he is...he abducted Gyda.’ Ragnar’s mouth set into a grim, fixed line. ‘When I found her, eventually, she was in Hoesella. A travelling merchant had found her wandering alone and had brought her back to live with them. The merchant told me the spot where he had found her, on the road north of Jorvik. But I had no time to go back to that place; I had to take Gyda home.’ Pain laced his heart. He did not want to think about what had happened to his sister. Revulsion rose in his gullet. Balling his fist, he thumped it against the flat of the saddle.
‘But how will finding this man help your sister?’ Gisela asked. She watched the hurt leach through his expression and the urge to reach out and comfort him, to draw him close, surged through her. His pulse jolted powerfully against her fingers.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘We don’t know what else to do,’ he replied. ‘Maybe it will give us some answers, a clue as to how we can help her.’ He looked down at her, his mouth terse and rigid. ‘I’m prepared to try anything.’
She squeezed his wrist: a gesture of comfort, of reassurance. ‘You’re a good brother, Ragnar.’
A shudder racked his big body. ‘Nay, I am not,’ he replied. Rawness stretched his voice, a bitter thinness.
‘But you are!’ Gisela responded, her voice bright. ‘To do all this for her, to try to find out what happened.’
Redness rimmed the startling green of his eyes. A muscle quirked in his jaw. ‘It’s the least I can do, Gisela.’ He sighed. ‘You see, I caused the whole situation in the first place.’ Above their heads, the arching branches of the oak dipped and swayed, casting a dark stripe of shadow across his body.
‘What do you mean?’ The heat pressed down in thick layers on the back of her neck, oppressive. Sweat prickled beneath her ear.
‘I was the one who encouraged her to travel to England in the first place, with the man she loved.’ His voice jolted, forcing the words out. ‘My parents were against them marrying, but I could see how much they loved each other. I knew that once they were on board that ship, then my parents could do nothing to prevent them being together.’
‘Oh, Ragnar,’ she said breathily. ‘It was not your fault. You could never have expected such a thing to happen.’ Without thinking, she lifted her hands to his face, cupped his jawline, wanting to smooth out the lines of wretchedness that carved his cheeks. Almost instinctively his arms came around her, around her shoulders, then her waist. He winched her close, roughly, as if wanting the comfort of her body against his. Just for a moment.
The lurch of his strong body against hers tipped her off balance. Her hands dropped from his face to clutch his upper arms for support. She was so close to him that the top of her head brushed his chin. She yearned to tuck her face into the hollow of his neck, to breathe in the sweet leathery scent of his flesh, but she held herself rigid, resisting. The muscles in her legs screamed with the effort of holding herself away. What would happen if she threw caution to the winds and cleaved to his body as her heart begged her to do? She would be burned, that’s what, and her heart would be destroyed. Better to hold herself aloof, than risk destruction.