Harper St. George - In Bed With The Viking Warrior

Finding the hide bag amongst the dead leaves on the ground, she stuffed the plant inside and tied the drawstring. It was probably foolish to try to take the plant home and hope it took root, but she needed it so that she could practise dyeing her thread come the spring. It would save her coin if she could dye her own. Tying the spade to the knotted belt at her waist, she retrieved Godric’s old sword from the ground beside her and set off for home.

The cold metal beneath her fingers made her feel secure in a way her late husband never had, though it was only the sword he’d used as a boy, not the sword he’d used as a warrior. That sword had been confiscated by the Danes when he’d gone to talk with them at their settlement and been killed. A move that had cost her their savings when the Danes had come to demand recompense for the fire he’d allegedly set that had destroyed a few of their houses. She’d even had to give them her tapestries, the wool in storage and most of her sheep when her coin hadn’t been enough. The sheep had been the least of her worries, at least she still had milk, but the wool had been put aside so that she could weave cloth through the winter to sell in the spring. That had stung.

Yet it was the loss of the tapestries that hurt the most. Her mother had made them. Though her mother had been a well-known embroideress in the villages surrounding Heiraford, and the tapestries were worth quite a bit of coin, Aisly missed them because they’d been the only reminder she had of her mother. Having lost her at the age of eight, her thoughts of the woman were sometimes clouded. The only true memories she had were the hours spent learning the stitches from her mother’s patient hand, and then after her death attempting to recreate the embroidery in those tapestries. Then one day the Danes had come and taken that last connection to her mother. There had been no warning, just a brutal knock on her door one morning telling her what her husband had done and that he was dead. Moments later they’d taken what had been most precious to her.

Some days she almost felt remorse that she mourned the tapestries more than her own husband. Life as a widow was infinitely better than life as Godric’s wife. A few weeks of freedom and she’d already vowed to herself that she’d never marry again and suffer under the rule of another tyrant. To keep that vow she’d have to learn to protect herself. Her brother, Alstan, was one of Lord Oswine’s best warriors and she’d convinced him to spend a few hours teaching her how to properly wield the sword. With so little training, she knew that she had a lot to learn yet, but already the grip felt comfortable in her hand. While not as heavy as the other sword and unlikely to inflict bone-crushing injury to an attacker, the small sword would suffice for protection.

With both hands, she could hold it steady and her arms didn’t shake the way they had when she’d first picked it up a few weeks ago. As she walked back home through the forest, she gave a couple of test strikes and parries. The blade sliced cleanly through the air. Perhaps with time she could actually take on an opponent. Smiling at the thought, she set her gaze on a knot on a tree in front of her and swung in a circle, bringing the blade to a rest against the knot. Perfect.

Her mood improving, Aisly spent the next few moments of her walk finding various brown leaves and limbs to swipe at and following through with triumph. It wasn’t much, but at least she was doing something to help retain her independence. If she could prove to them all that she was capable of protecting herself, while providing for herself, then there would be no need at all for Cuthbert and the other village elders to pressure her into another marriage. Of course, she’d have to convince her brother of that truth as well. But she was certain that she could happily live her life on her own.

Of course, that would mean no child. She paused, her hand going to her flat belly. It would be a lie to pretend the thought didn’t hurt. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted a child, wanted a family. Living in Lord Oswine’s household had never afforded her or her brother the family life she missed. The nights she’d spent at the hearth with her mother learning embroidery or listening to her father’s tales were long gone. When she’d married Godric, a boy she’d known all her life, she’d assumed that she would finally have that family. But...but Godric was Godric. Always more concerned with the harvest, the coin she made from her sales, the Danes, anything but her. It hadn’t taken long for her to be happier on the nights he hadn’t come home than the nights he had.

Grimacing at her evil thoughts, she shook her head. She shouldn’t think ill of the dead. Godric hadn’t been a good husband by any means, but he didn’t deserve her bitterness now. Dropping her hand back to the sword, she shook off her morose thoughts and eased down the slope to the stream. It’d be faster to walk the well-worn path there rather than continue on through the forest.

Of course that meant she was more exposed, but there hadn’t been an attack since summer. No sooner had she thought the words, than she looked out over the narrow stream to see a man crouched down studying the ground, deep in concentration. Her heart jumped into her throat for a beat before falling down to her belly. A long mane of tawny hair flowed well past his shoulders and he was big, powerful.

A Dane.

If she had any doubt, the chain mail on his torso cinched it for her. The Danes who had come to her home the day her husband had been murdered had all worn the same armour. And this one wore thick gold bands on his arms just as they had. The same feeling of dread she’d had upon seeing them at her door filled her now. They could have done what they wanted to her that day and no one would have intervened. The elders might appeal to Lord Oswine, but everyone knew the Danes controlled the area now. Even the King was merely a tax collector for the invaders, or that was what Godric had told her. That was why Godric had been so angry, so determined to gather men to overthrow the Northmen.

She had yet to come even with him on her side of the stream and, once she could gather breath in her chest again, she slowly moved backwards. If she could reach the safety of the forest, she could continue home without him being the wiser. But, of course, that would depend on her luck and she seemed to be running short on that lately. She’d barely walked backwards two paces before the stones shifted beneath her feet, giving her away.

He looked up quickly from the track he’d been studying and found her, glaring at her from beneath his thick, fierce brow line. Her feet kept moving, almost sliding on the muddy slope as she kept her eyes on him, afraid that if she looked away he’d somehow reach her faster. Since the spring, her village had been assaulted by these barbarians. Rebel Danes who answered to no one, not even the Danes at the settlement, who stole the village’s sheep and crops as if it were their right. At summer’s end two maidens had gone missing, taken by the rebels. The Danish settlement had refused to help find them.

Aisly had no doubt that this man was part of that rebel group. The one time she’d seen officials from the Danish settlement, they’d looked...well, official. Their leaders had appeared well kept and had ridden with at least an outward display of respect through her village. This man looked like a heathen, dirty and dangerous. He didn’t look like them at all. He looked ready to pounce on her and tear her apart.

Taking a shaking breath, she slipped in her frantic attempt to move up to the solid ground of the forest. The sword fell to the mud as she grabbed at the ground to push herself upright. The Dane took the advantage and splashed through the shallow water towards her. Heart pounding in her chest, she quickly decided that her only choice was to face him on the banks of the stream. Gathering the sword with both hands, she righted herself as best she could. The white of his teeth flashed above his full beard, which hung in twin braids down his chest, as he sneered at her attempt. As he came closer, she could see the dark, horizontal lines engraved in his teeth. Just how she’d heard the rebels marked themselves. The men who had come to her door had not had those markings. He didn’t even draw a weapon as he came towards her, so sure was he that he didn’t need it.