The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham

their births, though it seemed that the king was perhaps five years or so older than he was.
    They came back through the gates, Eric and King Alfred and their retinues. It seemed that both parties were loath to leave their leaders alone—trust came more slowly to their followers. But when they had reached the Great Hall, the king ordered his men to wait outside, and Eric nodded to Rollo and the others. They were alone then in the manor’s vast hall. Eric commanded that mead be brought to them and then he and the king sat in facing chairs, and openly surveyed each other again.
    Eric waited for the king to speak, for he was the one with an explanation to give. Gravely he watched Alfred.
    The king leaned across the table. “I cannot tell you what our life has been—nay, I suppose that I need not imagine you do not know, for the Danes have harried the Irish coast forever.”
    “My father fought the Danes, and my grandfather fought the Danes, and I fight them too.”
    “As do I.”
    Eric sipped his mead, sitting back. He eyed theking over his chalice. “Then tell me, Alfred of Wessex, why were my ships attacked when I came in answer to your plea for assistance?”
    Alfred shook his head and slumped back in his chair. Eric was convinced of his sincerity. “There is some treachery here, but from where I know not. I swear, though, that I will not rest until all is discovered. Many believe that one of the men slain by your troops was the traitor, preferring to fight you rather than welcome you.”
    “What of the girl?”
    “The girl?” the king said.
    “The Lady Rhiannon. It was her land. Did she betray you?”
    “Nay, nay!” Alfred assured him hastily.
    “How can you be so certain?”
    “She is my godchild. And my kin.”
    Eric did not believe that the girl could be found innocent so easily, but he chose to say nothing more of the matter at the moment.
    “I take this hall and this land,” he told Alfred.
    “You have already done so,” Alfred admitted with dry—perhaps bitter—humor.
    “There has been much ill will created,” Eric said.
    “Aye,” Alfred agreed. Again he leaned toward Eric, and the fever of his quest burned in his eyes. “But you came to fight the Dane. It is not your native soil you seek to defend, but I will make sure that your rewards are great.”
    Eric rose, swallowed down his drink, and wandered over toward the great fire, resting against the mantel to look back at the king. “What rewards?”
    Alfred started. He, too, rose and came to the fire. Itblazed between them like the passionate hatred they shared for their enemy. “What would you have?” the king demanded.
    “More land,” Eric replied flatly. “I want the surrounding coves and some coastal land north of here that borders the sea. There is a protected bay and, around it, high-rising cliffs. No one could take that land were it protected. The valley there is fertile. It grows rich and green. It is a natural harbor; I saw that from the sea.”
    Alfred hesitated.
    Eric coolly lifted a brow, and the king saw that the man’s eyes could quickly turn to ice. “Is that too much to ask for the blood you ask of me?”
    “Nay, it is not that. I would freely give you the land, but it is not mine.”
    “Then tell your lord, your alderman, that he must take another parcel. We will wrest one from the Danes.”
    “’Tis no lord that owns it,” Alfred muttered. Eric frowned. “It, too, belongs to my goddaughter, the Lady Rhiannon.”
    Eric nodded slightly in acknowledgment. “Then she should be very willing to give to your cause.”
    “She has already given,” the king said with some humor. “This was her town, won by her father.”
    A picture of the fire-haired maiden with blood lust in her heart flashed through his mind, and Eric smiled with a certain malice. “So this, too, I would take from the Lady Rhiannon?”
    “Aye,” the king murmured. He walked back to the table. “Rhiannon is lady of this coast, all of it. Her