Defiant in the Viking's Bed

The rest was lost, swept aside by a deafening war cry and then confused alarm: shouting, running feet and then the unmistakable clash of steel. Astrid leapt to her feet and ran to the entrance of the tent, pushing aside the hangings to peer out. Her eyes widened.

‘Merciful gods! Where on earth did they come from?’

Ragnhild hastened to join her and then she too stared in dismay at the throng of fighting warriors. ‘Whose men are those? Can you tell?’

‘No, but they’re definitely enemies of Prince Hakke, which means...’

‘They might prove friends to us?’

‘Let’s hope so, my lady.’

Astrid prayed that her words were true and that they might not find themselves even worse off than before. It was hard to see how, but then, nothing was certain. This might mean deliverance or doom. Hakke would not yield up his prisoners easily. Indeed, he might rather slay them than lose them. She swallowed hard. They had no weapons with which to defend themselves; even their belt knives had been confiscated when they were captured. Possibly the prince had not wished to leave temptation in their way. He was right: Ragnhild would have used it on herself before agreeing to his demands and Astrid didn’t blame her. Nor would she have chosen to linger among the present company after her mistress’s demise. Some things were worse than death.

* * *

Leif parried the blow aimed at his head and laid on with a will, driving his opponent back several paces. The defender fought desperately, recovered again and came on, his expression a feral snarl. A wicked thrust was deftly deflected. The blades slid and locked. Leif brought a knee up hard, heard a grunt of pain and saw the man stagger. A second later Foe Bane sank deep in his opponent’s gut. Leif tugged the sword free and darted a swift look around. His gaze fell on a familiar figure some twenty yards off; a warrior whose helm bore the crest of a hunting hawk. He was yelling furious orders at his troops. As the latter piled into the fray the warrior looked round and as his gaze locked with Leif’s, anger became malevolence.

‘You!’

‘As you say, Hakke.’

‘This will not be forgotten. Not this, nor the battle at Eid.’

‘I hope not.’

‘All will be paid for, Leif Egilsson.’

Before they could say more one of Halfdan’s men stepped into Hakke’s path, compelling his attention. Other fighting pairs jostled in. The prince spied his opponent and backed off, lost to view behind the mêlée. Leif hesitated, sorely tempted to go after him. However, his promise to the king could not be ignored and reluctantly he turned away. The others would have to deal with it. He had a more pressing mission.

* * *

The sounds of conflict drew nearer and then the view from the tent was entirely blocked by fighting men. There followed a cry of mortal agony and blood sprayed across hempen fabric. Both women gasped, leaping out of the way as the guard’s lifeless body fell through the opening. Then the hangings were torn aside and a tall figure blocked out the light; a figure clad in chainmail and whose fist wielded a blood-stained sword. He was flanked by several other mailed warriors. The two women paled and retreated, brought to bay at the rear of the tent.

As the intruder advanced Astrid stifled a scream, her heart pounding like Thor’s hammer. Her attention flicked from the naked dripping blade to the darkening gore streaked across the chainmail byrnie and thence to the steel helmet that partly concealed his face. He halted a few feet away and for the space of a few heartbeats his gaze swept both women, cool and assessing. Then he lowered the sword.

‘Don’t be afraid. No harm shall come to you.’

The sensation of relief was so strong it made her feel light-headed. With an effort she mastered it and faced him.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘What do you want with us?’

‘I want nothing, lady, other than to ensure your safety. The rest my lord will explain himself.’

‘And who is your lord?’

‘King Halfdan.’

Both women regarded him in astonishment. Ragnhild’s hand tightened on Astrid’s arm. ‘Halfdan?’

‘Aye, my lady.’

‘Oh, the gods be thanked.’

Astrid too let out the breath she had been holding, hardly able to take in such a swift reversal of their former ill fortune. Turning to Ragnhild, she saw the same expression mirrored in the other woman’s face.

‘The king is here?’ Ragnhild continued.

‘Nothing could have kept him away, my lady. Your safety and well-being are most dear to his heart.’

‘As his are to mine.’ She paused. ‘To whom do I owe thanks for bringing such happy news?’

‘Leif Egilsson, at your service.’

‘I shall remember that name.’

‘My lady does me honour.’

Just then they heard more voices outside, one much louder than the rest, demanding to know Ragnhild’s whereabouts. Moments later the newcomer strode into the tent, a big man, dark of hair and beard, whose face might have been hewn from rock. He paused and as his gaze came to rest on Ragnhild its expression softened. That look was enough. Ragnhild ran to him and was swept into a close embrace.

‘I thought I’d never see you again, my lord.’

‘No man shall ever take you from me.’ He glanced down at her. ‘Did the brute hurt you?’

‘No, I am well.’

‘I thank Odin for it.’

Astrid looked on smiling, her heart full, happy for Ragnhild and for an outcome so different from the one they had earlier expected.

Presently the reunited couple left the tent, no doubt wanting a little space alone for private speech. Halfdan’s men grinned and watched them go; then took themselves off in other directions.

‘A happy turn of events,’ said Astrid. Then she turned to Leif. ‘But for your timely intervention it might not have been. I too am grateful.’

He paused to make use of the door hangings and wipe his sword clean; then sheathed it. ‘No thanks are necessary. It was a matter of unfinished business.’

‘I see.’

‘Now it is done.’

‘Perhaps there will be peace at last.’

He unfastened the chin strap and removed his helmet. ‘Perhaps.’

Astrid caught her breath, wondering for a moment if Baldur the Beautiful had not just assumed human form. A mane of pale gold hair framed a face remarkable for its strong chiselled lines and planes. His eyes were somewhere between blue and grey, like the sea just after a storm, but much harder to read. Realising she was staring, she dragged her mind back to the conversation.

‘If it comes about I shall know whom to thank.’

He smiled faintly. ‘You have the advantage of me, lady.’