noises about sharing a marriage bed with Dagmar. She knew his sudden declaration of overwhelming desire for her had nothing to do with her figure or the curve of her mouth. The whispers of how truly hideous she was had followed her since she was fourteen. Snakes for hair. An overlong nose and pointed chin. A face like a misshapen pile of rocks. A woman no real man could truly desire.
When Olafr persisted with his lies about her beauty, she threatened to forcibly unman any man who tried to warm her bed, including him. He had gone green and had never repeated the request.
‘I need every warrior who is willing to pick up a sword for me.’
‘Pah, you don’t need him that bad.’
‘I gave my word to my mother. Would you have me break my promise with the final season nearly done?’ Dagmar’s throat closed. Her mother had ignored a minor injury until it was too late and the infection raged throughout her body. As she lay dying, she had made Dagmar promise to fulfil her pledge to support Constantine, to get the title to those lands. Land for the men who had shown loyalty to her mother during the lean years and a proper home for her daughter, as she’d vowed when Dagmar was ten. She would hang her sword over the hearth and only bring it down to defend what was hers, instead of using it to further someone else’s ambition. ‘Constantine must honour his pledge.’
‘Your mother knew when a king was not worthy of support. She would not want her only child to be out here, facing these odds. She valued your life above all.’
‘It will be as the gods will.’ Dagmar took her sword, and began the next part of the ritual she always did before going into battle—plaiting her hair so it hung about her face like snakes. ‘Perhaps the Dubh Linn raiders will render this conversation unnecessary. Olafr often leaves his left side exposed.’
‘Make an old man happy—keep an eye on him. You may face more than one enemy today.’
‘I’ve taken care since my tenth name day,’ she said standing up. After her stepmother’s son had been born, the first attack on Dagmar’s life had happened—poison in her stew which her dog had eaten instead of her. A servant had confessed to the entire plot. Her mother had sent the man’s tongue and ears back to her father, but there had been other attempts from men desperate enough to believe her stepmother’s promises of gold if only they’d rid her of her son’s rival.
‘Perhaps you should consider an alliance, marriage to a warrior you can trust, someone who can counter Olafr.’
Dagmar took a practice swing with her sword. It made a satisfactory slicing noise. ‘I don’t need any warrior to counter Olafr. My sword arm remains strong.’
‘Dagmar!’ Olafr called out. ‘Someone asks after you.’
Dagmar swallowed the quick retort when she spied a tall man with dark auburn hair and piercing blue-green eyes, the sort of man who made women go weak at the knees and more than likely knew it. The sort of man who enjoyed a buxom woman in his bed and who would curl his lip at her meagre assets even if they were not bound tightly to her chest.
His clothes immediately proclaimed that he was not from the North. A wolfhound stood by his side. A Gael. Dagmar frowned as she spied the sword stuck in his belt—the hilt resembled one of her father’s, one she remembered from her childhood.
‘Who requires me?’ she said in a snarl, annoyed that she had noticed the breadth of his shoulders.
‘Ah, there you are, Dagmar,’ Olafr said with a smirk. ‘I had wondered if you in your eagerness had already departed for battle.’
Dagmar ignored the jibe. Before her first battle, she had set off early as her mother had been delayed with a split shield. Dagmar’s actions had ensured they surprised the raiders and carried the day. Olafr had not even been part of the felag then. Her mother had found it amusing and the tale had grown with each telling.
Whenever Olafr repeated the tale, he made it seem as though she was some sort of spoilt and naive girl, rather than a shield maiden who had taken a wise course of action and turned the tide of the battle.
‘A visitor before battle?’ Dagmar tapped her sword against her hand.
‘Sweetling...’ Olafr began with another smirk.
Dagmar cut him off with an imperious gesture. ‘My mother bequeathed her men to me. I should’ve been informed immediately when a stranger came into the camp.’
‘Always leaping to the wrong conclusion.’ Olafr’s smile grew broader. ‘I brought him to you. Is it my fault that he encountered me first? If so, I beg your pardon and will turn my back on any other messenger. No, no, I will tell them, I’m but a humble servant who can give no counsel.’
‘Humble is the last thing you are, Olafr.’
‘I know my worth.’ He gave a little swagger. ‘Your mother saw it. Others see it, Dagmar the Blind Shield Maiden.’
Dagmar belatedly wondered if she had fallen into a trap. For all his bluster, Olafr was a capable warrior. Her mother had relied on his counsel during her final few months. On her deathbed, she’d urged Dagmar to do the same. However, there was something about the man which made her flesh crawl.
‘Go on. Why do you seek me out rather than readying your men for battle as I instructed?’
‘This man, Aedan mac Connall, seeks Dagmar Kolbeinndottar. Urgently.’ He bowed. ‘Are you acquainted with such a person? Or shall I send him away to seek her elsewhere?’
Dagmar pressed her lips together. Her stepmother would not send a Gael if her father had died, she would send an assassin to ensure that her son inherited all her father’s holdings, rather than sharing it out equally between his children like the law in the North demanded. Her mother had drummed this into her since the night they fled into the forest with only Old Alf for protection—to be prepared for the knife in the night.
‘I’ve no time for riddles or to slit his throat. More’s the pity. The men need to be ready to march when the trumpet sounds.’ She turned towards the warrior and said very slowly in his tongue. ‘I will lead my men to victory and then we will speak, Gael.’
Olafr raised a brow in that irritatingly smug way of his. ‘It might be worth your while to hear the man out before cutting his throat. No harm, unless you wish to continue with a battle that you must surely lose. You get more impulsive by the day, Dagmar.’
Dagmar ground her teeth. He made it sound as though she was unblooded, rather than being a veteran of five summers’ fighting. She’d stopped being so eager years ago. There was a sort of nervous anticipation, a wanting to get the waiting finished. But after her first experience, she had never been eager for a battle. People she loved died or were injured. Battles were ugly messy things and had to be endured. If today went as she planned, this would be her final one.
‘I gave my word to my mother and she gave hers to the King.’ She crossed her arms over her bound breasts and glared at Olafr. ‘Would you have me break my promise? Would you have me lose my mother’s lands? Would you have me branded an untrustworthy traitor?’
‘What I have to say can wait until you have time.’ Aedan mac Connall made a smooth bow. ‘But it will be in your interest to hear me out before you slit my throat, Dagmar, daughter of both the great Helga and Kolbeinn the Blood-Axe.’
‘If you wish to stay, you must be prepared to fight,’ Dagmar said, her look scathing. ‘We require warriors who are capable of lifting a shield.’
‘My skill with sword and shield has never been in question.’ He raised an arrogant brow. ‘If I fight for you, will you hear me out? Will you listen to your father’s message right to the end? Will you allow me to keep my head attached to my shoulders and breathing?’
Dagmar hated the small shiver of anticipation that ran down her spine. Her father must have heard about her mother’s death. Perhaps he would be open to an alliance now... But then she dismissed the thought as wishful thinking. Her father cared little for her hopes and dreams and everything