* * *
When the battle was at its height, Olafr raised his sword and lifted his shield, shouting for Thorsten over and over again. A sudden hush fell over the battlefield. Aedan froze in mid-swipe of his sword. Immediately several of Dagmar’s men stopped fighting, allowing the shield wall to collapse and the Northmen from the Black Pool to stream through.
‘Treachery!’ someone yelled.
Aedan hacked his way to where Dagmar fought against several warriors. In a matter of heartbeats, she would be dead along with his hopes for his people and their freedom. The sword he carried shattered as he reached her.
He brought the hilt of his broken sword down on the back of her head. She crumpled.
He scooped her unconscious body up. She was slender, but all sinewy muscle, rather than soft womanly curves.
‘You go to her father?’ the old warrior cried.
‘God and the saints willing.’
The man smiled and tossed him a brooch. ‘Look after her. I will distract them. Give her that when she goes to rip out your throat. Tell her that Old Alf kept the faith.’
He gave a shout and went forward, drawing the opposing warriors to him, giving Aedan a corridor to escape.
‘Good.’ Aedan whistled to his wolfhound who bounded forward, snarling. ‘Time to fulfil our vow and return to the West.’
Behind him, he heard the old man’s dying agonies, but he honoured his sacrifice and did not slacken his pace.
Chapter Two
Dagmar slowly struggled from an all-engulfing black pit and tried to make sense of the world. Positively, she lived. She knew that from the faint drizzle which landed on her face and the prickle of pine needles in her back. However, instead of the sounds of battle raging about her, there was a low hum of crickets and the faint chirp of some bird.
She flexed her fingers and toes, relieved everything seemed to work. Her right arm was a bit stiff and her thighs screamed like they always did after a battle.
Her mouth was drier than the sand on the beach below Constantine’s court at St Andrew’s. But mostly, it was the back of her head which pained her, a great searing ache which made her nauseous and threatened to cause the enveloping blackness to return.
She tried to piece together how she’d arrived here but could only remember in snatches—the sword thrust towards her chest that she’d been certain would end her life, the sudden searing pain in the back of her head, the bumpy movement of a galloping horse and the strong arms about her as a low voice told her she would live if she obeyed. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to rid the buzzing noise from her ears.
She cautiously raised herself up on one elbow. A wave of pain rocked her, causing the world to spin and blur, but she fought against it, refusing to return to that black nothingness. Gradually it cleared and her eyes focused.
She lay on a bed of dry leaves and pine needles. From the sky, she reckoned it was nearing owl-light, then she immediately revised her opinion. The world was becoming lighter by the breath. She’d lost at least one day and night. A large multi-coloured wolfhound stood guard over her. Nearby she saw a dark auburn-haired figure sitting on a log, watching her intently. But her men had vanished. Neither were there any horses. She put a hand to her head, trying to remember where she’d seen her captor before.
At her small movement, the man straightened, his hand going to his sword and recognition crashed through her. The Gael! The man who claimed to have a message from her father. The man had kidnapped her! She’d been ten thousand times a fool not to consider such a possibility.
‘Aedan mac Connall!’ she spluttered, but it came out weaker than a kitten’s mewl.
She ground her teeth. Olafr had not required a confrontation; he’d simply arranged for her removal. She had been fooled by the oldest trick in the book. Her father would never have sent a Gael. He despised them. The only mistake Olafr had made was that she still lived. Silently she swore revenge for everything he and this Gael had done.
‘Aedan mac Connall, you’ll pay for what you’ve done!’ she said again, this time with greater force. ‘My men will be massing! Release me at once and you may yet live!’
‘You’re awake and in good voice,’ Aedan mac Connall said, lifting a brow but seemingly unimpressed and unperturbed by her threat. ‘Good. It makes things easier.’
Dagmar’s next snarled threat died in her throat. ‘Easier for whom?’
‘Everyone concerned, but mainly for me.’ He leant forward. ‘I require you to be alive, Dagmar Kolbeinndottar.’
Her hand instinctively searched for a sword, but found none. She cursed under her breath. Someone, probably the Gael, had divested her of her armour. She was simply clad in her trousers and tunic. Nearly defenceless, but her boots with their hidden gold remained on her feet and she possessed a mind if she cared to use it, instead of panicking and behaving like a feeble-minded female.
‘Helgadottar, not Kolbeinndottar,’ she said, curling her hands into impotent fists.
‘Yet your father remains Kolbeinn the Blood-Axe. Changing your parents is a privilege given only to a few.’
Dagmar screwed up her eyes and refused to allow tears to fall. Tears were what other women did, not the daughter of Helga the Red. She concentrated on breathing until she felt in control of her body once again.
The Gael had removed her sword. It was what happened when a person was kidnapped. The kidnappers took steps to secure their prisoner. She needed to stop acting like a thick-headed panic-stricken mouse and formulate a plan for escape.
The Gael wanted her alive and he claimed to be from her father. If her stepmother had sent him, she would be lying in a pool of blood with her life slowly ebbing from her. Small comfort, but a chance for escape would present itself.
‘Where are my men? Where is the High King?’ she asked, fixing him with one of her harder stares. ‘Take me to Constantine immediately. There are things which need to be said before we depart. My father wouldn’t want to anger the High King of the Picts.’
She breathed easier. The Gael would have to see the logic and yield. Once she was back in Constantine’s camp, she would not be going anywhere near her father.
‘Constantine was last seen on a horse headed towards the coast. He lost. A comprehensive defeat. No longer High King of the Picts. Perhaps he remains King of a very small slice of Alba’s eastern shore.’ The Gael rose and dusted down his trousers. ‘Thorsten and his Northmen from the Black Pool now control the Northern Alba, from the isles of Orkney to the Firth of Forth and beyond.’
She winced. Constantine had lost. Badly. The day was getting worse and worse. Her mother’s lands would also be gone. Overrun and parcelled out to some Northern jaarl. ‘And my men? Did any survive?’
‘Those who lived switched sides. Celebrating Thorsten’s historic victory for the north.’
She cursed Olafr under her breath. Old Alf had been correct in his mutterings about betrayal. ‘Who are you?’
‘Your saviour. You were supposed to die on the battlefield. I saved your life.’ His lips curved upwards. ‘You may thank me appropriately later.’
Dagmar balled her fists and struggled to breathe slowly. Saviour? Thank him? How—by sharing his bed? Not likely. Even if he did have shoulders which blocked out the light and long legs that went on for ever. She pressed her hand to her head. The blow was affecting her reason. Men had no interest in her in that way. Her chin was too pointed and her nose too long.
She had no business noticing the Gael as a man. She was dedicated to the arts of war, rather than the pleasures of bed sport.
Her finger drew a line in the dirt. He’d taken away her world. She might as well be dead. She’d lost everything that her mother had worked so hard to achieve. She’d betrayed her final vow to her mother. But she had someone to blame—Aedan mac Connall with that self-satisfied smile on his face, proclaiming he had saved
her from certain death by snatching her while the battle still raged.
‘Saved my life?’ The words exploded from deep within her. ‘You kidnapped me in the heat of the battle! I could have fought my way to Thorsten and bested him.’
‘Forgive me, but I was on the battlefield. An axe was aimed at your back as well as a sword at your neck. Your man—that elderly warrior—leapt in front of the sword while I handled the axe. He perished to assist our escape, so you could live.’
The angry words dried in her throat. The man had unerringly found the flaw—why leave her alive if he only meant to kill her at a time of his choosing? ‘Old Alf died?’
‘No man could have survived that scene.’
She silently whispered a prayer for the grizzled warrior who had served her mother and her so faithfully. He’d taught her how to handle a sword and had dried her tears when her mother had become too exacting.
‘Then he is fighting for Odin now as he always wanted to,’ she said around the lump in her throat. Old Alf would be the first to scoff at tears, acting like a fragile female he’d call it, instead of behaving like a warrior. She wiped an eye. ‘A fitting end for him. Good. Old Alf trusted you. Why?’
The Gael shrugged. ‘He understood what I had to do. He urged me to do it. He knew the sword I wore came from your father, the sword which shattered saving your life. Your friend died so that you could live.’
‘My men...’ Dagmar whispered as the lump in her throat had begun to choke her. ‘My men are loyal.’
He lifted a brow. ‘Obviously not as loyal as you might have thought. Some of them betrayed you, led by Olafr. As we were leaving, they shouted for Thorsten while beating their swords against their shields. They turned the tide against Constantine.’
The buzzing in her ears increased. Her men, her mother’s men had betrayed her and broke the fellowship when she needed them the most. How was that even possible? Her mouth tasted bitter. The Gael had to be lying, hoping she’d go quietly to wherever he intended for her to be ransomed.
‘They wanted the land the King promised my mother,’ she said as her gut hollowed out. ‘One more victorious battle and it would have been theirs.’
‘Your mother is dead. Why would Constantine honour that promise even if he could? Or perhaps you know more than I, Shield Maiden.’
Dagmar’s fingers itched for a knife, for anything to wipe the knowing look off his face. He mocked her. She didn’t need telling that competing with her mother was an impossibility. Her mother had been more than an equal to men, a legend in her own time and Dagmar was merely the daughter.
She forced her hand to relax. She had to start behaving like her mother’s daughter, rather than giving in to her desires and curling up in a pathetic ball.
‘How do I know you tell the truth? I take it you conveniently disposed of this shattered sword.’
‘Old Alf gave me this brooch. It apparently belonged to your mother. He entrusted me to get you to safety and that means going to your father.’
He held out her mother’s favourite brooch, the one she had used to fasten her cloak, the one she had handed to Old Alf as she’d breathed her last. Dagmar’s heart twisted. The Gael was telling the truth. Why else would Old Alf have entrusted his most beloved possession to him?
With great difficulty, she rose. The world swirled about her, making her stomach swoop, but she forced her spine to stay erect. ‘I will go to see the High King. I will not allow this insult to go unavenged. Constantine will see sense once I explain the situation. If not for Olafr’s double-dealing, I would have given him victory. I can still do it. Once the land is confirmed, the men will see they made a mistake in betraying me and return to my felag. Without them, Thorsten will find it impossible to hold Northern Alba.’
‘You will go nowhere except where I say you go.’ The Gael snapped his fingers and his giant dog instantly blocked her way. It bared its teeth and gave a low growl. Dagmar retreated several steps.
‘I need to go there and confront the King. Please, call off your dog.’ She hated how her voice trembled on the words. ‘There are women and children’s lives who depend on me making this right. I gave my word to my mother. My first duty is to them.’
‘Your name will be the byword for treachery in Constantine’s camp,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You will not be allowed within ten paces of him. Your life expectancy would be a few breaths at most. I regret I cannot allow you to go there to your death. My people and I need you alive. Afterwards...you may go where you will, but my people come first.’
She swayed slightly. Her name a word for treachery. She rapidly sat down before she fell. ‘I had nothing to do with it. I’m innocent.’
‘Do you think Constantine cares?’ The Gael’s eyes burned fiercely. ‘He needs a scapegoat to blame for his failure and you are a pagan woman warrior, an abomination in the eyes of his priests and counsellors. A woman who lives for blood, rather than her brood. You are no peace-weaver, Dagmar Kolbeinndottar, but a peace-destroyer in his eyes.’
‘And the people who work the lands promised to my mother?’
‘They will do what people always do—work the land for the new overlord, one whom Thorsten appoints.’
‘Or they will depart, hoping to find refuge.’ She held out her arms and willed him to understand. ‘I must be able to offer them that refuge.’
‘You can do little for them if you are dead.’
She hugged her arms about her waist, hating that Aedan mac Connall’s words made sense. She had heard the whispers from Constantine’s priests about her and her mother, but always Constantine had refused to listen. She and her mother were his favourite weapon, the unbeatable combination who kept the Northmen from Dubh Linn from gaining sway over his lands. She had almost achieved her goal—her own estate with plenty of land for her men. But that was before. Before she had lost this battle. Before Constantine had been badly humiliated.
‘You appear to know a great deal about what that future holds.’
‘I know what Constantine and the Picts are like,’ the Gael said with a faint smile. ‘I know their prejudices. How little they think of the Northmen. I heard the mutterings as we escaped. Thankfully they were too busy trying to save their hides to worry about a single man leading a pack horse with a dog trotting alongside.’
‘We were winning. I sensed the shield wall beginning to break. A few feet more...’ She put her hand to her head as the blackness threatened to overwhelm her again. She had nearly tasted victory, victory which was hers alone, rather than sharing part of her mother’s triumph. ‘Or at least I think it was like that. My recollections are hazy.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you think or sensed.’ He banged his fists. ‘My task is to take you alive to your father by All Hallows. Therefore, we will not be journeying to Constantine or your lands or anywhere else you might think will serve your purpose first. We go to Colbhasa and your father.’
‘My father cares nothing for me. He turned his back on me a long time ago. He requires sons, not daughters.’ Dagmar crossed her arms. There, she had said the words out loud, words which had been written on her soul on her tenth name day.
‘Your mother hid you from him. She actively kept the two of you apart. She made sure you received no word from him. The old warrior who perished asked me to tell you that. Said it would calm you down.’
The stark words were hammer blows to her heart. Trust the Gael? Old Alf might have, but she saw no reason to. She could never trust her father—not after how he’d treated her mother and her, after he chose her stepmother and her swollen belly over them. And despite her stepmother’s prophetic dreams about bearing her father many warriors, the woman had produced only one sickly son.
Gunnar’s mysterious illness should have warned her that Old Alf had spoken true about Olafr’s attempts to betray her, but she’d ignored his warnings. All she had needed was one good victory
to cement her position, gain the land she required—what she had achieved, instead, was a resounding defeat. Everything had slipped through her fingers. Her life had become the dregs of the pond as her stepmother had predicted it would—the only words the witch had ever spoken directly to her. ‘I’ll listen to what you say, Gael, before I decide.’
‘Will you behave yourself?’ he asked. ‘Or does my dog have to keep you in check?’
‘Do I have any choice?’
‘Not really.’ He gave a smile which was like the sun breaking through the mist on an autumn morning. ‘Be content with breathing, Dagmar.’
‘I would like to carve Olafr Rolfson’s heart out. I would like to slit his throat and leave him to die slowly and in great pain.’ She shook her head and tried to control her temper. ‘But I have to approach it sensibly. However, I, Dagmar Helgadottar, promise you that one day those men will pay for what they have done. I will honour my fallen friends. They may have seemed like men who failed to you, but they were my friends and comrades. Some of them I had known since I was a little girl. I’ll not forget them. Nor will I let their sacrifice be in vain.’
‘A good and worthy sentiment provided you can bend the future to your will.’
She could hear the scepticism in his voice.
‘It will happen.’ She leant forward. ‘Tell me why my father suddenly requires me? Why he sent a Gael to do his dirty work?’
‘Maybe he expects you to save him the trouble of killing me.’
Dagmar screwed up her nose, considering the words. The Gael had a point. Her father was capable of such treachery. ‘I am not inclined to do anything my father wants. I’m pleased I spared your life earlier.’
‘That makes two of us.’
‘My father hasn’t wanted anything to do with me for over ten years.’ She lifted her chin proudly. ‘He only thinks of his other family, his son that he had with that woman.’
The Warrior's Viking Bride (Harlequin Historical) Page 3
