Page 48 of Viking Beast
If she’d heard Rangvald or Ivar talking, or what had passed between himself and Rangvald, it would be reason enough for her to make for Svolvaen.
Still, to find her gone had enraged him. She’d come to him as a captive, and he’d used her with little mercy in those first days, but hadn’t he shown her how his feelings had changed? Hadn’t he showered her with gifts and made her life one of ease? More than that. He’d bestowed the highest honour in asking her to be his wife—and she’d thrown all back in his face. She’d forsaken him and betrayed him.
Now, he carried her, wet to the bone and shivering, into the bathhouse. He’d left instruction with Ragerta to stoke the fire and fill the barrel deep. Swiftly, he pulled off Elswyth’s sodden clothing, then his own.
She offered no resistance as he lowered her in, limp in his arms. Beneath the water, he attempted to rub life back into her body. Her teeth continued to chatter, but she looked at him, touching his chest.
There was much in her expression, though she said nothing as he kneaded the length of her limbs, her hands and fingers, feet and toes. Her lips were tinged blue. He saw again the resemblance—those eyes looking up at him…so very like…
Dipping her, he let the water cover the back of her head, her hair fanning out. When he raised her again, he noticed blood trickling—a gash which the warmth had opened up. Turning her head, he looked behind her ear, where he’d so often kissed, just above the little mole. Lifting her hair, he saw the wound; it seemed small enough not to need sewing.
He parted the hair on either side, checking that he hadn’t missed anything more.
Beneath his fingers, he felt them before he saw them. Two more moles. With the one just below her hairline, they formed the familiar shape.
His fingers trembled.
How had he missed this?
How had he not seen?
So many times the likeness had struck him, but he’d pushed it from his mind. Now, he understood.
The same mark, given at birth, worn by all of Beornwold’s line—a triangle behind the ear. Beornwold’s had been dark and prominent. Sigrid’s were fainter. Bretta’s had been the same as those on Elswyth’s skin, barely raised. Elswyth’s hairline had covered the other moles, but they’d been there all the time.
And those eyes—so like Bretta’s.
Who was she?
20
Elswyth
December 3rd, 960AD
Eldberg held my face in his hands.
I’d expected him to berate me; at the very least, to scold me for foolishness. But his initial anger had dissipated, replaced by intensity of a different sort—as if he perceived something he’d been unaware of before, and were seeing me for the first time.
There was hesitation in his growling voice. “Elswyth, I must know…”
Just then, the door flung wide.
Thoryn stood on the threshold. From beyond, there was shouting and a rush of movement. “A raid, my jarl!” Thoryn was breathless. “They were spotted on the uppermost cliffs, where the forest meets the mountain. The headland guard has been struck down! I’ve commanded men to remain at the harbour and along the river, in case this is a diversion, but we’re rallying all to arms to meet the attackers.”
Eldberg had risen from the water, dragging on his clothes. Though his axe and short dagger hung from his belt, he was without longer blade.
“Give me your sword.”
“My jarl?” I’d never seen Thoryn falter in obeying Eldberg, but a man’s sword was an extension of his arm. With reluctance, he unsheathed it. Thoryn’s had theValknutcarved into the hilt: Odin’s symbol—three interlocking triangles with the power of life over death.
“Stay here, Thoryn. Protect her. Hide her in the forest if necessary—but she’s not to be taken.”
Eldberg flung one last look upon me and was gone.
Thoryn stood frowning, evidently displeased. Casting about, he saw first my wet clothes upon the floor and then another gown, dry and clean, folded to one side. Ragerta must have left it for me.
He threw the towel. “Be swift, Elswyth. I’ll guard the door while you dress.”
