Betrothed to the Enemy Viking

by Michelle Styles

  ‘Impressive,’ he said.

  ‘What is? The fact that I am able to organise my men properly? That I am willing to take responsibility for you? Or that I am aware I’m taking a chance on your peaceful intentions?’ She tapped the bench with an impatient finger. ‘Out with it, Kal. Why exactly am I impressive?’

  He laced his fingers about his knee. ‘It is impressive that you control your men so well. And that you venture into enemy territory to honour your husband’s dying wish despite the obvious risks.’

  ‘Why do men continually think women are fragile flowers, incapable of coherent thought and their own defence?’

  Lady Cynehild leant towards him. The neck of her dark blue gown gaped open, affording him an intimate view of her chest.

  ‘Widows like me very quickly discover that batting your lashes and hoping for a man to rescue you is fruitless. Why would I want to depend on a man for my rescue, in any case?’

  ‘Because they are more likely to have been trained in using a sword. There is more to it than picking it up and swinging it,’ he said, to redirect his thoughts from her lush curves.

  ‘I know all about the need for proper training. I gave a promise to my late husband that I will raise our son, Wulfgar, to honourable manhood. He is going to be the sort of warrior his father would have been proud of—dedicated, decent, and above all honourable. The very epitome of what a Mercian warrior should be. As his father was.’

  He wondered if she knew how she stole the breath from his lungs when she banged her fists together like that. Such passion for her son’s future. He’d be willing to wager that she’d accomplish it successfully, and a thousand other things besides.

  He silently cursed. He had nothing. What business did he have hankering after a capable lady like Cynehild—particularly one with a son? Despite his child only living for a short breath of time, he knew he’d loved him with his whole heart and that he’d failed him as a father.

  ‘I’ve always found wilting fragile flowers to be more trouble than they are worth,’ he said. ‘Would I even be alive if you were prone to fainting or hysterics?’

  Cynehild’s distinct sniff bounced off the walls, but the corners of her mouth twitched upwards.

  The renewed jolting of the cart as it hit another bump in the road sent him careening into her. This time his chest hit hers, her soft curves a welcome cushion against his hard muscle. He watched the bow-like curve of her mouth like a hawk as her tongue came out and moistened her bottom lip. Their breath interlaced and time slowed to a standstill.

  The temptation to taste the sweetness of her lips swamped him. He moved forward, his mouth hovering over hers, but his last remaining sense of what was right and proper stopped him.

  Drawing on all his reserves, he levered himself off her and moved as far away from her as he could get. His whole body thrummed from their brief encounter.

  If anything, his increasing desire for her showed him that she’d been wrong about him—his goodness did not extend to propriety towards ladies of high birth and knowing his place in the world. But he longed to demonstrate to her that he could be the sort of warrior she’d described—honourable, courageous and decent. For Lady Cynehild’s regard, he was willing to try.

  ‘My balance remains the tiniest bit unsteady,’ he said into the uncomfortable silence. ‘Forgive me.’

  She bent her head and fiddled with her belt, but her cheeks had turned the colour of a spring dawn. ‘Brace your feet and you will find it easier to maintain your balance.’

  ‘An excellent suggestion.’

  Kal forced his gaze out through the narrow slit of a window. A stone wall and a great oak with branches like curved longboats waiting to go to sea sent a surge of recognition through him. They were passing through his lands. His. Not anyone else’s, but his.

  His mouth went dry. But if these lands belonged to him, then he was Jaarl Icebeard, the ruthless warrior who had taken Lady Cynehild’s land. And if he was that man, the very last thing he was, was honourable and decent.

  The voice that had come to him once he’d regained consciousness resounded once again in his mind, this time uttering a fuller sentence—‘Thus shall all tyrants fall, Icebeard!’

  He put his hand over his ears. Impossible. He would surely know if he was a great lord who had abandoned all notions of honour. He was simply Kal, son of Randr, from a forgettable homestead near Ribe, a long way from home, slow to anger and very much attracted to a woman who was far above him in station. His heart told him that he was a better man than any tyrant who ruled these lands with a sharp sword and an even quicker temper.

  ‘Such a serious expression, Kal. You don’t need to cling on to the bench as if it is your one hope of life.’

  He couldn’t confess his growing suspicion to Cynehild. He wanted her to look at him with kindness for a little while longer.

  Truly, his one hope was that this woman they sought would put his fears to rest.

  He swallowed hard and sought to regain some sort of control. ‘My head aches something fierce, my lady.’

  * * *

  Sometimes in her dreams, when she was back at Baelle Heale, with Wulfgar snuggled up close to her and all was still, Cynehild would be coming down the Fosse Way towards the old hall, banners flying, triumphant, with everyone pleased to see her return because she brought peace and prosperity to a war-torn land.

  Now that they were nearing Jaarl Icebeard’s new hall there was no denying that the woods, with their stands of freshly coppiced trees and the scent of charcoal-making hanging in the air, were being worked, rather than being allowed to grow unchecked as they had done when she lived here. And the fields were full of livestock rather than left fallow and gorse-strewn as she’d last seen them.

  To her slight disappointment, after their most recent collision, Kal had discovered his balance and not jostled her again. The ease between them had vanished as if it had never been.

  For several heartbeats, she’d thought he might use the unsteadiness of the cart deliberately, to give him another opportunity to kiss her, but he seemed to have dozed off.

  Much to her chagrin, she’d spent most of the journey wondering what his lips would feel like against hers. She still wondered now—and she wasn’t sure what sort of widow, whose heart had supposedly been buried with her husband, that made her.

  They shuddered to a halt. She angled her head so that she could peer out through the narrow slit of the window better. A curl of smoke filtered lazily up through the thatched roof of a cottage which was set some way away from the others. Occupied, certainly, but by whom?

  Luba, she hoped.

  Her former maid had refused to go with them, even though Cynehild had attempted to cajole her. Luba had said that the land was in her family’s blood and neither she nor her husband wanted to run like scared hares.

  ‘Breathe, Lady Cynehild. All will be well,’ Kal said.

  ‘You sound awfully sure for a man who has little memory.’

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, making her want to tumble into their smile. ‘Who could resist your plea for help?’

  ‘Are you trying to calm my nerves with easy words, Kal? Or are you like this with all the ladies?’

  ‘I prefer to speak the truth as I see it. It saves having to remember the lies.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I have faith in your ability to persuade. Shall we?’

  He held out his hand. In the unforgiving early spring light, the battle scars on his hands shone silver. She ignored the outstretched fingers and busied herself with straightening her couvre-chef. Kal had seen through her bravado and sought to reassure her. She struggled to remember when Leofwine or her sisters had ever done that.

  ‘Wait in the cart until we know what is happening. Caution above everything,’ she said, giving him a severe look.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to be without protection,’ he said, with a yo
uthful half-smile.

  However, there was nothing about his muscular body that was remotely immature. Whatever he had done before the accident, she knew he had not sat around nor allowed himself to run to fat.

  ‘Brother Palni will be sufficient, I promise.’

  A dimple winked at the corner of his mouth. ‘I keep forgetting the esteemed Brother Palni. Call me if you need a warrior who is well used to battle instead of one who is used to prayer.’

  With Brother Palni at her side, muttering about the impertinence of Deniscan warriors, she knocked on the cottage door. An elderly woman peeped out, spied the visitors’ identity, and rapidly started to close the door. Cynehild stuck her foot in the doorway.

  ‘Luba? Is that any way to greet an old friend?’ Cynehild said with forced cheerfulness. ‘I know I’m fuller of figure than the last time we met—my clothes inform me of that fact—but surely I’m not that greatly altered?’

  ‘My lady? After all this time and looking so well...’ The woman opened the door a touch wider and made the barest of curtsies. ‘We heard about your late husband, my lady. Over a year ago, if I’m remembering rightly. My condolences. I never expected to see you here again, what with the peace treaty and all. We are content under the Danelaw. Our lands prosper.’

  Cynehild pressed her hands together. Once Luba would have been fawning over her, inviting her to eat, drink and gossip, but now she practically seemed to be shooing her away with her hands, as if her former mistress were an unwelcome memory rather than an old friend.

  ‘The Jaarl Icebeard has granted me permission to return Lord Leofwine’s sword to his ancestors’ crypt,’ said Cynehild, ignoring Luba’s disapproving expression. ‘Lord Leofwine asked me to do it with his dying breath. He held these lands and the people on them ever dear in his heart.’

  ‘We are well-settled under the Danes,’ said Luba. ‘My daughter has just married one of them—a good provider and well connected. Jaarl Icebeard himself favoured the match.’ She came out into the yard, slamming the door behind her before speaking in a low whisper. ‘You’d have been better to remain far away from here, Lady Cynehild. You and Lord Leofwine’s sword. You are stirring up things which are best left to lie, if you understand my meaning.’

  Cynehild blinked rapidly. Luba had it wrong. The last thing she wanted was a revolt or unrest. There was no way she could command an army. She wanted only to get Leofwine’s gold from the church and leave. Return to Baelle Heale and her life. Unfortunately, the unvarnished truth was one thing which had to remain hidden.

  ‘What is the harm in greeting an old friend?’ she asked.

  The woman’s hands gripped each other until her knuckles shone white. ‘You are not intending on staying and causing trouble, my lady? This land has seen far too much already. The fields burned and the rivers ran red with blood during the war.’

  Cynehild tilted her head to one side, trying to fathom Luba’s mood. ‘We’re well-settled at Baelle Heale with my father. My son, Wulfgar, grows strong, but remains a young boy. We respect the peace treaty and have no plans to challenge it.’

  ‘It is good to know that you and the bonny lad are happy there.’

  ‘My invitation remains—there is room for you and your family at Baelle Heale should you require it. And Jaarl Icebeard has promised safe passage for me and all of my party.’

  ‘I said it before you left and I’ll say it again—the only way out of this cottage for me is in a box. But thank you kindly all the same, Lady Cynehild.’ The woman flicked her tongue over her lips and made another perfunctory curtsy. ‘Our business ended years ago, my lady.’

  She reached for the door.

  ‘I refuse to believe you wish us harm, Luba,’ Cynehild said, before the woman vanished inside. ‘My men and I plan to go to the church today and lay Leofwine’s sword. Are we walking into a trap? Is that what you are trying to warn me of, without saying it directly?’

  The woman let out a huge sigh. ‘Things are in a to-do, my lady. A right to-do. Mind you keep out of trouble. I did love that little boy of yours as a tiny baby... But best to leave that there sword elsewhere, if you get my meaning. In fact, stay away from people if you can. Best for all concerned. And don’t mention this visit, for all our sakes.’

  ‘I only arrived in these lands yesterday, after being away for three years. How can I have done anything wrong?’

  Luba put a hand to the side of her mouth and whispered, ‘The Jaarl Icebeard has gone missing. He went out hunting on his own yesterday morning and has not been seen since. Vanished into thin air. Some whisper that he has been murdered. Others claim that it is witchcraft, and he has been enchanted at some fairy feast. Even now they are searching the lands for him, but no one holds out much hope.’

  A sliver of ice went down Cynehild’s spine. She didn’t dare look at Brother Palni, but his warning about becoming involved in peculiar Deniscan affairs resonated in her mind. Between Kal’s appearance and Icebeard’s disappearance, odd was the most polite word to describe things.

  ‘Do you know that he is dead?’

  ‘If he has been murdered or harmed it will go ill for us.’ The woman twisted her apron. ‘Things were settling down, what with his reputation and all, and the raiders left us in peace. I do not know what this world is coming to... If it is all the same to you, my lady, I don’t wish to stand here and chat—particularly not to the lady of my old lord, who is going to plant a sword on the very day after my new lord has vanished without a trace. Surely even you must see that?’

  Cynehild understood what the woman was saying. If this Icebeard’s body was discovered, and it was found that he had been murdered, the temptation to look no further than the old lord’s lady, who had chosen that very day to appear, waving her late husband’s sword, would be overwhelming.

  ‘I’m innocent in this,’ she said.

  ‘Do you really think that will matter?’ Luba asked. ‘Go, my lady. Consider yourself fortunate that you learned of the peril before you blundered into it. Lord Leofwine would have insisted you remain safe. He never wanted a warrior for a wife.’

  She went back in the cottage and started to pull the door shut.

  Cynehild put her hand up. ‘Please—please. Wait. Listen to me... I discovered an injured Dane yesterday, called Kal Randrson. His memory has gone. Kal Randrson, come out of the cart! Immediately!’

  Kal slowly unfolded his bulk from the cart. In his hand he carried Leofwine’s sword. A slight breeze blew his dark blond hair from his face.

  Luba peered around Cynehild and then crossed herself. ‘By all the saints!’

  ‘Do you know him, Luba? Tell me the truth—what sort of Dane is he?’

  ‘That is no ordinary Dane,’ the woman whispered. ‘That is Icebeard himself. Or someone who is his exact double. But Jaarl Icebeard never wore that expression on his face. He normally scowled instead of smiling. What in the name of all that is holy has happened to him? What game are you playing, Lady Cynehild?’

  Cynehild’s stomach roiled at the enormity of it—someone had attacked Icebeard and left him for dead on that hillside, and it seemed likely they had intended that she, or rather her visit, would get blamed for the action.

  ‘Kal Randrson is the Jaarl Icebeard? Are you certain of it? For goodness’ sake, Luba, do not play me false on this.’

  ‘I’m certain, my lady.’ Luba raised her voice. ‘I know my new lord, don’t I? Jaarl Icebeard visited this very cottage not eight weeks ago, to insist my daughter marry the man who is now her husband.’

  * * *

  A rushing roar filled Kal’s ears. His growing fear had been confirmed.

  The elderly woman continued to speak and to call him Icebeard, getting more and more agitated. He struggled to place the woman standing before him, but she was simply another Saxon face. She appeared adamant in her claim, coming over to him and tugging on his arm until he wanted to call
out.

  The pain in his head had increased to unbearable levels. He wasn’t a tyrant. He knew he cared about people.

  He took her hand from his forearm. ‘You know me, woman? Can you tell me my recent history?’

  ‘My daughter serves at your hall, my lord.’ The woman swept into a very low curtsy. ‘You gave a farm to my son-in-law as a wedding present. You are Lord of the lands of Ecgmundton, which used to belong to this lady’s husband until he fled them in a blind panic rather than staying to defend them. I may be old, but I’m not daft, Lord Icebeard.’

  Kal shook his head. Her words were like annoying bees, swarming about him, piercing the pain in his head. Echoing through the agony, he heard the name Icebeard being shouted over and over, and knew deep down that he despised it, even though he must have claimed it.

  He had no true idea what Icebeard represented—what he had done or how he’d gone from nothing to being the jaarl of these lands—and it frightened him. He knew how other men had behaved to gain land and wealth, and how he had once pledged to be different. He feared that in the testing time of battle he had been worse than they could ever be.

  His stomach roiled. Tyrant. Maybe he had deserved death at his attacker’s hands, but instead Lady Cynehild had given him life.

  Lady Cynehild and the others in her party regarded him as if he’d sprouted two heads and a curling tail. He held out his hands and tried to make light of it, but deep in his heart it hurt—they had already judged him.

  ‘The name Icebeard is not one I care for. How did I get it?’ He rubbed his hand along his jawline and felt the rough stubble. ‘I sport no beard.’

  The old woman gave a grunt which might mean anything. Shadows crossed over Lady Cynehild’s countenance, and Brother Palni gave him a black look. No smiles of understanding or wry humour there. His heart sank.

  ‘I discovered him bleeding and hit on the head.’ Lady Cynehild’s voice was far too high-pitched, her nostrils flared.