He did not think their plan was a good one. Were they so confident they would win? It seemed a foolish thought, given that in less than a hundred years these people had lost more and more of their land to invaders from every direction. Perhaps this was why. It was likely each man carried a knife and a long sword with a shield that was heavy, far heavier than those used by the Norse. It made them slow and often the shields were useless as it took so long for them to get into place that Norse axes and swords had already done their job.
Tormod offered up a prayer to Thor, his namesake.
Even at this darkest point of the night, there was still a glimmer of light as dawn fought to pull its way over the mountains to the east. He could see the men still moving as a group. They would be completely surrounded once he moved into place between them and their boat. He waited just a moment longer, then moved quietly across the shingle, his own footsteps masked by those of his enemy.
One of them must have heard him and started to turn. Tormod crouched low to the ground, waiting. He was sure it was the one who had not wanted to harm Aoife but he couldn’t be sure. When he turned back and followed the others, Tormod stood and took two heavy steps forward. Around the edge of the beach he saw Ulf, Björn and Arne and many other warriors. The group in the centre panicked, and with loud yells ran at the Norsemen. One even turned and saw him.
Tormod wondered why they did not hold their tight circle in the middle—it would have been a far more defensible position, but the fear in the eyes of the man who charged him answered that.
Raising his shield to block the man’s sword, he swung his axe and cried out with the passion for fighting that had been bred into his people for generations, the thrill of battle emptying his mind of other concerns. At his cry, the Norsemen attacked. All ready to die and be assured of their place in Valhalla.
The battle, such as it was, did not rage long. Winning or losing was never the question for Tormod. He knew his people would win. This place was his. The Britons were too concerned with living and not concerned enough with winning. They fought as individuals, none truly willing to die.
He swung his axe once more at the man in front of him. Only the man’s last-minute attempt to dodge saved him. The side of his head made contact with the shaft of Tormod’s axe and he fell to the ground, not dead, merely unconscious. Tormod stepped over him to carry on fighting, but found that no other was left alive.Björn moved to stand over the survivor, and Ulf placed his sword at his throat.
“Chain him!” Tormod ordered. He caught a glimpse of disappointment in Ulf’s eye. Björn’s expression was almost impossible to read. “He may have much to tell us.”
“Very well,” Ulf said, his tone not matching his words.
Chapter Twenty-one
Locked inside the hall,Aoife jumped at every clang of weapon upon weapon, every thud of weapon upon wood. She cringed at every scream. She kept her eyes firmly on the door, her knuckles white around the handle of the axe she held. She was aware, however, of Ylva, sensed the other woman watching her, sensed her suspicion, but she ignored her. Her loyalty lay with Tormod, and she would prove it.
The sounds of the battle outside ceased after a while. Aoife had no idea how much time had passed, and they all jumped when someone banged on the door.
“Who’s there?” called Ragna.
“Björn.”
Ragna and Ylva hurried forward and unfastened the bar.
Björn strode in, his clothes soaked in blood, and with a wild look in his eye. He was smiling. Aoife couldn’t move. What if the Norsemen had won, but at the expense of Tormod’s life? What would happen to her then? She watched as warrior after warrior entered the hall, resisting the desire to rush forward to see where he was. When he walked through the door grinning from ear to ear, she didn’t know whether to hug him or slap him.
“We have a prisoner,” Tormod said. “But the others are dead.” He was filthy, sweat soaked, and with sand clinging to him. Hisclothes were splashed with blood from head to toe and there were large areas where it had soaked in.
Aoife gulped at the sight, but she was happy to see him alive and ran towards him.
His eyes glowed with excitement, that same lust she’d seen in them earlier, magnified now from the frenzy of battle and the joy of victory. She pushed the thought from her mind that they had been her own people that had been killed, their conversation in the boat almost enough to convince her that she owed none of them any loyalty. Apart, perhaps, from the one who had hesitated about killing her — but she would have never wished any man dead.
Tormod grabbed her as she reached him and pulled her against him. He kissed her long and deep, then lifted his head and began shouting orders at the assembled group. She understood only a small amount of them, but there were to be more watchmen on the shore and a patrol out on the water. No one was to go anywhere unarmed or alone.
She noticed Ylva tending to Björn in a quieter corner of the hall, turned away when he pulled her down beside him and kissed her. There was little worry that the blood he had been covered in was his own, although he did have a nasty gash on one arm.
When she looked back at her husband, she realised he had noticed her watching the pair. She blushed as he laughed.
Tormod grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the back of the hall, then through the door leading to their room.
As soon as they were through it, he closed it and pushed her up against it. He kissed her urgently as one hand pulled up her skirts while the other fumbled with the fastenings of his breeks. She gasped when he lifted her and held her in place against the door. His fingers probed, testing her readiness, then he guided himself inside her and thrust deep, kissing her roughly, filling all of her senses. She could smell the sweat and the blood, sense his passion,his desperate need to bury himself in her and celebrate the fact he was alive. Briefly she wondered if any woman would have done, then she pushed the thought from her head and accepted that here, tonight, he had chosen her, and as his wife she could only hope he always would.
He cried out as he came, and her own release followed swiftly. He seemed in no hurry to withdraw, just held her there, panting, trying to catch his breath. Finally, he lifted his head. For a long moment, he stared at her.
An emotion stirred deep inside her, an emotion she didn’t want to put a name to.
“I didn’t mean to do that…” he said.
Her heart sank.
As soon as he had lowered her feet to the floor, he pulled away and hurried from the room. She blinked, wondering what had caused such a sudden change. Even if she asked him, he might not know himself.
