DISCLAIMER: The Last Kingdom is the property of Bernard Cornwell. This fanfic is for entertainment purposes only (mainly mine!) and no copyright infringement is intended.

Fierce

by chef diamondheart

***MIDDAY***

Breath rasping through the throat to form clouds in the bitter air, blood pumping through legs as each boot hits the ground. By her side, the River Use shines like a ribbon of silver in the pale sunlight. It is good to move, to run, to press her endurance. The long, cold days beside Ragnar's cairn, she felt weighed down, stupid with suffering. Brida cannot outpace fate, but the exercise separates her heart from its burdens and the quandary of choices, for a time. If only the river could run forever, so would she.

Over the pounding of her feet and pulse, she hears shouting from up ahead. Men clustered on the bank. Is it a fight? Those are common enough between mettlesome warriors with their inflated notions of honor and pride. She slips within the tree line, trying to calm her heaving lungs as she ducks from cover to cover to suss the situation. Recent events have made her wary.

No sounds of anger or challenge. The group is jovial, guffawing and offering cries of encouragement. A running man, naked, winter white skin and flying red hair, bursts from their midst. Cnut. With a bellow, he gathers his legs and flings himself into the frigid waters like a hurtled stone. A ring of water flies up in his wake, a crown of crystal beads in the sun. Brida gasps, startled and impressed.

Moments pass. He fails to surface. The cheers of the onlookers turn to concerned mutters. The shock of such cold could stop even the most stalwart heart.

"No, no!" A scream that comes out an anguished whisper. Not again. Not another man. All her plans, her-Cnut breaches like a salmon in spring, ruddy hair dark with the water running from his head and body. Grinning through chattering teeth, he shouts an invitation to the others to join him and begins to scrub at his skin with a cloth tossed from the shore. None have the wherewithal to share his icy bath and most begin to drift away to where warmth and ale await, a few linger to build up a fire on the bank.

After another long look, she turns and makes her own circuitous way to the camp. Her mind is not striving for emptiness now, full of wonder at a man running headlong into a freezing river.

Gaining her tent at last, she shouts to her bondswoman, "Irmingard! Fetch a wash tub or a big pot, something I can stand in, and water. Warm water."

*** EARLIER THAT MORNING ***

"We will wait for you by the River Use," Cnut assured her as he left her beside Ragnar's grave, but she's been away longer than intended. Half-afraid that the warband will be gone without her, she rides through the night and gains the camp while the morning is still young. A sentry hails her in welcome.

The camp has swelled enormously, becoming a sprawling city of sorts. So many people she doesn't know. After the days of solitude, the noise of thousands clustered together is jarring, oppressive. The heavy stamp of boots, rhythmic clanging at the smithy, shouts of anger and of jollity, snatches of song, coughing, two women quarreling, the complaints of livestock on their tethers. Nearby, a man hawks and spits.

Worse is the stink: unwashed bodies, smoke and rancid grease, soured ale, damp wool and sweaty leather, the midden, open latrines.

A bored looking man sits on a stool outside Ragnar's tent, her tent. He rises with nodded greeting before gathering the stool and walking off.

She stands for a long moment at the tent's opening, remembering the horror that greeted her last time she entered. The mauled woman sprawled on the floor, Ragnar on the bed, blood congealing around a dozen wounds, the stench of shit and gore and sudden terror, the sounds of her own panting sobs. The stuff of the evil dreams that wrench her from sleep-her husband, choking on his own blood as he begs for vengeance, his sightless corpse frosting over with the relentless cold of Niflheim.

Many say she is as good as a man. A doubtful compliment at best, she always thinks. Now, however, she will have to strive for the one quality of men that she truly envies: The ability to put emotions in a chest and chain it shut. From here on out, there will be no room for the sorrow, the rage and bewilderment, the impossible weight of loss. A woman must survive.

"Freya help me!" she prays. A step, then a pause. The tent flaps have been scraped and washed, the bloody handprints on them nearly gone. If one did not know, they'd be invisible. There is something about those marks ... it tickles her brain but remains elusive. A matter to think on later. She gathers her resolve and takes the final step in.

Irmingard comes forward, her relief plain. "I was worried, lady. You've been gone a time."

She clasps the older woman's hand in greeting. "There was some business to see to that kept me. Who was that man out front? Has he been here the whole time?"

"Him or one so like I could not tell them apart. Cnut's men." The servant peers sharply at her mistress, but Brida is looking around the tent. Much is the same, and much different.

The blood-soaked bedding has been removed; a mat of woven river reeds covers the stains on the ground cloth. A pallet of recently cut pine boughs and moss gives a fresh scent, replacing the smells of violent death. The sleeping furs are new. Her husband's possessions have been gathered and tidied away.

Despite her resolution moments before, Brida cannot help the tears that so readily overflow of late. "It looks so ... unnatural. Ragnar was never one to put things where they belonged."

Contrite, Irmingard bows her head, "Did I do wrong, lady? I-I ..."

"No, all is good. It is ... fitting," Brida reassures her. "All things are changing now. Thank you for this."

The place over the bed for weapons is bare. Ragnar's sword and shield are in his grave; the pegs where they used to hang seem to look at her, questioning. Brida unslings her shield, settling it in its usual spot, along with her throwing axe and spears. Her dagger, boot knife, and her sword, Soul Eater, she retains without thought. They are as much a part of her as ears or feet.

The sound of a clearing throat outside. Cnut. She emerges to meet him.

There is a quality about him that catches the eye, something intriguing, an appeal she cannot define. Not his coloring or height-red hair is common enough among the Danes and Ragnar was taller by half a head. No, Cnut appears lit from within, brighter than other men. Brilliance and a sharp, calculating mind, a combination that will make others follow where he leads. A dangerous man ... and an exciting one.

"Brida!" His glad smile is sincere, she concedes warily, extending a hand that he clasps between both of his.

She senses a pull between the two of them, the way a lodestone attracts iron and almost sways with the effort to not respond. Disturbed, she sounds harsher than intended as she speaks without greeting.

"You set a guard on my tent?"

"Er, some of Ragnar's men wished a memento of service, but I was sure that you would prefer to make the selection personally."

Smoothly spoken. He kept Ragnar's and her things from being looted, or worse, someone moving in. It is no act of kindness. By installing his man at her door, Cnut has reserved his own place. Or so he thinks. The decision is hers, and she will play it out a while yet. Best not to let him get too confident.

"Although, had I known that you keep a dragon as your slave, I might not have bothered." A loud huff of indignation sounds from inside the tent. He cringes with mock fear.

Brida's lips twitch despite herself. "How thoughtful. I also appreciate how you sent men after me, surely not to spy, because they were most unsubtle, but to ...?" She leaves the question open, wondering how he will explain.

"I grew worried, lady." His earnest expression makes the words believable, almost. "You were away longer than I thought. In such unsettled times, anything can happen to a woman alone."

"I am equal to whatever might occur, I think, however untoward." With a voice as dry as dust.

"Without doubt, please forgive me. In my concern, I was not thinking clearly."

His eyes are laughing, he's enjoying this. So is she, she finds. It's fun to chop words with a man who has wits as well as muscle.

"And of course," he continues, "you had that oath-breaker Uhtred with you, equally fearsome. Imagine my surprise. Only a handful of days ago you were screaming for his blood, yet now your rift is mended."

She wants to snap that her dealings with Uhtred are not his concern, but that is a discussion for another time. Oh. Perhaps the man is jealous? Fearful that a love long past will claim her before he can?

With a toss of her head, she declares, "Uhtred is a boil on the world's arse, but he owes a debt of blood to Ragnar. When it is paid, I will kill him."

Maybe. Maybe not.

Probably not.

Time to change the subject.

"We must talk."

"Yes," he agrees eagerly, plainly anxious to settle the matter of her men. "I can call a council, where we will-"

"No. That is, we must gather in council soon. I can hardly wait to drink with my friends Bloodhair and Haesten again. The two of us must speak alone first-and not in camp, where there are too many ears."

"Ah." He ponders a moment, his blue gaze intent and disconcerting. "There is a place nearby that will serve. Go up river to the bend. A little way to the west there is a crag, you can't miss it."

Naturally, he is aware of the lie of the land, even where there is to be no battle. A leader does these things.

"I need to see to my horse first and-" Her stomach interrupts with a loud grumble.

"I will bring food." The smile spreads his mouth again.

"And ale." She smiles back.

*** LATE AFTERNOON ***

The brazier is piled high with wood, but the cold creeps under the tent's double walls. Brida tucks her bare feet beneath the hem of her cloak. She sits on a stool beside the fire, head bobbing as Irmingard fights the comb through her tangles. Her freshly washed skin is smooth with almond oil-where the servant found such a substance in a camp of war, she has no idea-and her damp hair carries the scent of a flower-infused rinse.

She didn't adorn herself when she came to Ragnar's arms. Their couplings were muddy and bloody, the exhilaration of victorious battle sparking fire between them. The combination of violence, lust and love fueled and satisfied them-until Ragnarstarted counting the sons of other men and so began to stray ... and stray again.

Not that she lacks for offers, male and female, to take his place. Sometimes she almost accepts, tormented by her body's needs, but ultimately, she refuses to cheapen her loyalty with dalliances.

Since his arrival at Dunholm, Cnut has made no secret of his attraction to her, stopping just short of an outright proposition that she can thwart with her blade. She turns away his advances with cool words and mockery and yet, a deep, neglected part of her responds to his admiration.

How lucky my cousin is, to have a woman both to love and to fight.

Brida takes his measure early on-ambitious, opportunistic and cunning, with a high opinion of himself, well pleased to have a rich and powerful kinsman. A proper Dane. She trusts him-to do what is best for Cnut, yet she would swear that his feelings for her are genuine.

I like that you are strong and proud and loyal.

Despite her will, her ears pitch for the sound of his husky voice, eyes seek a glimpse of his confident swagger. She tries to fight the yearning that uncoils within her, a slow burn in her belly that no self-scolding can banish.

On the lonely nights when her husband shares-shared-his bed with another woman, she warms herself with the recollection of desire in Cnut's eyes, silently repeating his words to recreate the thrill they give.

I do not wish to sit with you, I wish to lie with you ... to bed you, Brida.

In the dark, on her solitary pallet, she caresses herself, imagining her hands to be his, wondering what it would be like to lie with him.

Will be like.

Ragnar did not appreciate or deserve your love.

"Plaits or down?" The question breaks into Brida's reverie.

"What?"

"Your hair, lady." Irmingard is giving her tresses a final rub down with a butter-soft kidskin, to bring up the shine, she says. "Will you have me braid it or leave it loose?"

"Uh, plaits." Flowing hair belongs to the virgin bride. She wants nothing that smacks of a wedding.

"Good choice, we can use the silver clasps. Up now. We'll get the gown on you before I dress your hair."

Vaguely aware that the bondswoman has been rummaging in chests and bundles, Brida is surprised at the colorful array spread before her on the bed. The glint of jewels, a red gown edged in silver embroidery and linen stockings died yellow with weld, beaded slippers instead of boots. There's a rich cloak, woad blue, lined with white ermine.

"Where did these things come from? And do I really need it? Cnut knows me and-"

Irmingard comes around to face her, her usual placid expression replaced by one of fear.

"Listen, my girl, this is serious. It is how you stay alive. Without Cnut's protection-" Brida squawks a protest, but the servant overrides her. "Without the alliance he offers, how long do you think Bloodhair and Haesten will tolerate you?"

She grips her mistress's shoulders and gives a little shake. "There is more at stake than one woman or her army ... or her pride. Flatter and please him tonight, you will still be Fierce Brida tomorrow."

The woman is has a point. There are the folk of Dunholm to consider, ordinary people, the fishers and farmers, mothers and babes. Their fates are her responsibility. There is Irmingard herself-a female slave past childbearing is more likely to get a dagger in her belly than be taken on by a new master.

She is Brida's only woman friend, offering what she can to ensure everyone's survival.

The servant's ever-affable face is back. "As for where it all came from, do you not even know your own plunder?" The finery is the spoils of raids.

How did she ever come to pick up a pair of yellow stockings? Weapons, coin, jewels, furs, yes, but ...?

"Or perhaps they were in with lord Ragnar's things. I forget."

Ragnar. Of course. Trinkets for his whores. A fitting irony.

Irmingard pulls up the stockings one by one and ties the garters above her knees. The sensation is very odd.

"Leggings and breeches would be warmer," Brida grumbles.

"I doubt you'll be cold for long," the servant rejoins slyly. "Cnut is a lusty man, so I hear. He'll have you warm enough soon."

"What is it you hear?" She despises herself for asking but cannot help it. "Does he have many women?"

"Ah, with those looks? What do you think?" A sliver clasp is fastened to one plait. "I gather that there's more than one reason he's called Cnut Longsword!" With a titter.

Of course, he has-or had-women, an unpledged man can do as he likes. That is now changed.

*** THAT SAME MORNING ***

Brida reaches the top of crag, but no one is there. She hurried all the way, is she too early? Is it a joke? An ambush? She whirls around, Soul Eater half out of the scabbard.

A shift in the breeze brings the scent of wood smoke. She follows it. On the far side of the mound, the rocks form a rough cup which blocks some of the wind and is shielded from view by any stragglers from the camp. Cnut hunkers by the fire.

"Brida-"

With a raised hand, she says, "Food first. I've been riding since last night."

From the leather wallet hanging at his belt, he produces a barley loaf and a soft, smelly cheese wrapped in leaves. Brida tries not to stuff her mouth, but she's suddenly shaky and light-headed from hunger. For the first time in days, food has flavor. Cnut grins at her haste.

At last she slows down and takes a long swallow from the aleskin he hands her. "My thanks, Cnut." Already she is renewed; it is easier to be brave on a full stomach.

He reaches into the wallet again and produces two apples, handing her one on the flat of his hand, as one would to a horse. Its outside is wizened, but the flesh is firm. She closes her eyes as the tart-sweet juice bathes her tongue, a tiny moan sliding from her throat. A sharp intake of breath and she knows that Cnut has heard, the sound of a woman in the throes of pleasure. From beneath her lashes, she sees a look of avid want, almost of pain, flash across his features. He masters himself.

"We came here to talk at your request. What have you to say to me?"

Now that the moment has come, it is more difficult than she thought. Handing away the men of Dunholm is like cutting off a limb, severing the greater part of her life.

"It is as I told that man Einar in the forest, when he was ... ensuring my welfare by aiming a long bow at me. You shall have my men."

"Your men, Brida. You are their rightful leader and-"

"Rightful or not," she interrupts, "I know men and they won't follow a woman for long. They're too stupid."

Impassive, gazing into the fire, she waits out the beat when she is expected to backpaddle and disclaim Cnut from the general stupidity of men. Another moment passes. She doesn't dare look at him.

Cnut breaks first, whoops a laugh. "Brida, you are a joy!"

"There's hope for you yet," she tosses back, trying to sound severe and failing.

"Very well. They will be our men, and we shall lead side by side into battle. We must call a council, bring news of this alliance to the others."

"And you must sit between Bloodhair and me."

"Do you fear he will take the news so badly?" An eyebrow raised in surprise.

"Bloodhair takes all things badly. It's not that, it's ... he reeks." In winter, in a war camp, none could bathe as often as they would like, but still. "I cannot sit council with my eyes watering."

With a snigger, "That witch of his should push him in the river now and again."

"Not his witch anymore, as Haesten reminds us at every hour."

"Yes, yes. I cannot keep up with that woman's lovers-and what choices she makes. First a madman, then the oath-breaker, now a-a pig."

"That's harsh, lord Cnut."

"Mmm, perhaps. My apologies ... to all pigs."

Their laughter rises like the smoke in the clear, cold air. A snort escapes her, and they laugh all the more.

The tight bands of sorrow and suspicion that have wrapped her chest since that terrible morning in the tent are loosened by shared mirth and camaraderie. When was the last time she knew the ease of a deep inhale?

Guilt hits her like a landslide, a sensation of having the wind knocked out of her-she larks, while her murdered husband rots under a pile of stones. Blinded by the onslaught of emotion, she senses rather than sees the hand outstretched to comfort her, though he stops short of touching.

"It is alright to miss him, Brida." The ready understanding almost undoes her.

A scream sounds from overhead. A hawk. Grateful for the distraction, she turns her face upward and follows the bird as it wheels in the white sky, the essence of life and freedom. An answering cry comes as another hawk swoops in. Together, the two soar and spiral until lost to sight in the distance.

"They mate for life, you know," she says. "Ever faithful."

Cnut twines fingers with hers. "Yes, but when one of a pair dies, the one remaining takes a new partner." A person need not be a seer to interpret such a sign.

Her husband is dead, yes, but ... there is his vengeance to claim ... a war to be fought ... a man who wants her ... and apples. She lives.

"But what ofyourwife, Cnut Ranulfson?" she blurts, cutting off the shared moment, shaking her hand free of his. "Your wife and children across the sea."

"What is there to say?" He shrugs and gives a rueful grimace, better than Ragnar's sulky little boy look when challenged about his women. "I do not care to live in Denmark and Frigga ... does not care to live with me. She wishes me to be a ... farmer."

Brida hoots, she cannot help it.

"A joke indeed," grimly. "However, disappointing husband though I am, she asks that we wait until the children are older before we divorce. Does it matter?" His tone is casual, but she senses the undercurrent of anxiety.

She stirs the fire with a stick, stalling for a moment, letting him stew, although she has the answer ready. "It matters little. I have no wish to marry again."

"What do you wish?" Watching her closely.

A shrug. "The usual things. Reputation. To make my foes tremble when they hear that Brida is coming. To lead my men into a good fight and a good win-then another and another until the Saxons are crushed and their necks are beneath our feet. Wealth ... and the strength to enjoy it. The same as you."

"Yes, to all those things, but is that truly all?"

"There is this." She leans forward, hands on knees, direct and determined. "Wife or no, if I take you as my man, I must be your only woman. No others."

"None but you."

"Swear it."

"I so swear." He touches his heart. "To ride and fight beside Brida the Fierce, to lie with her, to hear her laugh, only a fool would want more."

The suggestion is that Ragnar is, was, a fool-and that she was also foolish in permitting him to stray. It's true, but still it stings.

"You have not yet lain with me. You might not like it."

"I will like it." The avid look is back. "You will like it, too."

His sureness unsettles her, stirs the longing. Again comes the tug of desire. She counters with harshness, as she always does when caught off balance.

"Be true to your word or I will roast your balls and feed them to you. This I swear." Her hand goes to her sword hilt, not her heart.

"Honeyed words from my lady. Tell me, did you make this same vow to Ragnar?"

Grudgingly, bitterly, an admission she has never given voice to before is drawn from her mouth. "I let him down, by not giving him the sons any man wants. I did not feel I could ... demand when I had failed."

True as far as it goes. Heavier still was the burden of guilt that she never seriously tried to remedy Storri's curse, even after she learned how.

Cnut's next words surprise her. "Tell me, love, do you want children? Really want them, for yourself?"

No one has ever asked before.

"Because a woman's life of cradle, cookpot and distaff is not for the Brida that I know."

The Danish shieldmaidens are an honored tradition, but none fight more than a season or two, when the duties of motherhood inevitably claim them. There are no shield women, except her.

"I am a warrior, first and last."

A nod, it is the answer he expects. His expression is proud and fond, then his aspect clouds. He opens his mouth, shuts it, undecided whether to speak.

"What?"

Reluctantly, "My cousin was a good man and I loved him, but Brida, I knew Ragnar in ways you did not. He was not made for constancy. There was a ... a lack in him, a need to prove his manhood by plowing as many women as he barrenness only provided an excuse for what he would have done anyway."

She has no retort, cannot refute his words. Did she, perhaps, know this all along?

"I say this not to defame him to you." He does appear regretful. "I only speak to lift a burden you should never have carried."

Ragnar belittles you.

It's all too much, this troubling information, the welter of emotion. She stands abruptly, backs away from him.

"I cannot stay here."

"What?" Taken aback, he also rises, hand outstretched. "You're leaving?"

"I need to run," she explains, turning to go. "I need to move, feel the air, clear my head."

One step and he is beside her. He takes her wrist, standing close but not embracing, her side against his front, hip to hipbone, thigh to thigh. He looks down at her, she looks away toward the river. Contrary to her usual experience with men, he doesn't grope or squeeze, does not grind against her.

Soft as a half-heard whisper, his lips brush her hairline, the corner of her eye, along the curve of her cheekbone. A breath of words in her ear, the scent of apple and ale.

"Those things you want, you lied."

Hairs on the back of her neck prickle, as in the moment before a summer storm breaks.

"They are not all you want Brida ... you want me. Ever since I first came to Dunholm."

She wants to deny his words but cannot. His finger strokes her lower lip, drags slowly over her chin, down to the hollow of her throat. Her eyes close and she leans into him, heeding the call of flesh to flesh.

"I will touch, I will taste, every bit of you. There is no part of you that I shall not explore. That I also swear."

He waits, patient, expectant.

Thick-voiced, she murmurs over the roaring in her head, "Tonight. Come to my tent when the sun has set."

"I will come."

Not looking at him, she jerks her wrist from his grip, and stumbles, scurries, to the river path, hoping to outrun her confusion.

"Don't wear yourself out," he calls after her, voice rife with meaning.

So much for clearing her head.

*** THAT EVENING ***

The sun must be all but set.

Brida stands in the small free space that the tent allows, stiff in her unaccustomed finery. To sit would be to mar Irmingard's careful work. She misses the familiar heft of Soul Eater at her hip.

Surprising, how nervous she is, how untried, almost as much as her first time. Back then, she was horny and a little scared, but curious more than anything, wild to take part in the mysteries of a man with a woman. She is by no means inexperienced, but she's never experienced a man like Cnut.

A wave of noise heralds his approach; snatches of ribald songs, jeers about his endowments and lewd advice for the night ahead, offers to take his place if Fierce Brida proves too much for his manhood. Just like an official marriage bedding, where the groom's best friends stand witness to the consummation.

Gods! Surely, they won't come in.

Cnut jests with the men, relishing the attention, no doubt, finally ordering them off. With loud kissing noises and falsetto moans, they trail quiet falls.

"Lady?"

"Y-yes?" she falters. How feeble. Luckily, he seems not to have heard.

Head up, shoulders square. "Enter, lord," voice clear and strong. "Enter and be welcomed." He ducks through the tent flaps to stand before her.

She almost sways with a surge of weak-kneed relief that she submitted to her slave's bullying.

The well-worn fighting gear of every day is replaced by a cloak of fox pelts, the tails swinging from his shoulders. Sleek with combing, his red hair and beard blend into the rich fur. It's a conceit, but a very good one. Lit by the fire and rush lights, he blazes like a sunset. Beneath the cloak are a jerkin and breeches of loden green, gold and silver arm rings, doeskin leggings, boots ornamented with silver bosses.

His eyes gleam as he takes in her own transformation. "Is this truly my Brida? Or Freya come to earth?" Freya, the goddess of love ... and war.

Tomorrow, Brida vows, she will give Irmingard her freedom and three hundred silver pennies-then beg her to remain.

She'd planned to offer him the ale standing ready on the table, but all she can think now is touch. The distance between them is as far as a league, and as close as her next breath. A step, then she reaches her hand to his beard. It is springy, coarser than Ragnar's, the silver beads still cold from the night air. He engulfs her hand with his own, moving it to murmur a kiss on the palm, a flicker of tongue at the base of her fingers. Can he feel how her pulse leaps?

Unbidden, her free hand takes his other wrist, drawing his arm around her waist, beneath the blue cloak, leaning into him. It is too long since she felt the length of a man's robust body against her own. Every muscle and sinew of her body is taut and thrumming like a plucked harp string.

Her mouth waters, expecting the crash of teeth and lips, the thrust and texture of his tongue. She hungers for the violence of love, the rough caresses. He will lead her to the pallet, part whatever clothing is in the way, then mount her and pound like Thor's hammer, sealing their agreement and satisfying lust. She welcomes that, as want burns between her legs.

Yet the kiss is leisurely, a thorough exploration, sampling her lips, upper and lower, tracing the outline of her mouth with his tongue. Her lips part, inviting him in. How has she forgotten the way a kiss can change and turn like the dance of swordplay? Swift then slow, press and yield, the advantage shifting between them. Warmth flows from her jaw down her throat to form an expanding bubble of desire beneath her ribs. The edge of his thumbnail drags a line of fire down her spine, igniting her from all sides.

Mouth moving with hers all the while, he undoes the cloak pins and turns her around, lifting the wrap from her shoulders and tossing it to the bed. She has a flash of lying on the soft ermine lining, naked beneath Cnut's bulk. His lips wander down her nape, bare and tender, to the hollow under her ear. He nips lightly at the lobe, her shiver eliciting a chuckle that tickles her ear.

Yearning for more contact, she relaxes her body onto his solid might, feeling his arousal against her back. The ember burn of kisses on her neck continues as his hands round the balls of her shoulders, then mold to her breasts. One hand slips lower, gliding over her flank and belly, smoothing down her thigh, and back up to grip in the crease between leg and qwim.

"How many nights, and days, have I dreamed of this, my Brida?"

A vision of Cnut, stroking himself with pictures of her in his mind, sends her dizzy with longing.

"You were right, at the crag today." She can barely hear herself over the thudding of her heart. "I have wanted you ... and dreamed ... and-" When words fail, she takes his hand, places it over her mound.

His touch is as sure on her body as it is with his sword, no fumbling as the strong fingers press and rub through the layers of wool and linen. She squirms, trying to loosen her dress without disturbing the rhythm of his hand.

"What-?"

"Too many clothes!" Rising lust pitches her voice high, almost a squeak.

He releases her. "Then let us deal with that matter." Deftly, he frees the laces of her gown, skimming the sleeves down her arms. She steps out of the circle of crimson wool when it falls to her feet, turning again toward her lover.

She unlatches the buckle of his sword belt, brushing her fingers over the swell of his cock through his breeches. The hiss that escapes him makes her smile and she does it again for the enjoyment of the sound. Lifting the leather strap from around his waist, she balances the span and weight of his great sword, Ice-Spite, between her hands. With a significant look to Cnut, she carries it to the hooks on the tent wall, hanging it next to her own weapons.

The action says as much as any words that she accepts him as her man.

One stride and he is on her, cupping her chin between his palms, the kisses now are demanding, famished. The fine cloak lands on the floor, he kicks it away, stepping back for a moment to toe off his boots, holding her shoulder for she's in his arms again, his hands roaming her body through the linen of her shift, mouths devouring each other, bringing the sudden copper tang of blood as teeth for skin against skin, she fumbles with the ties of his jerkin even as he rucks up her shift, yanking it over her head.

"Lie down on the bed, Brida." His voice is rough. She complies, wearing naught but the yellow stockings and garters, and the beaded slippers. She feels more than naked, exposed and vulnerable, lolling on the furs as he stands over her, still in tunic and breeches, gaze caressing her body.

"You are as made for love as you are for battle, my Brida." Here is a man who does not mind that she is not curvy and soft. One who admires her, who burns for her, exactly as she is.

"I wonder ... do you scream with passion as you do with war lust?"

Her qwim clinches with longing. Does he know what he does to her with words alone?

Cnut's eyes never leave hers as piece by piece his clothing is removed, rapidly, but without haste. She's seen him shirtless before, watching from a distance as, half-stripped, he trains and teaches in the practice square. Pretending to be interested only in his reputation as the finest swordsman of all the Danelaw. He is lean and well-muscled; the right shoulder and arm are thickened by a lifetime of wielding a sword, the left forearm rubbed hairless from the shield straps. Life as a warrior is written on his skin, scars from blade and point, ink work of blue and black. His personal history of combat. She will explore each mark with hands and lips and hear the tales.

Leggings off, then the breaches drop.

Well. Irmingard heard right. A long sword indeed.

"I want to hold you." Brida raises arms that ache with the need to encircle him, to measure the breadth and might of him. She sighs at the stinging-sweet relief of his flesh to hers as they lie length to length.

Liquid pleasure potent as warmed mead floods from her palms, from her belly, from her legs as they twine with Cnut's. The absorption of touch-skin rough, skin smooth, callouses, firm muscle, the tough-slick ripple of a scar-each subtle change of pressure bringing a fresh wave of sensation. The quality of breath-fast or slow, a sigh, a moan, the hitch as her fingers work through the rust-colored hairs on his chest with a gentle tug, then a sharp one. The scent of wood smoke and winter air, of river water in his hair, and the smell that is simply Cnut.

He disentangles and slips from the bed to kneel at her feet, engorged cock springing from its nest of red hair.

"I told you I would taste all of you." His grin is feral, hungry.

Propped on her elbows, Brida watches as her slippers are removed, then one garter untied, the ribbon flung away. A roll of the stocking top and a handspan of skin is revealed, then another, his lips following the path of the yellow linen down and down as her leg is bared, from inner thigh to the tender spot behind the knee to ankle to foot. He takes his time, each action is deliberate, maddening, thrilling.

Then he starts on the other stocking.

He controls the pace, his actions, her reactions, with obvious effort, stretching out the anticipation that shivers through her, crinkling her nipples tight. Gods! She will scream or die or fly into a hundred pieces if he does not hurry.

With a growl, he buries his face between her legs. At the sight of his coppery mane spread across her thighs, Brida collapses back onto the furs, surrendering to the soft-firm of lips, the fleeting hardness of teeth, the supple, probing fingers, the flickers of his tongue searching out the tempo that makes her press into his mouth, crying out with the pleasure that flashes over her like fire through a hay rick.

She comes back to herself gathered in his arms, his mouth seeking hers, beard damp and rich with her scent. His cock is heavy and hot against her thigh; the need to merge with him, to combine their strengths, overcomes her. She maneuvers under him, slinging a leg over his back. Grasping his cock, she tries to position him, to guide him into her. He chuckles and strains away.

"Cnut!" It's a gasp, a plea. "Stop teasing and-and swive me! Now!"

"So eager, Fierce Brida. Why do you not take what you want?"

With an exasperated grunt, she shoves at his shoulder, pushing him onto his back. She straddles his belly, poised to take him in, but an impulse stays her-it is her turn to tease.

She grips his wrists, raising them above his head, holding him down with her weight and strength. Irmingard's careful plaits have come undone, her hair hangs like a curtain on either side as brow meets brow, filling each other's vision. His hips shift and lift, cock nudging as he seeks entrance. With a laugh, she twitches her hips away. She leans up and forward, drifting her breasts over his face; he lips at them breathlessly before latching onto one, suckling strong and steady. The pull of his mouth sets her qwim afire. She pops her nipple free, groping behind her to clasp the heat of him.

She should go slow, to let her body relax and expand around him, to savor the moment, but the months of tormented longing will not permit any more delay. With one downward thrust of her body, she impales herself on him, crying out at the sudden stretch and fullness-she will be sore later, but it scarcely matters. Resting her forehead at the notch of his throat, she begins to move.

"Sit up," Cnut rasps. "Yes, like that. I want to see your face when you spend." His hands mold to her hips, supporting her up and down and up again. She feels tall and mighty. Holding his gaze, she slips a hand between her legs to touch the column of his cock, slick with her juices, where it enters her. His eyes widen, the bright blue nearly swallowed by the black of lust. Her fingers slide up to caress her little knot, tensions coiling ever faster at her core ... tighter, tighter ... tighter-snap! The walls of her qwim flutter, held wide by his girth.

His arms strap around her like bands of iron, holding her immobile against his chest as his thrusts become urgent and powerful. His lust, his need, inflame her, the rough movements triggering another wave of shocking joy. With a groan, his body goes still and taut, thighs quivering, she can feel the pulse of his release deep within her.

"Oh, Brida, love," he sighs as his body ebbs, his encircling arms relaxed and fond. "What have you done to me?" A leisurely kiss, lips and tongues that know each other and will become better acquainted still as the days go by. She moves to straighten her cramped legs, they both sigh as his softening cock falls away from her.

After a time, Cnut rises quietly and steps away. She sprawls in boneless contentment, body humming. The crackle of the fire as he feeds it, the gurgle of ale from pitcher into the drinking horn, gulping as he drains it down. Then he's back, sitting beside her, offering the cup. She sits up and takes a grateful swallow.

He's dangling something from his hand. A heavy chain of braided silver swings from his fingers, set all along with cabochon amethysts and amber mounted with gold. At its two ends are the golden heads of serpents with emerald chips for eyes, their mouths holding a clasp, also of gold, from which hangs an amethyst the size of a plover's egg.

Brida has an eye for such things-her hoard is the envy of many-and after raids, her opinion on jewels is frequently sought. Not the work of some village crafter, the chain Cnut swings before her comes from the hands of a true artisan.

"What do you think?"

"It is ... wonderful. Where did it come from?"

"A reward from a Frankish king who hired my sword for a time. It is the richest thing I own ... and it is yours, if you like it."

She has no words for how touched she is. Cnut is not a wealthy man-or rather, his wealth is measured in his men and the cost of their keep, their horses and armaments-yet he offers her this treasure, which carries also memories of service and adventure. Silent, she ducks her head to accept the gift.

The cool silver slides down her skin like a trickle of water, the weight of the great amethyst nestles between her breasts.

"Wear it beneath your tunic when we go to battle." It will be their secret that she carries his token against her bare flesh. With a fingertip, he traces the line of silver and her nipples tighten at the whisper touch. "Are you cold, love?" He leans in to flick his tongue over a hardening nub. "Shall I put more wood on the fire?"

She pushes him onto his back. "I can think of other ways to keep warm." She pulls the furs up over her head and begins to kiss her way down his chest and stomach.

***EARLY MORNING***

Morning camp sounds begin to penetrate the deep cocoon of sleep that surrounds her. The chill morning air makes the sleeping furs a haven of warmth. Brida stretches luxuriously, pleasantly sore in muscles-and places-she hasn't used in a while. Her thighs are still sticky from a dawn coupling.

With closed eyes, she follows the sounds of Cnut dressing, the clinking as he dons his weapons. She's tempted to pull him back into bed for another round before they must confront the real world.

He hunkers down for a kiss, then another, before pulling himself away with pleasing reluctance. Curled on her side, she watches him stride to the entrance, eager for the day ahead. He pauses for a moment, hands spreading the tent flaps, looking back at her over his shoulder.

"Today we plan and we drill. And tonight ..." He gives her a smile full of promises and is gone.

Brida flops onto her back, frowning.

Bloody handprints on the tent flaps.

That was what seemed so wrong.

Everyone urging her to believe that Ragnar and his trull had a lovers' quarrel turned violent. Slashed and stabbed, they died where they lay ... so why the smeared gore on the tent doorway, inside and out?

Unless ... someone else was there.

There is the duty of vengeance to fulfill, a reprisal death so that Ragnar's shade may be freed from the cold of Niflheim to journey to Valhalla. The events of yesterday-was it only one day?-have distracted her. She must find out the true killer before Uhtred returns with Thyra's blood.

When he does, she dearly hopes that it is not Cnut's throat she must slit.

But if she must, she will.

AN: I find the character of Brida fascinating-not the least because I also pursued a traditionally male career in a hostile workplace! As for Cnut, well, I must admit that I'm a sucker for a red-haired bad boy, but even bad boys have their weakness ...

The performances of both Emily Cox and Magnus Bruun have been a delight to follow. I can hardly wait for the fourth season!

Irmingard is my own invention. Brida has a lonely sort of life, the only woman in herd of men and her husband habitually unfaithful. The more traditional women would keep their distance, some admiring, others disapproving, but neither group ever being more than polite. She needed an ally.

Slavery was actively practiced by Saxons and Danes-and everyone else. Slaves were part of the spoils of war. A person committing themselves to slavery (usually to their liege lord) during hard economic times was also common; perhaps this is how Irmingard came into Brida's service. The fact that they are also friends and confidants speaks to the complicated nature of such a relationship.

The sword's name, Soul Eater, was inspired by the name of Ragnar the Fearless' sword, Heartbreaker. I just knew that Fierce Brida (also a construct) would have a bad ass sword name!