Читать книгу In Bed With The Viking Warrior - Harper St. George - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Aisly blinked back the threat of tears and attacked the dirt again with her spade, attempting to uproot the larkspur. The stubborn thing refused to break free of the soil. She’d already been gone for a large portion of the morning, and with the long trek back home, she didn’t have time to waste. The girls should almost be finished with the vestment hems she’d left them. The thick cord-and-line pattern was one they had mastered months ago, but if she didn’t get back soon, her young apprentices would be out playing in the morning sun and she’d never get them back inside to finish their work. A whole day would be lost.

A whole day she couldn’t afford to lose, because she’d be late on the order. The abbess was already fond of implying that Aisly’s charges bordered on sinfulness, even suggesting that a more devout woman might view it as a privilege to do God’s work for the abbey. She’d have no qualms about deducting for tardiness. Aisly didn’t know if her embroidery qualified as God’s work. She simply knew that it was her only means to earn a living. A means that was closer to slipping away from her with every day that passed.

That was the real reason for her tears, the reason she hacked at the root viciously until it finally gave way, causing her to fall backward with a thud. The real reason she’d had to come into the forest today, instead of waiting until the commission was finished. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see her tears. Her menses had begun that morning, a reminder that there would be no child, nothing at all to bind her to the home she had grown to love and to depend on for her livelihood. Nothing at all to keep her father-in-law from evicting her from her late husband’s home. There had been a marriage agreement giving her the right to her home. She had signed it the day she married him with Lord Oswine looking on, but she hadn’t found it in Godric’s things. Without Wulfric’s generosity, or a child to bind her to the property, she’d be homeless and without a means to earn a living.

Gathering her composure, she searched amongst the foliage for her discarded knapsack. Tears were foolishness that accomplished nothing, so she did her best to blink them back. It didn’t bear thinking about Godric’s dreadful father following through on his threat. Not yet anyway. She had months before he could even attempt it and there was no reason to believe that the elders would agree with him.

Even if the elders did agree with him, they would have to sway Lord Oswine. After her parents had died of ague, he had become the guardian of Aisly and her brother. Though the guardianship had meant they’d been more like servants than his children, he’d taken his responsibility for them very seriously. He’d attended her wedding and had overseen the signing of the contract.

Finding the hide bag amongst the dead leaves on the ground, she stuffed the plant inside and tied the drawstring. It was probably foolish to try to take the plant home and hope it took root, but she needed it so that she could practise dyeing her thread come the spring. It would save her coin if she could dye her own. Tying the spade to the knotted belt at her waist, she retrieved Godric’s old sword from the ground beside her and set off for home.

The cold metal beneath her fingers made her feel secure in a way her late husband never had, though it was only the sword he’d used as a boy, not the sword he’d used as a warrior. That sword had been confiscated by the Danes when he’d gone to talk with them at their settlement and been killed. A move that had cost her their savings when the Danes had come to demand recompense for the fire he’d allegedly set that had destroyed a few of their houses. She’d even had to give them her tapestries, the wool in storage and most of her sheep when her coin hadn’t been enough. The sheep had been the least of her worries, at least she still had milk, but the wool had been put aside so that she could weave cloth through the winter to sell in the spring. That had stung.

Yet it was the loss of the tapestries that hurt the most. Her mother had made them. Though her mother had been a well-known embroideress in the villages surrounding Heiraford, and the tapestries were worth quite a bit of coin, Aisly missed them because they’d been the only reminder she had of her mother. Having lost her at the age of eight, her thoughts of the woman were sometimes clouded. The only true memories she had were the hours spent learning the stitches from her mother’s patient hand, and then after her death attempting to recreate the embroidery in those tapestries. Then one day the Danes had come and taken that last connection to her mother. There had been no warning, just a brutal knock on her door one morning telling her what her husband had done and that he was dead. Moments later they’d taken what had been most precious to her.

Some days she almost felt remorse that she mourned the tapestries more than her own husband. Life as a widow was infinitely better than life as Godric’s wife. A few weeks of freedom and she’d already vowed to herself that she’d never marry again and suffer under the rule of another tyrant. To keep that vow she’d have to learn to protect herself. Her brother, Alstan, was one of Lord Oswine’s best warriors and she’d convinced him to spend a few hours teaching her how to properly wield the sword. With so little training, she knew that she had a lot to learn yet, but already the grip felt comfortable in her hand. While not as heavy as the other sword and unlikely to inflict bone-crushing injury to an attacker, the small sword would suffice for protection.

With both hands, she could hold it steady and her arms didn’t shake the way they had when she’d first picked it up a few weeks ago. As she walked back home through the forest, she gave a couple of test strikes and parries. The blade sliced cleanly through the air. Perhaps with time she could actually take on an opponent. Smiling at the thought, she set her gaze on a knot on a tree in front of her and swung in a circle, bringing the blade to a rest against the knot. Perfect.

Her mood improving, Aisly spent the next few moments of her walk finding various brown leaves and limbs to swipe at and following through with triumph. It wasn’t much, but at least she was doing something to help retain her independence. If she could prove to them all that she was capable of protecting herself, while providing for herself, then there would be no need at all for Cuthbert and the other village elders to pressure her into another marriage. Of course, she’d have to convince her brother of that truth as well. But she was certain that she could happily live her life on her own.

Of course, that would mean no child. She paused, her hand going to her flat belly. It would be a lie to pretend the thought didn’t hurt. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted a child, wanted a family. Living in Lord Oswine’s household had never afforded her or her brother the family life she missed. The nights she’d spent at the hearth with her mother learning embroidery or listening to her father’s tales were long gone. When she’d married Godric, a boy she’d known all her life, she’d assumed that she would finally have that family. But...but Godric was Godric. Always more concerned with the harvest, the coin she made from her sales, the Danes, anything but her. It hadn’t taken long for her to be happier on the nights he hadn’t come home than the nights he had.

Grimacing at her evil thoughts, she shook her head. She shouldn’t think ill of the dead. Godric hadn’t been a good husband by any means, but he didn’t deserve her bitterness now. Dropping her hand back to the sword, she shook off her morose thoughts and eased down the slope to the stream. It’d be faster to walk the well-worn path there rather than continue on through the forest.

Of course that meant she was more exposed, but there hadn’t been an attack since summer. No sooner had she thought the words, than she looked out over the narrow stream to see a man crouched down studying the ground, deep in concentration. Her heart jumped into her throat for a beat before falling down to her belly. A long mane of tawny hair flowed well past his shoulders and he was big, powerful.

A Dane.

If she had any doubt, the chain mail on his torso cinched it for her. The Danes who had come to her home the day her husband had been murdered had all worn the same armour. And this one wore thick gold bands on his arms just as they had. The same feeling of dread she’d had upon seeing them at her door filled her now. They could have done what they wanted to her that day and no one would have intervened. The elders might appeal to Lord Oswine, but everyone knew the Danes controlled the area now. Even the King was merely a tax collector for the invaders, or that was what Godric had told her. That was why Godric had been so angry, so determined to gather men to overthrow the Northmen.

She had yet to come even with him on her side of the stream and, once she could gather breath in her chest again, she slowly moved backwards. If she could reach the safety of the forest, she could continue home without him being the wiser. But, of course, that would depend on her luck and she seemed to be running short on that lately. She’d barely walked backwards two paces before the stones shifted beneath her feet, giving her away.

He looked up quickly from the track he’d been studying and found her, glaring at her from beneath his thick, fierce brow line. Her feet kept moving, almost sliding on the muddy slope as she kept her eyes on him, afraid that if she looked away he’d somehow reach her faster. Since the spring, her village had been assaulted by these barbarians. Rebel Danes who answered to no one, not even the Danes at the settlement, who stole the village’s sheep and crops as if it were their right. At summer’s end two maidens had gone missing, taken by the rebels. The Danish settlement had refused to help find them.

Aisly had no doubt that this man was part of that rebel group. The one time she’d seen officials from the Danish settlement, they’d looked...well, official. Their leaders had appeared well kept and had ridden with at least an outward display of respect through her village. This man looked like a heathen, dirty and dangerous. He didn’t look like them at all. He looked ready to pounce on her and tear her apart.

Taking a shaking breath, she slipped in her frantic attempt to move up to the solid ground of the forest. The sword fell to the mud as she grabbed at the ground to push herself upright. The Dane took the advantage and splashed through the shallow water towards her. Heart pounding in her chest, she quickly decided that her only choice was to face him on the banks of the stream. Gathering the sword with both hands, she righted herself as best she could. The white of his teeth flashed above his full beard, which hung in twin braids down his chest, as he sneered at her attempt. As he came closer, she could see the dark, horizontal lines engraved in his teeth. Just how she’d heard the rebels marked themselves. The men who had come to her door had not had those markings. He didn’t even draw a weapon as he came towards her, so sure was he that he didn’t need it.

The very thought made a dangerous surge of anger come over her, fuelling her strength so that she raised the sword high above her head. His stride was long, so she figured it would take him only ten paces to reach her. She counted off each one in her head. When he was two paces away, he’d be close enough to reach with a swinging sword while still being far enough away that he wouldn’t grab her. Catching him at that precise moment of vulnerability would be her only chance.

Eight.

Her fingers clenched tight, readying to strike.

Seven.

Her feet worked to gain solid footing, soles grinding down into the mud.

Six.

She took in a long breath. She’d let it out with the strike. He saw it and, taking it for fear, sneered at her.

Five.

A flash of movement just over the Dane’s shoulder drew her eye. It was a man coming from the trees. He walked deliberately towards the Dane with his sword poised in front of him. Eyes wide, she forced herself to look back at the Dane and count.

Four.

Before she could check herself, she glanced back at the newcomer. Whether he was friend or foe she couldn’t tell, but he brought a finger to his lips and his eyes demanded silence. Then he tightened both hands on the large sword he swung up past his shoulders. Her lips working in silent debate, she could only stare back at the Dane coming for her. He was close enough now that she could see the mottled blue of his irises.

Three.

She tightened her fingers again and prayed for strength. The rebel Dane let out a sound that was almost inhuman. A growl.

Two.

Something must have caught his eye, or perhaps it was her own glance to the approaching man, but the Dane turned in time to deflect the stranger’s raised sword. She watched in horror as the Dane lunged at the man. Every instinct she possessed told her that she should run and put as much distance between this fight to the death and herself as she could, but her feet stood rooted in the mud and rocks.

They were evenly matched in size, both with broad, muscled frames. But the rebel Dane moved in a clumsy, lumbering manner, while the stranger appeared graceful, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he moved in a circle around his opponent, putting himself between her and danger. But just as the Dane growled again and reached for his sword, the stranger lunged forward. The growl turned into a great bellow as the Dane’s eyes widened in pain and he crumpled to the ground.

Keeping a tight grip on her sword, she let her gaze dart to the stranger, uncertain if he was now an enemy instead of her saviour. He watched the Dane until it was clear he wasn’t an immediate threat, then stared back at her with deep brown eyes, bloody sword at his side. Despite the fact that he wasn’t making a move towards her, she couldn’t decide if he meant her any harm. There was no menace in his gaze. But then, Godric had taught her how that could change in an instant.

‘Nay! Don’t come any closer,’ she warned when he took a tentative step forward.

Tilting his head a bit and furrowing his brow, he stared back at her. He still didn’t say a word as he gestured to the man at his feet. Aisly stepped back to put even more space between them and gave him a nod, watching him disarm the fallen Dane. A wave of nausea threatened now that the danger was past and her arms began to shake from holding the sword for so long. He glanced at her as he gently tossed the man’s sword up on to the forest floor, away from them both. His own sword rested on the muddy bank of the stream at his feet. The Dane’s knife quickly followed and then the man held his hands aloft to show her that he held no weapons.

Finally able to take a steady breath, she lowered her arms but kept the sword in front of her and allowed herself a careful study of the man. He wasn’t a Dane. Or at least she didn’t think he was. He was tall, big like them, but his hair was odd. It was dark blond but had been cut in awkward tufts as if he’d taken to it himself with a knife. His beard was barely there, just mere scruff on the lower half of what was a very handsome face. A gash crusted over with blood ran from the centre of his forehead and disappeared into his hair above his ear. It looked to be a few days old and in need of attention. It was angry and pink around the edges and swollen badly. The flesh around his eye on that side was puffy and discoloured.

He wore no chain mail and his brown tunic was rather plain except for a bit of embroidery around the top and an emblem that might have been a bird on the shoulder that seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t a Dane’s tunic. She’d seen something similar on a mercenary once, but this man didn’t seem Frankish. Of course, there were other lands.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

His brow furrowed again as he studied her mouth, making her think he didn’t understand her words. ‘What is your name?’ she asked again, keeping her voice steady.

When he still didn’t answer, she worried that perhaps she’d been wrong and he wasn’t a mercenary at all. She’d seen them before and they knew her language. They had to know it if they were to earn a living. If he didn’t know her language, then he was truly a foreigner and one who had no business here. She scanned the edges of the forest looking for others like him and tightened her grip on the sword, raising it again. He wouldn’t be alone if he was here for nefarious reasons.

‘Nay.’ He reached out towards her but stopped short of putting himself any closer to her. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ His voice was rough as if his throat had been damaged and he spoke in a halting accent. A quick glance showed his neck appeared fine and uninjured. ‘I don’t know who I am.’ He gestured to his head injury.

He did appear badly injured. Aside from the gash and swelling, now that she studied him closer, his flesh held an unnatural pallor and a fine sheen of sweat beaded on his skin. She’d once heard of a man who had been kicked by an ox and had forgotten how to talk, but could such a blow make someone forget his identity completely? ‘You don’t know your own name?’

He swallowed once before giving a quick shake of his head that caused him to close his eyes as if in pain and his whole body to waver. When he opened them again, their intensity caught her gaze and held tight. ‘I only know that this man was going to kill me and you gave me an advantage. Thank you.’

Satisfied that he wasn’t a threat, she lowered the sword and said, ‘You saved me. I should be thanking you.’

‘He wouldn’t have been a danger to you had I not led him here.’ The husk of his injured voice was not entirely unpleasant as it raked across her senses. ‘I’ll be on my way. There could be others following me and I don’t want to put you in more danger.’

He retrieved his sword and took a few wary steps backwards before giving her a nod and turning away. As he walked back the way he had come, she noticed that his graceful steps had deserted him. He walked heavily as if he was exhausted and stumbled once, though he caught himself quickly. He meant to continue on his way as if he hadn’t just saved her life. Despite herself, she admired his shoulders as he slung the sword into the scabbard strapped between his shoulder blades. They were broad under his tunic and thick like a warrior’s. And his hand around the sword’s grip was large and strong. A warrior’s hand, marked with small white scars near the knuckles.

‘Wait!’

He paused and turned only his head to look at her, giving her a view of his uninjured profile. It was a fine profile. She didn’t want to think about why the sight of his handsome brow and strong nose made her stomach clench pleasurably.

‘You should rest before moving on.’

‘I’ll be fine. I’d be in your debt if you could tell me where I am.’

How could such a strong warrior not know where he was? The idea was baffling. ‘The stream leads to the River Tyne, a few leagues down the way, I assume. We are near my village, Heiraford.’ She’d never been further than the few miles it took to reach Lord Oswine’s manor and the occasional visit to the abbey. The Danish settlement was just south of that, where the Tyne forked with another river, but she wasn’t sure it was necessary to mention that to the stranger, as he’d been headed north. When the man only nodded his thanks, she continued, ‘Did that Dane harm you? You’re badly injured.’

But he ignored her question and swayed a bit when he turned forward, his feet slipping on the rocks. Fearing that he’d fall and injure himself even worse, she pushed her sword into its short scabbard at her waist and ran forward to his side, slipping an arm around his lower back. The muscle there was solid and dense.

‘When did you last eat?’

He exhaled roughly. A laugh? ‘I’m uncertain,’ he admitted. ‘I awoke two evenings past after having been injured. I can only assume I ate that day.’

‘And you have no memory of that man? No idea why he would want you dead?’

He gave her a wry grin, flashing white teeth. ‘One would think I’d remember the brute, but there’s nothing familiar about him.’

She took a deep breath and pondered for a moment the wisdom of inviting him into her home. He was injured and he had saved her. But everyone had been wary of strangers since the attacks had begun. Helping him was the right thing to do—he clearly needed it—but the village elders wouldn’t agree. She couldn’t afford to stir up any trouble with them.

Nay, it was best to do what was right. ‘Come with me. You saved me. A meal is the least I can do.’

Before she realised what he meant to do, his hand came up so that his fingers very lightly touched her jaw. A pleasurable heat prickled through her from the simple touch. ‘I refuse to put you in further danger, fair one.’

So unexpectedly pleasant was the touch that she moved her head away just enough to break contact. But she couldn’t look away from his eyes. They were a rich brown with tiny flecks of gold in their depths. It took her a moment to gather her words. ‘I won’t be in danger. My home and village are just through the trees there. We have warriors for protection.’ Nodding back towards the man on the ground, she said, ‘The rebel Danes have been plaguing us for months. Thank you for making it one less.’

He seemed so hesitant to accept that she took the choice from him and affixed herself to his side again, her arm going back around his back. ‘At least stay for a meal and a bit of rest. You need your strength.’ If it were only a meal, she could bring it to him outside the gates and then he could be gone before Wulfric and the other elders even found out about him. That would make things simpler. No explaining why a strange man who could possibly be an enemy was in her home. No worrying that Wulfric would use him as an excuse to take her home from her.

‘Aye, I could use a meal. Many thanks, fair one.’ He put his arm around her shoulders, tucking her against his side.

They made a strange pair as they walked slowly towards her village. Aisly sent up a silent prayer that she wasn’t making a huge mistake.