The Viking's Heart

The thunder of horse’s hooves next to them set Rosamund’s teeth on edge and caused Hilde to bury her face in her lady’s neck.

“Hilde, please. I cannot move. I want to see what is happening.”

“Would it comfort you to see the faces of our murderers?”

“Aye!” Rosamund shouted, and gave her companion a great shove. Once clear of the weight, she flicked back the draperies. In an instant, she drew them closed once again.

“What, mistress?” Hilde asked hysterically. “What did you see?”

Rosamund’s eyes cast about the small space as if an armory of weapons would suddenly be discovered in her hour of need. “There are not enough of them. Hilde, I am afraid…”

She did not need to finish. Her stated fears would be obvious to the servant and very similar, as well.

There was a loud crash over their heads, as if something large and heavy had hit the roof. Hilde screamed, “We are boarded!”

“Shush,” she commanded, cocking her head to listen.

“They are fighting!”

“Shh!”

The carriage took a dip in the road with a bone-jarring crunch, settling Hilde back to curling against her mistress’s side. Rosamund began to pray. Her lips moved rapidly over the Paternoster, then the Ave Maria.

They rode hard, faster and farther. The heavy clatter of the wheels jostling them along the beaten dirt path filled their ears—that and the muted thump and crash of the struggle up in the driver’s box. Suddenly that, too, stopped.

The litter was brought to a standstill.

Hilde peeked up from Rosamund’s tear-soaked bosom. “Is…is it done? Are we safe, mistress?”

“I know not.” Rosamund barely breathed the words.

There was the sound of someone landing on the ground from above them, then the soft crunch of footfalls.

Hilde made a soft squeak of terror. “My lady…”

The curtain lifted, exposing the two of them to the man who stood beside the carriage. Rosamund got a glimpse of a leather tunic, a hard, dark-complected face and cap of tight curls upon which sat a jaunty red hat with a hawk’s feather stuck into it.

Beside her, Hilde let loose a brain-scrambling scream and fainted, falling limp across Rosamund’s lap.

Chapter Two

In the nearby castle of Gastonbury two men circled each other on the lists of the lower ward, crouched, tensed, weapons drawn and at the ready. The dark one held a sword in one hand, a shorter weapon in the other. Across from him, the blond man brandished a Viking broadsword in both fists. His body moved lightly despite the massive breadth of his shoulders and his great height. His controlled movements were a match for the pantherlike stalking of his slightly shorter opponent. Sweat trickled down from his forehead and into his eyes. He dashed it away with a quick swipe of his arm.

Off in the corner, a trio of beauties giggled.

“Perhaps you would like a hair ribbon to tie back your lovely locks,” the dark one taunted. “I am certain any of those lusty wenches would be happy to offer one of theirs.”

The huge blond man only snarled, showing his teeth to be even and very white. Another man might have flinched, but his adversary only chuckled.

The dark man moved quickly. Their blades came together with a ring of steel. A single spark flared for an instant.

The blond man tossed his head. “You used that move before. Are you getting tired, or bored?”

“Shut up, you cursed Viking,” the dark man growled. “Have you something better to offer?”

“Do not force me to shame you before your villeins, Lucien.”

Again the beauties tittered. Lucien scowled. The Viking grinned.

“I should think you would wish to take more care not to goad my temper.”

“I do not fear it,” the Viking assured him.

Lucien moved, launching his body directly at his opponent’s midsection while bringing his sword up from the other side. With no room to maneuver, the Viking could only strike a short blow aimed at Lucien’s gut. Lucien saw it and brought his left hand down to the thick wrists, numbing the other’s grip.

The great broadsword fell. Before the clang of it hitting the hard-packed earth died out, the Viking took a step back and retrieved from his belt a weighted net. He laughed as he swung it back and forth. “I am just as deadly without my sword.”

“We shall see,” Lucien said. No sooner had he uttered the words than he found himself down in the dirt. Jabbing with the shorter weapon, he wrapped it around the net and yanked it out of the other man’s hand. He pulled the Viking off balance and felled him.

“A draw?” the Viking asked, flat on his back.

Lucien’s top lip curled in a sneer. “Never.” He scrambled to his knees, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his short sword, his eyes locked with the Nordic blue of the Viking’s as he raised it high. The larger man stayed on his back until the last moment. Then he reared up. The sword came a hair breadth from slicing into his side.

Lucien was suddenly furious. “Sweet Jesu, Agravar, why did you move? Did you see how close that was? It could have struck you.”

The Viking shook his head. “If the blow had been aimed to kill, the twist would have caused it to glance off my side. Since you meant no harm, it had the opposite result.”

With that blithe explanation, he planted a booted foot on Lucien’s chest and tossed him on his back. In a flash, he was over him, the same short sword Lucien had wielded against Agravar only a moment ago now pressed into the flesh of his neck. “Yield,” he demanded with a smile.

“Bastard!” Lucien swore.

“True enough,” Agravar said, withdrawing the weapon and standing. The trio of giggling nymphs waved. He turned his back on them with a grimace.

Beside him, Lucien stood and brushed himself off. “’Twas only luck you had this day.”

“Luck is the fruit of skill and preparation.”

Not a gracious loser, his friend and liege lord glared at him. “I set you on your arse last time.”

“And I laid you low the time before that. As I recall, you were spitting out dirt until supper.” He was distracted by a familiar form coming from the direction of the keep. “Pelly!” he hailed.

“Captain,” the young knight answered, bowing first to him. To Lucien, he executed a similar motion. “My lord. My lady has bid me ask if you had forgotten your promise to ride into the village and escort her cousin’s party to the castle.”

“Damn, I had forgotten.” Lucien swept a hand through his hair and gave Agravar an enigmatic glance. “Was she…did she seem…upset?”

Poor Pelly looked stricken. He glanced at Agravar for reassurance. “Never mind, boy,” Agravar said, giving him a slap on the shoulder that knocked the slight-framed youth forward a few steps. “We know the mistress’s temper is short these last days of her confinement.”

Lucien let loose a string of expletives and stalked off. Rolling his eyes, Agravar dismissed Pelly and retrieved his weapon from the dust. As he followed Lucien off the training field, the three women smiled and nudged each other, casting flirtatious glances his way.