Her Viking Warrior by Gina Conkle

Author:Gina Conkle [Conkle, Gina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2019-06-11T13:58:20+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

Iron hinges whined from the rope maker opening her weathered door.

“Ilsa. Bjorn. Come in.” Valgerd’s head poked out to check surrounding cliffs. “Snow is coming. I feel it in my bones.”

Ilsa scurried into the longhouse when an icy gust swept through the road. Heavy clouds tumbled in, hiding the moon and stars. Night encroached, darker than usual, but Bjorn stayed outside, his black mantle flaring winglike and menacing.

“Are you not joining us?” Valgerd’s work-thick fingers brushed loose strands away from her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed and sweat dampened her hairline. The rope maker had been working.

“Merely escorting a friend.” His voice rumbled a kindly sentiment, but his eyes were distinctly chilled.

The older woman’s rusty laugh floated between them. “Thank you, son of Vellefold. With all the wild animals roaming our settlement, it is good of you to protect her.”

Bjorn took her teasing jab in stride. “It’s what I do best.” He looked long at Ilsa and gave a nod worthy of royalty. “I’ll see you at the feast hall.”

“Until then,” Valgerd sung cheerily.

They followed his departure, long legs eating the ground, his size filling the frost-coated road. Torchlight turned his blond hair into molten gold.

Not a wolf. A fair-haired dragon.

“From behind, the son looks like the father once did,” Valgerd mused. “He was born to lead. Not serve.”

“Because his shoulders fill a mantle nicely?” she asked in a snit.

Valgerd pinned her with a reasoned stare. “Because he is saving us.” She shut the door and adjusted a grey wolf pelt on her shoulders. “Someone is churlish this eve.”

She fiddled with the basket’s weave. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not, but these are the times we live in. All of us are on edge.” Valgerd motioned to an empty table. “Go ahead. Put the basket over there.”

She did, willing the topic of Vellefold’s returned son over. But, no. Valgerd chattered on, singing praises of the settlement’s favorite topic, Bjorn.

“Teaching orphaned boys to fight on one hand, rebuilding our settlement on the other. Worthy qualities.”

“There is that.” The basket on the table, she dusted off her hands, and turning around, found Valgerd’s eyes twinkling.

“You’re not the only woman to notice Egil’s son is a mighty man. The settlement is abuzz with talk about him and the other unmarried men.”

“They may talk about him all they like.” It burned to say that. She meandered into dangling ribbons of bark, the strips brushing her head and shoulders, skeins of them everywhere, hanging from braided leather strung back and forth across the longhouse.

“You don’t care one bit?”

“None.”

Valgerd followed her. “He has proven himself an honorable man. I would say the same of the men who serve him. I cannot help but wonder if there is one or two women in our settlement who can tether their hearts.”

Such hope in her voice. There was no arguing the wealth of goodwill Bjorn and the Forgotten Sons spread. But no woman of Vellefold could tether Bjorn’s heart, not with seeds of unhappiness still planted there. Distracted by the harvest hanging all around her, she stopped and rubbed supple fibers between thumb and forefinger.

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