Betrothed to the Enemy Viking

by Michelle Styles

  She gave him an uncertain smile back. For the first time since Moir and her sisters had arrived she felt they would manage to avoid bloodshed.

  ‘It would indeed be best,’ she said.

  Kal walked over to where Wulfgar stood and knelt beside him. ‘Are you Wulfgar, son of Leofwine and Cynehild?’

  Wulfgar’s eyes dwarfed his face. He gave an almost imperceptible nod as he shrank back into her sister Elene’s skirts.

  ‘Will you allow me to marry your mother? Will you allow me to serve as your protector and guardian? Will you allow me to train you to become a great warrior?’

  ‘For Mercia?’ Wulfgar asked.

  ‘For whichever warlord you choose to serve.’

  Wulfgar scrunched up his face. ‘They say you are a great and terrible warrior.’

  ‘Far be it from me to deny it... Except I’m trying to become a better man. Your mother is helping me with that. I know I need her with me to achieve it, though.’

  ‘Do you really love my mother? With your whole heart?’

  Cynehild’s breath caught. ‘You mustn’t ask him that, Wulfgar. It is impolite.’

  Kal rose and put a hand on Wulfgar’s shoulder. ‘I am happy to answer. Your mother makes my world a better place. She sees good in me and makes me want to show that good to the world. We are like the ply in the thread which she spins. Separately we can twist and break, but equally and together we create something which is far stronger. I love her more with every breath I take. I will love her until the day I die.’

  Cynehild’s heart swelled. Kal wanted an equal marriage in which they shared their life instead of having separate spheres.

  Wulfgar looked very solemn. ‘Then you may marry her.’

  Kal held out his hand to her. ‘Will you, Cynehild, marry me? Will you allow me to become your protector and your son’s?’

  She went over to him. ‘With all my heart.’

  All around them people cheered as he dipped his head and she tasted his lips.

  Epilogue

  Several months later

  ‘Mother, see what Kal has shown me!’

  Wulfgar raced to where Cynehild was putting the finishing touches to a new pattern she’d been weaving. The design was neither strictly Mercian nor Danish, but something in between.

  ‘What has he shown you this time?’

  In the months since their marriage, Wulfgar and Kal had grown close and their lives had settled.

  Toka and Alff had been delivered to Kal’s overlord, where they had faced trial for attempting to overthrow Kal. On the morning of the trial Alff had started to vomit blood and had known he was dying. With his final breaths he had confessed that he’d known his wife wanted Kal dead as revenge for her sister’s death, but had not really believed she’d go through with it.

  Faced with his deathbed denunciation, Toka had broken down and the entire story had emerged—how she’d married Alff because it would give her a chance to fulfil her vow to her dying sister and then, realising very quickly that Alff would not actively assist her, enlisted her stepson, promising him that he would inherit the lands provided he found the buried treasure.

  Once Kal had gone missing, Haddr had insisted that she make good on his part of the bargain. So she had taken herbs from the infirmary and started poisoning Alff in earnest. She’d shown little remorse and a great deal of anger at what she’d called ‘this unjust situation’.

  After Cynehild’s wedding, her sisters had returned to Ansithe and Moir’s estate. Elene had strongly objected to their father’s marriage machinations, but Cynehild had received word from Ansithe only this morning that Elene now seemed distracted and out of sorts, as she had heard that a Wessex warrior with whom she had thought she had an understanding was due to marry an heiress.

  Ansithe was worried that Elene might do something rash, and had asked Cynehild for advice. Cynehild intended to have a long talk with Kal later, about how they might help, but right now she wanted to concentrate on Wulfgar.

  ‘Go on—tell your mother,’ Kal urged, coming to stand behind Wulfgar. ‘Then show her like we practised.’

  At first it had been hard for Wulfgar not to have her undivided attention, but Kal had shown infinite patience with her son, teaching him how to play tafl, how to hold a sword and a thousand other little things. She could not ask for a better warrior to train him or a kinder stepfather to nurture him.

  Wulfgar lifted his sword. ‘I have learned how to parry and block. Grandfather would never show me how. But that’s not the best thing.’

  ‘What’s the best thing?’ Cynehild asked, catching Kal’s eye.

  ‘Kal says that I can call him Father. He wants to claim me for his own.’

  Kal came to stand behind the boy. ‘With your permission, obviously. Not to replace his own father, you understand.’

  ‘You are doing it out of love,’ Cynehild whispered.

  ‘Exactly—out of love. I want to make him my son in truth.’

  Cynehild gathered both of them to her. Leofwine might have sent her to find treasure and secure their son’s future, but she had discovered something far more valuable than gold—a good man who held her in high esteem and filled her life with promise and light.

  ‘You wish to make Wulfgar your own?’

  ‘Yes—if you are willing.’ Kal gave a crooked smile. ‘Some day he might even find Leofwine’s hidden treasure, but for now he can learn how to manage this estate.’

  ‘I’ve something of my own to share with you.’ She put Kal’s hand on her abdomen. ‘Can you feel it? The quickening?’

  His smile lit up his entire face. ‘You are going to have a child? Truly?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  Kal put his arms about her and hugged her tight. ‘Then our family will grow—but this young man will be the eldest, the child of my heart, just as you are the guardian of my heart.’

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this book, why not check out

  these other great reads by Michelle Styles

  Sold to the Viking Warrior

  The Warrior’s Viking Bride

  Sent as the Viking’s Bride

  A Deal with Her Rebel Viking

  Conveniently Wed to the Viking

  Author Note

  The ninth-century Mercians can be hard to study. Far more time and effort has gone into preserving the history from a Wessex point of view rather than from a Mercian one.

  The vast majority of what we can learn about them comes from various finds by metal detectorists, and these finds, along with the work that various archaeologists are doing, offers a different perspective on the primary written record source, which was compiled under Wessex rule.

  In 2015 metal detectorists failed to declare a Viking hoard, including coins, which shed new light on this period. Their theft was discovered when they attempted to sell various coins, and they were duly convicted in November 2019. Unfortunately, a number of the coins remain missing, and it is thought that they were reburied in unknown locations.

  Evidence from the recovered coins shows that Alfred was not above rewriting history to suit his own purposes. Several of the coins show that there was an alliance between Alfred the Great and Ceolwulf II of Mercia. In fact, Ceolwulf lists himself as ruler of London during a period when historians going from the written record had thought Alfred controlled it, as he made the claim.

  Who knows what the truth is? But it is interesting to speculate.

  A best guess is that the hoard was buried in approximately 879, shortly after the Battle of Edington, in Wiltshire, and that it also contained several items of Viking origin, including a dragon’s head bracelet. Even though most of the hoard was Anglo-Saxon, because of the Viking objects the original owner is suspected to be a Viking who failed to retrieve it.

  As ever, I have tried to be true to the time, and any mis
takes are my own.

  If you are interested in this historical period can I recommend the following books?

  Adams, Max (2017) Aelfred’s Britain: War and Peace in the Viking Age. Head of Zeus

  Adams, Max (2016) In the Land of Giants: Journeys through the Dark Ages. Head of Zeus

  Ferguson, Robert (2010) The Hammer and the Cross: A New History of the Vikings. Penguin Books

  Jesch, Judith (2005) Women in the Viking Age. Boydell Press

  Magnusson, Magnus KBE (2008) The Vikings. The History Press

  Oliver, Neil (2013) Vikings: A History. Orion Books

  Parker, Philip (2015) The Northmen’s Fury: A History of the Viking World. Vintage

  Williams, Gareth and Peter Pentz (2014) Vikings: Life and Legend. British Museum Press

  Williams, Thomas (2017) Viking Britain: An Exploration. William Collins

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Scandal at the Speakeasy by Lauri Robinson.

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  Scandal at the Speakeasy

  by Lauri Robinson

  Chapter One

  1927

  As the other passengers climbed off the train with the same jubilance that they’d boarded it with back in Kansas City, and headed toward the train depot building, Mick McCormick walked around the caboose to the baggage car and waited for the porter to collect his bag.

  He’d been in small towns up and down the East Coast, but this was a far cry from them. Junction, Missouri, wasn’t just small—his first glance made him think of a fabled old ghost town.

  The road was hard-packed dirt and there was hardly a tree in sight, other than a tumbleweed that rolled across the road a block ahead.

  Tony had told him that Junction was small, but a good town. A fine place to raise a family.

  Mick wasn’t so sure.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking his bag with one hand and tipping the porter with the other. “Where is the best hotel?”

  Short, with a black toothbrush mustache, the man laughed. “There’s only one.” With a nod, he gestured toward the road. “A block up the street. That red building.”

  Mick nodded, taking another glance up the street, where the red building, being a story higher than the others, stood out. “Thanks.”

  The train whistle blew. As soon as the porter jumped on board, the locomotive slowly chugged away, heading south and leaving the small train station empty.

  So was the street.

  Silent, too.

  Mick glanced around. There wasn’t a single person in sight. Unless they all had boarded the passenger car again, the other people who’d gotten off the train had disappeared.

  Curious, but not so interested that he moved closer, he glanced at the open door of the depot. A small one-story brown brick building, that from what he could tell, was empty.

  If he’d been on a case, he’d have investigated where all the people had gone, but he wasn’t on a case. This was a promise. To find Tony Boloney’s daughter and take her back to Rochester, New York.

  Carrying his bag, he headed up the road to the hotel.

  The entire town, all the buildings, the road, the landscape, looked old and worn-out. Sun-faded and chipped paint covered the buildings. A grocer, a hardware, a clothing store and what looked like it used to be a saloon lined one side of the street. The other side was the post office, a restaurant, with a closed sign in the window, and a pharmacy. The next block was the hotel and another restaurant, which looked to be open. He hoped. He was hungry.

  There were a few other buildings across the street from the hotel, a feed store and butcher shop, but he’d yet to see another person. Houses filled the street to the edge of town, which didn’t appear to be too far away. The sun was still out, so it was hard to say if any lights were on, but no one was outside of those houses.

  There was a total of two cars. Both parked in front of the hotel.

  It appeared as if Junction, Missouri, rolled up and tucked away by seven in the evening. Rochester, New York, wasn’t that way. Life, and crime, went on just as much during the night as it did during the day, spring, summer, fall and winter.

  It was spring now, and the April air was warmer here than New York, making him think that he should have taken off his suit coat.

  A little overhead bell jingled as he pushed open the door of the hotel, and an older man, wearing a pair of brown-and-green-striped pants pulled so high up on his waist they made him appear to be overly tall and spindly, walked out of a wooden door on the right as Mick was still closing the front door.

  “Good evening,” the man greeted.

  “Good evening. I’d like a room,” Mick replied.

  “Just one?”

  Mick scratched the back of his neck at the oddness of the man’s question. “Yes. Just one.”

  The man pointed to a book on the high counter, while turning around and taking a key off a square board on the wall full of hooks with keys hanging off them. “Just one night?” he asked.

  Mick nodded. It could be two nights, but he wouldn’t know that until tomorrow. “Can you tell me where the school is located?” In a town this size, finding Tony’s daughter would be even easier than he’d imagined.

  “You with the state board of education?” the man asked.

  “No.” Mick never shared more than people needed to know.

  “Oh, well, then.” Smiling, the man pointed toward the front door. “This is Main Street. Go two blocks north to Myrtle Street. Turn west. The school is two blocks up the road, on the north. Can’t miss it. A big brick building. Got a brand-new swing set and slide for the kids to play on beside it.” Frowning, he added, “But it’s closed now. School goes from nine to three.”

  Mick nodded at the information and laid down the pen, having signed his name while the man had been speaking. “How much?”

  “Four dollars a night.”

  The price seemed steep, but everyone needed to make a living and he doubted the hotel was overly busy any day of the week, or year. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket. “Do you know if the restaurant next door is open?”

  Glancing at the clock on the wall, the man nodded. “For about another fifteen minutes.”

  Mick laid four dollars on the counter.

  The man handed him the key. “Top of the stairs. Second door on the left.”

  Tossing the key in the air, Mick caught it. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The room was clean and the bed soft. Mick left his bag on the chair and headed to the restaurant next door. It, too, was clean and the waitress said they had roast beef tonight. Mick ordered it, ate it and left before closing time, but didn’t head back to the hotel. He’d been the only customer at the restaurant, but the kitchen had been full of activity.

  A man’s instincts were something he either learned to trust, or learned to ignore. Mick had learned to not only trust, but depend on his instincts years ago. This town was odd, and too quiet. The depot was where he’d find the answers, and that’s the direction he went.

  He scanned the outside of the brick building and the surroundings while walking closer. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Far off, across a field of brush and tall grass, there was a house and barn. Too far away to make out much more than that. There were a few other houses along the road that continued out of town, and, like on the north end of town, they looked quiet.

  He walked to the front of the depot, read the train schedule, four a day, two southbound and two northbound. The door was still open. He entered. There was a ticket booth, but no one manning it. Other than a couple of benches and a back door that led to the outhouses,
there wasn’t so much as a fly buzzing around.

  He walked behind the teller cage to a door that he was sure would be locked. Every depot had an office.

  The door wasn’t locked and it wasn’t a back room. It was a hallway. A short hallway, with doors on both sides. The first one he tried was a depot office, complete with a desk, but without an attendant. He closed the door. The second one opened to a set of stairs leading down into a basement, with a flickering light bulb hanging overhead.

  The steps were well worn, with grains of sand on each step. Off the shoes that had walked down them. Or up them. At the bottom of the steps there was a small room with another door. He opened it and found a tunnel, with a line of light bulbs hanging from a single electrical line hooked to the railroad timbers supporting the ceiling.

  Railroad timbers reinforced the walls, too, and the floor was as hard packed as the Main Street of town.

  The tunnel curved a few times, but all in all, his instincts said it went in the direction of the house and barn he’d seen past the overgrown field. As he walked, he began to pick up faint sounds.

  Laughter.

  Music.

  A speakeasy.

  He knew them well.

  Rochester, as well as Buffalo, Syracuse, New York City and nearly every other town, was full of speakeasies, and though they were disguised as something else, everyone knew what they were. For the most part, the police ignored them. It was the bootleggers, sneaking booze in from out of the country, and the manufacturers they busted. The mobs. They were the ones that were getting rich while making prohibition deadly. Despite what others thought, the police were concerned about the death rates that had increased during prohibition more than anything else. If anyone was to ask him, the law had been doomed to fail from the moment it had passed.

  The tunnel was well constructed and included vent holes overhead every twenty-five yards or so, and ended at a solid door with a small sliding wooden window. The laughter and music were louder. Much louder. Mick now knew where all the people off the train had gone, and why they’d been so boisterous.