Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife. Michelle Styles
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to believe them.
Kjartan advanced towards his grandfather, holding out the nest and chattering away. The two took great pleasure in each other. A pleasure that could be easily destroyed. Under Viken law and custom, her son belonged to his father. She had been married when Kjartan was conceived, but she’d refused to give him up, to turn him over to someone who had little concept of the notion of love and devotion. How could she permit that to happen to her only child?
Her eyes met her father’s slate grey ones. He gave a slight nod and held out his good hand.
‘Come here, Kjartan, you can keep me company for a while. We can recite some of the sagas together.’
‘Will you tell me about Loki and the tricks he played? I like that god.’
Sela listened to her father’s gravelly voice begin to solemnly recite a story. Kjartan would be safe with her father, and she would be able to see about defending the hall.
‘Far,’ she said softly.
He raised his eyes, paused in the story.
‘If there is any problem, you know what to do. Promise me, the hut in the woods…’
‘I know, Sela. You have other things to think about besides me. I am not so feeble that I cannot look after one small boy. Send Una to me if you wish. Your former nurse can do something besides warm her bones by the fire for a change.’
‘Yes, Thorgerd can look after the women. She is sensible. Una and her tales make the women nervous.’
He cleared his throat as Kjartan drew closer to the bed. ‘Now, if you will excuse us, the gods are in a rather tight spot and Loki needs to rescue them.’
She gave one last backwards glance. Grey hair next to blond, engrossed in the tale of Loki’s mischief. Then she walked away, walked toward her responsibilities.
‘My lady, it was as you suspected, the men in the dragon boats are armed, armed to the teeth,’ Gorm, her father’s aged steward said, coming to stand beside Sela where she watched the dragon ships’ final approach. ‘See how the sunlight glints off their shields and swords.’
‘They are not coming for a social call, Gorm.’ Sela fingered the hilt of the sword. For a time at her father’s encouragement, she had played at swords, enjoying the thrill of mock combat, something the dainty Asa had declared as unfeminine when Sela had arrived at court. The occasional echo of mocking laughter and barbs about the overgrown clumsy women from the north still haunted her dreams. Now, her former skill might have some use. ‘Neither are they coming with a proclamation demanding my father to return to Kaupang. Those days have gone.’
‘It is a sad state of affairs, my lady.’
‘If we stand our ground here…’ Sela gestured about her ‘…and do not advance towards the shore, they may not even disembark. Raiders want easy pickings, not fierce fights. My father’s hall is famously impregnable. It will be a bold man who tries. My father’s saga is—’
‘Your father sets a great store by his saga my lady, but I was there and I find it hard to believe.’
‘It is not you who needs to believe, but our unwelcome callers.’
Sela kept her eyes trained on the shore. Except for the lapping of the water against the dragon ships as they drew ever closer, there appeared a sort of hush as if even the birds and animals knew that something was about to happen.
‘The men will lock shields, but do you think this the right place for you, my lady?’
‘I know how to handle a sword,’ Sela said through gritted teeth. ‘My father demanded it. I would far rather be here than cowering with the women. I have a right to protect my home.’
‘But the men will want to defend you. You will destroy their concentration.’ Gorm lowered his eyebrows and looked disapproving. ‘Let me stand with the men, one last time.’
‘You have seen me fight before, Gorm. The men have as well. I can wield the sword equal to any man.’ Sela bit her lip. ‘But you respond to the challenge. It would not do for the enemy to think they have a woman fighting in their midst.’
‘You said it would not come to fighting.’ The white-haired man gulped. ‘I would never have brought you your brother’s armour or your father’s sword, if I had guessed.’
‘It is too late for regrets now, Gorm.’ Sela readjusted her helmet so that the nose-piece was more central and stared out to the fjord. ‘The first dragon ship comes ashore.’
She watched the boat draw up and the fully armoured men leap down, swords drawn. Her heart went to her throat as she saw the lead warrior, recognised his armour and his sword with its intricate marking.
Vikar Hrutson.
She screwed up her eyes tight and then looked again, hoping he would be a ghost from her memory, but he remained. She had known he would be here, deep down inside her from the first moment that she had heard of the dragon ships. Something had told her that her idyllic life of the last few years had ended. She had to face him and win.
He towered over the men, broad shouldered, commanding. She had no doubt his face would be as rugged as ever. And his hair would be that certain shade between gold and brown. He had by now reached the rocky shore, and he stood there. Proud. Arrogant. Determined. But why now? Why after all these years?
Then, with heart-stopping insight, she knew what the answer had to be.
Kjartan.
Someone had whispered. Her mouth twisted. She had thought she had been so careful, had covered her footsteps, allowed the rumour to go out that Kjartan’s father was dead. She’d never shown her face again in Kaupang. And now it appeared somehow he knew.
She wanted to turn back and snatch Kjartan up, then run. Put as much as possible between her son and his father. But her legs refused to move.
‘What do you wish to do, my lady? I responded to the challenge. The men await your orders.’ Gorm spoke in an urgent undertone.
Sela opened her mouth and no sound came out as reality struck her. The direness of the situation nearly crippled her. The men looked to her. She was stuck out here, and could not desert. They deserved a leader for their loyalty.
She should have made Kjartan her first duty. She had to hope that her father would look after him.
No pretence to peace. These warriors would take her land, her son and her very being if she let them. She stood there frozen, unable to move, following the increasing torrent of warriors.
‘Shall we surrender, my lady? The odds are not with us.’
‘Surrender? Would my father surrender? Never.’ She withdrew her father’s sword, and held it over her head. ‘We fight.’
‘Your instinct was true, Vikar.’ Ivar nodded towards where the group of warriors massed in front of Bose the Dark’s hall. ‘This is no friendly welcome. The challenge has been issued and answered.’
‘It gives me no pleasure.’ Vikar adjusted his helmet. ‘I see Bose’s standard, but not his sword. It was Gorm, not Bose, who answered. What game is he playing now?’
‘It’s his sword there in the centre. Has to be.’ Ivar pointed into the mass of warriors. ‘I’d recognise the gold hilt and silver blade anywhere. A sword of legend, that one. You must have missed it.’
‘I see it now.’ Vikar shielded his eyes and saw where Ivar pointed. A slender figure held aloft the sword, a gesture of defiance. Vikar scanned the mass horde. Old men and boys mostly, hardly fit for holding a sword. ‘But there are too few. Where has Bose put the rest? Where is he hiding them, his fabled army of men?’
‘You will have to ask Bose.’ Ivar raised his shield. ‘By Thor’s hammer, they are moving downhill. Whoever is leading them is very brave or incredibly reckless.’
‘And