Elizabeth Mayne - Lady Of The Lake

Distracted by the beauty of the setting sun, Edon turned his attention from his crowded table to the wide window aperture gracing his hall. Sundown had come.

He noted the time somberly as he sighed deeply. Come the rising, he would have to go looking for the spies in the oak. He could not allow his authority to be challenged, not even by Warwick’s curious children, else he would not be respected in his own shire.

Sarina’s throaty growl brought Edon’s attention back to the present. At the top of the stairs stood a woman in an exquisite white gown, sheltered by the increasing shadows and a long, flowing scarlet cape. She held herself so completely still in the increasing darkness that Edon almost believed the beautiful woman was an apparition—a vision solely in his mind. He caught his breath, thinking that she could have stood there forever unnoticed by everyone in his hall.

Only Sarina inched toward her, her hackles lifting, her growl a soft warning to Edon’s sharp ears. The woman had eyes for only one thing—the wolfhound coming to the end of her leash.

Edon inhaled deeply of the charged air in his hall and discerned that curiosity was the overriding emotion exchanged between the woman and the wolfhound.

Smiling a welcome for the beautiful woman, Edon came to his feet, lifting one hand to Sarina in a command to halt. Edon’s motion alerted Embla. She started and looked around, then lunged to her feet, upsetting the balance of intrigue between the woman, the wolfhound and Edon.

“Seize her!” Embla shouted.

The newcomer was obviously not a welcome sight to any of Embla’s guards. All six of her Vikings lurched to their feet, bumping their neighbors’ elbows as they drew swords from their scabbards. Embla moved hastily, tipping her goblet and spilling wine across the table.

“Seize her, I said!” the Viking woman screamed.

Edon’s hand clamped onto his niece’s wrist, slamming her sword back home where it belonged. “You overstep yourself, wife of Harald Jorgensson. We are in my hall, at my board. Here the rules of hospitality are more sacred than all the gods in Asgard.”

Tala tore her gaze from the wolf to the black-haired Viking jarl. He spoke without raising his voice, but the authority in his command fixed Embla to marble. Tala had never seen or heard the woman crossed before. Her eyes glowed with venom; her body tightened like a snake poised to strike.

Embla found her voice, recovering as she spun around and confronted the jarl in a shrill voice. “You would allow a Mercian witch to enter your hall? A witch who has tainted Warwick’s wells? She’s come to gloat! She will curse you and steal your soul, suck the breath from your mouth and blood from your heart. Banish her, Lord Edon. You know not what evil you allow.”

“My word, all of that?” Edon undercut Embla’s venom, halving it with an amused chuckle as his gaze returned to the beautiful lady. He envisioned that lovely mouth sucking the breath from his mouth and found the idea appealing.

Sarina crept closer, sniffing at the woman’s trailing scarlet mantle, lifting her nose as Edon did, searching the wind for the newcomer’s scent. Edon considered the lady’s face and white throat and the firm press of her lush bosom against an elegantly crafted tunic.

Two gilded brooches held the separate cloths fastened at her shoulders. A fine gold girdle rested at the peaks of her hipbones, bringing the sheer white linen to a narrow tuck that widened across her hips and fell in graceful folds to her ankles. A jeweled diadem circled her brow and held a wealth of flaming curls away from her face.

Thus far, Embla’s vitriolic attack had only made the stranger smile. And a beautiful smile that was, Edon thought, full of promise and mystery. He allowed his gaze to linger a moment longer on the lovely oval of her face before turning to Embla’s restive guards and commanding them to put down their arms.

“The lady bears no weapons on her person. Sit down and be civil, else you will be evicted from my hall. Rig, bring my visitor to the table and make her welcome. Eloya was wise enough to order a setting prepared for her.”

“I will not eat of the same food that is served to a Mercian,” Embla hissed bitterly.

“Then you will likely starve before our eyes in this hall tonight, Lady Embla. If it so pains you, you may leave and sup in your own hall.” Edon dismissed her, satisfied that Rig had moved to the newcomer’s side and no harm would befall the beautiful lady should Embla choose to leave in anger.

“I see that blood means nothing to you,” the Viking woman sneered.

“On the contrary, wife of my nephew,” Edon said with telling candor. “Blood means everything to me.”

Embla blanched. Her pale lips tightened and her chin jutted out in fury. Edon saw no gain in allowing Embla to think she retained any power now that he’d returned to his shire.

He was not ready to condemn her for the murder of his nephew, but he had his suspicions. So did his brother, Guthrum. Nor would Edon tolerate any direct challenge from her. Best she learn that now.

“Will we be killed in our beds?” Rebecca murmured fearfully from the near side of the table.

“No, we will not,” Edon said resolutely.

Theo turned to distract Rebecca from the commotion of Embla’s exit with her six foul-tempered guards. The newborn’s mewling became a soft undercurrent punctuating Sarina’s throaty growl.

The growling continued until Embla was gone from sight.

Edon realized that it was Harald’s wife the wolfhound took such great exception to, not the Mercian newcomer. He started to settle back into his chair, then realized that the newcomer had yet to take a seat. She had paused to greet Sarina and to speak to the two thralls manning the wine casket. Granted, they were only children that Eloya had selected from the compound, but Edon took umbrage that the woman chose to acknowledge anyone before she had made proper abeyance to him.

Blind Theo turned from soothing his wife and small son, chuckling, “So it begins, Lord Wolf.”

Ever quick to sense any change in Edon’s mercurial temper, Lady Eloya cast a knowing smile his direction. Then she did the unthinkable, speaking out in her clear contralto, in well-practiced Saxon. “Princess, Lord Edon feels ignored.”

Tala turned about so quickly she startled the thralls. Another blotch of wine splattered on the unvarnished floor. Sarina rose to her feet and ambled to the stain, sniffing it noisily.

As she gave ground to the wolfhound, Tala found herself the censure of all eyes. She didn’t know which was worse—standing still for a wolf to come close enough to devour her or confronting the dark Viking’s unfathomable eyes. Frissons of heat skittered over her neck, pebbling the skin on her arms as she turned around to face him. It was the same feeling that had overcome her that afternoon when he’d spied her in King Offa’s oak.

“Why did you call me ‘princess’?” She addressed the women at the table, not knowing which of the ladies present had spoken to her.

A very beautiful lady at the far end of the boards deigned to reply. “Because Lord Edon’s oracle, my husband, Theo the Greek, told us we would have a true princess dine at our table our first night in Warwick. We are in Warwick and you are the only visitor that has come to the hall.”

“Ergo, you are the princess.” Edon finished the theorem with simple logic. He saw no reason to add the dictum that the gold torque encircling her neck also proved the theorem valid. He came to Rig’s side and took hold of the woman’s hand. Her fingers were warm and moist, pale against his sun-browned skin.

“I am honored to be given such rank,” Tala replied. She dipped in a proper bow of respect to the lord and all of his guests at the table. “Forgive my interruption of your meal, but I was ordered to present myself at sunset.”

Edon blinked in surprise. This beauty standing before him was the bare-limbed nymph in the oak? He shook his head in denial. “You are not the girl I saw hiding in the oak.”

“And you said you never forgot a face.” She delighted him with a playful smile. “‘Haps I should have disobeyed your command and tested your memory, as well as your eyes.”

Edon looked closer, admiring the neatly tamed curls held by a net to her diadem. Her fair skin was kissed by the sun, warm and glowing. Wispy red curls escaped at her temple and brow.

“I did not command that you come alone,” Edon responded tersely. He felt slightly chilled at the idea of her facing Embla’s animosity unprotected.

“I did not say I came alone.” Tala chose her words carefully. “It is no matter at the present. You have ample swordsmen and warriors at your table to protect many ladies, be they princesses or not.”

Edon deliberately let his gaze move to the empty stairs. “Then summon the boy. He will sup with us as well.”

“What boy? I know no boys, lord.”

So she would spar words with him, would she? Did she think his eyes were as sightless as Theo’s? Edon motioned to Rig. “Have you discovered the princess’s name?”

A handsome smile lightened the planes of Rig’s lean cheeks. “Indeed I have, Edon. May I present Tala ap Griffin? Princess, this wolf in fine clothing is Edon Halfdansson, Jarl of Warwick.”

The dancing amber lights in the princess’s eyes dimmed slightly, as if she’d suddenly recalled a sobering thought. She removed her hand from Edon’s. “You are brother to Guthrum and son of Halfdan, late king of the Danelaw?”

“Guilty as charged,” Edon answered. He drew back the seat beside his own and placing his hand firmly at the small of her back, guided her to it. She stiffened at his touch, declining to take the seat immediately. By doing so, she wrested control of his hall from his hand. If she would not sit, he could not. If he did not sit, the food would grow cold and no one could eat.

“What ill do you bear my late father?” Edon asked, playing her game momentarily. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. His hand warmed to the sweet curve at the small of her back. “Halfdan has been gone to Asgard a score and five years. You are not old enough to have been ravished by him, and I know for a fact he did not venture this far south of the security of York.”

“Perhaps I am not from the south,” Tala countered.

“Ah, but you are, Princess. You are a royal Leamurian. The torque at your throat proclaims you that. Embla bears you great ill and openly calls you a witch. Has she reasons for her animosity, valid ones?” Edon asked silkily.

He allowed his hand to move slowly up the delightful curve of her spine, enjoying the way she pressed back into his hand, seeking a distance he wouldn’t allow. He smiled deliberately, as if to ask who is in control now?

“Embla Silver Throat is well-known for her malice.” Tala couldn’t take her eyes from his. “She spreads it about her indifferently, sparing no one.”

“She empowers you with the cunning of a witch.”

Tala’s laugh at that bald charge echoed into the high ceiling of Edon’s hall. “Aye, so she does.”

“You do not deny the charge?”

“To what purpose? Vikings are known for their stupidity and superstitious ways. Both run hand in hand with brute force. Embla has mastered all there is to learn of that.”

“Now you try to provoke me. Sit down, Tala ap Griffin. The food grows cold and others in this chamber want to have their bellies filled before the moon rises. Mind the insults you levy, lest you find there are no stupid Vikings at my table.”

That the warning bore a truth was as evident as the deep cleft in the jarl of Warwick’s handsome chin. Tala gave in to his command and took the seat beside him. Sitting allowed her some measure of relief, as he removed his possessive hand. But the imprint remained like a brand from a hot iron, tormenting her.