‘Any man who would send a woman to fight his battles for him is no man at all. I demand to see Wilfrid. Send him to me or kill me now, because I will not resort to using a woman as my messenger.’
If it was possible, the fire in her eyes turned into a full blaze. ‘Then you are free to rot down here as long as it takes for you to lower yourself to speak to a woman. There is a bucket of water and a bucket for your necessaries. Enjoy the rest of your day.’
To his utter astonishment, she set the lamp down on the ground and left, her footsteps echoing down the walkway. He counted ten footfalls before she made her way up the steps leading out of the cellar. There were twelve of those. The door scraped across the stone step as it clanged shut behind her.
Letting out a curse, he banged the heel of his hand against the bars until pain vibrated up his arm. His gaze fell on to the buckets she had mentioned that he had not noticed before. Indeed, one was filled with water and the other was empty. Gingerly picking up the one with water, he moved it across the cell and sat down on the straw to take a long drink and cure his parched throat. It tasted of oak, but was otherwise clean.
The only good thing to come of the exchange was that he was fairly certain Wilfrid was here. His initial questions for the villagers in Glannoventa had produced troubling answers. It seemed that no one had seen Wilfrid for quite some time. One shopkeeper had told him that he was off travelling and spent most of his time in the company of the Northumbrian King. Another had told him that Wilfrid was visiting the Dane, Jarl Eirik, in the east. A fisherman’s wife had overheard and laughed, saying that he was chasing a ghost. Wilfrid had not been seen since early summer. There were rumours that he had died. It seemed that no one knew the whereabouts of their lord.
At least now Rurik knew he was close. Annis had not said he was not here, only that Rurik should send his message through her. But then, she had not said Wilfrid was here either. Rurik had allowed his anger to take control, knowing that anger would not serve him well in this. Perhaps he had used the wrong tactic to deal with her. She was obviously proud and given to righteous indignation. It would have been better to attempt to charm her and remind her of how easy things had been between them earlier in the tavern than to attack her with his words.
The problem was that he did not know how to go about it. He had never worried about charming a woman. The women in his past had made it known that they were interested in a quick tumble and he had obliged them. He had no immediate interest in marriage so he had never had the need to speak pretty words. He cursed again and fell back on his straw bed. If only Danr were here, he would have already found a way to charm her into the cell.
The scrape of the door above the steps woke him. Rurik sat up, surprised to find he had slept. The herbs must have lingered in his blood, luring him to sleep as he had lain on his bed of straw wondering how to proceed. He felt much better this morning. There was still an ache in his head, but it no longer throbbed. Whatever had been put into his ale had passed so he felt like himself again. The steady scrape of boots on stone told him Annis returned even before the light from the oil lamp lit up her hair.
She stood before him in a finely made gown of blue wool, embroidered with amber-coloured thread at the sleeves. A cloak in a deeper shade of blue clung to her shoulders, this one without a hood. She looked every bit the Lady of Glannoventa and he wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for a common wench at the tavern. It wasn’t simply her clothing or the way she held herself that made her appear noble. There was something in her face, her eyes as she gave him a cool, superior look, that placed her in that class.
Something akin to attraction swirled in his belly. Akin, because had it been mere attraction, he could have identified it as such. Last night he would have called it something as base as desire. This was more. It was admiration and awe mixed with temptation. The effect was staggering. He could see himself clearly for the fool he had been at their previous meeting. Matching words with her would not get him what he wanted.
‘Lady Annis.’ He was sure to keep his tone even, though fury still burned through his veins.
The quirk of one eyebrow was the only acknowledgement of her surprise. ‘Norseman.’
Hoping that he adequately disguised his anger, he asked, ‘Are you here because you’ve reconsidered letting me out? Because if so, I accept your offering of peace.’ It was a horrible jest, but
