Golden Surrender

  THE VIKING PICKED HER UP IN ONE SMOOTH MOTION.

  “Wife,” he said cuttingly, “you call me a barbaric animal, yet you continually feel safe to taunt me. I suppose I must prove to you that I am a civil man wishing nothing other than your most pleasurable existence. You do not care to scrub my back, therefore I will humble myself and scrub yours.”

  Erin could not free herself from him and one glance into the blue fire of his eyes started her shivering with dismay. There was little time for her to do more than issue the single protest “No!” before finding herself dropped into the tub.

  “How remiss of me,” he muttered. “I can’t scrub your back when there is cloth upon it, can I?”

  “Damn you, Viking! I don’t want my back scrubbed!” Erin cried desperately as he held her with one hand while he eased the soaking linen up and over her head. She struggled with him, attempting to stand. But that only brought her nude and wet body colliding with his, and she shuddered as if touched by fire.

  “Relax, Princess,” he murmured, massaging her. “I would not think of demanding any service of you I wouldn’t gladly give in return.” His hands moved lower and she gasped. “Perhaps my thorn can be gentled to a rose.…”

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  1540 Broadway

  New York, New York 10036

  Copyright © 1985 by Heather E. Graham

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-81575-0

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  From the Fury of the Norseman,

  Deliver Us, O Lord!

  EIGHTH-CENTURY PRAYER

  PROLOGUE

  IRELAND, A.D. 848

  From the cold and hostile mists of the north he came, his sleek black longboats, his “dragon ships,” resembling a rush of awesome sea serpents as they appeared on the horizon, gliding over the waves with their broad red and white sails, seeking out the emerald coast of Eire.

  His men were fearless, ferocious, terrible. They were like huge beasts, howling fiercely as they leaped from their ships to the shore, waving their swords, axes, and spears. They honored not the Christian God nor were they servants to morals or scruples. Yet the man who led them, Olaf the White, a prince of Norway, known far and wide as the Lord of the Wolves, was different.

  He was a man above men, magnificently golden, towering above even his own countrymen with a lean and muscled strength that demanded respect and loyal, admiring obedience. His mind, so bred to barbarism, stretched beyond it. He did not come to ravage this land but to forge himself a kingdom upon it.

  From the moment his dragon ship first brought him to the shore of Ireland, his steel-blue gaze lit upon the rugged terrain with its wild beauty, and he knew he had come to stay.

  The tales that had come to his father’s house in Norway when he was a lad had taught him much. Even as his chilling and indomitable gaze swept the rugged landscape, he knew that he must take and nurture this land as he might a child. He would not desecrate the abbeys and monasteries, but would force the monks and friars to do his bidding as teachers, to make him understand ever more fully the complex literature of the Irish, the history so carefully preserved by their exquisite artistry. He would understand the people, the culture of these indomitable Irish people who could be invaded time and again, subdued but never conquered.

  Aye, he would come to understand them and, in so doing, he would conquer where others had failed.

  He thought of all these things as he studied the coastline, his hands upon his hips, his legs planted squarely on the ground.

  Ireland, She was to be his—or he hers. He felt it within his blood, within his bones, and the feeling was like a potent mead. I will make my mark upon this land, he decided, cocking back his head with its rich mane of sun-gold hair and laughing joyously as the sparkle of the morning sky touched the teal blue of his riveting eyes. Ireland, aye, this was where destiny awaited him. He craved the land; its possession was a fever within him, drawing him with fascination as surely as a sultry and seductive maid.

  He spun about and the planes of his face were both ruggedly handsome and chilling as he faced his men with a broad grin. “Inland!” he called above the whipping wind as he raised his sword high to the sky. “We go a-Viking inland, and on horses. And upon her, this rich green isle, we will dig deep roots! A kingdom awaits us!”

  The cries of the men rose high with the wind.

  And indeed, the Lord of the Wolves had come to Ireland.

  CHAPTER

  1

  A.D. 852

  From a window in the Grianan, the women’s sun house, Erin mac Aed stared out upon the graceful wooden buildings and rolling slopes of Tara, the ancient and traditional home of the Ard-Righ, or High King of the Irish. Not long ago the meeting in the great banqueting hall had ended, and her mother had been called from the Grianan by her father. Since then Erin had kept her vigil by the window, for she desperately wanted to seek out her father.

  She chewed upon her lower lip as she waited impatiently to see her parents return from their walk. It was a beautiful scene she stared upon. The verdant green grass dazzled beneath the sun until it appeared as a field of glistening emeralds, and in the distance the little brook that rounded the southernmost dun took on the hue of sapphires. Geese ambled about the brook, and cows and horses grazed lazily upon the hills.

  Yet today Erin could not focus on the beauty and peace spread before her. She stared upon the grass and sky feeling as if the world spun. She could not help being haunted by memories. Visions of the past took precedence over reality, and although she swallowed furiously and blinked, the memories remained of fire, of blood, and the trample of horses’ hooves that was like a thunderous beat.…

  Mist seemed to settle over the sunblaze of the golden afternoon, and she saw herself too clearly, two years past, as she sat with her aunt, Bridget of Clonntairth, in the garden. Bridget, sweet, beautiful Bridget, had been laughing so gaily. But then the alarm had come and Bridget had forced Erin to flee. Erin had turned back in time to see Bridget burying her small pearl-handled dagger deep into her own heart in terror of the Norsemen coming. Then high-pitched screams had risen and risen to vie with the terrible drum-beat of the Norsemen’s horses as they bore down upon her uncle’s kingdom of Clonntairth.

  Even now Erin could hear the bloodcurdling war cries of the Norsemen, the shrill wailing of the unprepared Irish. Even now she could smell the fire, hear the earth
itself tremble with thunder.…

  Erin blinked and forced herself to dispel the image. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled shakily, her excitement suddenly growing as she saw that her parents were at long last returning from the copse by the brook. She had sat with her eyes unwaveringly fixed on those trees since Maeve had been summoned, her fingers pulling knots in the threads of the robe she mended. In the two years since Clonntairth, she had tried to settle into living again. She had tried to enjoy being a princess of Tara, and she had tried very hard to convince her father and gentle mother that she had been able to put Clonntairth in the past. but she had never fogotten, and she never, never would.

  She knew that today the kings and princes of Eire met to discuss their stand in the coming battle between the Danes and the Norwegians. And though she hated the Danes, she despised the Norwegians—and one in particular: Olaf the White.

  Just thinking his name made her palms grow damp, her body flush and tremble with fury and loathing.

  Erin desperately wanted to know if the Irish chiefs who had debated all morning in the great banqueting hall would take a side; if they did, she prayed that they would not decide the Norwegians were the lesser of two evils.

  “If you paid attention to your work, sister,” Gwynn said sourly, interrupting her vigil, “your stitches would be small and neat. You should bring your head in from the window anyway. It hardly befits a princess to stare out with the ill-concealed nosiness of a farm wife!”

  Erin started and drew her gaze from the window to glance at her older sister with a sigh of resignation. Gwynn had been picking at her all day, but Erin could feel no rancor in return. She knew that Gwynn was terribly unhappy.

  Her marriage had been a dynastical one, to be sure, but Gwynn had been smitten by the young king of Antrim long before her royal wedding. Belatedly she had discovered that her prince’s gallantry was the type to last only to the altar. Heith was handsome, suave, and charming, and now, with his wife five months pregnant and in her father’s house, he was apparently practicing that charm on other women. But Gwynn dared not complain to her father; Aed would either chastise her for being a jealous wife or, worse still, vent the terrible rage he was generally known to control on her husband.

  “You’re right, sister,” Erin said softly. “When I sew, I will try not to allow my mind to wander.” She smiled at her sister, sensing the depth of misery that had taken Gwynn from a cheerful girl to a morose woman. “But you know, Gwynn, you always were the most talented of us! Mother used to despair of all our stitches, while applauding yours.”

  Gwynn slowly smiled in return, aware that she didn’t particularly deserve the charity of one whom she had spent the day harassing. “I’m sorry, Erin, for truly I’ve been a miserable lot for you to draw today.”

  Erin dropped her stance at the window to go to her sister. She knelt beside her and placed her head briefly upon Gwynn’s knees before meeting her eyes. “You are truly forgiven, Gwynn. I know that the babe makes you most uncomfortable!”

  “Sweet Erin,” Gwynn murmured, her eyes, so like her sister’s, growing misty. Despite the bulk of her pregnancy, Gwynn was still a beautiful young woman. Her face lacked the ultimate perfection of her youngest sister’s, but she had been sought by many a prince across the countryside. That fact made her life all the more bitter now. She laughed suddenly, for Erin had always been her favorite and guilt because of her harassment of her sister plagued her. “Off your knees, Erin! I’m behaving like an old witch, and you are humoring me. We all know it is not the babe who plagues me and makes me old before my time, but that worthless husband of mine.”

  “Gwynn!” Bride, the oldest sister, a matron now of three and a half decades and mother of grown sons, spoke sharply. “You should not speak so of your husband. He is your lord and you must give him homage.”

  Gwynn sniffed. “Homage! If I had any sense I would consult a Brehon and demand a separation. The laws declare that I would keep what’s mine, which would hurt my noble husband. He would lose half his gambling assets!”

  “Gwynn.” The address came this time in a soft, quiet voice. It was Bede who spoke, and even the simple intonation of Gwynn’s name was musical.

  Bede had never possessed the beauty that even Bride still retained; her hair was a plain mouse brown, her face was thin. Her only true asset was the deep emerald eyes that she shared with her siblings.

  She had always been the happiest of the brood, always able to find pleasure in the smallest things. That she had been promised to the church since birth had brought her complete happiness. She had joined her order at twelve and came home only for special feasts. She was here today because her father had requested that all his family be present, and as Ard-Righ his word was law.

  “I do not believe you would be happy to set your husband aside,” Bede said wisely, “for you love him still. Perhaps when the babe is born, things will improve. Remember your pride, sister, but remember too that time can be your friend. When trysts of the night have long since passed, you will still be wife and mother of his heirs.”

  Still at Gwynn’s knees, Erin glanced at Bede’s sweet face. Her sister’s intuition was often startling. A nun Bede might be, but she was far from innocent or sheltered. She met the world with commendable good sense.

  Gwynn sighed. “You are right, sister. I would not set the man aside for I am fool enough to love him. I crave him; I accept the crumbs of his affection and weep and scream when I discover his wenching! But … still I love him, and so I believe, as Bede suggests, that I will dazzle his heart again. When the babe is born.…” Her lashes lowered as she sighed and gazed once more upon Erin. “Do forgive me, sister. I thought to inflict misery upon you because I have become such a bitter wretch! You are wise, Erin, and in my jealousy I resent your wisdom in not marrying. Never marry! And never, never be foolish enough to love! Give your heart to God as Bede has done, if you would, but never, never let it be trampled by mortal man!”

  “What rubbish you feed her!” Bride interrupted with derision. “She is past the age she should have married already, and you would have her go merrily on playing swordsman with our brothers until all hear of her lack of maidenliness and despair of her! She is the daughter of Aed Finnlaith! It is her duty to wed, as we have, sister, to better our alliances and hold safe our father’s and brother’s crowns!”

  Bede, still and dark in her long black habit, suddenly moved impatiently. “Bride, leave the girl be—”

  “I will not!” Bride snorted. “Father fears for her feelings like a foolish, besotted old man! Well, Clonntairth was a fact of life and Erin must get over it.”

  Mention of Clonntairth suddenly reminded Erin how faithfully she had watched for her parents to return. If she didn’t hurry now, she would miss her father before he sent his servants for his bath, and then she would not be able to speak to him till late in the night.

  She hopped to her feet, aware that her unseemly hurry would send Bride to Maeve with warning tales of woe, but Bride would not be at Tara much longer. When the meeting split and the tribes broke, Bride would return to her own province with her husband and sons. “Excuse me, sisters,” Erin muttered. Then she fled them and the Grianan, smiling and acknowledging the other ladies who sat about sewing and conversing.

  As she reached the open air, Erin overheard her father speaking with her mother about the meal that would be served that evening. Erin did not want to see her mother. Maeve was not half so critical as Bride, but she would look at Erin with such weary sadness that the young woman would feel riddled with guilt. Erin didn’t believe she would ever capture any of Maeve’s qualities of kindness and sweetness.

  She allowed herself a brief, wry smile. She was justly proud of both her parents. Aed Finnlaith was the High King of Eire, ruling over a number of lesser, constantly squabbling Irish kings. A magnificent warrior, he had banded the Irish together with a force greater than any king before him. And still he had always been a tender, loving father and husband. When his hea
rt and soul were clouded by worries such as today, he would seek out his Maeve, and she would always lighten his heart with gentle laughter and wit and amusing tales from the rivalry within the Grianan.

  To avoid a confrontation with both parents, Erin slipped around to the rear of the Grianan and paused by the gnarled trunk of a great tree. Her father would have to pass her to reach the handsomely adorned building that was their residence.

  As she waited, she bit her lip. She would have to watch each of her words carefully. She didn’t want her father to know that vengeance was the ruling factor in her heart.

  A crackle in the velvet-green grass warned her of her father’s approach. Erin looked up, smiling to meet him.

  “Father!”

  Aed raised his graying red head and smiled warmly in return. “Daughter! How sweet of you to come and ease the strains of a tired old man. You are a breath of spring to see, my Erin.”

  Erin went to his side and accepted his hug.

  “What do you here, daughter?”

  Erin shrugged. “I’ve come to walk with you a spell, Father.”

  Aed stopped in his tracks and stared down into her face, raising his brow doubtfully. “Come to walk with me, have you, minx? Or to ply me with questions?”

  Erin grimaced. “Well, I would like to hear the decision of the council.”

  Aed looked at her long and hard. She was an uncommon beauty, this last of his ten children. In her eyes was all the green beauty of the land; in her shapely and straight form, its strength. Beneath the sun her ebony hair gleamed gloriously, framing a face that was both fair and sharply intelligent, and in no need of powders or paints. His daughter’s skin was like a rose petal, soft and fair and naturally blushed. He took a terrible pride in her. She understood every nuance of politics, she read with a comprehension superior to any of her brothers’, and she wrote with a beautiful hand. Her voice, like Bede’s, was like a melody, and she could play the harp, surpassing her sisters in talent.