The Warrior's Viking Bride. Michelle Styles

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      The grizzled warrior nodded and took the piece. ‘I hope you fare better than the others.’

      Aedan blinked. ‘Others?’

      ‘Oh, aye, she cut off their heads and sent them back to her father.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Mind she hasn’t done that since afore her mother died.’

      ‘She will listen to me.’

      ‘You must have the skill of Loki to have got this far.’

      ‘I prefer to think it is the saints who have kept me safe this far.’

      The man spat on his palm and made a cross in the air. ‘Them, too.’

      Aedan whistled and his wolfhound, Mor, bounded up from where she had been lurking in the undergrowth. ‘Further up the line you said.’

      The warrior took a step back. ‘Aye, you can’t miss her. She’s the one with her face covered in blue swirls. And she wears hissing snakes in her hair.’

      * * *

      Dagmar concentrated on putting the final flourishes of paint on her face. She had done them for so long, they had become second nature to her. First the black and then the blue.

      She had acceded to her mother’s wishes and used paint every morning, rather than getting a permanent tattoo. Even now when her mother had been gone for five months she could not bring herself to go against her wishes. It was the design which was important, rather than the medium. One day, her mother had remarked as she’d applied Dagmar’s paint in the early days, it might be necessary to change course and design. But it served her purpose for now to let everyone think them tattoos. A new whorl for each battle she had won.

      ‘He means to kill you.’ Old Alf sidled up just as Dagmar finished the final whorl. He was the only one besides her mother who knew of the slight deception about the paint. Lately he made simple errors and struggled to lift his shield and sword at the same time. ‘Did you hear me, Dagmar? He means to kill you for real this time.’

      Dagmar wiped her fingers on a spare bit of cloth. There was no need to ask who ʽhe’ was—Olafr Rolfson, her mother’s last lover. She’d seen how Olafr undermined her, damning her with faint praise, whilst being outspoken about what he considered was the correct course of action. ‘I can handle him.’

      The embers of her mother’s funeral pyre had still been glowing when Olafr had started making noises about sharing a marriage bed with Dagmar. She knew his sudden declaration of overwhelming desire for her had nothing to do with her figure or the curve of her mouth. The whispers of how truly hideous she was had followed her since she was fourteen. Snakes for hair. An overlong nose and pointed chin. A face like a misshapen pile of rocks. A woman no real man could truly desire.

      When Olafr persisted with his lies about her beauty, she threatened to forcibly unman any man who tried to warm her bed, including him. He had gone green and had never repeated the request.

      ‘I need every warrior who is willing to pick up a sword for me.’

      ‘Pah, you don’t need him that bad.’

      ‘I gave my word to my mother. Would you have me break my promise with the final season nearly done?’ Dagmar’s throat closed. Her mother had ignored a minor injury until it was too late and the infection raged throughout her body. As she lay dying, she had made Dagmar promise to fulfil her pledge to support Constantine, to get the title to those lands. Land for the men who had shown loyalty to her mother during the lean years and a proper home for her daughter, as she’d vowed when Dagmar was ten. She would hang her sword over the hearth and only bring it down to defend what was hers, instead of using it to further someone else’s ambition. ‘Constantine must honour his pledge.’

      ‘Your mother knew when a king was not worthy of support. She would not want her only child to be out here, facing these odds. She valued your life above all.’

      ‘It will be as the gods will.’ Dagmar took her sword, and began the next part of the ritual she always did before going into battle—plaiting her hair so it hung about her face like snakes. ‘Perhaps the Dubh Linn raiders will render this conversation unnecessary. Olafr often leaves his left side exposed.’

      ‘Make an old man happy—keep an eye on him. You may face more than one enemy today.’

      ‘I’ve taken care since my tenth name day,’ she said standing up. After her stepmother’s son had been born, the first attack on Dagmar’s life had happened—poison in her stew which her dog had eaten instead of her. A servant had confessed to the entire plot. Her mother had sent the man’s tongue and ears back to her father, but there had been other attempts from men desperate enough to believe her stepmother’s promises of gold if only they’d rid her of her son’s rival.

      ‘Perhaps you should consider an alliance, marriage to a warrior you can trust, someone who can counter Olafr.’

      Dagmar took a practice swing with her sword. It made a satisfactory slicing noise. ‘I don’t need any warrior to counter Olafr. My sword arm remains strong.’

      ‘Dagmar!’ Olafr called out. ‘Someone asks after you.’

      Dagmar swallowed the quick retort when she spied a tall man with dark auburn hair and piercing blue-green eyes, the sort of man who made women go weak at the knees and more than likely knew it. The sort of man who enjoyed a buxom woman in his bed and who would curl his lip at her meagre assets even if they were not bound tightly to her chest.

      His clothes immediately proclaimed that he was not from the North. A wolfhound stood by his side. A Gael. Dagmar frowned as she spied the sword stuck in his belt—the hilt resembled one of her father’s, one she remembered from her childhood.

      ‘Who requires me?’ she said in a snarl, annoyed that she had noticed the breadth of his shoulders.

      ‘Ah, there you are, Dagmar,’ Olafr said with a smirk. ‘I had wondered if you in your eagerness had already departed for battle.’

      Dagmar ignored the jibe. Before her first battle, she had set off early as her mother had been delayed with a split shield. Dagmar’s actions had ensured they surprised the raiders and carried the day. Olafr had not even been part of the felag then. Her mother had found it amusing and the tale had grown with each telling.

      Whenever Olafr repeated the tale, he made it seem as though she was some sort of spoilt and naive girl, rather than a shield maiden who had taken a wise course of action and turned the tide of the battle.

      ‘A visitor before battle?’ Dagmar tapped her sword against her hand.

      ‘Sweetling...’ Olafr began with another smirk.

      Dagmar cut him off with an imperious gesture. ‘My mother bequeathed her men to me. I should’ve been informed immediately when a stranger came into the camp.’

      ‘Always leaping to the wrong conclusion.’ Olafr’s smile grew broader. ‘I brought him to you. Is it my fault that he encountered me first? If so, I beg your pardon and will turn my back on any other messenger. No, no, I will tell them, I’m but a humble servant who can give no counsel.’

      ‘Humble is the last thing you are, Olafr.’

      ‘I СКАЧАТЬ