‘War is my life—my whole life,’ Thrand said. ‘It is what I have chosen. There is nothing else for me.’

He stalked away, ending the conversation. Cwenneth stared after him, weighing the jar in her hand.

‘Curiosity can get you killed, Cwenneth,’ she muttered. ‘Treacherous Norse blood runs in his veins. You have to think about saving your life and escaping. Keep away from him. Stop trying to see good where none exists.’

The trouble was a small part of her heart refused to believe it.

AUTHOR NOTE

Some characters just decide they want to be written. Lady Cwenneth was one of those characters. She popped into my head and refused to go. Part of the trouble with writing this book was that the primary source documentation is not very good for Northumbria in the ninth century. It is a mixture of legend and fact. Sometimes the facts masquerade as legends, and sometimes it is the other way around.

One of the inspirations for this story was an archaeological dig in Corbridge, where they discovered a woman buried in the Viking rather than the Christian manner. The Vikings did not settle around the Tyne—rather they had the area as a client kingdom. Just how friendly everyone was towards the Vikings remains an unanswered question.

I do hope you enjoy Cwenneth and Thrand’s story. In case anyone is wondering, Thrand is the grandson of the hero’s stepbrother in TAKEN BY THE VIKING and the sister of the heroine in THE VIKING’S CAPTIVE PRINCESS. This is why he knows how to make the healing balm which Cwenneth uses in the story.

As ever, I love hearing from readers. You can contact me through my website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, my blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, or my publisher. I also have a page on Facebook—Michelle Styles Romance Author—where I regularly post my news. And I do Twitter as @michelleLstyles

Saved by the

Viking Warrior

Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my youngest son, Patrick, who wanted a Viking story because there was more fighting and who passed his A levels and now is studying at university.

Sometimes hard work does have its own reward.

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape.

Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog: www.michellestyles.blogspot.com. She would be delighted to hear from you.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Copyright

Chapter One

Spring 876—near the border between

Viking-controlled Northumbria and

Anglo Saxon-controlled Bernicia

‘We’ve stopped again. How many times can the wheels get clogged with mud? Perhaps we should have waited until the spring rains stopped.’ Lady Cwenneth of Lingwold peered through the covered cart’s one small window. ‘This journey to Acumwick has taken twice as long as it should have with all the stops Hagal the Red’s men insist on making. Delay after delay. I want to prevent hostilities rather than be the excuse for them.’

Her new tire woman, Agatha, glanced up. ‘Are you that eager for marriage to Hagal the Red? You went on about his unsavoury reputation only a few nights ago. About how your brother threatened you into the marriage.’

Cwenneth pressed her lips together as the cloying scent from the herbs Agatha had spread to help with the stuffiness of the cart tickled her nostrils. In her loneliness, she had confided too much the other night.

‘I spoke out of turn, Agatha. It doesn’t do to remind me.’

‘I was just saying,’ the maid muttered, stirring the herbs and releasing more of their overpowering scent. ‘Some people...’

Cwenneth concentrated on smoothing the fur collar of her cloak rather than giving a sharp answer back. Squabbling created enemies. She needed friends and allies more than ever now that she was about to live in a foreign land amongst people with a reputation for barbarity and cruelty.

Her marriage to the new Norseman jaarl of Acumwick would ensure her brother and the inhabitants of Lingwold would finally achieve peace after years of war. As part of the marriage contract, Hagal the Red agreed to provide protection particularly against Thrand the Destroyer, the berserker who enjoyed killing for the sake of it and exacted more than his fair share of gold from Lingwold.

Hagal’s sworn oath to bring Thrand’s head to Lingwold had ensured her brother had put his signature on the marriage contract’s parchment.

‘You look solemn, my lady. Are you that unhappy?’

Cwenneth hastily composed her face into a more cheerful countenance. ‘I’m eager to begin my new life. A fresh start away from the unhappiness of the past few years.’

Cwenneth gave the only positive reason she could think of sharing with Agatha. Her brother had given her a stark choice when she had protested at the match—either marriage to Hagal the Red or a convent of his choosing with no dowry, nothing to look forward to except a barren cell and hard physical work for the remainder of her existence.

‘It will happen if you please your new lord and master, my lady. It’s easy if you know how.’ Agatha gave a superior smile and arched her back slightly so her ample breasts jutted out. ‘Men are such simple creatures. Easy to please, if you take my meaning.’

Cwenneth glanced down at her own slender curves. Positively boyish and flat in comparison. She had to hope Hagal the Red liked thin women.

‘The journey was supposed to last a week. Thanks to the incessant rain, it has been twice as long.’ Cwenneth frowned. Once the rain stopped and the mud dried, the raiding season would begin in earnest. If the marriage wasn’t formalised, would Hagal the Red actually provide the promised protection? Would he end the threat of Thrand the Destroyer? ‘What if Hagal takes the delay as an insult?’

‘I am sure it rained in Viken where they came from. He will understand.’ Agatha gave a throaty laugh and stirred the herbs another time. ‘They appreciate a woman up north, and Hagal the Red will be all the more impatient for the wait. They say he is very vigorous in bed.’

The dusty dry scent of the herbs invaded Cwenneth’s mouth, making her throat feel parched and her head ache.

‘I hate travelling in a cart. It makes me feel ill with its swaying and bumps.’ Cwenneth firmly changed the subject away from bed sport. She knew the rumours about Agatha’s prowess in that area and how her sister-in-law had caught her cavorting with Cwenneth’s brother.

She craned her neck, trying to see more, but there was nothing except for bare trees, raising their branches to the sky. ‘My brother would have allowed me to walk for a little, but Hagal’s man refuses even to discuss it. When I am officially his lady, things will have to change.’

‘I’m sure it will,’ Agatha said in that overly familiar way she’d recently adopted. Cwenneth gritted her teeth. She needed to assert her authority over the maid. ‘Change is in the air. For everyone. You never know, you might not be cursed any longer.’

Cursed—the word pierced her heart. What else could you call a woman who had failed to save her husband and child from a fever? Who had lost her home to a stepson who hated her and blamed her for the death of the woman he had considered his mother?

‘Repeating gossip is wrong,’ she said far too quickly.

‘Your husband died and then your child after that old crone died on your doorstep. What is that if not cursed?’

‘It is unlucky and has nothing to do with my forthcoming marriage. We will speak no more of it.’

Cwenneth hated the lingering sense of guilt that swamped her. Her stepson’s former nurse had been caught stealing gold from the local church. She had had to request her departure. The priest had threatened to withhold communion from the entire household if she continued to shelter her. The woman had gone muttering curses and predicting vile things including that Cwenneth should lose all she held dear and that her womb would remain barren for ever.

Although she had laughed off the words at the time, dismissing them as the ravings of a confused woman, less than three weeks later, the bad luck started. Aefirth had returned home wounded and died.

Six weeks after that, she had lost her young son and any hope she might be carrying another. She had returned to her childhood home unable to bear her stepson’s accusations any longer. The whispers about her being cursed began in earnest. Even now the memory caused cold sweat to run down her back. What else did she have to lose before the curse lost its power?

Agatha kept silent, so Cwenneth adopted an innocent face and added, ‘A wonder you want to serve under such a woman as me, then.’

Agatha fiddled with the dry herbs. ‘There was no prospect for advancement at Lingwold. That much was made very clear to me. I’ve no wish to be a beggar woman. I have plans.’

Cwenneth leant forward. No prizes for guessing who had made her that offer—the same person who had delivered the ultimatum about her marriage when she had tried to stall: her brother. ‘I expect my servants to be loyal, Agatha, and not to repeat old gossip. I expect them to speak with a civil tongue as well. Remember that or you will not remain my maid for long.’

Agatha’s cheeks flushed at the reprimand. ‘I beg your pardon. And I do hope for a bright future for you. Maybe you will find happiness...’

Happiness? Cwenneth hadn’t expected to fall in love with the much older Aefirth either, but she had. Their marriage had initially been one of duty and the joining of estates. She clearly remembered the instant she’d known—Aefirth had put his hand on her belly when she had said that she felt their baby stir. The delight in his eyes had taken her breath away, and she had known that she’d love him for ever. He said that she made him young again. All that had gone in the space of a few days. All because of the curse.

The interior of the cart with its overpowering stench of herbs seemed small and more confining than ever once she started to think about all she had lost and would never have again.

‘I’m going out to breathe fresh air. You may remain here. I’ll be back before you miss me.’

‘Surely, you should stay here. The last time you tried to leave the cart, things went badly.’

Cwenneth firmed her mouth. She knew precisely what had happened the last time. Narfi, Hagal’s steward with the shifty eyes, had shouted at her, calling her all sorts of filthy names. She had retreated rather than argue like a fishwife. But what was a name compared to a few final breaths of freedom now that the marriage truly loomed? What if they never allowed her out of the hall again? If she never saw the spring flowers in the woods?

‘Lend me your cloak. From a distance and if the hood covers my hair, we look about the same,’ Cwenneth said. ‘No one will see that I lack your curves.’

‘Yes but...’

‘Hagal’s man forbade me, but not you. I will take full responsibility if anyone questions me. You won’t be beaten. I won’t allow it.’ Cwenneth touched her maid’s cold hand. ‘When we reach Acumwick, I’ll speak with Hagal and quietly explain that I dislike rough treatment and being shouted at. If that man, Narfi, can’t learn to keep a civil tongue in his head, he’ll have to go. Hagal the Red wants this marriage. He will have to respect my wishes.’

Agatha tapped her finger against her mouth, but did not meet Cwenneth’s eyes. ‘No one has shouted at me. Tell me what you want and I can fetch it.’

Cwenneth frowned. Agatha’s bold manner grew the nearer they got to Acumwick.

‘I need to go out and stretch my legs,’ Cwenneth said, adopting a superior attitude and pinning the maid with her gaze. Agatha was the first to look away.

‘It is on your head then.’ Agatha fumbled with her cloak. ‘Don’t go blaming me. I did try to warn you. Do what you have to do quickly.’

The exchange of cloaks was quickly accomplished. Agatha stroked the rabbit fur collar of Cwenneth’s cloak with an envious hand.

‘I appreciate it. I’ll return before anyone notices.’

‘Just so you are.’ The woman gave a great sigh and ceased stroking the cloak.

Cwenneth raised the coarse woollen hood over her golden blonde hair and quickly exited before Agatha found another reason to delay her.

The bright spring sun nearly blinded her after the dark shadows of the cart. Cwenneth stood, lifting her face to the warm sunlight while her eyes adjusted. All the worry and anxiety seemed to roll off her back as she stood breathing in the fresh, sweet-smelling air. The stuffy woollen-headed feeling from the herbs vanished and she could think clearly again.

Without pausing to see where anyone else might be, she walked briskly to a small hollow where the bluebells nodded. The rich perfume filled her nostrils, reminding her of the little wood behind the hall she’d shared with her late husband. Aefirth had loved bluebells because her eyes matched their colour. He’d even had her stitch bluebells on his undergarments, proclaiming that they brought him luck.

Always when she thought of Aefirth, her heart constricted. She had desperately wanted to save him when he returned home with his wounded leg, but the infection had taken hold and he’d died. Old warriors died all the time from wounds. No matter how many times she tried to remember that, her mind kept returning to the woman’s curse. Aefirth had recovered from worse before. Why had the infection taken hold that time?

Impulsively, Cwenneth picked a bluebell and held it in her hand. The scent made her feel stronger and more in control—what she needed in the cart rather than evil-smelling herbs which made her feel tired and stupid.

She picked a large handful of bluebells, stopped and breathed in their perfume one final time before returning to her duty.

‘I’ll be brave. I’ll be kind to Agatha and make her my ally instead of my enemy, but I will remember my position,’ she whispered. ‘I will make this marriage to Hagal the Red work because it is for the good of everyone. A new start for me and a chance to leave past mistakes far behind. I’m certain that is the advice Aefirth would have given me.’

A great inhuman scream rent the air before the dull clang of sword against sword resounded.

Cwenneth froze. A raid! And she was too far from the cart’s safety. Her men would rally around the cart, thinking they were protecting her. No one would be looking for her out here.

She should have stayed where she was supposed to be. Her brother’s men would defend the cart to their last breath. She wished Edward had allowed her a few more men, but he’d bowed to Hagal’s wishes and had sent only a token force of six. Agatha would be fine as long as she stayed put in the cart and did not come looking for her.

‘Stay put, Agatha,’ she whispered. ‘Think about yourself. I can look after myself. Honest.’

What to do now? She could hardly stand like some frozen rabbit in the middle of the bluebells, waiting to be run through or worse.

Hide! Keep still until you know all is safe. Aefirth’s advice about what to do if the Norsemen came calling resounded in her mind. Find a safe spot and stay put until the fighting has ended. She was far too fine to wield a sword or a knife. She tightened her grip on the flowers. The same had to hold true for bandits and outlaws.

Cwenneth pressed her back against a tree and slid into the shadows. Hugging the rapidly wilting bluebells to her chest, she tried to concentrate on her happy memories of her husband and their son. Before she had been cursed. She whispered a prayer for the attack to be short and easily repulsed.

An agonised female scream tore the air. Agatha!

Cold sweat trickled down Cwenneth’s back. The bandits had breached the cart’s defences.

How? Hagal’s men were supposed to be hardened warriors. He’d given her brother his solemn oath on that.

The pleas became agonised screams and then silence. Cwenneth bit the back of her knuckle and prayed harder. Agatha had to be alive. Surely they wouldn’t kill a defenceless woman. The outlaws couldn’t be that depraved.

The silence became all-encompassing. Before the attack, there had been little sounds in the woods and now there was nothing. Cwenneth twisted off her rings and hid them in the hem of her gown before gathering her skirts about her, sinking farther into the hollow beneath the tree and hoping.

* * *

Two Norseman warriors strode into the rapidly darkening glade. She started to stand, but some instinct kept her still. She’d wait and then reveal herself when she knew they had come to save her. They could belong to Thrand the Destroyer’s band of outlaws rather than Hagal. He had every reason not to want this marriage. It must have been his men who attacked them because they knew what it would mean. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought they must hear it.

‘The maid is dead. One simple task and she failed to do that—keep the pampered Lady Cwenneth in the cart. Refused to say where she’d gone. Claimed she didn’t know,’ the tall one said. ‘Now we have to find the oh so spoilt lady and dispose of her.’

‘Good riddance,’ Narfi said. ‘That woman was trouble. She knew too much. She asked for too much gold and then got cold feet. Couldn’t bring herself to be associated with murder. No spine.’

He put his boot down not three inches from Cwenneth’s nose. She pressed her back closer to the hollow and fervently prayed that she would go unnoticed. Her brain reeled from the shock that Agatha was dead! And that she had been willing to betray and murder her!

‘We spread the rumour it was Thrand the Destroyer who did this? Clever!’

‘No, Thrand Ammundson is in Jorvik, attending the king. Halfdan keeps him close now that he fears death. More is the pity.’ Narfi chuckled. ‘The Northumbrians fear him more than any. Can’t see why. He isn’t that good. Sticks in my craw and Hagal’s. Ammundson gets gold thrown at his feet without lifting his sword simply because of his legendary prowess on the battlefield. I could take him in a fight with one hand tied behind my back.’

‘Why did Hagal want the Lady of Lingwold dead? Did he hold with the curse?’

‘Revenge for her husband killing his favourite cousin three years ago. He swore it on the battlefield. Hagal is a man who settles scores. Always.’

A great numbness filled Cwenneth. Not an ambush because of the gold they carried for her dowry or a random act of banditry, but a deliberate act of revenge by Hagal the Red. She was supposed to die today. There was never going to have been a wedding to unite two peoples, but a funeral. The entire marriage contract had been a ghastly trick.

Her stomach revolted, and she started to gag, but Cwenneth forced her mouth to stay shut. Her only hope of survival was in staying completely silent.

Cwenneth tightened her grip about the flowers and tried to breathe steadily. Why hadn’t Edward questioned him closer? Or had the opportunity to get rid of the menace that was Thrand Ammundson tempted her brother so much that he never thought to ask?

All the while, her brain kept hammering that it was far too late for such recriminations. She had to remain absolutely still and hope for a miracle.

She had to get back to Lingwold alive and warn her brother. Why go to all this trouble if Hagal had only wanted to murder her? She had to expose Hagal the Red for the monster he was before something much worse happened.

‘Gods, I wish that maid had done what she promised and slit the widow’s throat at the signal. I was looking forward to getting back to the hall early like. Now we have to trample through these woods, find her and do it ourselves.’

The second man sent a stream of spittle which landed inches from her skirt. Cwenneth forced all of her muscles to remain still, rather than recoiling in revulsion.

‘She won’t survive out here. Soft as muck that woman. Pampered. Unable to walk far. Everything had to be done for her.’

‘You only have that maid’s word that the Lady Cwenneth had no weapons.’

‘It doesn’t matter if she does. Imagine that useless creature coming up against any wild beast! How would she fight? Boring it to death with her complaints about food or the slowness of our progress? The woman doesn’t know one end of a sword from another. She wouldn’t last more than a few heartbeats even if she does have a knife.’

They both laughed and started to search the undergrowth off to her right. Quietly, Cwenneth searched the ground for something sharp, something so she could defend herself if they did find her. She did know how to use a knife. The pointy bit went into the flesh and she should go for the throat. Her fingers closed around a sharp rock.

A solitary howl resounded in the clearing. Cwenneth’s blood went ice-cold. Wolves. She didn’t know which sort were worse—the four-legged variety who lurked in the woods or the two-legged variety standing not ten feet from her who had just slaughtered people for no good reason.

Narfi clapped his hand on the other man’s back. ‘Don’t worry. Dead women tell no tales. By the time we reach Acumwick, the wolf will have done our work for us. We’ll come back and find the body in a day or two. Hagal will never know. Now let’s get to the hall. I want my food. Killing always makes me hungry.’

Making jokes about what she’d do when she met the wolf and speculating on how she’d die, the pair sauntered off.

Cwenneth hugged her knees to her chest, hardly daring to breathe. She was alive, but there were many miles of inhospitable country between here and Lingwold.

She screwed up her eyes tight. She’d do it. She’d prove them wrong. She wasn’t minded to die yet and particularly not to suit thieves’ and murderers’ schemes. She would defeat Hagal and prove to everyone that she wasn’t cursed.

* * *

The air after a slaughter takes on a special sort of stillness, different from the silence after a battle when the Valkyries gather the honourable dead. Then the birds pause, but the air continues to flow. After a slaughter, even the air respects the dead.

The instant Thrand Ammundson came around the bend in the road, he knew what had happened—a slaughter of the innocents.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Any clues to her identity?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The only sound was the wind in the trees.

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

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

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

‘Are you hurt?’

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

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

Had Hagal finally made a mistake after all this time?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped, hesitating. ‘I...I...’

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Satisfied?’ He lifted his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Norseman remained implacably silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Walk!’

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

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

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

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

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

‘You have a point. He is known to have a temper.’ Cwen fingered her throat. She couldn’t confess now. Not now that she knew this man disliked her brother so much that he refused to consider a reward. She’d have to come up with a different plan. That was all. ‘Where do we go?’

‘You go where I choose. You tell your story when I choose and to whom I choose. And not before. Like you, I know Hagal the Red did this.’ A bright flame flared in his eyes, transforming his features. ‘I have my own reasons for wanting him to face justice.’

Until he chose? To become his slave for ever? Cwenneth firmed her mouth and renewed her vow. ‘Who are you? What shall I call you?’

He made a mocking bow. ‘Thrand Ammundson.’

Thrand Ammundson. Thrand the Destroyer. Cwenneth gulped. The Norseman whose band of warriors raided Lingwold yearly. The man who loved killing so much that his name was a byword for destruction. The man who was supposed to be in Jorvik, but who was here and probably on his way to raid innocent Bernicians.

Her luck was truly terrible. Of all the Norsemen to encounter, it would have to be him, the one man other than Hagal the Red most likely to want her dead.

‘You’re Thrand the Destroyer?’ she whispered, clasping her hands so tight that the knuckles shone white.

He was right—her brother had no cause to love him and every cause to kill him. As she had departed for Acumwick, Edward had crowed that he looked forward to having Thrand’s head on a plate and his hide nailed to the parish church’s door.

‘Some have called me that, but they are wrong. I have never come to destroy, only to take what is rightfully mine or my liege lord’s. The Norsemen of Jorvik did not start the last war, but they did finish it.’

‘That makes it all right because you won,’ Cwenneth remarked drily, trying to think around the pain in her head. Right now she had to put miles between her and Hagal, who definitely wanted her dead. Everything else could wait. Patience was a virtue, her nurse, Martha, used to say.

‘The victor commissions the saga, as they say.’

A soft rustling in the undergrowth made Cwenneth freeze. She instinctively grabbed hold of Thrand’s sleeve.

‘Wolf or mayhap a bear,’ she said in a hoarse whisper. ‘My luck goes from bad to worse.’

Thrand put his fingers to his lips and pivoted so that his body was between her and the noise.

He started to draw his sword, but then relaxed.

‘There, see.’ He pointed with a long finger. ‘No wolf.’

Cwenneth crouched down and found herself staring into the tusked head of a boar. The animal blew a hot breath over her face before giving her a long disdainful look and trotting off.

‘That was unexpected,’ she said, sitting back on her heels.

‘Thor has shown you favour,’ Thrand remarked in the quiet that followed. ‘Good luck follows your footsteps in battle when Thor favours you.’

‘I don’t believe in the Norsemen’s gods. And I know what those tusks can do. My stepson was gored once. It ended his fighting days and he walks with a bad limp. I wouldn’t call that lucky.’

She gave an uneasy laugh. A god favoured her? Thankfully he didn’t know about the curse she carried. He’d abandon her in these woods if he did. Pressing her hands together, she tried to control her trembling and breathe normally.

‘You’re married? What did your husband say about you travelling with your lady to her new home?’

‘My husband died and...and I found myself back in my lady’s service.’ A fresh dribble of sweat ran down her back. The words rushed out of her throat. ‘My luck has been dreadful these last few years.’

‘You’re wrong.’ His searing gaze raked her form, making Cwenneth aware of her angles. Her sister-in-law was one of the plump comfortable women which men loved, but Cwenneth had few illusions about the attractiveness of her body—all hard angles with only a few slender curves. ‘You survived the slaughter. That makes you luckier than the corpses back there.’

Her shoulders relaxed. He hadn’t noticed her slip. ‘I’ve lingered too long in these woods. Can we go from this place?’

He made a mocking bow. ‘As my lady wishes.’

‘I’m not a lady. I am a maid, a person of no consequence.’

A faint smile touched his lips. ‘It is well you reminded me.’

She shook her head to rid it of the prickling feeling that he was toying with her. But Norsemen were not that subtle. They used brute force to destroy farms and steal livestock, rather than cunning to discover the hidden stores. She’d bide her time and escape.

* * *

‘What have you found, Thrand? Anything? There is nothing to say who did this here,’ Knui called out as Thrand emerged from the woods with his prisoner in tow. ‘We thought the demons who must dwell in this place had found you and conquered your soul. But then they whisper that Loki has already determined your fate at Ragnarok.’

‘A witness,’ Thrand answered shortly, keeping a firm grip on Cwen’s wrist. Binding a woman was always a last resort. He would use her to bring down Hagal and finally revenge his parents. What happened to her after that was none of his concern.

‘Will you take her to Hagal?’ Knui asked with an intense expression. ‘The slaughter happened on his land. He will want to find the Northumbrians who did this and punish them. A direct assault on his authority can’t be tolerated. Think about how Halfdan will react when he knows. These bastards want to start the war again. Do they never give up?’

‘In my time,’ Thrand answered, giving Knui a hard look. With each word, Knui proclaimed that he was indeed Hagal’s creature. It was only Thrand’s promise to Sven which stayed his hand and prevented him from running the man through. Sven had given his oath his cousin would be loyal with his last breath. ‘I have promises to keep first, as you well know.’

‘But won’t she slow us down?’ Knui continued grumbling, seemingly oblivious to the threat in Thrand’s look. ‘The last thing we need is a woman with us. It is going to be difficult enough to get in and out of Bernicia as is.’

Knui was right in one respect. The last thing he wanted on this journey was a woman, but Hagal, who loved gold more than life itself, wanted her dead. And that was more than enough justification for keeping her with them and alive.

‘Let me worry about that.’

‘We need to be back before the Storting starts,’ Knui persisted. ‘I want a say in Halfdan’s successor, even if you don’t.’

‘You seek to challenge my authority, Knui, son of Gorm, kinsman to Sven Audson?’ Thrand reached for his sword. If Knui wanted a fight, so be it. He had never walked away from a battle. He never would. ‘Do so openly. I’ve no time for games and whispers. Are you prepared to chance your sword arm against mine? Shall we see who the victor will be?’

Knui glanced over his shoulders and saw the other men had moved away from him, leaving him isolated. The colour drained from his face.

Thrand waited impassively.

‘Not I.’ Knui hung his head. ‘I have seen you on the battlefield, Thrand. I know what you can do. I am content for you to lead us.’

‘I accept your judgement.’ Thrand sheathed his sword and the rage subsided. There would be no need to do battle with Knui...today. But he no longer trusted him.

Sweat poured from Knui’s forehead. ‘Thank you.’

‘I lead this felag. The woman comes north with us...unless any cares to fight me.’

‘Do you think we can get a ransom for her?’ Helgi called out.

‘She claims to be the maid. When has anyone ever ransomed a maid?’ Thrand answered, giving Cwen a significant look. Her pale cheeks became stained the colour of her gown and she kept her eyes downcast. ‘What is a serving maid worth beyond her value at the slave market?’

‘Yes, I am the Lady of Lingwold’s maid,’ Cwen called out. ‘How could I be anything else?’

Thrand schooled his features as his men looked to him for confirmation. He inclined his head, not committing himself either way. Her voice was far too fine and her gown, under the coarse woollen cloak, too well made. He’d bet his sword and a good more besides that she was the true Lady of Lingwold.

‘Indeed,’ he murmured, releasing her wrist. She instantly rubbed it. ‘How could you be anyone but the maid?’

‘You are going to bury them here? After you have taken everything of value from them? They served my lady well. She respected them,’ she said, turning away from him and not answering the question. ‘They deserve better than being plucked clean by the crows.’

‘They have no use for their swords where they are.’ Thrand shrugged as his men busied themselves with completing the pit. ‘The crows have enough to eat. No point in leaving them out in the open.’

Her brow wrinkled as she pleated her burgundy skirt between her fingers. ‘I...I suppose not. But there must be a churchyard near here. They should have a Christian burial. Find a priest.’ She gave a tiny sniff. ‘The decent thing to do.’

He bit back the words that he had no decent bones left in his body. All he lived for was war. It had been a part of his existence for so long, he knew no other way of life. All finer feelings had vanished years ago on blood-soaked ground before a burning farmhouse in southern Viken. Burying them was the best way to make Hagal uneasy. ‘This is a conversation you should have with the lord of these lands.’

She paled and took a step backwards. ‘You mean Hagal the Red.’

Thrand watched her from under his brows and wondered if she knew the truth about how her bridegroom had acted in Norway and Northumbria? What had he promised her family to lure her out here so he could fulfil his vow of revenge?

‘The Lady of Lingwold was meant to be his bride. Once he learns of the massacre, he will come here,’ he said, willing her to confide the truth and beg for his assistance. ‘He is a man who likes to see the aftermath of such things with his own eyes. Shall we wait?’

She tucked her chin into her neck. The action highlighted its slender curve and the way her golden hair glinted in the sun. He curled his hands into fists and concentrated.

The consequences of being distracted by beauty were deadly. He had learnt that lesson in Norway. No, the Lady Cwenneth in her way was just as black-hearted as Ingrid had been. And her earlier remarks about the dress being ruined showed how her mind worked—she did not care about people, but things.

‘He wanted everyone dead and I’m alive,’ she said in a low voice. ‘He’ll kill me if he finds me. He’ll come after you as well once he knows.’

‘I want him to wonder who is buried and who did the burying,’ Thrand answered shortly. ‘I want him unsettled. I want him to wonder if you are dead out in those woods or not. I want him to know fear for once.’

‘Do you fear him?’ She shivered and wrapped her arms about her waist, and her shoulders hunched. ‘I do. What sort of man does what he did? Makes such orders?’

‘Not in a fight.’ Thrand’s hand went instinctively to his sword. ‘I have studied how he fights in battle. Utterly predictable. Always goes for the downwards thrust followed by a quick upwards one to finish his opponent off. Never varies. And he hangs to the rear rather than leading from the front.’

Her crystal-blue gaze met his—direct and determined. ‘Hagal doesn’t fight fair. Ever. He looks for the weakest point and goes for it. He did this with...with Lord Edward.’

‘What did he promise Lord Edward to make him cough up his sister?’ he asked silkily. ‘What did the Lord of Lingwold hope to gain?’

‘Peace and your head.’ She lifted her chin, every inch the proud lady. ‘Does it bother you to know you are hated that much?’

Thrand schooled his features. Despite everything he thought he knew about Northumbrian ladies and their empty-headedness, a reluctant admiration filled him. She might be beautiful, but she also had a brain which was full of more than feather beds, ribbons and embroidery.

‘How did murdering you get the Lord of Lingwold my head? Everyone thinks I’m in Jorvik with the king.’ He allowed a smile to play on his lips.

Her brows drew together and finally she shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Ask Hagal. He was hardly going to confide his intentions to me. Understandable in the circumstances, but aggravating as I’m sure you will agree.’

She inclined her head. Thrand fought the unexpected urge to laugh. Lady Cwenneth had more than a bit of grit to her. He sobered, but it didn’t mean he should trust her one little bit.

Thrand turned the matter over in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more far-fetched it seemed. Marriages took a long time to negotiate. No one knew he would be in the area. He hadn’t known until a few days ago that he’d be travelling north. But there was a method to Hagal’s madness. He always played a long game.

Why did Hagal need the Lady Cwenneth’s death? Why now? How would killing her bring Lord Edward Thrand’s head? And what did Hagal get out of it? He drew a steadying breath.

The answer would come to him as he travelled north and before he arrived back in Jorvik for the Storting. Then he’d know precisely how to deploy Lady Cwenneth to destroy Hagal once and for all. For too long that particular Norseman had eluded him.

‘Well?’ she asked, tapping her slipper on the ground. With her set chin and fierce expression, he could almost believe she was descended from the Valkyries. ‘Do you have the answer? It would make me feel safer if I did.’

‘You will have your opportunity for revenge. I trust you will use it well as I doubt you will get a second chance.’

‘One chance is all I will need. He will not rise when I am done.’

‘And you are certain of that? What are you going to do? Plunge a knife in his throat? Are you capable of that?’

All fight went out of her shoulders. Instead of an avenging Valkyrie, all was naked vulnerability and confusion. Lady Cwenneth was no shield maiden. ‘I have no idea. All I know is he should die for what he did. Hopefully you are right about this.’

‘I know I am right...this time,’ Thrand muttered and tried not to think about the unquiet dead he’d failed.

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