She might not be conventionally pretty, but she was striking, the sort of a woman who would haunt a man’s passionate dreams if he were given to dreaming.
‘Ansithe, second daughter of Wulfgar, the ealdorman of Baelle Heale manor where you have trespassed. And you are, Dane?’
‘Moir, son of Mimir. We are from the North country, not from Denmark, Lady Ansithe.’
There was no need to explain about Bjartr or his parentage, not until Moir was certain he could keep his foolish charge safe. Far worse enemies than the Mercian woman who stood before them lurked, waiting to pounce. This woman clearly sought to keep them alive...for now.
‘What are your plans for us?’ he asked, trying to wipe the remaining bees from his face with his shoulder. ‘Can you share them in more detail?’
She coughed, pointedly. ‘We intend to trade you to the commander of the Danes, Guthmann Ulfson.’
The helpers who had bound them stamped their feet in approval.
Moir’s heart sunk. Guthmann Ulfson, better known and feared as Guthmann Bloodaxe. After Moir’s interference in Guthmann’s ‘sport with the ladies’ as he termed it, Guthmann had demanded Moir’s head. Bjartr’s father, Moir’s overlord, had sought to diffuse the situation by sending him to act as steward to his only child as he toured the lands of Mercia to find the correct spot for the hall Andvarr planned to build, predicting Guthmann would have forgotten about their altercation by the time Moir returned. Privately, Moir had his doubts that Guthmann would forget the fierce slash to his face any time soon.
If he was going to get Andvarr’s son back unscathed, he was going to have to disappoint this Valkyrie made flesh. There would be no meeting with Guthmann Bloodaxe. No prisoner exchange. No wholesale torture followed by an agonisingly slow death.
He willed Bjartr to keep his fool mouth shut about his importance as a hostage. If this woman considered them unimportant to Guthmann, matters would be far easier.
‘What do you think you will get in return for us? What can this Dane, this Guthmann, give you?’ he asked, feigning ignorance of his arch-enemy. ‘Danes dislike parting with gold for no good reason.’
‘My father. My sister’s husband. They are being held hostage by him.’
A knife twisted in Moir’s gut. His fabled luck had finally run out. The Valkyrie had every reason to trade them to the Danish commander and Guthmann had every reason to end their lives or at least torture them until they were little better than dead men walking. Moir’s promise to Andvarr that he’d ensure his son became a leader was little more than a hollow boast.
He should have listened to his instinct, rather than permitting a few jibes about his courage and relationship to his jaarl to goad him into inaction. He should have forced Bjartr to relinquish the command of the felag to him days ago when the guide vanished and they’d become lost in the woods.
He clenched his fists and the ropes dug into his wrist. He could not undo the past, no matter how much he might wish to. He had learnt that lesson well years ago.
‘Are you certain you will get them back?’
Her eyes flashed green fire. ‘For a sum, they have been promised. Word arrived two days ago.’
Moir concentrated on keeping his face carefully blank. He pitied her father and brother-in-law. Few emerged from Guthmann’s care intact. But that was not his concern.
‘Are you truly that naïve? Guthmann will eat you alive.’
Ansithe struggled to keep her bow steady.
Even with honey dripping down his face, the tall warlord was far too handsome and confident for her liking. It was as if he expected to get his way simply by speaking in that deep rich voice. Maybe women melted before him, but not her. The Danish warlord eat her alive? She had stopped listening to tales told around the hearth years ago.
‘Issuing orders already, Northman? From where I stand, I have an arrow trained at your throat and you have what? Your silver tongue?’
‘I use what I can.’
‘I can think of other uses for your tongue.’
His mouth quirked upwards into a half-smile. ‘Can you, Valkyrie? I generally like to know a woman for longer before putting my tongue to alternative uses, but for you I am prepared to make an exception.’
Ansithe’s cheeks heated at his heavy-lidded glance. There was no mistaking his double meaning. And he was doing it deliberately to make her squirm. She knew what she looked like in this old gown which she’d chosen for the freedom of movement it gave her rather than because it enhanced any of her meagre charms. ‘I am warning you, Northman. I am not in the mood to banter.’
‘Pity. We could have fun.’ He made an expansive gesture with his arm. ‘Put your bow away. The Danes will not pay any gold for our corpses.’
‘Why do you fear Guthmann Bloodaxe?’ Ansithe asked, keeping her bow steady and the arrow still trained at his throat.
‘I don’t fear him any more than I fear you.’
She kept her face impassive. The man was trying to save his skin. But she’d spotted his startled reaction to Guthmann’s name. Good. It meant she might get more for him from the jaarl. ‘I’m pleased you have sense enough to fear me.’
In the faint light, she slowly counted again. Six men alive and one dead. Despite her older sister Cynehild’s warnings of total disaster, she had managed to best them, even though she had had to destroy most of her beehives to do it.
She had done more than just drive them off; she had captured them all. None had escaped to raise the alarm with any waiting band of marauding warriors. How many warriors had accomplished such a feat? Her father would surely have to admit that she was as good as any son when he returned.
‘You have achieved a victory, true,’ he said in a gentle voice as if he were soothing a fractious horse. ‘But victories have a way of slipping through fingers and vanishing to nothing if proper precautions are not taken. This is doubly true in this case when the inexperienced lead.’
‘You lie. The victory is mine and will remain such until the end of time. You are my prisoners to do with as I will,’ Ansithe said in a voice that carried to all parts of the hall.
‘Only as long as we remain under your control and alive.’
Her temper rose. Was this man implying that she was less than honourable? It would be a Northern trick to slaughter prisoners, not a Mercian one. ‘I will keep you alive to exchange for my father and brother-in-law. I give you my word.’
‘You are personally acquainted with the Danish commander, then?’ he asked. ‘Do you know what he is like? How many men he has killed? How many women?’
‘I have not had the misfortune to meet him.’ A prickle ran down her back. She had heard the whispers about how he’d emptied villages and abused women. But she had to believe he’d treat her father
