The Shielded Heart

by Sharon Schulze

  All she needed was the chance to set her plans in motion.

  She would have Swen Siwardson as her husband, her lover—her friend—in whatever combination of those relationships that she could contrive. She’d prefer all three together, but at this point, she’d take him any way she could get him.

  They were meant to be together. She should have recognized it from the start. Her body—or perhaps her senses—had realized it from the moment before she first saw him. That tingle of awareness, while not so strong now as it had been in the beginning, had transformed itself into an awareness of a different kind. She knew him as her mate, as Bess had put it, and she’d do everything within her power to make him hers in truth.

  If that meant her gift disappeared, she could live with that loss. Loving Swen, and being loved by him in return, was a gift far greater than any other, in her estimation.

  Whether she continued to see her visions or not, her position as the abbey’s artisan was at an end, thanks to the king’s machinations. Even if they’d remained at Murat, she would still have chosen Swen over her gift.

  And this time, she thought as the icy wind sliced through her clothes, Swen couldn’t say that her decision had been made in the heat of the moment.

  Now was not the time for more, she knew, so she contented herself with gazing at Swen from a distance, watching as the firelight gilded his pale hair and glinted off the whiskers on his jaw. A dimple flashed in his cheek when he smiled at something William said, his deep laughter carrying quietly over the sound of the guards’ dicing coming from the other side of the fire.

  She hoped to reforge a relationship with her family as well, if she could discover their whereabouts. Perhaps ’twas too late, or they would want nothing to do with her—they’d given her up, after all—but she’d never know unless she tried.

  The faint, unforgettable smell of old sweat and onions struck her before she heard a sound, but by then ’twas too late.

  A hand covered Anna’s mouth, another grabbed her by the arm, pulled it behind her and dragged her back into the shadows surrounding the circle of firelight. She kicked out, but her boots met nothing but her blankets and the hard ground.

  She’d done this before, and with the same man. This time she might not be so fortunate as to free herself. Anger lent her strength; tugging at his fingers with her free hand, she managed to loosen them enough to draw breath and give an aborted screech before he covered her mouth again.

  ’Twas enough to capture Swen’s attention.

  “To arms,” he shouted as he leapt to his feet, his hands going immediately to the knife and sword belted about his waist. He drew the weapons and spun to gaze into the darkness, until a man came running toward him, sword swinging to collide with his.

  Working in silence amid the clash of steel and the shouts of the combatants, her captor hauled her to her feet and wrenched her right arm hard behind her back, holding it there with the weight of his body. He grabbed for her other arm, whipping a length of rope from his belt, evidently intending to bind her arms together.

  She’d have none of it.

  She dragged her attention from Swen and the others, busy beating back a number of invaders, and squirmed to free herself from her assailant’s hold. Though it wrenched her shoulder to move, she tried to slide her arm free of the press of the man’s body. If she could only…

  “Let her go,” Swen ordered.

  Anna looked up to find that Swen and their men had already subdued the other attackers, several of whom lay dead on the snow-covered ground, while the rest huddled together under William’s watchful eyes.

  She felt the icy cold of a knife blade at her breast, the needle-sharp tip piercing through her heavy clothes and into her skin.

  She hardly dared to breathe.

  Swen moved a few paces closer and let his, sword and dagger clatter to the ground as he held his hands out to his sides. “Release her and take me instead,” he offered. Though he appeared surprisingly calm, she could hear his tension in his voice, his accent thicker than usual. Perhaps he was aware of it, for he spoke slowly.

  He took another step toward them. “My family is wealthy—they’ll pay a rich ransom for me. What will you get for her? The king won’t give you much—all his gold goes to the war. And the abbey…When have you known the Church to part with its money?” He eased forward again.

  “Halt!” her captor growled. “No closer, else I’ll mark her face but good,” he threatened, sliding the blade up over her collarbone to her cheek. “Mayhap I’ll start here. She’s a comely wench—I doubt you’d care to see her beauty scarred.”

  Hoping to draw his attention to her and away from Swen, Anna let a shudder rack her body—an easy feat under the circumstances—and whimpered behind the gag of his hand. “Don’t care for that idea, do ye?” He laughed. “It wouldn’t matter to me, of course, so long’s your other parts still work.”

  Anna fought back a wave of revulsion as he slid his hand off her mouth and down her neck to her breast, the press of his hardened manhood against her buttocks making her stomach heave.

  William cursed in the background.

  She glanced up through her lashes and found that Swen had crept closer still.

  Her assailant eased his weight from her back, focusing his attention upon taunting Swen with his crude caresses. She’d get no better time than this— she only hoped that Swen would step in quickly to help her.

  Anna shrieked at the top of her lungs and brought her foot up, stomping down hard on her captor’s. She ducked from beneath his blade and tugged her arm free just as Swen lunged for them.

  Firelight glinted off the dagger as he swung it toward Swen.

  “No!” Anna screamed. She reached out and grabbed for the knife before it could complete its deadly path.

  She caught the blade in its downward arc, the steel slicing easily through her thick leather glove to embed itself in the palm of her hand.

  Fire pierced her, forced the air from her body and sent her tumbling into darkness.

  Her vision blurred around the edges, she watched Swen snatch the knife from his boot, bury it in the other man’s chest. His face stark with pain, he thrust him aside and caught Anna before she hit the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Bring me light, now!” Swen shouted. He dropped to sit on the snow-covered ground and pulled Anna into his lap. He thought she was unconscious, until he realized she clutched her other hand tight around the wound.

  He grasped her wrist above the injury and gently applied pressure, hoping to slow the blood that dripped, warm and wet, onto his thigh.

  She gasped, her breathing shallow, but she didn’t cry out. “You’re a brave woman, my heart,” he murmured.

  He raised his head to shout again for light, but William ran to him with a torch and hunkered down beside them.

  “How bad is it?” he asked. He shifted position and held the light steady while Swen gently moved Anna’s other hand away to expose the wound.

  The thick leather palm of her glove seemed to have slowed the blade, and the bones of her fingers to have stopped it.

  She was lucky her fingers hadn’t been severed altogether. As for any other damage, he needed to remove the glove to tell.

  Her entire body shook, from shock and the cold both, he’d imagine. “Let’s move her closer to the fire,” he suggested. William maintained the pressure on her wrist while Swen, trying not to jar her, struggled to his feet.

  He settled close to the flames and accepted a blanket from William, wrapping it about her and shifting her over his legs.

  He pressed a kiss to her brow. “This will hurt like the devil,” he warned, then slipped the knife from her hand and pressed down on the cut.

  William leaned close to peer at her face. “Lass, how are you holding up?”

  Anna slowly opened her eyes. “Feel like I’ll be sick,” she whispered, her voice so faint Swen could scarcely hear her. Still trembling, she pressed her face against his ches
t. “He didn’t harm you?”

  “Nay, you stopped him, love.” He brushed her hair from her brow. “Though you shouldn’t have tried.” Shifting her on his lap, he told her, “Close your eyes. I want to look at your hand.”

  He’d feared she’d fight him about that, but she obediently laid her cheek against his tunic and shut her eyes tight.

  Bracing himself for what he might find, Swen took his own dagger and cut away the leather glove, then raised her hand from the wound. Though it was hard to judge in this light, it looked as though she had damage to her palm and the base of two fingers. The wounds would need to be stitched, a task beyond his ability.

  “How’s your sewing?” he asked William.

  The older man looked at the wound, then shook his head. “I can close a sliced arm or leg with a few crude stitches, but this requires more than that.”

  With William’s help, Swen wrapped strips of cloth about her hand and tied them tight. “Nay, keep your hand up,” he told her, helping to support her arm when it flopped down in her lap.

  Swen looked around them. Moonlight shone brightly on the snow-covered hills, and the stars twinkled merrily in the clear night sky.

  “Have someone ready my horse—I’ll take her on to Gwal Draig tonight,” he told William. “We cannot treat this as it needs, nor should we wait to have this cared for.” He wrapped her in his arms and sought to still her shivering. “And she needs to be warm and dry.”

  “Aye,” William said. “I’ll follow you on the morrow with our prisoners. The lot of us would only slow you down.” He stood and motioned to a guard, then passed along Swen’s orders.

  “What of the man who did this?” Swen smoothed his hand over Anna’s back, trying to give her what ease he could, while seething inside that the man had gotten close enough to grab Anna while they sat nearby.

  “He’s dead,” William said, his voice rich with satisfaction.

  “And the sentries?”

  He shook his head. “We can’t seem to teach them right, the fools. They’re dead, too. Had their throats cut.”

  “Damnation!” Swen could scarcely contain his frustration. Clearly the king wanted Anna very badly indeed. “Do you think they had anything to do with the group that attacked us before?”

  Anna stirred. “The same man.”

  “What?”

  She raised her head. “’Twas the same man who grabbed me before.”

  At least the bastard couldn’t harm her again.

  She sounded so weak! He must get her to Gwal Draig—to help—soon. Swen shifted her in his arms and rose slowly to his feet. “You must be strong, Anna. The journey will be hard, but at the end of it will be people to dress your hand and take care of you.”

  The guard brought Vidar, saddled and ready. Swen accepted another blanket to wrap around her, then placed her into William’s arms while he climbed onto Vidar’s back.

  The stallion stood quietly while William shifted Anna to sit in front of Swen in the saddle. After tucking the blanket more securely about her, William patted her shoulder. “God keep you, lass.”

  He stepped back. “Let’s hope that’s the last of them. Best have a care, lad,” he cautioned.

  Swen nodded and gave Vidar a nudge with his heel. With such precious cargo in his arms, he’d make certain of it.

  Anna dozed in fits and starts as they sped through the night, the steady beat of Swen’s heart beneath her ear and the rhythmic thunder of Vidar’s hooves upon the frozen ground her only reality. Her hand throbbed in time with Swen’s pulse, a steady reminder of all she might have lost had she hesitated to grab for the knife.

  She’d make that sacrifice again—give more, if she had to—and never count the cost.

  The bright glow of the rising sun broke through the pain-filled haze clouding Anna’s mind. She had hardly moved all night, cradled in the security of Swen’s arms, but now she needed to sit up and stretch her aching muscles.

  Her arm was numb from being held upright, but she couldn’t say the same for her hand. Vidar sped along at a good pace, his gait smooth, but still the motion jarred her hand. Hopefully the pain she felt all the way to her fingertips meant that nothing important had been severed.

  She looked up and found Swen watching her. “How are you?” he asked, his voice deep and grave.

  “I’ve been better,” she admitted. She wished she could touch his face, run her fingers over the beginnings of a golden beard covering his jaw. He looked as though he needed reassurance. “And you?”

  “My body is fine. But inside—” He shook his head. “I cannot believe you did that.” He sounded angry. “What if you can no longer use your hand—how will you ply your craft?” He closed his eyes and groaned. “The image of your hand meeting the blade is etched in my mind.”

  “You are safe and unharmed,” Anna said quietly. “I’m satisfied with the bargain.”

  His eyes snapped open at her words. “You might never regain the use of your hand, Anna—not completely. You might even lose it.” His blue eyes glowed with some strong emotion. “When I saw him standing there with his blade at your breast, I—” He swallowed hard. “For a moment, I didn’t know what to do. My body refused to move, lest I cause him to harm you. I’ve never been so afraid—not ever. All my old fears pale in comparison.”

  “You didn’t show it.” She pressed her lips to his throat, exposed by the open neck of his tunic. “You’re the bravest man I know, Swen Siwardson. Though ‘tis hard for you to return to Gwal Draig, you’re facing it with the same courage you show as you face down an enemy with naught but a knife in your hand.”

  “Fat lot of good my knife did this time,” he said bitterly. “I had thought to throw the knife at him, but he shielded himself too well with your body. Even if I hit him, it wouldn’t have slowed him down much. And then he’d have harmed you.”

  Vidar stumbled on the rough ground, jarring her arm and sending fresh shards of pain through her hand. She couldn’t stifle a groan.

  “Not much longer,” Swen said after he steadied Vidar with a firm hand and a murmured Norse phrase.

  At least she assumed ’twas Norse; French, Latin and a bit of Welsh were the limit of her vocabulary, so she couldn’t be certain.

  Seeking distraction from her hand’s sickening throb, she asked, “How do you happen to speak French—and Welsh, I assume—so well?”

  He nestled her against him. “My family are merchants. They travel far and wide, trading and seeking new goods. We need to know many languages.”

  “You’re no merchant.” He didn’t fit her limited image of one, at any rate. “You’re a warrior.”

  He smiled. “A fighter is what I’ve always wanted to be. But I came to Wales last year as an envoy for my father, to negotiate trade routes with Prince Llywelyn of Wales.”

  “And did you?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t make a very good negotiator, I fear. The prince strung me along for months with promises. Though I found it no hardship to stay at his court—” he grinned “—for there were many lovely ladies there, despite the distractions, I grew bored with waiting for him to come to a decision.”

  “Indeed. I don’t think I care to hear the rest of this,” she said, surprised by the surge of jealousy she felt.

  He chuckled. “’Twas naught but youthful foolishness—and I’d yet to meet you, my heart,” he teased.

  “Then what happened?”

  “Finally he offered me something interesting to do. If I would spirit his young ward away from his keep and transport her to an abbey where, he said, she’d be safe from the advances of an improper suitor, then we’d talk about the trade routes when I returned.”

  No other sound broke the silence but the steady thud of Vidar’s hooves against the hard ground.

  “And…”

  He grinned. “And I never returned to Llywelyn’s court.”

  She gave him a quizzical look, suspecting he spun out the tale to keep her mind off her injury. Still, ’twas intere
sting—and the information might be useful once they arrived at Gwal Draig. “Then how did you end up in Lord Ian’s household?”

  When he didn’t answer, she nudged him in the thigh with her knee. He sent her an injured look.

  “Tell me,” she demanded. “Please.”

  “The woman I stole away from Dolwyddelan is now Lord Ian’s wife.”

  “Lady Lily?”

  “Aye. She’d tried to steal into Llywelyn’s keep by climbing the curtain wall—at night.”

  Anna gasped. “’Tis a miracle she wasn’t killed!”

  “She nearly made it, too.” Swen’s smile held amusement and something else—fond remembrance, perhaps? The woman sounded memorable, at the very least.

  Perhaps formidable described her better.

  Anna’s curiosity about Lady Lily grew apace. “And was the Dragon her ‘improper suitor’?” she asked. Obviously there was more to this tale than a story he’d conjured from thin air to distract her.

  “Eventually.”

  “Swen,” she urged. “You have my attention. And this account is a wonderful distraction from my hand, thank you.” She nuzzled his throat. “If you don’t tell me more, I’ll be forced to find some way to distract you.”

  She heard his indrawn breath shudder deep within his chest. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “And stop that,” he ordered.

  Anna ceased her teasing, but she intended to resume it—and the conversation she’d been planning these past few days—as soon as they settled in at Gwal Draig.

  Gathering her close to his chest, Swen spun her a tale of treachery and betrayal, not sparing himself in the telling of it. She didn’t quite understand the allure of fighting a man, then respecting him more after he’d beaten you in combat and left you in the woods, tied up round a thornbush, but she suspected that lack in her had something to do with the fact that she wasn’t a man.

  His respect and affection for Lord Ian and his wife resounded in his words, as did his concern that he’d no longer be welcome in their home.

  For Swen’s sake, she prayed he was wrong.