Читать книгу A Deal With Her Rebel Viking - Michelle Styles - Страница 12

Ansithe struggled to keep her bow steady.

Even with honey dripping down his face, the tall warlord was far too handsome and confident for her liking. It was as if he expected to get his way simply by speaking in that deep rich voice. Maybe women melted before him, but not her. The Danish warlord eat her alive? She had stopped listening to tales told around the hearth years ago.

‘Issuing orders already, Northman? From where I stand, I have an arrow trained at your throat and you have what? Your silver tongue?’

‘I use what I can.’

‘I can think of other uses for your tongue.’

His mouth quirked upwards into a half-smile. ‘Can you, Valkyrie? I generally like to know a woman for longer before putting my tongue to alternative uses, but for you I am prepared to make an exception.’

Ansithe’s cheeks heated at his heavy-lidded glance. There was no mistaking his double meaning. And he was doing it deliberately to make her squirm. She knew what she looked like in this old gown which she’d chosen for the freedom of movement it gave her rather than because it enhanced any of her meagre charms. ‘I am warning you, Northman. I am not in the mood to banter.’

‘Pity. We could have fun.’ He made an expansive gesture with his arm. ‘Put your bow away. The Danes will not pay any gold for our corpses.’

‘Why do you fear Guthmann Bloodaxe?’ Ansithe asked, keeping her bow steady and the arrow still trained at his throat.

‘I don’t fear him any more than I fear you.’

She kept her face impassive. The man was trying to save his skin. But she’d spotted his startled reaction to Guthmann’s name. Good. It meant she might get more for him from the jaarl. ‘I’m pleased you have sense enough to fear me.’

In the faint light, she slowly counted again. Six men alive and one dead. Despite her older sister Cynehild’s warnings of total disaster, she had managed to best them, even though she had had to destroy most of her beehives to do it.

She had done more than just drive them off; she had captured them all. None had escaped to raise the alarm with any waiting band of marauding warriors. How many warriors had accomplished such a feat? Her father would surely have to admit that she was as good as any son when he returned.

‘You have achieved a victory, true,’ he said in a gentle voice as if he were soothing a fractious horse. ‘But victories have a way of slipping through fingers and vanishing to nothing if proper precautions are not taken. This is doubly true in this case when the inexperienced lead.’

‘You lie. The victory is mine and will remain such until the end of time. You are my prisoners to do with as I will,’ Ansithe said in a voice that carried to all parts of the hall.

‘Only as long as we remain under your control and alive.’

Her temper rose. Was this man implying that she was less than honourable? It would be a Northern trick to slaughter prisoners, not a Mercian one. ‘I will keep you alive to exchange for my father and brother-in-law. I give you my word.’

‘You are personally acquainted with the Danish commander, then?’ he asked. ‘Do you know what he is like? How many men he has killed? How many women?’

‘I have not had the misfortune to meet him.’ A prickle ran down her back. She had heard the whispers about how he’d emptied villages and abused women. But she had to believe he’d treat her father and brother-in-law like the valuable prisoners they were...except he had already sent Leofwine’s finger back to them, adorned with his signet ring. Cynehild had taken it very badly. ‘However, Guthmann Bloodaxe must know Mercians do not part with gold for corpses either.’

‘Guthmann is an untrustworthy snake,’ the Northman said patiently. ‘He will cheat you and then he will punish you for being arrogant. You don’t want that, Lady... Ansithe.’ His mouth twisted. ‘I have seen what he does to women and the pleasure he takes in his sport.’

There was something in his voice which gave her pause. If Guthmann’s reputation was far from savoury in the North, it was not her concern. ‘Tell me something new.’

‘Guthmann doesn’t expect you to raise the ransom,’ the Northman continued. ‘He seeks to use your failure as an excuse to attack you and gain these lands. You will not recover your father by sending my men to him. You will lose everything when you seek to parley with him.’

Ansithe drew herself up to her full height and met his ice-blue gaze without permitting her own to blink. ‘That is my decision to make, not yours, Northman who speaks my language better than I’d have credited.’

‘Other ways exist, other opportunities to do what you want without endangering all you hold dear. Listen to me. Trust me.’ His voice lowered to a whisper, one which made her think of soft fur piled high and velvet darkness. His gaze lingered on her body. ‘You are not naturally a warrior. Mercian women, particularly women as stunning as you, are not trained in the arts of war. You are used as prizes to be won. I’ve learnt that much in my time on this fair island.’

She ground her teeth. As if flattery could make her change her mind. She knew her defects. No one would ever think her stunning. ‘I’m not most women.’

‘Something we can agree on. I have never encountered a Mercian woman like you before.’

Never encountered a woman like her before.

She knew that damning phrase from her father. Normally said with a curl of his lip after she had done something he found particularly trying. Ansithe concentrated on the rushes and filled her lungs with air, trying to rid herself of the familiar sense of complete inadequacy.

Everything had worked out beautifully. Even Cynehild, who had watched from the shadows, was going to have to admit that Ansithe had accomplished something beyond all imagining and prediction. She was the heroine. Finally, she was the saviour of her family instead of the near destroyer.

The knots in her stomach eased. ‘You have little idea what I am.’

‘Perhaps I should like to learn.’

His gaze raked her form again, but this time she remembered her height, gangly arms and less-than-well-endowed chest. She’d spent years waiting for the luscious curves her sisters and mother enjoyed to appear, but they remained conspicuous by their absence. Then, one day, she’d decided that they should not matter. Curves would not help her scrub floors, keep bees or do any of the myriad other tasks she needed to do after her mother’s death. She would be practical and capable, instead of waiting to be rescued by some handsome kind-hearted warrior.

‘I know what is best for my family, for my people, for these lands,’ she said and concentrated on standing erect. ‘I defended them well today.’

‘Don’t be too proud to consider alternatives—that was one of the first lessons my jaarl taught me,’ the Northman continued in that soft persuasive voice of his. ‘Ways which will be more beneficial to you and these lands are available.’

Ansithe curled her fists and ignored his rich tones. ‘Six Northern warriors must surely equal two Mercians. And I am sure he will take some interest in you. You know his name.’

‘It is possible to know a name and not know the person,’ he continued with a faint smile playing on his lips. ‘What is going to stop him from simply attacking your estates? He will see you are a company of women rather than trained warriors capable of a fight.’

‘I presume you are trained, and yet we defeated you.’

The Northern warlord winced. He slowly looked around the hall, in search of more malleable prey. ‘Do you make the final decision?’

Ansithe kept her gaze away from Cynehild and her disapproving frown. No doubt her younger sister, Elene, also watched the exchange with round eyes from her vantage point. ‘From where I stand, I have earned that right.’

‘Then I will have to try harder to persuade you that you are making a mistake, before you compound your error and lose everything while gaining little.’ Moir’s mouth quirked upwards as if he was anticipating the task of persuading her. ‘I come from the North. I do not bow to the Danish King. Return us to the Northmen. You will get a better price for us if you deal with jaarls from the North than the Danes.’

‘But Guthmann holds my family. All I care about is their freedom.’

The annoying man gave a pointed cough. ‘The jaarl Andvarr comes from the North. Send word to him. Send me.’

Send him? As if he’d return. He would leave his men behind and free himself. He had not led from the front, but had entered after the battle had begun.

Giving in to her anger, she marched up to him and put the point of her arrow against his throat. Although she was tall, she still only reached his nose. ‘What would you have me do? Let you go on the whisper of a promise?’

He did not even flinch, but stared at her with those icy eyes of his, which seemed to peer deep down in her soul and ferret out all her secrets. ‘It would be a start. I give my word to return. I do not abandon my men.’

The man’s insolence took her breath away. He had lost. She’d won. Now he expected her to simply let him and his men walk away as if nothing had happened.

‘Forgive me if I distrust your word.’

‘A pity. My suggestion is the best way out of this impasse.’

‘Stop trying me. If you continue to badger me, I will simply shoot you and stop your mouth that way.’

His amused laugh rang out. ‘There are other ways to stop mouths, Valkyrie. More pleasurable ways for the both of us, particularly if they involve tongues.’

Ansithe stared at him in astonishment. The infuriating man was flirting with her. Flirting when she had just made him a prisoner and threatened to kill him. As if she was some feather-brained woman who would melt after receiving a little masculine praise.

‘Ansithe.’ Cynehild’s voice resounded in the hall. ‘The Northman knows he is our prisoner. Do not undo the good work you have done today by losing your temper and shooting the leader. And, Northman, cease your twisting of words, or else my sister will shoot you. She killed one of your men today. Don’t make it two.’

The Northman glanced between Ansithe and her sister. His mouth became a thin white line. ‘I take your advice, Lady, and will speak no more of it.’

Ansithe reluctantly lowered her bow and collected her wits. As much as she would have liked to despatch the arrogant Northman, she had to keep her mind on the ultimate prize—the safe return of her father and brother-in-law.

She signalled to Owain the Plough to escort the prisoners to the byre and to keep a watch over them. The lad practically grew three inches as he ordered the stable lads and the swineherd about.

‘A pleasure to encounter you, Lady Valkyrie.’ Moir looked her up and down, making her aware of how much her filthy gown with its new tears revealed of her limbs. Her hands itched to straighten her skirts and scrub the soot marks from her face. His slow smile transformed him. ‘I look forward to our next meeting with eager anticipation.’

Ansithe deliberately turned away. His insolent look was designed to make her uncomfortable. Her grandmother had told her often enough that it was a good thing she was clever because she’d never be pretty. And Eadweard, her late husband, had confirmed it on his deathbed—he’d married her for her skill at household management and dower lands, and not for her appearance.

‘I look forward to seeing my father’s face again.’

Ansithe stood by the door of the makeshift prison, the tumbled-down byre where they kept cows in the winter, carrying a tallow lamp, bandages and ignoring the great crows of doubt fluttering in her stomach.

She’d changed into her new dark blue woollen gown, fastening the woven belt shot with gold that Eadweard had given her the only Eastertide they had shared. It was an ensemble which proclaimed her status as a daughter of an ealdorman, rather than some raggedy beggar who could be cajoled into letting the prisoners go free for the price of a kiss.

Father Oswald, the priest, had reached for his rosary beads and flatly refused to tend to the heathens, claiming they had murdered far too many of his brothers when she confronted him with the situation. Ansithe wanted to ask if it was a very Christian thing to do—refusing to treat the wounded. But for now, she would do what she could and worry about enlisting his help later. Honey, not vinegar, would have to be used if she needed it. Any hint of a raised voice from her always made him click his beads louder and mutter audible prayers for forbearance.

‘We treat them with honour, Elene. As the byre is secure, we can loosen their bonds, tend their wounds and ensure they are adequately fed. We keep them alive until we can trade them for Father and Leofwine,’ Ansithe said before Elene refused to enter the byre. She drew a deep breath. ‘We treat them like we hope Father is being treated.’

The words were said more to settle Elene than because she believed it. A man who was willing to sever a finger was more than capable of doing far worse to his hostages. Ansithe straightened her back. Then they had to be better than him.

‘Father will be well, won’t he?’ Elene asked, clinging tighter to the loaves of bread she carried. ‘We will get him back, I mean.’

‘I am doing everything in my power to get him back and if that means tending these men to the best of my ability, I will do it.’

Elene’s face paled even further. For a breath, Ansithe feared her sister would faint, but she rallied. Her fingers clenched white around the loaves. ‘I understand, Ansithe. We pretend they are honourable men like we know Father to be. I wish I were as brave as you.’

‘Not brave,’ Ansithe whispered and peered into the gloom of the byre where the Northmen sat with their ankles and hands bound. ‘Too scared of the consequences if I fail.’

A few of the warriors groaned, cradling vicious-looking bee stings. The warlord she’d clashed with earlier, Moir, looked up from where he sat next to the warrior whose leg had been caught in the wild-boar trap. His eyes blazed cold fury before he concealed his feelings beneath a bland smile.

At Ansithe’s gesture, Elene put the bread down and backed away. Several of the men fell on the loaves like starving animals, ripping it apart with their teeth. Moir and the warrior with the injured leg remained where they were seated.

Ansithe lifted her tallow lamp. The light made strange shifting shadows on the stone walls of the byre and highlighted the chiselled planes of Moir’s face.

Moir put his hand to his eyes, shielding them against the light from her lamp. ‘Why have you come here? To gloat? We are defeated men and cannot harm you or your people. Grant us dignity if nothing else, Lady Valkyrie.’

‘The name is Lady Ansithe.’

‘The question remains the same whatever the name used.’

His voice held more than a hint of tiredness. He appeared far older than this morning when she had seen him trampling on the edge of the water meadow. With an effort, he rose and positioned himself so that he was a barrier in front of his cowering men as if he wanted to protect them from more pain or hurt.

‘You have wounded. They need attending to and you obviously require food,’ she said, using the sort of voice she’d used when she had had to cajole her late husband into taking the medicine he’d usually just rejected.

‘You are the main cause of the wounds.’

‘Guthmann will not release my father and brother-in-law if I bring him corpses.’ Ansithe gave a tight smile as she remembered the uncomfortable conversation she’d had with Cynehild about it. ‘One should treat prisoners with honour and respect. That is the Mercian way.’ She lifted the lamp higher. The shadows danced on the walls. ‘We are not animals or torturers. We leave murdering in cold blood to the Heathen Horde.’

‘Not only beautiful, but with a kind and generous heart. Truly a formidable combination.’

‘Luckily I don’t have to worry about other people’s opinions.’ Ansithe forced a laugh. Knowing her flaws and limitations had saved her when she first married. Several of her husband’s retainers had started paying her extravagant compliments and waylaying her in corridors. Later she’d learnt that they had acted at her stepson’s instigation as he’d wanted to show his father how untrustworthy she was. ‘Yours or anyone else’s.’

He gave a crooked smile, softening the hard planes of his face. He was the sort of man who would have maidens stammering and blushing if he as much as glanced in their direction. She blinked and concentrated. He was her captive and the means by which she’d free her father.

‘You dislike me speaking the truth. I wonder why you seek refuge in denying it,’ he said with a lilting laugh in his voice. His accent, while distinctive, was not hard on her ears.

She gave a ticking noise in the back of her throat and made a show of looking over the prisoners, making a great sweeping motion with her lamp. ‘Your days of preying on innocent Mercians are over. That is a truth we can both agree on.’

His eyes became piercing slits of ice. ‘Have I ever preyed on innocents?’

‘What do you call what happened today? A friendly gesture?’

‘I went to save my comrades. They were starving as you can see.’

There was something in his voice which made her pause. He had come in last, after the fighting was nearly done. To save his comrades or ensure that they succeeded in their attack?

‘My home was attacked without warning. You claim leadership of the very warband who attacked it. And we Mercians have a reputation of giving hospitality towards strangers, but a ferocity towards those who would harm us.’

She firmed her mouth. It was something she needed to remember, instead of being lulled into doing something she’d regret by the silky soft sound of his voice.

‘Release us from the ropes which bind us.’ He held up his hands. ‘I pledge my word. We surrendered. We will not attack you again. What more do you require besides my word? My word is a sacred oath. Why would I wish to break that?’

‘The word of a pagan warrior is reliable? I learn something new each day.’ She forced a smile and ignored the sweat dripping down her back. Could Northmen smell fear like wolves could? ‘I have yet to see any reason why I should trust a Northman.’

‘Not just any man, but me.’

‘Ansithe,’ Elene whispered. ‘Maybe he speaks the truth. You never waited to hear what they wanted. You simply fired your arrows.’

‘There, you see, your sister speaks the truth.’

Again, the smile to make silly women melt combined with the intimate note in his voice which caused a warm pulse to go down the back of her spine.

‘The man I shot knocked down the door with an axe and attacked my sister.’

‘And he was punished for it. But I am not that man. I did not break down your door, even though I, too, was starving.’

Ansithe tapped her foot on the ground. ‘I’d sooner trust a hungry bear.’

‘I didn’t lead the raid,’ he said in a voice which barely carried. ‘And I counselled against it. My men now see the wisdom of obeying me and heeding my warnings.’

‘Do you deny you lead this warband?’

‘I lead it now.’ He gave the cowering wretches a hard stare. ‘I will lead it until we all are free. All of us, not just a favoured few.’

A sudden thrill of understanding went through her—Moir had seized power in the aftermath of the raid. And his words were directed at his men as much as at her.

‘It is the present which concerns me, not reliving a past battle.’ She knew that the reliving would happen when she closed her eyes and had to make the same choices again and again.

‘Spoken like a true warrior, Valkyrie. Keep your mind in the present, so the past ceases to haunt you. It is what I try to do.’

Ansithe frowned. The infuriating warrior was far too perceptive. Whatever he wanted, he was not going to get it from her. Instead, he would learn an important lesson, a lesson to last a lifetime—Mercian women were strong and capable, not weak-willed creatures who could be easily fooled into permitting captives to escape.

‘Ansithe,’ Elene murmured. ‘The golden-haired lad, the one younger than me, hasn’t touched any bread. And it looks as though he might have been crying.’

‘Pathetic considering the damage he has caused.’

‘Will you have a look at him? His face is distorted something terrible.’

Ansithe knelt beside the youth. Elene had spoken true. His face was grossly swollen from the bee stings. Angry welts circled his throat like a collar.

Ansithe put her wrist against his forehead. It was far hotter than it should have been, but it seemed to be coming from the stings rather than a more worrying fever.

She wished she could just leave him to his well-deserved agony from the bee stings, but she might need everyone healthy to ensure their value was equal to the ransom demanded for her father and Leofwine.

The youth, boy really, was dressed in fine wool with new leather boots. Everything about him screamed privilege and wealth. Given the state of his clothes, he was bound to command a higher fee. She sighed, rocked back on her heels and reached for the pot of Father Oswald’s special paste.

Ansithe daubed the paste on the angriest of the welts. He winced, but allowed her to do it. She loosened the ropes and removed them from his wrists.

‘That takes the pain away. More,’ he whispered. His mouth turned up in a lopsided smile.

‘Do you make demands here?’

The youth’s cheeks flushed. ‘Hard to talk. Please, pretty lady, heal me.’

Ansithe rolled her eyes. Everyone was obviously primed to make positive remarks about her appearance as if that would make her treat them differently. ‘Then keep your mouth shut and save your breath for living.’

He gave a ghost of a laugh. ‘You sound like Moir.’

She glanced towards where the large North warrior glowered at her and hurriedly back at the lad. ‘I am nothing like him.’

‘Even still.’ He struggled to close his swollen eyelids. ‘Should never have...’

‘I agree with you—you should never have attacked us here. We were at peace. Your leaders are supposedly in talks with my King.’

He gave an indistinct groan which could have been an acceptance of the mistake he’d made.

‘Are you hurting him, Valkyrie?’ Moir asked in an abrupt voice. ‘Can you not resist the temptation to torture us despite your earlier words about honour?’

Ansithe tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gritted her teeth. ‘He has many stings to his face and throat. These can sometimes be dangerous if they are not properly seen to. I’ve seen people die from such things.’

‘You want to save his life, so you can throw it away again?’ Moir’s voice curled about her insides, making her thrum. ‘Seems a waste of effort to me. Why not allow him to die with dignity?’

Her hands stilled. His words filled her with a nagging sense of disquiet. The Northman spoke a sort of truth—what precisely was gained in saving his life? Was she condemning him to face something worse? She pushed the thought away. Once she had delivered them to Guthmann and rescued her family, these men were no longer her responsibility, but until then she kept them alive. ‘I gather you want him to live.’

‘With dignity, not as a broken husk begging for death.’

‘Get some cool cloths and more of the paste from Father Oswald,’ Ansithe told Elene who stood wringing her hands and doing less than nothing. ‘I will stay with him until you return. I am in no danger even with their hands unbound. Owain the Plough is looking for an excuse to practise with his bow. At this range, even he would be hard-pressed to miss.’

Elene nodded and scurried out of the room. Ansithe concentrated on examining the youth, rather than considering that she was alone with these fearsome Northmen, particularly Moir who watched her with an intent expression.

She left the youth as she could do no more until Elene returned. The grizzled warrior with the mangled leg appeared in the greatest need. She went over and knelt by his side. The leg was badly torn, but appeared unbroken.

‘Will he live?’ Moir asked, coming to stand close to her and making her aware of the strength he possessed in his bulging arm muscles.

‘The bone remains whole and that is a start.’ She rapidly rinsed the wound to keep the infection out and then packed it with honey-soaked bandages. It would have to do until she could convince Father Oswald to investigate the wound further. He was not an unkind man, just understandably wary. And he did have the reputation of saving many souls in his infirmary.

‘Let me know the worst. Please. He is my friend. We have campaigned together for many years.’

Ansithe rocked back on her heels and looked up at Moir. His face was shadowed with concern. A seriousness had settled about him that had not been there when she first entered the byre.

‘He’ll live as long as the wound stays clean and uninfected.’

‘You mouth fables to please children. Does he stand a chance? Will he keep his leg?’

‘It is beyond my skill to decide who lives or dies. If he worsens or if you spot red streaks above the bandages, call for me. Someone will fetch me.’ She dug half-moon shapes into her palms. If that happened, she’d force Father Oswald to assist. He’d cured Owain’s father of infection after the plough broke his leg three years ago. ‘Hopefully the next time, he will learn that barging into someone’s house uninvited is not a good thing to do.’

‘We are grateful that you are willing to bind wounds.’ He nodded towards where the remains of the bread lay. ‘And for the food. I don’t know the last time we had our bellies full—before we left camp, probably.’

She assessed the warrior from under her lashes. The warrior was taller than her, but not overbearingly tall, and without an inch of spare flesh on his lean frame. A true warrior, rather than just playing at it like her stepson had been. Or a man more comfortable with his music than his sword as Leofwine was. Luck and the angels had truly been with her to be able to defeat him so easily.

‘Someone has to.’ She rose up from her crouched position.

‘Still I am grateful.’ He went over to the remaining loaf, broke it and took some to the youth and the injured warrior.

‘Why break with Mercian custom instead of asking for bread and drink like any traveller?’ she asked and instantly regretted it. She didn’t want to know if they bore a grudge against her father or what their motive was. It should be enough that they’d attacked her and endangered her family, but she couldn’t help wondering why. Curiosity—her biggest failing according to her late husband.

‘Me personally? Or the group of us?’

‘The group. You must have had a guide who knew Mercian customs.’

‘The guide left us a week or so ago, after a disagreement with...with my bee-stung friend.’ Moir rubbed the back of his neck. He winced. ‘I cannot defend that choice. You will have to ask another, but I will say this—the one who pressed for the raid died today.’

Ansithe pressed her hands together to keep them from trembling. She’d killed the man who had brought this misfortune to her family, her true enemy.

Before she could reply, Elene bustled in, carrying a small jar.

‘Cynehild says that you are to use as little as possible,’ Elene proclaimed, holding the foul-smelling ointment out. ‘We do not have many jars left. And Father Oswald refuses to speak to anyone. He is at prayer.’

‘Since when have I ever taken any notice of Cynehild and her warnings? I will use what is required.’

Ansithe set to work, pointedly ignoring Moir and his penetrating gaze. Rudimentary healing like bandaging wounds or putting healing ointments on was well within her capabilities, but she had no real feel for it, not the way Father Oswald or Elene did. Most of the time it bored her. She lost count of the times she had wanted to shake Eadweard and tell him to stop despairing at each setback. She never had, but each time she had thought it, guilt rose in her because she believed she should be better than to resent people who were ill. So she renewed her promises and tried harder, but it never made it any easier. The resentment still clawed at her throat.

In the end, she’d sobbed when he died, not from grief, but from the relief of knowing that she’d never have to go back into that room and face his complaints again. She’d hated herself then and knew the insults her stepson had spouted about her were well-deserved.

Ansithe noticed Moir waited until everyone else was attended to, refusing Elene’s offer of help.

‘Are you suffering from the stings or are you miraculously immune to pain?’ she asked. The welts on his face were large. ‘My sister could have examined you.’

‘No disrespect to your sister, but I prefer the Lady Valkyrie herself to give me her attention. However, it will take more than a few bee stings to harm my toughened hide.’ He coughed. ‘My pride is the most injured thing I have.’

‘Losing to a woman.’ She blew a breath out. ‘I see where that might be tricky.’

‘You were a worthy opponent. Never allow any to say differently.’ He flexed his bee-stung fingers. ‘My failure to convince the others it was a trap will haunt me for a long time. I’m no barely blooded warrior, but one who has campaigned for more than ten seasons. Your yard was far too quiet.’

She froze at the candid answer. Even though she’d sensed it, it gave her a shiver down her spine to realise exactly how experienced and dangerous a warrior he really was. But it didn’t matter—he was the one she had to ensure understood that there would be no escaping, no easy way out. These men were going to provide the means to free her family.

‘Keep an eye on your charges. Should they worsen, let the guard know and I will return to do what I can.’

Moir caught her hand in his as she was about to sweep past. His grip was firm, but warm. It was the sort of hand which made women feel safe. Ansithe stared at it for a heartbeat too long. ‘Change your mind, Lady Ansithe. Change your course before you doom us all. Send word to my jaarl. Make the journey with me. What good is healing my friends if you only send us to die?’

She rapidly withdrew her hand. There was nothing safe about a Northman. He was her enemy. He had wanted her dead or, worse, a captive. He could never be her friend, let alone her ally. ‘It is not pity, but practical necessity which drives me. You will be someone else’s problem soon. I can give no guarantees for their behaviour.’

His soft mocking laughter followed her out of the byre. ‘I look forward to our next encounter, Lady Ansithe the Valkyrie.’