Saved by the Viking Warrior

‘Gods! What a mess.’ Thrand surveyed the carnage spread out before him. An overturned, smouldering wreckage of a travelling cart with six butchered and dismembered bodies lying about it dominated the scene. The sickly-sweet tang of fresh blood intermingling with smoke and ash hung in the air.

‘You would think after ten years of war, people would know better than to travel so lightly armed,’ one of his men remarked. ‘Halfdan maintains the peace, but there are Northumbrian bandits. Desperate men do desperate things.’

‘Surprised. They thought they were safe,’ Thrand answered absently as he bent to examine the first body. ‘Always a mistake.’

He gently closed the old man’s eyes and forced his mind to concentrate on the scene. The bodies were cold, but not picked clean. And the fire had failed to completely consume the cart. It had merely smouldered rather than burning to the ground. Not a robbery gone wrong, but cold-blooded murder. And he knew whose lands they crossed—Hagal the Red’s. Hagal would be involved, but behind the scenes. A great spider waiting for the fly to blunder in.

Thrand pressed his lips together. Everything proclaimed Hagal the Red’s handiwork, but he needed more proof if he wanted to bring him to justice, finally and for ever. Something solid and concrete. Hagal had had a hand in the slaughter of Thrand’s family back in Norway. Thrand knew it in his bones, but no one had listened to his proof and Hagal had slithered away like the snake he was.

‘How do you know they were surprised?’ Helgi, one of his oldest companions-in-arms, asked, kneeling beside him.

‘Look at their throats. Cut.’ Thrand gestured towards the two closest bodies. ‘And this lad and that man still have their swords in their belts. Whoever did this got in and got out quickly.’

‘A dirty business, this. Who would dare? Northumbrian outlaws?’

‘I have a good idea who our enemy is. He won’t bother us. More’s the pity.’ Thrand knelt beside the second body, little more than a youth. No arrows and impossible to determine the type of blade used from a clean cut. Thrand frowned, considering the options. The intense savagery of the attack sickened him, but, knowing Hagal’s methods, it failed to surprise him.

There was never any need to mutilate bodies. A dead man will not put a knife in your back.

He had only discovered Hagal was in Halfdan’s employ after he swore his oath of allegiance to Halfdan and had agreed not to attack a fellow member of the felag on pain of death.

Hagal’s time would come. Once his oath was complete, Thrand would ensure it. He refused to add the shame of being an oath-breaker to his titles.

Without his code, a man was nothing—one of the lessons his father had taught him. And he had to respect his father’s memory. It was all that remained of him. Thrand had shown little respect for him and his strict rules the last few months of his life, much to his bitter regret.

‘If they attacked this party of travellers, they could attack us,’ someone said.

‘Do you think they’d dare attack us?’ Helgi shouted. ‘You have never been on the losing side, Thrand. Your reputation sweeps all before it. They pour gold at your feet rather than stand and fight.’

‘Only a dead man believes in his invincibility,’ Thrand said, fixing Helgi with a glare. ‘I aim to keep living for a while.’

At his command, his men began to methodically search the blood-soaked area for clues, anything that could prove Hagal was here and had done this. He didn’t hold out much hope. Hagal was known to be an expert at covering his tracks.

‘A woman,’ one of them called out from beside the cart. ‘No longer has a face. What sort of animal would do that to a woman?’

‘Any clues to her identity?’

‘High born from her fur cloak. Her hands appear soft. Probably Northumbrian, but then there are very few of our women here.’

Thrand pressed his hands to his eyes. A senseless murder. Such a woman would be worth her weight in gold if held for ransom. Or if sold in one of the slave markets in Norway or even in the new colony of Iceland, she would command a high price. Why kill her? Why was she worth more dead than alive to Hagal who valued gold more than life itself?

‘See if anyone survived and can explain what happened here and why. Dig a pit for the bodies. It is the least we can do. Then we go forward to the Tyne! We need to return to Jorvik before Halfdan convenes the next Storting.’ he proclaimed in ringing tones.

‘And if the bandits return...they will know someone has been here.’

‘Good. I want them to know,’ Thrand said, regarding each of his men, hardened warriors all, and he could tell they too were shaken by this savagery. But he knew better than to trust any of them with his suspicions about Hagal. Thrand was well aware Hagal had used his spy network to escape in the past.

‘This is Hagal the Red’s land. Surely he will want to know about bandits operating in this area. He has sworn to uphold the king’s peace,’ Knui, his late helmsman’s cousin, called out. ‘Will we make a detour?’

‘Leave Hagal the Red to me.’ Thrand inwardly rolled his eyes at the naive suggestion. Hagal’s way of dealing with this outrage would be to hang the first unlucky Northumbrian who dared look at him and be done with it. No one would dare question him.

‘But you are going to tell him?’ Knui persisted.

‘We’ve not actually encountered any outlaws, merely seen the aftermath of an unfortunate occurrence.’ He gave Knui a hard look. Knui was only on this expedition because it had been his late helmsman’s dying request. Sven had sworn that Knui wasn’t in Hagal’s employ, but his words made Thrand wonder. ‘Speculation serves no one. Our first duty is fulfilling our oath to my late helmsman, Sven, and ensuring his child will want for nothing. We gave our oaths on his deathbed. First the child and then...perhaps...once we have returned to Jorvik and the Storting is finished.’

‘What do we do with her? Leave her for the eagles? Or put her in the pit with the rest?’ one of his men called. ‘They were far from kind to this one.’

Thrand stared at the woman’s mutilated body with distaste. It reminded him of Ingrid, the woman who had caused him to betray his family and who had ended up murdered. One more crime to make sure Hagal was punished for. A senseless, wasteful crime. ‘Lay out the dead before burial while I check to see if any more bodies are about. There may be some clue I missed. And we want to make sure we don’t have to dig two pits.’

He left his men to their task. With a drawn sword, he went into the woods, circling about the site. He forced his mind to concentrate on the task rather than revisiting long-ago crimes. Any little signs which might give him a clue to where the attackers went, or if any of the party had survived.

He pressed his hands to his eyes. ‘Come on, Thrand Ammundson. What are you missing? Concentrate instead of remembering the long dead.’

When he approached the end of his circuit, he noticed scattered bluebells rapidly wilting in the warm afternoon. Someone else had been there. The dead woman? Or...?

He frowned, annoyed with himself for not immediately considering it. Details mattered. High-born Northumbrian ladies always travelled with at least one female companion.

Someone had survived. Someone who could bear witness to what happened here. Someone who could speak in the king’s court and condemn Hagal. He gave a nod. The gods had finally given him his chance if he could get the creature to Jorvik alive.

Moving slowly and paying attention to little clues on the ground—a broken twig here, a scattered flower there—Thrand followed the woman’s trail. He discovered a hollow where she must have hidden for a while. There was evidence of other feet as well. Kneeling down, he felt the soil. Cold. The attack had been this morning, so she could not be far...if she had survived.

He spied a single wilting bluebell on the far edge of the glade.

‘Where are you? Come out! I’m here to help!’

The only sound was the wind in the trees.

He frowned, drew his sword and slowly picked his way through the undergrowth, looking for more signs. The trail was easier as if the woman had ceased to care about being followed. The far-off howl of a wolf pierced the stillness. Wolf or Hagal’s men? He knew the sort of death he’d prefer. With a wolf, the woman stood a chance of a quick death.

He entered a clearing where gigantic oak and ash spread their bare branches upward. A shaft of sunlight cut through the gloom, highlighting the strands of golden hair which had escaped from the woman’s coarse dark-brown cloak as she tried to free the fabric from a thorn bush. Her fine gown was immediately obvious.

Thrand breathed easier. The woman remained alive. He sheathed his sword.

‘Are you hurt?’

She glanced up with frightened eyes, eyes which matched the few bluebells she still carried and pressed closer to the thorn bush. The cloak opened slightly, revealing a gold-embroidered burgundy gown. Her long blonde hair had come loose and tumbled about her shoulders like spun gold.

Thrand whistled under his breath. He found it hard to remember the last time he’d seen a woman that beautiful.

Had Hagal finally made a mistake after all this time?

He held out his hand and tried for a gentle approach rather than his usual brusque manner. ‘I come in peace. I’ve no wish to harm you. What happened back there? Back with the cart?’

She gave an inarticulate moan, redoubled her efforts to free herself from the bush. The cloak tore and she started to run. Thrand crossed the glade to her before she had gone three steps. He caught her shoulders and gave her a little shake.

‘If you run, you die. These woods are no place for a lone woman.’ He examined the fine bones and delicate features of her face. She came up to his chin. Most women barely reached his shoulder. ‘Particularly not one who is gently bred.’

He allowed his hands to drop to his side and waited. Had his words penetrated her shocked brain?

Her tongue wet her lips, turning them the colour of drops of blood on snow. ‘I’m already dead, Norseman. Here or elsewhere—what does it matter?’

‘Are you injured? Did they hurt you? How did you escape?’

She slowly shook her head and started to back away. In another heartbeat she’d run. Thrand silently swore. He did not have time to spend chasing this woman through the forest.

‘Do you want to live?’ he ground out. ‘Simple choice.’

She stopped, hesitating. ‘I...I...’

Forget gentleness. He had tried. The Northumbrian woman was stubborn beyond all reason. Action was required. He reached out and grabbed her wrist.

‘You come with me.’ He pinned her with his gaze. ‘Whatever happened to you before, know that you belong to me hereafter. I’m your master now.’

Chapter Two

You belong to me. I’m your master. The words reverberated through her brain. Cwenneth stared at the large Norseman warrior who held her wrist captive, hating him. After all she’d survived today, she’d ended up a slave to an unknown Norseman. And she knew what they were capable of.

Surely it would have been better to die a quick death at Narfi’s hands than to suffer this...this torture!

She had been a fool to trust Hagal the Red and his promises in the marriage contract. She had been a fool to flee from her hiding place at the sound of this man’s voice. She had been a fool to try to undo the cloak when it became entangled on the thorn bush.

Time to start using her mind instead of panicking like a scared rabbit! Aefirth would have wanted her to.

‘I belong to no man, particularly not a Norseman.’ Cwenneth brought her hand down sharply and twisted. ‘I will never be a slave. Ever.’

He released her so abruptly that she stumbled backwards and fell on her bottom, revealing more than she would have liked of her legs. Cwenneth hastily smoothed her skirts down.

‘That’s better,’ she said in her most imperious voice, playing for time and ignoring the way her insides did a little flutter at his intense look. ‘Keep your hands to yourself in the future.’

‘If you want a race, so be it, but I will win.’ The planes of his face hardened to pure stone. ‘You are welcome to try. I will catch you before you go ten steps. And my mood will be less generous.’

He reached down and raised her up. His hand lingered lightly on her shoulder, restraining her.

‘Will you strike me down if I run?’ Cwenneth whispered. She’d survived Narfi, only to be killed for sport by this man? Her limbs tensed, poised for renewed flight, but she forced her legs to remain still.

‘Where is the challenge in killing women?’ he responded gravely. ‘I’m a warrior who fights other warriors. Playing games of chase with a beautiful woman will have to wait for another day. I’ve other things to attend to. Give me your word that you will come meekly and I’ll release your arm. Otherwise, I will bind you.’

Cwenneth concentrated on breathing evenly. Playing games of chase, indeed! As if she was some maid flirting with him in the Lingwold physic garden! She was a widow whose heart had been buried with her late husband and son.

She clung on to her temper and did not slap his face. This was about survival until she could return to Lingwold. Once she was safe behind the thick grey-stone walls, she could give in to sarcasm and her temper. Until then, she guarded her tongue and kept her throat whole.

‘Let me go and I’ll give my word,’ she ground out.

‘Satisfied?’ He lifted his hand.

She stared at the large Norseman warrior standing before her. He had released his hold, but the imprint of his hands burnt through the cloth. Large and ferocious with glacial blue eyes, a man who took pride in fighting, and the last sort of person she wanted to see. Who was he? Was it a case of things going from bad to worse? How much worse could it get? At least Thrand Ammundson was in Jorvik. No one could be as bad as that man.

‘You see, I keep my word. Now will you? Will you trust me?’

Cwenneth swallowed hard to wet her throat and keep the tang of panic from invading her mouth. Trust a Norseman? A Norseman warrior? How naive did he think she was?

‘Say the words now.’ He pulled a length of leather from his belt.

‘I’ll come with you...willingly. There is no need to bind me,’ she muttered, despising her weakness, but she hated to think about her wrists being bound and marked. ‘I give you my word. I won’t make a break for my freedom.’

‘And I accept it.’ He refastened the length of leather to his belt. ‘You see I’m willing to trust you, but then I can outrun you.’

‘How do you know how fast I can run?’ she asked, watching the leather sway slightly like a snake.

‘You wear skirts.’ His dark-blue eyes darkened to the colour of a Northumbrian summer’s midnight, but held no humour. ‘Skirts tangle about your legs and catch in thorn bushes and brambles. If I have to chase you or you disobey me, things will go much worse for you.’

Cwenneth lifted her chin. She had to concentrate on small victories. She remained unbound...for the moment. It would be harder to escape if he decided to tie her up. And she planned on escaping when the time was ripe. ‘I will take your word for it. I’ve never worn trousers.’

‘A modicum of sense in your brain. Not my usual experience with Northumbrian women.’ His brows drew together. ‘Why are you here? Why were you left alive? Why was your entourage attacked?’

She knew then he’d found the carnage that lay back there on the road. Silently, she named the six men who had died, thinking they were protecting her. They were seared on her heart. Someday, somehow, Hagal would be made to pay. Even faithless Agatha needed justice. In this darkening glade with the bare trees towering above her, she had half-hoped that it was a dreadful nightmare and she’d wake up to find Agatha softly snoring near here or, better still, in her tapestry-hung room at Lingwold.

‘The attack came from nowhere,’ she began and stopped, unable to continue. A great sob rose up in her throat, and in her mind she saw the images of the bodies where they fell and heard the unholy screams. She forced the sob back down. No Norseman would have the pleasure of seeing her cry. She straightened her spine and looked him directly in the eye. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t speak of it. Not yet. Please don’t make me.’

‘You’re my responsibility, and I want you alive.’ He captured her chin with hard fingers, and his deadened eyes peered into her soul. ‘As long as you do as I say.’

‘My world has changed completely.’ Cwenneth forced her eyes to stare back into his.

She knew she was a tall woman, but her eyes were merely on the same level as his chin. He made her feel tiny and delicate, rather than overgrown as she had in the past. Even Aefirth had been barely taller than her. Absently she rubbed where his hand had encircled her wrist.

‘I give better protection than the men who died, the ones who were supposed to ensure you and the other woman came to no harm.’ He released her chin. ‘Was she your mistress?’

‘My mistress?’ Cwenneth hesitated. He thought her the maid! Her heart leapt. A tiny glimmer of hope filled her. This Norseman had made a fundamental error.

If he knew who she was, he’d return her to Hagal who would surely kill her. A wife, even a solemnly betrothed bride like she was, was a husband’s property. And they were fellow Norsemen. She needed to get back to Lingwold and warn her brother of Hagal’s treachery rather than be delivered with a pretty bow about her neck to that viper.

‘Who was your mistress? Quick now. It is hardly a difficult question.’

‘The Lady of Lingwold. She was on her way to finalise her marriage to Hagal the Red.’ Feverishly Cwenneth prayed that her deception would work. ‘I’m her tire woman. Cwen. I’d left the cart to gather bluebells and hopefully improve the smell. After all the travelling we had done, the cart stank. The herbs in the cart gave my lady a woolly head.’

She gulped a breath of air as the words tripped off her tongue. So far, so good.

He pointed to the gold embroidered hem of her gown. ‘A very fine gown for a maid to be wearing, Cwen.’

‘One of my lady’s cast-offs,’ she said with a curtsy. ‘I had it in honour of her marriage. She had many new gowns and no longer had need of this one. It was from her first marriage and quite out of date.’

He nodded, seeming to accept her word. The tension in Cwenneth’s shoulders eased a little. Cwen had a good ring to it, reminding her of Aefirth’s pet name for her.

How hard could it be to play the maid? It was far safer than being herself—the woman whom everyone wanted dead or believed cursed beyond redemption, destined never to have a family who loved her.

‘And, Cwen, your lady did not wish to get out of the cart and sent you instead. Did she fear bandits?’ His lip curled slightly as if he disapproved of such fine women.

‘She knew about the possibility of outlaws. There are desperate men about these days.’

‘Even though she must have known she was on her bridegroom’s lands.’

‘Even then. My lady was timid.’ Cwenneth gestured about her. ‘It is in places such as these that man-eating wolves lurk. Or so my...her nurse used to say.’

She winced at her near slip, but his face betrayed nothing. Perhaps he didn’t have that good a grasp of the language. Or perhaps... Drawing attention to the mistake would only make matters worse. But she had to have convinced him. He looked to be more muscle than brain like most of the Norsemen. Certainly his shoulders went on for ever.

The ice in his eyes grew. ‘If she was in the covered cart, how did she know about the woods, the wolves and most of all the bluebells?’

‘My lady caught a glimpse of the outside through the slats in the window when the cart stopped so they could get the mud off the wheels. I went to fetch them,’ Cwenneth improvised. ‘She would hardly have let me go if she thought the attack was going to happen. My lady trusted her men and the promises her bridegroom gave.’

Cwenneth finished in a breathless rush. If she kept to the truth as much as possible, she should be able to fool him.

When she had her chance, she’d escape and return to Lingwold, like in the stories her nurse, Martha, used to tell. Her brother would see that justice was done. Enough warriors to make a formidable army would flock to Edward’s banner when he put the call out to avenge this outrage.

‘I find it hard to believe Hagal allowed his bride to travel without protection. Or did she intend to surprise him? This timid bride of his?’

‘Hagal provided over twenty warriors. You would have to ask them why they fled. My lady was only allowed six of her own men.’ She waited, heart in her throat, to see his response.

His stone-hard face betrayed nothing. ‘Do you wish me to take you to Hagal the Red’s stronghold? He will want to hear news of his bride’s demise.’

Cwenneth’s stomach knotted. The Norseman was leaving the decision up to her. Lingwold was a real possibility instead of a cloud-in-the-sky fantasy. She could almost see the comforting stone walls rising up before her.

‘Her brother needs to hear the news first. He will give a reward for information about my lady. I know it.’

The Norseman remained implacably silent.

Cwenneth pressed her hands together and gathered her courage. ‘I believe...I believe Hagal’s men murdered everyone in my party.’

There, she had said it and had mentioned the possibility of a reward. Gold always motivated the Norsemen. Her stomach twisted in knots. In the silence which followed she could hear the flap of a wood-pigeon’s wings.

‘A strong accusation,’ he said, his face remaining devoid of any shock or surprise. ‘Why would Hagal’s men want his bride dead? He will have spent time and effort negotiating the marriage contract.’

‘Perhaps they are in the pay of Thrand the Destroyer and betrayed their master.’

‘I think not,’ he said, crossing his arms, and his face appeared more carved in stone than ever. No doubt he expected her to cower. ‘Try again. Who attacked this convoy?’

Cwenneth glared back and refused to be intimidated. ‘I speak the truth—Hagal’s men did it under his orders. I overheard them speaking afterwards. He wanted her dead to fulfil a battlefield vow he made. I hope even Norsemen have a respect for the truth. The Lord of Lingwold certainly will. He’ll see justice is done and Hagal the Red is punished for this crime.’

As she said the words, Cwenneth knew she spoke the truth. Edward might have desired the marriage, but he wanted her alive. Blood counted for something...even with Edward. He would take steps to avenge Hagal’s actions. Even a convent without a dowry currently sounded like heaven compared to being a Norseman’s slave or, worse still, murdered.

‘How did you propose to get to Lingwold? It is over a hundred miles through hostile wilderness and floods. The mud-clogged roads from the recent rain are the least of your problems.’

Cwenneth sucked in her breath. He knew where Lingwold was, but then it was one of the largest estates in southern Bernicia.

‘Walk!’

‘Wolves and bears lurk in these woods. Not to mention outlaws and other desperate men who roam the roads.’

‘I know. I was waiting until nightfall before I returned to the...’ Cwenneth’s throat closed. What did she call it now that murder had taken place? ‘To where it happened. I hoped to find something there, something I could use on my journey. I refuse to simply sit here and die.’ She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking uncontrollably. ‘Will you take me to Lingwold? Help me complete my journey? The Lord of Lingwold will give a great reward for information about his sister. I promise.’

‘I’ve no plans to visit Lingwold at present.’

Cwenneth blinked. He was refusing? ‘What do you mean? There will be a reward. A great reward. Gold. As much gold as you can carry.’

‘The promise of a small reward for telling a man his sister is dead fails to tempt me. The great Lord Edward of Lingwold might even take a severe dislike to the man who brought him news of his sister’s demise.’ His mouth curled around the words as if her brother was anything but a great lord.