A Deal With Her Rebel Viking - Michelle Styles Mills & Boon Historical

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temper. Bjartr had not been alive when the tragedy with his parents had occurred. Bjartr’s recollection bore passing little to the truth of why Moir had been sent on this fool’s errand of a mission and was now having to play nursemaid to a group of barely blooded warriors rather than providing protection for his jaarl at the delicate negotiations with the Mercians and the other warlords.

      ‘I swear I heard bells earlier and that means an abbey,’ another warrior said, winking broadly at Moir. ‘There is always gold for the taking at a place like that. Here? Even the chickens have flown.’

      ‘Asking for hospitality remains the custom in the North. I suspect they follow similar customs here.’ Moir tried one last time. His sense of looming disaster rather than victory increased with every breath. ‘It is why we set out with gifts for those who favoured us. We can still ask for food to ease our starving bellies.’

      Was this the meaning of his vision of a Valkyrie earlier? To be wary of this place?

      ‘Instead of being the rock who held the shield wall together, you have become my father’s craven hound,’ Bjartr jeered. ‘My father will be beyond proud when I return laden with gold and hostages—no matter what he told you about keeping the peace.’

      Moir firmed his mouth. Any treasure to be found was probably safely buried long ago. Hostages simply caused unforeseen problems. And he was loyal to Bjartr’s father, Andvarr, the man who had taken a chance on him a long time ago. ‘You think seven warriors are enough for an all-out attack? How are you going to deploy them?’

      ‘Are you coming, Moir?’ one of Bjartr’s more obnoxious companions called. ‘Or does blood run true? Will you be as craven as your father was?’

      ‘No man calls me a coward and lives,’ Moir retorted, drawing his sword. ‘I challenge you. Here and now.’

      ‘Leave it, Moir,’ Bjartr shrieked. ‘As leader of this felag I command you. We attack this manor house.’

      Without waiting to hear Moir’s explanation of why it was a poor idea and why they should instead just ask for help in finding the Roman road, Bjartr charged, screaming his battle cry, and the other younger warriors followed in his wake.

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      A heavy axe hit the barred doors to the hall. Ansithe’s stomach knotted. Twenty arrows in her quiver. Twenty arrows to save her family from the Heathen Horde.

      She regarded the various bee skeps, mantraps and other devices scattered at strategic points in the hall. They were all designed to stop the invaders in their tracks.

      ‘Are you ready?’ she called to her sisters. Each gave a nod and held up their sealed skeps. On her signal they had agreed to unblock the entrance ways and toss them at the invaders. The bees would do the rest of the work.

      Ansithe adjusted her veil, fixed her first arrow and began to count.

      The door crashed open and the first warrior blundered in, missing the skep she’d set up at the entrance entirely. Ansithe swore under her breath.

      He turned towards her older sister with his sword raised, ready to cut her throat or worse. She panicked and tossed the skep at him without removing the straw. It fell harmlessly to the floor. The bees remained imprisoned. Disaster loomed.

      Ansithe loosed her arrow. It arched and connected with his throat. He stumbled over the skep, releasing the bees from their prison and they began to swarm over him and his companions. Her younger sister removed the entrance block and tossed her skep. It landed at the feet of a warrior and the battle cries soon became shrieks of pain.

      Ansithe unleashed her second arrow.

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      Somewhere, a lone dog began to howl, sounding like one of Hel’s when she sucked out the souls of unworthy men. Bjartr’s battle cry turned into an agonising scream for help, swiftly followed by the others’ cries of anguish. Moir’s muscles coiled. He drew his sword and raced around to the back of the building.

      He slammed the small back door open, rushing forward with his drawn sword. A precariously balanced basket toppled down on top of him, temporarily blinding him. Sticky honey flowed down his face as he fought to remove it. The sound of angry bees filled his ears swiftly followed by sharp stings.

      Bees slithered down his tunic, seeking the warmth and the dark. He flailed about with his arms, trying to remove the skep, to avoid more stings and to fight whatever danger lurked in the darkness. He took a step backwards and tumbled over a log, falling with a crash, letting go of his sword as he fell.

      Before he could remove the skep, someone stamped on his sword arm, and grabbed his axe from his belt. He pulled the skep from his head. The sound of angry buzzing in his ears was almost unbearable.

      ‘Stay completely still, Dane, if you want to live,’ a woman’s clear precise voice said, cutting through the incessant buzzing of the bees. ‘You are our prisoners. Surrender.’

      Ansithe concentrated on the warrior before her and not on her rapidly dwindling supply of arrows. Unlike the others who had burst into the hall through the front doors, this warrior did not cower when the skep had hit him, but instead seemed impervious to the bee stings. Her younger sister’s quick thinking had relieved him of his sword and axe, but he remained the most dangerous.

      Her heart thundered and her fingers trembled on the bow. Any mistake and this fragile victory would vanish like a puff of smoke.

      She pulled back further on the bowstring and tried to get the right angle for her shot. ‘Surrender, Dane.’

      ‘I am no Dane, but a Northman!’

      Ansithe wet her lips and started to count to ten. The action steadied her. ‘Whoever you are, you have no choice.’

      ‘I beg to differ. There is always a choice.’ The warrior heaved the skep away from him and towards her. Ansithe jumped to one side. It landed with a thump and rolled harmlessly away, but he dodged the arrow she loosened.

      She frantically snatched another arrow out of her quiver and set it to the bow. Five arrows remained from the originally twenty.

      ‘You missed,’ Ansithe said, fixing her gaze on the final skep balanced on the rafter just over him. She breathed easier. She had a better target than his throat. ‘Do not make me angry.’

      ‘Should I fear your anger?’

      ‘Yes.’ Ansithe restarted her counting and tried to steady her arm. She had one chance to get the ransom money she required and this warrior was not going to take it from her. ‘Surrender and I will endeavour to keep you and your companions alive.’

      ‘I’ve heard that lie before.’

      ‘The truth.’

      Moir rubbed an arm across his eyes, clearing the bees and the honey from his sight. The bee stings were sheer agony, far worse in ways than a sword cut. He groaned. His throw of the skep had fallen far short of his intended target. And his charges remained in danger. A lone woman with dark auburn hair faced him, seemingly oblivious to the angry bees flying around, with a quivering arrow notched in her bow. The air seemed tinged with magic and enchantment. Could she truly bend bees to her will?

      Moir squinted in the gloom. His adversary wore some sort of netting over her face, obscuring her features and making his shot difficult. No witchcraft, but foresight. She was a formidable, if an unconventional, foe, but human.

      Someone else would have plotted this plan of attack. Some man must have tracked their movements. Saxon, particularly Mercian, women were unskilled in the arts of war. The back of his neck tensed. Had Guthmann Bloodaxe, a leading Danish jaarl and his sworn enemy, discovered him? He dismissed the notion as pure fancy.

      ‘Where are your warriors? I will speak with them. Arrange terms,’ he offered.

      She

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