you a lesson. Shall we get on with it?’ She shrugged. ‘It will be a shame to mark your skin, but then maybe the next time you will not treat a woman opponent with such contempt.’
He snapped his fingers and one of his men brought his shirt. ‘The maiden has accused me of distracting her. And here I thought you and your unbreakable heart impervious to my charms!’
Sayrid saluted him with her sword. ‘Your future ladies will thank me one day.’
‘What makes you think I want any other woman?’
He returned the salute as the noise from the crowd grew louder. Sayrid took three breaths and focused on his sword. The first few clashes would be to assess his strength and identify his weakness. Warriors always had a weakness. Once she found his, she could exploit it. His arrogance would assist her, but she’d need something more to make him overreach. She could almost taste the power she’d command once she’d won.
Their swords clashed as he blocked her move and countered with a move that she easily blocked.
‘You’re not trying very hard.’
A wide smile split his face. ‘I’ve no wish to mark your skin, Valkyrie.’
‘That is my concern.’
‘Mine as well. I need to look after my bed partner-to-be.’
Sayrid ground her teeth. She didn’t know which was worse—talking about marring her skin as if that mattered or proclaiming it was a foregone conclusion that they’d share a bed whatever the outcome.
She redoubled her efforts to focus and the battle began in earnest. Sword meeting shield and sword meeting sword. Each time she tried something, he had a counter for it.
She had to admit that Hrolf was highly skilled, a far better opponent than she had faced before. His strength matched his agility. This was no drunken sot trying his luck or an ageing farmer, but a seasoned warrior.
Rivulets of sweat snaked down her face, nearly blinding her. With an impatient arm, she wiped them away. Surely he would make a mistake soon. Her light shield grew heavier and it took more effort to move it into place. But she forced her body to continue and to wait. Round and round the ring they went. One probing and then the other. Always searching for an opening, but not finding one. The cries of the crowd grew louder.
Despite her screaming back muscles she tried for a downward stroke. He blocked it with ease, but his eyes took on a triumphal gleam.
Sayrid swallowed hard. She summoned all her remaining energy. One more burst and she knew she’d break him.
He went for a deceptively simple move, but Sayrid was ready with the counter-attack and managed to land a blow on his arm. She pressed her advantage and forced him on the back foot. He stumbled and fell. His sword landed a few inches from him.
A wild exhilaration went through her. She had done it! He had made the first mistake. She was going to win. After this, no one would doubt her prowess. She’d be safe and her dreams would all come true. Her family would be provided for and she could stop waking up at night with worry clawing at her gut.
His lips turned up. ‘Definitely a Valkyrie. The last move proved it. You do Odin proud.’
‘Will you yield?’ she asked, standing over him with her sword point towards his neck. ‘You have lost your sword. I could drive my sword into your throat. Yield, Hrolf Sea-Rider, and I may spare your life.’
‘Overconfidence will be your downfall, Valkyrie.’
His foot snaked out and caught her calf, sending her tumbling to the ground. Her cheek bumped against a rock and sent a pain ricocheting through her. The air went from her lungs with the unexpectedness of it. One instant she was on her feet and the next, staring up at the sky. Her shield slipped from her grasp.
He made a downward stroke which she raised her sword to block. To her horror, she mistimed the move and her sword arched through the air, landing quivering in the dirt several feet from her.
‘Will you yield, Valkyrie?’ he asked with his sword a breath away from her neck. ‘Will you concede to a man?’
Sayrid collapsed back against the ground, utterly spent. Above her the clouds skittered across the sky and all about her was silence from the stunned crowd.
‘I can’t rise without aid,’ she whispered into the quiet.
Summoning the remaining bits of his energy, Hrolf reached down with his hand and clasped hers. He pulled her to standing. Sayrid, with rivulets of sweat running down her face and her hair plastered to her skull, looked every bit as exhausted as he felt. But she was his now.
‘It is over,’ he said. ‘You’ve lost your sword. Would you lose your life as well?’
A solitary unheeded tear hovered in the corner of her eye. ‘Yes, it is over.’
Hrolf glanced towards where Kettil stood, stony-faced. He gave a slight nod, acknowledging the outcome.
‘Sayrid Avildottar conceded!’ He raised their clasped hands. ‘I claim victory. I claim Sayrid Avildottar and her lands.’
The entire throng hushed.
‘What does the Shield Maiden say?’ someone called out. ‘Has she given way?’
‘Go on,’ he commanded. ‘Say it so they can hear.’
‘Hrolf is correct. He has won.’ Sayrid’s shoulders slumped as she bowed her head. ‘I’ll honour my oath. My lands will be his.’
‘I claim everything, including your body!’
At his words, the crowd burst into loud laughter and cheers. Hrolf’s shoulders relaxed, but he kept hold of Sayrid’s wrist. Her expression of absolute horror intensified.
In all his years of fighting, he had never met a better opponent and he had begun to despair of winning, something he’d never experienced before.
Sayrid’s instant of hesitation had happened just after he’d sent a prayer towards any god who might be listening. Obviously Freya, the goddess of love and marriage, had been following the proceedings because he suddenly had known what to do and his strength had returned. He would honour the goddess today—by claiming Sayrid as his bride.
‘Marriage is not a death sentence,’ he murmured, hating the bruised patch just under her eye. He had tried to be careful, but obviously there had been moments when his fighting instinct had taken over.
Silently he vowed that it would never happen again. He would ensure that his wife was properly looked after, not left to fend for herself in a hostile world. He would make it right. His wife should be dressed in furs and silks, not battling for her life.
‘Set the date,’ she growled, twisting slightly to free herself from his grasp.
Hrolf concentrated and clung on to his prize—half to keep her next to him and half because if he let go, he knew he’d collapse in a heap of spent muscle.
‘When would you have this marriage of ours?’ she ground out. ‘A month? Two months? How long will you give
