The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham Page A

bath was brought. Alswitha did not leave her. Shewashed out Rhiannon’s tresses herself and tried to talk idly—of folklore, of the hearth, of the home. But when Rhiannon was done, wrapped in a linen towel, and sat huddled before the center fire, she started to shiver again.
    Alswitha, still beautiful with her honey-colored eyes and delicate features, sat by Rhiannon to reassure her again.
    “We’ll have Masses said for your people. We shall pray for them this very evening.”
    Rhiannon nodded. She swallowed. “Alswitha, you must believe me. They were not Irishmen—I saw them. They were Vikings.”
    “Rhiannon, I do believe that you are telling me what you saw. I think that you are not understanding that this Irish prince has a Norwegian father and may appear very much the Viking. Don’t you see? Viking shipbuilding is the best, so the ships would be dragon prows. And perhaps many of his men fight like berserkers. Alfred needs such men to go against the Danish madmen. The Irish prince Alfred seeks to please is from the stronghold of Dubhlain but Norse in his paternal heritage.”
    Huddled in her towel, Rhiannon shivered. “I tell you, Alswitha, that Alfred has entered into a pact with demons! I saw them, and they were not Irish Christians but heathens!”
    Heathens with the golden hair of the north sun, and blue eyes of crystal coldness. Alfred had entered into a pact with them. She might very well see the prince’s Viking captain once again.
    “Oh, God!” she whispered, and she felt ill. The blond Viking surely would have told the Irish princeabout the Saxon wench who had tried to skewer him with arrows. Alfred was already furious with her. He would be doubly so once he had been to the coast.
    “How can he care so little for me, for my people, for what has happened?” she cried to Alswitha. “I am his blood and he is my guardian, and he rails against me for defending what is mine!”
    Alswitha was very quiet for a long moment. Then she spoke quietly. “Nay, you forget the King. Wessex, Rhiannon—all of Wessex—is his.”
    “He is cruel!”
    “He is harsh and can be unforgiving. Fate has made him so, for he must be strong. Remember, he is your guardian and your king and your protector. And he does love you.” Alswitha pulled the drying strands of her hair from her towel and smiled gently. “He is concerned for your welfare. He did not mean to hurt you and would never try.”
    Rhiannon wanted to believe it. She loved the king. Alfred and Alswitha and the children were her family. They were all that she had left. She curled her toes beneath her and hugged the linen towel, staring at the fire. Silent tears slid from her lashes.
    “It was horrible!” she whispered. “So much death, so much blood. I loved dear Egmund so very much. And Wilton too. Think of the wives who will never love again, think of the orphans.” She looked up suddenly. “And Adela! I didn’t see her when I escaped. She must be missing, Alswitha. I know not whether she was captured, or she if runs terrified in the forest even now.”
    “Alfred will find her,” Alswitha said with confidence.
    “Oh! I was so selfish! I did not tell Alfred about her.”
    “She will be all right, I am certain. Alfred’s men will find her.”
    “What if the Vikings find her?”
    “If she escaped to the forest, why would they pursue a woman they did not know existed?”
    Rhiannon was silent. They would not pursue Adela, but the Norseman she had so grievously injured might send someone out after her and Adela might be found instead.
    She did not tell Alswitha so. She could not tell Alswitha about her encounter with the Viking. She did not dare. Alswitha was Alfred’s wife, and she might think it necessary to find him and tell him.
    “Come, Rhiannon,” Alswitha said, urging her gently. “You must eat, and then you must try to sleep.” She hesitated, studying Rhiannon. “What is it that you’re still so afraid of?”
    “What?” Rhiannon looked