Betrothed to the Enemy Viking
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Michelle Styles
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Chapter One
The spring sunshine shone through the catkins of the willow, highlighting the first shoots of new grass and the flowers which carpeted the woodland glade. Jaarl Kal Randrson, more commonly called Icebeard, since he’d singlehandedly held the shield wall of the Great Army of the Danes at Basceng, adjusted the crossbow he carried to a more comfortable fit over his shoulder and surveyed the dales, fields and valleys of his holdings.
His worn-out lands back across the sea in Denmark, with their harvests of squelching mud, stunted wheat and starving livestock, seemed a lifetime ago. His belly was full, and his reputation as an effective warrior ensured none tried to wrest these lands from him. All boded well for achieving the oath he’d sworn on the graves of his wife and young son. Except an undercurrent of bitter cold still clung to the spring-warmed air—a reflection of the unease he’d experienced in his chamber earlier, which had sent him out to this overlook.
Lady Cynehild, the widow of the Mercian warlord who had once called these lands his own, was due to lay her husband’s sword at the altar of the ruined church any day. She claimed it was to honour his dying wish, but what did she truly require? The rumours of a buried hoard of gold had swirled about the lands when he’d first built his new hall on the ruins of the old one, but despite his extensively searching for it, he’d discovered nothing.
‘Good luck with trying to steal anything from under my nose,’ he muttered. ‘What is mine, I hold.’
Lady Cynehild would be like all the other Mercian ladies he’d encountered in his time on these shores—overly proud, officious and utterly certain of her own desirability, particularly to an unmarried jaarl. For the sake of peace with his fellow jaarls she’d be allowed to lay the sword, but she’d depart with nothing.
‘Show yourself.’ He notched an arrow into the crossbow.
A shaft of sunlight hit a stag’s many-pronged antlers as he led his herd of pregnant does into the clearing. When Kal lifted his bow and aimed for the stag’s heart, the animal turned his head towards him and pawed the earth, as if he could sense his presence. He shook his head. The sound of his roar filled the glen. One antler loosened and fell to the ground, swiftly followed by the other.
Kal lowered the bow and saluted the stag and his herd. ‘Thank you for your gift on this spring morning. Go and guard your herd. Until our next meeting, when your antlers have returned.’
The stag blew out a huff of air. No doubt when Kal returned to the hall his cousin Alff would laugh at his fancy in sparing the stag’s life in exchange for a pair of antlers. But these days Alff seldom had a good word to say about anything. Kal blamed his cousin’s new wife, Toka. However, Alff refused to hear a word against her, claiming Kal suffered from unreasonable prejudice against the woman who’d been Kal’s late wife’s sister.
‘I’ve the measure of that woman. The scales will drop from his eyes soon, eh, Stag?’
The stag’s nostrils quivered, sensing something in the wind, and he turned and vanished with his herd into the undergrowth. The glade settled as if the deer had never been there.
Somewhere a lark began a trilling song, reminding Kal that he was needed elsewhere, to ensure his lands continued to prosper.
He reached to pick up the nearest discarded antler. He’d take the stag’s unexpected gift as a sign that he should follow the stag’s lead. When he returned to the hall he would do what he’d been avoiding—take a wife. But one he could cherish—not someone like his cousin’s new wife or the mysterious Lady Cynehild. He would get more sons and ensure these lands belonged to his family for evermore. Today was the day his ghosts ceased walking beside him.
‘Thus shall all tyrants fall, Icebeard!’
The whispered words from behind him allowed him no more than a heartbeat of warning. He reacted instinctively, thrusting the antler forward. Something large and heavy hit his head and Kal Randrson—the mountain who had kept the Great Army’s shield wall from buckling by planting his feet at Basceng, the restorer of prosperity for his new people through his purchase of cows and sheep, the great Deniscan jaarl of Ecgmundton, with a war band which numbered more than a hundred warriors—fell to his knees as the world went black.
Lady Cynehild of Baelle Heale struggled to climb Hangra Hill. If she reached the top she’d spy the lands her husband had lost years ago, when the Great Heathen Horde had first swarmed over Mercia and the warriors’ courage had failed.
All around her she could see the emerging signs of spring, with new grass and tiny flowers, but the old fern fronds kept catching on her gown. Despite it being early March, the day held more than a promise of warmth, with a hint of the land returning to growth after its long winter slumber.
Cynehild wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her arm.
‘Get the gold and silver I buried when we fled, Cyn, for Wulfgar, for our son’s future,’ her husband had whispered in those quiet few moments before his death eighteen months ago. ‘Ensure our son is looked after. Keep my secret even from your sisters and your father.’
The woods had grown in the time since she’d been away, becoming denser and more closed, but she reckoned that from the crest of the hill she could find her way to the cave where he’d hidden part of the treasure.
Somewhere over her head a raven flapped its wings and called out its mournful cry. She paid it no mind. She stepped over a fallen beech and narrowly missed outstretched fingers—a human hand connected to a human body. Giving a muffled scream, she scrambled backwards, dislodging some stones.
On the ground before her lay a man—not just any man, but one of the largest she’d ever seen. If he’d been standing upright, he’d have towered over her. Blood seeped from his head wound, soaking the ground. His dark brown eyes snapped open and appeared to stare deep into her soul, seeing everything she wished to keep hidden. Then, seemingly satisfied with what he had seen, he grunted and his eyelids fluttered shut.
Alive, not dead.
There was something noble about his strong features—high cheekbones, dark blond hair flowing over his shoulders. The golden brooch which fastened his cloak was clearly Northern in style. However, she could see no weapons lying beside him, and nor was anyone else in the moss-hung clearing.
Had there been a fight? Was he the loser, left there to die? Or some sort of strange sacrifice? A warning to any unwary person who climbed up this hill?
‘Why are you in this place?’ Cynehild whispered. ‘What has happened to you? Where are your companions? Who are you?’
He groaned slightly and seemed to mouth words—Help me, please.
The wood wore a complete hush...even the raven had vanished.
‘Palni! Brother Palni!’
‘My lady, have you encountered trouble in your toilette?’ Once a Northern warrior, but now a Christian monk, Brother Palni shouted back to her.
Cynehild gritted her teeth and wished she’d given him a different excuse about her need to be alone in the woods.
‘Come up here. At once.’
She awkwardly placed a hand on the injured man’s shoulder. At her touch, his eyes blinked open again. A faint worrying film covered them. Was he dying?
‘Keep breathing. Help is coming.’
His lips turned up into a smile which transformed his face. ‘Good.’
Then a gurgle escaped his throat and his body went rigid.
‘Brother Palni! I need you now. Not tomorrow morning!’
Brother Palni appeared a few breaths later, wiping the sweat from his face with one corner of his monk’s robe. ‘Now, what is all this here fuss about, my lady? What has startled you? Another raven? Or was it a magpie this time?’
Cynehild tugged at the victim’s massive shoulders, trying to raise his head up and get a better look at his wound. ‘This man is injured...possibly from hitting his head on a rock.’
Severe lines settled on Brother Palni’s normally placid face as he glanced at the body on the ground. ‘He won’t be alive for long, my lady. Even now death seeks to claim him.’ Brother Palni crossed himself. ‘I’m sorry. Shall I pray for him?’
Pray for him. Brother Palni sounded more like the priest back home every day.
Cynehild made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. ‘He spoke to me. And his chest moves. Watch.’ She rocked back on her heels. ‘People can recover from a head wound.’
Brother Palni came and knelt beside her. He put his hand on the man’s chest. ‘What do you want to do, my lady?’
‘Save his life, Brother Palni.’
The monk took his hand away, pursed his lips as if he’d encountered a sour apple and stood up. ‘Your men wait for your order to continue towards the church at Ecgmundton, my lady. Go to them. I will wait for the inevitable and then catch up with you. It shouldn’t take long.’
Cynehild balled her fists. She led this expedition. Surely Brother Palni had to see the value in what she wished to do. ‘I may lack skill at trepanning, but I can nurse a simple concussion. I’ve tended enough over the years.’
‘My lady? I am afraid this goes beyond a simple head injury.’
‘We keep him quiet and warm. Should the worst happen, then he’ll die in comfort—not on the cold ground.’
‘He is a Deniscan, my lady. Examine his brooches if you doubt my assessment.’
Cynehild wrapped her arms about her middle. A Deniscan. A Dane. Possibly someone to do with Jaarl Icebeard, the man she was going to rob—or rather from whom she would liberate the gold which rightfully belonged to her—the man she had to consider her most dangerous enemy.
‘But what sort? Where does he hail from?’
‘There is only one sort, in my experience—the worst sort. Your late husband would agree with me, my lady.’ Brother Palni bowed low, as if his invocation of Leofwine settled the matter.
‘My husband never sought the death of an innocent. The Danish warlord who caused his death breathes no more, thanks to my sister and her new husband. I seek no more revenge for that killing.’ Cynehild gestured towards the man. ‘Have a proper look. Take your time and see if you can discern anything. Do you know him?’
Brother Palni shook his head. ‘No, Lady Cynehild, but the Great Army was a vast one. I’ve not yet met the Deniscan who controls these lands either—the Jaarl Icebeard—but I know his fearsome reputation. He is more ruthless in many ways than the man who caused your husband’s death. Mark my words: his hand will be in this. Walk away while you can.’
It would be easy to follow Brother Palni’s advice and comfort her conscience that this man’s fate had been sealed long before she’d stumbled upon him. But she knew she wouldn’t. She’d given the man her word—she would help him, and she would do everything she could to save his life.
She tilted her chin upwards and allowed righteous indignation to fill her. Mercians did things differently from the Great Heathen Horde. ‘The killing must cease at some point, Brother Palni. How can we be at peace if we keep taking sides and being at each other’s throats? This man is someone’s friend, son, and possibly a father. He deserves better than to die like this. You must know the parable of the Good Samaritan now that you are a monk instead of a warrior from the North. It is one of Father Oswald’s favourites.’
‘And if he turns out to be someone who would be better off dead? What will you do then?’
Cynehild firmed her mouth. If she left now, the expression in the man’s brown eyes would haunt her for ever. That brief glimpse had been like looking into the mirror of her soul. But explaining that to Brother Palni would simply result in him tutting and finding yet more reasons why they should turn back without encountering Jaarl Icebeard. She strongly suspected the monk had only agreed to accompany her on this journey because he had mistakenly believed she’d give up long before now.
‘It is up to God to decide whether or not a person lives or dies, not me,’ she said.
‘Let God take care of him. Death will gather him to her bosom and there is little to be done about that.’
She rose and jabbed a finger at the monk. ‘What if God has guided my footsteps, Brother Palni? You should consider these things now that you’ve become a monk, instead of being like a heathen warrior, prattling on about Death’s bosom.’
‘Where do you propose taking him, my lady?’ Brother Palni lifted his palm upwards. ‘We are in a strange wood. And the ordinary people in Danelaw country have been less than friendly. That farmer tried to set his dog on me this morning.’
‘I seem to recall there is a dry cave near here. My husband and I sheltered there once.’ She was proud of the way her voice remained steady. She forced a smile. ‘It will serve our needs.’
‘A cave?’
‘It should be big enough to accommodate all of us. Two men can guard the covered cart if you think it necessary.’
Brother Palni lifted a brow. ‘I thought you were determined to press onwards towards your old lands at Ecgmundton, regardless of the weather.’
‘Plans can be altered,’ she replied.
‘This is the first time in the entire journey that you have admitted that.’
Cynehild toyed with the belt fastened about her waist. The scissors she wore made a metallic noise when they hit the tweezers next to them. ‘I didn’t expect to discover an injured man in need of our assistance. The cave is some distance from the track.’
‘It must be well off the beaten track. We could carry him to the covered cart instead, my lady. Stay there.’
‘Another damp night in that covered cart will make me ill, and if I become ill we will have to delay our journey.’ She forced a sneeze. ‘There—you see?’
‘My lady, how are we going to find this here cave? You sent us in circles yesterday, looking for a stream just so that you could wash.’
Behind Brother Palni’s head, Cynehild spotted the forked oak she’d been searching for and wondered how she’d missed it before. She could make out the faint pathway off to its left, which she knew led to the cave.
‘I know where the cave is.’
Again, a raised brow from Brother Palni. ‘You appear very certain that this cave will revive him.’
‘Once there, we can examine him further, to see if there is truly nothing which can be done.’ She gestured up to the darkening clouds. ‘A hard rain approaches, Brother Palni. I can feel it in the air. My covered cart cannot accommodate all of us, and it does leak something dreadful.’
‘You’re right about the hard rain. My scar has started aching.’
Brother Palni absently rubbed his calf muscle in a reminder of how he’d come to be injured and how he’d first entered her life, as a member of a raiding party on her home who had been repelled by the brave actions of her sister Ansithe.
‘You’ll not want to hear my views, my lady, as you are stubborn when your mind is made up, but I beg you to listen to me all the same.’
‘Explain the problems to me later.’ Cynehild pointed towards where the man lay. ‘First, help save this man’s life.’
Palni pressed his hands together and made a low bow—almost a perfect mimic of Father Oswald. ‘I exist to serve, my lady. I’ll tell the men to prepare for trouble...deep trouble.’
‘I sincerely doubt whoever did this will return. Why should they?’
‘I know what the Deniscan are like.’
At her sharp intake of breath, Palni bowed again.
‘Pardon an old warrior for speaking bluntly. I have little practice yet with being a monk. The good Father is constantly exasperated with me over it.’ He ran his hand through newly tonsured hair. ‘Oddity and the Deniscan rarely augur well for anyone else.’
‘It seems fairly straightforward to me—the man was attacked, robbed and left for dead.’
Palni pointed towards the man’s cloak. ‘Whatever happened here, robbery was not the intention. He wears far too much gold, but has no sword or weapon of any kind.’
Cynehild peered more closely at the man. His cloak was fastened with two large gold brooches and he wore a torc about his neck and several arm rings. His clothes were fashioned of fine wool and his cloak was a thick soft pelt.
‘I gave my word to him that help was coming and Mercians do keep true to their word—unlike others I could mention.’
The man groaned slightly and mumbled a few words which sounded like a name and another plea for help. His fingers scrabbled at the moss.
Cynehild went to him and caught his hand. ‘You’re safe now. I will ensure it.’
‘So cold. Stay with me.’ His fingers tightened about hers, becoming almost painful in their grip. ‘I beg you. I need you. Always.’
Cynehild was unclear if he was speaking to her or to someone he saw in his fevered imaginings.
‘I’ve little intention of leaving you. You’ll be safe once we’ve moved you to the cave.’
His lips turned upwards. ‘Believe you.’
She gave a triumphant glance over her shoulder towards where Brother Palni stood, with an increasingly gloomy look on his face.
‘Does he seem like a man who is about to die? Help me to bind his head so that he will be comfortable during the short journey to the cave. That is an order, Brother Palni.’
The monk departed and returned with linen strips and several of the men, who were able to fasten together a makeshift stretcher. Cynehild carefully bound the stranger’s head so it wouldn’t begin bleeding again on the journey.
‘I just hope you don’t have cause to regret your actions, my lady.’
The driving rain trickled down Cynehild’s neck. She lifted her hood and concentrated on getting inside the dry warmth of the cave. After showing Brother Palni that the cave existed, she had accompanied him back to the covered cart, so she could ensure the right selection of herbs and bandages were procured before her men carried the patient to his new resting spot.
‘We will be safe here for a little while. Water is nearby and we now have a dry roof over our head,’ she said with satisfaction.
Brother Palni moved the vines at the cave’s entrance to one side. ‘How long are you reckoning on staying, my lady? I’m willing to wager that man will not last the night, but if I’m wrong he will need several days before he can move. Can we afford that time? In and out, you said. Jaarl Icebeard is ever likely to change his mind about agreeing to allow you to honour your husband.’
Cynehild allowed the words to roll over her. All Palni’s negative predictions did was increase her determination that the man would live.
‘There are plenty of provisions, and we have Lord Icebeard’s solemn promise of safe passage to the church so I can finally fulfil my oath to Leofwine and lay his sword at his ancestors’ feet. Icebeard will hardly wish to make an enemy of my brother-in-law by reneging.’
Cynehild crossed her fingers. The angels had smiled on her so far. Bringing the injured man here solved everything. She could find the jar with the silver and gold coins that Leofwine had buried in this cave and look after the stranger at the same time, without having to answer awkward questions. If Brother Palni knew about the true nature of her quest, he would turn the party around and head straight back to Baelle Heale.
Brother Palni tapped a finger against his mouth. ‘This cave bothers me. Something in my water tells me trouble is coming. It is the way I used to feel before I went into battle.’
‘At the first sign of trouble the guards will race up here to help with our defence.’
‘Bury the sword on your old lands without confronting Icebeard and be done with it, my lady. Your late lord would never know.’
‘I swore before Almighty God that I would deliver that sword to his ancestors.’ Cynehild gave Brother Palni a hard stare—the sort which usually sent her son scurrying for his nurse when he’d been misbehaving. ‘Would you have me break that vow?’
‘I’m sworn to the church and to you, my lady.’
‘I could hardly have planned to encounter this man and his injuries,’ she said, going over to where one of the men had piled wood for the fire.
She spotted one of her favourite spindle whorls lying in the dirt beside a flat stone.
Cynehild gasped and bent to pick it up. Surely its presence here was an omen? She must have dropped it when she had last been in the cave. She’d hunted for it ages ago, when they had first arrived at Baelle Heale. Her sisters and Leofwine had been less than understanding about its loss.
She squinted in the dim light. The pile of stones at the back of the cave appeared undisturbed. The time to search for the jar of coins would be after everyone was asleep.
‘I’ll take one of the night watches,’ she said, quickly fashioning a makeshift pallet for the injured man out of dried fern fronds and her second-best cloak. ‘I’m used to being awake in the night. Many times when my son was small I’d simply sit, watching his cradle and listening to his soft breathing.’
‘As my lady commands.’
After the man had been brought in and deposited on his new bed, Brother Palni rapidly lit a fire in the mouth of the cave, just under the overhang so that the space remained clear of smoke.
Cynehild put her heaviest cloak over the injured man. The trembling of his limbs settled as the warmth from the cloak combined with the fire seeped into his bones. His breathing eased and became much gentler and steadier. Within a little time, the man’s skin ceased to be quite as deathly pale and his lips recovered to a rosier hue.
‘See, Brother Palni, he still lives.’
‘Did you find what you were looking for? I saw you pick something up,’ the monk said in a low voice. ‘I mean no disrespect, my lady. I merely seek to understand. I am certain you came to this cave for some other purpose than to save this man’s life. I’ve been a warrior far too long not to know an excuse when I hear one.’
Cynehild curled her fingers about the spindle whorl. ‘Trust no one—particularly not a Northman or a Deniscan.’ Leofwine’s final warning held true both for Brother Palni and for her new patient.
‘I found a spindle whorl I lost many years ago, that is all. It is a sign that our journey will be a fruitful one. I look forward to your apology in due course.’
