Redeeming Her Viking Warrior

by Jenni Fletcher

  ‘No!’

  ‘That’s why you ran away with Joarr so soon afterwards.’

  ‘It wasn’t soon!’ She tossed her braid at the accusation. ‘I stayed in Maerr for months to nurse Alarr and help Brandt hold on to his birthright, but they were both so set upon revenge. Everything was falling apart and my sister...’ She bit her tongue, seeming to think better of whatever it was she’d been about to say. ‘Joarr said it was too dangerous for us to remain. That’s why we came to find shelter here with his kinsmen.’

  ‘You mean, in case someone discovered what you’d done?’

  ‘Enough!’ She thrust her jaw out angrily. ‘How dare you say such things! When my sons discover what you’re accusing me of—’

  ‘Ah, but who do you think sent me?’ Danr gave a slow, taunting smile. ‘Only, they’re good sons. They don’t want to accuse their own mother, especially when they have a bastard brother who’s more than willing to do it for them. I left Sandulf only a matter of days ago.’

  He paused to let the words sink in, pleased to see her face blanch. Unfortunately, he was no closer to getting a confession. Perhaps accusing her outright hadn’t been the best tactic after all. Perhaps he ought to have bided his time and confronted her with the evidence first, or, better still, spoken to Joarr beforehand as he’d planned, but his temper had got the better of him. If he couldn’t provoke her into an admission of guilt, then he only had one other option left. It was a bluff, though doubtless she despised him enough to believe him capable of it...

  ‘Admit you had a hand in it...’ he drew Bitterblade in one slick, steady motion ‘...and I’ll let your sons decide on your punishment. Otherwise this is between you and me.’

  ‘I admit nothing.’ She didn’t even flinch, the look in her eyes only hardening. ‘I just told you I wasn’t involved.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Then kill me if you must, but I refuse to stand here and be judged by a man like you. You may be able to charm the birds from the trees, Danr, but you’ll always be worthless underneath. You take a different woman into your bed every night because you think it makes you more of a man, but it makes you less. You inherited the very worst traits of your father. You’re empty inside, Danr. You have no depth, no heart, no honour or decency.’

  ‘Say what you want about me, but you will not insult my father!’ Danr took a step closer, pointing the tip of his sword at her breast.

  ‘Why not? He insulted me every day of our marriage. He insulted me with your mother—with you!’

  ‘Maybe you deserved it!’

  ‘Get away from her!’

  Danr spun around at the sound of Joarr’s shout, furious at himself for having been caught off guard. He had to give credit to Hilda. She hadn’t betrayed her new husband’s approach by as much as a twitch of an eyelid. She’d known just how to distract him, too, stoking his temper at the same time as he’d been trying to provoke hers. Now the giant warrior was only a few feet away and advancing steadily, sword and shield both raised, his expression angrier than Danr had ever seen it, redolent with bloodlust, and no wonder. From a distance it must have looked as if he’d been about to cut Hilda down in cold blood.

  ‘Did he touch you?’ Joarr’s gaze slid briefly towards his wife.

  ‘No.’ To Danr’s surprise, there was actually a placatory note in Hilda’s voice. ‘He’s come from Sandulf. It seems that my sons have some suspicions about me.’

  ‘What kind of suspicions?’

  ‘About Sigurd’s death. They think I was involved.’

  ‘You?’ Joarr’s stopped a sword’s length away from Danr, his eyes like chips of blue ice. ‘She had no part in it. That’s your answer.’

  ‘Is that what she told you?’

  ‘It’s what I know.’

  ‘Something tells me you’re not the best judge of character where she’s concerned.’

  ‘I believe my wife.’

  Danr blew air between his teeth contemptuously. ‘And you always said I was the one who was driven by lust. Apparently you’re guilty of the same weakness, old friend.’

  ‘I love Hilda and she loves me.’ Joarr drew his brows together in a ferocious line. ‘Is love so hard for you to understand, boy?’

  ‘Yes!’ Danr answered without thinking, though it was only the truth. He loved his brothers, but love for a woman, the kind that Alarr had found with Breanne, Rurik with Annis, and Sandulf with Ceanna, that had never made sense to him. It never would. His mother’s love for his father had brought her only pain and regret. Just the thought of it filled him with anger.

  ‘She needs to pay for what she did.’ He jerked his head towards Hilda, his ragged temper fraying even further.

  ‘She didn’t do anything!’

  ‘Then ask her why the assassins had some of her jewellery—three pendants.’

  ‘Pendants?’ Hilda’s voice seemed to crack on the word.

  ‘Aye. The ones you used to pay them.’

  ‘What kind of—?’

  ‘She’ll explain nothing!’ Joarr’s roar was like a crack of thunder. ‘You always talked too much, Danr. You should have been a skald, not a warrior.’

  ‘Wait!’ Hilda lifted her hands as if she were trying to calm them both. ‘Perhaps we should talk.’

  ‘It’s too late for that.’ Joarr waved his shield in her direction, gesturing for her to get back. ‘He just threatened you. That’s reason enough for me to kill him.’

  ‘You can try!’

  Danr gave a harsh laugh, shifting his weight to his right foot as he waited for the older man to attack first. It didn’t take long. Barely a second after he’d issued the challenge, Joarr rammed the boss of his shield forward, attempting to knock him down, but Danr was faster, moving to the left, parrying the thrust aimed after him and then darting forward, running his blade across the warrior’s mail coat as he went.

  The old helmsman gave a grunt of anger and whirled around, slicing his shield through the air with such bloodthirsty force that Danr had to duck to a crouching position to avoid having his skull smashed. He used the position to strike at Joarr’s legs, aiming a kick at his kneecaps to send him reeling backwards, but the helmsman recovered quicker than Danr had expected, charging forward again almost immediately and knocking him sideways. It was a foolish attack, one that left Joarr’s right flank exposed and unprotected. If Danr lifted his blade then, it would be easy enough to skewer him in the armpit. There was a gap in his mail. He could see it—a clear, almost perfect target. If he chose, he could sink his blade there and then cut Hilda down where she stood. He could finish them both in a matter of moments. The killing blow was his for the taking. If...

  He hesitated as a succession of memories swept through his mind: Joarr teaching him how to hold his first wooden sword, how to wield it, how to use his opponents’ weaknesses against them, giving him ten times more attention than his real father ever had... How could he use those lessons against him now? How could he kill him? He couldn’t, he realised, jumping aside just in time to dodge another blow that sent a flurry of pebbles up into the air where he’d just stood. All he wanted was to knock him down long enough to talk, to explain to him how he knew Hilda was guilty...

  He circled around, knowing that, if he started to give ground, the pummelling would be relentless. Joarr was a hulk of a man and a fearsome fighter, though his size and age made him slow. Fortunately for Danr, after years of training together, he knew all of the man’s tactics, whereas his own range of manoeuvres had expanded and been honed by necessity over the past couple of years. If it hadn’t been for the rib he’d injured in Alba, then he might have found a way to end the fight already, but he still wanted to do so without hurting his former teacher. This wasn’t the fight he wanted. If they could only put down their weapons and talk man to man as the friends they’d once been...

  There was a sound of shout
ing and Danr turned his head sharply, grimacing at the sight of at least a dozen warriors emerging from the village at the end of the beach, all running to Hilda and Joarr’s rescue. He gritted his teeth and muttered a string of the most colourful oaths he could think of. He’d wasted his opportunity with Hilda and run out of time. All he could do now was escape to the forest while he still had the chance, then take some time to consider and come up with a better plan. That was what he ought to do, but when he tried to move something felt wrong.

  He glanced down in bewilderment. His right arm felt strangely numb and his fingers seemed to be having trouble keeping a grip on his sword... The moment he thought it, the blade fell from his grasp, hitting the ground with a heavy clatter. That was when he noticed the gash in his mail, accompanied by a searing burst of pain. The metal links must have torn when Joarr had charged him, allowing his sword to find its target for a moment. He had no memory of the blade even touching him, though obviously it had.

  He touched his fingers to the hot stream of blood trickling down his arm and then looked back at Hilda. Confusingly, her hands were wrapped around Joarr’s waist as if she were holding him back, restraining him even, while the warriors from the village were coming ever closer. If he stayed where he was then he’d be captured and executed for certain, which in itself wouldn’t matter so much, but it wouldn’t give his brothers the answers they needed either. That was why he was there and why he had to survive. For them.

  He picked up Bitterblade with his good arm, took a few steps back towards the forest, then ran.

  Chapter Two

  Sissa gathered the few items she needed into a pack, flung two of the warmest furs she could find over her shoulders, then made her way back through the trees to where she’d found the injured man. The snow had already stopped, but she didn’t hold out much hope of finding him still alive. If the amount of blood on the ground around his body was any indication, he’d be a corpse by the time she returned, but if he wasn’t...well then, she’d do what she could to save him, whether he wanted her to or not. There had been a curious expression on his face when she’d nudged her spear against his throat—just a gentle push to see if he was still alive—almost ambivalence, as if he were ready to die. But she was a healer, not a killer, and she’d seen more than enough death already.

  He was sprawled exactly where she’d left him, his head propped against the roots of an oak tree. From a distance, he certainly looked dead, but as she leaned over she could just make out the slight flutter of a pulse in his jaw. She laid her pack aside and pressed two fingers against his jaw. Weak, but still beating. The neck beneath was lean and muscular, like all the rest of him, she noticed. There didn’t seem to be a hint of fat anywhere on his body, especially his face where his prominent cheekbones stood out like sharp blades. She slid her hand upwards and pressed her palm against his cheek. The skin was cold—unsurprisingly, when he was half-buried in a layer of snow—but his skin had a waxy pallor, too. Between his injury and the weather it was impossible to guess which would kill him first. She’d have to remove his damp clothes somehow, but for now...

  Frowning, she pulled one of the furs from her shoulder and draped it over his legs and chest before turning her attention to the wound itself. By the look of it he’d torn a strip from the hem of his under-tunic and tied it around the top of his arm to try to stop the flow of blood, but by now the fabric was saturated and useless. She unravelled it carefully and looked closer. There were no signs of infection, which meant that the wound was still fresh—a few hours old at most—and obviously made with a blade. Only a sword or dagger could have sliced so cleanly, though fortunately the gash wasn’t as bad as she’d first feared, being long rather than deep.

  The man writhed weakly as she poured water from a flask to wash away the dirt, then rubbed a combination of wild garlic and powdered oak bark over the surface to staunch the bleeding. Next she applied a layer of dried sphagnum moss to act as a poultice, before binding it in place with a piece of cloth. His breathing seemed to become shallower and more laboured as she worked, but she kept her fingers moving, concentrating on the task as if it were the only thing in the world that mattered. Finally, she sat back on her haunches to survey her handiwork. Not bad. He’d survived her ministrations, which was a good sign, but he needed warmth, food and shelter in that order if he was going to survive the night.

  She chewed her lip and glanced up at the sky. It was getting dark, the temperature was plummeting and he was far too big for her to drag anywhere. Building a fire, however, seemed like an additional danger. If people were out searching for him—which, given the nature of his injury, seemed likely—then a fire would only draw their attention, but if she didn’t light one then the cold would likely finish him off first. At that moment it struck her as the lesser of two evils.

  She reached into her pack for the dry logs she’d brought just in case and built a small fire an arm’s length from where he lay. On the damp ground it took longer than usual, but eventually the flint struck a light. Then, when the flames were hot enough, she removed the fur from his body and considered the rest of him. Most of his clothing consisted of leather and mail which looked reasonably impervious to the elements, but the metal links also looked heavy enough to constrict his breathing and the linen collar around his neck was sodden. Fortunately, his mail was fastened at the front, allowing her to carefully undo the belt buckle and clasps and peel it away to the sides. Next she reached for a knife and carefully cut away his long-sleeved under-tunic, leaving his chest bare, all except for a leather pouch hanging from a cord around his neck.

  The sight of his naked torso seemed to steal her breath away for a few seconds, making it falter and then emerge again in quick, slightly shaky bursts. As a healer she’d seen plenty of bodies, but this one was different. It was magnificent, sculpted, as if it were hewn from actual rock. His natural build must be lean, she guessed, running her tongue along the seam of her suddenly dry lips, but there were so many muscles it was impossible to be sure. There were muscles in places she’d never even conceived that muscles could be before. The gash on his arm wasn’t the only evidence of recent battles either. There were several long scars across his ribs and a vicious purple bruise on his stomach. She wondered what his last fight had been about and how his opponent had fared. She doubted the combat would have been one-sided. Judging by his well-developed biceps, not to mention the collection of bronze and silver arm rings around them, this man was no stranger to a sword.

  The idea made her uncomfortable. He was obviously a warrior, one of that breed of men who thought they could fight their way through life, taking what they wanted by force from those who only wanted to live in peace. Of all men, warriors were the ones she disliked and distrusted the most. So much so that she was almost tempted to get up and leave him to take his chances alone, but she couldn’t. At that moment he was injured and helpless and she was the only one who could save him.

  She drew the fur back over his chest and studied his face. The lines of pain and tension that had been around his mouth and forehead seemed to have smoothed out since she’d been tending him, making him look younger and quite forbiddingly handsome—hardly like a warrior at all. She hadn’t seen him among the new settlers before, she was certain—she would have remembered such a striking face, not to mention his mane of thick golden hair—which meant that he must be new to the island. He reminded her of Birger, a boy from her village years ago. He’d been older than she was, seventeen summers to her thirteen, and so good looking that all the girls had flirted and competed for his attention. She’d watched him, too, hoping that some day he might notice her, though he never had, not really. And then he’d lost the ability to notice anything at all, like everyone else in her village. Everyone except for her and Tove, the only survivors.

  She reached a hand out to the wolf who trotted forward at once to lick and then rub her nose against it. Her father had found Tove as an emaciated cub and brou
ght her back to the village to nurse and raise as a guard dog. Sissa had done most of the training and in return the animal had become her constant companion and shadow. She wasn’t sure whether Tove saw her as a sister or a mother, but whatever it was they were family. The bond between them had saved her life countless times, beginning with the raid.

  A familiar cold sweat broke out on her skin at the memory and she pushed it aside, reaching for a water skin instead. Carefully, she added some herbs and then poured the liquid down the man’s throat, holding his mouth shut as he spluttered. There. She rocked back on her heels, satisfied. That was as much as she could do in the dwindling daylight. In the morning, if he was still alive, she’d build a shelter around him, but for now, it was enough.

  She wrapped herself up in the other fur and lay down beside the fire, Tove beside her, Halvar stretched out opposite, aloof but always alert. He was part of her family, too, though she suspected he only tolerated her for his mate’s sake. They’d all wait together and see what the morning would bring.

  Behind her, the warrior mumbled in his sleep. The words were barely distinguishable, a scattering of names and epithets, but he sounded anguished—tormented, even. From the sound of it he was thrashing about, too. Was he dreaming of his last battle? Whatever it was, the tone of his voice sent a shiver down her spine.

  She rolled over to make sure he hadn’t thrown his fur aside and jumped with surprise to find his eyes wide open, boring into hers with a look of such deep-rooted pain and sorrow that she felt her heart clench before they suddenly closed again.

  Another shiver, even colder than before, trickled down her spine like melting ice. For one horrible moment she’d felt as though she’d been looking into a mirror.

  She exhaled slowly, buried her face into Tove’s fur and wondered if she’d done the right thing by saving his life.

  Chapter Three

  Was he dead?