Prologue
1072 Northumbria
He traced the arch of her brow with his fingertip, then kissed it. His finger swept along the curve of her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw, and ending in the hollow at the base of her throat.
Her eyes drifted closed, and she softly smiled.
“Eyreka.”
She opened her eyes and their gazes locked. The embers of his passion, still glowing, softened his stormy gray gaze. By Odin, she loved him! He traced an “X” over her heart; it beat strong beneath his touch.
“Now and forever, Eyreka.” He dipped his head and kissed the spot with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes.
She knew then he was leaving, but the thought of never seeing him again, never touching him, formed a knot of anguish in her stomach. It tangled tighter and started to burn.
Though she knew it was hopeless, she held on with a grip of iron.
“I cannot come to you again.” The softly uttered words tore a gaping wound in her already aching heart. “’Tis time for you to let go.”
She gathered up the remnants of her tattered courage, knowing it would be the last time she saw him. Her hand shook as she traced an “X” over the ugly scar—the barrier that stood between them—the impenetrable wall between Valhalla and Earth. She tasted the salt of her own tears as she placed her lips where a Norman arrow had pierced the heart in her husband’s breast.
“Now and forever, Addison,” she whispered.
Her vow broke the hold she had on him. But this time he did not just disappear, a shaft of bright white light speared the darkness, glowing around him like an aura, making his broad warrior’s frame look even larger.
She reached a hand out to touch him one last time.
He shook his head. “Nay, love. ‘Tis time to go on with your life. Change is coming to Merewood Keep,” he warned. “Do not let it defeat you. Remember your heritage, my Viking Princess and meet it head on.”
“Aye,” she rasped.
The light flared behind him and went out. She bolted up in bed, reaching for him; her sleeping gown clinging to the curves of her sweat-drenched body. Her mind struggled to surface and broke through her dreams, only to face the stark reality that Addison was truly dead and gone, and the King had granted their home to a Norman Baron.
Chapter 1
“The King awaits.”
The attendant’s words burned themselves into Lady Eyreka’s mind. Her hands trembled. She clasped them tighter together and nodded. Her mind whirled. Needing to concentrate and remember all she planned to say, she thought of her eldest son, Garrick, and his wife, Jillian. Their love had suffused itself into the very stones of Merewood Keep’s foundations and was at the very heart of her people’s existence.
This was her only chance.
“I cannot fail,” she whispered. Her family’s home was about to be wrested from their grasp and would be as if all Garrick and Jillian had gone through to rebuild was for naught.
She took a deep cleansing breath and hurried to catch up to the young servant. For the second time in her life, she would bargain with the gods in exchange for those she loved. Would this Norman be as eager to accept her as part of the spoils of war as her first husband had?
Her stomach clenched. She was no longer the innocent young woman who had bravely ridden into their enemy’s embrace. She had three grown sons, and the scars to prove it. In a few months she would reach her fortieth summer.
As she walked along the corridor, she thought of all the reasons the Norman might accept her. The years had been kind to her. She still had all of her teeth and only a few wrinkles about her eyes. Looking down she frowned at the streaks of silvery-gray running through her hair.
Mayhap the years had not been as kind as she thought.
What man would want her, when he could have a much younger maid for a wife? Her footsteps echoed about her. Was her plan doomed before she had a chance to offer it? She clamped down on her traitorous thoughts when the attendant paused in front of a closed door. Before she could tell the young man she’d changed her mind, he opened the door with a flourish and bade her enter.
Fear speared through her, but she focused on the sight before her.
King William sat on a massive oak chair set on a dais. He was larger than she had imagined. His mien was arrogant; his very posture reeking of power. But it was not so much his size as the fierce frown on his face that terrified her. This man had the power to grant her desire, or have the head lifted from her shoulders with the wave of his hand.
At his nod to enter, she inclined her head and prayed her legs would cooperate. Though they wobbled, she hid that fact by walking slowly forward. At the edge of the dais, she sank to her knees in homage.
While she waited for him to recognize her show of fealty, her mind raced, caught up in a whirlwind of emotion. This man alone was responsible for the deaths of thousands of good Saxon thanes. Had he given the command to shoot the arrow that had ended her husband’s life?
Her stomach churned and a sour, bilious taste surged up her throat, thinking of the ugly wound the Norman arrow had left behind. Though strong threads closed the cauterized wound, the arrow had pierced his heart. She had held her dying husband in her arms, whispering words of prayer to her own Viking gods and Addison’s Christian God for good measure.
Time stood still while she remembered the shared pain that connected her to Addison. Their love had made them well and truly one. His thoughts were her thoughts, his pain was her pain. She remembered feeling the sensation of icy cold hands clutching her aching stomach. Tears clogged her throat with each ragged breath she drew, then he breathed his last.
“Lady Eyreka,” the King acknowledged her presence at last, motioning for her to rise. “You may speak.”
Her head shot up. Heart pounding, she forced herself to let go of the past. She rose to her feet, returning to the present. The words she’d so carefully rehearsed snagged in her throat, drowned out by the loud hammering of her heart echoing through the silence of the room.
Impatience oozed from every pore in the ruddy King’s body. Temper simmered in the hard gaze he leveled at her. “Well?”
I will not fail. “I wish to discuss my home, Merewood Keep.”
William’s eyes flashed briefly, but he motioned for her to continue.
“My son, Garrick, has received your missive regarding his replacement as Lord of our Keep.”
“Then why has he not come before me?” the King demanded, his massive fist crashing down upon the arm of the chair.
“I … that is he … ” she stammered, placing a hand to her breast. She felt Jillian’s amber pendant and clutched it tightly. She said a quick prayer of thanks to her son’s wife for insisting she borrow it, and another to the ancient ones who had inscribed the runes upon it.
Almost immediately a surge of warmth suffused her hand and traveled up her arm. She was filled with renewed confidence that her plan was going to succeed. Her gaze darted back to her King’s face and the grim expression he wore. Recognizing the near end of the man’s patience, she hastened to get to the point.
“My son was making ready to leave, but was waylaid by a dispute between the blacksmith and the seneschal. He should arrive shortly.”
At his silent stare, she gathered the rest of her courage and plunged into the depths of her plan, not stopping for air.
“In the last year, my son has rebuilt our home, ‘tis far stronger now. The crops … we’ve had a good harvest.”
“And why I have chosen to gift it to de Chauret,” the King said. “He has gone too long without reward. Merewood is now worthy of him.”
She had expected his response. The Norman King had already divided up huge Saxon holdings and given them to many of his loyal followers, “But pray, bear with me a moment longer, Sire,” she pleaded.
The hard glint in William’s eyes softened slightly, and he nodded.
“’Tis under my son’s direction and leadership that Merewood Keep has become wealthy again. Our people respect him. They would lay down their lives for him. Without him as their Lord, our people would flounder. The harvests would suffer.”
“Are you saying that Merewood’s people would not tend to their fields and flocks if a Norman were their Lord?”
Eyreka felt the blood drain from the top of her head to the pit of her stomach.
Before she could answer, he continued. “Do your people not realize that by the grace of God, and my word alone, they still live in a well-constructed keep and not buried beneath a pile of stones? I could have the head of each and every Saxon who dares to challenge my decree!”
Rumors had not exaggerated the power or temper of their new King. The threat issued was not idle and part of the reason for her bold plan.
Dizzy from the rush of blood to her feet and her King’s words, she rasped, “Nay, Sire. ‘Tis just that Garrick is heir to Merewood. It is in his blood. No one could possibly love the land more than he.”
When the King continued to stare at her she added, “’Twould be to your advantage to keep him on as seneschal. He could continue to run things for Baron de Chauret, and our people would have immediate respect for him.”
The King paused, stroking his chin. “Why would he stay on as less than master? What would he have to gain?”
Eyreka slowly closed the small gap that still separated her from the dais. A bead of sweat trickled down her back, while her mouth went dry. She had managed to get through the hardest part, laying out the reasons for her next suggestion. Trying to concentrate on the rest of her plan, and not how easily the man’s hands would fit around her throat, she looked directly at her King and said, “I understand that Baron de Chauret is widowed.”
“Aye. What of it?”
“My husband has been gone for three summers.” Her stomach roiled and threatened to rebel. Had she eaten anything this morning, she would have surely lost it. “I would offer myself as wife to the Baron. I am well respected as a healer and former mistress to our people.”
She watched the expression in William’s eyes go from surprise to calculating. “Mayhap ‘twould bear consideration.”
Now was the time to tell him. She had his full attention. If he refused, her sons need never know of her proposed bargain. No one need ever know. “As mistress, I could guarantee that my people would respect my new husband as Lord. With my son running the estate, the revenues would not slacken, but continue to grow. All would profit from this arrangement.”
William sat in silence, while she waited for him to deny or accept her request.
Finally he rose, nodded, and held out his arm. Lady Eyreka inclined her head and placed her hand on his forearm. He reached over and covered her hand with his. The familiar gesture made him seem less a king and more a man. It comforted her. If he could feel her trembling, he made no comment.
“Join me in the hall. I think de Chauret would do well to hear your proposal.”
Eyreka drew strength from her King’s strong grip. He had not shouted his displeasure at her bold suggestion. He had not had her clapped in irons and hauled away. She reached up and touched the base of her throat. Aye, she thought, still intact. All would be well. No one would have to leave Merewood. Odd, but she could almost feel his arrogant confidence suffusing her own doubt-ridden brain. Remarkably, her stomach calmed as he led her into supper.
“Augustin!” the King bellowed from the doorway.
“Aye,” came the equally loud reply from across the wide expanse of the hall.
“Come and meet your bride,” William commanded, “Lady Eyreka.”
At the King’s words, her heart skipped a beat. A hush immediately descended upon the crowded hall, servants and nobles alike falling silent, as they turned in unison to stare at her. The echo of booted footsteps filled the soundless void. The steps rang with confidence and determination as they drew ever closer. Then they stopped.
Eyreka’s eyes widened as she stared up at the warrior standing before her. By Odin, he was large. His chest was broad and thick with muscle. When he reached out a hand to grasp that of his overlord, his tunic strained at the shoulders.
While the two men greeted one another, Eyreka took the opportunity to study the warrior, soon to be her husband by royal decree. His gray-streaked, chestnut hair was thick and wavy. Eyreka’s hands tingled, remembering another man and another time, when she had plunged her fingers into his sun-kissed hair. Shaking herself free of Addison’s memory, she let her gaze drift across Augustin’s high cheekbones, the scar that arched across his chin, then on his eyes … his stormy gray eyes!
The room spun wildly, while the floor swayed, and the walls closed in on her. He had Addison’s eyes.
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