The Captive - By Joanne Rock Page 0,2

of a half-finished tapestry. “The Norsemen’s boats make their way close to shore.”

Gwendolyn forgot all about her quarrel with Margery and the soul-smothering boredom of the women’s conversations about husbands. She understood the danger the enemy presented. Their raids had cost many lives, much gold and countless maidens’ innocence. These invading warriors were brutes that had terrorized lands far and wide. The only part of England where they did not have a toehold was Wessex, as King Alfred had made a pact to keep them away.

But when you bargained with devils, who was to say they would honor it? Only a fool wouldn’t know fear.

“Hurry,” the young page implored, his wide, dark eyes frightened. “The boats came from the north where the view is thick with trees. The watch did not see—”

“Go,” she ordered him, pointing toward the doors where the other women fled in a flurry of colorful skirts. “I must retrieve something from my chamber.”

She lurched toward the door, wanting to gather up the few belongings that were truly hers—belongings greedy Alchere did not know about. She’d managed to save one of her father’s books from the lord’s burning frenzy and she would not see that prized possession hacked to pieces by pillaging Danes.

The boy tugged on her sleeve. “There is no time. I was told to have all the women in the keep at once. They will lock you in to ensure your safety.”

As if anywhere was safe when the Norse terror came. These Danes could sniff out riches from many leagues distant, and that surely included a barricaded keep full of heiresses. Gwendolyn guessed she would be safer on the walls with an armed knight before her than stashed away with all the other lucrative possessions. Still, right now all she cared about was her father’s journal. One last tie to her parents that no man would pry from her fingers.

“You have done your duty,” she told the page, walking with him to the door. But as they reached the timber corridor that opened onto the courtyard, she pried his fingers from her wrist. “You may say I refused to go with you, but unless you plan to drag me by force, I will not retreat just yet.”

The boy appeared ready to argue, his brows knitted in a fierce frown. But then he shrugged helplessly and ran off, leaving her unattended. Alchere would be in a fury if he learned of it. And didn’t that suit her just fine? For all she knew, her king and overlord could start bartering off wealthy widows as part of their ongoing bargain with the Danes to keep them away. Perhaps that was Alchere’s purpose in gathering the women together—not to keep them safe, but to use them as bribes to the enemy. Gwendolyn had no intention of making herself available for a political alliance with a bloodthirsty heathen.

Lifting her skirts, she raced through the gallery above the great hall and found her chamber. Retrieving the journal swiftly, she tucked the hide-bound book into her garter that held her stocking and retied the knot to secure it. Then, peering about the small chamber that had been hers since childhood, she sought anything else that she wanted to bring. Heart racing, she scooped up a handful of rings and tucked them into a small pouch that hung from her girdle. On her way out the door, as a last moment thought, she plucked her first marriage veil from where it dangled off a flag post that held her family’s old banner.

Pushing it over the plaits wound about her head, Gwendolyn knew the veil counted as the most costly item in her wardrobe. The circlet incorporated priceless jewels from both sides of her family and boasted metalwork from the finest goldsmith in Wessex. If the keep was overrun today, she’d rather have items of value with her than sitting here unprotected.

Fleeing from her chamber like a thief with stolen goods, she was headed for the stairs down to the courtyard when a horn and shouts nearby caught her by surprise.

Undeniable curiosity warred with good sense.

Had the invaders arrived? Was battle imminent? She caught a whiff of the sea breeze rolling in off the water and smelled change on the wind. She’d sensed it once before—that day her parents left her for their trip to Rome, she’d somehow known despite their assurances that her life would never be the same. She had that same tickle along her senses now and wanted to confront