“You will learn to be properly submissive,” he said.
“Like you were in the weaving shed at the Witan? You’re just Osric’s little bicche.”
His wide hazel eyes focused in realization.
“Yes, I saw. I saw you grovel and fall under my uncle’s yoke.”
He lunged, swinging in a blind rage. Any impression of this being a friendly contest vanished. Spittle flew from his lips. “How is Muirgen?”
“Bastard.” I rushed forward, my sword’s deadly precision aimed at his neck. He ducked and thrust at my stomach. I turned away from the swing and connected with his mail coat near his kidney. He growled and dove. I leapt aside, and he staggered back, his sword swinging. I dodged the blow and stayed low, using my weight to ram into his side.
Several vats of ice water were thrown at us. Aethelred stood before us. “Hold!”
We both froze, panting.
I ripped off both my helmets and knelt before Aethelred. Demas dropped to his knee.
“I’m not sure what we have all just witnessed. But by God, it stops here.”
“I’m sorry, my lord,” we both mumbled.
“Stand and shake hands. I will have no animosity in my fyrd,” he said.
We did as ordered, and I resisted the urge to wipe my hand against my sleeve. “The fyrd? Does that mean I can fight?”
“A shieldmaiden is welcome in my army.”
“This is madness,” Osric spat.
“The matter is settled,” Aethelred warned.
“Then promise me, my liege, that should Avelynn fall, her lands, her title will be awarded to me as her closest kin.”
“I’m afraid that can’t happen,” I said, looking at Aethelred. “I’ve already written my will. Aethelflaed, my goddaughter, has been named as my heiress. The charter lies at Glastonbury.”
“Is this so?” Alfred asked, his eyebrows raised in shock.
“Yes, my lord. All that I have will be hers.”
“A most noble and charitable gift,” Aethelred said.
Osric’s gaze pierced my mail. “A most noble gift indeed. May God keep you safe, niece,” he said in a voice as controlled as a coal maker’s fire.
* * *
Within a few hours of my arrival, word came that the Vikings marched to Basing, another prosperous royal village. If the Vikings were able to seize control of the center, they would be a direct threat to topple Wessex’s capital of Winchester.
By the time the fyrd had arrived, Basing was deserted. No smoke rose from cooking fires, each hearth empty as families packed up what possessions they could carry and headed for the forests or to nearby churches to await the battle’s outcome. The weatherworn and sun-bleached planked buildings, dark and brooding in the surrounding snow and sleet, looked like the charred remains of a once fat and cheerful body. We had drawn our line just south of the village in a wide, empty field. No side had the advantage of hill, valley, river, or crag to aid their fight. The blood from the battle would nourish the soil underfoot, and the grain would prosper when planted in the spring. If there were still men to tend it.
Wulfric helped me into my father’s mail, and I secured my sword to my waist. I called upon the Goddess in a silent plea, praying for strength and protection, and then fastened my helmet, grabbed my spear and shield, and led Somerset into what I thought would be the hardest battle of my life.
My first impression, after staring into the crazed eyes of a Viking berserker, was that a shield wall was no place for a woman. I was terrified. Wulfric had been right. None of my training had prepared me for this. But fear was a luxury I could ill afford. My men looked to me to lead, and my father’s shadow cast a wide net. I would not let him down. I swallowed and took my place in the line.
That was in the morning. By noon the toll to both sides had been great. This was the third wave of attack in a battle that had started just after dawn.
“Stand!” I yelled for what seemed like the hundredth time that day.
Everyone leaned their weight forward and waited. Wulfric was to my right, Leofric to my left. Two hundred men made up the front row of the shield wall. We stood side by side, everyone crushed together, shoulder to shoulder. Hundreds more filled the rows behind. Saxon shields pressed tightly against my back. My contingent comprised the farthest right-hand side of the wall. The two brothers had once again split their defenses in answer to the Vikings’ charge, and Somerset was under Alfred’s command.
The weather was suitably miserable for early February. All night it had drizzled—a cold, wet sleet—and dawn brought more of the same. I had spent the night in a tent, tossing and turning, with only a few blankets and my cloak. The tightly woven fabric walls kept the water out, but did nothing to block the dampness and chill in the air. Standing outside all morning long in the freezing onslaught ensured I was soaked through. A constant wave of shivering threatened to knock the spear from my hand. My feet had been numb since we left Windsor.
I wiped the moisture from my face. The Vikings hurled endless threats and jeers, and we answered back with insults and goading of our own. There was no open hand-to-hand combat. The two sides stood apart from each other as in a childhood game, each taunting the other, but slowly the forces—the entire wall—advanced until they crashed shield to shield.
Despite our bravado on the surface, everyone was exhausted. The Vikings were slower in their attack, and we were less anxious to press ours. It was now a waiting game to see who would crack first.
“Stand!” I yelled to steady my men.
Pride flared with each taunt. It was getting harder to keep the men in check.
“Shields at the ready,” I ordered as I noticed the Viking line take a step closer.
They tightened their overlapping shields.
“Spears ready.” A line of steel points thrust through the wall of bodies.
“Hold!” I ordered as the lines of men behind me pressed forward. The recent snowfall had turned to slush, and the ground was a field of slippery mud. Maintaining footing was becoming harder and harder as the morning wore on.
The Vikings moved close enough for us to smell their sweat. They were ferocious, their beards unkempt, their hair and eyes wild. They smeared the blood of the dead on their faces and advanced with a fearlessness born out of a religion that honored bravery and shunned weakness. They welcomed a warrior’s death. To them, death was a reward. The bravest men would feast at Odin’s table.
I studied my men. Hair cut just below the shoulders, beards and mustaches trimmed. No god would toast their bravery if they fell. And worse, unlike the Vikings, who had nothing to lose but their lives, these men would leave their farms and families unprotected, with no one to provide for them.
A Viking shield crashed into mine as their wall closed the gap. The impact shot deep and thrummed in my bones. My father’s shield, which I held in my left hand, covered me from shoulders to knees, while the spear in my right hand jabbed furiously at any exposed flesh. I glanced at the overlapping shields of the enemy. The tight wall of shields made a direct strike difficult, but a spear could gore above the shoulders and a sword could hack away below the knees, and that is where everyone’s ministrations were aimed.
It was a vicious and bloody pushing-and-shoving match as shields rammed against shields, and axes, swords, and spears maneuvered around their heaving neighbors to swing, jab, and thrust toward the enemy at will. Wulfric lifted his shield to block a blow from a sword that was aimed at my skull, and I drove my spear into the groin of my attacker, pulling it back sharply. He fell and was trampled, his face pressed into the squelching muck, as another Viking took his place at the front of the line.
A large weight fell against my right side as Leofric collapsed into me. Another blow from a Viking axe came down, cleaving his helmet in two. Half of his good-natured face stayed momentarily on my shoulder while the rest of Leofric slumped to the ground. Blood pooled around him, turning the muddy slush a rusty shade of red. For a second, I stared, stunned that su
ch a great man could fall. Demas appeared at my side and raised his shield to block the axe from inflicting the same mortal wound on me.
“Watch what you’re doing,” he hissed.
I blinked at the apparition. “Kind of you to be concerned with my welfare.” I grunted, thrusting my spear forward, looking for a soft spot to impale.
“Personally, I’d rather see you dead,” he yelled over the battle cries. “But your little ploy with the will has caused me to reevaluate things.” He shoved against a Viking shield.
I clenched my teeth, wishing I had enough room to turn my spear sideways. Demas’s waist was wide open. “You’ll never have Wedmore or Somerset,” I spat. I wondered if Wulfric had seen his brother fall. My heart ached for them both.
“You’re a considerable hindrance,” he grunted, thrusting his sword into the man pressed up against him. “Like a louse I can’t crush.” He pulled his sword back, the blade thick with blood.
There was a loud commotion coming from the wall farther to the left. I chanced a quick glance. The Saxon wall had been breached in the middle, our straight line buckled, like the V in a formation of geese, and the Vikings pressed their advantage, concentrating their efforts on the fracture. We were losing ground rapidly.
Taking advantage of the Vikings’ momentary diversion, Demas turned slightly to face me. “You’re the last of the vermin to affect our plans. Your brother was easy prey. And your father?” He laughed. “He screamed like a suckling maid when I gutted him through.”
“My father, Eanwulf, the Earl of Somerset, the king’s most trusted and revered warrior, was not brought down by a flaccid little sack of grain.” I refused to believe it. His words were meant only to hurt me. He was playing me. My father died honorably in battle, and my brother would be found safe and sound.
Demas pulled a leather thong from around his neck. My mother’s amber amulet glinted like molten steel against the pale silver of his mail. The numbing cold disappeared, and a burning fury consumed me.
“Bastard,” I roared, and turned on him. Wulfric noticed the change of my focus.
“Avelynn,” he yelled. “Steady!”
A Viking shield shoved hard against my side, knocking me off balance, and brought my attention back to the immediate threat at hand.
A Viking spear point clashed with the bronze boss of my shield, and I spun around to face my attacker. While the Vikings had redirected a lot of their energy to the breach in our wall, there were still plenty of them left to occupy my efforts. “Hold!” I yelled to the men behind me. With the chaos of the wall splitting farther down the line, men were dropping away from behind me, either turning to run, or trying to aid those who were taking the brunt of the fight.
I dropped my spear and unsheathed my sword. I swung hard over top of my shield, meeting Viking steel in a clash of sparks.
“You must be careful. I’d hate for anything to befall you before our wedding day.” Demas pressed his body tightly against me, his shield overlapping mine. I could smell the stench of ale on his breath.
“I’ll never be your wife. My father’s decree was sent to Winchester. You’ll never touch me again.”
“About that message…” He inclined his head behind me to the right. “You remember Sigberht, my associate. He never made it to Winchester—he brought the note straight to me. And, of course, I disposed of it promptly and thoroughly.” He swept his sword up and over his head. A yelp and barrage of insults assailed us, along with a disembodied hand that someone threw at Demas’s head.
I didn’t dare look behind me lest I open myself to a fatal blow, but I knew Sigberht was there. I could sense his malevolence. “I have witnesses,” I said, feeling the cold seep back into my pores. Black ice filled my veins. Suddenly the Vikings didn’t terrify me nearly as much as the man to my left.
“Oh, yes, about them.” He looked across at Wulfric. “You remember my other associate, Gil?”
This time I did turn. The toothless, drooling bodyguard didn’t look any worse for the wear after his encounter with Muirgen’s bear. My heart sank but then began to hammer madly against my chest as I saw a flash of steel.
“We can’t have any witnesses,” Demas said.
“Wulfric! Watch out!” I screamed, but Wulfric merely looked up, thinking a Viking sword or axe was bearing down on him. He didn’t expect the blow to come from behind. Helplessly, I watched Gil’s knife sink deep into Wulfric’s back, slicing upward to his kidney. Gil held him up momentarily.
The crux of the battle and everyone’s attention had moved off to the left. No one noticed Demas’s treachery.
“Wealth buys formidable allies,” he said, leaning in close. “Your own missing grain accounts have purchased your fate, lady.” He pointed to a fearsome Viking with blazing red hair. “We have a little arrangement, Halfdan and I. By the time he’s finished with you, you will beg for me.”
Gil dropped Wulfric, who fell hunched to the ground, and then reached around and pulled off both the leather and my father’s helmet, yanking and twisting my head painfully upward. Something brushed against my back, slicing through the thong that bound my hair, and hands pulled hard on the long waves, wrenching them from beneath my belt. Waves of gold whipped around my face in the wind.
“Just so there’s no mistaking you,” Demas said, and the three of them disappeared into the chaos behind me.
The Saxon wall had fallen apart. Men were fleeing in all directions. I tried to turn about and run, but the Vikings plowed through the remaining stragglers, ending any attempts at escape. A few of my men noticed my state of distress and turned from the crumbling wall, encircling me. We tried to hold our ground, but Halfdan sliced and carved his way toward me as if my father’s greatest warriors were no more than butter for his bread.
Then it was finished. I was surrounded. The Saxons were gone. The Vikings had control of the field. My men were slaughtered.
I wiped the sodden hair away from my eyes and crouched, waiting. My shield had been lost, and I held my sword with both hands.
“I admire your courage, maiden.” Halfdan spoke in Norse as he stepped closer to me. Blood caked his axe.
“You are like a wild filly. I look forward to breaking you.” He licked his lips, and the Vikings laughed.
“Alrik, take care of her,” he said flippantly, and walked away, celebrating and cheering with his men.
I turned to the man charged with my care. He barreled toward me, but stopped, his body inches from mine. Azure eyes looked down at me, and my breath stilled. I would know that face anywhere, high cheekbones, golden beard and mustache beneath the silver helmet. I never thought I’d see him again. I reached out, but something made me pull back. Alrik’s expression of shock turned hard, a cold malice clouding his eyes. And I watched, as if in a daze, as he raised the familiar garnet-studded hilt of his sword.
“I am sorry, Avelynn,” he said, and brought the pommel down hard against the back of my head.
TWENTY
Nausea washed over me, and my head pounded as if a hundred blacksmiths’ hammers were forging my skull. I was draped over something, lying on my stomach, being jostled and banged about. I opened my eyes. The ground moved slowly beneath me. A leather boot rested in a stirrup along a horse’s russet flank. I admired the tightly bound laces and then vomited all over them.
The horse stopped.
“I see you are awake.”
I tried to lift myself to see who was speaking, but pain swelled behind my eyes and clamped tightly around my head. I thought better of it.
My companion slipped off the horse and landed with a soft squelch. I was lifted up and placed unceremoniously on my own two feet. I swayed, listing heavily to one side, and clung to the large arms supporting me.
“It will pass,” he said.
The harsh accented English sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it and let the thought pass as another wave of nausea overtook me. Backing away, I stumbled to a small oak tree and retched into the flattene
d and dead foliage around its trunk.
Leather boots, considerably worse for the wear thanks to my unsettled stomach, appeared in the grass beside me. “You will need to walk now.”
I leaned against the tree, trying to stop the swirling dots in my vision. He reached out and enclosed one of my hands in both of his. They were rough and calloused but welcomingly warm. He grabbed my other hand and began binding them with coarse rope.
Despite my discomfort, my indignation soared, and my gaze flew upward. I found myself staring into Alrik’s clear blue eyes. For the briefest moment there was a feeling of elation at seeing him again, but then it all came crashing back to me—meeting him on the battlefield, his assault knocking me unconscious.
“You bastard!” I tried to squirm free of his hold.
His face hardened, but he continued to secure my wrists.
“Let me go!” I twisted, pulling against the rope, but stopped when I felt it pinch even tighter.
“I cannot,” he said simply, pulling me to his horse.
“What do you mean you cannot? What are you doing?” I grabbed the rope with both hands and tried to tug myself free. This was about as effective as trying to budge a mountain.
“You are being held for ransom by my brother Halfdan.”
Brother? He was a Ragnarsson! Of all the Vikings on the earth, I had to meet the son of one of the most reviled and vicious Vikings ever to have lived. While Ragnar was dead, his sons, Ivar, Ubbe, and Halfdan, had taken up where he left off, and Alrik was their brother!
We were on the old Roman road heading east to the Viking stronghold of Reading. “Alrik.” I glanced around nervously. “Where are we going?”
I froze, hearing the approach of horses. He pulled the rope, yanking me forward, and leaned in close, a death grip on my arm. “Do not say a word.” He straightened.
A towering Viking in full mail stopped his horse beside us. A grizzled brown beard lifted the cheek flaps of his dented helmet.
He took in Alrik’s appearance and laughed. “I hope you had the Saxon wench at your cock till she retched.” His large belly shook with the effort of his mirth. “Best hurry along, boy. Halfdan’ll be returning to Reading.” He nudged his horse and sped off.
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