A Deal with Her Rebel Viking

by Michelle Styles

  Ansithe fixed her gaze away from his chest. ‘Father Oswald will be pleased. He complains of the rain dripping down his collar when he says the mass.’

  ‘I hope he keeps his end of the bargain and does his best for my friends.’

  ‘You are distracting my sister from her devotions. The noise.’

  His dimple flashed. ‘We will do the remainder tomorrow.’

  He shouted up to his men who pulled on their tunics and clambered down.

  ‘Would it be possible to bathe? I spied a lake from the roof.’

  Her mind immediately conjured an image of him rising naked from the water of the fish pond and she swallowed hard. ‘Bathe?’

  ‘We’ve been working hard. Bathing revives the spirit and the lake will do, rather than a sweating hut.’

  ‘We don’t possess a sweating hut as you call it and have no need of one either.’

  He lifted a brow. ‘Pity, but then maybe one day I can have the pleasure of showing you why these huts add so much to your life.’

  ‘I will have the stable lads accompany you.’

  His eyes danced as if he knew about her wild imaginings and fully approved. ‘My men will appreciate it, this little bit of freedom you give us.’

  She turned abruptly on her heel and marched away. If she had as little to do with him as possible, then this unsettled feeling would surely vanish like dew did before the summer sun.

  * * *

  Moir wiped the sweat from his brow, straddled the roof and considered his morning’s handiwork. The church roof had been harder to repair than he’d predicted to Ansithe, but the final bit of thatch was now in place. Most of the others had worked hard as well but one, Hafual, a warrior who had encouraged Bjartr in his bad habits, kept finding reasons why they needed another pole or he had to go and find more thatch. Moir had the uneasy sense that Hafual failed to understand that they had to remain together as a felag rather than each man looking out for himself. Moir pressed his lips together.

  ‘Has anyone seen Hafual? He is taking too long with the straw for the thatching.’

  The remaining two did not meet his eyes and suddenly became busy with tying in the last few bundles of thatch.

  ‘Tell me that he hasn’t done something stupid.’

  Again came the shrugs. The throbbing at Moir’s temples increased. They knew what was going on. If Hafual went missing, they would be straight back in the byre again. His oath to Lady Ansithe would mean nothing. He clenched his fist. He wanted it to mean something to her.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Right before we went up on the roof,’ the other men chorused. ‘He wanted to check on the poles as he thought we might need another few. He didn’t like the look of the last two poles.’

  The younger one shifted on his feet.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘He mentioned his woman, the one who is about to give birth again.’ The older one punched the air. ‘Good luck to him, I say, if he has gone.’

  Moir ground his teeth. The answer as to why Hafual was not here was far too obvious—he’d succumbed to the same malady as Moir’s father had all those years ago. He wondered what bribe Hafual had offered the others to turn a blind eye and why they had been fool enough to accept. ‘I will search for him now and you’d better pray I find him before the Mercians do. Those stable lads are looking for a fight. You saw how they goaded us yesterday at the lake.’

  ‘And us?’ the younger one squeaked.

  ‘Keep working. If anyone asks, you are doing what you are supposed to and I have gone to search for more materials.’ He banged his fists together and willed them to understand. He’d give Hafual the benefit of the doubt for now, but if he had tried to escape, his actions had endangered every one of them. ‘This is not about individuals, but us as a felag. We get out of this as a team, instead of one being free while the rest are delivered up for Guthmann’s pleasure.’

  The men nodded, suddenly realising the seriousness of the situation if Hafual was not found. Moir’s mouth tasted bitter. He knew how his father’s companions had suffered thanks to his father’s actions. His mother had explained it to him as they’d watched his father’s body being pecked by crows after his hanging.

  He scouted about the yard, trying to think about what he would do if he were not very bright and trying to escape. Even he would not risk moving far in the open daylight. The yard seemed empty and desolate, but there was a muffled shouting coming from somewhere. His body tensed. He forced his arms to stay loose. He was becoming worse than Palni for jumping at shadows.

  A queer shuffling and tapping sound made him pause as he was about to leave.

  He went over to the pigsty and rapped his knuckles against the pen. ‘Come out now, Hafual. It smells better out here.’

  ‘Can’t. The door is stuck. I’ve tried and tried. There weren’t no poles in here, even though he said there would be.’

  Moir noticed a stick propped up against the door. There was no way that it could have accidentally fallen there. He removed it and tried to ignore the prickle of unease. Someone knew one of the Northmen was in there. That person either wasn’t certain or had gone to fetch Ansithe.

  ‘Out now, be quick about it.’

  The young warrior emerged covered in dung. ‘How did you know I was in there?’

  ‘You breathe too heavily and don’t sound like a pig.’ Moir replaced the stick. ‘And poles are never stored in such places. Who told you they were in there?’

  His lower lip stuck out. ‘The fair-haired lad. He said I would find what I needed there. And then as I went in, the door swung closed. I thought I were finished for sure.’

  Moir raised a brow. ‘You weren’t trying to escape, then?’

  He puffed out his chest. ‘My father’s cousin was one of the men who died when your father escaped. I would not betray my felag in that manner.’

  Moir flexed his fingers. ‘I’m not my father.’

  The other man hung his head, looking closer to Bjartr’s age than to Moir’s. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘If we stick together, we will all get back safely.’ He spied a horse trough. He reached out and grabbed Hafual by the collar of his tunic. ‘But first you need a bath. We are going to be locked up together tonight and I don’t fancy sharing it with the scent of pigs.’

  The man protested that he didn’t smell that bad, but accepted his dunking.

  ‘What is the problem, Moir? I thought you were fixing roofs, not playing among the pigs.’ Ansithe’s precise tones rang out over the yard as Hafual emerged, damp but no longer disgusting from the pigsty.

  ‘Problem?’ Moir glanced Hafual. ‘My man ran into some difficulties when he went for some more poles to complete the roof. He made a mistake.’

  ‘Indeed. I had heard there was trouble at the pigsty.’ A light breeze moulded her gown to her body revealing her long, slender legs. She had slung her bow and a quiver full of arrows over her shoulder.

  He enjoyed the view for a breath. Then he shook himself. He had no business admiring her figure. Acting on his growing desire towards Lady Ansithe would make matters extremely complicated, but she was someone he was starting to admire and, against his better judgement, like. ‘Simply a misunderstanding.’

  He willed her to believe it.

  ‘A misunderstanding.’ She pursed her lips and nodded. ‘I will accept that. See that it doesn’t happen again.’

  Hafual gulped and agreed, then ran off to join the other men working on the thatching.

  ‘The new thatch is nearly on.’ Moir held a cupped hand up to the sky. ‘All we need now is some rain to test my prowess.’

  ‘You are hard workers—I’ll give you that.’ She put her hand on his arm. ‘We need to speak. Alone.’

  A knot of fear grew in his belly. Ansithe had not come out to admire his handiwork after all. She h
ad another purpose. He motioned to his men to keep working. Hafual’s remarks about his cousin dying because of his father’s behaviour clawed at his insides. He renewed his vow—he would do better.

  He went over to where Ansithe waited. Up close he noticed the deepening furrow between Ansithe’s brows and a slight pinching around her generous mouth.

  ‘Who has died—Palni or Bjartr?’ he asked before she had a chance to tell him the bad news. He steeled himself for the news that one or both had died. This trip had been cursed since they’d first stepped out of the camp.

  ‘Father Oswald reports that Bjartr is conscious and eating porridge. His reaction to the bee stings was severe and he probably should never work in an apiary.’ She bit her lip.

  ‘And Palni?’ His heart thudded. His friend deserved better than to die in a foreign land.

  ‘Father Oswald fears the infection in his leg is spreading, possibly to the bone. One day, maybe we can fight such things, but for now it is in God’s hands.’

  Moir winced. Infections could take hold very quickly. If it had not progressed too far, the limb could be amputated and the life saved. ‘Fears or knows?’

  ‘It has gone beyond thinking,’ Ansithe admitted. ‘Father Oswald wanted me to find you before the operation to remove the infection, but you were looking for your missing man.’

  ‘Has the operation started?’

  ‘I gave the order, but...’

  ‘May I see him?’

  ‘Father requested peace to carry out the operation.’ Her lips turned up. ‘I am to keep you contained until it is over. He said to tell you that he has no intention of drinking Palni’s or any other man’s blood.’

  Moir firmed his mouth. ‘He judges me far too harshly.’

  ‘He says to tell your men that provided he can cut all the infection out, Palni should survive but it will be Our Lord’s will and not our own.’

  ‘He is asking me to trust his God. I hope this God is more reliable than my father’s.’

  She stood there looking at him. ‘And you will tell your men?’

  ‘What is the problem? Are you seriously telling me that Father Oswald delays the operation because he fears my men and me?’

  Her mouth turned down. ‘Bjartr refuses to allow the operation. He insists we find you first.’

  Moir took off at a run and threw open the door to the infirmary. There, Father Oswald cowered in a corner while Bjartr lay over Palni, who appeared pale as death. In his right hand, he had an eating knife.

  ‘I see your health has improved immeasurably, Bjartr.’ Moir fought to keep his voice even. ‘Good, you can help with the repairs to the estate, instead of lazing in bed.’

  ‘I am saving Palni’s life,’ Bjartr declared. ‘This so-called priest wants to drink his blood for his filthy rite.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Bjartr blinked twice.

  Moir crossed the room and grabbed the knife from his hand. ‘Nonsense, utter and complete nonsense. This priest wants to save Palni’s life. If he says that he wants to demonstrate the power of his God, then I will accept it. I want Palni’s life saved. Now get off him. That is an order.’

  Bjartr scrambled off the bed. ‘I am trying to save his life.’

  Moir turned towards the priest. ‘You and your God can save Palni’s life?’

  The priest sank down on a stool. ‘I make no promises about his leg, but his life, yes, I believe so.’

  ‘Do what you can.’

  Moir tossed Bjartr over his shoulder as though he was a sack of grain. ‘Let me know when the operation is over and I can see him.’

  He carried the loudly squawking Bjartr to the byre and threw him in. At Bjartr’s hammering and kicking of the door, Moir reached over and locked it.

  The anger flowed out of him and he slumped down by the wall. A noise made him glance up.

  ‘Father Oswald sent me to be with you,’ Lady Ansithe explained. ‘He is grateful for what you did and doesn’t want you to be alone.’

  ‘Then the runes are cast.’ He patted the ground beside him. ‘I welcome the distraction.’

  She sat down next to him, close enough that if he leant slightly towards her, their bodies would brush. ‘Does your friend have a family?’

  ‘A married daughter with a young son and another on the way. They have been estranged for years, but Palni recently mentioned that once things were settled in England, his family would come and join him on new and fertile land.’ Moir concentrated on the newly thatched roof. An amputated limb. Palni would not be able to go warring again. And he couldn’t tell how much his speaking about retiring to farm was the bravado of an ageing warrior and how much Palni just wanted his daughter there.

  ‘And that won’t happen now?’

  ‘That will remain a dream for ever if he loses his leg. Why would a jaarl gift land to a man who can’t hold it?’ Moir banged his fists together. ‘I told him a thousand times—don’t dream. Actions speak louder than dreams. He will always have a place in my household if his daughter refuses him.’

  ‘Why would she do that? Children have an obligation to honour their parents.’

  ‘Their relationship is complicated.’

  ‘Father Oswald believes he can save the bone. He is very experienced.’ She put her hand on his arm. The light touch sent a pulse of warmth through him. A lump grew in his throat. He struggled to remember the last time anyone had touched him out of a need to comfort. His mother, just before she died, probably. ‘Once he is healed, he may still have the future he desires.’

  ‘Why did Father Oswald send you out?’

  ‘I’m useless during any operation. I tend to faint. He will send word when it is done.’ She gave a small shrug. ‘Ironic, really, as my late husband thought I’d be an excellent nurse before we married.’

  ‘Did he marry you so you could be his nurse?’

  ‘One of my duties,’ she admitted with a shrug. ‘Unfortunately, he objected to my fussing as he called it, but at least I was able to run his household efficiently.’

  ‘Your husband died in your care,’ he said, suddenly understanding. ‘And you were blamed for it.’

  ‘It was an old wound he’d carried since that war fifteen years before with Wessex. Everyone agreed that except my stepson, but we never got on.’ She looped her hands about her knees and stared straight ahead. ‘I would not wish that sort of end on anyone.’

  She lifted her chin, but her eyes held shadows. He hadn’t realised that his Valkyrie was a widow. The thought shocked him. Never before had he thought of a woman as belonging to him or having a claim on him. His father had used the excuse of his duty towards Moir’s mother as his reason for abandoning his men. ‘Any children?’

  Her mouth became pinched and the light fled from her eyes. ‘Unfortunately, no. Mine was a marriage based on practicality rather than desire. I returned home as soon as possible. My father took me back because my stepmother had just died in childbirth along with her infant son and he needed me to run the household. He planned on marrying Elene off as soon as he returned from the war.’

  ‘And your stepson?’

  ‘In Wessex with his wife and young daughter.’ Her hands pleated and re-pleated her apron. ‘I say son, but he was five years older than me.’

  ‘Your father married you to an old man?’ Moir’s fists curled. Her father had sacrificed his daughter on the marriage altar to achieve his own ends and had clearly been less than enthusiastic at her return. Despite all that, Ansithe endured terrible risks to get her father returned to her. He had to wonder what her father had done to inspire such devotion in her. It had to be more than a simple honouring of her parent.

  She lifted her chin. ‘Let’s keep the boring tale in the past where it belongs.’

  ‘I would like to see Palni as soon as he wakes,’ he said, honouring her request
to change the subject. What had happened to her was anything but boring. It would explain the paradox between her calm coolness in the face of danger and her evident fear about any attempt on his part at flirting with her.

  She briskly dusted her hands on her gown. ‘Shall we go now? These sorts of operations last only a short while.’

  Moir shouted instructions to his men for the next tasks. They agreed to get them done before nightfall with Hafual shouting the loudest.

  Men were better when they had something to do.

  It was one of his mother’s sayings. He could remember her sweet lavender scent washing over him as she handed him some rope to twist, a simple enough task for a young boy who had lost his father in terrible and shameful circumstances. And she had been right, it had given him some purpose.

  ‘If your men accomplish all the tasks you have given them, this estate will be prospering by the time you leave,’ she remarked.

  ‘How long has your steward been with you?’

  ‘Long enough.’ She twisted the apron she wore between her fingers. ‘My father is fond of him and will not hear a word against him, particularly not from me.’

  ‘There is much that has been neglected.’ He gestured towards where the estate workers lounged, pretending to work but accomplishing little. ‘It is not as if you lack the manpower, just the will to ensure everything is accomplished. I assume your steward countered your orders and encouraged the men to go slow.’

  Ansithe nodded. ‘I will discuss the situation with my father when he returns. Maybe this time he will listen, particularly as I can point to Ecgbert’s collusion with Cedric. My father cannot abide disloyalty.’

  ‘You have spoken to him about this before?’

  ‘Several times since I returned to live here.’ Her mouth curved into a sad smile.

  Moir’s brows drew together. ‘You father put the steward above his own daughter?’

  ‘Ecgbert can write. There are not many people who can who are not priests. My father requires his servants to act solely in his interests.’

  ‘Once he returns, he will reward you for all you have done.’