The Warlord's Wife (15 page)

“Nay!” Magnus roared. “You will not leave this chamber. I told you before that you are never leaving me.”

“But the babe, it may—” She touched her hand to her stomach.

“Nay!” He stared at her, wanting to shake the cold, dead stare from her eyes. Perhaps there was a measure of truth in Klara’s suspicion. “Where were you coming from with your hair unbound?”

“Nowhere—here. I went to wash . . .” She stopped speaking. Her eyes shifted to the polished tub positioned in the corner. “It was not repaired yet, she said—”

“Which is it, nowhere or here? You were here when the bath was delivered. Do not lie to me, Lida. It will only make it worse.”

“I do not lie. I went to wash my hair.”

“You were seen appearing unkempt in the village. You were seen with a man in a velvet cloak.”

“By whom? What are you accusing me of?” Her sullen tone vanished, replaced with a spark of anger, which in turn had an immediate effect in swelling his loins.

“No less than your eyes accuse me.” Consumed with anger, he wanted nothing more than to shake the truth out of her, then throw her to the floor and ravish her. He had a need to be inside her, to wipe out any thought that she would have to lure another man to her bed. He did not suspect her of being unfaithful. He was with her too often for it to even be possible. Besides, no man in Tronscar would dare touch what was his.

“I must prepare for the feast. Katia is to wear the special gown you ordered made for her.” She sounded drained . . . She had told him she was with child. Consumed with their argument, he had not registered her words.

He was to be a father.

“You are tired.” He took a step toward her. She retreated.

“Aye. I shall see to Katia now. If . . . if you . . .” she said, tilting her head down.

“You are certain you are with child?” he asked in a lower volume, continuing to stare at her, willing her to return her gaze to his eyes.

“I have not bled since before I departed Turku. I should give birth nine or ten moon cycles from the date of our wedding, before midsummer,” she said, with little interest.

“And you are tired, but feel well?”

“Aye.” She returned her eyes to him. “May I go?”

“Aye.” He could not think of a reason to force her to stay. She had won this battle, for he felt defeated.

As she closed the chamber door, he sank to their bed. He should have told her that he was pleased. He should have . . . not let her leave. He should be celebrating accomplishing his goal in such a short period of time; so why was he miserable inside?

Her face of cold indifference haunted him. Seething, he glared at the copper tub.

***

The festival of Lucia was well underway, and Magnus sat in his iron chair, raised high above the congested assembly. Tronscar had never felt warmer, smelled more delectable, or appeared more impressive. Regardless, he drank little and enjoyed none of the offerings, his head overcrowded with unanswered questions and colliding thoughts.

Next winter he would be sitting here with his son, celebrating the longest night of the year. Would the child eat the sweet cakes with Katia? How old are children when they can eat at the table with their parents? His wife’s coldness would be allowed for a few more hours, but she would willingly be back in his arms before they retired for the night. He had decided it would be so.

Hakon, Tronscar’s assigned herald, slammed down his iron staff three times, and all heads turned and awaited an announcement.

“Jarl Magnus, people of Tronscar, your honored sons have returned. Axel Hirsi, Commander of the Twelfth, Casper Hirsi, Commander of the Ravens, and Dag Hirsi, Second Commander to the Twelfth. They return to us this great night as heroes in service to our king and have once again cleansed the Slavic swine from our seas.” Hakon raised his staff high in the air and the hall erupted in deafening cheers. Many rushed to circle and greet the young warriors.

Magnus observed his wife. She sat with her back straight, eyes down, picking at her meal. “These are Klara’s sons,” he told her. “They were born and trained here and have been serving me on the high seas for most of their lives.”

“I beg your pardon, my jarl. I would ask to retire. Katia has fallen asleep in her chair.”

“Aye, I will see her to her chamber.” Magnus prepared to rise.

“Tero can manage. Enjoy your reunion,” she said.

“First, I shall introduce you.”

“If it pleases you, my jarl,” his wife said serenely, masking her true feelings.

“Axel, Casper, Dag—come forward to receive your reward,” he said. Tero moved to his side, holding a chest of gold and jewels at the ready.

The young men’s faces were chapped from the wind and the cold, but otherwise proud and healthy. The three men bowed at the foot of the dais. “Welcome home, men,” he said. “To journey for such a time took great strength and endurance. We had not expected your return before the thaw.”

Axel, the eldest, spoke for his brothers. “My jarl, we have come with urgent conscripts from our king.”

Magnus turned to Tero and nodded for him to retrieve the conscripts. When Tero approached, Axel withdrew his offered scroll.

“By order of King Birge, I am to place this in the jarl’s hand,” Axel said.

“So be it.” Magnus descended from the dais and accepted the scroll, locking arms with the lad. “You have served Tronscar well, Axel. You have earned your just reward. I appoint thee magistrate of the north. You have proven yourself a man of exactitude.” Magnus clamped a thick armlet bearing Tronscar’s mark around Axel’s arm and placed a large purse of gold in the young man’s hand. “Come, my brother, let me introduce you to my wife, the friherrinna of Tronscar.”

Lida was past the point of exhaustion, but she understood the new arrivals deserved to be paid the highest honors. She bowed her head to the handsome, dark-haired young warriors and stood attentively next to the jarl, listening to the lengthy discussion of the multiple battles between Slavic ships and the unmatched speed and skill of Magnus’s fleet.

She tried to pay attention but found her mind and eyes wandering throughout many of the tales. She noticed Ragna flirting openly with a group of men. She saw the pretty buttery maid Linn talking and smiling with Aleksi, and thought that they would be a fine match.

Lida combed the crowds for Ylva. She should have been at the center of some group of warriors during such a jovial event. Perhaps the jarl asked her not to come. ’Twas possible, but she did not think he would. Why would he care whom Lida had to keep company with? If all of the women that the jarl had allegedly bedded were removed from the hall, there would be no women left to serve the feast.

Klara’s youngest son, Casper, proudly took his turn addressing the attentive crowd. “Once we reached the opening of the fjord, we thought our mission complete. Think of our surprise when we happened upon three Finnish spies. Two of them were injured—probably wouldn’t survive the night.” He tore off a bit of chicken leg, wiping the grease from his mouth on the back of his hand. “None of them was in any condition to be much threat.” Loose in the limbs, with an air of growing confidence, the young man had a large scar from the corner of his mouth to the center of his cheek, creating a dimpling effect as he smiled smugly. In contrast, his eyes were shifty and tense, resembling those of Janetta, his sister.

Lida was paying attention now, her inner voice ringing a warning of implicit mistrust.

Dag, the tallest and thickest of the men, muttered something to his mother and then stepped forward. He shifted his bulking weight to his front foot and leaned toward the jarl, his eyes holding a menacing intensity. Most likely he was the enforcer out of the three, Lida thought. “Couldn’t understand their foreign gibberish,” he said. “Found them resting with the horses in a Morgdor camp. We killed the Morgdor and brought the Finnish rats for you, my jarl.”

“Did the spies give their names or the village they came from?” her husband asked.

Axel was the cleanest of the three, yet he gave off the air of a lethal pirate. His hair was braided on one side, revealing a serpent tattoo running from the side of his neck down past the collar of his thick leather breastplate. He spoke with a collected, calm delivery. “Miko Jikki, Lief Ranka, and Otso Turppanon.”

Lida’s heart leapt into her throat. “Otso?” she whispered. The men clustered around the dais broke out into loud discussions.

The jarl grabbed her upper arm, pulling her in closer to him. Scowling, he said, “Who is he to you?”

“He was my . . . he served the house of Lyyski.” Lida knew that the jarl hated her to use the title “husband” when she spoke of Urho. She would try to respect that. “He served Katia’s father. He is not a spy, my jarl, but a fisherman.”

“Bring the prisoners forward,” Magnus ordered.

As the congregated men awaited the prisoners, the talk became louder, inflamed, stirred up no doubt by the bloodlust from the tales of battle.

Her husband leaned over and spoke in her ear. “What should I know of this man?”

“He is a good man, hardworking and loyal. He was Urho’s closest friend. He was very helpful to me after Urho died. He escorted me safely to my family. I will always be in his debt for his kindness, Magnus. I beg you, if it is your wish, that the kindness be returned.”

“What more does he hold over you?” Her husband continued to search her eyes.

Confused as to his meaning, she said, “Otso visits Katia each harvest when he comes to trade in Turku. He brings her small gifts and tells her tales of her father. She calls him uncle. He holds nothing over me but my gratitude and friendship.”

“You will not speak to him. Tero will translate, do you understand, wife?”

“Aye, my jarl.” She perfectly understood her role to him. They had returned to “wife” and “my jarl.” Now that she carried his child, her sole purpose to him had been fulfilled.

Roffe and Goran escorted Otso into the hall. Lida bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her friend’s condition was gruesome. He was frightfully thin, dry blood was matted to his yellow hair, and he had crusted mud on his tattered wool clothing and holes in his shoes.

Lida tried not to look as anxious as she felt. Tero’s questions were basic and Otso’s answers short. Months ago, while they were traveling with a group of fishermen, Slavic pirates attacked, stole their boat, and threw them all into the sea. Only three made it to shore, where they were taken prisoner by savages, people dressed in animal masks. They were beaten and made slaves. That is when the returning troops happened upon them. He denied being a spy, said he had a wife and child in Ronska. The group of friends had taken a chance to travel north up the gulf for one final hunt before the snow set in. They were desperate fishermen, not spies.

Her husband listened “Have him clothed and fed,” he told Tero calmly. “See what can be done for the other men. If they live, they may serve Tronscar in the smelting house until spring. Then they will be returned to the Finnish shore.”

With the jarl’s judgment declared, the celebration resumed. The musicians broke into a fast, high-spirited tune with a heavy-handed drumbeat. The young scullery maids squealed with delight, swarming around the newly returned warriors, dragging them by the hands into the center of the hall, forcing them to join in and dance.

Lida spoke louder, to be heard over the merriment. “I will attend the injured men, my jarl. I have experience stitching flesh and healing—”

“Nay, my men will see to them. Go retire above stairs, wife.”

“May I speak with my friend? Assure him he—”

“Nay.” He glared at her.

Lida sat stiffly in her seat, taking in a deep breath. She did not know what she wanted. She wanted to speak with her dear friend, and she also wanted to be with Katia above stairs, asleep in her warm bed. She did not want to deal with her husband anymore tonight, and she wanted to embrace Otso. She wanted to cry, and she wanted to be held by Magnus.

Lida felt like a mess.

As if he could read her thoughts, the jarl said, “To my bed, Lida. Do not test me. Remain sullen if you will, but until my son is safely delivered to this world you will remain in my bed and at my side.”

“As you will, Jarl,” she said, and left the hall without looking back. A surge of excitement blended with her anguish. She hated herself for wanting him, for craving his touch. She had sunk low.

‘Twas not love she felt for Magnus, for he was a man who did not want to be loved. She rejected the idea of love, but still . . . there was something more that she had begun to feel for him. The hope of friendship, perhaps, or was it partnership in creating life and cherishing that life together? She had allowed herself to feel safe in his arms, had trusted her body to him in new, torturously pleasurable ways.

Preparing to leave him behind in this hall full of lusty serving women, she felt like nothing more to him than any other serviceable female. He honored her above all others with a title, but she feared she was a body for him to lie over and beget his son upon, nothing more.

***

With each passing day, Lida noticed the signs of carrying a child intensify. She was ill each morning and tired easily throughout the day. For this reason, it had taken her a fortnight to build up the courage and strength to search the village for Ylva.

For nearly an entire moon, she had only seen a few hours of muted light midday. The long, black days of winter sat heavy upon her shoulders. The crisp, fresh snow crunched under her fur-lined boots as she wound down the maze of stone paths and alleys to the most-visited tavern in the north: Mak’s.

Much to her disappointment, Lida located the beautiful maid at her new posting in the pleasure house. She was determined to confirm that the maid’s year-old son was well fed and cared for. He would be a sibling to her child, and she would not judge the babe for its entry into the world, lest Katia be judged the same way.

Mak, the master of the establishment, greeted her with a leery eye. “Friherrinna, greetings. I did not expect—”

“I would speak with Ylva, sir.” She surveyed the sparse, dimly lit tavern. It may have been warm and free from the winter wind, but it was still utterly dreadful. She breathed through her mouth to avoid the smell of soured ale that melded with the stench of unwashed men. Thick smoke from the poorly ventilated hearth watered her eyes.