Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife. Michelle Styles

the hall was built on the bones of wild men who will rise up and fight any invader?’

      ‘Men at oars tell too many tales.’ Vikar pushed off from the railing and strode towards the prow of the boat. There he could catch a glimpse of how his new, red sail fared in the wind. A sail fit for one of the leading jaarls in Viken, a man who had made a fortune through one single raid last summer, a man whose exploits were lauded by the skalds in the latest poems.

      A low horn sounded across the water of the fjord. Their boats had been spotted. The battle would begin when he set foot on the shore.

      ‘Exactly what are you planning, Bose the Dark, up there in your splendid hall? I cannot help but think you expected this. You longed for it.’ Vikar’s jaw tightened and his hand felt for his sword’s hilt. ‘I have ceased being the gullible warrior who married your daughter a long time ago. We will meet, and this time, this time, Bose, there will be only one victor.’

      ‘Sails round the headland. One dragon ship, maybe more.’ Sela forced her voice to remain calm as she entered her father’s bedchamber.

      Unlike the hall, the bedchamber was resplendent with furs and tapestries, and, in the centre, a gigantic bed where her father, Bose the Dark, lay. She winced as her father struggled to sit up right, each movement an effort with his paralysed side.

      He had been such a vigorous man a few months ago. Then the affliction had struck. Cursed, some muttered in the shadowy corners of the hall. His fabled luck gone. Sela ignored such doom-mongers. Her father had suffered enough.

      ‘Friendly?’ he croaked out of the side of his mouth.

      ‘Impossible to say. It is far too soon to see if they will lift their shields or leave them hanging.’ Sela smoothed a stray strand of honey-blonde hair from her forehead, a nervous gesture from her girlhood, one she was positive he’d know. She hid her hands in the folds of her apron-dress and concentrated on the bedstead. How much dared she reveal?

      ‘What is the lead ship’s sail pattern?’ Her father’s eyes suddenly focused and he plucked restlessly at the furs. ‘You are keeping things from me, Daughter, but I remain the master of this hall. I deserve to know the worst.’

      ‘The sail pattern is not one I recognise.’ She paused, and watched her father’s face become grave. He made a small gesture with his hand, telling her to continue. ‘Maybe if Hafdan were here, he would know the answer.’

      ‘We had to find new markets for our goods. Kaupang is closed to us now.’ Her father’s face reddened. ‘The East offers the best hope. Thorkell must allow me to feed my people. Hafdan will return and once again our coffers will cascade with gold.’

      ‘Did I say a word? Hafdan has departed to find new markets.’ Sela pressed her lips into a firm line. ‘And you remain jaarl of Northern Viken.’

      Her father gave his crooked smile and held out his good hand. ‘I want your inheritance to overflow with wealth, Daughter, not be a silver arm-ring and a much-mended sword like mine was. It was right to send Hafdan. You will see in time.’

      ‘Hafdan wants his own glory. He could do anything.’ Sela crossed her arms, and glared at her father.

      ‘Hafdan has ambition, but he will return.’ Her father’s eyes twinkled. ‘I have seen how he looks at you. He has much to recommend him. Once I am gone, you must have a strong man…’

      ‘I tried marriage once, thank you.’ Sela snapped her mouth shut to prevent more words from tumbling out. Her former husband had been a man of ambition as well. She had no wish to relive the memories or the bitter taste they left.

      ‘You were younger then.’ Her father waved a dismissive hand. ‘Vikar Hrutson was a poor choice. He did not like to listen to my counsel. I sincerely regret that I did not see my mistake until it was far too late to prevent you getting hurt.’

      ‘It was nearly four years ago. You weren’t to know.’ Sela touched her father’s withered cheek. When her father had discovered the situation, he had moved swiftly, rescuing her and her unborn child, rather than letting her face the humiliation of a woman scorned.

      ‘Four years? Sela, it is time you laid your ghosts to rest. Other men…’

      ‘I have no ghosts in my life, Father, far from it. If I remarried, who would look after you?’

      ‘Hafdan is different.’ Her father gave a crooked smile. ‘He is loyal. You will see…in time.’

      ‘We have these unexpected visitors, and few men to protect the hall.’

      ‘We shall have to be wary—wait and see.’ Her father gestured towards the iron-bound chest. ‘Send someone to dress me. My mail shirt, and the sword Thorkell gave me in happier days. I am not without pride. I want to give the ships a proper welcome, one that shows Bose the Dark remains jaarl of the north. They will not find easy pickings here.’

      ‘Far, you cannot fight. I forbid it,’ Sela said, positioning her body between her father and the chest. ‘Your legs may hold you upright, but your sword arm is useless. How long do you think you would last in a fight? You would be a danger to the men.’

      ‘Do you think you are telling me something I don’t know, Daughter?’ Her father attempted to move his arm and nothing happened. He set his jaw and managed with difficulty to shift it slightly. ‘I am the one who has to live with it. With the arm and the face. May Odin send curses on the witch who caused this.’

      ‘Stay here, in this chamber.’ Sela caught his hand. ‘Let me greet them in the correct manner. I will hide your infirmity as best I can.’

      ‘Daughter, you are the best daughter a man could hope for,’ her father said, holding out his good hand, tears forming in his eyes.

      Sela straightened her back. She understood her father’s wordless plea. ‘I will handle our unwelcome callers, come what may.’

      ‘I know you will.’

      ‘Morfar, Morfar.’ A blond boy rushed in, holding a bird’s nest. ‘See what I have found. The nest had fallen down on the ground. Thorgerd says that there will have been starlings in it.’

      ‘Kjartan, how many times must I tell you not to burst in on your grandfather like that?’ Sela looked at her son and saw his shining face fall, his deep-green eyes became less bright. Instantly she regretted her harsh words, but Kjartan had to learn the proper respect. If he was eventually to be a jaarl, he had to have proper training. But with whom?

      ‘Sela, Sela, he is only three. Time enough for ceremony later.’ Her father patted the side of his bed. ‘Kjartan, come here and greet your grandfather properly.’

      ‘You were never like that with Erik or me.’

      ‘Grandchildren are different. You will understand in time, Sela.’

      ‘Mor, I want to show Morfar my bird’s nest.’ Kjartan held out a jumble of sticks and mud. He wore a serious expression on his face. ‘I found it by the barns. I’m a good warrior. Someday I’ll be great like Morfar, and like my father.’

      ‘Your face is dirty and you have torn the knee of your trousers. Even great warriors wash their faces before they greet their jaarl,’ Sela said with a smile as Kjartan immediately started to scrub his cheeks with his filthy hands. Her heart expanded. She had never thought that she could love one scrap of humanity so much.

      ‘Thorgerd says a dragon ship is coming. My father’s?’

      ‘Kjartan, show your grandfather the nest.’ Sela spoke around a sudden lump in her throat. She looked down at the blond tousled curls and the trusting dark-green eyes, eyes that reminded her every day of who Kjartan’s father was and of the humiliation she had suffered at his hands. A great warrior like his father—where had that notion come from? But she refused to destroy his illusions. Life would do that soon enough.

      She bit her lip. If the ships were from Thorkell, her father with his infirmity was not the only one