Her viking warrior, p.19
Her Viking Warrior, page 19
“A chance to become jarl. If he killed you on the battlefield, none would gainsay him if he claimed an Aseral warrior felled you.”
“Perfect for the man lusting after power.” Another coughing fit wracked the jarl. “Or a woman.”
A chill skittered between his shoulder blades. “Ilsa?”
The jarl’s nod was slow. “I have wondered. After I was wounded, she took control of Vellefold like a woman born to it. Then, she argued against seeking you. She was convinced you’d be reluctant.” He croaked a raspy chuckle. “Ilsa wasn’t far off, was she?”
“Yet you made her your hird. Equal to Odell and Bodolf.”
“She has done much good. Odell can’t see beyond his greed, and Bodolf is a good man but he doesn’t have the heart to lead beyond battle. Being jarl is one part might and two parts fairness and reason. He doesn’t have the patience to hear the people’s grievances.”
“Because he’d lop off their heads.”
They shared a quiet laugh over the unmarried hird’s lack of tender mercies with women. Bodolf was best with men and battle.
He chewed on this latest news—Ilsa scheming for the jarldom? It didn’t fit the girl he knew years ago. It did fit her easy acceptance of him not staying.
If she was angling for the jarl’s seat, she’d gambled well. Seeking warriors to dispatch Vellefold’s enemies, learning enough of the art of war to give credence to her skill in battle, and winning the hearts of Vellefold’s survivors.
He couldn’t say it was the right picture—but he couldn’t argue it was wrong either.
“Why haven’t you told me of this?” he asked, vexed at being caught in the middle.
“Because you didn’t ask me.”
Arms folded, he considered his father. He doesn’t know about the thralls she hides. If the jarl did, he would’ve said as much by now. It was tempting not to mention her cave, a parting gift to a childhood friend who deserved an easy turn. His heart gentled for the fierce woman who stirred his blood.
Was he in danger of thinking with the flesh between his legs? He’d left the hall to question Ilsa, and she’d taken control...all from caressing him in the right place.
He swore under his breath. The grove and the cave beyond it was their childhood, but these were not childish times. A man was dead. Murdered because he was a lout of a husband? Was that worthy of killing him?
The knowledge of Ilsa’s unhappiness left an acrid taste in his mouth. Her brazen reach for power and breaking Vellefold’s laws did too. The settlement’s order hung by the thinnest threads.
And he knew the terrible secret of its brightest hird.
The door creaked behind them. Bodolf entered the chamber and shut the door with care.
“It does my heart good to see you two together.” His lumbering steps took him to the jarl’s bedside, axe and shield in hand. “Have you settled the jarldom?”
“I won’t take it.” Bjorn rose heavily from the chair, his father’s words prodding him: a leader must be willing to make hard decisions. Even those that hurt him.
He set the chair aside with care. “I fear one of your number may be seeking the jarldom.”
“Who?” Bodolf fairly spit the word.
“Ilsa.” There was no joy in telling them.
The jarl was quiet, but the old hird’s smile was lazy when he asked, “You mean the woman who tends our sick?”
“I mean the woman who has broken your laws. Ilsa hides runaway thralls.”
“What?” Bodolf’s and the jarl’s voices exploded in the chamber.
Another coughing fit wracked the jarl’s body. He doubled over and fell back against the pillows, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
“She spoke to me of outlawing slavery in Vellefold.” Another cough and, “I told her it was impossible.”
Their stunned faces confirmed neither man knew what Ilsa was doing. With all the trouble, it was understandable, and very much against Vellefold’s law. Only a master or a jarl could free thralls. Jarl Egil kept an iron-fisted rule over the annual Thing, the late-summer gathering where Vikings could air disputes and settle matters of law. If the stories he’d heard were true, Ilsa gave refuge to thralls belonging to the jarl and her father and mother. None were hers to free.
“How can you be certain of this?” Bodolf asked.
“Because my men tracked footprints on her land.”
Doubt lines etched the hird’s face. When he opened his mouth to voice whatever played in his head, Bjorn shook his head. He wouldn’t explain himself anymore. He would’ve given Ilsa leeway, sought her out, and tried to understand her, but she’d lied about killing her husband. Whatever the facts were, that one couldn’t be denied. Trust in his childhood friend dwindled by the hour. There was only one way to keep careful watch of her.
To Bodolf, “Take two men and bring Ilsa to me.”
“Now? The hour is late. What can she do?”
“Plenty.” He suspected the wily huntress could maneuver much with few resources and little time.
“She is Jarl Egil’s hird,” Bodolf argued.
“This isn’t a request. I’m going to question her. Tonight.”
The jarl’s face was ashen and his breath came in weary heaves. “Despite your past with her, she may not answer you.”
“That will be my problem to solve. It’s why my men and I are here. To bring order to Vellefold.”
“Do what you must.” Jarl Egil sank deeper into his pillows, a faint smile on his face.
“Why are you smiling?” Bjorn asked.
Heavy lids hung over the jarl’s eyes. “Ilsa may have made herself an outlaw, but I am grateful to her.”
“Grateful?”
“She brought you home.”
Chapter Seventeen
Two of Bodolf’s men pulled wide the hall doors, and all eyes went to the dark opening. Snowflakes swirled, chilly gusts blustered, messing with lamp flames and fire pits alike. Odell, Frida, and Gerda waited patiently on benches set by the food stores. Gerda hugged herself and whisper-hissed into her husband’s ear. Valgerd and Kell sat stoically on another bench. The settlement’s gossips had gathered when news spread quickly of goings-on, probably the work of Bodolf’s men or that red-haired youth.
Everyone wanted to know: Did Ilsa hide runaway thralls?
From the dark maw, torn green hems swayed arrogantly. Ilsa swaggered in, hair unplaited, mantle unpinned, a ferocious glare aimed at Bjorn. If her eyes could shoot flaming arrows, he’d be scorched head to boot.
“Good luck putting her in chains,” Erik said under his breath.
“It won’t come to that. She’s reasonable.”
“Ilsa broke Vellefold’s law.” Erik’s brow angled at the row of onlookers. “I see few charitable faces over there.”
“This is trouble easily undone. If she confesses, I will give mercy.” If she assures me she’s not scheming against Jarl Egil.
He’d make certain of that in private.
The thralls didn’t matter to him. The state of Ilsa’s heart did. One glance at the other side of the hall proved Erik was right. Odell’s brow was a thunderstorm, his wife and daughter were no different. Gerda’s mouth pinched hard enough her lips lacked color when she wasn’t whisper-hissing into her husband’s ear. The lady was a harpy ready to attack her own daughter.
Ilsa had eyes for him alone. She stopped at the foot of the raised floor. “Bjorn.”
“Ilsa.”
She was grumpy and defiant, taking in the coiled chain on the great chair’s seat. “Does Jarl Egil plan to bind you?” She smirked. “It’s one way to keep you here.”
One of Bodolf’s men coughed into his balled fist, and Helge cackled as she poked a fiery log, sending a flare of sparks. For the first time since Longsword’s map room, he truly saw the woman he once considered a friend, sea-green eyes shiny as polished metal, a slender huntress—still too thin—with a mouth a man could as easily kiss as listen to. She was sharp edges and soft angles, fraught with deeper cuts which couldn’t be defined by Vellefold’s troubles.
This was about her.
Ilsa alone.
Truth punched him. She’d been painfully alone for a long time. He’d been so devoured by his own tale of banishment that he’d missed her proud suffering. Life had whittled her down to the honed huntress before him. A woman with goodness and strength knit into her bones.
He gripped the back of the chair to keep from striding down the steps and...
And what?
To hold her like he did mere hours ago? He should’ve kept his arms around her and not let go.
Ilsa’s brows arched. “Aren’t you going to tell me why you had me dragged from my home so late at night?”
She faced him, full of spirit. Though the matter was grave, he admired her courage in the face of bleak odds. What a fighter.
“You know why.”
Her chin angled sharply to one side. “If I’m to be accused, you must say it.”
On one side of the hall, the Sons watched from benches, legs sprawled in their nightly ritual grinding whetstones on iron. On the other side, angry onlookers waited. Iduna was tall and eagle-eyed. Valgerd and Kell were quiet, but Bjorn felt the older Viking woman’s penetrating stare the most. Her watchfulness sent a shiver down his nape. He’d swear the gods inhabited her.
He was calm, answering her. “Vellefold’s runaway thralls.”
Witnesses stretched to hear him. Ilsa’s lips tightened as Helge poked another log, the embers popping like slivers of gold.
“What about them?”
He fought a grudging smile. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “Are you hiding runaway thralls?”
The barest hesitation and, “Yes.”
The hall exploded with shocked gasps, dropped jaws, and an outraged “Ilsa!” from Gerda who jumped to her feet. The older lady rushed forward and pushed past Bodolf’s man.
Gerda grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Why would you do this? Why...the work you have forced on your sister, your father...on me!”
Frazzled wisps framed Gerda’s cheeks. She searched her daughter’s face, but Ilsa was cool. Unbreakable. Odell was slower to the steps, his crutch slamming the earthen floor.
“This is revenge, isn’t it?” Odell’s voice boomed. “Because of Halfdan.”
“No, this is justice.”
A shocked Gerda flew at her daughter. “Your father is right. This is your way to get back at us because we begged you to stay with your husband.”
Ilsa’s features twisted with bitterness. “Begged? You threatened to turn me out when I asked for help. Your own flesh and blood!” Her voice shook, the first fracture in her icy wall. “My mother and father preferred a Viking from the Faroes to their own daughter.” She dragged in a harsh breath. “All because he kept you rich in silver.”
“You benefited just as well, daughter, yet you stole our thralls,” her mother cried.
Ilsa was a fierce, heavenly creature with blond hair a wind-frayed tangle around her. “I stole no one. Those women asked for my help, and I gave it.”
“They are thralls!” Gerda hissed.
“They. Are. Women!” Ilsa shouted. “The same as you and me, yet you think yourself above them. You’re not!”
Gerda raised a hand and crack. Ilsa’s head snapped sideways from her mother’s slap. Shock rippled through the hall. Bjorn tore down the steps and wedged between mother and daughter, but the women didn’t notice him. Gerda’s eyes shined like polished metal. Color was high on her cheeks. Ilsa shoved Bjorn aside, her chin tipping higher as if the red handprint blooming on her cheek was a badge of honor.
“You bartered me the same as you bartered thralls. As long as you lived in comfort, it didn’t matter what happened to those women.” Chest heaving, Ilsa was wild-eyed until agony crept into her voice. “It was the same for me.”
Odell couldn’t face his daughter. The great ivory hunter slumped on his walking stick and stared at the fire. Lines etched deeply across his forehead. Gerda’s body dipped under the weight of accusation. A sob welled up and she covered her eyes with the same hand that struck her daughter.
Bjorn searched Ilsa’s face. She was lost, her eyes vague as she watched her mother. He was a hand’s breadth from her, yet unnoticed. He’d seen the same hollow stare in a water barrel—the day his father had deserted him.
“I have always loved you,” was Gerda’s muffled answer.
“And I have always loved you.” The ache in Ilsa’s voice tore Bjorn’s heart to pieces. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was feral and broken and far away.
Odell reached for his wife. “Come. Let us get you home.”
Gerda collapsed against her husband. Frida rushed forward, murmuring comforting words to her mother, shooting a wrathful glare at her sister while wrapping a bolstering arm around Gerda’s waist. Ilsa stiffened. Mournful sobs trailed after the two women shuffling through the hall until the door shut. When he looked at Ilsa again, all color had drained from her cheeks.
The hall was utterly still. Weighty stares landed on Bjorn. From Helge crouched by the fire pit, the Sons on their benches, whetstones in one hand, weapons in the other. Iduna, Kell, Valgerd, Bodolf and his men, the nameless onlookers perched under shelves brimming with buckets of food.
Odell’s heavy voice split the silence. “My daughter broke our laws. You are son of Jarl Egil and hersir. What are you going to do?”
Chapter Eighteen
Bjorn’s face was the oddest mixture of a man carrying a boulder on his back yet befuddled on how to rid himself of it. An angry line slashed above his nose, and she was tempted to rub the scowl away. Crazed emotions welled inside her. She was gutted like a fish yet still standing. Alone. A familiar state but now she was free. The truth was out. Her burden gone...well, half-gone. She tipped her face to the smoke scarred ceiling. The women were safe. Only Iduna, Ardith, and she knew where they hid—and Bjorn.
What would he do?
“How kind of you to elevate me,” he said to her father. “But this is a matter for the jarl’s judgment.”
Her father bristled at Bjorn’s mocking tone. Rage and sadness made a stew in her belly. Looking at her father, she clutched the wool covering her midsection. This hurt. She loved her father. Years of his and her mother’s goodness and love were strained but not wiped out by their greed. She could never hate them, but she had to stand against them. Her survival, and the women who counted on her depended on it.
This was the scale on which she balanced her life.
More grey threaded her father’s beard, and more lines webbed the corners of his eyes. Was this to be his fame? The great ivory hunter who spawned an outlaw daughter?
“We both know the jarl may breathe his last breath tonight. It’s why you are here—” Odell’s arm arced at the hall behind him “—to lead us.”
“I am here to defeat your enemies and to see your people battle-ready. Nothing more.”
Odell leaned heavily on his crutch, driving it deeper into the ground. “Then why did you drag Ilsa before the jarl’s seat?”
“To make certain she’s not in league with Aseral.”
“She may yet be.”
“Father!” Ilsa hissed. “Has anger twisted your heart that much? To believe I would harm my own people?”
“I don’t know what to believe. I never thought I’d raise an outlaw for a daughter.” He studied Bjorn with calculating eyes. “She’s admitted to a terrible theft. Now it is for you to do something about it.”
The pronouncement rang in the hall. Their laws were simple and ironclad. Thralls were no different than silver and gold: stealing one in Vellefold was as bad as stealing the other. Most Viking settlements lived by the same code. Banishment, whipping, or death were considered fair punishment for such theft.
The skin on her back went cold. Whipping wouldn’t happen. Her fate was sealed by the number of women she harbored, too many to be easily forgiven.
A flat, copper tang flooded her tongue. Death or banishment? That decision sat on Bjorn’s shoulders.
“Yes, Ilsa broke Vellefold’s laws,” he said gruffly. “But, I will grant mercy if she tells this assembly where she hides those women.”
She flinched. Bjorn’s decree punched her in the gut. He was staring at her father as if she weren’t inches away. She searched his face, the granite contours, the flared nostrils, the firm line of his mouth.
Well, well. The warrior speaks up.
He was almost gentle when he said, “It is an easy thing to eliminate confusion. Women returned to their rightful homes is right and honorable.”
Her lungs squeezed. Breathing was difficult. Bjorn knew she hid the women in her grove, yet he said nothing. The burden was on her to reveal their whereabouts. Did he support her bid to free the thralls?
Her heart raced faster. The thudding made her totter as much from exhaustion as shock. The scathing stares of her people could burn holes in her. Thralls were lifeblood to Viking homes. They brought ease to overworked farmers, helped harried mothers, and were as much a way of life as the ivory hunt had been to Vellefold. Few faces in the humble crowd were sympathetic.
She wouldn’t give the women up. To name them meant they’d face a similar fate as her. Bjorn had to know others aided her, but she was tight-lipped.
The hersir broke eye contact with her to check the left side of the hall. The Forgotten Sons. The wary wolf pack’s eyes shifted from her to Bjorn to Erik. She’d forgotten about the dark Viking standing by the jarl’s seat. By the scowl on his face, Erik didn’t like what was unfolding.
Her hand fisted on her breastbone. She was glad Bjorn had charge here because she had an inkling Erik would not be merciful.
“What do you have to say?” Bjorn’s voice dragged her back.
