Sent As The Viking’s Bride. Michelle Styles

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       Prologue

      January AD 877—Colbhasa, modern-day Colonsay

      Gunnar Olafson had spent a lifetime dreaming of his own land, but after he learned of his excellent fortune, all he could do was sit in stunned silence. Others would be shouting the news to the rafters, calling for more ale for everyone, but he wanted to savour it and hug it close.

      He closed his hand about the tiny carved stone man his mother had given him the last time he’d seen her and recited the vow he’d made on her grave. It had seen him through two shipwrecks, five severe injuries and countless minor skirmishes.

      His mind skittered away from the memory of the day he’d made that vow, the day when he knew the soothsayer’s dying words had power to harm those he loved. The curse still clung to his soul, but he wanted to believe that maybe one day, if he made his new lands prosperous, he’d show the gods that he was worthy and those words—all the women he loved would crumble to dust—would cease to have any power.

      ‘Are you going to tell me why Kolbeinn wanted to speak with you alone? What have you done wrong this Jul? Your oath of loyalty was as loud as any man’s.’ Eylir Rokrson banged his fists together as he settled on the bench next to Gunnar. ‘I won’t have it. We’re still treated poorly because we once followed his ex-wife and then his daughter.’

      Gunnar slipped the stone man back into his pouch for safekeeping and regarded his best friend and drinking companion. They had fought long and hard together. He had hugged his good fortune to his chest for long enough. ‘Against all expectation, he has offered me land...on Jura. I had thought he was about to send me to Ireland on another impossible mission. Just to test my loyalty again.’

      ‘You thrive on such things.’

      Gunnar examined the dregs of his Jul ale. ‘He hasn’t been able to kill me yet despite his best efforts. He thinks to put my back to better use and have me till soil even if the island is windswept and nearly uninhabited. We will only truly last long in this land if we put down roots.’

      ‘Yours is the better fate.’ His friend nodded. ‘Many of our former comrades were put to death.’

      ‘They betrayed Dagmar.’ Gunnar ignored the clenching of his stomach. ‘In the end I proved my loyalty and that I’d been tricked into giving her that cup of ale.’

      ‘Which was switched and made you ill.’

      Gunnar winced, remembering how he’d inadvertently contributed to his former leader’s abduction. He had rejoiced at her restoration, but his punishment had been to serve her father, Kolbeinn. ‘For the last two seasons, I’ve served Kolbeinn well.’

      ‘What made him agree to honour the promise of land?’

      ‘I saved Lord Ketil’s life last season during that storm and, as Kolbeinn’s overlord, he demanded Kolbeinn reward me with land.’ Gunnar regarded the bottom of his goblet. Even now it was hard for him to believe that the man who had come from nothing and who had lost everything had the chance of making his dreams come true. His land. No more fighting in the stinking mud for someone else. No more offering his sword and oath to the highest bidder. He was going to build a hall which all would envy. His success should taste better than it did.

      ‘Far too modest.’ Eylir clapped him on the shoulder. ‘What next? Acquiring that northern wife you have always talked of? The one with the come-hither smile and plump bosom?’

      Gunnar shook his head. ‘First the land tamed, then the marriage. One wild thing at a time.’

      ‘Send word for her now.’ Eylir made an expansive gesture with his hands. ‘Wanted: one sweet-tempered, buxom blonde who knows northern customs. Someone who doesn’t have inconvenient relatives, but does have accommodating thighs. One who listens, but forgets to open her mouth, except for your tongue.’

      Gunnar laughed along with his friend, while privately wondering how much the other warrior had had to drink. ‘It sounds like a description for the woman of your dreams.’

      Eylir shook his head. ‘Not I. I want a woman I can share my life with. But I’ve watched you long enough to know what you want—the type of woman who warms your bed when you can be bothered, but who plays no other part in your life.’

      Gunnar twisted the goblet between his fingers. It was true he preferred blondes who asked for no more than he was prepared to give. ‘Do you indeed? When I go looking, I will remember your counsel. But I shall require a wife, not a concubine. We can discuss it further the first time you visit me in Jura.’

      ‘I’m required in the north. It is why I have come to find you.’ Eylir leant towards him, blasting him with alcohol fumes. ‘My younger brother sent word. My sword arm must return north or the family faces destruction. The usual exaggeration, I’m sure.’

      Eylir launched into his familiar tirade against familial obligations. Gunnar swirled his ale and listened with greedy ears while he tried not to think about the three snow-covered corpses of his mother and two young sisters before a darkened hut. Families were wasted on those who had them.

      ‘Family. You’d never forgive yourself if something happened to them,’ Gunnar said when Eylir reached the end of his recital.

      ‘Aye, you spoke true there.’ Eylir gestured with his hand, sloshing ale everywhere. ‘It is why I will provide you with a wife, the perfect wife for your new venture, one you can get sons on.’

      Gunnar СКАЧАТЬ