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.
Chapter Three
Cwenneth avoided looking at the pile of bodies and instead concentrated on the smouldering remains of the cart. Smoke hung in the air, getting in her eyes and lungs. Her entire life, including the future she hadn’t truly wanted but had been willing to experience for the sake of her people, was gone.
‘Is there anything left? Anything salvageable?’ she asked.
‘Either burnt or taken,’ came Thrand’s reply. ‘Did your lady only travel with one cart?’
‘There was a baggage cart as well.’ She frowned. ‘I should have said earlier.’
‘It is all gone then. Your lady’s dowry. They took anything that wasn’t nailed down and burnt the rest’
The words knifed through her.
‘But my things? My mother’s...comb.’ Cwenneth clamped her mouth shut before she mentioned the mirror and her jewellery. Since when would a maid have her own mirror, let alone rings and pendants?
It wasn’t the gold she missed, although she was furious about it. What she missed most was the lock of Richard’s hair, his soft baby hair. She used to wrap her fingers around it when she needed comfort and normally wore a pendant with it in to keep him close to her heart. Stupidly, she had taken off the pendant this morning and put it in the iron-bound trunk to keep it safe because the clasp was almost broken, and now it was gone for ever.
‘Time to go. There is no point in sifting through ash.’ Thrand put a heavy hand on her shoulder.
Cwenneth resisted the temptation to lean into him and draw strength from him. She stood on her own two feet now, rather than leaning on anyone, let alone a Norse warrior. ‘The sooner I am away from this place of death, the better.’
‘Take some boots. You will need them.’ The glacial blue in his eyes increased.
‘Why?’
It was clear from his expression what he thought of her. A barely tolerated encumbrance. Cwenneth didn’t mind. It was not as if she wanted to be friends. Somehow, some way she’d find an opportunity to escape.
Escape? Back to what? A brother who saw her as a counter to be used? And a sister-in-law who hated her? Cwenneth banished the disloyal thoughts. They were family. Lingwold was home and she loved its people. Whatever the future held, it wasn’t being a slave to this Norseman.
‘Why do I need boots?’
‘Unless you wish to walk in bare feet, you need boots. Your slippers will be torn to ribbons within a mile,’ he said with an exaggerated politeness.
‘From where?’ Cwenneth gestured about her. ‘Where are the boots stored? Where am I going to find a pair of boots?’
He gestured towards the bodies. His men immediately paused and backed away from them. ‘You are going to allow a good pair of boots to go to waste while your feet bleed?’
Her stomach knotted. He wanted her to rob the dead. ‘It feels wrong. They died wearing those boots.’
He made a cutting motion with his hand. ‘Do the dead care? Will they rise up and challenge you?’
A faint burn coursed up through her cheeks. She winced. He probably robbed the dead without a pang of guilt. Norsemen were like that. They took rather than respected the property of the living or the dead.
Cwenneth glared at him, hating his long blond hair, his huge shoulders and the fact that he was alive and her men were dead. ‘I have never robbed the dead before.’
‘Do you want to choose or shall I?’
‘I’ll choose.’ Cwenneth walked over to where the youngest of her men lay. Dain’s mother had been her nurse when she was little. She had asked for him because she thought he’d have a good future in her new household. Martha had readily agreed. ‘Dain’s boots. They are solid and new. His mother gave them to him before we departed. They are good leather to walk a thousand miles in, or so Martha proclaimed. She’d have liked me to have them.’
‘And you think they will fit?’ he asked in a casual tone. His eyes watched her as a cat might watch a mouse hole. ‘Shouldn’t you try them on first?’
She pressed her lips together. Perhaps she’d been too hasty at dismissing him as all brawn and very little brain. She needed to be very careful from here on out and weigh her words, rather than rushing to fill the silence.
‘I have large feet for a woman.’ She bent down and tore several strips of cloth from Dain’s cloak. Luckily the material ripped easily. ‘This should be enough to fill the toes.’
She knelt down and started to stuff the boots before she said anything more.
‘You have done this before,’ he remarked, hunkering down next to her.
Up close, she could see that his hair was a hundred different shades of yellow and that his features were finely made despite his overbearing size and manner. Their breath laced. Her hands trembled, and she redoubled her efforts. All she had to do was ignore her unwanted reaction to him. He wanted to unsettle her for his own perverse pleasure. Well, she’d disappoint him. She lifted her chin.
‘Once at Christmas, I dressed up as a bard.’ She gulped, rapidly shoving her feet into the boots before walking a few steps. ‘I mean, my lady did and I helped her. She wore her husband’s boots... When I get back to Lingwold, Martha will appreciate the gesture.’
‘And you believe the boots will last that long?’
‘I have to.’ She rubbed her hands together, pushing the thought away that she might never get back. Lingwold for all its faults was her home. ‘What shall I be riding in? Where is your cart?’
He appeared to grow several inches and his shoulders broadened. Barely tamed. Every inch the warrior. ‘Playtime is over. You won’t be riding, Lady Cwenneth.’ Thrand made a low bow. ‘Your ladyship will be walking. I am fresh out of carts and my horse is not overly fond of Northumbrians or women. And I’m not minded to inconvenience him for a proud Northumbrian lady like you. The only question is whether or not I have to tether you to my horse.’
She put her hand to her throat and her heartbeat resounded in her ears. He had called her Lady Cwenneth. Lady! ‘You know. How?’
His lips turned up into a humourless smile. ‘Did you think me an idiot? I’ve known since the first time you opened your mouth. It amused me to see how far you would push it and how many mistakes you’d make. You’re a very poor liar, my lady, even if your voice is sweet enough to charm birds from the trees.’
Cwenneth stared at her hands. Each word knifed her heart. She had been certain that she had fooled him. Naivety in the extreme. It would have been better if she’d died in the woods. She was Thrand Ammundson’s prisoner—worse than that, his slave. He knew her brother wanted his head and had been prepared to pay a high price to get it.
How could he be so cruel as to play this sadistic game? Giving her hope and then turning her over to the one man who would kill her? Her knees threatened to buckle. Summoning all her strength, she locked her knees and balled her fists.
‘Will you deliver me to Hagal? Trussed up like a prize? Was that what you were always planning on doing? Why bother with the play-acting?’ She stretched out her neck and attempted to seem fiercesome. ‘Why not cut off my head and send it back to my brother as a warning? Go on. Do it now.’
‘My enemy wants you dead. Why should I want to do that job for him?’ Something stirred in his lifeless eyes—a flash of warmth and admiration that was so quickly concealed Cwenneth wondered if she had imagined it. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I learnt that in Constantinople and it kept me alive.’
‘We do share a common enemy, but we will never be friends. Temporary allies at best,’ she said, tapping her finger against her mouth. The enemy of his enemy... She wanted to fall down and kiss the ground. They were on the same side. He needed her alive a
nd unscathed.
‘You take my point.’
Her heart did a wild leap. She was going to see Lingwold’s grey walls again. She’d never complain about the tapestry weaving being done incorrectly again or the subjects her sister-in-law considered suitable for gossip, but which bored her senseless. She’d be back with her family and people who understood her.
‘Then you’ll be taking me to Lingwold.’ She clasped her hands together to keep from throwing them about his neck. ‘My brother will pay a huge ransom for me. I swear this on my mother’s grave. He has many men pledged to him. He could send an army against Hagal, assist you in getting rid of your enemy. My brother hates being taken for a fool, and Hagal played him.’
She knew in her relief she was babbling like a brook. When the words had all flowed out of her, she stood, waiting for his agreement. The silence grew deafening. The bravado leaked from her veins as his stare hardened.
‘We’re allies,’ she said in a small voice. ‘It makes sense.’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll never go to Lingwold. Your brother’s assurances aren’t worth the spit it takes to say them. If I took you back to Lingwold, I would be truly fulfilling Hagal’s promise to your brother. I know what will happen to me if I enter Lingwold with you even if Hagal has been destroyed. After I’ve finished with you, you may go where you please. Your fate is not linked to mine beyond that day.’
‘I failed to consider that.’
Her brother could be every bit as ruthless as any Norsemen. War had brutalised the idealistic youth she’d known. He bragged about outsmarting them and leaving a band of them to die in a burning house. He proudly proclaimed that it was the only reason Thrand had left him alone for the last raiding season. Her brother might listen to her story, but only after he’d taken Thrand’s head. If Thrand had acted on her advice, she’d have ended up betraying the man she depended on to save her life.
Thrand nodded towards the muddy track. ‘Time to go, your ladyship. Walk—or would you prefer to have your hands bound and be tossed on the back of my horse? I’m in a generous mood after your display of courage. Not many women have asked me to take their life.’
Harlequin Historical September 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: Lord Havelock's ListSaved by the Viking WarriorThe Pirate Hunter Page 28
