the next morning. Annis had sent a messenger off to her farm to fetch Eadward who would bring goats for the celebration. The hunters had been sent to bring venison and the fishermen were at the river to bring fish to the table. The servants began preparing the pork over the roasting fires.
Gwendolyn had barely slept the night before. She’d spent part of the night tossing and turning in her bed and the rest of the night pacing around her chamber. There was nothing for it. She was well and truly obliged to marry this Dane. Vidar and Jarl Eirik had already been at her table when she’d emerged from her chamber the next morning. She’d barely been able to bring herself to look at either one of them. After a quick breakfast, Jarl Eirik took her to the ships so that she could verify that the payment he’d brought was sufficient.
He didn’t call it payment. He called it mundr. It was the bride price her father had demanded from him. Whatever its proper name, it was the gold, jewels and horses that Jarl Eirik had paid for the privilege of having his man marry her. Apparently the barrels and chests were her worth. She wasn’t worth a coin more or a jewel less. Her stomach churned as she looked it over.
Seeing it made the betrothal suddenly seem real and it made her think of her first betrothal. Cam had asked her father for her hand on the eve of her seventeenth year. As Rodor’s son, he had nothing but the wealth his family had earned working for her family. He had his sword arm, his strong mind and his friendship with her brother that he’d use to support them and their eventual children. There’d been no talk of gold exchanging hands. She’d always known Cam and her father had approved of him. That was the way it was meant to be. These strangers were not supposed to be here.
Closing her eyes, she turned away from the treasure. It would do no good to think of the past. A quick glance at Rodor found him looking at her, the sober expression on his face seeming to repeat his warning of the previous day.
‘Think of the consequences to our people. A true leader must put everyone else before himself...or herself.’
‘Everything appears to be in order,’ she said.
Rodor nodded. ‘It does. You honour us with your mundr. I accept in place of her father.’
Gwendolyn bit her tongue lest she dispute him. As if they had any choice in accepting the payment. As if the Jarl had any intention of ‘honouring’ her with the payment. He wanted to expand his holdings and this marriage was the only way to do that. For generations the Alveys had existed comfortably in the north with no need for such arrangements.
But that era had come to an end and it was time to accept that.
Drawing herself up to her full height, she forced herself to nod in acknowledgement of the gift and Rodor’s acceptance. ‘Thank you, Jarl Eirik.’ The words tasted bitter on her tongue and nearly choked her on their way out, but she said them because that was her role here as Lady of Alvey. She would not allow these Danes to take that away from her.
Rodor continued speaking with the Jarl to make arrangements for unloading it as well as where the rest of the Danes could make camp. She waited as long as she could before making her excuses about needing to see to feast preparations and leaving. She stalked up the hill, her breath coming in short huffs as she made it to the front gate of her home.
Annis had the preparations well underway so there was no need for Gwendolyn’s help. Instead, she stormed directly to the practice yard. The warriors spent every morning sparring and she was in need of her sword to work off her anger and frustration. She practically ran to the yard, which was on the back side of the granary. Yet when she turned the corner, she skidded to a halt because Vidar was standing there with his sword strapped to his back, calling out orders to the men. Her men.
He had two score of them lined up in rows of two facing each other. Each of them stood in squares drawn off on the ground with sticks or lines of small stones. At his command, they began sparring with their swords and struggling not to step out of the box. His own men, the Danes, lazed around the edges of the sparring field, watching with amusement.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked before she could think to stop herself, rushing towards them. As she ran, some of the men had already started tripping over the walls of their boxes, hitting the ground with groans as they fell outside their designated spaces.
Vidar spared her a glance over his shoulder before he went back to instructing the men. ‘Good warriors never lose ground. You must learn to fight without backing away from your enemy. Get up and try again.’
‘What are you doing to them?’ she asked. ‘You’ll have them injuring themselves.’
The corner of his mouth tipped up in that smirk that was becoming all too familiar, but he didn’t look at her as he watched the two warriors nearest him battling each other. ‘Then it will help them to learn.’ When the smaller of the two engaged in the sparring contest stepped backwards, Vidar sharply rebuked him. ‘Never step backwards from an armed opponent.’ The man responded by holding his ground with his feet, but he bent backwards as he locked swords with his opponent who was clearly stronger. The smaller man wasn’t able to push the stronger man back.
‘What good is a warrior who is injured?’
‘He’ll be smarter for it,’ Vidar answered. Without looking at her again, he walked away from her and between the groups of men, offering critique where he thought it necessary.
Despite the obvious fact that Vidar was younger than half of them, he commanded them with the authority of a seasoned leader. He wore a leather tunic that left his arms bare so that his shoulder and arm muscles bulged as he gestured. He was definitely stronger than most of them, despite his youth.
Rage prickled her skin, washing over her in a sweep that left her skin hot and tight. It wasn’t only because he’d taken over their training without consulting with her or Rodor. It was that he did it so effortlessly, as if he was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. As if it was already his right to have command of the warriors when they weren’t even married yet. What made it even worse was that her warriors were listening to him as if he was right in all of those assumptions.
‘Halt!’ Her voice rang out over the sparring field with authority.
Vidar whipped his head around to look at her, the smirk and swagger he wore so easily wiped from his face. She had to fight to keep herself from smiling, but she wouldn’t stoop to his level. The men closest to her stopped their sparring, but the pairs further away continued. She called out halt again just as one of the men fell over his barrier and stumbled to the ground. The others who hadn’t heard her clearly before heard her this time and stood down with their weapons.
‘This is not how we train.’ She spoke to all of them, but her gaze settled on Vidar.
‘Perhaps it’s not how they were trained before, but it’s how they’ll train going forward,’ Vidar said, crossing his arms over his chest. He levelled her with a glare that was as cold as it was hot with anger. She had no idea how the two ideas could exist in the same gaze, but he managed to pull it off.
‘That’s not for you to decide.’
That was met with a murmur of voices that made her realise the Danes were watching the display from the side of the field. Behind him, the men who’d been lounging in the grass rose to their feet to watch. Realising that she was quickly making their spat a spectacle for all to see, she inclined her head in the only conciliatory gesture she could muster. ‘Let us talk privately.’
Vidar glared at her. His blue eyes were fierce as he stared her down as
