A Deal With Her Rebel Viking

‘And he was punished for it. But I am not that man. I did not break down your door, even though I, too, was starving.’

Ansithe tapped her foot on the ground. ‘I’d sooner trust a hungry bear.’

‘I didn’t lead the raid,’ he said in a voice which barely carried. ‘And I counselled against it. My men now see the wisdom of obeying me and heeding my warnings.’

‘Do you deny you lead this warband?’

‘I lead it now.’ He gave the cowering wretches a hard stare. ‘I will lead it until we all are free. All of us, not just a favoured few.’

A sudden thrill of understanding went through her—Moir had seized power in the aftermath of the raid. And his words were directed at his men as much as at her.

‘It is the present which concerns me, not reliving a past battle.’ She knew that the reliving would happen when she closed her eyes and had to make the same choices again and again.

‘Spoken like a true warrior, Valkyrie. Keep your mind in the present, so the past ceases to haunt you. It is what I try to do.’

Ansithe frowned. The infuriating warrior was far too perceptive. Whatever he wanted, he was not going to get it from her. Instead, he would learn an important lesson, a lesson to last a lifetime—Mercian women were strong and capable, not weak-willed creatures who could be easily fooled into permitting captives to escape.

‘Ansithe,’ Elene murmured. ‘The golden-haired lad, the one younger than me, hasn’t touched any bread. And it looks as though he might have been crying.’

‘Pathetic considering the damage he has caused.’

‘Will you have a look at him? His face is distorted something terrible.’

Ansithe knelt beside the youth. Elene had spoken true. His face was grossly swollen from the bee stings. Angry welts circled his throat like a collar.

Ansithe put her wrist against his forehead. It was far hotter than it should have been, but it seemed to be coming from the stings rather than a more worrying fever.

She wished she could just leave him to his well-deserved agony from the bee stings, but she might need everyone healthy to ensure their value was equal to the ransom demanded for her father and Leofwine.

The youth, boy really, was dressed in fine wool with new leather boots. Everything about him screamed privilege and wealth. Given the state of his clothes, he was bound to command a higher fee. She sighed, rocked back on her heels and reached for the pot of Father Oswald’s special paste.

Ansithe daubed the paste on the angriest of the welts. He winced, but allowed her to do it. She loosened the ropes and removed them from his wrists.

‘That takes the pain away. More,’ he whispered. His mouth turned up in a lopsided smile.

‘Do you make demands here?’

The youth’s cheeks flushed. ‘Hard to talk. Please, pretty lady, heal me.’

Ansithe rolled her eyes. Everyone was obviously primed to make positive remarks about her appearance as if that would make her treat them differently. ‘Then keep your mouth shut and save your breath for living.’

He gave a ghost of a laugh. ‘You sound like Moir.’

She glanced towards where the large North warrior glowered at her and hurriedly back at the lad. ‘I am nothing like him.’

‘Even still.’ He struggled to close his swollen eyelids. ‘Should never have...’

‘I agree with you—you should never have attacked us here. We were at peace. Your leaders are supposedly in talks with my King.’

He gave an indistinct groan which could have been an acceptance of the mistake he’d made.

‘Are you hurting him, Valkyrie?’ Moir asked in an abrupt voice. ‘Can you not resist the temptation to torture us despite your earlier words about honour?’

Ansithe tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gritted her teeth. ‘He has many stings to his face and throat. These can sometimes be dangerous if they are not properly seen to. I’ve seen people die from such things.’

‘You want to save his life, so you can throw it away again?’ Moir’s voice curled about her insides, making her thrum. ‘Seems a waste of effort to me. Why not allow him to die with dignity?’

Her hands stilled. His words filled her with a nagging sense of disquiet. The Northman spoke a sort of truth—what precisely was gained in saving his life? Was she condemning him to face something worse? She pushed the thought away. Once she had delivered them to Guthmann and rescued her family, these men were no longer her responsibility, but until then she kept them alive. ‘I gather you want him to live.’

‘With dignity, not as a broken husk begging for death.’

‘Get some cool cloths and more of the paste from Father Oswald,’ Ansithe told Elene who stood wringing her hands and doing less than nothing. ‘I will stay with him until you return. I am in no danger even with their hands unbound. Owain the Plough is looking for an excuse to practise with his bow. At this range, even he would be hard-pressed to miss.’

Elene nodded and scurried out of the room. Ansithe concentrated on examining the youth, rather than considering that she was alone with these fearsome Northmen, particularly Moir who watched her with an intent expression.

She left the youth as she could do no more until Elene returned. The grizzled warrior with the mangled leg appeared in the greatest need. She went over and knelt by his side. The leg was badly torn, but appeared unbroken.

‘Will he live?’ Moir asked, coming to stand close to her and making her aware of the strength he possessed in his bulging arm muscles.

‘The bone remains whole and that is a start.’ She rapidly rinsed the wound to keep the infection out and then packed it with honey-soaked bandages. It would have to do until she could convince Father Oswald to investigate the wound further. He was not an unkind man, just understandably wary. And he did have the reputation of saving many souls in his infirmary.

‘Let me know the worst. Please. He is my friend. We have campaigned together for many years.’

Ansithe rocked back on her heels and looked up at Moir. His face was shadowed with concern. A seriousness had settled about him that had not been there when she first entered the byre.

‘He’ll live as long as the wound stays clean and uninfected.’

‘You mouth fables to please children. Does he stand a chance? Will he keep his leg?’

‘It is beyond my skill to decide who lives or dies. If he worsens or if you spot red streaks above the bandages, call for me. Someone will fetch me.’ She dug half-moon shapes into her palms. If that happened, she’d force Father Oswald to assist. He’d cured Owain’s father of infection after the plough broke his leg three years ago. ‘Hopefully the next time, he will learn that barging into someone’s house uninvited is not a good thing to do.’

‘We are grateful that you are willing to bind wounds.’ He nodded towards where the remains of the bread lay. ‘And for the food. I don’t know the last time we had our bellies full—before we left camp, probably.’

She assessed the warrior from under her lashes. The warrior was taller than her, but not overbearingly tall, and without an inch of spare flesh on his lean frame. A true warrior, rather than just playing at it like her stepson had been. Or a man more comfortable with his music than his sword as Leofwine was. Luck and the angels had truly been with her to be able to defeat him so easily.

‘Someone has to.’ She rose up from her crouched position.

‘Still I am grateful.’ He went over to the remaining loaf, broke it and took some to the youth and the injured warrior.

‘Why break with Mercian custom instead of asking for bread and drink like any traveller?’ she asked and instantly regretted it. She didn’t want to know if they bore a grudge against her father or what their motive was. It should be enough that they’d attacked her and endangered her family, but she couldn’t help wondering why. Curiosity—her biggest failing according to her late husband.

‘Me personally? Or the group of us?’

‘The group. You must have had a guide who knew Mercian customs.’

‘The guide left us a week or so ago, after a disagreement with...with my bee-stung friend.’ Moir rubbed the back of his neck. He winced. ‘I cannot defend that choice. You will have to ask another, but I will say this—the one who pressed for the raid died today.’

Ansithe pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling. She’d killed the man who had brought this misfortune to her family, her true enemy.

Before she could reply, Elene bustled in, carrying a small jar.

‘Cynehild says that you are to use as little as possible,’ Elene proclaimed, holding the foul-smelling ointment out. ‘We do not have many jars left. And Father Oswald refuses to speak to anyone. He is at prayer.’

‘Since when have I ever taken any notice of Cynehild and her warnings? I will use what is required.’

Ansithe set to work, pointedly ignoring Moir and his penetrating gaze. Rudimentary healing like bandaging wounds or putting healing ointments on was well within her capabilities, but she had no real feel for it, not the way Father Oswald or Elene did. Most of the time it bored her. She lost count of the times she had wanted to shake Eadweard and tell him to stop despairing at each setback. She never had, but each time she had thought it, guilt rose in her because she believed she should be better than to resent people who were ill. So she renewed her promises and tried harder, but it never made it any easier. The resentment still clawed at her throat.

In the end, she’d sobbed when he died, not from grief, but from the relief of knowing that she’d never have to go back into that room and face his complaints again. She’d hated herself then and knew the insults her stepson had spouted about her were well-deserved.

Ansithe noticed Moir waited until everyone else was attended to, refusing Elene’s offer of help.

‘Are you suffering from the stings or are you miraculously immune to pain?’ she asked. The welts on his face were large. ‘My sister could have examined you.’

‘No disrespect to your sister, but I prefer the Lady Valkyrie herself to give me her attention. However, it will take more than a few bee stings to harm my toughened hide.’ He coughed. ‘My pride is the most injured thing I have.’

‘Losing to a woman.’ She blew a breath out. ‘I see where that might be tricky.’

‘You were a worthy opponent. Never allow any to say differently.’ He flexed his bee-stung fingers. ‘My failure to convince the others it was a trap will haunt me for a long time. I’m no barely blooded warrior, but one who has campaigned for more than ten seasons. Your yard was far too quiet.’

She froze at the candid answer. Even though she’d sensed it, it gave her a shiver down her spine to realise exactly how experienced and dangerous a warrior he really was. But it didn’t matter—he was the one she had to ensure understood that there would be no escaping, no easy way out. These men were going to provide the means to free her family.

‘Keep an eye on your charges. Should they worsen, let the guard know and I will return to do what I can.’

Moir caught her hand in his as she was about to sweep past. His grip was firm, but warm. It was the sort of hand which made women feel safe. Ansithe stared at it for a heartbeat too long. ‘Change your mind, Lady Ansithe. Change your course before you doom us all. Send word to my jaarl. Make the journey with me. What good is healing my friends if you only send us to die?’

She rapidly withdrew her hand. There was nothing safe about a Northman. He was her enemy. He had wanted her dead or, worse, a captive. He could never be her friend, let alone her ally. ‘It is not pity, but practical necessity which drives me. You will be someone else’s problem soon. I can give no guarantees for their behaviour.’

His soft mocking laughter followed her out of the byre. ‘I look forward to our next encounter, Lady Ansithe the Valkyrie.’

Chapter Three

Moir flexed his stiff fingers and tried to get the blood back into them now that the ropes which had bound him were gone—a most unexpected gesture.

He stared up at the stars, faintly gleaming through the holes in the thatched roof while one hand curled about his mother’s bead. Be better than your father. This was his chance to prove he could be better than a man whose main priority was to save his own misbegotten skin.

There had to be a way of convincing Lady Ansithe not to send word to Guthmann in the morning. Once he’d done that, then he’d stall things as best he could until everyone had recovered. He was not going to be his father and desert his injured men in their hour of need. They all escaped together. And he would ensure they all arrived back safely.

‘My father will have me rot. This was my final chance, Moir. I made a mess of it, listening to the wrong people,’ Bjartr whispered, interrupting Moir’s thoughts about when and how they could escape. He relaxed his hold on the bead. ‘I would be better dead than facing my future.’

‘Concentrate on breathing,’ Moir said, rather than explaining that if they fell into Guthmann’s clutches, he would in reality be better dead. ‘Leave me to solve the other problems. I made a promise to your father, Bjartr. I intend to return you safely to him, even if you seem intent on throwing your life away.’

Bjartr’s response was a barely audible moan.

Moir stood up and tried to stretch the aching muscles in his legs. Why was it that the aches and pains were far worse after a defeat than a victory?

‘I could romance Lady Ansithe,’ Bjartr said suddenly into the stillness. ‘Women melt when I speak to them. You must have seen them. Last Jul?’

‘Hey, Moir,’ Palni whispered. ‘Perhaps the boy is on to something. Perhaps I should try romancing the Valkyrie. She is the sort to stir the blood.’

‘Would that you both looked in a still pond right now,’ Moir said with a laugh, but his gut twisted. Neither of them would be romancing Lady Ansithe. He had the first claim on her. The ferocity of the thought surprised him. Women for him were not something to be fought over. They were to be enjoyed for a brief but agreeable time before parting without regrets or recriminations.

Still his fingers throbbed where he’d touched her. In another life, one where he’d permit himself hopes and dreams, he and the very lovely Valkyrie made flesh might have had an agreeable time together.

He pressed his hands against his thighs. Dreams were for other men, men who hadn’t had fathers who abandoned their comrades to die and then lied about it. Men who didn’t need to keep proving their loyalty to their commander thanks to the reputation of their father.

He would focus on keeping his men alive and out of Guthmann’s murderous clutches. If he achieved it, he would have fully removed his father’s taint and fulfilled the vow he’d made on his mother’s grave—he would be a better man than his father.

Lady Ansithe was the key to his achieving this—a counter to be used in his very real game of King’s Table with Guthmann. ‘Leave Lady Ansithe to me and me alone.’

Dawn had not yet arrived, but Ansithe had been unable to sleep for more than a few hours. Her dreams had been full of buzzing insects, faceless warriors who escaped and someone with broad shoulders and golden hair who fought through everything to save her. She had woken covered in sweat and with a deep abiding sense that something was wrong. In her haste to get away from the blue-eyed Northman, had she forgotten to do something simple like lock the door of the byre? She hurriedly dressed and ran out into the yard.

A steel-grey light illuminated the yard with deep shadows and harsh planes. A rumbling snore resounded. She advanced towards the byre. The swineherd, the lad who had faithfully promised to keep watch over the prisoners, was sound asleep.

‘What is this?’ she asked putting her hands on her hips. ‘Asleep? And here you promised that you could guard.’

The swineherd’s eyes blinked open. He rapidly stood. ‘My lady! Lady Ansithe!’

‘Are they still in there?’ she asked, tapping her foot on the ground. ‘Or have they vanished in the night because you forgot how to stay awake?’

He tugged at his tunic. ‘I haven’t heard a sound. Honest. Not even a squeak louder than a hoglet.’

‘It is amazing that anyone could hear anything above that racket.’ Moir’s languid tones dripped from the byre.

The air rushed out of Ansithe’s lungs. Moir. Her prisoners remained captive. Her dream of finding an empty byre and her best chance of proving her worth to her father gone had been nothing more than night-time imaginings.

‘They are still here.’

‘Where else would we be, Valkyrie?’ Moir asked. ‘Dining at Odin’s table is a privilege saved for those who fall on the battlefield.’

‘Are you all alive?’

‘You did not make your promise lightly, Valkyrie. Good.’ He pointedly coughed. ‘We could do with breakfast. Our stomachs pang with hunger.’

‘Her name is Lady Ansithe,’ the swineherd said, his face contorting to a blotchy colour in the half-light. ‘And you should be grateful that she brings you anything, not demanding food!’

‘Rest easy. A Valkyrie is a woman warrior,’ Moir retorted in a voice which was clearly designed to calm. ‘Your lady Ansithe is the very definition of one. I seek to honour her, not mock her. And my men will be grateful for any food. Other than the bread, our bellies have been near enough to empty for many days.’

Honour her? She stared at the wall where Moir’s voice came from. He respected her ability as a warrior. She couldn’t help smiling.

‘It is all right, I will deal with him. You go and get breakfast before you take care of your normal charges—the pigs,’ Ansithe told the swineherd.

‘Valkyrie, are you going to answer me?’ Moir asked again in a louder voice. ‘Why are you here? The cockerel has not yet begun to crow. I thought ladies like you lay in bed until the sun had well risen.’

‘You have no idea what women like me do.’

‘I’ve met a few Mercian ladies, simpering giggling nonentities mostly, but none have been warriors until you.’

As if on cue, the cockerel began his morning crow. The sound echoed through the shadowed yard.

‘Not so early,’ she said, rubbing her hand against the back of her neck. The lock was there, but she hadn’t removed the key. She carefully turned it and this time pocketed the key. ‘And no one is in danger. Breakfast will happen once the chores are done. Starving you will not do anyone any good.’

‘You have a good heart, Lady.’

‘You have a glib tongue, Northman. Your compliments fall as easily as rain falling on the fields.’

‘I do like a beautiful woman with wit.’

Again, the easy remarks about her beauty. He was flattering her now because he wanted something. She dredged her late husband’s words from the depths of her memory—the ones he used to explain to his son why he had no fear of ever being made a cuckold by her—clever, capable but lacking in that certain something which made men’s blood hot. It was why she had been the perfect wife for a man who was well past his prime and more in need of a nurse and housekeeper than a wife. She hated the tiny piece of her which still argued her late husband had been wrong about many things.

‘Liking has nothing to do with anything.’ She glared at the byre wall. Why did he persist in thinking that because she was a woman, she could be flattered and cajoled into doing anything she didn’t want to?

His laugh resounded through the wall, rippling through her and reminding her of her dream about the golden-haired warrior. She wondered if his eyes crinkled when he laughed. ‘You are the most interesting thing to happen to me in a long while.’

‘I am not a thing. I am a person and I had fully intended on ensuring you were fed even before your pathetic attempt at flattery,’ she said to the wall and imagined him standing facing her with his ice-blue eyes and a contemptuous expression on his face.

Silence from him. She breathed easier before she dusted down her gown, straightening the pleats. ‘Dawn has broken on a new day. I trust it will be a less eventful one than yesterday.’

The yard rang to the sound of horses’ hooves before she had gone five yards from the byre.

Ansithe’s heart plummeted. Her neighbour, the ealdorman Cedric, with several of his warriors in battle dress trotted into the yard. She had sent word that they were under siege before the Northmen arrived, but there had been no offer of help, no explanation, just silence in return. Now this, bristling Mercian warriors ready to save the day, but many hours too late.

She had to wonder if it was deliberate and Cedric had been hoping to find them missing or dead or if he truly was all shiny sword and no action as her late husband had always claimed.

‘Lady Ansithe,’ Cedric said from his horse after they had exchanged pleasantries. ‘I understand you experienced trouble yesterday. I was away hunting, but came as soon as it was practicable.’

Anger rose in her throat. Hunting? All day and night? She forced it back down.

‘We did have some trouble, but we managed to cope perfectly well. We do not require your assistance now, Lord Cedric.’ She gestured about the still yard. ‘As you can see, everything is at peace.’

‘A false alarm, then. Monks again? Like when you were a girl and were convinced Mercia was about to be overrun by Danes?’ His high-pitched laugh grated. ‘You cost your mother’s life that day.’

‘Not a false alarm, a plea borne of desperation.’ Ansithe blew on her nails to show she wasn’t intimidated, but the familiar claw of guilt twined about her entrails. Cedric did speak true—her excited warning about enemy Danes approaching who’d turned out to be monks had resulted in her very pregnant mother’s death along with her father’s much-desired son’s. It was why this time she had to finally save the family instead of nearly destroying it. ‘But I was wrong about one thing—no help or assistance was required. I...that is...we captured a number of Northern warriors.’

The man’s complexion became a little more florid as the first pink rays of dawn appeared. ‘You have captured some outlaws, you mean. There are no heathen warriors in Western Mercia, my dear lady Ansithe, whatever this scum may have proclaimed. The peace settlement ensures that.’

‘I beg to differ. I have six Northern warriors in my byre. Father Oswald buried the seventh whom I slew yesterday evening.’

‘Whoever they are, I have come to take them off you.’ Cedric patted a pouch that hung at his side.

Ansithe raised a brow. Cedric was notoriously tight-pursed and overly concerned about being robbed in the woods. ‘You brought gold?’

Cedric drew his top lip over his teeth, making him resemble a startled rabbit. ‘It seemed prudent after the rumours I heard.’

She firmed her mouth. ‘Really?’

‘Someone might have mentioned it.’ His lip curled as he gave a withering glance to the byre.

That someone was most probably Ecgbert, the steward. She had longed suspected him of divulging their secrets to Cedric, but her father had refused to listen to any of her suspicions.

‘The captured Northern warriors are nothing like outlaws and they fight with the Great Heathen Horde.’ She gave a pointed cough. ‘One is the son of an important Northern jaarl.’

His eyes became narrow slits and she thought naughtily that now he reminded her of a rather florid pig.

‘Which jaarl? Do you have any proof?’

She opened her eyes wide and pretended that she had not exaggerated slightly. ‘Is it necessary for you to know?’

The look Cedric gave her verged on pity. Ansithe took a deliberately steadying breath and hung on to her temper.

‘You are far too gullible, my lady. If I might examine their brooches, I could tell in an instant.’ Cedric held up the pouch and jangled it. She could tell from the sound that the purse contained some, but not a lot of, gold. ‘Many will claim such a thing, my lady. However, you will find they are just miserable outlaws and thieves once you properly investigate the claim. First monks and then outlaws. Whatever next?’