by another one that landed with a loud thunk in the open mouth of the wooden beast adorning Vidar’s prow.
‘Grab your shields,’ Vidar yelled and the men on all the ships hurried to obey the command. The two men on Eirik’s ship who had disembarked lunged back on to the boat. Before another arrow came down, the men crouched behind the walls of the ships with their shields above their heads, creating a nearly impenetrable wall of armour.
Vidar stood higher than the others with his own shield before him. He grabbed his sword from the scabbard on his back and held it, ready to jump over the side and fight whoever had dared to attack them. He didn’t have to wait long before a row of men stepped out of the trees. They held swords and pikes and wore armour that looked as if it might have been left over from the days of the Romans. Some of the helmets were rusted and tarnished, but many of the breastplates and chainmail looked solid enough. They were not armoured well enough to be the rebel Danes said to inhabit these parts.
Eirik called out to them in the common Saxon tongue and not one of them answered. He tried again in Danish, but there was no response. Vidar hadn’t thought they’d travelled far enough north to encounter any Picts or Scots, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that they’d somehow stumbled across a group heading south. Perhaps Vidar’s seclusion in the north wouldn’t be as dull as he’d originally feared.
Nearly a score of the men had revealed themselves on the shore, but there had to be more if they were bold enough to challenge the group of boats that held over a hundred warriors. A rustling in the trees drew his attention. A high limb on an evergreen shimmied and then the one below it shook and so on as someone appeared to be climbing down. He only caught glimpses of a leather-clad figure until it had moved closer to the ground. The limbs were sparser there and he saw a set of curvy hips drop down from a limb revealing a shapely backside in a pair of leather trousers. The person dropped to the ground and pulled off the crossbow that had been slung across his shoulders. When he walked out of the trees, Vidar noted the length of braided sable hair that fell across a rounded breast that proclaimed the person was not a he at all, but a generously endowed woman. She wore a dark brown tunic that reached mid-thigh, leaving her legs free for doing things such as climbing trees. From what he could see, they were very nice legs. She wore a pair of high boots that laced up to her knees.
Her expression was fierce and unyielding as she walked to stand next to her men—and there was no doubt that the men were hers, rather than her belonging to them. They bristled with respect when she came to a stop beside them and called out, ‘I am Gwendolyn of Alvey and you are trespassing on our land. Who are you?’ She spoke in the common Saxon tongue though her words held a slight accent he hadn’t heard before.
Vidar couldn’t help but stare at the woman. His own father had never allowed women to become warriors back home. Though it wasn’t an unheard-of custom, Vidar had never fought with one of the shield maidens that other Jarls allowed amongst their warriors. The ones he had seen hadn’t been particularly attractive, seeming to take on the sometimes crude and harsh appearance of the men they fought beside. This woman, however, was striking. She was nearly as tall as the men she stood with and, from what he’d seen of her backside when she’d dropped from the tree, had a woman’s body. She stood poised beside them, her shoulders back in confidence as she held the crossbow at her side.
And if she spoke true, she was going to be his wife. He stood speechless, unable to form a coherent thought, much less a sentence.
Eirik held up his right hand in greeting, though he kept his sword at the ready in his left hand behind his shield. ‘Gwendolyn of Alvey, I am Jarl Eirik of the Danes to the south. Your father and I struck a bargain and we’re here to deliver your husband.’
Her posture stiffened. Vidar gathered that the information was displeasing to her and he nearly grinned. At least his nights might be pleasantly occupied if they involved taming the wench.
‘I have no need for a husband,’ she surprised them all by saying.
Vidar smiled at her impertinence. In all his days of dreading this marriage, he’d never once assumed the woman didn’t want to be wed to him. From what he knew of women, they bartered their bodies for position and status all the time. Although he had to admit that this particular woman seemed very different than the ones he generally kept time with. He might have sympathised with her plight had he not been so amused at the turn of events.
For his part, it appeared that Eirik hadn’t anticipated this response, because he was a moment in responding. Vidar filled in the silence. ‘Perhaps a husband is exactly what you need.’
Her gaze swept over the boats until she found him standing at the prow of his ship. She cast him a scathing glare before turning her attention back to his brother. ‘I regret you’ve come all this way, but my father was mistaken.’
‘Where is your father? I’d discuss this with him,’ Eirik said.
‘My father is dead. He died of natural causes in the autumn.’
Vidar frowned. That only partially explained why she was greeting them herself, but it didn’t explain why or how she’d earned the men’s respect. They stood as if awaiting her command. A few months wouldn’t be enough to solidify her leadership with them.
‘I regret to hear of your father’s passing. You have our condolences.’ Eirik called out. ‘The betrothal still stands, however. The agreement was signed by your father and brought back to me by messenger. I’m told by your father’s own man that this was as good as a marriage to your people. We must only now go through the formality of a ceremony.’
The woman thought that over for a moment, her brow furrowing with dismay. She was clearly not any happier with this marriage arrangement than Vidar. ‘Where is this man?’ She looked over the boats. Some of the shields had lowered so that the men were peeking out with interest at the events unfolding.
‘I am here,’ Vidar called out with some amusement. He felt the power of her gaze in his gut when it locked on his. The realisation hit him that this woman would be in his life from this day forward. Whether he ultimately decided to go back to fighting rather than stay and manage the manor, she would be there like a shadow in the back of his mind. His responsibility. His burden. His.
‘You are Magnus.’ Her expression was unfathomable. She looked like a queen and he felt the first stirrings of respect well within him.
‘I am Vidar. Jarl Eirik’s younger brother.’
She didn’t waste a moment in arguing the replacement. ‘The agreement was for a warrior named Magnus. I won’t accept a proxy or a substitution.’ She looked at Vidar as if he were a poor substitute at that.
The woman was stunning in her audacity. Vidar couldn’t stop the laughter that rolled out of his chest. He nearly doubled over as it tore through him. He’d never seen anyone like her. For all his anger over the winter, the woman didn’t want to wed him any more than he’d wanted to wed her. He’d welcome her refusal if he wasn’t so certain that Eirik wouldn’t stand for it.
‘It appears you don’t have a choice,’ he said when he could finally draw a breath.
* * *
Gwendolyn tightened her hands into fists around the wooden frame of the crossbow. Every instinct she possessed urged her to put an arrow through the black heart of the Dane who was laughing at her so hard that he nearly fell out of his ship. Perhaps she should have aimed for him sooner, instead of that grotesque beast of a mast head. If she shot him now, it would no doubt lead to an outright battle. Aside from that, the men would never forgive her taking
