“Here,” she answered, scrambling from the hiding place she did not wish to share with her sister.
Astrid found her sitting on a large rock, chewing on a piece of wild grass, apparently doing nothing more than enjoying the view. Mist lifted one brow in inquiry, noting the ire twisting her sister’s face as she placed her hands on her hips.
Mist sighed with no small amount of envy. No matter what mood her sister was in, nothing could thwart her beauty. Astrid’s hair was the color of the moon on a cold winter’s night, while Mist’s resembled an iron sword after it had long been in the elements. Astrid’s features were perfect, her complexion without flaw, her eyes the color of the icy-blue fjord, while Mist’s mouth was far too wide and her eyes the green color of the lichen that covered much of the hillsides.
Mist stifled another envious sigh. “You wanted me?”
Astrid’s vivid blue eyes narrowed. “What are you doing out here? Far is furious.”
Mist slowly took a deep breath and just as slowly released it as she climbed reluctantly to her feet. She took the extra time to brush the clinging dust from her dress and straighten the brooches at her shoulder. She might as well go back and face the inevitable. It was not like her to be a coward, and regardless of her feelings on the matter, her groom would still be waiting no matter how long she procrastinated.
A thought occurred to her and she eyed her sister with resentful unease. “How did you know where to find me?”
Her sister turned away from her searching look, guilty color stealing into her cheeks. “I followed you one day.”
Myriad feelings froze Mist to the spot, not the least of which was the thought that her sister could have been injured. Astrid had found her secret place, but what bothered her most of all was that her sister had tracked her without Mist having any idea she was doing so.
“Why did you follow me?” she asked angrily.
Astrid glanced at her and then away. She shrugged her shoulders, but Mist wasn’t fooled.
“I wondered where you disappeared to all the time,” she answered after some hesitation.
Mist felt the stirrings of suspicion. It was unlike Astrid to be so inscrutable. She thought about questioning her sister further, but the thought that their father was waiting stopped her. It wouldn’t do to make him any angrier than he already was.
She was not nearly as anxious to meet the man who now controlled her future.
* * *
Bjorn was explaining to Egil about the intricately carved knife he was giving to the older man as a gift, when Valdyr saw Egil’s daughter returning to the farm with the woman he had seen on the hill.
So he’d been right. She was the enigmatic Mist.
What was it about her that so captivated him? Striding along at her sister’s side, she was like a brown sparrow compared to an exotic peacock. Yet she drew his attention without effort.
Egil noticed their return and hollered for the girls to join him. Astrid changed directions with alacrity, while Mist walked as though her feet were weighted by whales. Valdyr hid a grin at her unenthusiastic response, though it piqued his pride no little bit.
“My daughter, Mist,” Egil introduced her.
She glanced up at Valdyr, her eyes the greenest he had ever seen.
“My lady,” Valdyr acknowledged.
“My lord.” The softness of her voice was belied by the hardness glittering back at him from those intriguing eyes.
Egil smiled with satisfaction, glancing from one to the other.
Whatever his host was thinking, Valdyr had the distinct impression that Mist wasn’t as grateful as her father for their safe arrival. Her reluctance only piqued his interest further and fueled his desire to see if he could possibly woo her into changing her mind, though why he should want to was beyond his understanding. Perhaps it was the fact that no woman had ever looked at him the way she was doing, as though he were something that had crawled from a bog. Or perhaps it was that, despite her resistance, no woman had stirred his blood as she did in a very long time.
Whatever the reason, her eyes laid down a challenge, and he gladly took it up.
Chapter 2
The hour was late, the sun finally descending until the light from the open doorway was a mere thread. The smoke from the blazing fire filled the hall until it made the eyes sting and the lungs gasp, yet those in attendance barely noticed.
No matter how hard she tried, Mist couldn’t keep her attention from wandering to the hulking Norseman laughing with her father as they sat around the table relating tales of Norway and a freer time before Harald Fairhair had decided to unite the whole country under one king, that king being him.
His eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed, his amusement making them an even deeper blue. The flickering light from the fire added shadowed planes and angles to his chiseled features. Thor’s hammer hung from his neck, the amulet glinting in the reflected firelight. Yes, she could see him choosing the mighty Thor as his protective god. He had at one time been hers, as well.
When he turned and caught her watching him, heat flooded her face, but she refused to turn away. She straightened her shoulders and stared back. The smile slowly slid from his face, replaced by a look that dared her to...what? She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise in response, her heart rate accelerating until it seemed it would fly from her chest.
Helga, one of their young thralls, brought the mead bag to fill Valdyr’s cup once again, and he turned his attention on her, finally releasing Mist from her motionless state. The maid smiled at him, an open invitation that brought a frown to Mist’s face. The primitive feeling that surged through her was unfamiliar, and unwelcome. It surprised her that Valdyr turned away from the woman, ignoring her not so subtle offer. Not for the first time today, she wondered just what kind of man he was.
Brita, her older sister, dropped into the seat beside her across the room from the men. She followed Mist’s gaze and turned back with a lifted brow.
“Well, well, well.”
Catching the meaning behind the words, Mist gave her sister a withering glare, which she promptly ignored.
“He is a fine figure of a man,” Brita said as she leaned back against the wall to relax after a hard day. “You’ve done well for yourself and our family.”
Mist sighed heavily. That was the crux of the matter. Were it up to her, and were she not so limited physically, she would have refused the marriage. But things were not as they used to be, and her father was growing older. Brita’s husband had been slain last year in the same battle that had injured Mist, leaving their family without any male support except for her uncle and cousins. It was up to Egil’s three daughters to provide the family with male protection and male heirs to inherit the land. The thought was like swallowing vinegary wine.
“Why me?” Mist wondered. “Why not you or Astrid?”
Brita’s look went to their father, and she smiled fondly. “You know that Astrid is his favorite and that he will not be willing to give her up anytime soon. And as for me,” she said, her blue eyes, so like their sister’s, darkening with pain, “I am not yet willing to let go of the past.”
Instantly contrite, Mist laid a hand on her arm sympathetically. “I beg pardon, Brita. I did not mean to complain.”
She smiled sadly in return. “Someday, Mist, I hope to find a man like my Einar and marry again. But not just yet.”
Brita’s daughter, Erika, came over to them, her six-year-old form barely able to carry the shield she was dragging across the floor. Mist tensed, knowing what was coming.
“Tante Mist, tell me about your last battle again,” she begged.
Discomfited, Mist’s look flew to Valdyr. He glanced from Erika to Mist, one brow winging upward in question.
Brita hurriedly tried to divert her daughter’s attention. She p
ulled the heavy shield from Erika, grinning at her child’s relief as she was assuaged of her burden.
“Let us not bother Tante Mist tonight, elskling.”
“But Mor,” she whined. “I want a story.”
“I would like to hear one, as well,” Valdyr interjected. His assessing gaze moved from the top of Mist’s fiery crown of hair to her dirty bare feet peeking from beneath her kirtle to her eyes, where his regard held steady.
“The shield is yours?”
Mist bristled at the disbelief in his voice. Before she could answer him, her father spoke up.
“Mist is a shield maiden,” he informed him, the pride evident in his voice.
Valdyr’s shocked expression did nothing toward improving her already deflated ego. How could a man so strong and virile possibly understand her shortcomings? Had he ever been so severely injured that he almost died? She knew little about him, but she sincerely doubted it. He radiated an aura of power that was truly intimidating, and it embarrassed her to seem so lacking in his eyes.
* * *
Valdyr watched the color sweep across Mist’s face. He couldn’t have been more surprised if they had told him that the woman had two heads, although he supposed he shouldn’t have been. Hadn’t he recognized the hidden fire in her even from a distance? It would take a woman of such passion to be a shield maiden. He had come across few in his time, but they had left an indelible impression on him.
“Not is. Was,” Mist corrected her father.
He found it hard to believe that the woman could pick up a heavy sword, much less wield it. Although tall, she was so thin that the bones protruded from her shoulders, her upper torso lacking the muscles he would expect to see in such a one. He had noticed earlier that she favored her left arm and that she was often unconsciously massaging it.
“Was?” he queried, intrigued. Egil had said nothing of this when he had come to make the marriage arrangements.
Egil spoke up in his daughter’s place. “Mist fought against Harald at the Battle of Hafrsfjord. She was seriously injured and has yet to recover fully.”
He sounded almost apologetic, as though he had tried to pawn off damaged goods. Valdyr glanced sympathetically at Mist’s left arm. She lifted her chin defiantly.
“An opponent’s ax went through my shield and...and damaged my arm.”
Brita snorted derisively. “It did more than just damage her arm. It nearly took her life.”
Whatever the others wanted to say, Mist silenced them all with a look. Brita got up to tend to the cooking, and Egil suddenly took an intense interest in sharpening his sword.
Something was being left unspoken. Whatever it was, he would find out in time, before this marriage took place. He gave Mist a look that said as much, and he watched curiously as the little color there drained from her already-pale cheeks.
To relieve the tension, he turned to Erika. “Perhaps you would like to hear a story from my brother instead. He is very good at telling stories.”
Bjorn gave him a look that brought forth a chuckle. Valdyr hadn’t missed his brother’s attempts to woo young Astrid with tales of his own. It amused him that the girl acted so unmoved by him, yet the look in her eyes spoke clearly of her interest. Seeing their youthful inexperience in matters of romance made him feel every one of his nearly thirty years.
Easily diverted, the child crossed the room, and Astrid motioned for her to crawl into her lap. As Bjorn began his tale, Valdyr seated himself next to Mist.
“This is not your shield, then?” he asked, pointing to the one Brita had set aside.
Mist shook her head, her eyes softening as she looked at her niece. “No. It belonged to Erika’s father.”
“Tell me about him,” Valdyr invited, sensing a story.
Her green eyes plumbed the depths of his, as if trying to find the reason behind his interest. Whatever she saw must have reassured her. She drew her legs up under her, settling her chin on her upraised knees.
The flame from the fire reflected in her flowing mane, giving it the illusion of being on fire itself. Valdyr wanted to reach out and touch it, but her next words brought his thoughts to a slamming halt.
“Einar came here with father during the landnám. Even as children, he and Brita were inseparable. When they were old enough, father gave his permission for them to marry. It was Einar who taught me to fight.”
Those green eyes turned back to him, and he found himself swallowing down unreasonable jealousy. It would have taken hours of training for her to become skilled enough to wield a sword in battle, which meant that she had spent many hours with this Einar.
“Your sister didn’t mind that he chose to teach you instead of her?” He would never allow another man to spend so much time with his wife.
She frowned in puzzlement. “Brita had no desire to learn to fight. She was content being a mother.”
“And you?” Valdyr asked. “Do you not wish to be a mother?” His own mother certainly hadn’t. He glared at Mist, wondering just what kind of woman he had agreed to marry.
She turned so that he could not see her face. “Father was getting older and he had no sons. Then when Brita had a girl child, as well, I decided that someone needed to be prepared to fight and that motherhood wasn’t in the runes for me.”
There was a strange tone in her voice that led him to believe she was not as unmoved as she tried to appear. He leaned back against the earthen wall and studied her curiously. “The two are not mutually exclusive.”
Her face set grimly. “They are for me. As a mother, my first thought would always be for my children. When in battle, my first thought must be to survive. A warrior cannot have a divided mind.”
She turned those fascinating eyes on him once again and the room grew suddenly overwarm.
“I know what it is like to grow up without a mother,” she told him.
There was something in her voice that spoke more clearly than words of the pain and regret of her past. He empathized with that pain. If his own mother had been like Brita, or even Mist, how much different would his life have been? His fingers itched to reach out and comfort her with a touch, removing the pain he saw in her eyes. Instead, he curled them into fists to keep from doing any such thing.
* * *
Mist winced under his intense scrutiny. She knew what she must look like. She was a pale shadow of the woman she used to be. Being close to death had left a lasting impression on her.
It had taken her months to heal. Every day she had prayed to the goddess Hel to take her to Valhalla, the afterworld of fallen warriors, or to Niflheim, the cold, icy netherworld of all others. She cared not which, as long as it would relieve the mental suffering that was worse than physical pain. To live life as a cripple was unacceptable. Her family did not need a useless person to care for.
Every day the monk Drustan had prayed to his God for her life, and every day she prayed that Hel would overcome his God and show just who was superior. In the end, it was Drustan’s God who won out.
Drustan had emigrated from Eire to Norway to, as he said it, preach to the heathen. From all of his accounts, she was one of the chiefest. A soft smile curved her mouth as she remembered their fierce verbal battles between her prayers to Hel and his to his God. He had refused to give up on her.
After a time, her body began to heal and she became intrigued by the Christian God. Drustan taught her about the words that his God had left in writing to show mankind the way to Him. The words from his scrolls embedded themselves in her mind. For the word of God is living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword. As a warrior, those words had arrested her attention more than any of the other things he had read. She would give just about anything to be able to read those scriptures for herself.
He also told her about a heaven that was filled with light and goodness, and she began
to yearn for such a place. When she had asked why he didn’t just let her die and go there, he had told her that no one could go there except through Jesus, the Christ.
After that, she had been baptized and he had continued to teach her until she was well enough to go home to her family. A part of her had resisted the thought of leaving Drustan’s safe haven, but her family needed her. With Einar dead, they had no one else to protect them.
She had arrived home more bones than skin after the intense struggle for her life, and she had yet to fully regain her girth. The muscles in her arms that had once been strong and supple had weakened without use.
Now this man sat here in vigorous health with muscles any woman, or man for that matter, would envy, and she felt her inadequacies. The darkness of his skin and the lightness of his hair spoke of much time in the sun. He exuded pure masculine strength. A man like him would have no time for a weak wife.
Her eye caught the glint of the amulet hanging around his neck, and she realized that he would consider her fledgling faith another weakness. Her people had no time for a God who spoke of love and forgiveness, despite the fact that Harald had claimed Christianity for Norway and insisted on the people being baptized.
As Drustan had told her, it was one thing to say you were a Christian, and quite another to actually practice it.
“So, Valdyr,” her father called, interrupting her thoughts. “Are we agreed that the marriage will be at the next autumn solstice?”
Mist met Valdyr’s eyes, and the fire in his nearly stopped her breathing. A slow smile curled his lip.
“Make the arrangements.”
* * *
Mist lay next to her sister. All the breathing and snoring going on in the house was louder than the thunder from the storm that had passed through earlier. With the arrival of Valdyr and his men, the house had become decidedly cramped. Bodies were sprawled over just about every inch of the floor, as well as on the packed earthen bedding that ran along the walls.
Restless, she got up and picked her way among the sleeping bodies and, pulling a cloak from the peg by the door, she slipped out into the night.
The Viking's Bride Page 2