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A Deal With Her Rebel Viking
Michelle Styles
Her terms: free her family His terms: seduction? Defending her home, Lady Ansithe captures outlaw Viking Moir Mimirson. The prisoner will be the ideal ransom for her father, held hostage by the Danes. Yet Moir’s flirtatious negotiations exhilarate practical Ansithe as much as they surprise her… Can she be sure that this hardened warrior will work with her, and not betray her? And what of his stolen kisses…can she trust those?


Her terms: free her family
His terms: seduction?
Defending her home, Lady Ansithe captures outlaw Viking Moir Mimirson. The prisoner will be the ideal ransom for her father, who’s being held hostage by the Danes. Yet Moir’s flirtatious negotiations exhilarate practical Ansithe as much as they surprise her... Can she be sure that this hardened warrior will work with her and not betray her? And what of his stolen kisses—can she trust those?
Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives near Hadrian’s Wall with her husband and a menagerie of pets in an Edwardian bungalow with a large and somewhat overgrown garden. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romances after discovering Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt. Her website is michellestyles.co.uk (http://www.michellestyles.co.uk) and she’s on Twitter and Facebook.
Also by Michelle Styles (#ua22c4c32-9e12-54de-84d2-1aae64e50835)
Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match
An Ideal Husband?
Paying the Viking’s Price
Return of the Viking Warrior
Saved by the Viking Warrior
Taming His Viking Woman
Summer of the Viking
Sold to the Viking Warrior
The Warrior’s Viking Bride
Sent as the Viking’s Bride
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
A Deal with Her Rebel Viking
Michelle Styles


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08962-3
A DEAL WITH HER REBEL VIKING
© 2019 Michelle Styles
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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For my niece Elizabeth
Contents
Cover (#uc9fceb77-5acf-503f-9ba6-3adfc3d82a3c)
Back Cover Text (#uc17dc324-e821-5f6b-9943-2aad31488712)
About the Author (#u2c0104ab-82af-5e63-93ae-d470397321ba)
Booklist (#u879aa04c-e1f4-5f7f-bc72-775b6a342097)
Title Page (#ua9707009-6c3f-57b1-a649-d79d1c935432)
Copyright (#ubab6bd24-c072-5550-9a8e-1e16bf8517e4)
Note to Readers
Dedication (#u6e71dd8b-60c5-573b-bfa2-485de5cacaae)
Chapter One (#u9b27502d-b981-5215-a0e6-400039452046)
Chapter Two (#uab15ac3b-1c85-5d34-8132-82ded592e537)
Chapter Three (#u51997e83-2bb5-54a0-8d3c-3d3ca221c7dc)
Chapter Four (#uc257d1d8-4bf8-5e21-a405-c64ff95c330e)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ua22c4c32-9e12-54de-84d2-1aae64e50835)
Late June AD 873—Manor of Baelle Heale, Forest of Arden, West Mercia, now modern-day Balsall Common, near Birmingham, England
A late-morning heat haze shimmered on the water meadow, where a cloud of blue butterflies rose in the slight breeze. Peace personified. Ansithe, middle daughter of the ealdorman Wulfgar, whose manor lands included the meadow, breathed in deeply and made a memory before adjusting the quiver of arrows she’d slung over her back.
The water meadow in bloom with yellow, pink and blue wildflowers had to be one of her favourite places in the whole world. No one bothered her here, or complained that she was weaving a cloth of dreams instead of a woolen one. Her eldest sister’s jibe earlier that day about Ansithe’s housekeeping standards and how no one decent would want a widow whose weaving threads always tangled rankled. She had run the household capably before Cynehild and her young son had arrived, fleeing the Mycel Haethen or the Great Heathen Horde of Danes’ inexorable advance in East Mercia. And she did her best thinking outdoors, always had.
Someone had to work out a way to save their father and Cynehild’s beloved husband who had both been taken prisoner. They could be freed, according to the message from the Danish warlord who held them, for a price, gold that they didn’t have. He had sent the severed finger of Cynehild’s husband to back up his demand. If Ansithe could engineer a way to free them, then maybe her father would understand she was indispensable to the smooth running of the estate and any talk of her entering into a new betrothal would cease. One unhappy marriage was enough for a lifetime.
She withdrew an arrow from her quiver, imagining the tree knot was the commander’s head, but the sound of tramping feet made her freeze.
Ansithe retreated to the shade of the great oak which stood at the edge of the meadow. She concentrated on forcing air into her lungs. It would be nothing—a deer if she was lucky, or a wolf if she wasn’t.
She turned slightly. Her heart skipped a beat. The Heathen Horde, here in Baelle Heale rather than where they should be—fifty miles to the east in the conquered lands. Openly. And not skulking in the shadows or keeping to Watling Street, the Roman road which ran a few miles from Baelle Heale.
Ansithe flattened herself against the oak and watched their progress as the group of warriors emerged from the woods. They seemed in no hurry and in no mood to conceal themselves.
The lead warrior, a tall blond man with broad shoulders, put his hands on his hips and examined the water meadow as though he owned it. She admired his chiselled cheekbones, and tapered waist for a long heartbeat until she noticed the large sword hanging from his belt alongside the iron helm. Her blood ran cold.
She wanted to scream that it wasn’t his land, that the people here were not weak and lily-livered like the Eastern Mercians, giving in without a fight, but managed to choke the words back.
Shouting at a warrior was likely to get her killed. Despite the sentiment her older sister had recently voiced about her reckless, mannish ways, Ansithe knew she possessed some modicum of self-preservation. She concentrated on keeping still and silently willing the warriors to move on.
The warlord turned his head as if he’d sensed her unspoken defiance, gazed straight towards where she stood and took a half-step towards her, saying something to the others with a slight smile on his lips.
With trembling fingers, she notched her arrow in the bowstring and muttered a prayer to all the saints and angels. Just when she thought she would be forced to loose the arrow and fight to her death, a wood pigeon arched up into the sky, launching itself from a branch above her with a loud clap of its wings.
Another man pointed to it, giving a harsh laugh and saying something that Ansithe didn’t quite catch. Her warrior nodded, but gave one last searching look at the oak before striding in the direction of the river.
Ansithe lowered her bow and drew further back before his ice-blue eyes spied her again.
She knelt on the ground, grabbed a handful of dirt and raised it.
‘I will defend this land or die,’ she vowed.


The manor-house yard appeared unnaturally still in the late afternoon shadows when Moir Mimirson entered it, following in the wake of his younger charge and his four companions.
A rundown air clung to the once substantial hall. The barns needed fixing and the stone walls had tumbled down in three places. Even though this area of Mercia had not witnessed a battle, Moir was willing to wager that the war had irrevocably altered this place, taking the able-bodied to fight and leaving only the weak, infirm and the women to defend it. Easy pickings for a raid, but such a thing would be a violation of the treaty his jaarl sought to sign with the Mercians.
The sheer stillness of the place made his skin prickle, just as it did before a battle was due to start. Instinctively his hand went to the amber bead he wore about his neck, the one which had belonged to his mother. Before any battle, he touched it and remembered his final vow to her—to be better than his father. Always.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Moir called in a low voice. ‘They have departed. I can’t even spy a hen or a pig for supper. We should move on, discover the way to Watling Street and return to your father—something which would have been easier if you had not tangled with our guide and made him abandon us.’
His wayward charge halted. His face contorted as it always did when Bjartr was forbidden anything. ‘Why was it my fault that the guide ran off? Or that we got lost trying to discover where he’d gone?’
‘Men tend to dislike having swords held at their throat when they quite rightly suggest that looting and raiding is not what one does when trying to negotiate a peace treaty.’
Bjartr’s mouth turned down in a petulant pout. ‘You should have stopped him. You are supposed to be my steward. And you should have provided us with proper food. My belly is rumbling. My father, your sworn jaarl, assigned you this task. Or are you like your father—given to disloyalty?’
Moir struggled to control his temper. Bjartr had not been alive when the tragedy with his parents had occurred. Bjartr’s recollection bore passing little to the truth of why Moir had been sent on this fool’s errand of a mission and was now having to play nursemaid to a group of barely blooded warriors rather than providing protection for his jaarl at the delicate negotiations with the Mercians and the other warlords.
‘I swear I heard bells earlier and that means an abbey,’ another warrior said, winking broadly at Moir. ‘There is always gold for the taking at a place like that. Here? Even the chickens have flown.’
‘Asking for hospitality remains the custom in the North. I suspect they follow similar customs here.’ Moir tried one last time. His sense of looming disaster rather than victory increased with every breath. ‘It is why we set out with gifts for those who favoured us. We can still ask for food to ease our starving bellies.’
Was this the meaning of his vision of a Valkyrie earlier? To be wary of this place?
‘Instead of being the rock who held the shield wall together, you have become my father’s craven hound,’ Bjartr jeered. ‘My father will be beyond proud when I return laden with gold and hostages—no matter what he told you about keeping the peace.’
Moir firmed his mouth. Any treasure to be found was probably safely buried long ago. Hostages simply caused unforeseen problems. And he was loyal to Bjartr’s father, Andvarr, the man who had taken a chance on him a long time ago. ‘You think seven warriors are enough for an all-out attack? How are you going to deploy them?’
‘Are you coming, Moir?’ one of Bjartr’s more obnoxious companions called. ‘Or does blood run true? Will you be as craven as your father was?’
‘No man calls me a coward and lives,’ Moir retorted, drawing his sword. ‘I challenge you. Here and now.’
‘Leave it, Moir,’ Bjartr shrieked. ‘As leader of this felag I command you. We attack this manor house.’
Without waiting to hear Moir’s explanation of why it was a poor idea and why they should instead just ask for help in finding the Roman road, Bjartr charged, screaming his battle cry, and the other younger warriors followed in his wake.


A heavy axe hit the barred doors to the hall. Ansithe’s stomach knotted. Twenty arrows in her quiver. Twenty arrows to save her family from the Heathen Horde.
She regarded the various bee skeps, mantraps and other devices scattered at strategic points in the hall. They were all designed to stop the invaders in their tracks.
‘Are you ready?’ she called to her sisters. Each gave a nod and held up their sealed skeps. On her signal they had agreed to unblock the entrance ways and toss them at the invaders. The bees would do the rest of the work.
Ansithe adjusted her veil, fixed her first arrow and began to count.
The door crashed open and the first warrior blundered in, missing the skep she’d set up at the entrance entirely. Ansithe swore under her breath.
He turned towards her older sister with his sword raised, ready to cut her throat or worse. She panicked and tossed the skep at him without removing the straw. It fell harmlessly to the floor. The bees remained imprisoned. Disaster loomed.
Ansithe loosed her arrow. It arched and connected with his throat. He stumbled over the skep, releasing the bees from their prison and they began to swarm over him and his companions. Her younger sister removed the entrance block and tossed her skep. It landed at the feet of a warrior and the battle cries soon became shrieks of pain.
Ansithe unleashed her second arrow.


Somewhere, a lone dog began to howl, sounding like one of Hel’s when she sucked out the souls of unworthy men. Bjartr’s battle cry turned into an agonising scream for help, swiftly followed by the others’ cries of anguish. Moir’s muscles coiled. He drew his sword and raced around to the back of the building.
He slammed the small back door open, rushing forward with his drawn sword. A precariously balanced basket toppled down on top of him, temporarily blinding him. Sticky honey flowed down his face as he fought to remove it. The sound of angry bees filled his ears swiftly followed by sharp stings.
Bees slithered down his tunic, seeking the warmth and the dark. He flailed about with his arms, trying to remove the skep, to avoid more stings and to fight whatever danger lurked in the darkness. He took a step backwards and tumbled over a log, falling with a crash, letting go of his sword as he fell.
Before he could remove the skep, someone stamped on his sword arm, and grabbed his axe from his belt. He pulled the skep from his head. The sound of angry buzzing in his ears was almost unbearable.
‘Stay completely still, Dane, if you want to live,’ a woman’s clear precise voice said, cutting through the incessant buzzing of the bees. ‘You are our prisoners. Surrender.’
Ansithe concentrated on the warrior before her and not on her rapidly dwindling supply of arrows. Unlike the others who had burst into the hall through the front doors, this warrior did not cower when the skep had hit him, but instead seemed impervious to the bee stings. Her younger sister’s quick thinking had relieved him of his sword and axe, but he remained the most dangerous.
Her heart thundered and her fingers trembled on the bow. Any mistake and this fragile victory would vanish like a puff of smoke.
She pulled back further on the bowstring and tried to get the right angle for her shot. ‘Surrender, Dane.’
‘I am no Dane, but a Northman!’
Ansithe wet her lips and started to count to ten. The action steadied her. ‘Whoever you are, you have no choice.’
‘I beg to differ. There is always a choice.’ The warrior heaved the skep away from him and towards her. Ansithe jumped to one side. It landed with a thump and rolled harmlessly away, but he dodged the arrow she loosened.
She frantically snatched another arrow out of her quiver and set it to the bow. Five arrows remained from the originally twenty.
‘You missed,’ Ansithe said, fixing her gaze on the final skep balanced on the rafter just over him. She breathed easier. She had a better target than his throat. ‘Do not make me angry.’
‘Should I fear your anger?’
‘Yes.’ Ansithe restarted her counting and tried to steady her arm. She had one chance to get the ransom money she required and this warrior was not going to take it from her. ‘Surrender and I will endeavour to keep you and your companions alive.’
‘I’ve heard that lie before.’
‘The truth.’
Moir rubbed an arm across his eyes, clearing the bees and the honey from his sight. The bee stings were sheer agony, far worse in ways than a sword cut. He groaned. His throw of the skep had fallen far short of his intended target. And his charges remained in danger. A lone woman with dark auburn hair faced him, seemingly oblivious to the angry bees flying around, with a quivering arrow notched in her bow. The air seemed tinged with magic and enchantment. Could she truly bend bees to her will?
Moir squinted in the gloom. His adversary wore some sort of netting over her face, obscuring her features and making his shot difficult. No witchcraft, but foresight. She was a formidable, if an unconventional, foe, but human.
Someone else would have plotted this plan of attack. Some man must have tracked their movements. Saxon, particularly Mercian, women were unskilled in the arts of war. The back of his neck tensed. Had Guthmann Bloodaxe, a leading Danish jaarl and his sworn enemy, discovered him? He dismissed the notion as pure fancy.
‘Where are your warriors? I will speak with them. Arrange terms,’ he offered.
She gave a contemptuous wave of her hand. ‘I have no need of warriors. See, I conquered your comrades.’
His fingers inched towards where his dagger lay concealed in his boot. He hated harming a woman, but she’d left him no choice. His duty was to keep Bjartr alive and return him to his father. If there were no warriors here, then he could still win.
‘Don’t make me kill you. Remain alive.’
He inwardly smiled. This would-be Valkyrie didn’t have the stomach for killing. Her bravado was smoke and mirrors like the soothsayer had used back when he was a young boy. He breathed easier.
He palmed the dagger, and took a step forward, towards her. He could end this fight and provide Bjartr with a victory. Then they could return to the camp and he could finally gain his promised lands. All he had to do was reach the Valkyrie, wrestle that bow from her hands, then...
An arrow whizzed past his left ear, so close it ruffled his hair and landed with a thud in the back wall, knocking another bee skep to the floor which rolled to come to rest against his shin.
‘Ha—you missed.’ He gave the skep a contemptuous kick.
‘I beg to differ. I would keep still and drop that knife if I were you.’
Bees crawled up his legs, getting into his boots and the bare skin under his trousers. Several landed on his wrist, stinging him fiercely, making it difficult to hang on to the dagger. He tossed the knife, but it landed to the right of the Valkyrie.
‘Quite an amusing game we are playing, isn’t it?’ she remarked. ‘My turn again? Or are you willing to accept defeat?’
A bitter laugh escaped his throat. The Valkyrie was a better shot than he had imagined. And her planning had been exceptional. She’d known precisely where the arrow would land. A worthy foe indeed.
She jerked her head towards a bulky shape on the ground. ‘You don’t want to end up like that one. Do you still consider I need warriors to hide behind?’
A corpse with an arrow protruding from its throat lay on the floor a few feet from him. Moir whispered a prayer to the gods that it was not Bjartr. He’d given his oath to Bjartr’s father to protect him and, unlike Moir’s father, Moir kept such oaths. ‘You have convinced me. A woman like you has no need of warriors to guide her hand.’
‘Sense from a heathen. Will wonders never cease?’ She muttered something else, something he failed to catch.
‘Who?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper towards the jumble of bodies when the silence except for the buzzing of the bees became oppressive. ‘Who died? Can anyone tell me?’
Bjartr called out the man’s name from where he lay somewhere to Moir’s right. Moir breathed easier. Bjartr remained alive. He could still keep his promise to Andvarr.
The dead man was the one who had consistently undermined Moir’s counsel and had encouraged Bjartr in his more reckless acts, the one who had called Moir a coward earlier.
‘Drop all your remaining weapons.’ The Valkyrie’s ice-cold voice echoed around the hall. ‘You have more. I can see them.’
Moir pulled his eating knife from his belt and dropped it to the floor. ‘Will you kill us in cold blood? You have already captured all of us.’
‘You have surrendered. That is possibly enough for now.’ She nodded.
At her signal, someone brought in a smouldering torch. The light cast shadows over the tapestries which lined the walls.
He groaned. They were surrounded by a group of women, old men and young boys armed with swords, sticks and bows, not warriors. They all wore some sort of netting or thin cloth over their faces. One of the boys gathered up the discarded weapons. The torch was tossed on the fire, creating a thick smoke to subdue the bees.
He sank to the ground and tried to plan a way to escape. He might have surrendered for now, but not for ever. He would return his jaarl’s only son safe and sound. In doing so, he would finally erase the stain from his family’s name and regain the honour his father had casually thrown away.
‘You are our prisoners,’ the woman with the auburn hair said and her voice echoed ominously above the buzzing. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them, ready for binding. Unless you would prefer an early date of reckoning with your heathen gods like your friend here.’ She gestured to a couple of the boys, who came towards them with lengths of rope.
Moir and the others did as she asked.
‘Who is the leader here?’ she called out. ‘I will parley with him and him alone.’
‘I... I...’ Bjartr’s face was streaked with tears. He cradled his arm as if it were broken. He made no move to resist the ropes which were being placed around his wrists. ‘Moir Mimirson speaks for us, Lady Valkyrie.’
‘Do you intend on killing us eventually?’ Moir pressed, grinding his teeth. And he would remind Bjartr of his words later. Bjartr had issued his last command. Moir had no intention of releasing the responsibility Bjartr had ceded to him lightly. ‘Or merely torturing us?’
‘Interesting question.’ Her teeth shone white in the light. ‘I shall have to ponder it.’
‘Answer now,’ he insisted. ‘We deserve to know our fate. What are you going to do to us?’
The woman tilted her head to one side as if she was listening for something. Satisfied the bees were calm, she removed the cloth from her face. Her features were strong but regular. There was something in the way her jaw was set. If the Mercian army had had warriors like her, the Great Horde would never have won any land.
‘At the moment you and your companions have some worth to me—alive.’ Her lips curved in a predatory smile. ‘I have, however, been known to change my mind.’
‘Who are you? My friend swears you belong to the handmaidens of Odin, the ones who pluck worthy warriors from the battlefields.’
Shocked laughter from her helpers rippled around the room.
The Valkyrie moved her chin upwards in a gesture of defiance. Her eyes were almost catlike and an unusual greenish-brown. She might not be conventionally pretty, but she was striking, the sort of a woman who would haunt a man’s passionate dreams if he were given to dreaming.
‘Ansithe, second daughter of Wulfgar, the ealdorman of Baelle Heale manor where you have trespassed. And you are, Dane?’
‘Moir, son of Mimir. We are from the North country, not from Denmark, Lady Ansithe.’
There was no need to explain about Bjartr or his parentage, not until Moir was certain he could keep his foolish charge safe. Far worse enemies than the Mercian woman who stood before them lurked, waiting to pounce. This woman clearly sought to keep them alive...for now.
‘What are your plans for us?’ he asked, trying to wipe the remaining bees from his face with his shoulder. ‘Can you share them in more detail?’
She coughed, pointedly. ‘We intend to trade you to the commander of the Danes, Guthmann Ulfson.’
The helpers who had bound them stamped their feet in approval.
Moir’s heart sunk. Guthmann Ulfson, better known and feared as Guthmann Bloodaxe. After Moir’s interference in Guthmann’s ‘sport with the ladies’ as he termed it, Guthmann had demanded Moir’s head. Bjartr’s father, Moir’s overlord, had sought to diffuse the situation by sending him to act as steward to his only child as he toured the lands of Mercia to find the correct spot for the hall Andvarr planned to build, predicting Guthmann would have forgotten about their altercation by the time Moir returned. Privately, Moir had his doubts that Guthmann would forget the fierce slash to his face any time soon.
If he was going to get Andvarr’s son back unscathed, he was going to have to disappoint this Valkyrie made flesh. There would be no meeting with Guthmann Bloodaxe. No prisoner exchange. No wholesale torture followed by an agonisingly slow death.
He willed Bjartr to keep his fool mouth shut about his importance as a hostage. If this woman considered them unimportant to Guthmann, matters would be far easier.
‘What do you think you will get in return for us? What can this Dane, this Guthmann, give you?’ he asked, feigning ignorance of his arch-enemy. ‘Danes dislike parting with gold for no good reason.’
‘My father. My sister’s husband. They are being held hostage by him.’
A knife twisted in Moir’s gut. His fabled luck had finally run out. The Valkyrie had every reason to trade them to the Danish commander and Guthmann had every reason to end their lives or at least torture them until they were little better than dead men walking. Moir’s promise to Andvarr that he’d ensure his son became a leader was little more than a hollow boast.
He should have listened to his instinct, rather than permitting a few jibes about his courage and relationship to his jaarl to goad him into inaction. He should have forced Bjartr to relinquish the command of the felag to him days ago when the guide vanished and they’d become lost in the woods.
He clenched his fists and the ropes dug into his wrist. He could not undo the past, no matter how much he might wish to. He had learnt that lesson well years ago.
‘Are you certain you will get them back?’
Her eyes flashed green fire. ‘For a sum, they have been promised. Word arrived two days ago.’
Moir concentrated on keeping his face carefully blank. He pitied her father and brother-in-law. Few emerged from Guthmann’s care intact. But that was not his concern.
‘Are you truly that naïve? Guthmann will eat you alive.’

Chapter Two (#ua22c4c32-9e12-54de-84d2-1aae64e50835)
Ansithe struggled to keep her bow steady.
Even with honey dripping down his face, the tall warlord was far too handsome and confident for her liking. It was as if he expected to get his way simply by speaking in that deep rich voice. Maybe women melted before him, but not her. The Danish warlord eat her alive? She had stopped listening to tales told around the hearth years ago.
‘Issuing orders already, Northman? From where I stand, I have an arrow trained at your throat and you have what? Your silver tongue?’
‘I use what I can.’
‘I can think of other uses for your tongue.’
His mouth quirked upwards into a half-smile. ‘Can you, Valkyrie? I generally like to know a woman for longer before putting my tongue to alternative uses, but for you I am prepared to make an exception.’
Ansithe’s cheeks heated at his heavy-lidded glance. There was no mistaking his double meaning. And he was doing it deliberately to make her squirm. She knew what she looked like in this old gown which she’d chosen for the freedom of movement it gave her rather than because it enhanced any of her meagre charms. ‘I am warning you, Northman. I am not in the mood to banter.’
‘Pity. We could have fun.’ He made an expansive gesture with his arm. ‘Put your bow away. The Danes will not pay any gold for our corpses.’
‘Why do you fear Guthmann Bloodaxe?’ Ansithe asked, keeping her bow steady and the arrow still trained at his throat.
‘I don’t fear him any more than I fear you.’
She kept her face impassive. The man was trying to save his skin. But she’d spotted his startled reaction to Guthmann’s name. Good. It meant she might get more for him from the jaarl. ‘I’m pleased you have sense enough to fear me.’
In the faint light, she slowly counted again. Six men alive and one dead. Despite her older sister Cynehild’s warnings of total disaster, she had managed to best them, even though she had had to destroy most of her beehives to do it.
She had done more than just drive them off; she had captured them all. None had escaped to raise the alarm with any waiting band of marauding warriors. How many warriors had accomplished such a feat? Her father would surely have to admit that she was as good as any son when he returned.
‘You have achieved a victory, true,’ he said in a gentle voice as if he were soothing a fractious horse. ‘But victories have a way of slipping through fingers and vanishing to nothing if proper precautions are not taken. This is doubly true in this case when the inexperienced lead.’
‘You lie. The victory is mine and will remain such until the end of time. You are my prisoners to do with as I will,’ Ansithe said in a voice that carried to all parts of the hall.
‘Only as long as we remain under your control and alive.’
Her temper rose. Was this man implying that she was less than honourable? It would be a Northern trick to slaughter prisoners, not a Mercian one. ‘I will keep you alive to exchange for my father and brother-in-law. I give you my word.’
‘You are personally acquainted with the Danish commander, then?’ he asked. ‘Do you know what he is like? How many men he has killed? How many women?’
‘I have not had the misfortune to meet him.’ A prickle ran down her back. She had heard the whispers about how he’d emptied villages and abused women. But she had to believe he’d treat her father and brother-in-law like the valuable prisoners they were...except he had already sent Leofwine’s finger back to them, adorned with his signet ring. Cynehild had taken it very badly. ‘However, Guthmann Bloodaxe must know Mercians do not part with gold for corpses either.’
‘Guthmann is an untrustworthy snake,’ the Northman said patiently. ‘He will cheat you and then he will punish you for being arrogant. You don’t want that, Lady... Ansithe.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I have seen what he does to women and the pleasure he takes in his sport.’
There was something in his voice which gave her pause. If Guthmann’s reputation was far from savoury in the North, it was not her concern. ‘Tell me something new.’
‘Guthmann doesn’t expect you to raise the ransom,’ the Northman continued. ‘He seeks to use your failure as an excuse to attack you and gain these lands. You will not recover your father by sending my men to him. You will lose everything when you seek to parley with him.’
Ansithe drew herself up to her full height and met his ice-blue gaze without permitting her own to blink. ‘That is my decision to make, not yours, Northman who speaks my language better than I’d have credited.’
‘Other ways exist, other opportunities to do what you want without endangering all you hold dear. Listen to me. Trust me.’ His voice lowered to a whisper, one which made her think of soft fur piled high and velvet darkness. His gaze lingered on her body. ‘You are not naturally a warrior. Mercian women, particularly women as stunning as you, are not trained in the arts of war. You are used as prizes to be won. I’ve learnt that much in my time on this fair island.’
She ground her teeth. As if flattery could make her change her mind. She knew her defects. No one would ever think her stunning. ‘I’m not most women.’
‘Something we can agree on. I have never encountered a Mercian woman like you before.’
Never encountered a woman like her before.
She knew that damning phrase from her father. Normally said with a curl of his lip after she had done something he found particularly trying. Ansithe concentrated on the rushes and filled her lungs with air, trying to rid herself of the familiar sense of complete inadequacy.
Everything had worked out beautifully. Even Cynehild, who had watched from the shadows, was going to have to admit that Ansithe had accomplished something beyond all imagining and prediction. She was the heroine. Finally, she was the saviour of her family instead of the near destroyer.
The knots in her stomach eased. ‘You have little idea what I am.’
‘Perhaps I should like to learn.’
His gaze raked her form again, but this time she remembered her height, gangly arms and less-than-well-endowed chest. She’d spent years waiting for the luscious curves her sisters and mother enjoyed to appear, but they remained conspicuous by their absence. Then, one day, she’d decided that they should not matter. Curves would not help her scrub floors, keep bees or do any of the myriad other tasks she needed to do after her mother’s death. She would be practical and capable, instead of waiting to be rescued by some handsome kind-hearted warrior.
‘I know what is best for my family, for my people, for these lands,’ she said and concentrated on standing erect. ‘I defended them well today.’
‘Don’t be too proud to consider alternatives—that was one of the first lessons my jaarl taught me,’ the Northman continued in that soft persuasive voice of his. ‘Ways which will be more beneficial to you and these lands are available.’
Ansithe curled her fists and ignored his rich tones. ‘Six Northern warriors must surely equal two Mercians. And I am sure he will take some interest in you. You know his name.’
‘It is possible to know a name and not know the person,’ he continued with a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘What is going to stop him from simply attacking your estates? He will see you are a company of women rather than trained warriors capable of a fight.’
‘I presume you are trained, and yet we defeated you.’
The Northern warlord winced. He slowly looked around the hall, in search of more malleable prey. ‘Do you make the final decision?’
Ansithe kept her gaze away from Cynehild and her disapproving frown. No doubt her younger sister, Elene, also watched the exchange with round eyes from her vantage point. ‘From where I stand, I have earned that right.’
‘Then I will have to try harder to persuade you that you are making a mistake, before you compound your error and lose everything while gaining little.’ Moir’s mouth quirked upwards as if he was anticipating the task of persuading her. ‘I come from the North. I do not bow to the Danish King. Return us to the Northmen. You will get a better price for us if you deal with jaarls from the North than the Danes.’
‘But Guthmann holds my family. All I care about is their freedom.’
The annoying man gave a pointed cough. ‘The jaarl Andvarr comes from the North. Send word to him. Send me.’
Send him? As if he’d return. He would leave his men behind and free himself. He had not led from the front, but had entered after the battle had begun.
Giving in to her anger, she marched up to him and put the point of her arrow against his throat. Although she was tall, she still only reached his nose. ‘What would you have me do? Let you go on the whisper of a promise?’
He did not even flinch, but stared at her with those icy eyes of his, which seemed to peer deep down in her soul and ferret out all her secrets. ‘It would be a start. I give my word to return. I do not abandon my men.’
The man’s insolence took her breath away. He had lost. She’d won. Now he expected her to simply let him and his men walk away as if nothing had happened.
‘Forgive me if I distrust your word.’
‘A pity. My suggestion is the best way out of this impasse.’
‘Stop trying me. If you continue to badger me, I will simply shoot you and stop your mouth that way.’
His amused laugh rang out. ‘There are other ways to stop mouths, Valkyrie. More pleasurable ways for the both of us, particularly if they involve tongues.’
Ansithe stared at him in astonishment. The infuriating man was flirting with her. Flirting when she had just made him a prisoner and threatened to kill him. As if she was some feather-brained woman who would melt after receiving a little masculine praise.
‘Ansithe.’ Cynehild’s voice resounded in the hall. ‘The Northman knows he is our prisoner. Do not undo the good work you have done today by losing your temper and shooting the leader. And, Northman, cease your twisting of words, or else my sister will shoot you. She killed one of your men today. Don’t make it two.’
The Northman glanced between Ansithe and her sister. His mouth became a thin white line. ‘I take your advice, Lady, and will speak no more of it.’
Ansithe reluctantly lowered her bow and collected her wits. As much as she would have liked to despatch the arrogant Northman, she had to keep her mind on the ultimate prize—the safe return of her father and brother-in-law.
She signalled to Owain the Plough to escort the prisoners to the byre and to keep a watch over them. The lad practically grew three inches as he ordered the stable lads and the swineherd about.
‘A pleasure to encounter you, Lady Valkyrie.’ Moir looked her up and down, making her aware of how much her filthy gown with its new tears revealed of her limbs. Her hands itched to straighten her skirts and scrub the soot marks from her face. His slow smile transformed him. ‘I look forward to our next meeting with eager anticipation.’
Ansithe deliberately turned away. His insolent look was designed to make her uncomfortable. Her grandmother had told her often enough that it was a good thing she was clever because she’d never be pretty. And Eadweard, her late husband, had confirmed it on his deathbed—he’d married her for her skill at household management and dower lands, and not for her appearance.
‘I look forward to seeing my father’s face again.’


Ansithe stood by the door of the makeshift prison, the tumbled-down byre where they kept cows in the winter, carrying a tallow lamp, bandages and ignoring the great crows of doubt fluttering in her stomach.
She’d changed into her new dark blue woollen gown, fastening the woven belt shot with gold that Eadweard had given her the only Eastertide they had shared. It was an ensemble which proclaimed her status as a daughter of an ealdorman, rather than some raggedy beggar who could be cajoled into letting the prisoners go free for the price of a kiss.
Father Oswald, the priest, had reached for his rosary beads and flatly refused to tend to the heathens, claiming they had murdered far too many of his brothers when she confronted him with the situation. Ansithe wanted to ask if it was a very Christian thing to do—refusing to treat the wounded. But for now, she would do what she could and worry about enlisting his help later. Honey, not vinegar, would have to be used if she needed it. Any hint of a raised voice from her always made him click his beads louder and mutter audible prayers for forbearance.
‘We treat them with honour, Elene. As the byre is secure, we can loosen their bonds, tend their wounds and ensure they are adequately fed. We keep them alive until we can trade them for Father and Leofwine,’ Ansithe said before Elene refused to enter the byre. She drew a deep breath. ‘We treat them like we hope Father is being treated.’
The words were said more to settle Elene than because she believed it. A man who was willing to sever a finger was more than capable of doing far worse to his hostages. Ansithe straightened her back. Then they had to be better than him.
‘Father will be well, won’t he?’ Elene asked, clinging tighter to the loaves of bread she carried. ‘We will get him back, I mean.’
‘I am doing everything in my power to get him back and if that means tending these men to the best of my ability, I will do it.’
Elene’s face paled even further. For a breath, Ansithe feared her sister would faint, but she rallied. Her fingers clenched white around the loaves. ‘I understand, Ansithe. We pretend they are honourable men like we know Father to be. I wish I were as brave as you.’
‘Not brave,’ Ansithe whispered and peered into the gloom of the byre where the Northmen sat with their ankles and hands bound. ‘Too scared of the consequences if I fail.’
A few of the warriors groaned, cradling vicious-looking bee stings. The warlord she’d clashed with earlier, Moir, looked up from where he sat next to the warrior whose leg had been caught in the wild-boar trap. His eyes blazed cold fury before he concealed his feelings beneath a bland smile.
At Ansithe’s gesture, Elene put the bread down and backed away. Several of the men fell on the loaves like starving animals, ripping it apart with their teeth. Moir and the warrior with the injured leg remained where they were seated.
Ansithe lifted her tallow lamp. The light made strange shifting shadows on the stone walls of the byre and highlighted the chiselled planes of Moir’s face.
Moir put his hand to his eyes, shielding them against the light from her lamp. ‘Why have you come here? To gloat? We are defeated men and cannot harm you or your people. Grant us dignity if nothing else, Lady Valkyrie.’
‘The name is Lady Ansithe.’
‘The question remains the same whatever the name used.’
His voice held more than a hint of tiredness. He appeared far older than this morning when she had seen him trampling on the edge of the water meadow. With an effort, he rose and positioned himself so that he was a barrier in front of his cowering men as if he wanted to protect them from more pain or hurt.
‘You have wounded. They need attending to and you obviously require food,’ she said, using the sort of voice she’d used when she had had to cajole her late husband into taking the medicine he’d usually just rejected.
‘You are the main cause of the wounds.’
‘Guthmann will not release my father and brother-in-law if I bring him corpses.’ Ansithe gave a tight smile as she remembered the uncomfortable conversation she’d had with Cynehild about it. ‘One should treat prisoners with honour and respect. That is the Mercian way.’ She lifted the lamp higher. The shadows danced on the walls. ‘We are not animals or torturers. We leave murdering in cold blood to the Heathen Horde.’
‘Not only beautiful, but with a kind and generous heart. Truly a formidable combination.’
‘Luckily I don’t have to worry about other people’s opinions.’ Ansithe forced a laugh. Knowing her flaws and limitations had saved her when she first married. Several of her husband’s retainers had started paying her extravagant compliments and waylaying her in corridors. Later she’d learnt that they had acted at her stepson’s instigation as he’d wanted to show his father how untrustworthy she was. ‘Yours or anyone else’s.’
He gave a crooked smile, softening the hard planes of his face. He was the sort of man who would have maidens stammering and blushing if he as much as glanced in their direction. She blinked and concentrated. He was her captive and the means by which she’d free her father.
‘You dislike me speaking the truth. I wonder why you seek refuge in denying it,’ he said with a lilting laugh in his voice. His accent, while distinctive, was not hard on her ears.
She gave a ticking noise in the back of her throat and made a show of looking over the prisoners, making a great sweeping motion with her lamp. ‘Your days of preying on innocent Mercians are over. That is a truth we can both agree on.’
His eyes became piercing slits of ice. ‘Have I ever preyed on innocents?’
‘What do you call what happened today? A friendly gesture?’
‘I went to save my comrades. They were starving as you can see.’
There was something in his voice which made her pause. He had come in last, after the fighting was nearly done. To save his comrades or ensure that they succeeded in their attack?
‘My home was attacked without warning. You claim leadership of the very warband who attacked it. And we Mercians have a reputation of giving hospitality towards strangers, but a ferocity towards those who would harm us.’
She firmed her mouth. It was something she needed to remember, instead of being lulled into doing something she’d regret by the silky soft sound of his voice.
‘Release us from the ropes which bind us.’ He held up his hands. ‘I pledge my word. We surrendered. We will not attack you again. What more do you require besides my word? My word is a sacred oath. Why would I wish to break that?’
‘The word of a pagan warrior is reliable? I learn something new each day.’ She forced a smile and ignored the sweat dripping down her back. Could Northmen smell fear like wolves could? ‘I have yet to see any reason why I should trust a Northman.’
‘Not just any man, but me.’
‘Ansithe,’ Elene whispered. ‘Maybe he speaks the truth. You never waited to hear what they wanted. You simply fired your arrows.’
‘There, you see, your sister speaks the truth.’
Again, the smile to make silly women melt combined with the intimate note in his voice which caused a warm pulse to go down the back of her spine.
‘The man I shot knocked down the door with an axe and attacked my sister.’
‘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 (#ua22c4c32-9e12-54de-84d2-1aae64e50835)
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?’
His troop of men obligingly laughed.
Ansithe ground her teeth. Did the man think she was somehow mentally deficient? The swords she’d recovered were far finer than anything her father or brother-in-law possessed. Their axes alone would command a higher price than the gold Cedric currently held in front of her nose. ‘I can assure you I know the difference. And they are my prisoners, not to be paraded in front of every fool who comes here proclaiming he knows best.’
He made a tutting noise. ‘I meant no offence, my lady. I know from bitter experience that you can be overeager at times and more than willing to believe others’ fantasies and fables.’
Ansithe crossed her arms. He made her sound like an impulsive puppy, rather than a grown woman. ‘We are quite busy here as you might imagine. These Northern warriors will command a high ransom, once we send word to their jaarl.’
‘Getting a ransom from a Northman can be worse than getting blood from a stone. I have had experience with this.’ His smile increased in smugness as he jangled the tiny purse again. ‘Go on. Take it. I would hardly like to think such lovely ladies as yourselves were being troubled with such ruffians. It should go some way towards getting your father released.’
‘Unless it goes all the way.’ She pushed the meagre purse away with impatient fingers. Cedric was the sort who’d sell his grandmother if he thought it would be worthwhile. ‘Guthmann demands a steep price for my father and Leofwine’s release and is not prepared to compromise.’
‘I risk my men if I were to transport the prisoners to the summer gathering. There must be something in it for me and my men, my lady.’
Summer gathering. It was where any prisoners would be exchanged. If she could get the Northmen there herself, she could command a much better price for them. Ansithe clenched her fists. She should have considered it long before now. Her father and Leofwine were even likely to be there. It was the way to keep Guthmann and his men from Baelle Heale. All she had to do was work out a way to get there, without involving Cedric and without enabling any of the prisoners to find an escape route.
‘Thank you for the suggestion, but everything is well in hand.’
Cedric’s Adam’s apple worked up and down. ‘I was prepared to help. Out of friendship for Wulfgar, your father.’
‘For a price...’ Ansithe pasted on a smile. ‘You do nothing for free, Lord Cedric. Forgive me if I think your charges are extortionate, but I respectfully decline.’
His florid complexion became that bit more like ox blood. ‘Seeing as you are convinced you are capable, I will leave you to it. I hope it works well for you, my lady.’
His tone left her in little doubt that he didn’t think it would.
‘It will.’ She gestured towards the gate. ‘I look forward to welcoming you when we have the feast to celebrate my father’s return. Unless you wish to take my prisoners by force?’
‘That would be a Northman’s trick, not mine, Lady Ansithe. I uphold the law.’ Cedric turned his horse around and rode out of the yard, swiftly followed by his men.
‘I heard everything from the hall. Are you sure you did the right thing? Leofwine needs to be rescued,’ Cynehild said in an urgent undertone, coming to stand by her after the last horse departed. Her blonde hair was unbound and she’d wrapped a fur about her body.
‘We agreed they were my prisoners and my responsibility,’ Ansithe said. ‘You’ve seen their collection of weapons. They are no outlaws, but warriors. Someone will pay gold for the weapons and for them. Far more than Cedric ever would. And his men would be spies, working against us. We’ll take them to the summer gathering and sell them there. Father and Leofwine are bound to be there as well. It stands to reason.’
Cynehild thoughtfully regarded the byre. ‘Without someone like Cedric’s warriors to guard them, how will you be able to get them to the meeting place without them escaping? Owain the Plough is hopeless.’
Ansithe let out an exasperated huff. Cynehild made it seem as though she hadn’t spent most of the night trying to work out a plan. ‘We don’t have to decide that yet, except it won’t be Cedric or his warriors.’
Cynehild rolled her eyes. ‘Have you ever thought that he might be doing it to impress you? He does want a betrothal with you, Ansithe.’
‘It is my dower lands Cedric wants. The income is a decent one.’
‘He swore it was you he wanted. People can grow to care for each other like Leofwine and I did. Seeing his excellent qualities took me until little Wulfgar was born. You should give marriage with a younger man a chance.’
Ansithe stopped listening to the lecture. Cynehild currently possessed an overly romantic heart. Simply because Cynehild had fallen in love with her husband after she gave birth to little Wulfgar did not mean every woman did. Ansithe put her hand on her flat stomach. Not that her womb had ever shown any sign of quickening. Her husband’s dying words about her shrivelled womb still hurt. And she could never confess the ache to Cynehild. The last time they had confided in each other was before their mother died.
‘I need to guard these prisoners until Owain can relieve me...unless you care to do it.’
Cynehild blanched. ‘You need to stop being so like a man, Ansithe. A woman’s place is in the home with children about her feet. Think about that while you are guarding those brutes.’
Ansithe sniffed the air. ‘Guarding beats burning the porridge.’


The door of the byre swung open, revealing Lady Ansithe carrying a large bowl of porridge. Moir’s stomach obligingly rumbled. He had forgotten how good something simple like porridge could smell.
It had gone very quiet after the horses departed and Moir had begun to wonder what was happening. If Lady Ansithe had been persuaded to sell them to the nasal-voiced Mercian warrior after all...
‘I have brought you and your men food.’
‘It will be most welcome.’ He took the bowl from her and passed it to the first of his men who drank some of the gruel before passing it on to the next man. ‘Most unexpected, Lady Valkyrie.’
‘I am not sure I like that name any more than I did a little while ago.’
‘You should. Where I come from it is a high compliment.’
‘Have you known other warrior women?’
Unbidden the memory of his mother teaching him how to hold a sword and swing properly rose to the forefront of his mind. ‘Yes. My mother’s skill with the sword took my breath away. More than equal to any man’s.’
‘What happened to her?’
Moir banished the unwanted memory. She had been a warrior until she met his father and had believed in his dreams, dreams which ultimately destroyed her. ‘Unimportant. That is all in the past. I live in the present.’
‘Living in the present sounds like something which is easier to say than to do.’ Lady Ansithe nodded, accepting his words. ‘Who are Valkyries, precisely?’
‘Odin’s handmaidens. Brave and honourable, but fierce battle maidens. They choose the warriors who will grace his table. All men admire them and seek to win their favour.’
‘And obtaining a seat at Odin’s table is something warriors long for?’
‘In my world, a seat at Odin’s table is the highest honour any warrior can achieve. For when Ragnarok arrives, Odin’s warriors will play their part in saving the world from total destruction.’ He frowned. ‘It is like achieving entry to heaven from what I know of the Mercian religion.’
‘I see.’
‘Some women from the North seek to emulate Odin’s handmaidens. Yesterday, you achieved that status. A skald should compose a saga about your exploit.’
Lady Ansithe dipped her head so all he saw was the crown of auburn braids. ‘You seek to flatter rather than to mock. My sister thought this, but I suspect an ulterior motive.’
He gritted his teeth. He left with everyone or not at all. He refused to betray his men like his father had done. Loyalty to the felag showed he was a different sort of man.
‘I do nothing of the sort,’ he said. ‘I heard you speaking to that Mercian, declining to sell us for what you implied was a paltry sum. I appreciate what you did for men you have every reason to hate and fear. We are in your debt. I firmly believe all of us wish we could turn the sands of time backwards. An impossibility, I know, but the desire is there.’
‘You heard everything?’
‘Enough to know you refused to sell us to a man with a nasal whine. He sounded the sort who will always seek to chisel and chip to get the most profit.’
‘My neighbour is notoriously tight-fisted. He would not give me the best price for you. He declared you were outlaws, possibly even wolfheads, rather than warriors who would command a decent price.’
‘But you remain convinced we are who we say we are. Not a worthless band of outcasts fleeing from justice.’ He leant his head back against the wall. A start, a glimmer of hope that there might be a way of convincing her to abandon her plan of sending them to Guthmann.
‘Can you prove it?’
‘Our swords and axes prove that we are who we say are, not some ragtag gang of outlaws.’
‘Any man might pick up an abandoned sword and carry it.’ Lady Ansithe tapped her fingers together. ‘What else?’
‘We have our brooches. My jaarl knows which ones are ours. More importantly, he knows me. If you’d grant me permission to take—’
Ansithe slammed her fists together. ‘You go nowhere on your own until the ransom is paid. Until my father and brother-in-law have been freed.’
‘Accompany me to where the two armies meet. My jaarl is there. You and I together in the wilderness. Alone together.’
Her tongue came out and wet her lips, turning them to a sunrise pink. The action made him ache to taste them. He ignored the sensation. He required a willing woman in his arms, not a Valkyrie.
‘What say you?’ he whispered. ‘You and I out in the forest with the stars for our roof. The breeze at our back. A wood fire to guard against wolves when we stop.’
‘Why...why should I do that?’
‘It is the best way if you wish to get the full value for your prisoners. My jaarl is at the Mercian court. He will be there for the peace negotiations. It is where we were headed when we became...sidetracked.’ He muttered a curse. ‘The bee stings addled my brains yesterday. I should have thought of this. Explained it to you properly.’
A sudden great ache to see what was beyond the Forest of Arden filled Ansithe, making her soul hurt. An adventure, finally. Something to prove she was more than a dried-up husk.
A noise made her turn and peer out into the yard. The assistant swineherd hummed as he returned from his breakfast and the maids poured out the slops. Peaceful people doing everyday things, not warriors or great lords, but people who depended on her.
Going with this Northman anywhere was an impossibility. She had a duty to these people. She had destroyed their certainty once through her thoughtless actions and she refused to do that again. She was no longer an overly excited girl, but a mature widow. She knew her actions always had consequences.
‘You seek to spin fantasies to tempt me.’
A smile tugged at his mouth. ‘I’d prefer to be in your dreams.’
Ansithe pressed her lips together. He could have no idea about her dreams last night. Or that having seen his compassion towards his men, she had started to like him, rather than fearing him. ‘I rarely dream.’
She took a step backwards towards the clear blue light of morning instead of the gloom which could be night. Her feet tangled and tumbled over the doorframe and she landed on her bottom.
He reached out and put his strong fingers about hers, pulling her to standing. Their eyes locked. He was so close that she could see the beat of his heart in the hollow of his throat, the faint sprinkling of golden stubble on his jaw and the network of silver scars from previous battles. Her breath caught and she knew she should move away, but her feet appeared rooted to the spot.
‘My lady,’ the swineherd called, breaking the spell.
‘I will leave you to your breakfast,’ she said in a voice far too breathless for her liking. She curtsied, then pulled the door to and quickly locked it behind her with shaking hands. Then she whirled and ran as if a demon was chasing her.
Moir’s voice floated after her through the door. ‘Until we meet again, I will live in hope and anticipation of the day we do, Lady Ansithe.’

Chapter Four (#ua22c4c32-9e12-54de-84d2-1aae64e50835)
‘I have found a way,’ Ansithe announced, hurrying into the hall. She had taken a few breaths to allow her heart to stop pounding and she hoped her cheeks were not as red as she feared they might be. She was simply unsettled and flushed with excitement at the prospect of obtaining her family’s freedom.
Her sisters remained about the table, finishing their breakfast. Her father’s wolfhounds sat under the table, looking hopefully for any scraps that might fall. Cynehild stopped spooning porridge into Wulfgar’s mouth and frowned.
‘Well, don’t you want to hear what it is?’ Ansithe asked.
‘You are going to apologise to Cedric and accept his offer to take the prisoners?’ Cynehild picked up a cloth to wipe the spilled porridge from Wulfgar’s face. ‘Ansithe, I knew you’d do the right and proper thing once you had time to consider.’
‘Cedric was always intent on cheating us out of the full value of the ransom we would receive. I doubt that has changed.’
‘You don’t know that for sure,’ Cynehild said. ‘You only suspected. However, I’m willing to listen to your ideas and see if they are feasible. I know what you were like with the weaving rota before I changed it. You thought you had an excellent scheme, but it didn’t work. My way was better.’
Ansithe ground her teeth. Cynehild seemed to positively delight in making things more difficult. And ever since her return, she had criticised Ansithe’s household management. Never overtly, as that was not Cynehild’s way, but she kept coming up with little ideas which she claimed would make things easier for everyone. Sometimes as with the weaving rota, if Ansithe was being honest, the ideas did work.
What Ansithe worried about was—what if Cynehild decided to stay, rather than Leofwine finding fresh lands as she’d promised would happen? Her father would not have any need for Ansithe’s services then as he’d always said that Cynehild did things in a similar fashion to their late mother, which he would surely prefer.
‘I’m hardly ignorant of the situation,’ Ansithe said when she knew she had her temper under control. ‘All the prisoners made it through the night and they have had their gruel for breakfast. But they are not in a fit state to be moved yet. They need to regain their strength.’
‘Do you think Guthmann will be doing that to Father and my Leofwine?’
‘Let me see.’ Ansithe pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, pretending to concentrate for a long heartbeat. Then she opened them wide. ‘No idea, Cynehild. Nor do you.’
‘If they escape from you, we will have gone through this for nothing. How are you going to contact Guthmann? Have you considered that?’
‘Cynehild,’ Elene said before Ansithe gave way to her growing ire. ‘Ansithe said she had found a solution. Can we hear it before you find all the reasons it won’t work? You thought she’d fail with using the bees as weapons as well.’
Ansithe reached down and gave the wolfhounds a pat while Cynehild did a good imitation of having encountered a particularly nasty odour.
‘Of course I will listen, Elene. Our sister sometimes does have useful ideas.’
‘They are wearing brooches which give a clue to their identity, particularly to their jaarl. Cedric mentioned this and Moir Mimirson confirmed it.’
‘And?’ Cynehild crossed her arms. ‘How does that get us any closer to obtaining Leofwine’s freedom?’
‘The prisoners can’t be moved yet without risking their health, but the brooches can go to the summer gathering where the Mercian nobles and the leaders of the Northmen are discussing the treaty. Our new King, once the nobles confirm who he is, can send a guard.’
‘Our new King will send guards?’
After the Battle of Ashdown the old Mercian King had fled the country. Part of the gathering was to confirm who would rule in his stead—either a new king or perhaps merely a lord until the King and his family could return. ‘Why not? Or we can hire them there, having taken his advice. Sell the prisoners’ weapons.’
The silence which punctuated her announcement only ended when Wulfgar grabbed the bowl of porridge from Cynehild’s hand and poured it on top of one of the wolfhounds.
‘Who is going to look after the prisoners for the time it will take you to get to court, arrange for the guards and return?’ Cynehild asked. ‘Owain and the stable lads are liable to forget to do something vital and let the men escape.’
Unfortunately, what Cynehild said made a certain amount of sense. After earlier, she could not trust Owain or the swineherd to look after the prisoners properly for any long period. ‘A tiny insignificant detail which can be solved later.’
‘Not a tiny detail, Ansithe, but an insurmountable obstacle. If the prisoners escape before you return, I will never see my Leofwine again. And I do so want to see him.’ Cynehild put her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.
‘You have the wolfhounds as a deterrent,’ Ansithe offered.
Cynehild pointed to where they were examining the floor in search of more porridge. ‘They’d sooner lick a Northman to death than bite him. It is why you put them in hiding with Ecgbert, Wulfgar and the maids, remember.’
The elder of the two wolfhounds sighed and covered her nose with her paw.
Ansithe made a face. ‘The Northmen don’t know that and I put the dogs away because they were my last line of defence.’
‘You are needed here—not traipsing across the countryside, having an adventure.’
‘One of us needs to go. It is the only way to be certain that the brooches are delivered to the right person and we don’t get cheated,’ Ansithe insisted.
‘I refuse to be parted from Wulfgar. He’s teething and he is always such a poor traveller.’ Cynehild cuddled a squirming Wulfgar closer to her chest. ‘You can have no comprehension of what a trial it was when we had to make our way here. This time I would not be able to lean on Leofwine.’
‘Are you seriously suggesting that I go on bended knee to Cedric? He wants to cheat us, Cynehild.’
‘I will go.’ Elene’s gentle voice resounded in the hall. ‘I can do it. I can take the brooches and the weapons to court.’
‘You are too young,’ Cynehild snapped. ‘I’d no sooner send you than send my baby boy on his own.’
‘You need to stop thinking of me as the baby sister. I am older than you and Ansithe both were when you were married.’ Elene’s mouth became mutinous. ‘I should have been married by now with a great estate of my own to manage if not for the war. One never knows whom I might meet if I go to court. Certainly someone far more eligible than the swineherd!’
‘What do you want, Elene?’
Elene stuck out her substantial bosom. Surely it had only been a few months ago that Elene was chasing after butterflies in the meadow or making a muddle of her weaving. ‘Treat me as though I am a grown woman, instead of a toddler.’
‘Your marriage is something that our father will decide,’ Cynehild said, developing a sudden interest in the rushes.
‘But I might be able to guide him.’
Ansithe exchanged glances with Cynehild. Elene would soon learn about their father and how he used marriage to further his own power, but she had also been their father’s favourite and he might be more inclined to listen to her pleas. Ansithe had had no alternative to Eadweard’s offer. She silently renewed her determination that her father would give way and concede her right to decide her own future after he returned. ‘If Ecgbert accompanies Elene, I am sure all will be well. It is the perfect solution to our present dilemma.’
Elene’s mouth dropped open. ‘You agree with me?’
‘It saves apologising to Cedric.’ Ansithe wrinkled her nose. ‘Besides, I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more to do it properly. Don’t you agree, Cynehild, the insurmountable obstacle has been breached?’
Cynehild shrugged. ‘It seems as though you have a very good scheme.’
Elene took Wulfgar and danced about the room.
‘I will obtain the brooches,’ Ansithe said before Cynehild started issuing orders.
Elene did a twirl which made Wulfgar shout with laughter. ‘Ansithe has won over their leader. He admires her.’
Cynehild grunted.
‘It’s true—he thinks her beautiful.’
‘He respects my archery skill which is different.’ Ansithe concentrated on the rushes and hoped her sisters would miss her burning cheeks. However, Elene nudged Cynehild and they both burst out laughing. ‘What is wrong with that?’
‘Nothing, Ansithe. Your archery skill must indeed be what he admires about you,’ Cynehild said drily.
‘You two are impossible.’ Ansithe retreated from the room with as much dignity as she could muster.


The opportunities to escape were slipping through his fingers as surely as the dirt slipped through the brooch Moir was using as a makeshift shovel. Neither Palni nor Bjartr would be fit enough to climb through the holes in the roof and it was only a matter of time before that Mercian lord returned with an improved offer or, far worse, the Valkyrie sent word to Guthmann. Remaining in this place was no longer an option.
‘Can we do it? Release the stones, wriggle through the gap and steal some horses?’ Palni went over the gist of the plan in a hoarse whisper. ‘I don’t know how far I can walk on this leg. It seems to be swelling even more.’
Moir knew the plan had far too many holes, but it was their best hope. ‘We will obtain the horses. I heard them snuffling last night. Ideally, we’ll find more than three, but if it has to be only one with both you and Bjartr riding while we walk, so be it.’
‘How long do we have? It will take at least a day to dig our way out and that is assuming they fail to notice what we are doing.’
‘I have to try. I refuse to give up. I refuse to accept any member of this felag giving up.’
‘You mean like...’ Palni jerked his thumb towards where Bjartr lay curled up in a small ball. Bjartr had consumed the lion’s share of the gruel this morning and then collapsed down into apathy.
‘He’s been injured.’
‘You are being too soft on him. He needs to grow up, if he wants to lead a felag properly.’ Palni absently rubbed his bandage. ‘Once we are free, how are we going to make our way back to camp? We remain guideless, thanks in no small measure to him.’
‘Find Watling Street and follow it.’ Moir pushed his brooch in. The pin buckled. He cursed under his breath. He’d been fond of that brooch. ‘One step at a time. Freedom first.’
‘Without weapons.’
The stone inched forward. Moir smiled. When his Valkyrie came to check on them tomorrow morning, they would be gone. He sympathised with her plight regarding her family, but his first duty was to his men and his jaarl.
‘Someone comes,’ Hafual, who kept watch through a crack in the door, warned.
Moir rapidly rose and refastened his cloak. He moved so that his bulk would block any casual glance into their prison.
The door swung open. The Valkyrie with her hair arranged in a crown of braids stood like an avenging fury. Behind her the sky blackened. He heard the faint rumble of Thor hitting the clouds with his hammer and tossing lightning bolts. He forced his breathing to be steady. She could not know about their scheme.
‘Is this a good time for a social call? Thor appears to be losing his temper at Loki over something.’
Her brow knitted in confusion. ‘Excuse me?’
‘I refer to the thunderstorm—in my world thunder is Thor striking his hammer.’
‘Are your men well?’
‘They are recovering.’ Moir kept his gaze studiously from the stone at the back of the byre. This storm was his best chance to get the escape preparations complete, ready for the time when they could go. And keeping his men together would ensure that, when the opportunity struck, he could take full advantage of it. Bjartr and Palni were recovering, he knew that in his heart. ‘If I start fearing for them, I will let you know.’
The thunder rumbled again and still she stood there with a quizzical expression on her face. Moir frowned. ‘Is there anything else we can help you with, my lady Valkyrie?’
She held out a slender hand, one which seemed far too fragile to have wielded that bow and arrow with such deadly efficiency. ‘I require your brooches.’
‘Our brooches?’ Moir’s mind raced. He had figured they would have more time before Guthmann arrived. Had he miscalculated? Had the Mercian lord returned?
‘You stated that they would help prove your identity. You wanted to take them to your jaarl.’
He motioned to his men to remain where they were. There was no point in making a break for freedom unless all hope was lost and there was no other way to survive. ‘Yes, I wanted to take them myself. My jaarl will know them.’
‘But your jaarl will know them without you being there to tell him?’
Moir clenched his teeth. ‘True, but—’
‘Either a yes or no.’
‘Has the Mercian lord returned, offering you more money for us?’
The Valkyrie blinked twice. ‘Cedric? He seeks to exploit the situation to his advantage. He will return soon, but he hasn’t so far.’
‘Then why the sudden urgency? Has Guthmann sent another messenger?’ Moir’s brain raced. They could wait until the cover of darkness, then he could carry Palni on his back. The others could support Bjartr. He didn’t want to, but it was better than being sheep led to the slaughter. The gods had truly abandoned them.
‘I am sending my younger sister and steward to court.’ She pressed her hands together, but not before Moir noticed a slight tremor. ‘Your weapons and your brooches will prove your identity. Elene can hire guards from the new Mercian King who will then escort you back to court. A prisoner exchange, I believe it is called.’
Moir revised his opinion on their luck. The gods had smiled on them finally. Perhaps Thor with his thunder was signalling his approval. Perhaps his ordeal was about to end and he could finally regain his family’s honour, the honour his father had thrown away when he’d abandoned his men all those years ago. He frowned and silenced the hope.
Right now, all he knew was that Lady Ansithe was a woman who would listen and make up her own mind. ‘What swayed you?’
‘Guthmann cut off Leofwine’s finger when he could have simply taken the ring off it and sent it. He is even likely to say that you are worthless just to be contrary.’
‘He could do.’
‘I had to consider it. And who my true opponent is.’
He gestured to the men. They unfastened their brooches and dropped them into a pile one by one.
He carefully undid Palni’s, wiped the dirt from it and put on the top of the pile, alongside his. She stooped to pick them up.
‘And your men? Are they truly improving? I could examine them again.’

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