In Bed With The Viking Warrior. Harper St. George

close shave with the crude knife.

      On shaking legs, he made his way back to the stream and took a long drink before dousing his head with the cold water until much of the remaining blood had been washed away. He couldn’t risk getting himself too clean and reopening the wounds. He needed all of his strength to get away.

      Drawing in a shaking breath, he rose to his feet and entered the icy depths of the stream. If they found his tracks leading to the tree, perhaps they’d continue onward in that direction in their search for him.

      * * *

      He continued in the stream throughout the rest of the day, only getting out when he couldn’t bear its cold any longer. When night fell, he found another tree and collapsed in exhaustion. He needed food, but that would be a task for tomorrow.

       Chapter Two

      Aisly blinked back the threat of tears and attacked the dirt again with her spade, attempting to uproot the larkspur. The stubborn thing refused to break free of the soil. She’d already been gone for a large portion of the morning, and with the long trek back home, she didn’t have time to waste. The girls should almost be finished with the vestment hems she’d left them. The thick cord-and-line pattern was one they had mastered months ago, but if she didn’t get back soon, her young apprentices would be out playing in the morning sun and she’d never get them back inside to finish their work. A whole day would be lost.

      A whole day she couldn’t afford to lose, because she’d be late on the order. The abbess was already fond of implying that Aisly’s charges bordered on sinfulness, even suggesting that a more devout woman might view it as a privilege to do God’s work for the abbey. She’d have no qualms about deducting for tardiness. Aisly didn’t know if her embroidery qualified as God’s work. She simply knew that it was her only means to earn a living. A means that was closer to slipping away from her with every day that passed.

      That was the real reason for her tears, the reason she hacked at the root viciously until it finally gave way, causing her to fall backward with a thud. The real reason she’d had to come into the forest today, instead of waiting until the commission was finished. She hadn’t wanted anyone to see her tears. Her menses had begun that morning, a reminder that there would be no child, nothing at all to bind her to the home she had grown to love and to depend on for her livelihood. Nothing at all to keep her father-in-law from evicting her from her late husband’s home. There had been a marriage agreement giving her the right to her home. She had signed it the day she married him with Lord Oswine looking on, but she hadn’t found it in Godric’s things. Without Wulfric’s generosity, or a child to bind her to the property, she’d be homeless and without a means to earn a living.

      Gathering her composure, she searched amongst the foliage for her discarded knapsack. Tears were foolishness that accomplished nothing, so she did her best to blink them back. It didn’t bear thinking about Godric’s dreadful father following through on his threat. Not yet anyway. She had months before he could even attempt it and there was no reason to believe that the elders would agree with him.

      Even if the elders did agree with him, they would have to sway Lord Oswine. After her parents had died of ague, he had become the guardian of Aisly and her brother. Though the guardianship had meant they’d been more like servants than his children, he’d taken his responsibility for them very seriously. He’d attended her wedding and had overseen the signing of the contract.

      Finding the hide bag amongst the dead leaves on the ground, she stuffed the plant inside and tied the drawstring. It was probably foolish to try to take the plant home and hope it took root, but she needed it so that she could practise dyeing her thread come the spring. It would save her coin if she could dye her own. Tying the spade to the knotted belt at her waist, she retrieved Godric’s old sword from the ground beside her and set off for home.

      The cold metal beneath her fingers made her feel secure in a way her late husband never had, though it was only the sword he’d used as a boy, not the sword he’d used as a warrior. That sword had been confiscated by the Danes when he’d gone to talk with them at their settlement and been killed. A move that had cost her their savings when the Danes had come to demand recompense for the fire he’d allegedly set that had destroyed a few of their houses. She’d even had to give them her tapestries, the wool in storage and most of her sheep when her coin hadn’t been enough. The sheep had been the least of her worries, at least she still had milk, but the wool had been put aside so that she could weave cloth through the winter to sell in the spring. That had stung.

      Yet it was the loss of the tapestries that hurt the most. Her mother had made them. Though her mother had been a well-known embroideress in the villages surrounding Heiraford, and the tapestries were worth quite a bit of coin, Aisly missed them because they’d been the only reminder she had of her mother. Having lost her at the age of eight, her thoughts of the woman were sometimes clouded. The only true memories she had were the hours spent learning the stitches from her mother’s patient hand, and then after her death attempting to recreate the embroidery in those tapestries. Then one day the Danes had come and taken that last connection to her mother. There had been no warning, just a brutal knock on her door one morning telling her what her husband had done and that he was dead. Moments later they’d taken what had been most precious to her.

      Some days she almost felt remorse that she mourned the tapestries more than her own husband. Life as a widow was infinitely better than life as Godric’s wife. A few weeks of freedom and she’d already vowed to herself that she’d never marry again and suffer under the rule of another tyrant. To keep that vow she’d have to learn to 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