The Viking Warrior's Bride

Chapter Two

The trail was so narrow that they’d been forced to walk in pairs, and Vidar had fallen into step beside his brother. They’d left half of the men behind to guard the boats and the treasure contained within them—the fortune his brother had been forced to part with to secure this marriage. The girl walked before them with a man he’d heard her call by the name Wulf at her side, while the rest of her men followed behind.

‘Have you considered that this might be a trap?’ Vidar asked, keeping his voice low enough that it wouldn’t travel to the others. Not that he believed any of the Saxons knew the Danish tongue, but he’d rather his own men not hear. The evergreen forest towered high above them, nearly blocking what little light there was, leaving it almost too dark to see the trail in front of them. She could be leading them anywhere.

‘Aye, but it’s not,’ Eirik said, his gaze on the trail.

Vidar had to agree that a trap was probably unlikely. As of now, they had the Saxon men outnumbered, but there could be more hiding anywhere along the trail. And their knowledge of the Alveys was nearly non-existent. They could have hundreds of warriors. Yet his brother spoke with such confidence that Vidar was compelled to ask, ‘How are you so certain?’

‘When I leave, I’m taking nearly half the warriors with me and leaving the gold behind.’ Eirik smiled, the white of it breaking through the shadows. ‘If she wanted to kill you, she’d do it then when she’d have fewer men to contend with and it would be autumn before I knew about it. Spring before I’d be able to come back to avenge you. It’s in her best interest to wait.’

Vidar scoffed and glanced through the tops of the trees, trying to find the sun. ‘Many thanks, Brother. I’ll look forward to that when you’re gone.’

Eirik laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I doubt it’ll happen.’

Somehow his brother’s ‘doubt’ wasn’t the least bit reassuring. Vidar clenched his jaw and stared at the back of the girl who walked before them. Vidar still had trouble thinking of her as his bride. None of this felt like it was really happening. By tomorrow evening the land they were walking on could very well be his, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about it. He wasn’t a farmer or a shepherd, or whatever they did up here in this remote place. His destiny was to brave new lands to find new resources and secure his fortune.

No matter what happened on this night or any other, he’d make sure to fulfil that destiny. These people had survived well enough without him. He’d leave as soon as he was able and continue his life as before. Eirik couldn’t stop him and, unless he missed his guess, his bride would rather see him go.

Though he’d probably have to get her with child first.

The thought brought his attention back to her. They had been steadily walking up an incline, traversing up the side of the hill, so the girl’s backside was at eye level. Her tunic was low enough that it covered the plump flesh, but he could still see it bouncing beneath the fabric, the swells of each cheek working with each step she took. And he remembered vividly how her tunic had been pulled up as she’d come out of the tree, allowing him a view of those rounded curves in her trousers. It could be worse, he reminded himself. Bedding her wouldn’t be unpleasant, he decided, and began to anticipate it as the only bright spot in this arrangement. It had been weeks since he’d last lain with a woman.

The flickering of fire up ahead caught his eye and he realised they were coming out of the forest. The trail ended and they walked out into a flat grassland that backed up to a fortress larger than he’d been expecting. The entire settlement was set back into the side of a hill. The river made up the west and north side, blocked off by both a stone wall and sheer drop of several yards. The stone wall continued around the south and east sides of the property, but it was far more vast in both length and height than any of the Saxon walls he’d seen. Inside the wall, set up higher on the hill, were several larger buildings and many smaller ones scattered about them. It was too dark to make out specific details, but he was impressed with what he saw. He’d imagined a few huts around a granary, but this was remarkable. If he wasn’t mistaken in the dim light, a few of the buildings looked to be made of the same stone as the wall.

Gwendolyn turned when they reached the wall, her gaze flicking over him before landing on Eirik. ‘Welcome to my home, Jarl Eirik.’ Vidar noticed that she specifically excluded him from the greeting. Did the girl think goading him was in her best interest? He smiled, already warming to the idea of taming her.

‘Many thanks, Lady Gwendolyn. I’m impressed with your fortifications,’ Eirik answered. The wall was well over two men high. Torches were set at even intervals along the top of the wall, giving a little bit of light to the early evening.

‘Thank you. My grandfather was an intelligent man with the gift of foresight. He had this built back when we’d only heard talk about the invaders.’

She didn’t say the word ‘invaders’ with malice, but her gaze slid over to Vidar just the same. It appeared the lady only considered him the invader and not Eirik. Did she not realise that he would not be here if it weren’t for Eirik? Vidar very nearly snorted, but managed to hold himself in check. There’d be plenty of time after the wedding to put her in her place.

‘A wise man indeed,’ Eirik agreed, his gaze traversing the wall. ‘Has it held up well to attack?’

‘Aye,’ the girl said, raising her chin a notch in pride.

‘It’s never fallen,’ said the man at her side. ‘It’s been tested, but not once has it failed us.’ He appeared old enough to be the girl’s father. His dark hair was streaked with grey at the temples, while his beard had patches of silver. He carried himself with the same pride of ownership as the girl.

‘Jarl Eirik, this is my father’s man, Rodor. He knows everything there is to know about Alvey. He was born here and has the charge of our warriors just as his father before him.’

Vidar watched them exchange greetings and offered his own arm for Rodor. The man hesitated, his gaze faltering for a moment as he glanced at Gwendolyn. It was true that the girl had led the men below, but Vidar hadn’t been sure if it had been a scheme. Part of something she’d concocted to make a show of her power in their first meeting. But that look spoke volumes. This older man, who’d clearly had the trust and respect of her father, trusted her. Not only that, but he gave deference to her wishes. Interesting.

She gave an almost imperceptible tilt of her head that Rodor took for consent. Only then did the man clasp Vidar’s arm in the same grip he’d shared with the Jarl and exchange a greeting. Gwendolyn turned her head away as if she couldn’t bear to see Vidar acknowledged in any way other than that of an enemy or threat. When he let go of the man’s arm, she turned and led them all to the main gate, which had been thrown open in welcome. Although it didn’t feel like much of a welcome when they walked inside.

Vidar had to suppress a shiver of trepidation as he passed through the gates. The men inside had been alerted to their arrival and stood on either side of the entrance. Though they were not holding their weapons, swords, axes, and knives were stowed at the waistbands and across their backs. He had to wonder if the girl commanded them as easily as she did Rodor.

She walked through the warriors and they parted for her as if she were their queen. Vidar realised that his original assessment of her had been hasty. This was no token respect she was given. These men respected her because somehow she had earned it.

Vidar ground his molars together, already anticipating the battle of wills ahead. It wouldn’t be fought with weapons. It would be more subtle, and fought with words and deeds. He’d have to wrest their respect away from her and earn it for himself.

* * *

‘The Danes have come.’ Gwendolyn could barely say the words before she pressed a hand to her mouth, as if they’d cut her lips on their way out.

‘Aye. I’ve heard. The news spread fast once their ships were spotted.’ Her older sister, Annis, closed the door to Gwendolyn’s bedchamber and swept her into her arms.

Gwendolyn allowed herself a moment of weakness and took comfort in the embrace. Her knees had been weak since the moment she’d climbed out of that tree and met the Northmen face to face. Her fear had only got worse as she’d led the men to her home. Now that they were inside, drinking her ale and helping themselves to her meat, she’d barely made it to her chamber before the fear overtook her.

She’d heard talk about the Danes ever since she could remember. They were large and unkempt with the slovenly mannerisms of barbarians. Her only real dealings with them before now were that band of misfit Danes who terrorised the countryside. They didn’t belong to this group of men, though. They were rebels. Rumours were that only a portion of them were Danes with the rest of the group being made up of outcasts from the Picts, Scots, and God knew who else. During that battle, she’d been too grief stricken and intent on avenging her brother’s death to notice much about them.

What frightened her so much about these Danes who’d all but taken over Northumbria was that they weren’t unkempt and slovenly at all. They were dignified and ordered. Jarl Eirik appeared just as aristocratic as her own father had. The men as a group carried themselves with pride and poise. When she looked into Vidar’s eyes, she saw intelligence and cunning, not the look of a barbarian she’d been expecting. She could handle a bloodthirsty animal much easier than a calculating nobleman, particularly one bent on claiming her for marriage and taking her property.

Her bedchamber was the only place she could indulge her emotions, even if only for a moment. And Annis was the only person she trusted enough to allow her to see her as she really was. With Annis she didn’t have to appear strong or brave. She buried her face in the crook of Annis’ shoulder and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. However, nothing could stop her hands from shaking as she put them around her sister’s shoulders.

‘Are they so awful?’ Annis asked, her voice low as if the Danes already had ownership of everything and any words spoken against them were blasphemy.

Gwendolyn nodded. ‘More awful than I had imagined.’

‘What of your...husband?’ She hesitated on the last word as if trying to find another way to say it. But there was no other way. Gwendolyn feared that she was as good as wed to him.

‘Any man who is not Cam is horrible. But that man is worse than horrible.’ Gwendolyn took another deep breath and pulled herself up to her full height, which was a few inches taller than her tiny sister. Though Gwendolyn had two older sisters, she’d always been the tallest and the most active of the three. When her sisters were content to allow their mother to lead them in lessons in embroidery and the proper running of a household, Gwendolyn had followed their older brother Cedric everywhere. Eventually her parents had consented and he’d allowed her to join in with the weaponry and fight training given to the boys her age. It was because of him that she was more accurate with the crossbow than any of the men and could hold her own with the longbow.

In a way, it was because of Cedric that she was in this awful predicament. If he’d not been killed in battle, along with Cam—her betrothed—then she’d not be faced with marriage to a Dane.

‘I understand that you still mourn Cam. We all do.’ Annis tucked a strand of hair behind Gwendolyn’s ear. ‘But the Danes are only men. They can’t possibly be that awful.’

Gwendolyn turned from her sister and hurried across the room to the shelves where she kept the important documents that had belonged to her father. In preparation for the marriage, Gwendolyn had moved into the master’s chamber. With her brother dead, Annis married to a lowly farmer with no lofty aspirations and her other sister comfortably ensconced in the abbey and devoted to a life of prayer, there was no one left to be master except for the man Gwendolyn eventually married. She only hoped it wouldn’t be this Dane.

Grabbing the small chest from the shelf, she sat it on the table and opened the lid to pull out the scroll her father had hidden away. It was the one that had given her to that heathen. ‘They are that terrible, Annis,’ she said. ‘His name is Vidar and you can’t even imagine how he looks at me. It’s not the same way Eadward looks at you.’ Eadward fairly worshipped her sister. He’d looked at her as if he could see no one else since they were children. ‘It’s as if he already owns me and is taking measure of my worth.’

She shook her head as she unrolled the scroll, nearly ripping it in her haste to find the name Magnus. If Magnus was the one named in the document, and not Vidar, then she wouldn’t have to honour this ridiculous agreement that her father had made in haste and desperation. This was nothing more than her father’s misplaced fear. He’d been afraid to die without seeing her cared for, not realising that she didn’t need to be cared for. She could care for herself, the estate and all the land between the north and Northumbria without a man at her side.

‘Damn and blast,’ she murmured as her gaze ate up the words on the page.

‘Gwendolyn! We can get through this without blasphemy,’ Annis admonished her before turning her attention back to the scroll, squinting at the words. She’d never taken to learning the written word as her other siblings had. Her lips moved silently as she struggled to make sense of the markings. Finally, she gave up. ‘Oh, just tell me what it says.’

‘They’ve brought a man named Vidar to marry me, but Father explicitly said that the man’s name was Magnus. The Jarl Dane says that the agreement only called for his best man and a specific man had not been named. Therefore, he could substitute whomever he wanted.’ Gwendolyn dropped into the chair behind her as nausea rolled in her stomach, the scroll forgotten on the table. ‘It appears he’s correct. There is no Magnus named in the agreement.’

Annis grabbed her hand in silent support. Gwendolyn squeezed her fingers, but the gesture that was so familiar did nothing to bring her peace this time. She was well and truly bound to that barbarian. An image of his smirking face rose up in her mind and she shook her head to clear it. This was not the future she had planned for herself.

She felt like throwing a tantrum that would have left her five-year-old self in complete and utter awe. However, she realised that would get her absolutely nowhere.

Instead of giving in to the impulse, she rolled up the scroll again and put her arm around Annis. Vidar—even thinking his name was distasteful. She shook her head and said, ‘If legalities won’t save me, then I’ll have to make him cry off.’

‘How on earth will you do that, Gwendolyn? What man would say no to Alvey?’

Gwendolyn closed her eyes as dread settled like a lump in her belly. She knew she was getting desperate if she thought she could make him turn around and leave. ‘I don’t know. Your Eadward said no. Father would’ve given it to him after Cedric’s death.’

Annis laughed. ‘You know as well as I that Eadward is happiest on his farm. He goes whole days without so much as a word to anyone. He would not be happy as a ruler.’ Then she sobered and took Gwendolyn’s hand. ‘Perhaps I should’ve said what man who’s travelled weeks and weeks to find you and claim Alvey as his own would turn away now?’

And that was the crux of it. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have come all this way to simply turn around now. Even worse was her strong suspicion that even if he did, Jarl Eirik would only find someone to replace him. Despite what Vidar might want for himself, she knew that Jarl Eirik wanted this land as a barrier between himself and the tribes to the north. And he needed that to happen before the Saxons to the south claimed it for their own. Or that’s how her father had explained it to her from his deathbed.

Gwendolyn just wanted to be left alone and for Alvey to be secluded from the kings to the south and the tribes to the north.

‘You could very well be right, Annis, but I have to try something. How would you feel if Eadward had been taken from you and a strange barbarian forced upon you?’

Annis nodded and her eyes filled with so much sadness and pity that it hurt Gwendolyn to look at them. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, her eyes filling up with tears. ‘It should be me, not you. I’m the oldest and this should be my burden.’

‘Oh, Annis.’ Gwendolyn pulled her into a hug, suddenly ashamed that she’d allowed her own fears to make her sister feel guilty. ‘It’s not your fault. I suppose it’s not anyone’s fault.’ As much as she wanted to find someone to blame, it was simply the way things were. ‘I’ll have to figure things out.’

Annis nodded and drew back, wiping at her nose with a kerchief she’d drawn from her sleeve. ‘You will, Gwendolyn. I have great faith in you. You always figure out a way.’

Chapter Three

Gwendolyn had not figured out a way. Despite her best efforts, she was stuck in this marriage arrangement. Rodor and Jarl Eirik stood at the table where their tankards of ale had been pushed to the side and the two scrolls stretched out before them. One of them was from the chest in her chamber, and the other had been produced by Jarl Eirik. She could tell from her seat at the head of the table that they were identical even before Rodor stood back and gave her a solemn nod.

Tightening her grip on her tankard, she tossed back the rest of the ale and contemplated how many cups she could drink that night. If she finished off an entire pitcher, would it be enough to make her forget that this was her life now? That these men who sat at her table would be here to stay? That that man...Vidar...would be her husband? Nay, she sincerely doubted there was enough ale in Alvey to make her forget.

‘Well, Lady Gwendolyn, as you can see the documents support my earlier statement. I’m within my rights to replace Magnus with Vidar.’ Jarl Eirik pushed back from where he’d been leaning over the documents to stand beside Rodor.

For all his bluster earlier, Rodor kept his hand resting lightly on the sword at his hip. It was a casual pose, but she realised it for the support it was. If she commanded it, he’d turn on the Danes. He’d hate every moment of it, but he’d do it.

Her gaze went down the length of the table and then further around the large chamber. The candles flickered overhead and a large fire burned in the hearth, illuminating the room while keeping the corners in shadow. All eyes had turned to her and there was a tension in the room that had rarely been present in a home that was so well cared for. She counted roughly three score of the Danes. Her own men numbered nearly that many, but there were more lingering outside. Their women were suspiciously absent from the great chamber on this night, leaving only herself and Annis.

If Gwendolyn called for a fight, then her men would eventually overpower the Danes, though not without some loss of life. If they moved fast enough, they’d even be able to attack the Danes still left in their ships. Though it was anyone’s guess if the Danes would move fast enough to escape on their ships. If they did escape, then they’d return to avenge their Jarl. It might be weeks or months, but they’d come back with hellfire. She was confident in Alvey’s ability to withstand a siege, but she had no real idea of how many Danes they’d come back with. It would be a risk.

If she went through with the marriage and allowed Jarl Eirik to leave in peace, she’d still be able to attack the men he left behind. A year...maybe more would pass before he realised something was amiss, but eventually he’d send a contingent of men and he’d see what she had done. Then Alvey would still need to contend with the hellfire he’d rain down upon them. And she’d have to face the fact that she’d killed her own husband in cold blood.

Neither option was very appealing. Both of them would lead to the deaths of at least a few of her men. What Rodor had said earlier rang true. A true leader must put everyone else first.

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she said, ‘Aye, Jarl Eirik, I can see that you are within your rights.’ She studiously avoided looking at Vidar, who was still seated near his brother’s side. He’d yet to weigh in with his opinion and she couldn’t take the smirk she was sure to find on his face. ‘I’d like to know why the substitution was necessary.’ Would Magnus have been any better than Vidar?

The Jarl inclined his head as if he’d expected the enquiry, but his grimace made her think he wasn’t completely pleased with having to relay the information. ‘Magnus is the leader of Thornby, our most powerful settlement. He was injured in battle and a Saxon woman took him in and healed him. After his stay in her village, he was able to quell a rebellion by the Saxons and decided to marry the woman. I felt his influence there was necessary for peace in the area.’

Gwendolyn wondered if the woman had agreed to the marriage, or if she’d had it thrust upon her, but she kept silent.

Jarl Eirik continued, ‘I chose Vidar to replace him because I trust him to see to Alvey’s protection. He’s learned everything he knows at my side.’

Finally, Gwendolyn allowed her gaze to move to Vidar, who was sitting at the table. He leaned back in his chair with an ankle propped on one knee, almost indolent in his regard of the situation. There was nothing for Gwendolyn to do but nod her acceptance of the Jarl’s explanation.

Jarl Eirik smiled. It crinkled the sun-bronzed skin around his eyes and made him seem genuinely good natured rather than smug. ‘Good, then let’s move ahead to talk about the ceremony.’ He took his seat and reached for the ale he’d pushed to the side. Rodor walked around the table and sat down across from him, taking the vacant seat next to Annis. ‘Unless you’d prefer a substitution of your own?’ he asked after Rodor had seated himself.

‘What do you mean?’ Gwendolyn asked.

‘Your father calls for his daughter to wed my best man. He doesn’t specify which one.’ Jarl Eirik’s gaze wandered across the table to where Annis sat with her back ramrod straight. Her fingers were laced together in front of her, but her knuckles had turned white because she’d clasped them together so hard. The colour had drained from her face as soon as she’d sat down at the table with the men. She was obviously afraid. Gwendolyn was suddenly very glad that she was the one who had to deal with this. If it were Annis, she feared her sister wouldn’t survive it.

Forcing a smile, Gwendolyn said, ‘I’m afraid that I’m the only daughter available for the task.’

‘Then I’m a lucky man.’ Vidar spoke for the first time since they’d started this meeting. His voice was deep but smooth and pleasing to the ear. It matched his appearance. He was well groomed with fine features and she suspected that he left a trail of admirers wherever he went. But it would take more than surface charm to win him any favours here.

Gwendolyn met his gaze and found that he was indeed as amused as she’d thought he might be. Though he wasn’t smirking, his eyes were lit with some inner light that told her he found the situation amusing. Of course he found her discomfort amusing. He was clearly a barbarian.

‘You’re more beautiful than I expected,’ Vidar explained, raising a brow. She recognised it for the challenge that it was rather than a compliment to her appearance.

‘You’re younger than I expected,’ she countered. He was younger than she’d thought he would be, she realised as she saw him clearly for the first time. She’d prepared herself for an older man, someone like Rodor. Jarls were supposed to be older men. But Jarl Eirik didn’t appear to be that old and his brother was obviously quite a few years younger. He was probably only scarcely older than her own twenty winters. Although there was nothing about him that said anything other than full-grown man. His chest was broad and she could tell from the way the fabric of his tunic hugged his shoulders that his muscles were well developed.