The Viking's Woman by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

the verge of paganism and that the first coming of the Viking had been foretold in omens of doom. Druids still roamed the forests, and despite their Christianity, most of his people were as superstitious as the pagan Danes. Something was to come.
    He prayed again. He prayed that the sign meant victory at last. God had granted him many victories. Alfred knew that men hailed him as the greatest king since the legendary Arthur; he had bested his enemy in skirmishes many times. He was king, and men bowed down to him and fought for his honor. He wanted more. He wanted peace. He wanted England to be a place of learning, and he wanted his children to read and to write, and to study with scholars from all over the world. He had not read himself until he was twelve years old, and though he had been very young when his mother had died, he had never forgotten how she had read to him, how her voice had been a melody, laughing and tripping over the words in a poem. Time had hampered his study, but he had learned to read before his brothers. He had loved learning and craved it for Wessex. He needed peace to achieve his goal. He was thirty-six. Not a youngman anymore. But not an old one. There could be long years ahead of him. Time to do so many things. English craftsmen were known for their work in metal and stone; beautiful jewelry was made here. Once English monks had toiled in the monasteries, creating works of grace and beauty. Now the monasteries were plundered, and all too often precious metals and stones were taken, along with anything else of value. An Englishman was lucky to hold to his piece of earth.
    Before the stone Alfred fell down upon his knees again, though he had just come from Mass. He picked up a handful of dirt and stared at it. “God of my fathers, let me tear the Dane down this time! Let me strike him from my land and force him to see the true way of Thy light!”
    Even as he spoke, he heard the earth tremble. Allen of Kent, one of his most entrusted retainers, was racing toward him. Alfred came quickly to his feet, and Allen dismounted from his horse and dropped down before the warrior king. Alfred knew it to be bad tidings.
    “Get up, Allen, and tell me. What is it? Did the Irish prince change his mind and refuse to come?” The sky had warned him. He waited for what would come.
    “Oh, no, my king. He came, and ’tis disaster that he did. No message reached the coast. The people thought themselves under siege and tried to strike the first blows. The Lady Rhiannon ordered an attack. The Irish prince received no welcome but a barrage of arrows.”
    Pain searing his heart, Alfred took Allen fiercely by the shoulders. “How do you know this?”
    “I was riding to the Lady Rhiannon’s and met a survivor on the way, trying to make his way here to you.” Allen’s eyes would not remain on the king. Alfred wondered what the man was hiding, then he thought that Allen lowered his gaze with misery and with fear for Rhiannon.
    “And it is true, you are certain?”
    “Aye, I am certain. The town is nearly razed.”
    “It would be no less,” the king said. He had taken a beast by the tail—a civilized beast, he had believed. But he knew the reputation of the man, and he prayed that the repercussions could be limited to what had already occurred. Eric of Dubhlain could well be marching on Wessex right now, his battle cry for vengeance. The Irish prince would assume that the King of Wessex had betrayed him. Had Rhiannon betrayed Alfred? Impossible! Alfred wondered in his heart about Rhiannon, worrying about what
had
happened, but he spoke to Allen with expediency as the king. He had no choice. He was a king before all else. There was only one way to hold some part of Britain for the Saxon people.
    “Where is Eric now?”
    “Taken over the town.”
    “He has not moved inland? How can you know?”
    “An ominous silence comes from the town. I know, sire, for I rode toward the coast to see for myself what had happened