A Deal With Her Rebel Viking. Michelle Styles

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ