The Warrior's Runaway Wife. Denise Lynn
great-granddaughter of a king to a nearly eighty-year-old minor vassal with no title, or holdings to speak of, seems a little suspicious, made more so by Brandr’s request for my assistance.’
Elrik couldn’t disagree with that reasoning. ‘It is a bit...odd.’
‘More than just odd. Considering the man has already proven he cannot be trusted, I can’t help but wonder what he is plotting.’ David waved a hand, dismissing further discussion. ‘Find her, bring her here and do it quickly. Brandr will arrive within the next four weeks. I do not wish his presence for any longer than necessary and I intend to put a halt to his plans before his arrival.’
Elrik’s stomach knotted at the last part of the King’s statement. Something about David’s emotionless, steady tone of voice when he said he intended to put a halt to Brandr’s plans was...unsettling. The King already knew what he was going to do—and Elrik wondered if there was more to his involvement than David was willing to divulge at this moment.
For over ten years he’d been the King’s Wolf. Not once had he questioned any order he’d been given, not even the ones that had forced him to harden his heart, or turn a deaf ear to those pleading for mercy. But this was different—it was personal. It touched on the very reason he’d sold his soul to the King. ‘Why me?’
‘The girl had nothing to do with the past.’ David’s stare darkened. ‘At that time, she was but a child and her father hadn’t yet claimed her as his daughter.’ He paused before leaning forward to add, ‘Your father made his choice. He would have done nothing different whether Brandr had been involved or not.’
Elrik disagreed. He’d been there. He’d heard Brandr’s rallying speeches against the foreigners King David had put in control of what were considered choice areas of land and seen the effect the man’s passionately spoken words had had on the older men gathered in Roul’s Great Hall. With nothing but his voice, he’d stirred them into a frenzied desire for revenge.
The striped scars crisscrossing his back were a permanent reminder of the hellish glee Brandr took in seeing punishment meted out to those deemed insubordinate—whether they had been or not. Brandr hadn’t applied the lash, but he’d done much to ensure it had been used.
Elrik wasn’t about to voice his thoughts to the King. Brandr was a king’s grandson and the nephew of a very powerful lord, while he was nothing more than a traitor’s son.
‘You will do as ordered, Roul.’
Elrik kept a tight hold on his rage, swallowed the bitterness coating his tongue and nodded. ‘Of course, my lord.’
King David leaned back against the chair and tossed him a sack of coins. ‘This should cover what you need. I’ve no men to spare.’
Elrik dropped the smaller sack into the leather pouch secured to the inside of his cloak. The money would come in handy and additional men would only slow him down. ‘What need I of any men?’
‘Perhaps I failed to mention that Brandr’s men found evidence that someone might be hunting the lady. He fears their intention is not to bring her home alive.’
South of Derbyshire, England—one week later
‘Open up.’ The wooden door to the room rattled. ‘I’ve a ready need for a willing whore.’
Avelyn cringed at the man’s request and kept a firm grip on the borrowed dagger she held out before her as she backed away from the locked door of her room. The need to protect herself was from habit since she knew she need only keep quiet and eventually he would move further along the corridor.
Just as they had for the last seven nights, men looking for a willing woman had stopped by to test her door countless times before moving on to find one that would open beneath their touch. So far, she’d been lucky and the thin metal locking bar had held.
There seemed to be a code of honour of sorts, even for this brothel. Apparently, a locked door meant either that the room was already occupied, or the lady wished no company at that moment. To her surprise, the men seemed to abide by that wish.
When silence once again fell in the hallway, she lowered her weapon and breathed. She choked out a strangled laugh at the loudness of her breath. Not even the unceasing rain beating on the roof had drowned out what sounded like a near gasp for life.
Avelyn sat on a stool by the window, staring at the overcast sky. Everything was grey. The sky, the road outside the brothel, even the buildings blended into near nothingness against the unending grey.
She longed to be gone from here, but had let her newfound friend Hannah talk her into waiting yet another day in the hopes the sky would clear even a little. Right now, after nearly eight days of rain, the streams would be so overfilled that the crossings would not be passable, which would only increase the likelihood of being caught.
She hadn’t risked her life running away from her father and forthcoming nuptials only to be captured and returned.
Everyone at home had told her that she’d been lucky and how privileged she should have felt to find herself betrothed to one of King Óláfr’s warlords. Especially considering the King was not beholden to concern himself with her welfare. Óláfr was her father’s grandfather—her great-grandfather—but she was nothing more than a by-blow from a dalliance her father had had with a common servant. King Óláfr was not beholden to see to her future. So, why had he gone to such lengths for her?
Even with the questions plaguing her over the arrangement, when Lord Somerled had first come to Brandr with the news, she had been so excited about the prospect of being married that she’d slipped away to return to her mother’s burned-down hut in the village to retrieve a ring her mother had given her on her twelfth birthday. She’d been told it had been her grandmother’s wedding band and she’d buried it to keep the ring safe until her own wedding day loomed in hopes that she could convince her husband-to-be to use it as her wedding band.
But those who’d thought her so lucky and privileged had not seen the warlord selected to be her husband. He was old, so ancient that his own sons were older than she. He was wrinkled, his skin ashen. And he had a belly that hung half way to his knees. She couldn’t begin to imagine her wedding night.
And when she had tried to reason it out in her mind, it seemed that the only viable options open to her were either death by her own hand, or to run away.
Unwilling to kill herself, she’d chosen to run. However, because her half-brother Osbert was watching her far too closely, she’d bolted quickly, taking with her a small stash of food, her ring, which she’d placed in a small pouch and hung around her neck with a ribbon, and even fewer prospects. There were not many ways for her to make enough money to buy food and none of them seemed welcome.
The food had lasted her only the first two days. On the third night, she’d stolen bread from a cottage window where it had been left on the sill to cool. She’d almost been caught. A man stumbling out of the local inn, barely able to walk a straight line, had seen her swipe the round loaf and took chase. Quicker on her feet, she’d outrun him, only looking back once when she’d heard him shout out in pain as he’d tripped over a tree root. His slurred curses let her know that he’d live, so she’d not stopped.
The next night she’d not been as lucky at finding anything to eat. So, the following evening she’d joined the gathering outside the gates of a castle and waited for the food scraps that would be tossed their way. She’d managed to nab a sodden, hard bread trencher and a couple of pieces of half-eaten fruit, food that would seem like gifts from heaven to her growling stomach.
But she recognised the half-dead stare of hunger from a bedraggled child at her side. It had been a part of her own childhood. Without having to think twice, she placed over half of the trencher, along with the fruit, in the small, shaking hands.
Thus had become her life—a woman alone, on the