Michelle Styles - A Deal With Her Rebel Viking

She wanted to scream that it wasn’t his land, that the people here were not weak and lily-livered like the Eastern Mercians, giving in without a fight, but managed to choke the words back.

Shouting at a warrior was likely to get her killed. Despite the sentiment her older sister had recently voiced about her reckless, mannish ways, Ansithe knew she possessed some modicum of self-preservation. She concentrated on keeping still and silently willing the warriors to move on.

The warlord turned his head as if he’d sensed her unspoken defiance, gazed straight towards where she stood and took a half-step towards her, saying something to the others with a slight smile on his lips.

With trembling fingers, she notched her arrow in the bowstring and muttered a prayer to all the saints and angels. Just when she thought she would be forced to loose the arrow and fight to her death, a wood pigeon arched up into the sky, launching itself from a branch above her with a loud clap of its wings.

Another man pointed to it, giving a harsh laugh and saying something that Ansithe didn’t quite catch. Her warrior nodded, but gave one last searching look at the oak before striding in the direction of the river.

Ansithe lowered her bow and drew further back before his ice-blue eyes spied her again.

She knelt on the ground, grabbed a handful of dirt and raised it.

‘I will defend this land or die,’ she vowed.

The manor-house yard appeared unnaturally still in the late afternoon shadows when Moir Mimirson entered it, following in the wake of his younger charge and his four companions.

A rundown air clung to the once substantial hall. The barns needed fixing and the stone walls had tumbled down in three places. Even though this area of Mercia had not witnessed a battle, Moir was willing to wager that the war had irrevocably altered this place, taking the able-bodied to fight and leaving only the weak, infirm and the women to defend it. Easy pickings for a raid, but such a thing would be a violation of the treaty his jaarl sought to sign with the Mercians.

The sheer stillness of the place made his skin prickle, just as it did before a battle was due to start. Instinctively his hand went to the amber bead he wore about his neck, the one which had belonged to his mother. Before any battle, he touched it and remembered his final vow to her—to be better than his father. Always.

‘There’s nothing here,’ Moir called in a low voice. ‘They have departed. I can’t even spy a hen or a pig for supper. We should move on, discover the way to Watling Street and return to your father—something which would have been easier if you had not tangled with our guide and made him abandon us.’

His wayward charge halted. His face contorted as it always did when Bjartr was forbidden anything. ‘Why was it my fault that the guide ran off? Or that we got lost trying to discover where he’d gone?’

‘Men tend to dislike having swords held at their throat when they quite rightly suggest that looting and raiding is not what one does when trying to negotiate a peace treaty.’

Bjartr’s mouth turned down in a petulant pout. ‘You should have stopped him. You are supposed to be my steward. And you should have provided us with proper food. My belly is rumbling. My father, your sworn jaarl , assigned you this task. Or are you like your father—given to disloyalty?’

Moir struggled to control his temper. Bjartr had not been alive when the tragedy with his parents had occurred. Bjartr’s recollection bore passing little to the truth of why Moir had been sent on this fool’s errand of a mission and was now having to play nursemaid to a group of barely blooded warriors rather than providing protection for his jaarl at the delicate negotiations with the Mercians and the other warlords.

‘I swear I heard bells earlier and that means an abbey,’ another warrior said, winking broadly at Moir. ‘There is always gold for the taking at a place like that. Here? Even the chickens have flown.’

‘Asking for hospitality remains the custom in the North. I suspect they follow similar customs here.’ Moir tried one last time. His sense of looming disaster rather than victory increased with every breath. ‘It is why we set out with gifts for those who favoured us. We can still ask for food to ease our starving bellies.’

Was this the meaning of his vision of a Valkyrie earlier? To be wary of this place?

‘Instead of being the rock who held the shield wall together, you have become my father’s craven hound,’ Bjartr jeered. ‘My father will be beyond proud when I return laden with gold and hostages—no matter what he told you about keeping the peace.’

Moir firmed his mouth. Any treasure to be found was probably safely buried long ago. Hostages simply caused unforeseen problems. And he was loyal to Bjartr’s father, Andvarr, the man who had taken a chance on him a long time ago. ‘You think seven warriors are enough for an all-out attack? How are you going to deploy them?’

‘Are you coming, Moir?’ one of Bjartr’s more obnoxious companions called. ‘Or does blood run true? Will you be as craven as your father was?’

‘No man calls me a coward and lives,’ Moir retorted, drawing his sword. ‘I challenge you. Here and now.’

‘Leave it, Moir,’ Bjartr shrieked. ‘As leader of this felag I command you. We attack this manor house.’

Without waiting to hear Moir’s explanation of why it was a poor idea and why they should instead just ask for help in finding the Roman road, Bjartr charged, screaming his battle cry, and the other younger warriors followed in his wake.

A heavy axe hit the barred doors to the hall. Ansithe’s stomach knotted. Twenty arrows in her quiver. Twenty arrows to save her family from the Heathen Horde.

She regarded the various bee skeps, mantraps and other devices scattered at strategic points in the hall. They were all designed to stop the invaders in their tracks.

‘Are you ready?’ she called to her sisters. Each gave a nod and held up their sealed skeps. On her signal they had agreed to unblock the entrance ways and toss them at the invaders. The bees would do the rest of the work.

Ansithe adjusted her veil, fixed her first arrow and began to count.

The door crashed open and the first warrior blundered in, missing the skep she’d set up at the entrance entirely. Ansithe swore under her breath.

He turned towards her older sister with his sword raised, ready to cut her throat or worse. She panicked and tossed the skep at him without removing the straw. It fell harmlessly to the floor. The bees remained imprisoned. Disaster loomed.

Ansithe loosed her arrow. It arched and connected with his throat. He stumbled over the skep, releasing the bees from their prison and they began to swarm over him and his companions. Her younger sister removed the entrance block and tossed her skep. It landed at the feet of a warrior and the battle cries soon became shrieks of pain.

Ansithe unleashed her second arrow.

Somewhere, a lone dog began to howl, sounding like one of Hel’s when she sucked out the souls of unworthy men. Bjartr’s battle cry turned into an agonising scream for help, swiftly followed by the others’ cries of anguish. Moir’s muscles coiled. He drew his sword and raced around to the back of the building.

He slammed the small back door open, rushing forward with his drawn sword. A precariously balanced basket toppled down on top of him, temporarily blinding him. Sticky honey flowed down his face as he fought to remove it. The sound of angry bees filled his ears swiftly followed by sharp stings.