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Paying the Viking's Price
Heavy boots resounded on the stones outside. Edith pressed her fist to her stomach and willed the sick feeling to be gone. Far too soon. She hadn’t even had the chance to move the spindles or the whorls.
Why hadn’t there been more warning? Why hadn’t someone seen the fires that surely must be burning as the Viking horde swept through the countryside? Silently she cursed Egbert for taking every able-bodied man to fight in the rebellion. A pain tugged behind her eyes. Later, she’d investigate ways of improving the warning system.
She motioned towards one of her few remaining manservants to unbar the door. The elderly man shuffled forwards.
Before he could get there, the door fell to the ground. In the doorway stood one of the tallest men Edith had ever seen. Clean-shaven, but with dark blond hair flowing over his shoulders. The very epitome of a Viking warrior, he was dressed in a fur cloak and skin trousers. In his hand he carried a double-headed axe, but it was his piercing blue eyes which drew her attention, swiftly followed by the angry red mark about his neck. A barbarian warrior if ever there was one. A true pagan.
Edith wet her lips, but no sound beyond a shocked gasp rose from her throat. She tried again to mouth the welcome, but her voice refused to work. A sharp stab of fear went through her. Her hands shook as she lifted them.
In her mind’s eye she saw the hall blazing and its people killed with her unable to do anything to prevent the carnage. If she’d been born a man like her parents prayed she’d be, none of this would have happened. All she had were her wits and her tongue and both appeared to have deserted her. Silently Edith prayed for a miracle.
The barbarian advanced forwards, and his men streamed in behind him, filling the hall.
Edith retreated backwards. Her leg hit the wooden trunk, causing the spindle to tumble to the ground. The whorl rolled across the rushes, disappearing. Her favourite one. Worrying about a worthless whorl when her entire life hung in the balance! Typical. She gave a hiccupping laugh.
The sound cut through her panic. She stopped and squared her shoulders. She had an intellect equal to any man and that included this enormous Norseman who glowered at her, fingering his axe.
‘It is customary to wait for an answer before knocking the door down,’ she said. The steadiness of her voice gave her courage. She was this mountain of a Norseman’s equal, not his slave.
‘It is customary for people to greet their new lord with civility and speed. I thought the hall long deserted from my welcome.’ The Norseman’s rich voice thundered through the hall. It surprised Edith that he could speak her language so well. The Norsemen she’d encountered in Eoferwic, if they could speak it at all, spoke with accents so thick that she’d almost considered them to be speaking another language. But this one was different. His voice held only the faintest lilt of Norseman’s accent.
‘We had little warning of your arrival.’ Edith met his fierce gaze. ‘A proper greeting requires proper warning.’
‘It fails to alter the fact. Your new lord has arrived. I deserved a better welcome than having my door barred against me.’
New lord? Edith’s insides clenched as his words sank in. What did he mean? Had the Norseman king decided to marry her to him, then? A faint shiver went down her back. Despite her earlier conversation with Hilda, she had no wish to marry again. And certainly not to someone who looked like he could crush her with one hand. She wanted someone cultured who loved learning and music and who would respect her intelligence. She’d had enough of the brute with her first husband. Edith pushed the thought aside. Her feelings were unimportant. It was the estate which mattered.
‘You are the new lord?’
He inclined his head, but his eyes flashed with fire. ‘The king has decreed it.’
‘I am the Lady Edith, mistress of this hall as my father was lord before me. The Norseman King Halfdan has sent me no decree.’ She raised her chin defiantly. Thankfully, her father had had the foresight to bend his knee and kiss Halfdan’s ring ten years ago. ‘My father and your king were friends. He stayed here early in his reign after Eoferwic was burnt.’
The barbarian lifted an arrogant eyebrow. ‘You deny this hall belonged to the rebel Egbert of Breckon?’
Edith pursed her lips. ‘My late husband.’
‘He died rebelling against his king, in the foulest act of treachery I have seen in many years.’
‘The hall has always belonged to me and my family, going back as far as anyone can remember. My husband and I shared custody. When Egbert of Breckon breathed his last, the lands immediately reverted to my name and custody as there was no heir from my body.’
‘Is that so?’
‘When I married Egbert of Breckon, Halfdan promised to honour the agreement. I’ve a parchment with his seal.’ She kept her head up and knew she had to ask the question. She had to find out what Halfdan intended with this barbarian or she’d collapse in a gibbering heap. She had to know her fate. She had survived Egbert; she could survive this Norseman. ‘Do you mean the king intends that we marry?’
The Norseman’s mouth curled downwards and his gaze raked her form. Edith forced her hands to stay at her sides, but she was aware of her gawky frame and big hips. She wished that she was tiny with curves like Hilda, the sort of woman that men would marry in an instant, and not just to gain a fortune or lands.
‘Your husband broke fealty with my king. Why should he honour his promise to your father?’ he said finally. ‘Halfdan gave all of Egbert of Breckon’s land to me as a reward for my services.’
Had the mountain actually killed Egbert in battle? The boy had whispered of an ambush and a truce broken where all the true Northumbrians were slain. Edith put the thought from her mind and concentrated. This was far worse than she’d considered possible. Her entire life hung in the balance.
‘My husband acted against my counsel. We who are left never broke fealty. In the interests of peace and love he bore for my father, I’m certain Halfdan will have ordered some form of marriage.’ Edith held out her hand. ‘Show me his parchment.’
His blue gaze raked her a second time, more slowly, but leaving her in little doubt of her own inadequacies as a desirable woman—her figure was far too thin and angular, her chin too masculine and even her hands were stained with ink rather than lily white as a lady’s should be. Edith fought against the rising tide of heat which flooded her cheeks. It was bad enough that Egbert had taken great delight in telling her how few feminine charms she possessed, but enduring the Norseman’s gaze was far more humiliating.
‘There were no conditions to the gift, lady,’ he said, his voice thundering so all could hear. ‘The lands and all its possessions were in Halfdan’s gift. My need for a wife is not pressing. Halfdan knows my feelings about marriage and the sort of woman I wish for a bride.’
‘My mistake,’ she whispered and forced her legs to curtsy. Bile rose in her throat. One solitary look and he’d rejected her as marriage material.
‘Yes, it was. I trust the matter is now closed. I claim overlordship to this estate.’ He stepped forwards and brought the axe down on the stone flagging. The noise thundered through the hall.
Edith thought quickly. An overlord? There was always an overlord. It might be the best of possible worlds, the miracle she’d prayed for. She had been far too hasty in assuming marriage. ‘We will be happy to pay a tithe to you if you show me that your word is true. Forgive me, Norseman, but my experience with other Norsemen has been limited and sometimes the language has caused confusion. Do you have some sign, a scroll perhaps, which tells the amount we must pay?’
‘You wilfully misunderstand me, Lady.’ The Norseman fingered his axe. ‘Egbert of Breckon’s lands are forfeit. He rebelled against his rightful king. You have no rights here, but I bear no malice towards you. You may depart without molestation if you leave immediately.’
Edith heard the shocked gasps from the servants ranged behind her. Tears pricked her eyelids. This was her home, her land and her people. She’d never asked Egbert to rebel for all the good it had done her. This was absolutely wrong.
She bit back the words. Tact, not hollow words of protest, was needed here. Egbert had led the rebellion, until the bitter end. From what she understood, he’d been one of the last to fall. An honourable death, the boy had whispered.
‘The lands are in my name. I did not rebel. They remain mine until the king sends a scroll to tell me otherwise. I understand Halfdan is an honourable man.’ She crossed her arms. She had to play for time. ‘I don’t know how things are done where you come from, but here in Northumbria we do ask for more proof than a double axe and a broken door.’
She stared defiantly at the Norseman, trying not to notice his axe and the way he fingered the hilt. One stroke and her head would be rolling across the floor, like the rumours said the Norsemen had done to so many other people.
Her heart pounded in her ears as she waited for the Norseman to respond.
A rumble of laughter resounded behind the Norseman, breaking the silence.
‘She has spirit, this Northumbrian lady, I’ll give her that,’ one of them called out. ‘There are not many who would stand before Brand Bjornson and argue.’
‘Maybe they should,’ Edith answered as steadily as she could even as her legs threatened to crumple under her.
Her luck had truly run out. Brand Bjornson claimed her land. He was reputed to be one of the fiercest Norseman warriors, a name that nurses whispered to frighten children. She waited, hardly daring to breathe. Her next heartbeat was sure to be her last, once he lifted that axe.
The Norseman regarded her with those fierce eyes, unmoving but speculative. She forced her gaze to match his.
His hand loosened on the axe and his shoulders relaxed. Edith released a breath. She was going to live. The thought filled her with giddy excitement.
‘I regret, my lady, but you’re wrong. This hall and land belongs to me.’ He reached into his belt and pulled out a piece of vellum. ‘The king did anticipate that some may be prepared to doubt my word. Everything is in order. His seal is set with the date. Call for your priest to read it out loud.’
‘There is no need. My father ensured I could read.’ At his questioning glance, she added, ‘He’d little love for our priest.’
‘Wise man.’
Edith stared at the parchment. The words swam before her eyes. All of Egbert’s lands were forfeit to Brand Bjornson, including the hall and its property. They were specifically named, but it was a general proclamation. The king hadn’t even bothered to address her. She truly meant nothing to him.
Tears stung at the back of her throat. Everything gone, just like that. She wished she could wring Egbert’s fat neck. Her father had been wrong for so many reasons when he forced the marriage because he’d thought she needed a strong warrior. She could have held the lands on her own.
‘You may have the estate, but will you have the hearts of its people? I have never seen a Viking warrior stay in one place for long. Undoubtedly your king will have call for your services,’ Edith said before she could give herself time to think and be scared. ‘After seeing your parchment, I’m happy to pay a reasonable tithe to you and promise to keep good order. I know these people and this land.’
‘And you have their hearts, now that their menfolk are dead? You can guarantee that they will no longer rebel against Halfdan or his chosen successors?’
‘I like to think so.’ Edith tilted her chin upwards. ‘My family has cared for this land since before the Romans left. The folk here are honest and loyal. Those who rebelled left with my late husband. Never to return.’
A sardonic smile crossed his lips. ‘I find a full belly guarantees loyalty far more than blood or tradition.’
A snigger came from the ranks of the Vikings. ‘What sort of man obeys a woman?’
Edith clenched her jaw and ignored the remark which reminded her of Egbert’s attitude. She had proved him wrong and, given half a chance, she’d prove the unknown Viking wrong as well.
She motioned for her servants to be still.
Where else could she go? Some convent? To work like a thrall? It was what would happen to her if she appeared without any money. Goodness knew Egbert had threatened it often enough. Death by a Norseman’s axe was preferable to death by slow starvation. She had one last chance.
‘You must give me a chance to prove my words. I could be useful here. You are a warrior. Do you know how to run a large estate? I do. Put me to the test!’
Chapter Two
Edith waited as her plea echoed around the hall. Her entire life hung in the balance.
‘There is no need for someone else to run it. I shall be here.’ Brand Bjornson’s lips quirked upwards as if she amused him. A loud laugh escaped his throat, swiftly followed by the other warriors’ laughter.
Edith frowned. Amusement was precisely the wrong reaction. ‘My offer is serious.’
‘My days of fighting are at an end. My king has another use for me. For too long this part of the North Riding has harboured a nest of vipers. It is my task to ensure peace. With force if necessary, Lady. I’ll allow you safe passage to the nearest nunnery as a token of the loyalty you and your father showed my king.’
‘And you know everything there is to know about this hall and its farms? How to run it most efficiently?’
The blue in his eyes deepened. ‘From what I have seen, it will not be hard to run it better...unless there is some reason to think differently.’
Edith winced. He knew about her deception and was giving her the opportunity to confess. The Norseman was sharper than he first appeared.
‘My father trained me after my brothers died in infancy. I served first as his steward and then my late husband’s.’
‘Then they were both fools. This hall and its farms look miserable. A child could run them better.’ Brand Bjornson waved an impatient hand. ‘Save the stories for the children, Lady Edith. I’m in a generous mood, but that may change.’
‘Lady Edith speaks true, my lord!’ one of the servants burst out. ‘My Lady Edith runs this hall better than anyone. It is why the storage barns are overfull this year and our sheep are...’
At Edith’s look, the servant’s voice trailed away. Edith bit her lip. Now the Norsemen knew they were not poor. How much chance did the food have of getting to the people who needed it the most? These Norsemen warriors would more than eat their fill and leave everyone else to starve, just as Egbert had once attempted to do.
‘The hall is more prosperous than it looks? Show me. Now. While you have a chance to undo your deception.’ Brand Bjornson took a step closer to her. She became aware of the power in his shoulders and forearms. He was definitely not a man to be trifled with.
Edith shifted in her shoes, torn between a desire to protect what was rightfully hers and the knowledge that her unwomanly success might be the only thing to save her and her home. If she left now, she’d never be able to return. She’d seen enough refugees after the fall of Eoferwic ten years earlier to know her chances of survival. Who would give her shelter like she’d given shelter to Hilda? Anyone who might have helped her was dead or had lost their lands and had fled to the south. Edith curled her hand into a fist. She had no choice but to reveal some of her secrets.
She had to show him the ledgers and the storage areas and hope that he’d understand what a huge undertaking this hall and lands were. He had to understand that she was essential and why they needed the food to stay here.
Later, she’d figure out how to get rid of him. Vikings never stayed long. As long as she was here, there was a chance her lands would be restored to her.
Edith raised her chin so she stared directly into his startling blue eyes. An awareness of him and the power in his shoulders filled her. ‘Yes, it is true, Brand Bjornson. I had no wish to give more than I had to. Can you blame me after the ravages that the Norsemen have wrought on the countryside?’
‘Show me!’ Brand ground out, regarding Lady Edith with her very Anglo-Saxon wimple, figure-skimming dress and proud tilt to her nose. He struggled to remember when a woman had affected him this much.
Her figure was not overly curvy, but pleasing enough, her features were regular and even, but it was her long neck and the way she held her slender hands which held his attention. And she was tall, coming up to his nose rather than forcing him to stoop.
Everything about her screamed arrogance and inclined to overestimate her own intelligence in relation to his. She was about to learn an important lesson in humility. She’d assumed that he should be kissing her feet in gratitude earlier when she offered to marry him. No, they did this his way. He had made his plans.
‘I am happy to show you the stores, but you must know they are depleted after the winter. You may inspect the ledgers and they will show you that they are in my hand.’ Her full lips turned up even more insolently. ‘Can you read Latin? Or do you wish to call your scribe?’
‘That is my concern.’ Brand retained a narrow leash on his temper. ‘I very much wish to inspect the entirety of my new lands.’
He did not believe for one heartbeat that she could read or write. What sort of woman did? She merely wanted to show him up and gain time to remove whatever treasure she had hidden, treasure which now belonged to him. Egbert of Breckon had cut down Brand’s best friend, Sven, while crying for peace. Hrearek had reached him first and cut him down but Sven had been the closest thing he had had to a brother. He could never forgive the treachery that had cost him the one person he held dear.
‘I’ve nothing to fear from the truth.’
He leant forwards so that their breath touched. ‘We start with the ledgers.’
Her colour heightened, infusing her cheeks with a dusky pink. If she shed the wimple, she’d be beautiful, Brand realised with a start as his body responded anew to her nearness.
Was there a reason she had deliberately wanted him to overlook her feminine charms? He wanted a willing bed partner, rather than one he’d forced. But then seeing how her breath quickened, she was not entirely immune to him either. Suddenly the possibilities became much more intriguing.
He raised an eyebrow and the flush deepened. She dipped her head, breaking the contact.
‘Very well, the ledgers.’ She motioned to one of the servants and spoke to him in a low voice. The man bowed and hurried off. ‘It may take a little time, Lord Bjornson.’
‘I’ve time.’
‘Would you like to sit? I’m sure you and your men are thirsty. My late husband was always thirsty whenever he returned to the hall.’ She gestured towards a stool with a little wave of her hand before ordering one of her elderly servants to fetch some mead. ‘Please give us a chance to welcome your lordship properly. Now that we know who you are.’
The gesture and the words reminded him of his father’s wife and the way she ruled his father’s steading, always making him feel like an outsider with no real right to be there. He’d left that past long ago. He was the lord and master here, rather than the son of a thrall who had no right to be in the hall. He’d earned the right to respect with his sword arm. Brand gave his head a little shake to rid his mind of the memory.
‘I have no problems with standing, but my men require some refreshment. The road brings a thirst and hunger. We must have meat.’
‘A good leader looks after his men first.’ Her smile did not reach her grey eyes. ‘Meat takes time. We live simply here and it is Lent. Nothing has been slaughtered since Michaelmas.’
‘Time we have.’ Brand inclined his head. ‘In due course after I have assessed the supplies, I will arrange for several animals to be slaughtered. My men need to celebrate my good fortune. They expect to feast well.’
‘The considerations of Lent mean nothing?’
Brand considered the question. ‘Should they? My men do not share your religion.’
‘As you wish.’ She strode over to where a leather stool rested and sat. A queen or his father’s wife could not have done it better. ‘There appears to be little point standing on ceremony. My late husband used to enjoy sitting.’
‘I’m not your late husband.’
Her neat white teeth worried her bottom lip and for the first time, he saw the shadows in her eyes. ‘No, you’re not. We must all consider you fortunate then.’
‘Meaning?’ Brand tried to remember what he knew of the man. Lord Egbert had obviously inspired men to follow him. The men left in the hall were the ones who were either too old or too young to fight. But he knew little of the measure of the man or how he’d dealt with his wife. He had been the one to break the truce. Hrearek was quite clear on that.
‘My husband died and you are alive. The hall now is under your rule.’ Her hands clenched together so tightly that the white knuckles stood out. ‘What did you think I meant?’
‘Thank you for the explanation.’ He’d allow the explanation to stand for now. But it was clear Lady Edith was no grieving widow. Were her earlier words about not supporting the rebellion true? Lately Halfdan had used marriage between the Vikings and the Northumbrians as a way of ensuring peace, but he’d kept her existence from him.
Had Halfdan actually remembered about Brand’s plans for the future? How he hoped to marry Sigfrieda? Brand narrowed his eyes. Or was there something else? Something that Halfdan knew about this woman that he had chosen to keep to himself?
Lady Edith picked up a spindle, looking for all the world like a woman who had plenty of time and fewer cares. However, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead betrayed her nerves. Brand smiled inwardly. Her play-acting skills were no rival for the courtiers at the Byzantium court.
‘Shall we speak about the changes to Eoferwic...I mean Jorvik?’ She gave her spindle a fierce twist. ‘I understand King Halfdan has completely remade the city after the Norsemen burnt it to the ground.’
‘There we must agree to differ. It was the Northumbrians who burnt the city when they attempted to take it. I was there on the walls, my lady.’
Her eyes flashed, betraying her annoyance. ‘It was our city. The Norsemen attacked on All Saints’ Day when we were at church. I was there with my mother and father. No civilised person attacks on such a holy day.’
‘Your god is not Halfdan’s. Do you respect Thor’s feast days?’
‘That is beside the point.’ She gave the spindle a vicious twist and the thread broke, sending it bouncing across the floor. A small cry escaped her lips.
Brand bent and retrieved it, holding the neatly spun wool in his hand. It was unusual for any woman to speak so boldly to him, but Lady Edith was refreshing. All too often women uttered inanities and deferred to him. Spineless, but calculating. He learnt that lesson well in Constantinople. Lady Edith had already revealed the steel she had as a spine. She was forged from the same metal as his father’s wife and he should never forget that.
Lady Edith needed to learn that she no longer held any power in this hall. Her intelligence about the halls and its lands being more prosperous than it appeared failed to surprise him. He had seen the richness of the soil and suspected that the sheep grew thick fleeces. The very air breathed fertility.
For how much was this woman responsible? And how much did she want to unjustly claim?
Brand had met many capable women in Byzantium who were involved up to their pretty necks in palace intrigue, but he had never heard of a Northumbrian woman doing such a thing. Their priests frowned on it or so he understood. It was a mystery and he disliked mysteries, particularly ones which included beautiful women. Invariably they attempted to use their looks to gain what they wanted. Given the way the spindle bounced and the thread tangled, he doubted if Lady Edith spent much time spinning.
