Saved by the Viking Warrior. Michelle Styles

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      Cwenneth firmed her mouth. She knew precisely what had happened the last time. Narfi, Hagal’s steward with the shifty eyes, had shouted at her, calling her all sorts of filthy names. She had retreated rather than argue like a fishwife. But what was a name compared to a few final breaths of freedom now that the marriage truly loomed? What if they never allowed her out of the hall again? If she never saw the spring flowers in the woods?

      ‘Lend me your cloak. From a distance and if the hood covers my hair, we look about the same,’ Cwenneth said. ‘No one will see that I lack your curves.’

      ‘Yes but...’

      ‘Hagal’s man forbade me, but not you. I will take full responsibility if anyone questions me. You won’t be beaten. I won’t allow it.’ Cwenneth touched her maid’s cold hand. ‘When we reach Acumwick, I’ll speak with Hagal and quietly explain that I dislike rough treatment and being shouted at. If that man, Narfi, can’t learn to keep a civil tongue in his head, he’ll have to go. Hagal the Red wants this marriage. He will have to respect my wishes.’

      Agatha tapped her finger against her mouth, but did not meet Cwenneth’s eyes. ‘No one has shouted at me. Tell me what you want and I can fetch it.’

      Cwenneth frowned. Agatha’s bold manner grew the nearer they got to Acumwick.

      ‘I need to go out and stretch my legs,’ Cwenneth said, adopting a superior attitude and pinning the maid with her gaze. Agatha was the first to look away.

      ‘It is on your head then.’ Agatha fumbled with her cloak. ‘Don’t go blaming me. I did try to warn you. Do what you have to do quickly.’

      The exchange of cloaks was quickly accomplished. Agatha stroked the rabbit fur collar of Cwenneth’s cloak with an envious hand.

      ‘I appreciate it. I’ll return before anyone notices.’

      ‘Just so you are.’ The woman gave a great sigh and ceased stroking the cloak.

      Cwenneth raised the coarse woollen hood over her golden blonde hair and quickly exited before Agatha found another reason to delay her.

      The bright spring sun nearly blinded her after the dark shadows of the cart. Cwenneth stood, lifting her face to the warm sunlight while her eyes adjusted. All the worry and anxiety seemed to roll off her back as she stood breathing in the fresh, sweet-smelling air. The stuffy woollen-headed feeling from the herbs vanished and she could think clearly again.

      Without pausing to see where anyone else might be, she walked briskly to a small hollow where the bluebells nodded. The rich perfume filled her nostrils, reminding her of the little wood behind the hall she’d shared with her late husband. Aefirth had loved bluebells because her eyes matched their colour. He’d even had her stitch bluebells on his undergarments, proclaiming that they brought him luck.

      Always when she thought of Aefirth, her heart constricted. She had desperately wanted to save him when he returned home with his wounded leg, but the infection had taken hold and he’d died. Old warriors died all the time from wounds. No matter how many times she tried to remember that, her mind kept returning to the woman’s curse. Aefirth had recovered from worse before. Why had the infection taken hold that time?

      Impulsively, Cwenneth picked a bluebell and held it in her hand. The scent made her feel stronger and more in control—what she needed in the cart rather than evil-smelling herbs which made her feel tired and stupid.

      She picked a large handful of bluebells, stopped and breathed in their perfume one final time before returning to her duty.

      ‘I’ll be brave. I’ll be kind to Agatha and make her my ally instead of my enemy, but I will remember my position,’ she whispered. ‘I will make this marriage to Hagal the Red work because it is for the good of everyone. A new start for me and a chance to leave past mistakes far behind. I’m certain that is the advice Aefirth would have given me.’

      A great inhuman scream rent the air before the dull clang of sword against sword resounded.

      Cwenneth froze. A raid! And she was too far from the cart’s safety. Her men would rally around the cart, thinking they were protecting her. No one would be looking for her out here.

      She should have stayed where she was supposed to be. Her brother’s men would defend the cart to their last breath. She wished Edward had allowed her a few more men, but he’d bowed to Hagal’s wishes and had sent only a token force of six. Agatha would be fine as long as she stayed put in the cart and did not come looking for her.

      ‘Stay put, Agatha,’ she whispered. ‘Think about yourself. I can look after myself. Honest.’

      What to do now? She could hardly stand like some frozen rabbit in the middle of the bluebells, waiting to be run through or worse.

      Hide! Keep still until you know all is safe. Aefirth’s advice about what to do if the Norsemen came calling resounded in her mind. Find a safe spot and stay put until the fighting has ended. She was far too fine to wield a sword or a knife. She tightened her grip on the flowers. The same had to hold true for bandits and outlaws.

      Cwenneth pressed her back against a tree and slid into the shadows. Hugging the rapidly wilting bluebells to her chest, she tried to concentrate on her happy memories of her husband and their son. Before she had been cursed. She whispered a prayer for the attack to be short and easily repulsed.

      An agonised female scream tore the air. Agatha!

      Cold sweat trickled down Cwenneth’s back. The bandits had breached the cart’s defences.

      How? Hagal’s men were supposed to be hardened warriors. He’d given her brother his solemn oath on that.

      The pleas became agonised screams and then silence. Cwenneth bit the back of her knuckle and prayed harder. Agatha had to be alive. Surely they wouldn’t kill a defenceless woman. The outlaws couldn’t be that depraved.

      The silence became all-encompassing. Before the attack, there had been little sounds in the woods and now there was nothing. Cwenneth twisted off her rings and hid them in the hem of her gown before gathering her skirts about her, sinking farther into the hollow beneath the tree and hoping.

      * * *

      Two Norseman warriors strode into the rapidly darkening glade. She started to stand, but some instinct kept her still. She’d wait and then reveal herself when she knew they had come to save her. They could belong to Thrand the Destroyer’s band of outlaws rather than Hagal. He had every reason not to want this marriage. It must have been his men who attacked them because they knew what it would mean. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought they must hear it.

      ‘The maid is dead. One simple task and she failed to do that—keep the pampered Lady Cwenneth in the cart. Refused to say where she’d gone. Claimed she didn’t know,’ the tall one said. ‘Now we have to find the oh so spoilt lady and dispose of her.’

      ‘Good riddance,’ Narfi said. ‘That woman was trouble. She knew too much. She asked for too much gold and then got cold feet. Couldn’t bring herself to be associated with murder. No spine.’

      He put his boot down not three inches from Cwenneth’s nose. She pressed her back closer to the hollow and fervently prayed that she would go unnoticed. Her brain reeled from the shock that Agatha was dead! And that she had been willing to betray and murder her!

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