Defiant in the Viking's Bed. Joanna Fulford

      Chapter One

      Leif Egilsson pulled his dagger free and silently lowered the body of the dead guard. Across the wide clearing in front of him he could see a large camp fire around which a dozen men lounged at their ease, laughing and talking among themselves. Their war gear was piled a few yards off. Behind them was pitched an imposing tent, no doubt sheltering the prince and his closest henchmen. Hard by was a smaller shelter with two guards posted at the entrance. Leif noted their presence with satisfaction.

      ‘That’s where Hakke will be holding her, my lord,’ he murmured.

      Halfdan Svarti nodded. ‘We’ll go in fast and hit them before they know what’s happened. In the meantime, you and your men find Lady Ragnhild and keep her safe.’

      ‘Depend on it.’

      The two men retraced their steps into the trees a little way to where fifty armed warriors waited. Halfdan surveyed them keenly.

      ‘Take no prisoners. This time we end it once and for all.’

      They heard him in wolfish anticipation.

      Leif met his brother’s gaze. ‘Ready?’

      Finn smiled. ‘Does Thor hurl thunderbolts?’

      ‘He does today.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear it, Cousin,’ said Erik. ‘Life has grown dull of late.’

      Beside them a grizzled campaigner stroked the haft of an axe. ‘You speak true. There hasn’t been so much as a skirmish for weeks. Skull Cleaver is thirsty.’

      ‘She shall drink her fill, Thorvald,’ said Leif.

      The older man laughed softly. It drew answering grins from those who stood nearby. There followed the muted chink of mail and the sinister whisper of blades unsheathed. Leif smiled, tightening his grip on Foe Bane’s hilt, and then briefly touched the amulet that he wore around his neck.

      ‘Let’s do it.’

      They moved forwards to the edge of the thicket. Halfdan raised his sword aloft and then, with a deafening roar, the whole force broke from cover and hurtled upon the enemy.

      * * *

      Astrid sat bolt upright, her startled gaze meeting Ragnhild’s. ‘What was that?’

      ‘I’m not sure. It sounded like...’

      The rest was lost, swept aside by a deafening war cry and then confused alarm: shouting, running feet and then the unmistakable clash of steel. Astrid leapt to her feet and ran to the entrance of the tent, pushing aside the hangings to peer out. Her eyes widened.

      ‘Merciful gods! Where on earth did they come from?’

      Ragnhild hastened to join her and then she too stared in dismay at the throng of fighting warriors. ‘Whose men are those? Can you tell?’

      ‘No, but they’re definitely enemies of Prince Hakke, which means...’

      ‘They might prove friends to us?’

      ‘Let’s hope so, my lady.’

      Astrid prayed that her words were true and that they might not find themselves even worse off than before. It was hard to see how, but then, nothing was certain. This might mean deliverance or doom. Hakke would not yield up his prisoners easily. Indeed, he might rather slay them than lose them. She swallowed hard. They had no weapons with which to defend themselves; even their belt knives had been confiscated when they were captured. Possibly the prince had not wished to leave temptation in their way. He was right: Ragnhild would have used it on herself before agreeing to his demands and Astrid didn’t blame her. Nor would she have chosen to linger among the present company after her mistress’s demise. Some things were worse than death.

      * * *

      Leif parried the blow aimed at his head and laid on with a will, driving his opponent back several paces. The defender fought desperately, recovered again and came on, his expression a feral snarl. A wicked thrust was deftly deflected. The blades slid and locked. Leif brought a knee up hard, heard a grunt of pain and saw the man stagger. A second later Foe Bane sank deep in his opponent’s gut. Leif tugged the sword free and darted a swift look around. His gaze fell on a familiar figure some twenty yards off; a warrior whose helm bore the crest of a hunting hawk. He was yelling furious orders at his troops. As the latter piled into the fray the warrior looked round and as his gaze locked with Leif’s, anger became malevolence.

      ‘You!’

      ‘As you say, Hakke.’

      ‘This will not be forgotten. Not this, nor the battle at Eid.’

      ‘I hope not.’

      ‘All will be paid for, Leif Egilsson.’

      Before they could say more one of Halfdan’s men stepped into Hakke’s path, compelling his attention. Other fighting pairs jostled in. The prince spied his opponent and backed off, lost to view behind the mêlée. Leif hesitated, sorely tempted to go after him. However, his promise to the king could not be ignored and reluctantly he turned away. The others would have to deal with it. He had a more pressing mission.

      * * *

      The sounds of conflict drew nearer and then the view from the tent was entirely blocked by fighting men. There followed a cry of mortal agony and blood sprayed across hempen fabric. Both women gasped, leaping out of the way as the guard’s lifeless body fell through the opening. Then the hangings were torn aside and a tall figure blocked out the light; a figure clad in chainmail and whose fist wielded a blood-stained sword. He was flanked by several other mailed warriors. The two women paled and retreated, brought to bay at the rear of the tent.

      As the intruder advanced Astrid stifled a scream, her heart pounding like Thor’s hammer. Her attention flicked from the naked dripping blade to the darkening gore streaked across the chainmail byrnie and thence to the steel helmet that partly concealed his face. He halted a few feet away and for the space of a few heartbeats his gaze swept both women, cool and assessing. Then he lowered the sword.

      ‘Don’t be afraid. No