Surrender to the Viking. Joanna Fulford
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I not charming, Father?’
‘I’ve seen she-wolves with milder temperaments than yours. No man wants a sharp-tongued harridan for a wife.’
‘Then they are free to choose milksop brides if they wish.’
‘It is a woman’s place to be dutiful.’
Lara’s eyes flashed indignation. ‘Asa was dutiful, wasn’t she?’
Her father frowned. ‘Your sister did what was required of her. She understood what was due to her family.’
‘Don’t try to hide behind the family. Asa was forced into that marriage to satisfy your political ambition.’
‘It was a necessary alliance to prevent more years of feuding.’
‘You might as well have thrown her into a pit of vipers, but you will not use me as you used her.’
Lara lunged, thrusting the blade deep into the imaginary form of her erstwhile brother-in-law. It would have given her great pleasure to have disembowelled the living version but, unfortunately, he was far out of reach. She was also realistic enough to know that, were they ever to come face-to-face in combat, he would likely slay her with ease. She would never have a warrior’s strength or skill with a sword, but learning the rudiments of self-defence gave her a sense of accomplishment. It was also empowering, like watching her would-be suitors fleeing.
‘I will keep faith, Asa,’ she murmured. ‘I swear it.’
Regretfully she sheathed the blade once more and then picked up her cloak. People would be stirring now and she needed to get back. Recalcitrance didn’t extend as far as ignoring the round of daily chores that fell to her lot. Those were performed diligently leaving no room for criticism. She smiled to herself. Men who were well fed and comfortable generally complained less than those who weren’t. Anyway, it was good to be occupied. Idleness had never suited her.
She was just about to leave when she saw the ship rounding the promontory below her. Although it had the sleek lines and carved prow of a warship it was smaller than most of the sea dragons she had seen, with a crew of twenty or so. The lack of wind meant that the craft was under oars, the blades dipping and rising in perfect rhythm, barely ruffling the surface of the water. Lara silently acknowledged the skill of a crew working as one. Her gaze went from the rowers to the figure at the steering oar, a warrior in a mail byrnie. Her brow creased and she looked more closely. All the men on board were wearing them. Curiosity sharpened. The effort of rowing was great enough under normal circumstances; wearing mail would make it ten times harder. If they were doing so it argued that they had been under attack, that they expected to be or that they were about to launch an attack of their own.
* * *
She scanned the fjord but could see no sign of any other vessel. If they were being pursued it wasn’t evident. That didn’t necessarily mean that they intended to attack the steading but, all the same, it didn’t pay to be complacent. Forewarned was forearmed. For that reason the landing was always guarded. Her father never took chances like that.
Seconds later she heard the sound of the watchman’s horn announcing the approach of the ship. Wanting to see for herself she followed the track from the promontory but instead of turning right at the fork she bore left and headed towards the shoreline. The path led down a gentle gradient through a stand of birch before reaching the water. From the edge of the trees there was a good view of the landing and cover enough to remain unnoticed.
* * *
By the time she arrived the ship was nearing the shore. Half-a-dozen armed men watched its arrival. She heard the watchman’s challenge ring out. It was answered at once. Evidently the answer must have been satisfactory because the crew were invited to tie up and come ashore.
Two men vaulted over the gunwale on to the wooden jetty and proceeded to make fast the lines while their comrades prepared to disembark. Although Lara was some fifty yards away she could see that her previous assessment had been correct: this was a warship and her crew armed to the teeth. Their leader appeared to be the individual she had seen before at the steering oar. He had his back to her at present but when he rattled off a series of instructions they were obeyed without question. Even among a group of big men he stood out. He was several inches taller than the rest and, like them, had the powerful athletic frame of the warrior. Moreover, he carried himself with the confidence of one accustomed to command and to being obeyed: a nobleman probably.
Lara was quietly amused. Most men of that class thought they had a right to instant obedience. It was ingrained in the species, like arrogance. As she surveyed the scene, the tall warrior turned around. She had an impression of a clean-shaven face with strong clean lines, framed by a mane of fair hair. He was...distinctive, she conceded. Probably he was well aware of it too.
As though sensing that he was being observed he looked up, his attention moving beyond the landing towards the trees. The questing gaze spotted her and then locked fast. Seconds later the intent expression was replaced by amusement. Lara glanced down and realised that as she was carrying her cloak the sword at her side was plainly visible against the skirt of her gown. The realisation gave her a mental jolt. It was a careless slip and she was annoyed with herself for letting it happen. Mingled with that was indignation that it should be a source of amusement to the stranger. Nevertheless, if he thought she would be disconcerted by it he was mistaken. Lifting her chin she returned his stare and held it for a moment or two. Then, unhurriedly, she turned and walked away.
* * *
Finn remained where he was, his gaze following the girl until she was lost to view among the trees. Her presence there had been both unexpected and arresting as though a curious woodland fey had suddenly appeared to investigate their arrival. The impression was enhanced by flowing brown hair and a gown of forest-green. The fey was fair to look upon but somewhat aloof in her manner. Her expression just now had been a distinct challenge, like the sword she wore at her side. He was amused and intrigued, his curiosity thoroughly roused. Had circumstances been different he’d have investigated further.
‘My lord, will it please you to come with us?’
The watchman’s voice brought Finn back to practicalities. ‘Er, yes, of course.’
Leaving half-a-dozen men with the ship, he and the others followed their escort. It was but a short distance to Jarl Ottar’s hall, an impressive timber dwelling that spoke of the status of its owner. Around it were other buildings: stables, barn, byres, pig sties, workshops and forge. Finn and his men surveyed the steading with appraising eyes.
‘It’s a fine place,’ observed Unnr. ‘Looks like Jarl Ottar’s a wealthy man.’
‘Let’s hope he places a high value on old allegiances,’ said Sturla.
‘We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’
Any doubts they might have entertained were swiftly banished. As soon as they were announced Jarl Ottar came forward at once. He was in his forties and his red hair was faded and streaked with grey. However, his burly form suggested strength and vigour and his blue eyes were keen and shrewd. He smiled at the newcomers and then embraced their leader heartily.
‘Welcome, Finn Egilsson, and welcome to your companions too.’
‘I thank you, my lord.’
‘Your father was a great warrior and a staunch ally. I was proud to call him friend.’
‘He spoke of you too,’ said Finn, ‘and always with the greatest affection and respect.’
‘You have the look of him.’
‘My brother, Leif, also.’
‘When I heard of your father’s death it was with deep sorrow.’ Ottar shook his head. ‘There weren’t many like him. Nevertheless, it’s good to see one of his sons in my hall.’ He shouted for the servants to fetch ale and food. ‘When you have refreshed yourselves you can tell me what brings you here.’
* * *
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