The Iron Princess (4 page)

“Oh, and I imagine you are what—one, two years my senior? And you think yourself so much wiser? You accuse my father of shifting loyalty but what would a German know of loyalty? How many independent kingdoms does Deutschland now boast?”

Lothair glared at her sharply. “So you are familiar with the changing politics of the Holy Roman Empire? You know all about the workings of its pretender, Emperor Frederick, and his bloodthirsty quest for power?” He had lowered his voice and leaned into her chair. Clearly he would not have such a mocking and dangerous speech heard by all.

“I know all about your Saxony conspiracy,” she whispered sharply in return. “If your duke would stop dividing the loyalty of your lands and instead labor for the security of his countrymen and concede to the heir to the German throne, perhaps he would not be in need of my father’s good opinion nor so much of his sought-after weaponry, nor would so many of your young countrymen needed to die on his behalf.”

“Tell that to your father’s kinsmen in the House of Eric. Why don’t they abandon their claim to Sweden’s throne and throw their support behind the House of Sverker?” Lothair’s face was red and he gripped his knife so tight in his fist she wondered if perhaps he may be considering stabbing her with it. “My—” he cut himself off. “The duke serves the will of his people, who would rather die fighting against oppression than beg the mercy of Frederick’s puppet court. I would have you know that the duke would never ask one of his men to die for a cause he himself was not prepared to lay his life down for. I know for a fact the same cannot be said of
Emperor Frederick
.” He spoke with passion, making him unfortunately all the more attractive and muddying Katia’s thoughts.

“And you don’t think the men that fight for the emperor feel the same sense of righteous indignation that you and the duke feel?” she challenged. “Can it not be argued that any man who takes the battlefield is not all motivated by the same base source: defense of their lord and protection of their kinsmen?”

He laughed at her, a condescending, obnoxious kind of laugh. His anger of moments ago seemed to have drained away and his arrogant self had returned. “Princess, perhaps you had better educate yourself on the true motives of men before you speak so boldly. Ask your father, or better yet, ask your man Tero what he knows of the Routiers, or the Black Company, or the Flemish mercenaries who slaughtered the peasant army in Schwitz for the Holy Roman Emperor’s crusading cause.” He pointed his knife at her. “Those are men who sell their sword and their soul for as little as a new shirt and a few gold coins. Educate yourself, iron princess, before you start spouting off opinions on subjects you know nothing about.”

“Stop calling me that. I’m not a princess.”

His eyes raked up and down her silk gown, letting her opulent outfit make his point.

She sat up straighter, trying to ignore that she felt like a lack-wit child. The sensation of being so firmly put in her place was foreign to her. No guest at her father’s table had ever dared to speak to her so bluntly. “I know things.”

“But do you know the right things?”

“Tronscar has welcomed envoys from kingdoms throughout the Baltic shores and even your noble rival neighbors in Germany. All bring their problems to my father and try to drag him into their troubles, plying him with their tales of abuse. I am well aware of the false intentions of noble dignitaries who come to my father’s door begging for support to fulfill their own self-serving ends.” She stared at him, silently making the accusation that his precious duke was no better than the rest.

Her sour look did not have the effect she had intended.

The sharp lines of his brow softened and he leaned in closer and whispered, “Old kingdoms burn every day and new ones rise out of their ashes. While Sweden’s nobles crossing swords over which rival king to support, arguing over which king killed whose father, Emperor Frederick and his Slavic friends sit back watching, and at the right time, they will strike. As your countrymen fight each other, ambitious princes plot. Your kinsmen will never see them coming until it is too late.”

His words instantly chilled her to the bone. She hated his smug, arrogant tone, yet something deep inside her said that his sinister warning rang true. It was accurate that she had never heard of two Swedish noblemen sharing the same political viewpoint. Raised voices and pounding fists were the normal tone of any gathering of the highborn. Still, she couldn’t lie down and concede defeat so easily. She wouldn’t want him to think her so easily swayed.

“So you came with a friendly warning for us then,” Katia said, her words ripe with derision. “Your duke is only pretending to befriend the north, is he? Or perhaps he is truly here to take an accounting of our resources to plunder for himself one day. Lie, cheat, and steal away whatever he can get his hands on. I would expect no less from a Saxon,” Katia said with serene sarcasm. She raised her chin and pretended to sip wine from her gold chalice.

Lothair leaned back in his chair, removing the private wall his turned shoulders had created for their hushed discussion. “Lie, cheat, and steal?” he repeated, raising his cup once again to his wine-stained lips. “Only a clever girl who has mastered such qualities would be so quick to recognize them in others.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “I have never cheated nor stolen in my life.”

Appearing once again bored, Lothair rested his head against the back of his high-backed chair and stared at her a long while before saying, “What a feeble denial. I expected no better from a Swede who conceals her identity from her invited guest.”

Katia slammed her chalice down on the table harder than she should have. “I already apologized for that earlier. Do you intend on moaning on about it all evening? Besides, I’m equal parts Dane and Finnish, if you want to be precise.”

Lothair continued to look her hard in the eyes, quickly unraveling her fortitude to be angry. She wouldn’t be the one to break the glaring hostility—she cowered to no man. What felt like hours passed between them before she saw the smallest twinge in the corner of his mouth. His eyes softened for but a fleeting moment. He was teasing her again, toying with her for his own amusement. She was beginning to feel like a cat batting in vain at a string.

“You cannot think of something disparaging to say about the Finnish?”
Contemptible rogue.

Katia glanced past Lothair and discovered that her small display of temper had earned the notice of half the head table, who were all watching them closely out of the corners of their eyes.

“I like Finland,” Lothair said loudly, chuckling arrogantly into the silver mug.

Katia turned back to the forgotten platter in front of her. There was nothing else to say. She stewed as loud voices of merriment crashed back over her ears—she had tuned out the noise of the hall during their conversation. She snatched up her chalice of wine, took a large swig, and flopped back into her chair in a very unladylike manner. She could not recall a time in her life when she had felt more scrambled up inside. Did she hate the arrogant prick next to her or was she enamored with him? He was without a doubt the first male she would equally love to kick and kiss.

What made matters worse was that he had gained the upper hand on her for the second time today. She needed to strategize. One thing was becoming embarrassingly clear: her smiles, winks, and softly spoken words had no effect on him.

Higher and higher the breeze carried the fluttering yellow creature. Shading his eyes, Lothair watched, waited, until an upward gust sent the butterfly over the gray stone wall. A linked crown of iron thorns garnished the top of the outer walls. Fearlessly, the beautiful creature came to rest on the point of a razor-sharp spike.

Lothair stood with his arms folded as he stared up, contemplating the enormity of Tronscar’s keep. The soft, natural beauty of flora and fauna contrasted with the manmade designs, all of which seemed to be designed to glorify steel and weaponry—the tangible representation of Tronscar’s lust for war, power, and blood. Lady Katia was hidden somewhere deep inside those thick layers of stone and iron. At this very moment, she might be looking down on him out of the colored glass windows of one of the high chambers.

Lothair looked away. Life would be simpler if she did not already possess a corner of his mind, if she wasn’t so captivating. He continued to count the spikes on the west parapet wall. The more he tried to push her out of his thoughts, the more she dug in. She smiled for everyone, for everything, all the time. Lothair could now easily read the differences in all her smiles. For her young female companions, she had smiles and endless giggles that filled the halls and yards. For the servant that brought her the bread, she smiled genuinely. For the duke, his own unworthy father, who kept trying to engage her in conversation in Saxon, she forged a grimace-smile.

After Lothair had been seated next to her for a few meals, the jarl seemed to take notice of her smiling in the young swordsman’s direction. They were seated apart after that. Her father had apparently also noticed that she smiled differently for different people.

By the end of the weeklong visit, Lothair was anxious to leave Tronscar. The iron palace was undeniably impressive. Every square inch was carved with intricate patterns. Brightly polished steel and silver works were inlaid into tools and instruments. The custom in the castles of Deutschland he had visited was for the officers to be offered a place to sleep by the hearth in the main hall, with the lower-ranked soldiers housed in the haylofts and outbuildings. Not so in Tronscar. Every man was provided a bed. The secondary barracks offered the visiting envoy bunks, stacked five men high by twenty rows deep. The private chambers given to the noblemen were massive in scale, with beds that had plush mattresses of soft linens, furs, and thick wool.

To understand the character of the Jarl of Tronscar, a man need not look farther than the Great Hall: power and wealth balanced alongside art and function. Nothing in Tronscar was without purpose and design, with the exception perhaps of the opinionated princess that lived above stairs.

Lothair scratched his head, trying to uproot the flower-scented memory of her hair. The harder he worked not to think of the feisty little imp, the more his head rebelled by tormenting him with the remembrance of her last smile and the last searing touch of her small hand upon his.

Nay, he refused to think of her again. The training yards were what he would commit to memory. Aye, an orderly system where bloodthirsty men worked hard every day to improve their skill in killing one another—that was what was truly impressive about this fortress, and nothing more. One day he would replicate much of the well-organized grounds. He had committed to memory his lengthy discussion with the blacksmiths on how to improve on the strength of Lubeck’s steel. He had learned much about the crafting of weaponry, including new methods to smelt and forge iron.

Lothair found such topics endlessly interesting, but the problem was
she
found such topics endlessly interesting too, and had been a continual presence at his side, ruining the experience. She was part of every one of his memories from Tronscar and he knew not yet how to extract her from his mind.

Lothair needed distance from Katia’s distracting smiles. He prided himself on being disciplined and she was clearly sent to test him. He resolved to think of his sisters as much as possible, asking himself what he would want a twenty-year-old soldier to do in their presence. Over and over he would lecture himself, repeating all of the reasons why Katia’s smiles had no effect on him and never would. She was simply a training tool to help him become the most focused warrior possible.

Lothair needed a hard ride to clear his head. He marched faster toward the stables to borrow a horse.

“Lothair!” Lars, a fellow warrior who had grown up in a neighboring village, walked toward him from across the cobblestone yard. “Going to try and ride off some steam, brother?”

“Something like that,” he said. Lothair took a second look at Lars, whose usual mangy flop of black curls was now freshly cleaned and tied back with a thong. Lothair knew his friend bathed for only two reasons: either to soothe his mother’s temper or to impress a maid.

“What have you done?” he asked. He knew that look. Lars was an impulsive lout—some poor Norrland maid would be mourning his loss by morrow’s dawn.

“Nothing.” Lars lied poorly. “Can I borrow a few coin?”

Lothair sighed, knowing he would probably regret what he was about to do, but also knowing he could never abandon a mate in need. “Do not make me regret this. You know the instruction from the duke, ‘No Norrland brawling and no maidens bawling.’”

“A mate of the highest order.” Lars rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Lothair unloaded a fair share to his friend, and wished him luck.

The lower bailey was unusually quiet for a change. Most of the men were probably stealing a midday slumber, trying to sleep off the drink from the night before, and the servants and squires would no doubt be packing up for the coming departure. The envoy, along with a large Norrland escort, would be riding out at first light. Lothair was wishing it were already tomorrow.

The stable master told him that the barracks horses could not be spared. The only beast not spoken for was an ill-tempered warhorse at the end of the stable that he warned Lothair to borrow at his own risk. Apparently, the black stallion was known for taking a pound of flesh from each man who dared ride him.

Lothair approached the horse slowly, from a diagonal angle, with his head slightly bowed. He avoided making eye contact and allowed the brute to get a scent and sense of him before tentatively leaning his arms across the top of the half wall that penned the creature in.

The height and the breath of the horse were impressive. He snorted and stomped a curious greeting to Lothair. After a few quiet moments, a black nose pushed against Lothair’s arm. He slowly reached for the bridle and rubbed the beast’s forehead. “Big, grand fella like you won’t bite me, will you?” he whispered in Saxon.

Lothair slowly slipped into the enclosure, which he suspected was reserved to keep the troublesome beast from picking fights with the gentler stock. He offered an apple and was rewarded with a soft nudge to his shoulder for more. “You are a beauty, aren’t you?” He stroked down the horse’s front quarter, hopefully building enough trust that he could venture a ride without spooking the fine creature.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Katia said softly. She had appeared in the closed stall without a sound.

He twisted, looking around the high-walled pen. The gate was still latched. She must have scaled the sidewall without him noticing.

“His name is Thunder. Did you know I was the first to ride him?” she said, smiling at Lothair. “The Mogador tribe that held him whipped him and he could not look at a man without a desire to take a chunk out of his shoulder, but I saw through his ill-temper and loved him straightaway.” Thunder stomped his front hoof, jerked his head up, and let out a loud high-pitched neigh of agreement. Katia laughed and stroked the horse, calming him back down.

“You should not be here,” he whispered, looking over the half wall. “Your father would not approve of you alone with a strange man in a closed stall.”

She kept smiling at him, the wrong kind of smile. The kind of smile that told him she was happy and truly excited about something.

“You are not a strange man. You are Lothair, my . . . friend.” She bit her lip and stepped closer to him.

“I’m too old for you.” He raised his hand in warning and stepped back.

“Yes, four years older, you’re practically ancient. You also have two sisters that you adore and your first love will always be the sea.” She raised her brow in a challenge.

“Who told you that?” Someone had betrayed his confidence.

“You did mostly, don’t you remember? Last night sitting around the bonfire with Tosha and Lars . . . you did drink quite a lot of my uncle Hök’s brew.”

“What did I say?” He swallowed hard, trying not to panic or turn red in front of her. He honestly had no memory of the night before.

She giggled at him in her soft, unnerving way. “Just your sister’s name and the sea part. I figured out your age the first night you were here.” She leaned against the wall, not looking like she was going to leave anytime soon. “I saw your match this morning. I think your competition may have still been drunk.”

“What did I say about the sea?” He closed his eyes, trying to remember.

“Nothing really, just that you are never going to wed anything but your ship. I was relieved to know that there will always be at least one ship out patrolling for pirates, keeping us all safe.” She dropped her smile and became suddenly more serious. “Truly, Lothair, I think you should tell my father about your passion. I know you think he is just like the rest of them, bent on power, but I swear he is not. He cares more about one tradesman than he does a castle of dignitaries. The lives of his merchants and craftsmen are as dear to him as any of his noble relations. He wants wealth, yes, but it is to better protect and serve his people of Norrland. I guarantee that if you ask him for a commission to sail one of his ships in order to protect the Baltic traders, he would be the first to sign on.”

“Katia.” Her name caught in his throat. It sounded too intimate. “I never said your father was not a righteous man. He has a fair reputation. Still, his father did not, and there are thousands of his countrymen that do not. This is the land of Viking bloodlines. I wouldn’t expect your father to put up steel against his own.”

“That is where you are wrong.” Her eyes sparkled with trust and eagerness. “If trade ships are under attack, he will want to do the right thing.”

“Supporting the duke’s trade agreement is the first step.” Lothair could not help but grin down at her bright face, flushed pink from her innocent enthusiasm. He knew of few maidens, certainly none in Saxony, who took an interest in politics. But the jarl’s daughter was no typical maiden, was she? Her delicate form contradicted her strength and her sharp tongue was masked beneath virtuous femininity. If she hadn’t been born female, he guessed he would have been able to classify her among his closest friends. Nevertheless, she was a beautiful young maiden and their paths were set—they could never be friends. Both his father and her father would surely flog him within an inch of his life for even imagining a friendship with the innocent princess.

***

Katia’s heart pulsed in her throat. Her body hummed with anticipation, as it always did in Lothair’s company. He was so close to her, yet so far away. She longed to reach out and trace her finger down the bridge of his long, straight nose, or run her fingers through his silky-looking hair. She stared unashamedly into his lovely green eyes, and heat rose up from her chest and spread across her cheeks.

Blushing was becoming a common occurrence lately, and her pale skin highlighted the insuppressible reaction. Katia had given up dwelling on it. She swallowed the tumultuous emotions welling inside, biting her lip to help keep them locked in. She was having a difficult time remembering what they were talking about. She should say something smart and well thought out, but couldn’t think of anything. He was staring at her and so her mind went blank as she stared back, memorizing the small jagged scar that curved down into his brow. It was the most perfect and interesting brow she had ever seen.

He raised his hand and gently brushed back her hair. His hand came to rest on the nape of her neck. He cradled her jaw, carefully tipping it up, and his face inched toward hers.

Bless every star in heaven
, her mind shouted.
He is going to kiss me!
At last. Praise be to all the angels of mercy!

They had come so close to kissing last night at the bonfire—not that he knew that. She had considered just pouncing on him, but then thought it may be wrong of her to take advantage. Last night didn’t matter. This moment was much better. For a start, neither one of them was drunk, and they both would remember this perfect moment forever and always. She closed her eyes, leaned in, and felt the radiating warmth from his skin.

His lips would be pressing into hers any moment. Hers were dry so she quickly licked them. He was so close, the whisper of his breath mixed with hers. She was ready and waiting—and waiting. Why was he dithering?

She cracked her eye open to check.

Lothair was stiff and silent, not retreating but not advancing. He seemed stuck, staring at her mouth.

She sucked in the heady mix of his warmth and cedary scent. It was all the fuel she needed to do what must be done. Before he could retract the small ground she had gained, she leaped up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.

Score! First point goes to Katia!
She could hear shouts of triumph from the backbenches of her mind. As her heart took its victory lap, her mind struggled to register every sensation that she was feeling.

She took it as a good sign that Lothair did not push her away. His mouth softened, and he raised his hand to her face and stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers, igniting a fire with each light touch.

Suddenly, they were moving, and her back was pressed into the wall. His hips pushed into her belly softly and his lips moved with more urgency. She was desperate for more. More of what, she didn’t fully understand—just more. It was all so wonderfully exciting, and she was ravenously hungry for a sensation for which she had no name. She clawed her hands into the fabric of his tunic but it wasn’t enough.