The Viking Warrior's Bride
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Harper St. George
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Chapter One
The hills had stood like sentinels for the past day and a half, watching over the boats as they steadily drew closer. The men’s oars cut through the murky water in a rhythm born from years of practice, a near silent heave-and-ho that kept the horde advancing with merciless efficiency. Vidar glared out at those hills, provoked by their silent taunting. Gwendolyn of Bernicia lived somewhere in the midst of them. His enemy. His bride.
He swallowed past the thickening in his throat that accompanied the thought while his palms itched to grab his sword, to do something to fight the ugly truth of the wedding that was to come. No matter how Vidar wished it, he and the men were not here to do battle. They were here to see him married.
He’d never met Gwendolyn and, if he’d had his way, he never would. Vidar wasn’t supposed to be the groom in this match arranged by his brother, Jarl Eirik. Vidar was supposed to be fighting to the south to expand their territory. The only reason he was here was because the true groom, Magnus, had decided to marry the low-born Saxon woman who’d saved him when he’d been gravely wounded.
Disgust roiled in his stomach and he turned his eyes from the hills. Somewhere in those hills his new home waited. He’d passed the winter trying to reconcile himself with this change of events, but it hadn’t worked. He’d fought with Eirik so often that he’d eventually left Eirik’s home, spending most of the winter in a camp to the south plotting the spring advancement to take more Saxon territory. It hadn’t mattered that Vidar wouldn’t be there to take part. It had helped him to feel useful.
Eirik had made this match, aligning his best warrior with the Alveys of Bernicia to help ensure the northern territory was held. There were threats even further north, so the Alvey land would be a barrier to those threats. There had also been some skirmishes with rebellious Danes who lived to the north, but there’d yet to be any evidence of a great band of them. There were the Picts and the Scots further north, but they were small tribes who’d undoubtedly be no match for seasoned Danes. Rather than fighting battles, this move north felt a lot like banishment.
Vidar knew that he would be much more effective leading a group of warriors to battle and adventure in new lands. Protecting this land was the work of old men, not that of a warrior in his prime. He had years of travel ahead of him yet. He’d die before he lived out his years in these hills tending sheep and crops.
Though the bitter cold of winter had drawn to a close, the days were still short and the sun had long since disappeared behind an endless haze of grey clouds. A slight wind blew in frosty air over those hills along with a feeling he couldn’t name. A trepidation he couldn’t place. At first he’d thought it had been his own distaste for all that the place represented to him. But Eirik, who led in the first boat, raised his fist high in the air, drawing the line of eight boats to a halt.
A chill crept down Vidar’s spine and he leaned forward, his palms on the smooth gunwale of his ship as he scanned the trees on either side of the river. He couldn’t find anything amiss. The shores were still, which might have raised alarm except it was still cold enough in the nights that many of the wild animals had already settled down in their dens.
Eirik had hoped they’d make it to their destination by nightfall, but Vidar confessed to a certain relief at not having reached it yet. Another night without a bride was one more night of freedom. Too bad there weren’t any women in their group with whom to enjoy it.
‘There!’ Eirik called back and pointed towards the eastern shore.
Vidar squinted into the gathering dusk and barely made out an opening in the trees. It might be an animal path leading from the river, but it just as well could be a human trail. He sighed and stood up straighter when Eirik’s boat made for shore. It looked as if he was to be denied his last night of freedom after all. Very well. He’d meet his bride tonight. It was probably best to sort out the particulars of their arrangement sooner rather than later.
As one the boats glided towards the eastern shore. Eirik’s boat reached it first. Two men near the prow jumped over the side, holding the ropes that would guide it to shore. Vidar called out to his own men to get them ready to disembark. Half pulled in their oars and readied themselves to jump overboard, when an arrow whizzed past Vidar’s shoulder. There was no warning, simply a hiss of air as it flew past. He would have thought he’d imagined the sensation of the air ruffling his hair if he hadn’t caught sight of it from the corner of his eye and watched it disappear into the dark water behind him.
‘Halt!’ a voice called out from the trees. There was still no sign of people on the shore, but that blasted arrow had come from somewhere. Eirik looked around, startled at the sound of the voice. It appeared no one else had seen the first arrow, but it was followed by another one that landed with a loud thunk in the open mouth of the wooden beast adorning Vidar’s prow.
‘Grab your shields,’ Vidar yelled and the men on all the ships hurried to obey the command. The two men on Eirik’s ship who had disembarked lunged back on to the boat. Before another arrow came down, the men crouched behind the walls of the ships with their shields above their heads, creating a nearly impenetrable wall of armour.
Vidar stood higher than the others with his own shield before him. He grabbed his sword from the scabbard on his back and held it, ready to jump over the side and fight whoever had dared to attack them. He didn’t have to wait long before a row of men stepped out of the trees. They held swords and pikes and wore armour that looked as if it might have been left over from the days of the Romans. Some of the helmets were rusted and tarnished, but many of the breastplates and chainmail looked solid enough. They were not armoured well enough to be the rebel Danes said to inhabit these parts.
Eirik called out to them in the common Saxon tongue and not one of them answered. He tried again in Danish, but there was no response. Vidar hadn’t thought they’d travelled far enough north to encounter any Picts or Scots, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that they’d somehow stumbled across a group heading south. Perhaps Vidar’s seclusion in the north wouldn’t be as dull as he’d originally feared.
Nearly a score of the men had revealed themselves on the shore, but there had to be more if they were bold enough to challenge the group of boats that held over a hundred warriors. A rustling in the trees drew his attention. A high limb on an evergreen shimmied and then the one below it shook and so on as someone appeared to be climbing down. He only caught glimpses of a leather-clad figure until it had moved closer to the ground. The limbs were sparser there and he saw a set of curvy hips drop down from a limb revealing a shapely backside in a pair of leather trousers. The person dropped to the ground and pulled off the crossbow that had been slung across his shoulders. When he walked out of the trees, Vidar noted the length of braided sable hair that fell across a rounded breast that proclaimed the person was not a he at all, but a generously endowed woman. She wore a dark brown tunic that reached mid-thigh, leaving her legs free for doing things such as climbing trees. From what he could see, they were very nice legs. She wore a pair of high boots that laced up to her knees.
Her expression was fierce and unyielding as she walked to stand next to her men—and there was no doubt that the men were hers, rather than her belonging to them. They bristled with respect when she came to a stop beside them and called out, ‘I am Gwendolyn of Alvey and you are trespassing on our land. Who are you?’ She spoke in the common Saxon tongue though her words held a slight accent he hadn’t heard before.
Vidar couldn’t help but stare at the woman. His own father had never allowed women to become warriors back home. Though it wasn’t an unheard-of custom, Vidar had never fought with one of the shield maidens that other Jarls allowed amongst their warriors. The ones he had seen hadn’t been particularly attractive, seeming to take on the sometimes crude and harsh appearance of the men they fought beside. This woman, however, was striking. She was nearly as tall as the men she stood with and, from what he’d seen of her backside when she’d dropped from the tree, had a woman’s body. She stood poised beside them, her shoulders back in confidence as she held the crossbow at her side.
And if she spoke true, she was going to be his wife. He stood speechless, unable to form a coherent thought, much less a sentence.
Eirik held up his right hand in greeting, though he kept his sword at the ready in his left hand behind his shield. ‘Gwendolyn of Alvey, I am Jarl Eirik of the Danes to the south. Your father and I struck a bargain and we’re here to deliver your husband.’
Her posture stiffened. Vidar gathered that the information was displeasing to her and he nearly grinned. At least his nights might be pleasantly occupied if they involved taming the wench.
‘I have no need for a husband,’ she surprised them all by saying.
Vidar smiled at her impertinence. In all his days of dreading this marriage, he’d never once assumed the woman didn’t want to be wed to him. From what he knew of women, they bartered their bodies for position and status all the time. Although he had to admit that this particular woman seemed very different than the ones he generally kept time with. He might have sympathised with her plight had he not been so amused at the turn of events.
For his part, it appeared that Eirik hadn’t anticipated this response, because he was a moment in responding. Vidar filled in the silence. ‘Perhaps a husband is exactly what you need.’
Her gaze swept over the boats until she found him standing at the prow of his ship. She cast him a scathing glare before turning her attention back to his brother. ‘I regret you’ve come all this way, but my father was mistaken.’
‘Where is your father? I’d discuss this with him,’ Eirik said.
‘My father is dead. He died of natural causes in the autumn.’
Vidar frowned. That only partially explained why she was greeting them herself, but it didn’t explain why or how she’d earned the men’s respect. They stood as if awaiting her command. A few months wouldn’t be enough to solidify her leadership with them.
‘I regret to hear of your father’s passing. You have our condolences.’ Eirik called out. ‘The betrothal still stands, however. The agreement was signed by your father and brought back to me by messenger. I’m told by your father’s own man that this was as good as a marriage to your people. We must only now go through the formality of a ceremony.’
The woman thought that over for a moment, her brow furrowing with dismay. She was clearly not any happier with this marriage arrangement than Vidar. ‘Where is this man?’ She looked over the boats. Some of the shields had lowered so that the men were peeking out with interest at the events unfolding.
‘I am here,’ Vidar called out with some amusement. He felt the power of her gaze in his gut when it locked on his. The realisation hit him that this woman would be in his life from this day forward. Whether he ultimately decided to go back to fighting rather than stay and manage the manor, she would be there like a shadow in the back of his mind. His responsibility. His burden. His.
‘You are Magnus.’ Her expression was unfathomable. She looked like a queen and he felt the first stirrings of respect well within him.
‘I am Vidar. Jarl Eirik’s younger brother.’
She didn’t waste a moment in arguing the replacement. ‘The agreement was for a warrior named Magnus. I won’t accept a proxy or a substitution.’ She looked at Vidar as if he were a poor substitute at that.
The woman was stunning in her audacity. Vidar couldn’t stop the laughter that rolled out of his chest. He nearly doubled over as it tore through him. He’d never seen anyone like her. For all his anger over the winter, the woman didn’t want to wed him any more than he’d wanted to wed her. He’d welcome her refusal if he wasn’t so certain that Eirik wouldn’t stand for it.
‘It appears you don’t have a choice,’ he said when he could finally draw a breath.
* * *
Gwendolyn tightened her hands into fists around the wooden frame of the crossbow. Every instinct she possessed urged her to put an arrow through the black heart of the Dane who was laughing at her so hard that he nearly fell out of his ship. Perhaps she should have aimed for him sooner, instead of that grotesque beast of a mast head. If she shot him now, it would no doubt lead to an outright battle. Aside from that, the men would never forgive her taking a life in cold blood, no matter that he was a threat to her in ways she was afraid to face.
She’d been preparing for this day—along with dreading it—ever since her father had confessed on his deathbed to this secret arrangement he’d made with the Danes who controlled the land to the south. Despite her hope that somehow the Danes had forgotten her over the winter, she’d had the men on alert for their arrival since the earth had thawed earlier in the month. When the lookout had come with the news that boats had been spotted that morning, she knew that her time had come and her prayers to be delivered from this unwanted marriage had gone unanswered. She’d actually hoped that these men were not part of Jarl Eirik’s fleet and had instead come bent on battle. A fight she could handle. A new husband was a different beast altogether.
Now she had to face the fact that only one of them had come to do battle and it appeared it would be with her. With that in mind she seized on the only piece of information that might save her from the marriage. Turning her gaze back to Jarl Eirik, she said, ‘My father told me that Magnus was your second in command and the only man worthy of wedding into our family. If this Magnus has chosen not to honour this agreement, then I am afraid that I will not honour a replacement.’
The Jarl did not answer for a moment. Instead, he gave a long slow look at the men in the seven other boats that had pulled up next to his. There were at least twenty men on each one, while the two in back held a few horses. She allowed herself the tiny sliver of hope that she had saved herself. But then he spoke. ‘The agreement called for my most trusted warrior. Magnus was named verbally, but his name was not recorded in the document. Just as your name was not recorded. The text only states that my most trusted warrior is to marry the daughter of Alvey. I have the scroll if you’ll allow me to show you.’
She opened her mouth to refuse him, but Rodor stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. She met his shrewd gaze and noted the displeasure there. He’d been her father’s man from long before her birth—if anyone knew what her father’s wishes had been, it was he. He’d probably even seen the document her father had signed.
‘Do not do this thing you’re planning, Gwendolyn. If you antagonise your husband now, think of the consequences to yourself later. Think of the consequences to our people. A true leader must put everyone else before himself...or herself.’
Her heart plummeted to land with a thud in her stomach. All this time she had been so certain that something would change, but she realised now that she’d only been fooling herself. It hadn’t been certainty at all, but a childish indulgence. Nothing would save her from her fate. Her father had made sure of that before he’d passed by making his wishes known to all the men. They followed her now because she’d earned their respect, but she knew how tenuous that respect was. If she openly thwarted her beloved father’s wishes, they’d turn on her. If Jarl Eirik had chosen not to honour the agreement, then that would be one thing; but, if she were the cause of him baulking, that would be another altogether.
The men thought they needed these Danes for protection. Personally, she didn’t agree. Aye, the northern tribes were becoming bolder. That was compounded by the rebellious Northmen who’d fled the Danes pushing northward to take Alvey land. They were being squeezed from both sides, yet Gwendolyn was confident that her men could handle things alone. But Jarl Eirik had promised them gold and warriors in exchange for her hand and her father had thought the exchange necessary.
Swallowing her pride, she realised that she’d have to handle this diplomatically, so she nodded to Jarl Eirik. ‘You may come on land. Bring your proof and whatever you may need to rest for the evening. We’ll see if everything is as you say.’
From the corner of her eye, she saw Rodor nod as he stepped back to his place with the men. The one named Vidar had ceased his laughing, but only to stare at her. She ignored him, training her gaze on Jarl Eirik as he directed his men to disembark. He followed them, his boots splashing in the shallow water at the bank of the river as he jumped out of the boat and walked to shore. He was a tall man, taller than Rodor. His shoulders were broad and his wheat-coloured hair swept down past his shoulders. He was handsome and had a solemn air about him. If he hadn’t been her adversary, she saw immediately that she would have liked him.
His younger brother Vidar followed—she wouldn’t think of him as her betrothed until it was absolutely unavoidable. When he splashed down from his boat and walked towards shore, she noted that he walked with a swagger that was missing from his older brother’s walk. He was of the same height as Jarl Eirik and his hair was a similar shade of blond. It was obvious they were brothers. But the younger one’s eyes were insolent and fierce. Gwendolyn very much doubted she would have liked him at all under other circumstances.
‘Come,’ she said and turned to follow the trail home. She forced down the ache in her throat and blinked back the sting of tears. She had not cried since the day her father had died. She wouldn’t allow this Dane to reduce her to shame herself in front of him.
Somehow between now and the night ahead, she’d figure a way out of this marriage. She wouldn’t have a man dictate her future to her, especially an enemy stranger.
