The Warlord's Wife (3 page)

“Lida.” Young Starkka stepped forward. The girl inclined her head, acknowledging her brother while never turning her eyes away from Magnus’s stare, impressing him all the more. “This is Jarl Magnus Knutson, from Norrland—”

Magnus grew impatient. “You do not appear to be the age your father claims.”

“Are you accusing my father of dishonesty?” the farm girl asked, in faultless Swedish. No timidity—rare to find in a lowborn female.

***

Lida concentrated on her mother’s training, reminding herself that she was worthy of respect only if she gave it.

“I am inquiring as to your years,” the towering Jarl demanded.

No manners at all. Typical arrogant crusader.

“Whatever years my father has given, that is my age.” Lida answered the giant as bravely as she could as he continued to scrutinize her. He was easily the tallest man she had ever met. His broad shoulders could no doubt pull a plow through their rockiest field.

“Do you not approve of Swedes?” he asked in a voice as cold as the Baltic Sea.

“Not many, since they killed my husband.” She raised her chin higher. “Though my mother is Swedish. I must approve of some.”

“When was he killed?” he asked, his voice devoid of feeling.

“Eight harvests past.” Staring into his eyes was as hypnotizing as searching the deepest ocean at twilight. He was beginning to have a strange effect on her swirling stomach. She did not enjoy the feeling; at least that is what she told herself. “’Twas during the first Swedish crusade. A Norrland sword took him from me.”

“All superior blades are from Norrland.” His words were blunt and arrogant. He was Swedish, after all, she thought.

The hall filled with a thorny silence. Magnus stalked toward her. The scents of pine and leather invaded her lungs, along with a male musk that Lida told herself she must not inhale. For some unexplainable reason, holding his scent in her lungs felt entirely too intimate.

“Why are you not another man’s wife?”

Her heart pounded in her ears. “Because I do not wish to be,” she answered, praying that her unsettled nerves were not apparent to all.

He cocked his head to one side and regarded her for a moment that felt like it stretched on into eternity. “You do not wish to be a wife?”

“Not particularly.”

***

The fascinating creature before Magnus spoke in a submissive tone, yet her eyes were anything but soft or submissive—they were closer to hard and defiant. Either she was lying to herself or to him. Maybe it was both. A craving to bring her to heel swept over him.

“You do not pray to the one true god for sons?” He continued to be impressed by her ability to hold his gaze without backing down, her actions a contradiction to her tone.

Lida clasped her hands in front of her. “I am a mother and content with the blessing I have,” she said mildly. But her delivery was every bit of a challenge to him.

Her chin rose higher. Magnus liked that. It wasn’t outright rebellion, but she had an opinion. He found this intriguing, and oddly stirring. He began to circle her, ignoring every person in the hall except for the proud, strong female before him. She turned her shoulders with him, following his eyes, guarding her back.

Good instincts.
That pleased him further.

Examining her braided rope belt, he began to doubt her claim of a child. Her hips were pleasingly curved, yet she was acutely narrow at the waist. “At what age did you birth your child?”

Her brows hitched upward. “Ten and six.”

“How many days did you labor?”

Her nostrils flared as she breathed in sharply. “The length expected.”

“And is the child in good health? Is it of solid form?” Magnus addressed the family head, since the woman was apparently annoyed with his questioning.

“She is in perfect health and excellent form,” Lida answered, vexation ripe in her tone.

Ignoring her obstinate display, Magnus turned to Tero. “I will take this one.” He glanced over at the farmer’s daughter, then strode out of the stone and timber farmhouse.

He’d leave his steward to finalize the details while he rode ahead to his ships and informed his men they had the evening off duty.

Tonight he would wed the farm girl from Turku and tomorrow he’d sail for Tronscar at dawn.

Lida shook her head at Magnus’s preposterous statement. “Who put him up to this jest?” she asked, searching the faces of her family members. “Was it you, Svin? ’Twas poor humor. Father could have chest pains if you are not careful.” She turned and began clearing the horns of ale and plates of uneaten cheese that had been offered as a sampling but not consumed.

These Swedes are wasteful as well as rude.

“Lida.” Svin stilled her hand. Her sour-faced sister-in-law, Tina, slid under her brother’s arm. “The jarl made you an offer.”

“Nay, he did not.” She shook her head at her dim elder brother. “This man and his cart of rude sailors want to laugh at us before they shove off back to where they are from.” With her arms loaded, she turned to retreat to the kitchen.

The steward blocked her path. “A dowry is not required,” he said. “Merely a consensually signed contract. A generous bride price and a favorable trade agreement will be offered to your father. They will become the wealthiest family in Turku for it. My jarl honors you, my lady.”

“Regrettably, I must decline,” Lida said with more sarcasm than her mother would find acceptable. “I pray you have a safe voyage, sir. If you will excuse me, you are blocking my path.” She skirted around the foreigner, dropped the platters in the kitchen, and fled for the privacy of her chamber.

With her head spinning and her heart racing, Lida pressed her back into the closed door. Why is it that the most strikingly attractive men are always the most ill-mannered? The cantankerous jarl had pierced straight through her with his possessing stare, rendering her breathless.

This pulsing fire that stirred in her belly had trapped her once before. The last time she had such a reaction from simply looking at a man, her heart had ended up shattered into a thousand sharp pieces.

Never again.
She had learned that lesson the hard way.

She sat on her box bed. The shutters had been left open, spilling in the late-morning sun, warming the normally chilly room. She took comfort in the familiar surroundings. This chamber was real. It grounded her and helped her clear her mind of the unreal events that had taken place in her family’s hall.

Without warning, her chamber door burst open. She bit her tongue, holding back her scream.

“Mama.” Her daughter, Katia, stood beaming in the doorway. “See what I made.”
Thank heavens ’twas not the fearsome warlord come to toss her over his shoulder and claim her as his—what a ridiculous notion.
Her stomach clenched with a shameful desire that image stirred.

“Grandpa said to come show you and tell you to come see him after.” Her daughter swished her little skirt, twisting back and forth with excitement she could not contain.

“You did this all by yourself?” Lida asked, examining the charcoal drawing. Katia bobbed her head. “This is very good.” She pushed her daughter’s silk hair behind her ear and looked into the sparkling green sea eyes. Her daughter’s sweetness never failed to calm and focus Lida’s heart on what truly mattered, wiping away all selfish and foolish yearnings.

“Grandma said she would like me to come draw in her chamber. I must be quick. She will teach me more shapes.” Katia spun on her heel and scampered up the back stairs.

Feeling as if the weight of a mountain were on her shoulders, Lida walked reluctantly back into the hall.

Tero sat in the best chair with a horn of cider in hand. Lida’s brothers and their wives sat close at the steward’s side.

Tero stood. “Aye, my dear lady. Please take my seat; it is most comfortable.”

Glaring at her family, Lida ignored the offer and sat on the bench.

“Lida.” Her brother Peter’s clipped tone held a warning. “We have discussed Jarl Magnus’s proposals with Tero and discovered many interesting facts.” Her brother sent her a meaningful look. His stiff jaw and beady eyes told her he was prepared to twist her arm raw, as cruelly as he had when they were children, to get her to marry the Swede. She froze her face into the neutral expression of polite indifference that her mother had taught her.

“He will release you to return to Finland once his sons have grown . . .” Peter’s words trailed off. “Perhaps as little as five winters. He is very practical and will purchase you a farm here,” he added with growing excitement. No doubt Peter was already mentally harvesting the crops of that imagined farm. “When he releases you, you would return to your family as a wealthy woman.”

“He commands a hundred trade ships, Lida,” Svin said, next in line to twist her arm. “His men have labeled his lands the Iron Kingdom. ’Tis no jest. I’ve heard of it from the men down at the docks.”

“Good for you, Svin. Why don’t you go birth his bastards for him then? Better yet, why not send Tina? She looked well enough impressed with him,” Lida said, holding no apology in her tone. Thank heavens her mother was not above stairs to overhear.

“Why, you ungrateful shrew!” Tina erupted. “How dare you speak of me—”

“Enough!” Her father, who never raised his voice, roared. “You have your answer,” he told Tero. “My daughter stays. Now go.” Red in the face, he pointed to the door.

“My apologies for creating unrest in your home, sir.” The steward nodded to her father and started toward the doorway. “I only wish to correct the lady on one point. Jarl Magnus does not seek bastards, but trueborn heirs to lead his vast empire. He is seeking a wife, not a slave. That is the offer he presents.”

“I beg your pardon,” Lida said. “Allow me to correct you, sir. Jarl Magnus presents me with nothing—‘tis you who does his presenting.” She spoke in a soft tone that had an undercurrent of Norrland steel—or at least she hoped it did.

From his blank expression, it was clear Tero had expected her to swoon or even be grateful for this unsolicited offer to be a warlord’s breeding mare. She could not be further from grateful. In fact, this entire mess left her insides twitching with irritation.

***

Bishop Henry had been overjoyed to loan Magnus the use of his private council chamber, since the jarl had delayed his departure from Finland. Filled with ornaments gilded in gold and furnishings draped in velvet, the overfilled chamber was clearly intended to impress its guests with the grandeur of the Holy Roman order more than actually serve a practical purpose. The bishop, who claimed God blesses practical men, often fell short of his own words.

Magnus glanced up from his correspondence, his foul mood rapidly returning. “What do you mean she said no?”

Tero nervously shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Her family, with the exception of her father, seemed receptive. Regrettably, the lady was not.”

“Why should that matter?” Magnus threw down his quill. “You offered the farm—are they holding out for a higher price? I shall not put up with another spoiled female, Tero. We shall sail for Stadsholmen as we planned.” His steward furrowed his brow, appearing confused.

“Agnafit,” Magnus grunted, remembering the new name of the city. His cousin, the king of Sweden, needed to stop renaming everything. It was very tiresome—which returned his mind to what presently irritated him. He slammed his fist to the table. “Senseless wench.”

How dare she refuse me?
She would rather waste her remaining fertile years on a mud hill than rise above her station? He would not have it.

Magnus stood, and his chair crashed to the floor behind him.

Leaning against the far wall, his chief officer, Aleksi, spoke up. “In our fathers’ day, you could have tossed her in your ship and been halfway back to Tronscar by now.”

“Our forefathers had all the fun.” Magnus chugged the rest of his wine and slammed his chalice to the table. “They answered to no one, while we’re cursed with blockheaded kings enforcing their petty laws and clergy with their endless writ and holy orders.”

“A handful of soft-footed men and we could sort this out quickly, Jarl.” Aleksi commanded the jarl’s men as a general, but he still strategized like a pirate.

“’Tis why I like you, Aleksi, and have you for my war council—”

“Nay, nay,” his steward interrupted. “The bishop wrote a new law forbidding us to kidnap Finnish maidens and drag them north, remember?” Tero hesitated while Magnus and Aleksi scowled at him. “Master, may I offer an alternative?” Magnus gripped the chalice in his hand, waiting for Tero’s advice. “Might you think to ask her yourself? Perhaps speak to her father, meet her daughter? She may feel rushed to decide on the spot.”

“Rushed to decide? ’Tis no time for jesting, my friend.” Magnus scoffed. That could not possibly be the answer. “I have wasted enough time speaking with the father.”

“Aye, indeed,” Tero said, and continued more quietly, “yet you departed without explaining your intent—”

“’Tis obvious what my intent is. I am a jarl. I do not beg for wives. Fathers bring their daughters to me. Women come to me.”

“Perhaps you may invite her to feast with you this eve?” his steward suggested. “Here, of course. Impress her with the nobility that she would be exposed to as the friherrinna of Tronscar.”

“You may invite her to feast, but regardless of if she consents, we sail on the morning tide. I begin to think I’d prefer a sensible Swedish woman.” With that, he dismissed Tero and endeavored to return his concentration to a trade agreement with a southern jarl about a shipment of steel, but it was to no avail. His mind kept wandering back to the blond braid.

No simpleminded farm girl was going to say no to him. If he wanted her, then he would have her. That was the end of it.

***

Constructed on the highest level of land, the unfinished stone church cast long shadows across the lower bailey. Warm orange rays from the setting sun wrapped around her shoulders, yet Lida continued to shiver. Riding on horseback and holding tight to her father’s sides, she entered the open gates of the jarl of Turku’s fortress. It had been rebuilt and shared yards with the bishop’s recently completed residence.

Lida ignored her instinct to dig in her heels as she was escorted inside on her father’s arm. New braziers and hanging candleholders filled the great hall with an unearthly glow. Lida and her family were ushered forward to sit at a long table, closest to where the bishop and the noblemen from Sweden sat. To her relief, the intimidating jarl of Norrland was not present.

She had been expecting a boorish feast filled with Norrland men. Lida was shocked to find the tables teeming with merry villagers. Delicate, fragrant arrangements of the last of the summer’s wildflowers were spread throughout the hall. Opulent chalices were filled with wine, and baskets of nut bread and platters of fruits and cheeses were being served—things which were reserved for the finest of occasions. Lida should have been impressed and enjoyed this rare occasion, but she could not.

As a cow being led to slaughter, she felt anxious, scanning the hall, waiting for the axe to fall. She wished she had been allowed to stay home with her mother and daughter. Her mother’s foot ailment had flared up again, no doubt worsening due to the tension within the family.

After the jarl’s steward had taken his leave, her brothers and their wives had argued, yelling and stomping as Lida sat silently, staring across at her father, who as usual said nothing. She could not help but feel a measure of anger toward him for leaving this all on her shoulders.

Fathers and husbands never allowed their females to make their own decisions. Every woman in her village was treated in such fashion. But her father was different. He would never force her to accept a man simply because it benefitted him. At one time this freedom of choice had felt like a rich blessing. Tonight, she felt alone and conflicted.

Her sisters-in-law had muttered insults, while her brothers, with some genuine concern, worked on convincing her to accept the proposal. They claimed their reasons were in her and Katia’s best interest, but she saw them to be nothing more than self-serving. That was when Ingerid, her mother, had stepped in.

“I will speak alone with my daughter,” Ingerid said in a velvety tone.

Obediently nodding, one after another, everyone but Lida quit the hall.

“My dove, how are you fairing?” she said, opening her arms to Lida. “If ’tis not a simple aye or nay, may I ask why this offer pains you?”

Her mother was the wisest person Lida knew, and at times, also the most annoying. The village women teased Lida that her mother was the most ill-equipped farmwife, but would make the fairest of queens. She was perfectly tempered, never lashing out, making living up to her standards nothing short of exhausting. She sat waiting for Lida to admit what she already knew but had not the courage to voice.

“I—I did not care for the way he looked at me.” That was not at all true, and her mother tilted her head, seeing easily through Lida’s falsehood. The truth was so far from what she had said that Lida struggled to breathe. Ingerid simply continued to smile. Curse, her parents were vexing. “Why does father not simply bully me into deciding what he prefers? ’Twould make this much simpler.”

“Very well, my love. You know your heart best. If you do not wish for more children, then that is the right decision for you.”

“Ugh, Mother!” Lida scratched her fingers into her tight braids. “What of the farm? What of Svin and Peter and their needs? Father cannot afford to take on more laborers. Our crops are spread too thin on such a small amount of land. What will become of us?”

“You need not cloud your decision with such matters,” Ingerid said with naive confidence.

The last few years had been hard on her parents as they aged rapidly. Lida had not the heart to challenge her mother. Her parents had no knowledge of her brothers’ poor management of the estate, the failed seed that cost them so dearly or the wasteful spending and irregular saving. But Lida knew. Her brothers’ families would continue to grow, their wives would demand a greater share of the family income, and the once well-sized manor home would become very small, very fast. What would happen to Katia then?

“That silver-tongued steward did a fine job wooing your brothers, did he not?” Her mother nudged her shoulder, trying to lighten her spirits.