An hour later, Annis sat at the table with Cedric across from her and Wilfrid to her left at the head. Her stomach churned as she waited for Rurik to make an appearance. After leading him up the stairs from below, she had seen that he was given access to the bathing chamber. Two men had been assigned to guard him, but she was not at all certain that two would be enough. Others were stationed in the house, but after seeing him in the fight in her chamber that morning, she had gained a newfound respect for Norse warriors. He had fought with an unbridled passion that had sparked as much admiration within her as it had fear.
Had she let a wild animal loose in her home? Or had she done the only thing that was morally acceptable in the face of her own transgressions: given him a chance for freedom? She did not know. Her only comfort was the fact that he had not killed Wilfrid last night when he had the man defenceless. Only time would tell, however, if his mercy would continue.
Cedric raised a silent brow at her from across the table. They had argued before she had gone below, he again for Rurik’s death, her for his eventual freedom. That brow seemed to declare he had been right all along. If Rurik did not show, she would expect to hear the roar and clang of battle very soon.
The harsh tread of boots at the entrance drew her attention. Rurik stood there in borrowed clothing and his own boots, freshly cleaned. She did not know where the tunic had come from, but it was well made and deep green in colour. His trousers seemed to have been made for him, hugging his thighs just enough to display their power. His dark hair was clean and still damp, pulled back from his face, but left to fall to his shoulders. His short beard had been groomed, so that the strong build of his jaw could be seen. It was a fine jaw for a fine face. He appeared every bit a king’s son as he strode into the room with his shoulders back and his eyes, intense pools of blue, focused on his adversaries. Only the mark on the bridge of his nose from her forehead and a slight bruise on his temple indicated that he had recently been a captive.
‘Good evening,’ he said to the room at large as Cedric came to his feet. Wilfrid made a motion to rise, with his manservant Irwin at his back to assist him if needed. Cedric took an almost defensive stance, his shoulders stiff and a hand at his hip where she had no doubt he kept a dagger. Wilfrid was smiling his crooked smile.
‘Welcome,’ Wilfrid said and settled with a soft grunt back into his chair, waving Irwin away.
Rurik inclined his head before looking at her. His eyes were narrowed to barely more than slits and they singed her skin when his gaze fell upon her. Her stomach flipped over itself. He had come to do battle. ‘Good evening, Lady Annis.’
She nodded at him because she could not speak, then watched in dismay as he approached the place that had been set for him at the end of the table. Instead of taking his seat, he grabbed the silver, chalice and platter and walked with them before very deliberately setting them down at the place beside her. A look of unmistakable victory flashed in his eyes as he took his seat.
The man was dangerous and unruly. This had been a terrible idea. A quick glance at Cedric, who was in the process of taking his own seat, confirmed his agreement. His jaw was tense as he stared at Rurik, as if to look away would encourage the Norseman to strike. It was too late now to stop the plan that had been set in motion. The die had been cast. Not for the first time, she wondered if they had gone too far in their attempts to keep Wilfrid placated, but he had been very insistent about meeting Rurik. It was difficult to deny him when he showed so little interest in things these days.
After she settled herself, she waved Leofe over to begin serving. The girl presented a platter of roasted meats and vegetables, while another poured wine for the table. There had been a time when Annis was growing up that the table had often been filled to overflowing. Wilfrid and his wife had liked to have people around. In addition to the main table, others had been brought in and arranged throughout the hall. Sometimes the warriors and their wives would fill them. At other times, visiting lords and their families. The hall had held many banquets and long meals deep into winter nights. After Wilfrid’s wife had died, the frequency had died with her, but the evenings had ceased completely with Wilfrid’s illness. In order to make certain that he was able to keep his place as Lord of Glannoventa, it had been necessary to keep him isolated. Now their meals were passed in polite silence as she and Cedric watched him decline with every season.
Seeing the way Wilfrid’s eyes lit up at Rurik’s company, she could not help but wonder if they had done him a grave disservice by keeping people away from him. Another wrong to add to her list of wrongs. The wine tasted particularly bitter as she swallowed it.
‘Rurik,’ Wilfrid said, his speech marginally better than it had been when he had spoken to Rurik the previous night. It was still garbled a bit from using only one side of his mouth, but it was clearer, betraying his excitement. ‘It is good you have come. Was your journey well?’
Rurik looked at the old man and then at her. After softly repeating the man’s question, she tried to plead with Rurik with her eyes to stay with the story they had invented. ‘Well enough.’ He kept his gaze on her as he spoke. If his journey had been well, his arrival had not, his eyes seemed to say.
Finally glancing back at Wilfrid, Rurik picked up the mutton shank Leofe had served him and took a bite. His strong white teeth bit into the flesh and he made dramatic work of pulling it from the bone. Grease shone on his lips as he chewed. ‘Thank you for your welcome and generosity,’ he said around the bite in his mouth, his eyes sparkling with mischief as they met hers.
He planned to play the heathen Viking. Lord save her. Her heart pounded against her ribs and she took another drink of her wine.
‘We do not often have Danes at our table,’ said Wilfrid.
‘You do not have one tonight, for I am no Dane.’ He gestured with the leg bone and spoke loudly in deference to Wilfrid’s hearing, but his tone was casual, as if he had asked for a second portion. Annis nearly choked. From the corner of her eye, she could see Cedric lower his hand, probably to the blade at his side. She should have known better than to believe Rurik would go along with their plan. And why should he address the man he believed to have killed his father with any civility?
Wilfrid gazed at Rurik in open curiosity. ‘Not a Dane? But you have the look.’
Whether Rurik understood that or inferred the meaning, he replied easily, ‘I am from the North. I was raised Norse with my father’s family, but my mother is—was from Éireann.’
‘Éireann?’ Cedric spoke the word in a clipped voice, his eyes alert as they settled on Rurik as if looking for signs in his features that he spoke the truth.
Rurik’s hand settled on her shoulder and her eyes widened at the physical contact. Squeezing gently, he tilted his head a bit to look down at her. ‘My father kidnapped her and made her his concubine...or slave, depending on who you ask.’
He was taunting her, trying to unsettle her. She was ashamed to admit that it was working. An image flashed through her mind of him standing over her, much like he had looked down at her after their kiss, his eyes livid with desire. The very same look that was in his eyes right now as he stared at her before Wilfrid and Cedric and whomever else bothered to see it. Only, in her imagination, she was his...she belonged to him in a way that was so completely consuming that it lit a fire inside her. A shrug of her shoulder dislodged his hand, but only to have it move down her spine in a slow caress that ended at the small of her back. Tingles of a pleasant sensation followed the path, unsettling her more than his words could have.
She did not want to belong to him or anyone else but herself. Then why on earth would she find anything pleasing in anything that he did to her? Or in that image that had been planted in her head?
‘How did you...?’ Wilfrid’s voice trailed off as he stared at them. His eyes were more alert than they had been in a long time and she had the oddest feeling that he knew more than she wanted him to.
She opened her mouth to answer his unasked question, uncomfortable beneath his scrutiny, as Rurik’s hand seemed to burn right through her clothing. Her own husband had never touched her this way. Rurik certainly did not have that right. She had already planned to explain to Wilfrid that Rurik had misspoke, or perhaps been too eager in his word choice when he had said they were lovers. Rurik touching her now and looking at her as he did would not help convince her father-in-law of the truth.
‘Rurik misspoke last night,’ she said.
Wilfrid’s gaze turned questioning.
‘We are not lovers...not the way you think he meant it.’
Rurik moved his palm from her back, but only to grab her hand with his, making hers feel small in the confines of his larger palm. ‘Certainly, the things that have passed between us deserve that description.’ He smirked, clearly challenging her to deny him.
His thumb traced a path from her wrist to her palm, stroking a small circle in the centre. The warmth of his touch felt so unexpectedly good on her cold skin that she jerked her hand away. His grin widened and, mercifully, he did not reach for her again as he went back to his meal. Of its own accord, her hand found its way to her lap where she cradled it. Her thumb absently tracing the path that his had taken, trying and failing to recreate the heat.
‘I am...f-fond of you.’ The word tripped over itself as she said it. ‘But we must respect propriety.’
He smirked behind the chalice as he brought it to his lips and took a long drink. She could not help the way her eyes dipped down to his neck to watch the way it moved as he swallowed. She could imagine pressing her face there so easily that it scared her into looking away. Unfortunately, her gaze caught Cedric’s disapproving one.
‘At least one of you can remember your decency,’ said Cedric.
Her face flamed, so she stared down at her food. Somehow this evening was getting away from her. Damn the Norseman.
‘Dane or not,’ came Wilfrid’s voice, ‘Jarl Eirik’s men are welcome here. It is the least I can do after...’ Wilfrid’s words sputtered out. Annis was not certain if he was simply grasping for the correct word or if he had forgotten.
‘After what?’ Annis urged.
As usual, Cedric seemed attuned to Wilfrid in a way that anticipated his words. ‘After the way in which he and Jarl Eirik parted at their last meeting,’ Cedric explained.
Annis jerked her head to stare at her father-in-law. ‘What do you mean? His last visit was...’ She thought back. ‘Why, it must have been after...after Grim’s death? He and Lady Merewyn had come to pay their respects.’
She remembered the visit well. Having had a significant hand in raising Annis for the first years of her life, her Aunt Merewyn held a special place in her heart. Annis had been comforted by the visit, confessing the loss of her child to the woman. Aunt Merewyn had three small children at home at the time and had professed to losing a babe early in pregnancy between her second and third child. At a time when Annis had felt that no one could understand her grief, the shared experience had been a comfort to her. The visit had been a timely and well-received one.
Or so she had thought.
Wilfrid gave a jerky nod in agreement. ‘He had the... He spoke of a marriage for you. Grim was not even... He was hardly in his grave.’ His eyes hardened as if the mere memory still had the power to stir the fire of anger to life within him.
She reached out to him, wanting to be able to reassure him that he did not have to think of it if it would upset him, but she could not say it. She was too shocked. ‘I had no idea.’ There had been rumours that the Jarl meant for her to wed, but she didn’t know the subject had come up so soon after Grim’s death.
‘I did not want you to... Too soon.’ His gaze trailed off across the room, as if he were lost in his thoughts of the time. Tenderness swelled in her chest at how he had shielded her from what would have been a painful thing to handle at that time.
Cedric gave her a warning glance, both of them aware of how dire the consequences could be of upsetting Wilfrid, and he reached over and placed a hand on Wilfrid’s shoulder, his touch lingering. ‘Eat, Wilfrid, while the food is still warm.’
Wilfrid’s food had already been cut into tiny pieces before being served to him. It spared him the indignity of having it cut and prepared in front of him. He could no longer use a knife, nor could he chew anything too large or too tough. His meat was specially chosen for him, so he received only the tenderest morsels. She hated that Rurik would be a witness to Wilfrid’s weakness, but he hardly seemed to be paying attention as he ate his own meal with enthusiasm.
Wilfrid took a bite, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. She wanted to give him time to eat, but she did not want to let this moment of lucid reminiscing pass. It was not often that they were able to speak of the past so openly. Waiting for him to finish chewing another bite, she finally asked, ‘What else did Jarl Eirik say of a marriage?’
‘Tell her,’ Wilfrid said to Cedric, already showing signs of strain around his eyes. His voice was fading as well. It was evening and his interrupted sleep the night before had taken its toll.
‘He wanted you to marry one of his Danes, to assure our allegiance,’ said Cedric. ‘Things in the south were still unsettled. He did not want to risk you marrying a Saxon enemy and the fight for control that would result from that. He was inclined to arrange a marriage for you. Someone from Alvey in Bernicia, but I cannot remember the names he put forth. It hardly matters. Wilfrid told him that he would not agree to such a marriage. At least not until you were out of your mourning. Harsh words were spoken and Jarl Eirik left soon after.’
‘And he has been pressing for my marriage ever since?’ She knew it was true, but she wanted the rumours confirmed. The look that Cedric gave Wilfrid substantiated them.
‘We can speak of it later,’ said Cedric.
The urgent sound of his voice made Wilfrid pause with his fork raised. ‘Speak now.’ His tone left no doubt that he still felt himself Lord here.
Sighing, Cedric set down his fork in favour of his chalice. ‘Every year he sends an emissary. I kept it from you, but he says that you are not to wed unless he approves the match. It seems he still intends you to marry a Dane. It is likely that he has men in the village making certain that you do not wed without his permission.’
‘You have kept this from me?’ Wilfrid asked.
Cedric opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it and took a drink of his wine. Annis knew then that Wilfrid had known, had likely been a party to these meetings. It was simply that he had forgotten.
Wilfrid trained his gaze on Rurik. ‘Are you here to marry her?’ Only the last words were clearly intelligible.
She gasped aloud before she could help herself.
‘No.’ Rurik’s voice was calm, immune to their family strife. ‘I was told of no marriage and have brought no messages about that.’
Wilfrid seemed to relax, but he asked, ‘Then why has Jarl Eirik sent you here?’
Silence descended over the table. When Wilfrid stared at her, she repeated the question in case Rurik had not understood, though it nearly killed her to do so. ‘He wants to know why you’re here.’
Several moments passed until Rurik finally broke it. ‘King Sigurd of Maerr was murdered. Word has reached us that someone here might have knowledge of the crime.’
Annis wanted to hide her face from the world. Their plan to not upset Wilfrid had not worked out as she had hoped.