The Warrior's Viking Bride. Michelle StylesЧитать онлайн книгу.
Dagmar crossed her arms and stood next to her mother. Her mother wasn’t going to abandon her. Her father wanted her. Maybe her parents could work something out. They had fought before.
Her father’s cheeks became tinged with red. ‘I have the law on my side. My daughter belongs to me to dispose of as I see fit.’
Her mother banged her sword on the ground. ‘I challenge you. I will show you how second-rate I am, you puffed-up over-the-hill windbag!’
‘You challenge me for what?’
‘For the right to bring up our daughter as I see fit.’
Her father spat on his palm and held it out. ‘Done! I can beat you with one hand tied behind my back.’
‘No, Kolbeinn, no. You must not. The she-witch will trick you.’ The woman clung to Dagmar’s father’s arm and rubbed her big belly against his side. ‘Think of my dream. You will be the father of many kings. Our unborn son and I need our strong protector.’
Dagmar wanted to be sick. Surely her father would fight for her. She had seen her parents practise fighting before. At some point during that act, her parents would start laughing and they would realise that they still loved each other. This woman with her baby-swollen belly would be no match for her mother.
‘Hush now.’ Her father put an arm about the pregnant woman. ‘I am a great jaarl now. I have responsibilities.’
Her mother made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. ‘Choose your champion then, Kolbeinn, pusillanimous coward that you are, and I will fight him. I will protect my daughter until all the breath has left my body. I will carve a new life for us.’
‘You do this, Helga, and you will leave with only the clothes on your back rather than any ships. I need to be able to provide for my growing family.’
Dagmar clenched her fists. Her father wanted to steal her mother’s life work. That woman had put him up to it. ‘My mother brought fifteen ships to this marriage—all the skalds say so. My mother built this felag the same as you. Have you forgotten so quickly, Father?’
‘You mustn’t believe everything the skalds say,’ the woman said, giving Dagmar a look of pure hatred. ‘But I predict you will lead a miserable existence should you leave your father.’
Dagmar shrank back against her mother.
‘Hush, Dagmar. You are the most precious thing in my life, worth far more than gold or even land,’ her mother said in a low voice before holding out her hand to her father. ‘Agreed. My daughter is worth that and much more besides. My daughter will have a brilliant life. My daughter will be the best warrior the world has ever encountered.’
Dagmar watched in horror as the fight began in earnest between her mother and the champion her father chose. All she had wanted was a blue gown for her name day and instead this had happened—she had lost her family and her home, the place where she knew she was safe. Somehow, she was going to have to find a way to make her mother proud of her as her father wanted nothing from her. She would find a way to give her mother a new home.
Ten years later—near Dollar, Pict-controlled Alba. Modern-day Dollar, Clackmannanshire, Scotland
At daybreak, a major battle would commence. Aedan mac Connall, King of Kintra on Ile in the Western Isles, had no need of divine gifts to know this future; instead he used his eyes to see the two armies ranged no more than a quarter of a mile apart. Each was as bad as the other—the Northmen from the Black Pool or Dubh Linn, and the Picts with King Constantine’s rag-tag army of hired Northmen from Jorvik and other sell-swords intermingled with Pict warriors. But he had no interest in the outcome beyond the thought that for once they were fighting each other, rather than preying on his people. His business was with a woman, a woman who was somewhere in this melee.
His entire future and that of his people depended on his returning her to her father where she belonged. He didn’t want to consider the fate of the hostages Kolbeinn the Blood-Axe had required to ensure his co-operation in fulfilling this quest. He had to retrieve Kolbeinn’s daughter now or he’d be damned for ever.
‘Have you seen a woman, a shield maiden called Dagmar Kolbeinndottar?’ he called to a warrior who was sitting gloomily by the dying embers of a fire.
The warrior raised his grizzled head. ‘Dagmar Kolbeinndottar? She goes by Helgadottar and has done for several seasons.’
Aedan let out a breath. Success at last. Tracking down Dagmar, the daughter of the north warlord Kolbeinn the Blood-Axe, was far worse than tracking a will-o’-the-wisp. He had travelled the entire length of Alba and well into Bernicia searching for her. Kolbeinn the Blood-Axe’s vague description of his daughter as a meek and mild slip of a thing with golden hair, kidnapped by her mother ten years before, had been deliberately misleading. In Bernicia, Aedan had learned that she like her mother before her had pledged her sword to King Constantine.
‘Dagmar Helgadottar, then,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘I have a great desire to speak with her.’
The warrior sucked his teeth. ‘More than my life is worth.’
‘But she is here, in this place?’
‘Oh, aye. That she is.’ The warrior gave a conspiratorial tap against his nose. ‘The King sets a mighty store by her and her men, but can they do more than rattle their shields and look fierce?’
Aedan held out the ring Kolbeinn the Blood-Axe had given him as well as a gold piece. ‘I have important information for her from her father.’
The grizzled warrior nodded and took the piece. ‘I hope you fare better than the others.’
Aedan blinked. ‘Others?’
‘Oh, aye, she cut off their heads and sent them back to her father.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Mind she hasn’t done that since afore her mother died.’
‘She will listen to me.’
‘You must have the skill of Loki to have got this far.’
‘I prefer to think it is the saints who have kept me safe this far.’
The man spat on his palm and made a cross in the air. ‘Them, too.’
Aedan whistled and his wolfhound, Mor, bounded up from where she had been lurking in the undergrowth. ‘Further up the line you said.’
The warrior took a step back. ‘Aye, you can’t miss her. She’s the one with her face covered in blue swirls. And she wears hissing snakes in her hair.’
* * *
Dagmar concentrated on putting the final flourishes of paint on her face. She had done them for so long, they had become second nature to her. First the black and then the blue.
She had acceded to her mother’s wishes and used paint every morning, rather than getting a permanent tattoo. Even now when her mother had been gone for five months she could not bring herself to go against her wishes. It was the design which was important, rather than the medium. One day, her mother had remarked as she’d applied Dagmar’s paint in the early days, it might be necessary to change course and design. But it served her purpose for now to let everyone think them tattoos. A new whorl for each battle she had won.
‘He means to kill you.’ Old Alf sidled up just as Dagmar finished the final whorl. He was the only one besides her mother who knew of the slight deception about the paint. Lately he made simple errors and struggled to lift his shield and sword at the same time. ‘Did you hear me, Dagmar? He means to kill you for real this time.’
Dagmar wiped her fingers on a spare bit of cloth. There was no need to ask who ʽhe’ was—Olafr Rolfson, her mother’s last lover. She’d seen how Olafr undermined her, damning her with faint praise, whilst being outspoken about