Chapter Five
Even though the Saxons and Vikings who filled the Great Hall on the Solstice evening for the ritual lighting of the Yule log seemed amiable toward each other, Bronwolf could sense tension emanating from Aethelthryth like sea fog chased by a strong wind.
He glanced at her, standing between him and Ivar near the dais. He supposed he couldn’t blame her after the conversation they’d had earlier. King Aelle will never allow his daughter to marry the enemy. She had almost sounded like she was speaking of someone else, but kings—and he supposed princesses—sometimes spoke like that. In any case, her intent was clear. She did not want to marry Ivar.
For perfectly selfish reasons that had nothing to do with alliances or peace treaties, he couldn’t agree with her more. He was hard put to remember when a woman had affected him like Aethelthryth did. Despite his growing, lustful desire of wanting her naked and writhing in pleasure beneath him while he buried himself deep within her wet heat, he had also come to admire her. She cared for her people. She was kind to the servants and villagers. And today, she’d spent time consoling one of the young Saxon soldiers who’d tripped and fallen over a tree root amid jeers and laughs. She was the kind of woman who would inspire devotion.
The only thing Ivar was devoted to was revenge. Aethelthryth would be nothing more than spoils-of-war. A trophy to be sure, given she was the daughter of the man he sought to kill. He would use her mercilessly until she got with child just to aggravate Aelle even more. And, if Ivar couldn’t bend the princess to his will, he would beat her into submission. Bronwolf had witnessed that act before. Aetheltryth’s spirit would be broken, one way or another.
The sound of the hunter’s horn signaling the arrival of the Yule log broke his depressing reverie. The double doors at the far end of the hall opened and six men—three Saxons, three Vikings—proceeded to march in, the huge log atop their shoulders. The Saxons were soldiers, dressed for battle, leather hauberks over their tunics while the Vikings wore the ceremonial bearskin headdresses of berserkers, although the scabbards that hung at the sides of all six men were empty. A fitting symbolism of fighting men declaring peace at the beginning of Yule.
“Here.” Aethelthryth handed Ivar a foot-long piece of charred wood that she must have hidden in the folds of her skirts. “Saxons always light the log from the remnants of last year’s.”
Ivar took it and approached a thrall who held a pitch torch. As the men laid the log in the hearth, he lit the charred wood from the flame and placed in on the kindling that had been laid prior. In a moment, the fire caught, and a great cheer went up from the crowd.
“Your tradition is not so different from ours,” Bronwolf said to the princess. “We save a part of the log at the end of Twelfth Night to protect our homes for the coming year.”
She looked up, her eyes green as the pine boughs decorating the hearth’s mantle. Reflections of the firelight flickered in their depths and again, he felt the lure of the Huldra drawing him deep into uncharted forests.
“This is the night the sun stands still,” she said, “so it is a good omen the log caught on fire immediately.”
“In the North land, the sun disappears completely on this night. The old religions taught that the log must be kept burning to call the sun back,” Bronwolf replied.
“That is what your people were taught?”
Bronwolf smiled. “Another legend has it that Loki waylaid Baldr, God of Light, and Odin rides the night sky to find him and bring the sun back.”
“In Briton, it is Cernunnos who rides the night sky looking for lost souls.” She reflected. “Although I’m not sure he brings them back to light since he’s the god of the forest and wild things.”
Wild things. Forests. For a moment, Bronwolf could visualize being swept up on a ghost horse and delivered into a wooded glade where Aethelthryth would be waiting to spend the dark night in pursuit of pleasure.... Perhaps she really was a huldra after all.
She gestured, thankfully not aware of where his thoughts were going. “We decorate with pine boughs that are ever green because they are symbolic of life returning to the forests—to the trees—in the spring.”
Now she was speaking of fertility rituals? The princess probably wasn’t, but it was where his ribald thoughts were turning. He forced himself to refocus. “We use pine boughs to fashion circles we call sun wheels that we set afire and roll down hills to encourage the sun to return, as well.”
“It does appear that Saxons and Vikings have more in common than we thought.” She paused. “At least, during Yule. Twelve days of peace.”
Yule. Twelve days of peace. At least, they had that.
• ♥ •
Ella watched Ivar as he lit the Yule log. Aloof and imposing, he hardly acknowledged the three Saxon soldiers who’d helped carry in the log. While he had agreed to include her people in the festivities, he bore no warmth toward any of them.
Was he really considering marriage? He’d made no proposal, but then, she doubted that he would. Most of the time, women didn’t have a say in the matter. Even daughters of serfs—sometimes even thralls—were often bartered, but certainly those whose fathers had acquired land or wealth were considered good commodities. A princess would be worth considerably more, especially if that princess were the daughter of a king on whom Ivar sought revenge.
She was all too aware that Aelle had captured and tortured Ivar’s father before throwing him into a pit of venomous snakes. Rumors that his sons were gathering the Great Heathen Army had circulated for months before they’d landed in East Anglia and sheltered there.
Although uneasy that the enemy was so close, Aelle had needed to ride north on several occasions to subdue uprisings from those who remained loyal to Osberht, the king he’d deposed. His own claim to the throne was tenuous, a fact Ivar seemed to know since he’d attacked while Aelle had been on one of those missions.
As if he knew she were thinking about him, Ivar turned to look at her, stone-faced, his lips set in a thin line. His eyes were shards of ice as he perused her slowly from head to toe and back. She didn’t think he’d be treating the daughter of Aelle with any kindness or respect. Unfortunately, at the moment, she was that princess. She suddenly felt ill.
“Are you unwell?” Bronwolf looked down at her. “You’ve gone quite pale.”
No doubt she had. Ella fought the light-headed dizziness that swept over her. She had never swooned in her life. “I… It’s a bit warm in here with the fire blazing. I…think I need some fresh air.”
“Allow me to accompany you, then,” Bronwolf said.
She wasn’t sure that was a good idea, either, since Bronwolf ignited a completely different kind of heat whenever she was around him, but she nodded. Anything to put some distance between herself and Ivar.
They had just reached the door that led outside when a young Viking soldier hurried toward them. He seemed hesitant to speak to Bronwolf, but he also cast a worried glance over his shoulder.
“What is it?” Bronwolf asked.
The young man swallowed hard. “The prince requires your presence, Captain.” He swallowed again. “And the princess, as well.”
Her attempt to escape the building had certainly been short-lived. Dread filled Ella’s stomach as she realized not only had Ivar been watching her the entire time, but she also wondered if his request that both of them return carry a hidden warning?
Bronwolf must have thought so too, because his body tensed, a muscle clenching in his jaw as he stared across the room at Ivar. He looked like he’d been carved out of marble. “The lady is not feeling well.”
The soldier looked terror-struck and Ella realized he was afraid to deliver that message. So the request had been an order, after all. There was no sense in making the hapless young man face the consequences of an angry Ivar.
“It is all right,” she said to Bronwolf. “I’m feeling better now.”
Relief swept across the soldier’s face, but Bronwolf looked unconvinced. She forced a smile, sensing he was about to take a stand. “Really. I’m fine. I should probably stay for the toasts, anyway.”
He appeared to be having an inner argument, but then he curtly nodded. “As you wish, Princess.”
The ale was already poured into pewter goblets by the time they made their way through the crowded room toward the dais. Ivar lifted one brow slightly as he looked at Bronwolf and then turned his attention to Ella. He took a step closer so only she could hear his words.
“I agreed to allow your people to participate in the Yule rituals, Aethelthryth, but it was with the understanding that you will remain by my side for all festivities. If you do not, then I shall let my men pursue the more…ribald…activities that my people also enjoy during Yule. Do I make myself clear?”
She didn’t have to ask what those activities were. Pagan practices that went all the way back to the Roman Saturnalia—a time of debauchery and fornication—had not been entirely wiped out of Briton either. If she wanted the Saxon women to be kept safe from such revelry, she would have to comply. Ella lifted her chin. “I understand.”
“Good.” He handed her a cup and stepped back to raise his own. “To peace and co-operation at Yule.”
Ella forced herself to drink. She would act like she was co-operating, but a part of her plan had already been set in motion.
Tamar, the young man whom she’d aided when he pretended to trip in the forest, had his orders.
• ♥ •
Bronwolf didn’t like the pallor of the princess’s face and wondered what Ivar had said to her. Whatever it was didn’t set well. She looked more ill than she had earlier while Ivar had a smugly satisfactory smirk on his own face.
Something inside Bronwolf’s belly clenched. He was well aware of Ivar’s unspoken message when he’d sent the young soldier to stop them from going out the door. Keep your distance from Aethelthryth. However, just in case Bronwolf had not gotten that implied missive, Ivar’s arched eyebrow when they’d approached him made the order clear. Do not interfere.
Normally, Bronwolf would defer to his prince. He had not become a captain of an aett without understanding the importance of rank and unquestioned loyalty. He demanded the same of his own men. And, for the love of Freya, there were enough available, willing wenches to satisfy a man’s lust without having to clash over one.
But Aethelthryth was different. Not only was she a princess with equal status to a prince—which should afford her at least some small say in the matter—but she had also made clear she had no desire for a match with Ivar. Whether her father would take her feelings into account, Bronwolf didn’t know. The king wasn’t present to approve or disapprove, but Aelle was known to be as ruthless as Ivar.
Another fact that didn’t set well with Bronwolf.
But it wasn’t just that Aethelthryth was a princess who should be afforded respect. Bronwolf could no longer deny that he wanted her for himself. Had wanted her ever since that first meeting in her bedchamber when he’d wrapped his arms around her waist and felt—for far too brief a moment—the soft lushness of her curves. Over the past weeks, he’d also come to admire her independent spirit, as well. A spirit that Ivar would probably delight in breaking while bringing her to heel.
He raised his cup to join Ivar’s toast. “Since we are celebrating the unity of Saxon and Viking—at least for the Yule—may I suggest we add another of our traditions?”
“And which one would that be?” Ivar asked.
“That we forage into the forest once more to gather enough ramulus to build a giant fire wheel to herald the sun’s return to the north.”
Cheers arose from the Viking soldiers, although some of the Saxons looked puzzled. Bronwolf turned to them. “In Norse land, we light the fire wheel on Twelfth night and roll it down a hill to ensure the sun will finally rise again.”
“And while we are scavenging the woods, we might also look for mistletoe,” one of Saxon soldiers said and received a good share of applause from their side. “It is one of our traditions.”
“Didn’t gathering mistletoe begin with the Druids?” someone from across the room called out.
“Mayhap.” The Saxon soldier grinned. “But our tradition is different from theirs.”
The comment drew laughter and some lewd remarks, which made Bronwolf wonder just what that tradition was. He would find out before they went looking. Noting the princess’s wary expression, he decided he would stay close to her side while they searched, just in case she needed protection from whatever ritual took place with mistletoe.