Surrender My Love Read online

  “So when do you expect Ivarr back?” she asked.

  “He was to sail to both Birka and Hedeby, so I do not expect him for a fortnight, another month at the most.”

  Kristen would have offered her women to prepare his feast, but knew he would want to wait until Ivarr and the rest of his men returned before he celebrated the completion of his new home. Seven of those men had elected to settle in Wessex as well, including her dear friend Thorolf. The rest of the men would sail home to Norway with Ivarr before the winter months stranded them here, to return again next summer.

  She sighed, glancing around to note the number of women still staring in Selig’s direction, their work ignored. Just about all. “I can see I will not get much done around here, now that you have idle hands again.” She turned to her husband, jesting. “Can you not find another war to send him off to?”

  Royce snorted. “You would take an ax to me if I did.”

  Which was more than likely. She had hated it when both her husband and her brother had ridden off to fight against the Danes last year.

  She was about to admit as much when one of Royce’s men ran into the hall. “Five riders approach, milord,” he said, “one nigh dead by the look of him. They bear the king’s banner.”

  And Kristen groaned inwardly, afraid war had again come to Wessex.

  Chapter 2

  IT WAS NOT war that was threatening again, as Kristen had dreaded, but a new plan devised by King Alfred and his advisors to strengthen the existing peace. The delegation of five that arrived at Wyndhurst from the west had been on their way to King Guthrum’s court to do Alfred’s bidding. They had not been attacked. The ailing man suffered no wounds, but some kind of natural affliction that was causing him severe pains, and limbs that would no longer do his bidding.

  Kristen wouldn’t learn what business the men were about until after she had seen the ailing one to a bed and summoned the healers, and even then word was brought to her before she returned to her husband that the man had died. That quickly, and of what the two healers couldn’t say.

  But it was this news she had to bring to the waiting men, and the four who had ridden with the dead one took it badly; not in grief, for they barely knew the man, but in the failure of their mission, which his death put an end to. They assumed the king would be furious. Royce had doubts of that. Knowing Alfred as he did, as a friend as well as his king, he imagined Alfred would chafe at the delay, then merely find someone else to replace the man who had died.

  Of course, finding a replacement wouldn’t be so easy, for it was their interpreter who had died, the one who was to speak to the Danes for the bishop in their party, who was the diplomat. The other three men were along as guards, since they had uncertain lands to pass through that were rife with thieves these days. The bishop could have easily been replaced, but there were not that many men in Alfred’s kingdom who spoke the language of the Danes to make it easy for him to find another interpreter.

  Selig also had to wait until Royce could explain what the problem was, but not because he had been busy elsewhere, as his sister was. He had simply not understood a word of what the Saxons had said.

  Unlike Kristen, who had learned the different languages of all the slaves during her growing years at home, including her husband’s tongue, Selig had learned only those languages he had thought would be useful to him in trading. So he could speak to any Dane and Swede with ease, could make himself understood to any Finn or Slav; and, of course, any Celt would think Selig was one of his own, for he spoke that tongue so well, thanks to his mother. But he couldn’t speak to a Saxon unless like Royce, the man also knew the Celtic tongue, and fortunately, many of them did.

  Selig had seen no need to learn the other languages that Kristen had learned, because he hadn’t entertained the idea of raiding the southern lands as other Vikings were still doing, but had planned to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a merchant prince. That one raid he and his friends had tried and failed at had been no more than a lark, their attempt to take some of the wealth from this land before the Danes conquered it all.

  It behooved him, of course, to learn the Saxon tongue now, since he had decided to settle in this country, and so he was learning it. But he was no longer a child who had naught else to do but study, so he had not grasped much of it yet, was in no hurry to do so, and was still at a loss in situations like this when no one spoke slowly for his benefit. Actually, the Saxon words he was learning, he was learning from women, and those words did not exactly come up in conversations of this sort.

  When Royce again joined him in the gathering area of the hall, next to the ale barrel, Kristen was also just returning from putting her children down for the night. They had shared their evening meal with the guests, but Kristen and Selig both had refrained from joining in the talk, which was mostly the lamentations of the four strangers. The hall still buzzed with activity, though, and the sky outside had yet to fully darken, it being well into summer.

  After refilling their tankards with ale, Kristen was the first to speak. “Did I hear them aright? King Alfred actually wants some alliances made through marriages?”

  Royce shrugged, not as surprised as his wife. “That is the gist of it. Three of his nobles have volunteered to sacrifice their daughters, all three ladies comely, all three richly dowered.”

  Kristen let that “sacrifice” pass, knowing he had not forgiven the Danes, nor ever would forgive them, for the slaughter they had done at Wyndhurst all those years ago. “Do those dowers include land?”

  “Aye.”

  “God’s mercy, Royce!” she exclaimed incredulously. “Your king and his brothers before him have been fighting all these years to keep the Danes out of Wessex, and now he will just give them property here?”

  “His reasoning is simple,” Royce explained. “Better three properties than the whole of Wessex when the Danish faction that is still greedy grows restless again. We know now that at least half of Guthrum’s army is as tired of war as we are. They want naught more than to settle on the lands they have already taken for themselves. ’Twas the other half, the young men who came late to the war and so had not gained much yet, that started up the last war.”

  Which was the one that had so nearly succeeded. In fact, the Danes thought they had won, thought Alfred had died. And they were not the only ones to think so, with the Danes so firmly entrenched at Chippenham and ravishing the countryside around it.

  Royce had first joined the fray again when Alfred’s army had to chase the Danes out of Wareham in 876, then again at Exeter in 877. But after the Saxon army disbanded for the winter that year, as was the usual habit, the Danes made a surprise appearance at Alfred’s court at Chippenham, where he was enjoying the holidays, and he and his family just managed to escape. His courtiers were scattered, the Danes ravished the countryside in triumph, and word spread that Alfred had been defeated. But he had not. With a small band of men, he hid deep in the Somerset marches, building a fort there from which he harassed the Danes and planned his strategies.

  Royce had received word where to meet Alfred in the spring last year, at Ecgbryhtesstane, and it was there that he, Selig, and his men joined the fight for a last bloody battle. They met the Danish army at Ethandune and put them to flight, but followed them back to their fortress, which they surrounded until the last peace was arranged soon after. It was a peace that no one really trusted; the Danes had broken it so many times in the past. Of course, this time there was a difference. This time King Guthrum of the Danes and thirty of his war leaders had been baptized in the Christian faith.

  Guthrum had taken his remaining army back to Chippenham after all was settled, and had returned to East Anglia this year, where word was they were finally settling down in this area they had long ago conquered. But there were still those who doubted there could be a lasting peace, given the experiences of the past. Yet others were hopeful now, considering it was the first time that Alfred hadn’t had to pay any Danegeld to get the
Danes to depart Wessex. He had demanded hostages instead, as well as the baptisms. And there was one last difference this time. Alfred had finally acknowledged that the lands north of Wessex belonged to the Danes.

  West Mercia was theirs, the people reduced to serfdom, and East Mercia under their firm control. Northumbria to the far north they had already settled, and East Anglia had been theirs from the start. It did seem, indeed, that it was time to give up the hope that they could eventually be expelled from all of the land. They were entrenched, there to stay, and Alfred was wise to recognize this fact and to take steps to assure that the existing peace would be a lasting one. Alliances through marriage was one way to do so.

  “So Alfred is sending this delegation to King Guthrum,” Royce continued. “They are few enough in numbers not to appear threatening when they begin passing through Danish lands, yet large enough to keep the bishop from being robbed on the way. He is the one who will negotiate the marriages with Guthrum, and ’tis hoped the three men Guthrum chooses will be high in his favor.”

  “So that they will advise against war if it comes to that again?”

  “Exactly,” Royce replied. “But now they will have to return to Alfred until another interpreter can be found, which could take months. And he is presently on the move, visiting his ealdormen west of here, so there could be further delay just in locating him.”

  “Why delay at all,” Selig mentioned casually, “when I could take the man’s place?”

  Kristen snorted at the notion, but Royce grinned, saying, “Aye, you could speak to Guthrum easily enough, but who would interpret the bishop’s words for you?”

  Selig flushed slightly, having overlooked that pertinent fact. “The difficulties I am finding in communicating here are becoming a damned nuisance,” he grumbled, and said to his sister, reproachfully, “why did you never insist I learn the Saxon tongue? You got Eric and Thorall to learn it.”

  Eric and Thorall were their younger brothers, and Kristen merely pointed out, “’Twas easy to get them to follow my suggestions, for they were both much smaller than I was—for a time. You never were.” To that he grunted, so she added, “Why do you want to involve yourself in this? ’Tis none of your concern.”

  “This…something else.” He shrugged. “I merely have time on my hands now, with naught to do but amuse myself in your hall for the next fortnight.”

  With a half-dozen women still ogling her handsome brother, she turned to her husband and said, “Mayhap ’tis not such a bad idea.”

  Royce laughed. “Do you get the impression she does not like you underfoot, Selig?”

  “’Tis not funny, Saxon,” she said in annoyance. “I love my brother dearly, as he well knows, but I like having my hall run smoothly, which it never does when he is about. Mayhap if you would take him out and break his nose, as I have suggested more than once—”

  Royce cut in with a hoot. “You never did.”

  “I should have.”

  “I suppose I could go with him,” Royce said to placate her, “to stand as the second interpreter.”

  “With the way you hate Danes? You would go there with one hand on your sword and the other gripping a dagger. Better I go than you, and there would be no need for a second translator, since I speak both languages.”

  The narrowing of his green eyes proved Royce did not take well to that suggestion. Send his beautiful Kristen into a host of Danes who had just spent years pillaging and ravishing and taking for themselves whatever struck their fancy? He would put her back in chains first, even though the last time he had done so, she had made his life miserable.

  All he said was, “Nay, you will not.” But his look dared her to argue about it.

  Selig intervened before she thought to. “Father would skin me alive did I let you journey to East Anglia without a full army at your back, Kris, and well you know it. Nor would you care to be parted from your children and husband that long. Both of you have better things to do, but I do not. And besides, Royce has a number of men who speak Celtic, any one of whom could stand as the second interpreter.”

  “Elfmar could do that well enough, I suppose,” Royce allowed, only to point out, “But the bishop may not like things so complicated, having his words pass through two others before they reach Guthrum.”

  “As to that,” Selig replied, “’tis more than likely that Guthrum will have his own interpreter on hand who can be used, while Elfmar and I merely stand present to assure that Saxon interests are protected. Either way, the deed would get accomplished.”

  “Aye, well, ’tis a moot point, and the bishop’s decision to make.” And Royce grinned to show that what he was about to add didn’t reflect his own feelings. “He may prefer to return to Alfred rather than trust a Norwegian Viking to represent Saxons against a Danish Viking. You would be amazed how many Saxons do not differentiate ’tween the two.”

  Selig laughed at those last words. “I recall clearly there was a time when you did not.”

  “That was before I came to know this particular Viking.” And Royce hauled Kristen across the bench and onto his lap—without protest, Selig noted, and no easy task, for his sister was a giant compared with Saxon women. “She has a way of making a man think of other than war.”

  “And what are you thinking of now, husband?” Kristen asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  “That the hour grows late.”

  Selig grinned, watching their play. It was a fact that he and his family had had to accept, that she loved this Saxon dearly.

  “Aye,” he said. “I needs must find my own bed if I am to be off to East Anglia come the morn.”

  “If you are,” Kristen retorted. “And make your choice quickly if you mean to share that bed. I do not care to hear them fighting over you as happened the last time, not when I have guests to be wakened by it.”

  Selig rolled his eyes in protest. “That was not my fault, Kris. Edith had not understood yet that I will not—cannot—tolerate jealousy.”

  “Aye, you would drive a jealous woman to murder right quickly.”

  “Leave go, vixen,” Royce interjected, just managing to keep from laughing. “You have teased him enough this eventide. He begins to blush.”

  “Him?” she scoffed, feigning disbelief. “He stopped blushing over his women when he was ten and five. My brother has no shame—”

  “Since she will not heed her husband,” Royce cut in, lifting Kristen in his arms as he stood up, “I will see if I cannot occupy her mind with other things.”

  Selig heard no complaint to that suggestion. Kristen said merely, “You will break your back trying to carry me up those stairs again, milord.”

  “God’s mercy, I hate it when you throw out challenges like that.”

  Royce did carry her all the way to their chamber upstairs, and if it was difficult for him—her extreme height guaranteed she was no lightweight—he would no doubt see that his wife made up for it with those “other things” he had mentioned.

  Kristen was right, however, about her brother. There were too many women here to choose from, too many willing and eager to be that choice. And if Selig hadn’t spread himself around to all those who were available, he wouldn’t have such problems. Truly, he ought to be more discriminating…nay, he couldn’t be that selfish.

  He grinned and crooked a finger at Edith. He should have picked another. She had fought over him—and won—but he had punished her enough by consoling the loser of that fight. Yet Edith’s jealousy and possessiveness were a unique experience for him. He had never had such feelings himself, and his women knew better than to succumb to them as well. If they wanted faithfulness, they would have to look to another for it.

  “You want more ale, milord?” Edith asked as she reached him, a degree of sulkiness in her tone.

  He gave her the smile that had won him the hearts of more women than he could count. “Just you, sweetling.”

  She nearly knocked him off his bench, no easy task when he topped her by more than
a foot and outweighed her by a hundred pounds. Yet she threw herself at him with such force, he was unprepared for her, her mouth voracious on his, her hands already slipping beneath his tunic. He had to laugh. Mayhap jealousy was not such a bad thing after all.

  Chapter 3

  SELIG DEPARTED FOR East Anglia the next morn. As it happened, the old bishop was delighted to accept his services, and in fact knew a smattering of Celtic himself. Elfmar still joined their party, however, for the sake of clarity. Only the bishop, though, was looking forward to entering the land now ruled by the Danes. The others had all fought against them too many times to feel comfortable going amongst them, peace or no peace—except Selig, who had known Danes long before he knew Saxons, and bore them no grudges.

  But it would be several days before they left the borders of Wessex behind, for, due to the bishop’s advanced years, their journey was slow, with many stops for rest at manors they came to, or along the roadside when there were none.

  The slow progress didn’t bother Selig. His was a very easy nature, slow to temper, quick to laughter. And he hadn’t seen much of this land that he had decided to live in, other than when he had searched for Kristen and the others after he had recovered from the wound Royce’s cousin had given him, and when he had joined the war. So he was enjoying the trip.

  His sister had been there to send him off with a promise. “I will see that Ivarr and your men do not wreck your new home if they return before you. But you had better hope there are no women at Guthrum’s court, or they will not let you leave.”

  He had merely laughed. She did love to tease him, though half of what she said was perfectly true and only meant to annoy, though it rarely did. His men did likewise enjoy teasing, calling him Selig Angel’s-face rather than Selig the Blessed, as he had been dubbed at his birth, a name which came not from a face that mesmerized women, but because the midwife had pronounced him dead at birth, yet his father had breathed life into him.