Sword of Vengeance: A Medieval Viking Historical Romance (Warrior's Claim Book 2)

by Avery Maitland

  Torunn shook her head as a darkness reeled up inside her. It was not possible. The rumors could not be true.

  “When I was finally allowed to see him, the wound had already festered. There was nothing I could do.”

  “Was it the monks?” Torunn’s question was desperate. “Did they do something to him? Did they do it on purpose?”

  Thidrik frowned. “No. I do not believe so. But—”

  “What? Tell me, please. My father— I cannot believe that—”

  All three of them froze in place as laughter echoed through the trees. Above them, the sky was lighter, their time was growing short and fear had begun to gnaw at Torunn’s thoughts.

  “The wound,” the healer blurted out. “I was told that it was from an arrow.”

  “Yes… that is what my brothers said. An arrow to the shoulder. Filthy Saxons… the arrowhead had been poisoned.”

  “I do not know if that is true,” the healer said carefully.

  Torunn’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “I am not certain that it was an arrow,” he said.

  “Will you speak of this in public,” Bersi interjected. Torunn glared at him briefly, but then turned her attention back to the healer.

  “The people must know what happened to their Jarl,” Torunn urged him. “My brothers… they have lied to all of us.”

  Thidrik seemed to consider their words, but another burst of laughter from the guards at the front of the house distracted him. “I must go—that is the signal.”

  “Please… will you consider it?” Torunn begged.

  Thidrik did not reply, but he reached into his tunic and drew out a small square of rough linen. “I took this from your father’s body,” he said as he pressed it into her hand. “Before his funeral—I could not allow him to be sent to Valhalla with it.”

  “We must go,” Bersi said. His whisper was strained and Torunn’s mouth tasted bitter as she struggled with what she had heard. He grabbed for her arm, but she pulled it out of his grasp.

  The blood-stained linen scratched against her palm and she closed her fingers over it tightly. She could feel the shape of it, and tears threatened to overwhelm her.

  “Please— say you will speak to the people about this. I must confront my brothers with this. They must admit their part in it!”

  “I—”

  “Torunn! We must go!” Bersi’s words were sharp and desperate and Torunn finally nodded.

  “Send word if you are able,” she said and finally allowed Bersi to pull her away. Thidrik reached for the door and paused for just a moment.

  “I will do it,” he said quietly. “I will do it. The people deserve to know the truth.”

  Tears stung Torunn’s eyes as she and Bersi plunged into the woods. She pulled her arm out of his grasp and ran ahead. She wanted to run for hours as fast and far as she could. She wanted to run until her lungs burned and her legs gave out—but she could not run away from the truth that burned into the palm of her hand.

  The edge of the cliff they had climbed was ahead of her, and she skidded to a stop and fell to her knees in the crisp, frozen grass.

  She looked down at her hand, still closed into a fist around the small token Thidrik had given her.

  Her fingers opened slowly, as though they had a mind of their own and she held her breath as the blood-stained linen was revealed.

  The edges of the fabric were frayed and dark and she pulled them back carefully. Her chest tightened as she stared down at the object that had been taken from her father’s body.

  Bersi’s footsteps vibrated through the ground as he ran to her, and she barely acknowledged his presence as he fell to his knees beside her. His grunt of pain was barely concealed, but she did not look up at him.

  Her hand shook as she traced a finger over the edge of the simple wooden cross.

  The symbol of her father’s heresy.

  It was true. All of it was true. Every insult that Jarl Sigurd had hurled at her father's memory. The anxious prayers of the priests at her father’s funeral. The sacrifices. The desperate urgency of the ceremonies.

  The linen fluttered away, caught by the cold wind as she held it up by the leather thong that had been tied around the center of the cross.

  “What do I do?” she whispered.

  Bersi’s hand closed over hers, hiding the cross from view. “We will return to the village,” he said softly. “Iri will meet us tonight after the feast. You can make your decision later.”

  Torunn nodded, too numb and overwhelmed to reply. She leaned against Bersi’s reassuring bulk for just a moment before she pulled away and shoved the cross into her tunic and out of sight. She could feel it there, the sharp edges pressing against her ribs, as she rose to her feet.

  Bersi was right; she had a decision to make.

  One that would change her life forever.

  Chapter 9 ~ Bersi

  Torunn was silent as they climbed down the steep path and Bersi wished that she would unburden herself to him. It was an impossible thing to wish for—she would never reveal her thoughts to him.

  It pained him to see her so wounded. But she had wanted to know the truth. And the truth was rarely kind.

  She had a decision to make. One that would change her world forever. If she married Jarl Sigurd she would be taken away from Skaro—away from him. But if she challenged her brothers, there was a chance that she would be killed. The accusations she would bring to their table would not be heard with understanding ears.

  The sun had begun to climb over the edge of the trees as they came to the edge of fortification walls.

  “Leave me,” Torunn said shortly. “We cannot be seen entering the village together.”

  “You must promise me that you will be careful.”

  He hated being away from her—especially now. She was in danger, even if she did not want to admit it.

  She shook her head and he cursed himself for the way his throat tightened as he looked at her. What she had learned had broken her, he could see it in her eyes/

  “Your father—”

  “Stop,” she muttered. She could not meet his eyes. “Stop talking.”

  He did as he was told, but it was difficult. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms and comfort her. He could not make anything right, but he could offer his support… it was all he had to offer her.

  “Are you certain—”

  “Leave me,” she said firmly. “I do not need you.”

  Her words were choked, but her eyes were cold and hard.

  “Go around to the main gate. I will secure this door behind me.” She turned sharply and pushed at his chest. “And say nothing to anyone of what you have seen. Not even Varin. No one can know of this.”

  She did not give him an opportunity to argue, and Bersi stood still as she pushed by him and strode around the fortification wall to the hidden door.

  He waited until he heard the latch fall into place before making his way through the trees. If Torunn did not want him around, he would return when he felt it was time. He was a slave, but he could take some liberties—

  The image of the wooden cross that Thidrik had taken from Torunn’s father’s body lanced through his mind. The rumors were true. He had asked for a heretic to heal him and refused all others. Had he really begged for Odin’s mercy in his last moments? Or had Jarl Arnd made his pleas to a different deity…

  It did not matter. The old man had made his choice. Torunn wanted to believe that he had gone to Valhalla. She needed to believe it. But the look on her face as she had unwrapped that small token told him everything he needed to know.

  He could not imagine the pain that she was battling, but what they had learned from Thidrik cut deeper than anything the gods might care about. Her brothers had lied.

  If the Jarl’s wound was not from an arrow, then what had happened to him?

  Varin had his theories, but Varin always had theories, and he had not seen the Jarl’s body until it was too lat
e for anything to be done to save him.

  Was that by design?

  Bersi had no doubt of that.

  Skaro’s front gate was only steps away, but he paused to look at the faces of the people who entered the village. Some led livestock or pulled handcarts laden with goods, but even Bersi could see that there was hardship in their faces, and the carts were lighter than usual. The harvest would be lean this year, and every animal looked smaller and thinner than the year before.

  However, there was something about the morning that put him on edge. Something that he would not have thought to notice had he not been in his current situation. There was no sign that any preparations were being made for a wedding, or a celebration of any kind— The union of Skaro and Bitra should have been celebrated with overwhelming feasts, games, and celebration. But Skaro was still painted in the gray shades of a long winter that had not quite released its hold on the land.

  The alliance should have been a good one for Skaro. Jarl Sigurd had fierce warriors at his command and a rich trade route that would benefit both villages… but the old Jarl had arrived with more warriors than anyone had expected, and Bersi had a feeling that Hallvard’s plans had been temporarily knocked aside. Whatever those plans might be, he could only guess, but if the weapons hidden in the great hall were any indication, it would not be long before they would all discover the truth.

  “Where is your mistress?”

  Bersi turned in surprise as Iri marched toward him. The Jarl’s advisor had taken the easier path down to the village from the healer’s house, but Bersi was surprised that he had not arrived before them.

  “I do not know,” Bersi replied truthfully. “She wanted to be alone.”

  Iri frowned, but he nodded. “I must speak to her.”

  Bersi chuckled. “I wish you luck.”

  “I do not need your luck,” Iri snarled.

  “As you say, but you will need it all the same.” It did not matter to Bersi how Iri felt about him. The Jarl’s advisor would have made a poor adversary, and though one solid punch could have rid him of Iri’s presence, Bersi was not in the mood to fight.

  He stepped closer and Iri flinched, but Bersi needed an answer and he grabbed the other man’s tunic to keep him from pulling away. “Did you know what Thidrik would have to say?” he asked quietly.

  Iri’s eyes widened. “No,” he admitted. “The man was reluctant to talk. I—”

  Bersi released him. Of course Thidrik had been wary of talking. The information he had meant that his own life was in danger. It was safer to stay silent. Surely, silence was what Hallvard and Asgaut had demanded.

  There was enough shame in the rumors that swirled through their people and the surrounding villages—Jarl Sigurd’s bold, harsh words were enough to confirm it.

  Thankfully, rumors were not truth… Rumors were just talk.

  But what Torunn had held in her hand was truth. And truth could destroy like wildfire.

  Especially this truth.

  “What did he tell you?”

  Bersi shook his head, he had a feeling that Iri already knew. “It is not for me to say.”

  “Torunn is headstrong. Stubborn.” Iri sighed heavily and pushed Bersi’s hand away from his tunic. “What do you think she will do?”

  “You should know better than I,” Bersi snorted. “I do what she tells me.”

  “You should have a care for what I say,” Iri muttered.

  Bersi did not like the sound of the advisor’s tone and his eyes narrowed. “And why might that be?”

  “Torunn does not know everything about you, rebel,” he said.

  “And she does not know everything about you,” Bersi retorted. “I know you were the one who gave Halle the word to let us into the village.”

  Iri’s eyes widened and he took another step back out of Bersi’s reach. “How—”

  “You are not as careful as you would like to think,” he snarled. “How would Torunn feel if she knew that you had a hand in our rebellion?”

  “Attempted rebellion.” Iri’s eyes blazed with anger and his voice hissed through his teeth. “Need I remind you that you failed, and that Halle is dead.”

  Bersi nodded. “His death was unnecessary.”

  “You should not have survived it.”

  “Thankfully, the gods have other plans for me,” Bersi said with a wry smile. “Now, get out of my way. I must see if my mistress has need of me.”

  Iri looked like he wanted to say something more, but he moved aside so that Bersi could pass while still staying out of reach.

  “The wedding has been moved,” Iri blurted out as Bersi strode past. “It was decided last night. Jarl Sigurd will not accept any more delays.”

  Bersi’s hands tightened into fists. Torunn would not take this news well.

  “Moved to when?”

  “Tomorrow—just after dawn. The Jarl will tell her tonight at the feast. The preparations have already been made.”

  “Poor preparations, do you not agree,” Bersi growled.

  Iri did not look away and Bersi strode toward the village gates. He merged with the small stream of farmers and hunters who entered the village and then veered away into the streets in search of Varin.

  Anger burned in his veins as he quickened his pace. Varin could be anywhere, and he had to get back to Torunn. She would need to know what had happened sooner than later.

  No matter how quickly he went to her she would suspect that he had been hiding the truth from her.

  He needed advice, or he needed to break something. He had not decided which.

  “Tell me what you know, and then I will leave you,” Bersi demanded again.

  Varin took Bersi’s cup and refilled it with dark ale. Bersi hated the taste of it, but he drank it anyway.

  “The one good thing about those heretic monks was their drink,” Varin said with a wistful sigh. “A man can get tired of the taste of honey.”

  “Not me,” Bersi made a face as he took a gulp of the fermented liquid. “How much did you bring back with you?”

  “Every barrel the Jarl would let me carry,” he said proudly. Varin gestured to the barrels that had been piled against the far wall of his house and Bersi frowned at his cup.

  “You will be drinking it alone,” he muttered.

  “And a good thing, too,” Varin laughed. “I cannot bear the company of these bastards. Jarl Sigurd’s men are animals in armor. Have you seen them at the banquet table?”

  “I have not had the pleasure.”

  Varin punched him hard in the chest. “Your mistress keeps you too busy,” he laughed.

  “As she should. Now, will you tell me—”

  “Not until you finish that,” Varin interrupted him. He pointed at Bersi’s cup and drained his own in a single gulp.

  Bersi gritted his teeth and drank the bitter liquid as quickly as he could. “Satisfied?”

  Varin belched and refilled Bersi’s cup despite his protests. “Well enough,” he said. “Now… what was it you wanted to know?”

  “Jarl Arnd,” Bersi said quickly. He set down the cup and leaned forward on his chair. “When he was wounded—”

  “I already told you,” Varin sighed. “They would not let me see him.”

  “And Thidrik, the healer, did you speak to him?”

  Varin took a long drink of his ale and leaned back in his chair. “Why would I do that?”

  Bersi let out a frustrated breath. “Did Hallvard or Asgaut behave strangely?”

  Varin shrugged. “Their father was gravely wounded, they were not themselves.”

  “That was not what you said before.”

  “And what did I say before?”

  Bersi picked up the cup and glared at the dark liquid. “It does not matter.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  Bersi took a drink and grimaced. “The truth.”

  “The Jarl was murdered,” Varin said firmly. “I know it in my gut.”

  Bersi seized upon the moment. �
��And will you support Torunn if she accuses her brothers of the crime?”

  “I will,” Varin answered just as quickly. “Those pups do not deserve to hold the Jarl’s title. They will drive Skaro into poverty or invite men like Jarl Sigurd to pillage what wealth remains.”

  “The wedding has been moved,” Bersi said quietly. “Iri has told me it will be done tomorrow—just after dawn.”

  Varin’s eyes widened. “I did not think they would go through with it.”

  “I never doubted it. But my worry is for Torunn—”

  “Your mistress can take care of herself,” Varin laughed. But when he saw the expression on Bersi’s face, he quieted. “The weapons in the great hall. I know that is what you fear. An ambush. And that she will be caught in the fray.”

  “Or that she will be its target,” Bersi said.

  He had not wanted to speak the words aloud, but he was afraid for Torunn’s life. Once she was wed to Jarl Sigurd, the union between the two leaders would be sealed and she would be her husband’s prisoner. He had no doubt of that.

  “I said that I will stand with her,” Varin said. “What else would you have me do?”

  “There are other warriors in Skaro who are still loyal to Jarl Arnd,” Bersi said quickly. “Gather them with you, and be ready. I do not know what she will do when she hears this news.”

  “It will not be pretty,” Varin chuckled. “I do not envy you the delivery of such things.”

  Bersi smiled wryly and drank the remainder of the bitter liquid in his cup. He slammed it down on the table between them and rose from his chair.

  “What did Thidrik tell you?” Varin asked as Bersi turned to the door.

  He hesitated for just a moment. Varin deserved the truth. He had been on the raid with Jarl Arnd. He had watched the man he had sworn an oath to sicken and rot on the journey home. “That the rumors are true,” he replied finally.

  Varin paled and then shook his head. “No. It is impossible. Jarl Arnd—”

  “He called for a monk to tend his wounds,” Bersi said. “When Thidrik was permitted to see him, the wound had already festered.”

  “Bastards,” Varin muttered. “Bastards!”