protect herself. Her brother, Alstan, was one of Lord Oswine’s best warriors and she’d convinced him to spend a few hours teaching her how to properly wield the sword. With so little training, she knew that she had a lot to learn yet, but already the grip felt comfortable in her hand. While not as heavy as the other sword and unlikely to inflict bone-crushing injury to an attacker, the small sword would suffice for protection.
With both hands, she could hold it steady and her arms didn’t shake the way they had when she’d first picked it up a few weeks ago. As she walked back home through the forest, she gave a couple of test strikes and parries. The blade sliced cleanly through the air. Perhaps with time she could actually take on an opponent. Smiling at the thought, she set her gaze on a knot on a tree in front of her and swung in a circle, bringing the blade to a rest against the knot. Perfect.
Her mood improving, Aisly spent the next few moments of her walk finding various brown leaves and limbs to swipe at and following through with triumph. It wasn’t much, but at least she was doing something to help retain her independence. If she could prove to them all that she was capable of protecting herself, while providing for herself, then there would be no need at all for Cuthbert and the other village elders to pressure her into another marriage. Of course, she’d have to convince her brother of that truth as well. But she was certain that she could happily live her life on her own.
Of course, that would mean no child. She paused, her hand going to her flat belly. It would be a lie to pretend the thought didn’t hurt. For as long as she could remember, she’d wanted a child, wanted a family. Living in Lord Oswine’s household had never afforded her or her brother the family life she missed. The nights she’d spent at the hearth with her mother learning embroidery or listening to her father’s tales were long gone. When she’d married Godric, a boy she’d known all her life, she’d assumed that she would finally have that family. But...but Godric was Godric. Always more concerned with the harvest, the coin she made from her sales, the Danes, anything but her. It hadn’t taken long for her to be happier on the nights he hadn’t come home than the nights he had.
Grimacing at her evil thoughts, she shook her head. She shouldn’t think ill of the dead. Godric hadn’t been a good husband by any means, but he didn’t deserve her bitterness now. Dropping her hand back to the sword, she shook off her morose thoughts and eased down the slope to the stream. It’d be faster to walk the well-worn path there rather than continue on through the forest.
Of course that meant she was more exposed, but there hadn’t been an attack since summer. No sooner had she thought the words, than she looked out over the narrow stream to see a man crouched down studying the ground, deep in concentration. Her heart jumped into her throat for a beat before falling down to her belly. A long mane of tawny hair flowed well past his shoulders and he was big, powerful.
A Dane.
If she had any doubt, the chain mail on his torso cinched it for her. The Danes who had come to her home the day her husband had been murdered had all worn the same armour. And this one wore thick gold bands on his arms just as they had. The same feeling of dread she’d had upon seeing them at her door filled her now. They could have done what they wanted to her that day and no one would have intervened. The elders might appeal to Lord Oswine, but everyone knew the Danes controlled the area now. Even the King was merely a tax collector for the invaders, or that was what Godric had told her. That was why Godric had been so angry, so determined to gather men to overthrow the Northmen.
She had yet to come even with him on her side of the stream and, once she could gather breath in her chest again, she slowly moved backwards. If she could reach the safety of the forest, she could continue home without him being the wiser. But, of course, that would depend on her luck and she seemed to be running short on that lately. She’d barely walked backwards two paces before the stones shifted beneath her feet, giving her away.
He looked up quickly from the track he’d been studying and found her, glaring at her from beneath his thick, fierce brow line. Her feet kept moving, almost sliding on the muddy slope as she kept her eyes on him, afraid that if she looked away he’d somehow reach her faster. Since the spring, her village had been assaulted by these barbarians. Rebel Danes who answered to no one, not even the Danes at the settlement, who stole the village’s sheep and crops as if it were their right. At summer’s end two maidens had gone missing, taken by the rebels. The Danish settlement had refused to help find them.
Aisly had no doubt that this man was part of that rebel group. The one time she’d seen officials from the Danish settlement, they’d looked...well, official. Their leaders had appeared well kept and had ridden with at least an outward display of respect through her village. This man looked like a heathen, dirty and dangerous. He didn’t look like them at all. He looked ready to pounce on her and tear her apart.
Taking a shaking breath, she slipped in her frantic attempt to move up to the solid ground of the forest. The sword fell to the mud as she grabbed at the ground to push herself upright. The Dane took the advantage and splashed through the shallow water towards her. Heart pounding in her chest, she quickly decided that her only choice was to face him on the banks of the stream. Gathering the sword with both hands, she righted herself as best she could. The white of his teeth flashed above his full beard, which hung in twin braids down his chest, as he sneered at her attempt. As he came closer, she could see the dark, horizontal lines engraved in his teeth. Just how she’d heard the rebels marked themselves. The men who had come to her door had not had those markings. He didn’t even draw a weapon as he came towards her, so sure was he that he didn’t need it.
The very thought made a dangerous surge of anger come over her, fuelling her strength so that she raised the sword high above her head. His stride was long, so she figured it would take him only ten paces to reach her. She counted off each one in her head. When he was two paces away, he’d be close enough to reach with a swinging sword while still being far enough away that he wouldn’t grab her. Catching him at that precise moment of vulnerability would be her only chance.
Eight.
Her fingers clenched tight, readying to strike.
Seven.
Her feet worked to gain solid footing, soles grinding down into the mud.
Six.
She took in a long breath. She’d let it out with the strike. He saw it and, taking it for fear, sneered at her.
Five.
A flash of movement just over the Dane’s shoulder drew her eye. It was a man coming from the trees. He walked deliberately towards the Dane with his sword poised in front of him. Eyes wide, she forced herself to look back at the Dane and count.
Four.
Before she could check herself, she glanced back at the newcomer. Whether he was friend or foe she couldn’t tell, but he brought a finger to his lips and his eyes demanded silence. Then he tightened both hands on the large sword he swung up past his shoulders. Her lips working in silent debate, she could only stare back at the Dane coming for her. He was close enough now that she could see the mottled blue of his irises.
Three.
She tightened her fingers again and prayed for strength. The rebel Dane let out a sound that was almost inhuman. A growl.
Two.
Something must have caught his eye, or perhaps it was her own glance to the approaching man, but the Dane turned in time to deflect the stranger’s raised sword. She watched in horror as the Dane lunged at the man. Every instinct she possessed told her that she should run and put as much distance between this fight to the death and herself as she could, but
