Free Simon's Lady by Julie Tetel Andresen Page B

not beautifully fair and deceptively delicate. With cautious interest, he asked, “What were they like, the Valkyries?”
    “They were magnificently strong,” she told him, “and swooped over battlefields on horseback, directing the fighting. They had frightening names like Raging Warrior and Shrieking and Shaker. They chose only the bravest heroes for Valhalla, as I have said, and it was common for a man chosen to die to see a Valkyrie just before the fatal blow.”
    He scanned in mental review the decisive moments of battles he had fought and noted with satisfaction that he had never seen a Valkyrie. He was as loyal to his God as he was to his king, but when it came to beliefs that governed his warrior’s life, he was tolerantly eclectic. Since he admired the Norse fighting ethic, which he knew he himself had inherited, he thought their beliefs highly worthy of consideration. As much as the prospect of Valhalla appealed to him, he decided to make every effort in future to elude the grasp of a Valkyrie, should ever he see one coming toward him on the battlefield.
    He grunted meditatively and took a sip of wine. Gwyneth interpreted that as a sign to continue. “The Valkyries also worked as Odin’s servants,” she said, “and served food and drink to the warriors in Valhalla, who returned every evening after a day’s adventure.”
    He grunted again, and Gwyneth obliged him by beginning to recount heroic deeds of the Norse gods. As she told him of monsters and magic horses and magic rings, he relaxed on the bench and was lulled by the lilt of her low voice. He listened, caught in the rhythm of her hesitations as she searched for a word in Norman. He listened, hardly conscious of the fact that his gaze had fallen on her right hand, resting on the table next to him.
    His ears were full of the death of Odin’s son and of the tricks played by Odin’s blood brother, Loki, the mischievous giant god. His eyes traced the graceful crook of each of her long, white fingers to the curve of their pretty nails, and followed the outline of the back of her hand to her slim wrist, over which fell the soft folds of the finely braided sleeve of her kirtle. It was an exquisite hand, and he decided that the seductively morbid emotions it evoked in him as he contemplated it must be due to the dark and compelling stories she was telling.
    She had turned to the tale of the god Tyr, the bravest and most honorable of the warrior gods, the one with the most integrity. Beresford listened in horror to the story of how Tyr lost his hand, and murmured with a fellow feeling of relief over the fact that it had been the left hand lost, not the right.
    After a moment, Gwyneth said, “Tyr’s wife was glad, too, that he could still fight.”
    “Tyr’s wife?” he queried. He frowned into his wine. “Was she a Valkyrie?”
    She laughed gently. “No, she was not a warrior, but from a different race of gods, thus making her a … foreigner to Valhalla. She was not afraid of violence, but did not approve of it. She was not physically strong, but her understanding was great.”
    “Why did he marry her?”
    “The marriage was arranged by Odin to bring a peaceful element to Valhalla, and he arranged the marriage with one condition: that Tyr was never to raise a hand against her or harm her in any way.” She paused. “Or else.”
    He met her gaze. “Or else what?”
    “Or else Odin would have the Norns withdraw their protection from him.”
    “Did Tyr lose his hand because he did not treat his wife well?”
    She smiled. “No, he lost it in an act of great courage, and because of his bravery, the Norns agreed thereafter to protect him. Unless, of course, he did not treat his wife well.”
    “And what happened to him?”
    Her smile deepened. “Why, nothing. Tyr always treated her well, and the Norns continued to protect him.”
    It was a smile she had given him—a very lovely smile, but just a smile, nothing more. Still he felt the effect of it