Little Love Affair (Southern Romance Series, #1) (15 page)

872 A.D.

Somewhere in North-East England

T
he fog hung in the air like a habit belonging to a monk, as if never meant to depart from the body. It was impossible to see more than twenty feet in front, or behind, or anywhere, as a matter of fact. The English could be standing in the middle of the field advancing and neither party would know until they bumped into the Viking army. They'd been awake since dawn, but no one knew what time it was now because the grey clouds would give no hint of where the sun might be. The Vikings were willing to battle and die for this country?

Erik squinted, trying to will his eyes to see through the thick, smoky-grey mist. He imagined the field before him, without the fog, the lush green of the grass and surrounding trees. The land stood perfect for agriculture, not battle. He tried to keep his thoughts in check. At twenty, he should be home in Denmark, maybe farming but definitely married, with a slew of sons and some daughters. Instead, he stood here, in the cold, wet mud of this forsaken country. All his training and education made him an excellent military commander. Except he really just wanted a simple life.

"The men are saying King Halfdan's going to speak with us. He and his guards are coming up the rear of the hill," Marcus spoke, bringing Erik back to the present.

"King Halfdan? Who's calling him that now, cousin?" Erik kept his face blank, though his insides were boiling.

Marcus stood beside him, grinning. "I think 'tis safe to assume the rumor was started by the
king
himself. He plans to lead this Great Heathen Army to battle."

Erik glanced the small distance he could see in front of him and glared. His body stood erect and it took an effort to unclench his jaw. "We are not the Great Heathen Army. It's the Great Danish Army." He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. "Halfdan will not lead us today. He's a man of words," Erik couldn't hold back a snort, "and smart enough not to risk his life to appear heroic in this bloody fog. He'll do as he always does; talk with the commanders, ride amongst the men and then hide behind the dog's tail."

Marcus sucked in his breath. "As much as you don't like the man, I suggest keeping those opinions inside your head, or in the privy of your tent. I know how you feel, cousin, but there are many who disagree."

"The man's a tyrant. His goal is to pillage and conquer as much of England as he can. He has no respect for the people who have toiled to make this land livable. He would prefer to kill and burn them all." He felt Marcus' elbow sharp in his ribs, even through his chain mail. He'd seen the carnage Halfdan had created throughout Europe. Fighting for him was not something he would have chosen.

"Enough! If your father heard you speak –"

"I'm sure he's turning in his grave. I know who my father was and what he wanted of me. I'm here, am I not? I'm still doing his duty, years after his death."

"At least try to enjoy it." Marcus meant well and Erik was fond of his younger cousin. Marcus had risen through the ranks, both on his own accord but also through Erik's guidance.

Erik also knew only he himself had the power to speak his mind, and none of the other commanders would challenge him. He may be one of the youngest leaders of the Vikings, but he'd been fighting and organizing battles alongside his father longer than he could remember. He had earned their respect.

A murmur began through the men. Erik heard the quiet talk before those ones in his line of vision started to form two lines, bending down to one knee. Marcus dropped down, his right hand making a fist and covering his heart. Erik reached to settle his brown Arabian mare, rubbing her nose. He would bow to no leader who called himself a king. Their king was in Denmark, safe in his castle.

Halfdan rode in on a large, white horse. Erik didn't understand the white horse. It stood out in battle, like a target. Maybe it would be best if the man stayed at the rear of today's skirmish. As much as Halfdan loved the kill and fight, he would be marking himself for certain death.

"Erik," Halfdan spoke, his voice raspy and deep.

"Yes... Sire," he added grudgingly. He met Halfdan's unwavering gaze with no fear. Halfdan's blue eyes were full of ice and hatred, even as he spoke among his own men. The two were the same height, but Erik was lean, muscular and all legs. Halfdan was broader shouldered, still fit but age had begun to creep up on him. He hid his slight belly behind the full-length, fur cape.

"Are the men ready to fight?" It sounded like he needed to clear his throat though the man never coughed.

"They are, but visibility's very limited. The fog seems to stay connected to the ground, refusing to dissipate."

Halfdan waved his hand as if swatting a fly. "It will sharpen the men's senses. They'll have to be thorough; any English man partially alive could kill them."

"Yes."

Halfdan glared at Erik and gave him a once over. "You're not afraid to die?"

"No."

"You're fearless. Maybe stupid, but the soldiers follow you and that's good enough for me. Lead the men today, and when the victory is done give me the credit. You'll be rewarded as per your station. Make an example to the rest of the people in this god-forsaken country."

Erik rubbed his mare's neck. The horse snorted and side stepped. Erik forced himself to relax and scratched the horse behind the ears, bringing her back toward him. He said nothing to Halfdan.

"The men may loot the nearby town afterwards. They can help themselves to any valuables, food or cattle." Halfdan turned to go but swung the horse back around. He stared at Erik, a dark smile playing on his lips. "They're welcome to anything, but warn them not to touch the women. Kill them. No touching or gratifying from our men. I'll put a sword to any of the men who do. We will not weaken our Viking blood with this tainted, dirty race. No breeding, or death by my hand."

Erik swallowed, his throat now dry in the moist air. Halfdan's radical beliefs would be impossible to instill in the soldiers. Erik agreed with not touching the women but for entirely different reasons. They were not part of this war for land.

In order to prepare for the fight for the British island, the Vikings needed men, a lot of men. They took prisoners willing to fight and die for their freedom. Some of the men were decent but most fought for themselves, not their king and country.

On top of this, the men had been travelling for weeks with more time spent in preparing for battle. They hadn't seen, let alone been with, a woman in months, and for Halfdan to give them freedom to loot but not touch. Erik would have a bigger battle there than on this field.

"Is it understood?" Halfdan's raspy voice showed his impatience from Erik's lack of response.

"It'll be done, Sire," Marcus spoke, still kneeling on the ground by Erik. "I'll be sure and let the men know, and hold them to their word." He tapped his sword.

"Good. Get this battle done before sundown. I'll watch this one from the hill. This one's easy. Our next battle is critical, and I plan to be fresh to lead the men myself." Halfdan clicked his horse forward. "Erik, I expect a full report after." He turned and rode away, the fog swallowing him up.

Erik stood beside his mare, brushing dried dirt off her coat. He felt Marcus rise beside him and spoke, not bothering to look in his direction. "Do not tell the men they are free to loot but not to touch the women till after the fight. Some of our soldiers are short-witted and it will be enough to distract them from their duty. Let the combat finish and then tell them about their next charge."

"As you wish."

Marcus' curt reply had Erik turn his head in the direction of his second-in-command. Their mothers were sisters, but they looked nothing alike. Marcus had dark, curly hair and brown eyes. Erik's blonde, almost white, hair stood out on the battlefield like Halfdan's new horse.

Erik earned respect and loyalty. He knew his men would never forsake him. Marcus was different. He could command a group of men simply by the threat in his voice. When they played as lads, Erik often believed that Marcus could burn someone alive, simply by speaking.

"Don't be hostile with me, Marcus. I'm still above you."

"Fine, Sire. Might I suggest that you learn to reply to your king then, instead of leaving it to me?" Marcus stalked away toward his horse to prepare.

"He's not my king," muttered Erik. Lifting his chain mail shirt so it lay properly in place, he checked his clothing and gear. He'd sharpened his sword upon rising this morning. His axe had been sharpened the night before and he'd also attached his small, hand-size knife to the belt. It had been the last gift from his father, engraved on the handle by his mother.

He pulled it from his belt and held the handle, gazing at the knotted pattern and the name on the worn wood. He had been named after his father, Erik Jorgen. He could see the care his mother had taken to carve the pattern. He hoped to pass it on one day to a son. Turning it over, he noticed the red and brown stained into the wood. He meticulously cleaned it after each battle, but years of blood and gore had permanently stained the one side and found its way nestled into the carvings. It brought him back to the focus at hand.

The scouts had reported very little the days leading up the battle. They could find little information on the English army, almost like they were invisible. It made these grounds very deadly, for both sides. Erik would have preferred to wait, but Halfdan refused to stall any longer. He wanted to move toward Northumbria and capture the central waterfront shipping town.

Erik glanced around at the other commanders under him. The fog had begun to lift a bit, still thick, but he could now see fifty feet in front of him. It must be getting close to mid-morning. They needed to prepare to advance or all would be wasted another day.

A commander walked by, older than Erik by ten years but still under him.

"Johan, are the men ready to march?"

"Aye, Sire." He stood erect and faced Erik. "When would you begin?"

"Now. There is no need to wait or the day will be lost. Have the archers in front to hold the ranks. Hopefully, the heat from their fire will remove some of the damn fog. We'll advance on foot, and leave the horses until they're needed. Sound the warning. We march in half an hour." Let the bloodbath begin.

872 A.D.

In the Southern Tip of Scotland

L
inzi stepped out of the house, dashing away from the shouts of her father and brother. She didn't need to hear the argument that never ceased to bore them. If her mother had still been alive, she would have swatted both men on the back of their heads and sent them to their chores. Plenty of work on the small farm always needed to be done. Kenton, her brother, felt the need to join the English army to stop the vicious Vikings, but her father bickered back that he was needed on the land.

Once past the stone wall surrounding the house, she slipped her shoes on and headed west, toward the sunset. Less than a mile walk brought her to the small hill on the edge of their land. Lifting her skirt, she trudged up the hill and sat down on one of the flat stones near the small burial plot. Her mother, grandparents and a baby brother who'd died at birth were buried here. She sat facing west, her back to the graves but near her mother's resting place.

Inhaling and slowly exhaling several long breaths, she let her shoulders drop as she hugged her knees. She watched the pink sky with the amber ball make its way into the horizon.

"Those men will always be boys, Mother." She often spoke to her while she sat here. "They both refuse to listen to me, or each other. Kenton shouts about the need for blood-shedding to save our country and drive off the Vikings. Those horrible beasts kill for pleasure. I see his point in fighting for what is rightfully ours, but I don't want him to join you here on the hill. Let the others fight. When the wolf comes knocking on our door, then Kenton can push his cause."

Having said the words aloud, she no longer felt the anxiety tightening inside of her. She wished she could say the words to her brother. He was two years her elder, nineteen years old, and full of vigor. He needed to find himself a wife to focus his energy. Three girls in town are vying for his attention and Linzi wished he would just choose one and settle down.

Sighing, she stretched her arms out behind her, leaning to let her fingers curl around the soft, green grass. She closed her eyes to enjoy the last bit of warmth the sun had to offer before it disappeared. She needed to head back to the house and finish making supper. Her boys, as she called her father and brother, had been working hard in the fields. Spring had come early this year and with the soil soft from the rain, it had the boys hungry by dinner time. That was probably the reason behind their argument, they needed to eat.

Standing up, she brushed off the grass on her skirt and blew a kiss toward her mother. Making the sign of the cross, she straightened her shoulders and headed down the hill. She thought about what she'd need to say if the argument still lingered. She hoped they'd be finished but knew that was not likely. They were as stubborn as each other.

The house stood silent as she rounded the old stone wall. She smiled to herself as she remembered as a child asking her father how old the wall was. He'd simply replied, old as the hills, old as the hills. It always made her smile when she remembered the look on his face. He'd been so serious, with a slight frown and creased brow. Her mother had shouted from the door that his face would freeze if he kept the look. He had laughed and bounded up the walk to swing her around in his arms. He now had laugh lines around his mouth and forehead to disprove her theory.

Blinking to clear her thoughts, she glanced around the yard and noticed her father out by the horses. He appeared to be giving them a brush down and checking their hooves. Cocking her head slightly, she thought she heard him whistling. He never held a grudge or stayed angry. He fought with intensity, but he could walk away and leave the matter until it needed to be dealt with again. Unlike her brother, who couldn't seem to let things go.