The Viking's Heart. Jacqueline Navin

      Chapter Two

      In the nearby castle of Gastonbury two men circled each other on the lists of the lower ward, crouched, tensed, weapons drawn and at the ready. The dark one held a sword in one hand, a shorter weapon in the other. Across from him, the blond man brandished a Viking broadsword in both fists. His body moved lightly despite the massive breadth of his shoulders and his great height. His controlled movements were a match for the pantherlike stalking of his slightly shorter opponent. Sweat trickled down from his forehead and into his eyes. He dashed it away with a quick swipe of his arm.

      Off in the corner, a trio of beauties giggled.

      “Perhaps you would like a hair ribbon to tie back your lovely locks,” the dark one taunted. “I am certain any of those lusty wenches would be happy to offer one of theirs.”

      The huge blond man only snarled, showing his teeth to be even and very white. Another man might have flinched, but his adversary only chuckled.

      The dark man moved quickly. Their blades came together with a ring of steel. A single spark flared for an instant.

      The blond man tossed his head. “You used that move before. Are you getting tired, or bored?”

      “Shut up, you cursed Viking,” the dark man growled. “Have you something better to offer?”

      “Do not force me to shame you before your villeins, Lucien.”

      Again the beauties tittered. Lucien scowled. The Viking grinned.

      “I should think you would wish to take more care not to goad my temper.”

      “I do not fear it,” the Viking assured him.

      Lucien moved, launching his body directly at his opponent’s midsection while bringing his sword up from the other side. With no room to maneuver, the Viking could only strike a short blow aimed at Lucien’s gut. Lucien saw it and brought his left hand down to the thick wrists, numbing the other’s grip.

      The great broadsword fell. Before the clang of it hitting the hard-packed earth died out, the Viking took a step back and retrieved from his belt a weighted net. He laughed as he swung it back and forth. “I am just as deadly without my sword.”

      “We shall see,” Lucien said. No sooner had he uttered the words than he found himself down in the dirt. Jabbing with the shorter weapon, he wrapped it around the net and yanked it out of the other man’s hand. He pulled the Viking off balance and felled him.

      “A draw?” the Viking asked, flat on his back.

      Lucien’s top lip curled in a sneer. “Never.” He scrambled to his knees, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his short sword, his eyes locked with the Nordic blue of the Viking’s as he raised it high. The larger man stayed on his back until the last moment. Then he reared up. The sword came a hair breadth from slicing into his side.

      Lucien was suddenly furious. “Sweet Jesu, Agravar, why did you move? Did you see how close that was? It could have struck you.”

      The Viking shook his head. “If the blow had been aimed to kill, the twist would have caused it to glance off my side. Since you meant no harm, it had the opposite result.”

      With that blithe explanation, he planted a booted foot on Lucien’s chest and tossed him on his back. In a flash, he was over him, the same short sword Lucien had wielded against Agravar only a moment ago now pressed into the flesh of his neck. “Yield,” he demanded with a smile.

      “Bastard!” Lucien swore.

      “True enough,” Agravar said, withdrawing the weapon and standing. The trio of giggling nymphs waved. He turned his back on them with a grimace.

      Beside him, Lucien stood and brushed himself off. “’Twas only luck you had this day.”

      “Luck is the fruit of skill and preparation.”

      Not a gracious loser, his friend and liege lord glared at him. “I set you on your arse last time.”

      “And I laid you low the time before that. As I recall, you were spitting out dirt until supper.” He was distracted by a familiar form coming from the direction of the keep. “Pelly!” he hailed.

      “Captain,” the young knight answered, bowing first to him. To Lucien, he executed a similar motion. “My lord. My lady has bid me ask if you had forgotten your promise to ride into the village and escort her cousin’s party to the castle.”

      “Damn, I had forgotten.” Lucien swept a hand through his hair and gave Agravar an enigmatic glance. “Was she…did she seem…upset?”

      Poor Pelly looked stricken. He glanced at Agravar for reassurance. “Never mind, boy,” Agravar said, giving him a slap on the shoulder that knocked the slight-framed youth forward a few steps. “We know the mistress’s temper is short these last days of her confinement.”

      Lucien let loose a string of expletives and stalked off. Rolling his eyes, Agravar dismissed Pelly and retrieved his weapon from the dust. As he followed Lucien off the training field, the three women smiled and nudged each other, casting flirtatious glances his way.

      In the stables, Lucien was working up a fine temper. “Why do you not simply bed those wenches and give us some peace?”

      “All at once or one at a time?” Agravar asked innocently.

      “It makes no difference to me as long as they cease their annoying simpering.”

      “You shall have to get used to it because they do not interest me.”

      Lucien grumbled something intelligible.

      “Is my lady in good health?” Agravar asked with studied nonchalance. “I have noticed your normally disagreeable nature even more trying of late.”

      Lucien gave one shake of his head. “Agravar, by the blood of Christ and all that is holy, the woman is more precious to me than my own life, but I fear I will go mad before this babe is brought into the world. She is not herself. Never content, fickle to the extreme, and apt to spring into tears at the slightest frustration of her whims. She is fast becoming a tyrant.”

      “She will be restored when the babe is born,” Agravar said blandly. He was a great admirer of the Lady Alayna and knew her to be a gentle lady with a heart as fierce as her husband’s, but never petty. And though Agravar could understand his friend’s impatience at Alayna’s uncharacteristic moodiness, he had no tolerance for any complaint Lucien might make.

      For, as Agravar knew, the kindness of the Fates was fickle. Lucien had been gifted with the miracle of a peerless love. It was something the Viking had never known in any form. And he had, at the advanced age of thirty and four, resigned himself to the disappointment that he never would.

      These thoughts kept him in sour company as he threw the saddle over his destrier and tightened the cinch. When Lucien spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I cannot think straight until she is delivered safely of the babe. Her restlessness…it has given me a bad premonition. I am…I…” He bowed his head.

      Chagrined, Agravar said nothing to his friend’s mangled confession. He had been thinking Lucien consumed