The current hurried her along and she reached the opposite bank. Only once before had she ever set foot on this side of the fjord. That was long ago, when the two great clans were joined in friendship. She had come to a marriage feast held at Latham Borgsen’s house, when his daughter was wed to a distant cousin. It was a grand celebration lasting nearly a month, and all were invited for miles around. She wondered now if she could remember the way to Latham’s house. So many years had passed.
She started to walk inland. Her cloak was wrapped tightly against the cold. A bulky fur hood concealed her features, as she had intended. She did not want her identity known on the off chance her hastily concocted scheme failed. It was such a simple plan, she thought. How could it fail?
According to the woman’s calculations, there was less than half a league left to walk before reaching the Borgsen settlement. She did not have to journey the full distance. In a dense crop of trees she was set upon by two riders who galloped to her in haste. Their mighty mounts pinned her against a tree trunk in her fright.
They laughed at her cowardice. From this and her short stature they knew her to be a woman, though they assumed they were making sport with one of their own.
One of the stout men dismounted. The younger of the two, he was wrapped in fur pelts; these made him look twice his normal size, which was immense to begin with.
“A wench out this early, and alone, must be meeting her lover. You need look no further, for you have found two instead of just one to satisfy you.”
The other Viking still sat on his steed. He was not much older than the first, but just as large and menacing. His expression showed he was impatient with the other man’s remarks.
“Ease off, Cedric,” he said, though it was hardly a command. Then he turned to the woman. “Your name, mistress?”
“Adosinda,” she lied.
“I know of no one with that name,” Cedric remarked. “Do you, Arno?”
“Nay. From where do you come, Mistress Adosinda?”
She hesitated, her heart beating wildly. “From—from across the fjord.”
Both men became deadly serious. “You are of the Haardrad clan?”
“Only distantly, very distantly.”
“If you come from across the fjord, then you must know you are not welcome on this side!” Arno exclaimed.
“This is a plot, Arno,” the younger Viking speculated. “I told you the Haardrads had been quiet for too long. They have sent a woman to sneak into our homes and kill us while we sleep! Who would suspect a woman?”
“’Tis not true, I swear!” she cried. “No one knows I have come here!”
“Do not lie, mistress. I am Cedric Borgsen, third son of Latham. “Twas my oldest brother Edgar that Hugh Haardrad killed. If I sense deceit, you will die instantly!”
“I mean you no harm!” she insisted, fear gripping her. “I came without weapon.”
“Why then do you trespass where you are not wanted?”
“I seek your help.”
“You seek to trick us!” Cedric accused.
“Nay—nay! I know of no man who would help me, for ’tis my intention to slight a Haardrad, and what vassal or kin would do this? Nay, only a Borgsen would carry out my plan.”
“Your words ring false. What Haardrad would seek to harm another?” Arno demanded.
“A woman—one with much to gain by it.”
“Hear her out, Arno. I am most curious now.”
“What I want done is very simple, and I will pay you well for it. There is a slave girl captured only recently—a Celtic beauty with raven hair and eyes the color of smoke. She stands in my way, and I want her gone.”
“Killed?”
“I do not care what you do with her once you have her,” the woman continued. “You can keep her for yourself as long as she does not escape—and shewilltry. You could also sell her far away from here and gain another fat purse. Or, yea, even kill her; I care not.”
“How does stealing a slave girl slight a Haardrad?” Arno demanded.
