Love's Fury (Viking's Fury #1) (6 page)

“You speak English well enough, milord.”

“The moon and stars would be easier to achieve,” he growled in her native tongue. She had nothing to lose at this point by demanding something so outrageous. “You are not worth the life of one of Prince Ivarr’s men.”

She had the eyes of an angry child. “Then I believe
you
guilty of the crime.”

He didn’t answer.

“I welcome your resistance, milord.” She started to gather the dirty dishes. “The longer you delay, the longer I’m safe from your carnal desires.” Without looking back, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Konal didn’t give her the pleasure of a response. He opened the door and stepped outside. Wretched little creature. Structure and discipline defined his life. He took meals and went to sleep at the same time every day unless he was in the field. The girl disrupted his schedule—shamed him in ways no man would be permitted to do.

As he walked, it started to rain. He welcomed it and hoped his new lands were fertile. Before he returned home, he intended on organizing his new steading. Livestock and crops would help provide for his family in Norway and win favorability with his father.

Hallam met him halfway to the church. “Where’s your bewitching captive?”

“Hanging from the rafters inside the cottage.” There was a measure of amusement in his answer.

“Still refuse to take my advice and sell the she-wolf?”

“I prefer my own plan.”

“I’m willing to offer you another path,” Hallam said.

A couple of days weren’t enough time to judge Silvia. She might prove to be a valuable asset. “Different from before?”

“Four Danes favor an auction.”

She was still the talk of the barracks. What did they see in her? Konal shook his head.
A stupid question.
“There’s no slave market in
Jorvik
.”

“If carried out in secret…”

Why couldn’t his kinsman find another vice? “Walk with me.” There was only one way to put an end to this growing obsession Hallam and his friends had with Silvia—confront them.

*

Silvia felt nothing
of her father’s presence today. She prayed his spirit would linger for a while longer, but as she looked at his favorite chair, his shelves, and the alcove above the hearth where he kept his treasures, she felt nothing but emptiness. Tears streamed down her face. Curse the Vikings for returning.

But she’d take what blessings she got. Konal was gone for the day, leaving her enough time to do what she needed.

She rushed to the corner by the fireplace where Konal had left his bag. Anger quickly replaced her sadness as she flung it on the table. If he could invade her life, she’d do the same. She untied the satchel and thrust her hand inside. Clothing. Three shirts and a pair of leather breeches that smelled familiar. Like him. At the bottom she found two wood boxes. The first contained a finely crafted necklace of silver and amber beads. The second, a matching ring.

Gifts for his sister? His wife or mistress? The idea of him having someone he loved waiting in Norway should have made her happy. It almost guaranteed that he’d have no long term interest in her. But the thought didn’t please her. It hurt knowing she’d be considered little more than an amusement to keep his bed warm for the duration of his stay.
Miserable cur.
She dropped the boxes back in the bag and then stuffed his clothes on top.

Now, she hoped more fervently than ever that she’d be able to retrieve her father’s scrolls, give them to a priest for safekeeping, and then return home so she could die in peace. She retrieved her cloak from abovestairs, then went outside. Although spring had arrived, some days were still cold enough to require an extra layer of clothing.

By the time she reached the church, the sun sat in the middle of the sky. The midday meal meant she’d likely succeed because the Danes never missed an opportunity to eat or drink. It grieved her to pass by the skeleton remains of the scriptorium, still smoldering, and the stench of burnt wood filled her nostrils. Would the north ever recover? Ever rebuild? She walked cautiously to the old graveyard, remembering the exact location of the mound.
Bless the soul whose body was meant for this tomb.
She knelt and then started brushing soil away with both hands. She found her other cloak.
Praise God.
Then she dusted it off and peeked inside.
Safe.

Before heading to the sanctuary, she wandered the grounds, hiding behind trees and outbuildings when a Dane passed by. Where were all the priests? None had been executed. Perhaps Prince Ivarr imprisoned them or they were sequestered inside the church. As a child, she explored freely, often spending the day with one of the monks working outside or in the great kitchen. Men of God liked to eat. And that’s where she’d learned to cook.

Facing her home under these circumstances couldn’t rob her of the happy memories she had. Father Andrew and Father James were her favorite companions. Both were now elderly men, but as sharp minded and kind as ever. They’d protect whatever precious manuscripts her father chose to preserve.

*

A
thrall
refilled
Konal’s cup and then he sucked down his fifth portion of mead. Seated at Ivarr’s table, he searched the lower ranks for the men Hallam told him about. He spotted Ulf and Berde sitting with his cousin.
They were no better than hounds begging for scraps.
The sooner he reached his steading, the better.

“When do you leave?” Ivarr queried.

“Tomorrow, milord.”

“What delayed your departure?” The prince looked him over. “Have you bedded the wilding yet?”

Konal gritted his teeth. “There’s no short answer—I refuse to force myself on her.”

“I knew the moment I laid eyes on her what you’d do. That’s why I let you keep her.”

Konal snorted. “Either I’m too predictable or you can read my mind.”

“I recognize the look of a satisfied man.” Ivarr shoveled a spoonful of meat into his mouth. “And at this moment, you aren’t one, my friend.”

“There’s no pleasure in rape. I’d have her come to me willingly.”

“You admire her?”

Konal wished the subject had never come up. “Aye.”

“She’s the center of attention around the evening fire. Some call her a Valkyrie. Others suggest she’ll kill you before you have a chance to bed her properly. I’m concerned. Do you need some help?” the prince mused.

“He’d rather shovel shite.” The rude comment came from below.

Within seconds, Konal was standing with his hand braced on his sword. He glared at Ulf. The bastard had no right to interrupt a private conversation. “I’d sooner disembowel you.”

“Is that a formal offer?” Ulf shot back. “The winner takes the whore to bed.”

“Konal.” The prince rested his hand on Konal’s arm. “Leave him, he’s not worth it.”

He couldn’t overlook the insult. Whatever rumors were circulating about
why
he chose to treat Silvia with care, he’d not be mocked for it. Never judge a man for what he did or didn’t do in his bedchamber.

The trestle tables were arranged in a rectangle, leaving open space in the middle. Konal stepped off the dais and then kicked the nearest one aside. “Shall I shut your mouth for you?” he taunted. “Let me show you how skilled I am. Bend over and I’ll shove my sword up your fucking arse.”

Konal. Konal. Konal.
Although he was from Norway, he’d won the respect of the Danes.

Ulf nodded his acceptance. He drained his cup and then met Konal between the tables. “To death?”

“To death,” Konal agreed.

As was the tradition, both men waited for the prince’s approval.

“Is there no other way to settle this dispute?” Ivarr asked.

“Greed corrupts a man,” Konal replied. “But envy destroys him. If I leave this bastard alive, milord, I think he’ll murder me in my sleep.”

“And you?” The prince frowned at Ulf.

“Let the gods pick their victor.”

“Prepare to die,” Konal warned.

“If you believe that,” Ulf said, “you’re a bigger fool than I ever imagined.”

The murderous look in Ulf’s eyes made Konal laugh. He straightened his spine, holding his sword at the ready. His opponent spat and then the tip of his blade slashed through the hem of Konal’s tunic. He jumped back, barely avoiding a deeper gash. The man was ready to fight.

Konal cursed and dodged a second strike, edging sideways. Both had something to prove, but his rival overindulged in drink and women too often. That made Konal a better fighter. When their swords met again, the room echoed with the clang.

Konal circled and thrust. Then Ulf charged, but Konal held his ground, landing a powerful blow. The blade bit into Ulf’s shoulder. And before he recovered, Konal shifted his hold on his weapon, bringing the blade down on his rival’s collar bone. The Dane howled like a maimed animal.

“Surrender, Ulf.” He’d give him one chance to yield and live.

“Aren’t you man enough to kill me, Norseman?” Blood stained his arm and chest.

Konal deafened himself to the sounds around him. He’d made a grave mistake attempting mercy for the sake of Prince Ivarr. There’d be no known cowards in his family. And no chance for the bewitching Silvia to question his honor.

Ulf staggered back a few feet, weak from blood loss, then dropped his sword.

Konal didn’t want an advantage over his opponent. He, too, laid his sword aside and then drew a knife from his belt.

Someone tossed a short pike to Ulf, and he fell on it, rolling over with it in his hands. The crowd hissed with disapproval.

“Stand if you can,” Konal challenged.

He managed to sit, but his face flushed yellow. Judging by the pool of blood he now sat in, Konal knew his death imminent.

“The gods have spoken.” Konal sheathed his knife. A lifetime of battles had taught Konal to let a man die where he fell. Even if he was a liar. He faced Ivarr. “I’ve sworn no oath to withhold my vengeance against these men,” he said, gesturing at the throng of bloodthirsty onlookers. “Only to fight for and protect you, milord. I’ve fulfilled my obligation. This man insulted my honor. As punishment for his insolence, I ask for his head.”

“His head?” Ivarr leaned forward.

Ulf moaned and Konal twisted around. “From where I stand, he doesn’t require it any longer.”

The crowd cheered.

“Jarl Konal the Red,” the prince called.

Jarl?
No one had ever referred to him that way. He gazed at Ivarr.

“You remind me of our tribal ancestors who once lived in fur shelters and ate each other’s flesh to survive harsh winters. Has Odin driven you mad?”

Konal looked down. His armor was covered in blood and he did feel unusually violent. He eyeballed Ivarr and shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

“Who am I to deprive you of your trophy?” Ivarr sighed. “Wolves tear their prey to pieces, why shouldn’t you?”

Konal didn’t want the bastard’s head for a prize. He’d deliver it to the Saxon witch who questioned and resisted his every command.

Sunset was still hours off. By Thor, he’d get his reward tonight. “I am, once again, indebted to you, milord.”

Konal approached Ulf’s body and then reached for the axe slung across his back. “If any of you called him friend and wish to avenge him, step forward now.” No one moved. Thankful for the gods’ generosity, he raised his weapon. “For Allfather…”

D
id Silvia have
the courage necessary to defy her captor, to see her father’s last wish fulfilled? By sneaking inside the sanctuary, did she risk the lives of the men who’d protected her growing up? Her answer came in the form of a bone-crushing hug Father Andrew gave her the moment she found him praying in the vestry.

“My child…”

Her heart beat so fast she felt dizzy. “Father Andrew, how can I bear it? My sire gone.” She collapsed against his shoulder. Until now, she’d held in her pain. “All that’s left are these.” She offered her cloak.

He ignored it and cupped her chin the same way he always had whenever she cried as a child. “God’s will.”

She sniffed, unable to accept the idea that
any
god would send a plague as gruesome as a Danish army to slaughter the faithful. “No matter what you say, I cannot believe the Almighty would do this.” She’d been surrounded by the bodies of dead men. How did that glorify God?