Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife. Michelle Styles

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      ‘I thought everything was more important than fashion to you.’

      Sela rolled her eyes towards the skies. Fashion. She had failed at that particular competition years ago. She could not wear the type of gown favoured by Asa, gowns that accentuated the queen’s own petite, gilded looks, but made Sela resemble an overgrown youth with lumps in all the wrong places. She had sought other ways to shine, ways Vikar had disapproved of. And being young and naïve, she had taken a perverse enjoyment in provoking him.

      It seemed unreal to be speaking of fashion and court matters with the sounds of battle raging around her, but it kept her from giving in to her natural inclinations and sinking to her knees in despair.

      ‘Tell me,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘how long does Asa decree the train length to be this year? We hear very little of such things out here in the wilds.’

      ‘As much as I would like to discuss the state of your wardrobe, my business is with your father.’ The blade lowered, but his arm tightened about her waist. ‘Where he is and why does he send a woman out to do a man’s job?’

      With her father?

      The air rushed out of her lungs, making her feel giddy. She struggled to control the sudden racing of her heart as hope filled her. She had expected him to say his business was with her, to demand to see his son.

      Did he even know? Silently she offered up a prayer to Sif, Freyja and all the other goddesses of Aesir for a miracle.

      ‘I volunteered.’

      ‘The Bose the Dark I knew would have rejected the idea before the last syllable had fallen from your lips.’ Vikar’s grip forced her around, compelled her to look into his face. She realised with a start that his eyes were a far darker shade of green than she had remembered. ‘Does he live?’

      ‘My father is very much alive, but he saw the sense in my leading the men. He is indisposed and has little control over what I do.’

      ‘It makes a change.’ The sarcasm dripped from his mouth. ‘I had understood he always gave the orders.’

      Sela, feeling the sword give way, swung around and faced her former husband. Despite her height, he towered over her. His helmet shadowed his face, but she had no doubt that when he removed it, the arrangement of his even features would remain the same. One of the most sought-after warriors in all of Thorkell’s court. Time had not altered him as much as she had hoped. ‘I am a grown woman, Vikar Hrutson. I take responsibility for what I do.’

      ‘And you take responsibility for this?’ His eyes offered no comfort, no glimmer of understanding. ‘For this carnage? Why did your men rush down the slope? That was a fatal mistake.’

      ‘My men were over-eager and rushed forward.’ She forced her head to remain high. ‘I should have anticipated that. The result lies on the green slope. My failure, not theirs.’

      ‘Save your men.’ His lips were a thin, white line. ‘How many more must die for your vanity?’

      Sela stared at her former husband in dismay as her stomach lurched. She had wanted to save her home, her son. She had not started this battle. She had wanted to avoid bloodshed.

      Vanity? Was that what he thought? She forced her head high, schooled her features, grateful that the nose-piece on the helmet would keep her face in shadow.

      ‘I call it something else.’

      ‘It does not matter what you call it.’ Vikar gestured around the battlefield with his sword. ‘Men are dying. You have lost the battle. How much more do you wish to lose? Yield now, and I may be disposed to give you favourable terms.’

      Sela flinched. She could hear the cries of the wounded and the dying. One young man lifted his head, and reminded her of Kjartan. Vikar was right. She had things to live for, secrets to keep—for ever, if possible.

      ‘As you wish.’ She bowed her head and accepted the inevitable. She took off her glove and put her hand on the outstretched hilt of the sword. Her fingers grazed the ring embedded on the top, a little gesture, but one fraught with meaning. Surrender. She bowed her head, swallowed hard. ‘The battle ends.’

      She stepped backwards. All perfectly correct. She knew the form. She had seen others bow down to her father, but she never thought she would have to make the gesture herself. She had believed in her father’s boast that no one could ever take this hall.

      She opened her mouth to speak the final damning words, but her voice refused to work. She glanced up into the unyielding planes of Vikar’s face, pleading silently that it was enough; she had done all she could. She wished she hadn’t given in to the impulse as his lips turned further downwards. ‘The words escape me.’

      ‘No, you tell your men. It must come from you. You hold your father’s sword. You say the words of surrender.’ Vikar’s green eyes were colder than a frost giant’s. ‘I know Bose the Dark’s tricks. He matches Loki in resourcefulness.’

      Sela glanced towards the hall, half-expecting her father to appear, half-fearing he would. The doorway remained vacant, a gaping black hole.

      Removing her helmet, Sela raised her hand showing her surrender. She waited. Nothing happened. She glanced at Vikar, who gestured for her to repeat the movement. She tried again. Nothing.

      Vikar nodded towards the standard. She went over to it, took it from her man’s hand and waved that, then lowered it with one sweeping motion. ‘The battle belongs to you…my lord.’

      Bose’s standard with its dark sun against a golden background fell, hitting the ground with a solid thump. And with it, her hopes and dreams.

      All around her the noise subsided until the very stillness appeared to be unnatural. The men turned towards her. She saw Vikar nod imperceptibly towards his men, and they lowered their swords.

      The fighting was over; the carnage littered the gentle slope.

      Sela started towards the nearest fallen warrior. She wanted to use her skills as a healer to help with the wounded, but Vikar’s arm clamped around her wrist, preventing her.

      ‘Let me go.’ Sela moved her arm sharply downwards, but Vikar’s hand remained. Strong and determined. ‘I have done as you asked. You are the victor here. The battle is over. I have surrendered. You are the master. You may take what you wish from the hall but my men need my aid. I possess some small skill that might be of service.’

      ‘War leader, now healer. What other talents do you possess, Sela?’ Vikar’s hard, cynical eyes and tight mouth mocked her.

      I had no talent for being a wife. The thought pierced her with its suddenness, drawing the breath from her lungs.

      Gorm’s broken sword caught her eye and she swallowed hard. And it would appear she possessed little skill as a war leader either. This hall was supposed to impenetrable, but it had fallen in less time than it took a shadow to cross the courtyard. Her failure at Vikar’s hands was absolute. Her knees threatened to give way. She straightened her back, and drew her dignity around her like a cloak.

      ‘What can I say? I am my father’s daughter.’

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