“What boy?” Marteinn acted as if he didn’t know who he was talking about. Then, realization dawned on his face. “Kar? Probably rushed back to the keep after the fight ended.”
Perhaps the boy was the jarl’s youngest child and was ashamed of what happened. “How far is it to the keep?” Aaron asked.
“Two miles,” Marteinn answered.
“We have need to get these men home so I can clean and dress their wounds properly,” Varinn said in a voice that left no room for argument.
Aaron inspected the gash on Geilir’s left leg. “Tis deep—it will take time to heal.”
Geilir looked away, huffing.
Caring little about what this man felt, the mystery behind the boy’s disappearance still gnawed at Aaron’s gut. If he had a young son, he’d keep better watch over the child. In the spirit of diplomacy, Aaron chose to reserve judgment until after he met Erik the Bald face-to-face.
“I’ll collect the horses.” Aaron walked away, fisting his hands. Before his conversion, he would have struck a man for displaying such open disrespect. Although he knew how to control his anger now, there were moments he desperately wanted to revert back to his old ways.
Yet he couldn’t if he wished the jarl to peacefully donate men to the king’s service.
Chapter 3
Fool
Kara didn’t have the will or strength to move after the skirmish. Her arms and legs ached from the fight. She’d never expected to draw blood—to actually kill someone. But she had. And the shock of it overwhelmed her. And once she saw that monstrosity of a man who appeared from nowhere to aid them, her heart stuttered. Something about his beastly gray eyes made her tremble. He looked every bit the man she’d dreamt of.
The one who could steal her heart.
Tall and powerful—she admired his rugged features.
As if Odin touched her legs, she found the power to run away. She arrived at her house sweaty and breathless, stumbling up the stairs to the front doors. Guests had arrived yesterday and her father was busy entertaining. She eyed the blood on her armor. In order to get upstairs unnoticed, she needed to slip by a double archway that opened to the great hall. Sneaking inside, she turned her back so no one would recognize her.
Her father’s booming voice stopped her short.
“Daughter . . .”
She ignored him and hurried up a few stairs.
“Are you hurt?”
She stopped and turned slowly to face him. His blue eyes widened when he realized her condition. She cringed under his scathing look. This wasn’t what she’d wanted. She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t—her sire resembled a devil at the moment.
“Where is your brother and Marteinn?” he asked. “How far behind are they?” He grabbed her by the arms and gave her a firm shake. “Speak girl or so help me.”
She finally found her voice. “We were attacked.”
“By whom?” he demanded. “What happened?”
Almost before she’d ended her story, her father growled orders to his guards. “Fifteen of you ride to the forest and recover my son and the men who assisted him.
Now
.” The highest ranking warrior nodded, then rushed outside. Her sire wrapped his arm consolingly about her waist. “Come with me to the hall. Bring wine,” he bellowed as they entered.
A thrall immediately appeared and guided Kara to a chair. Before she sat down, she stripped off her armor, dropping it on the stone floor. Grateful to be home, she held the cup the slave set down in front of her with both hands, then guzzled the wine. Prone to eating when nervous, she claimed a hunk of bread off a nearby tray and ate ravenously. After, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. Surprised by her sire’s unexpected, deep-bellied laughter, her gaze flitted around the high table. His guests appeared equally amused.
“Have I offended you, sir?” Heat rose in her cheeks, what had she done?
“By Odin’s eye,” her sire swore. “I’ve raised
three
sons.”
Her brows knit. Taken aback by his words, she shakily poured herself a second measure of wine. Her father’s less than favorable opinion of her put her on the defensive. “I’ve done everything you’ve expected of me, milord.”
He eyed her severely, his smile fading. “I was just boasting to these good men how beautiful my daughter is. Look at you. You’ve embarrassed me, child.”
She lifted her chin. She wore armor and carried a sword because her father demanded it. He’d never admit it in front of his distinguished guests. “I don’t gallivant around wearing braies and weapons every day,” she defended herself.
“Only because I forbid it,” he countered. “Seeing you now shows me what an injustice I’ve done you. I’ve poorly prepared you for your future. You lack the refinement and elegance most girls half your age possess.”
“Haven’t I proven time and again I can play the role of the jarl
’s
perfect daughter when it’s expected of me?”
His criticism stung. Ever obedient, she learned to read and write and fight alongside her brothers. Could he fault her for preferring climbing trees over dancing? Reading over embroidery? She enjoyed drying herbs; didn’t that count as cooking?
“Go upstairs and prepare to greet our guests properly,” her father instructed.
She needed a bath. Surely the stable smelled better than she did. “Yes, father.” She stood, then bowed.
Her father coughed. “Bowing as a man only proves my point.” The five men at the table laughed.
Humiliated, she huffed out an apology, curtsied, and ran out of the room.
A half hour after the battle, Aaron followed Marteinn through the front doors of Erik the Bald’s modestly sized keep. Although the great hall was smaller than most, the jarl
’s
wealth showed in the finery he decorated it with. Tapestries and furs were abundant. On the east-facing wall, small niches were carved into the stone. Each hollow contained a miniature marble statue of the gods.
A large hearth with a marble mantle graced the north wall. Two silver battle axes, crossed at the center, hung above the fireplace. Left of the hearth, covering the wall from ceiling to floor, was the largest bear skin he’d ever seen. He’d enjoy hearing the tale behind that prized pelt. To the right of the mantle, an ornate looking glass, edged with silver and amber, hung on wall. Three long trestle tables were arranged in the center of the room. A hundred men could dine comfortably there. Erik the Bald enjoyed luxury.
Marteinn motioned him across the room. They passed the kitchen where women were busy placing fresh loaves of bread on racks. Aaron paused to take in the smell of roasting meat. Violence always made him hungry. His escort grinned as if he’d read his thoughts and stopped at a narrow doorway. Once Aaron caught up, Marteinn knocked.
“Enter,” a deep voice sounded from inside.
Marteinn opened the door, then stepped aside so Aaron could pass. Sitting at a table piled high with ledgers and weapons was a white-bearded giant he assumed was the jarl. True to his name, Erik the Bald had a head as hairless as a baby’s arse. He stood to greet them.
Marteinn bowed. “Milord, this is Jarl Aaron McNally, a representative for King Olaf. He intervened—”
The
jarl held up his hand. “Kara gave full account. Save your strength. We’ll speak later.”
Aaron regarded Marteinn. Kar? Kara?
Who is he?
A faint smile crossed his lips. Perhaps this man’s youngest offspring was cursed with a feminine name.
Erik broke his concentration. “Come, sit. I owe you endless gratitude, Jarl McNally. You saved my son.”
Marteinn exited the room.
Aaron couldn’t help noticing the size and condition of Erik’s hands, gnarled and scarred from years of battle. He held a high level of respect for men who earned their wealth in the field. “You owe me nothing. I was passing by and heard the commotion.” He’d never admit that he was spying on the man’s warriors.
Erik eyed him speculatively. “Playing humble doesn’t impress me.” He offered Aaron a wine skin. “Your name is well known, Aaron McNally, kinsman of Tyr Sigurdsson.” The elder gave him a hostile stare.
Aaron crossed his arms over his chest. Whatever the jarl knew wouldn’t surprise him. “Your cousin has fathered two sons.”
“Yes.” Aaron knew already. “I often inquire after him.”
Erik’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I had the pleasure of speaking with Tyr last season at the Thing.”
Aaron nodded. “And his wife?”
“Beautiful and as virtuous as first snow.”
Yes. Aaron couldn’t envision his cousin’s wife as anything less. He remembered the short time he held that lovely creature in his arms four years ago. The sweetest bit of temptation he’d ever been challenged to resist. There was nothing ordinary about Rachelle Sigurdsson. Forcing those bitter memories aside, he said, “I’m not here to reminisce.”
“No, I doubt you are.” Erik placed his folded hands on the table and leaned forward. “I’ll be blunt, Jarl McNally. What does the king want?”
“Men.”
“For what end?”
Aaron felt like laughing. This man’s disdain rivaled his son’s. With the power and authority of King Olaf behind him, Aaron knew he’d get what he needed quickly. “Churches are being vandalized in the northlands. I’m forming a new army—soldiers to man the cities and protect the priests and holy sites from further destruction.”
The elder jarl snarled. “You expect my support?” he shot up, then paced behind his desk. “I donated gold and pledged thirty of my best warriors to the invasion of England four years ago. Do you know how many returned from Stamford Bridge?”
Aaron could only guess.
“One.”
“Many households suffered the same fate.”
“Does that ease my burden?” Erik snapped. “My youngest brother’s body was never recovered from that Odin-forsaken wasteland.”
Ten thousand men had died at Stamford Bridge—including Aaron’s own cousin. He understood the pain and bitterness, but would not tolerate disobedience to the king. “I share your sorrow.” He picked up the wineskin and opened it. He took a long swig. “Olaf desires peace.”
“I’m sure he does.” Erik rubbed his head, clearly frustrated and angry, then slammed his fist on the table. “Olaf hasn’t the resources or men to spare to protect his own assets. Our young king is too busy fortifying cities, instead of making peace with the men he needs most. Now he’ll steal the sons of the most powerful families in Norway without showing his face?”
“You misunderstood me, Jarl Erik.
Every
household is subject to this draft. The king has left this to
my
discretion.”
Erik’s eyes flashed. “I’ve worked side-by-side with just about every sort of man, Jarl McNally. Criminals and saints. Pagans and Christians. Do you know what kind of man I have no tolerance for? An outcast who betrays his kinsman out of jealously and hate. Do you understand?”
Aaron rose abruptly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His reputation preceded him wherever he went, much like a bad stench.
Goddamnit.
No matter how hard he tried to separate himself from his dishonorable past, someone always seemed to remember.
“Your personal opinion of me is of no consequence, Jarl Erik,” he spoke through clenched teeth, slowly forcing his rage aside. He refused to grovel and beg forgiveness for his sins. He’d done that four years ago at the standing stones. Yet his conversion remained a secret.
For the king
, he reminded himself. Not because he feared reprisal from the arrogant jarl. Olaf’s words rang in his head,
I have great need of an experienced captain. Someone with a keen sense of justice and a slow hand for violence
.
“Oh?” The elder faced him. “And what if these men you plan on recruiting knew the true nature of the devil intended to train and lead them?”
“At risk of losing their heads for treason, I’m sure they’ll understand. I require able-bodied men. I demand one of your soldiers and your youngest son.”
“Gunter?” Erik looked surprised.
“No, Kara.”
A strange look crossed Erik’s features. “Where did you meet Kara?”
“We haven’t met. I watched him fight in the forest. He shows great promise.”
“Does he, now?”
“Aye.”
“You’ll join my guests tonight,” Erik laughed vigorously. “You’ve made me happy.” Cursed man. What had changed his mind? Perhaps the threat of execution for treason? Whatever it was, he didn’t trust him.
After a short rest in the bedchamber he’d been assigned, Aaron dressed, then found his way downstairs. The great hall was crowded. He took his seat at the high table as instructed. Geilir sat at his father’s right, Gunter to his left. The youngest son hadn’t made an appearance yet. Aaron suspected he was on his way out of the country.
Before the main course was served,
skalds
recited poetry, musicians played, and young women danced to the haunting music of the lutes. Aaron drank generous amounts of mead and dipped fresh bread in delicious dark broth. After having time to think about his confrontation with Erik, Aaron wondered if he’d acted impetuously. Respect and trust is earned. If a stranger showed up wanting custody of
his
youngest son, Aaron would only offer two options—leave or die. At this point, the
jarl
hadn’t accepted or refused his demands.
As his gaze swept the room, he noticed a group of finely dressed courtiers enter the hall. Three girls wearing cream-colored linen curtsied in front of Erik, who raised his cup in response. Then a beautiful maiden garbed in embroidered blue silk, wearing a circlet of white roses on her head, stopped and embraced the jarl. Applause ended the music as the women headed to their seats at the far end of the high table. Once they’d settled, Erik stood.
“In honor of King Olaf and his representatives, I bid you all to eat your fill.”
His words were spoken a bit too sanctimoniously for Aaron’s taste. He scratched his head, then aimed his attention at the goddess staring at him, the maiden in blue. When he offered her a smile, she averted her eyes. He grinned, appreciating the cat and mouse game women and men often played.
What he’d do with a sweet, unspoiled morsel like her.
A jolt of lust shot through him when she looked his way again and delicately placed a grape in her mouth. Her lovely lips puckered as she sucked on the fruit before swallowing it.