Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife. Michelle Styles

engaging in a mock combat on the practice field, she knew that they were right.

      A sort of wild exhilaration, swiftly followed by sheer terror, hung in the air. She glanced upwards, half-expecting to see Valkyries, Odin’s maidens who gathered the fallen from the battlefields, riding on the sea breeze.

      The opposing forces met with a deafening crash. Sela’s ears buzzed with the dull thump of sword meeting wooden shield, reverberating throughout her body, but she forced her sword to remain high and her shield steady. She had to give the impression of leadership or the day would be truly lost.

      First, and against all her expectations, the household retainers appeared to gain the upper hand. Her fears had been unfounded. She started to mutter a prayer of thanksgiving. Suddenly like the tide, the battle turned. Imperceptibly, but then like a raging flood. Gorm went down, his sword shattering on a shield. From her position on the top of the hill, she saw the outer edges begin to collapse and fold inwards. Her men faltered and fell, held up their shields to defend themselves from the merciless onslaught, but nothing worked.

      Her father’s banner swayed.

      She started forward, clashed swords. The reverberation went through her arm so strongly that she nearly dropped her father’s sword. She planted her feet firmly and struck out again, lifting her shield. She had to make it through, to help defend. She passed one man, lunged towards another. Her foot struck a pebble and she stumbled slightly, her knee hitting the ground. She struggled to right herself, cursing at the unfamiliar weight of the armour. Arms came around and held her, checking her progress. Quickly she tried to push away, to move out of the embrace, but her captor held a sword to her throat. His other arm hauled her back, so that her body was held tightly against his firm chest.

      ‘It is unlike you to leave your left flank unguarded,’ came the low rumble that slid over her like the finest fur. Teasing her senses. A remark made as if they were in Thorkell’s great hall and the dancing was about to begin. ‘I thought you had learnt that particular lesson years ago, Sela, Bose the Dark’s daughter.’

      Sela struggled for a breath. She had not thought to hear that voice again in her lifetime. Or feel his body against hers. She opted for a solemn face as she eyed the gleaming sword.

      ‘A mistake, Vikar Hrutson,’ she said around the lump in her throat. ‘Thank you for pointing it out. It will not happen again.’

      She twisted her body, but the action only drew her more firmly against his solid chest. She hated the flare of warmth that went through her, hated that her body remembered the last time she had encountered his.

      ‘You face total destruction.’ His voice rumbled in her ear. ‘Yield now and some of your men may yet be saved. You have no hope. Do you wish to die on the field of battle, Sela? Do you aspire to become a Valkyrie?’

      Sela attempted to move her head and confront the voice, but the sword pressed more firmly against her throat, forcing her to view the scene of carnage before her. The generally quiet shore teemed with dust, men and swords. And all around, her men tumbled like flies.

      Had her life really come down to this? Leading elderly men and young boys to their death? She had only meant to stand firm, not yield, a show of strength, and instead she presided over a rout. Another mistake to add to her long line of failures.

      She swallowed hard, trying to get some moisture back in her throat. She refused to give in to her fear, give Vikar the satisfaction.

      ‘I had not placed you as a killer of women.’ She stretched her neck higher, away from the sharp blade, and gave a strangled laugh. ‘An indiscriminate lover of women, perhaps, but never a killer.’

      ‘Some might say your attire shows a certain contempt for your status, for your sex.’ The blade relaxed slightly. ‘Are you now going to plead special privileges because you are a woman? The world operates by different rules, Sela.’

      ‘It is impossible to swing a sword in a tight-sleeved gown.’ She kept her chin up, ignored the gleaming blade, forced her breath to come evenly and smooth. ‘Saving my home is far more important than dressing in the latest court fashion.’

      ‘I thought everything was more important than fashion to you.’

      Sela rolled her eyes towards the skies. Fashion. She had failed at that particular competition years ago. She could not wear the type of gown favoured by Asa, gowns that accentuated the queen’s own petite, gilded looks, but made Sela resemble an overgrown youth with lumps in all the wrong places. She had sought other ways to shine, ways Vikar had disapproved of. And being young and naïve, she had taken a perverse enjoyment in provoking him.

      It seemed unreal to be speaking of fashion and court matters with the sounds of battle raging around her, but it kept her from giving in to her natural inclinations and sinking to her knees in despair.

      ‘Tell me,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘how long does Asa decree the train length to be this year? We hear very little of such things out here in the wilds.’

      ‘As much as I would like to discuss the state of your wardrobe, my business is with your father.’ The blade lowered, but his arm tightened about her waist. ‘Where he is and why does he send a woman out to do a man’s job?’

      With her father?

      The air rushed out of her lungs, making her feel giddy. She struggled to control the sudden racing of her heart as hope filled her. She had expected him to say his business was with her, to demand to see his son.

      Did he even know? Silently she offered up a prayer to Sif, Freyja and all the other goddesses of Aesir for a miracle.

      ‘I volunteered.’

      ‘The Bose the Dark I knew would have rejected the idea before the last syllable had fallen from your lips.’ Vikar’s grip forced her around, compelled her to look into his face. She realised with a start that his eyes were a far darker shade of green than she had remembered. ‘Does he live?’

      ‘My father is very much alive, but he saw the sense in my leading the men. He is indisposed and has little control over what I do.’

      ‘It makes a change.’ The sarcasm dripped from his mouth. ‘I had understood he always gave the orders.’

      Sela, feeling the sword give way, swung around and faced her former husband. Despite her height, he towered over her. His helmet shadowed his face, but she had no doubt that when he removed it, the arrangement of his even features would remain the same. One of the most sought-after warriors in all of Thorkell’s court. Time had not altered him as much as she had hoped. ‘I am a grown woman, Vikar Hrutson. I take responsibility for what I do.’

      ‘And you take responsibility for this?’ His eyes offered no comfort, no glimmer of understanding. ‘For this carnage? Why did your men rush down the slope? That was a fatal mistake.’

      ‘My men were over-eager and rushed forward.’ She forced her head to remain high. ‘I should have anticipated that. The result lies on the green slope. My failure, not theirs.’

      ‘Save your men.’ His lips were a thin, white line. ‘How many more must die for your vanity?’

      Sela stared at her former husband in dismay as her stomach lurched. She had wanted to save her home, her son. She had not started this battle. She had wanted to avoid bloodshed.

      Vanity? Was that what he thought? She forced her head high, schooled her features, grateful that the nose-piece on the helmet would keep her face in shadow.

      ‘I call it something else.’

      ‘It does not matter what you call it.’ Vikar gestured around the battlefield with his sword. ‘Men are dying. You have lost the battle. How much more do you wish to lose? Yield now, and I may be disposed to give you favourable terms.’

      Sela flinched. She could hear the cries of the wounded and the dying. One young man lifted his head, and reminded her of Kjartan. Vikar was right. She had things to live for, secrets to keep—for ever, if possible.

      ‘As