Return of the Viking Warrior. Michelle Styles
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colds. There hadn’t been time to breathe, let alone grieve for the man whom she’d once made her whole world.
For a few days, both her father-in-law’s and Rurik’s lives had hung in the balance while Ash’s uncle had strutted about the hall, issuing orders and proclaiming how the hall would be his. Finally she had ordered him out and he’d gone with bad grace, promising his vengeance.
Was this some ghastly dream and she’d wake up in her bed with Rurik slumbering close by? She knew she was awake from the growing pain in her head and the nausea in her belly.
A conjurer’s trick? An apparition?
An insistent whisper went around the hall, growing in strength. Ash. Against all reason and expectation, it had to be. But utterly impossible. It had to be a trick, a way of sowing dissent and preventing the marriage. Harald Haraldson had to be behind it. She refused to allow this pathetic outrage to happen. This time Harald Haraldson had overreached. He would regret it when she was finished with him, but first she needed to be married with a warrior who’d defend her land.
Kara shut her eyes tight and opened them again. The man stood in the centre of the hall, no more than a few feet away from her. Broad shouldered and red-gold hair. His clothes were finely cut and of Viken rather than Raumerike origin.
The man raised his arms. Kara attempted to peer through the heavy smoke and see his face. A number of emotions raced through her—fear, anger and a wild sense of hope—but mostly she felt as if she were watching the events unfold from far away.
‘Hear me, good people, and listen well. Kara Olofdottar is my wife.’ He turned to face the room. ‘I dare any man to deny it. I have a prior claim over her and I will enforce my claim with my sword if necessary. I, Ash Hringson, claim Kara Olofdottar as my lawful wife!’
Chapter Two
The stranger’s words bounced off the temple walls, echoing round and round. The entire hall ceased to breathe, waiting for her reaction. Kara knew she had to do something, make some sort of defiant gesture, but her entire being was paralysed with shock.
She stared at the man with his fine clothes and burnished red-gold hair, searching for a sign that the words were true, that he was indeed who he claimed to be, that it wasn’t some sort of twisted trick from Harald Haraldson. Yet she knew it must be.
Anything else was utterly impossible. Ash had drowned. The entirety of Raumerike knew of the tragedy. The lament her father-in-law had commissioned about his only son’s tragic end was sung every year on the anniversary of his death.
She glanced at Valdar under her lashes. The big warrior stood stony-faced, his eyes trained on the priest’s face. The knots in her stomach tightened. She had thought Valdar would understand immediately what was happening and leap to her defence. But, no, once again, she’d have to fight alone. Luckily she knew how to.
‘You believe you have a prior claim to this woman?’ the priest asked with heavy scepticism in his voice.
‘I know I do,’ the man replied evenly. ‘Under Raumerike law, any claim must be investigated before a wedding proceeds further. Or does Raumerike law allow a woman two husbands these days?’
‘It shall be investigated if the claim is made properly and with due reverence,’ the priest countered. ‘Approach and let your face be seen. The light is in my eyes. All men should look on your face as you make your claim.’
Valdar gave Kara’s hand a squeeze, but moved away from her as if she had the plague. Silently she vowed that Harald Haraldson would suffer a slow and prolonged revenge for this shabby trick.
‘Are you deaf? Let me see who you are,’ the priest called when the man failed to move.
‘Kara Olofdottar appears faint. I ask we go elsewhere and discuss this matter in private,’ the man said. ‘She fainted on our wedding day, you know. I caught her before she collapsed. The incense makes her head swim.’
Either this man was the consummate actor or... A small shiver of uncertainty combined with another flickering of wild exhilaration stabbed her, banishing her scepticism.
The more she heard the man speak, the more his voice rang of Ash. Kara clenched her fist. Logic, not unfounded speculation. She was becoming as fanciful as Rurik, who kept insisting that the sagas were real, rather than simply stories told about a fire to amuse. And she never fainted these days.
‘It is the Raumerike way to conduct such matters in public,’ the priest said.
‘I merely thought to spare her the embarrassment,’ he continued, seemingly unperturbed by the hundreds of eyes turned on him. ‘My wife hates crowds. A husband knows these things.’
Kara gritted her teeth and clung to that small logical part of her which still functioned. The deception would be revealed soon enough. No one could carry it off for any length of time. All she had to do was to keep silent, wait for the inevitable mistake and allow others to take charge. She clamped her mouth shut.
‘I must caution you,’ the priest said. ‘Kara Olofdottar’s husband died many years ago on a sea voyage. This fact is well known in this land.’
‘Ash Hringson. Son of Hring the Bold and Nauma,’ the man stated in a firm voice. He thrust his hands forward and the cuffs of his tunic fell back, revealing his scarred wrists. On his right wrist he sported a purple birthmark in the shape of a coiled snake. ‘I’m very much alive. Reports of my death were at best mistaken and at worst a shameful lie.’
A variety of emotions rippled through Kara—shock at his survival, bewilderment at the length of time it had taken to get news to her, a deep-seated anger that it had taken this humiliating scene to reveal the truth, but most of all a wild exhilaration that he was alive, that they’d have a second chance. Her son would have his proper father.
Her breath stopped. Accepting this man’s claim of being Ash went beyond simply taking his word for it and her knowing it in her heart. Twelve members of Raumerike’s Storting would have to declare for him and stake their honour on it. The penalty for attempting to deceive the Storting was either death or permanent banishment.
Kara clenched her fists and concentrated. In acknowledging this man to be Ash, she’d lose Valdar, the man who would be the perfect guardian for Rurik. He was going to be her saviour. But it wouldn’t be right. Not now. She had to speak up. She had to bring the dead back to life.
‘Ash Hringson,’ she proclaimed, crossing her arms. ‘Where have you been? We thought you dead. Killed in a shipwreck off the Frankish coast over six years ago. A fine time you pick to appear.’
‘Reports of my death were incorrect but, alas, the shipwreck was all too real. I would say my timing is impeccable.’ Ash’s ice-blue gaze raked her form, travelling from the top of her bridal crown to the soles of her slippers, as if he were mentally undressing her, stripping her of her bridal finery and leaving her naked in front of the crowd. ‘I survived a fiery inferno on the sea and a Frankish prison. I have come to pay my debts. I have returned.’
‘Have you indeed?’
‘You look as lovely as my memory of you, Kara.’ His lips curved upwards. ‘I remember the garland of flowers you wore in your hair the first morning of our marriage while we took our vows again. The sunlight turned your head to pure gold and your skin to cream. Far more suited to you than your mother’s bridal crown. I didn’t like it on our wedding day and I like it even less now. It does nothing for your hair or your eyes.’
His rich voice flowed over her. Why did he have to remember the garland she’d fashioned and how she’d insisted they recite their vows again? But then Ash had always been good at remembering the little details which had no real meaning. It was part of his deadly charm.
She forced her mind away from any softening. Seven years! It had taken him seven years to return. Why so long if he thought her lovely?
‘Can you be sure this man is Ash Hringson, Kara? Others might sport a snake birthmark.’ Valdar