Was that her plan? To assume the Jarl’s seat and take power for herself?
It could work, if she had enough support behind her… but he could not be certain that such a thing was possible.
Thidrick’s agreement to speak of what he knew would help turn some of the warriors in her favor. She was well liked and respected for her part in Skaro’s defense, and from what he had heard she had been a good leader in her father’s stead… but would it be enough?
Bersi glanced at the warriors again as one of them grabbed for a servant carrying a copper jug of mead. The girl shrieked as the man yanked her off her feet and into his lap and the men around him laughed.
Bersi gritted his teeth and turned away. The noise behind him grew as a fight broke out between the men, but he refused to watch or be drawn into it. He walked as quickly as he could toward the firewood sheds and was thankful for the weight of the axe at his hip. Being unarmed in Skaro was a dangerous thing while Jarl Sigurd’s warriors prowled the streets.
A thin scream echoed from the direction of the woodsheds, and Bersi’s thoughts snapped to what was ahead of him. He quickened his pace and as he stepped around the edge of the last house in the street he saw a small knot of people gathered around something at the edge of the woodsheds.
A pile of clothing, perhaps, caught in the wind and pulled from a washing line. But people would not gather to look at such a thing.
His throat tightened as he came closer and saw that the lump of fabric had a familiar shape. A man lay in the mud, his arms and legs twisted at odd angles, his face buried to its ears in the soft soil.
“Who is it?” someone asked as Bersi came upon them.
“I cannot tell,” another replied. “Lift him up.”
“Should someone tell the Jarl?”
Someone should tell the Jarl, but as the man was lifted from the embrace of the wet mud, Bersi had a feeling that Jarl Hallvard would already know what had happened.
Thidrik.
He recognized him by the silver ring the man wore around his neck. Plunder from a raid. He had seen it only a few hours before as they spoke in the woods behind the healer’s house.
“He is one of Iarund’s healers,” one of the women said. Her face was pale and her eyes widened as Thidrik was laid upon his back on a forlorn patch of grass.
“Drowned… suffocated in the mud. He must have fallen.”
“I have seen this before,” a man said with certainty. “My cousin, he drank too much mead, lost his footing, and drowned in a puddle no more than three inches deep!”
The gathered people nodded gravely. A terrible way to die. Preventable. Tragic. But not strange or unusual.
Bersi did not believe it for a moment.
He ignored the others and crouched down beside the man’s body. Thidrik had known he would be in danger. He rarely came down to the village, preferring instead to keep his seclusion at Iarund’s house in the forest above Skaro.
All the healers did the same.
Thidrik would not come down to the village to drink with these men. He was a warrior, but his loyalty was to Iarund and the other healers.
Bersi looked at Thidrik’s face closely. It was caked with mud and wet clay. But there— he reached out and wiped a blob of mud away from a spot just behind Thidrik’s ear. A small wound, barely the width of his thumb, was revealed. A small trickle of blood made its way down the healer’s neck and disappeared into his hairline.
He had not drowned in the mud.
Bersi straightened and rubbed his hand against the side of his thigh.
“What is it?” a woman asked, but Bersi shook his head.
“Someone should send for Iarund,” he said. “Tell him to come and collect his man.”
“Ulf has gone to fetch one of the priests,” a man said. “They will send word to the healers. He will be their business now.”
Bersi frowned, but did not argue. It was not his concern. Thidrik had died for the secret he carried. His death was not the result of a drunken brawl, or any preventable accident. It was murder.
He stepped away from the body and turned his focus to the wood he needed to take back to Torunn’s house. He stacked his arms full and strode away from the woodsheds with as quick a pace as he could manage.
Two priests and one of their acolytes followed another man and passed him as he walked through the village. Their expressions were concerned, but somehow detached; a trait that Bersi had never liked about priests.
The miseries and stress of normal life did not touch those men. Their only real concerns were their own security—even the gods seemed to come second to that. He had always wondered if anyone else had noticed such a thing. Perhaps the gods did not even care.
He felt nothing for Thidrik. He had not known the man, had never fought with him or against him. But what he did feel was fear. Torunn had lost the evidence she needed to confront her brothers, and that put her in danger.
“Why are you so quiet?”
Bersi stood by the wall as Torunn bathed, lost in his own thoughts and worry. Every hour that passed put her at greater risk, and he half-expected one of her brothers’ assassins to break through the door at any moment.
“What would you have me say?”
Torunn let out an exasperated breath. “You are infuriating.”
“You must forgive me.”
She turned around in the washtub, rested her forearms on the edge and braced her chin upon them to look at him.
“And what if I cannot?”
She was teasing him, but he was not in the mood for teasing.
“I saw something this morning.”
Torunn blinked in surprise—that response was not what she had expected. “Saw something…”
“Thidrik.”
“Of course, he is to attend the feast tonight. He will be at my side when I expose my brothers for their crimes against Skaro.”
“No… He will not be.”
Bersi’s voice was flat and Torunn raised her head slightly.
“What?”
“Thidrik is dead.”
“Dead.”
Bersi took a deep breath. She had to know the truth of it. “I found him by the woodsheds. Face down in the mud.”
“In the mud—”
Torunn seemed stunned by his words and he was suddenly frustrated with himself for his delivery of such news.
“He was murdered. I saw the wound. They will say he was drunk. That he fell in the mud and drowned.”
Torunn shook her head. “No.”
“You must reconsider your plans…” Bersi had not planned to beg her to stay silent, but the words came out before he could stop himself.
“And see my father’s murder go unpunished?” she snapped. “And let those dogs keep Skaro under their heel? They do not care about these people, they do not care for the gods… Maybe we are cursed. This is our punishment for it.”
“Torunn—”
She rubbed her hands over her face and pushed her wet hair away from her forehead. “I need to make a decision,” she murmured.
“You do. And you need to be careful,” Bersi urged.
“Careful,” she snorted. “Careful will see me married and held hostage by Jarl Sigurd. Dragged to Bitra to be wife to that old man. No. I will not be careful.”
Bersi’s hands tightened into fists.
“Varin has gathered men to support your claim,” he said. “If you make the accusations. If you call Hallvard out—if you challenge him—there are warriors loyal to your father who will stand with you.”
She pulled her dark hair over her shoulder and squeezed the water from it. Her expression was unreadable, but the set of her jaw was determined. She would do it. She would challenge Hallvard. His fear for her tightened his stomach as she stood up out of the water and reached for him.
He stepped forward to assist her, and as her hand slipped into his he had to resist the urge to sweep her into his arms once more. It had only been hours since they had lain together
, but he would take her again in a moment if she asked.
But she was not looking at him and he released her fingers as she pulled a length of linen across her body to dry herself.
“My plans have not changed,” she said stiffly. “But you will be with me in the great hall. And Varin.”
“You want me—”
“Behind me, protecting me,” she said. She still had not looked at him.
“As you say.”
She pushed at her wet hair and let out a frustrated breath. “Send in Heldi, I will need her help.”
Bersi nodded and went to the door to fetch the other servant.
“You must be ready for anything,” she said as he opened the door. “Hallvard will not take kindly to my accusations.”
“No, he will not.”
Chapter 11 ~ Torunn
It was difficult to remain aloof around him. Difficult to remember that he was her property. Even harder to remember that she should have no more regard for him than she would for a piece of furniture.
But Bersi was not the same as the other slaves in Skaro. Even though he bowed his head and did as he was commanded, he would always be a rebel. She could see it in his eyes when he looked at her, in his shoulders as he split firewood, and in the way he walked when he accompanied her through the village.
He was too close to her—a murderous villain who had been bent on destroying everything Skaro held dear. He should never have been permitted to live. She had been too weak to commit to what she knew had to be done. And now? Now she was compromised even further.
Torunn pulled the linen tighter around her body and tried not to think of the pleasure he had given her… or her curiosity at how much more he could give her. It was not the time for softness or the demands of the flesh.
Her only thought should be for the task ahead of her.
If she could not focus, she would falter.
Heldi’s face appeared in the doorway. “Mistress, I have brought a dress that Jarl Sigurd sent for you.”
Torunn made a face. “I do not want it,” she replied stiffly. “A tunic and breeches—but bring only my best garments. I would not have my brothers think that I am trying to insult them.”
Heldi nodded, but the woman looked apprehensive.
“What is it?”
“You have refused all of Jarl Sigurd’s gifts,” she said. “It is only—”
“And I will continue to do so,” Torunn replied briskly. “Fetch what I have asked for, and then you will dress my hair as we discussed.”
“As you say.”
Heldi closed the bathhouse door and Torunn closed her eyes and tried to focus.
Jarl Sigurd had sent her many gifts, and they were all piled in the corner of the main room of her house, unopened, untouched, and unappreciated. If the old man was not insulted by now, she would correct that tonight. She had no intention of marrying. And she would not be forced into any union, no matter how important her brothers might believe it to be.
“If you cannot make an alliance without barter, then you do not deserve the alliance,” she muttered. Bringing Jarl Sigurd to Skaro had been a grave mistake—one she never would have made.
But there were many mistakes that had been made since her father’s funeral. And many more lay ahead. All she had to do was survive.
Thidrik’s death had come as a shock, but the news of it had only hardened her resolve. She would not be intimidated by her brothers.
The healer’s support would have helped greatly—but the chance that he would mention the monks, or the cross her father had worn, was too great. She had no intention of revealing the heresy that her father had committed. That secret would remain hidden in the darkest part of her heart. A private shame that would serve nothing and no one.
She believed now that Skaro was cursed, but she did not know how to correct it—
The door opened and Heldi stepped into the bathhouse with the clothing Torunn had asked for draped over her arm.
Torunn forced herself to smile. There were still many things to prepare for the night ahead, and she needed the time to think.
She was dressed and waiting for Iri when he arrived to escort her to the great hall.
“You brought guards.”
“I did,” Iri replied. “The Jarl insisted.”
“How kind.” Torunn did not bother to hide the bitterness in her voice. Hallvard would be happy to be rid of her. After tonight, he would not have to pretend to have any care for her. Jarl Sigurd would have his reward for stooping to unite with Skaro, and her brother would have the powerful ally he needed to take his ambitions further than ever before.
Bersi waited by the door and he fell into step behind her as she strode past Iri and out into the twilight. The guards waited patiently, but Torunn did not look at them. She did not care who they were, or if she recognized them. By the time the moon rose, none of it would matter.
“Jarl Sigurd is in a foul mood,” Iri said quietly as he caught up with her.
Torunn glanced at him, but only grunted in reply. She did not care how the old goat was feeling. If her plan was successful, he would end this night in an even worse mood.
The leather sheath of the knife she had strapped to her waist beneath her tunic was warm against her skin and the feel of it bolstered her confidence just a little.
Bersi was close behind her. He was secretly armed as well. The only slave in Skaro to carry a weapon… If he was discovered with it, he would be punished, maybe even killed. She just had to hope that they could survive long enough to escape—
“What are you planning?”
Torunn shook her head. She did not know herself. She had an idea of what she would say, but when and how she would say it… it was impossible to know.
The noise from the great hall reached them before they had turned the corner. Torches burned brightly along the path, and the smell of cooking meat and spilled mead filled the air. The people in the streets seemed to be in a jovial mood, but Torunn could feel the tension as heads turned in her direction and gazes sharpened to see her.
The people could not have turned against her… She was not like her brothers, surely they could see that?
She had served them as well as she was able—but she had not done it willingly. The position had been forced on her. If she had been given the choice to go raiding, she would have taken it in half a heartbeat. The realization was a shameful one. The people needed a leader who would care for them. Not one who would only do their duty when they could not avoid it any longer.
They deserved better than Hallvard.
But they deserved better than her, too.
She could be better.
Her jaw tightened as the path turned uphill toward the great hall. A cheer rippled through the growing darkness and Torunn’s hands clenched into fists as she strode forward. Hallvard would have saved her a place, but he would have some barb to fling in her direction for her tardiness. Jarl Sigurd would be stern and bitter, and she would, no doubt, have to avoid his glares. If Iri was correct, he would be particularly difficult to stomach that evening.
They were to be married the following morning.
But not if she had anything to say about it.
She took a breath and pushed Iri forward. “You go in first,” she said sharply.
Iri looked at her strangely, but did as he was told. He stepped into the hall and Hallvard’s shout of welcome rang out over the noise.
“Stay close,” she said to Bersi. “You will stand behind me and keep watch. Are you ready?”
“Yes, mistress,” he replied.
She hated it when he used that title. It was not—
“Torunn! Where is our baby sister? The jewel of Skaro! Come into the hall!” Hallvard cried.
Torunn cringed, but then lifted her chin and walked through the door. The straw on the floor crunched under her boots and she glanced down briefly. The glitter of steel beneath one of the tables caught her eye, and she focused on Hallvard once more.
Her brother was dressed in a finely woven tunic that had been embroidered with delicate knotwork and dyed thread. The cloak that was thrown carelessly over the back of his great chair, their father’s chair, was trimmed with dark brown fur that had been taken from a bear he had killed when he was just a boy. A proud legacy, indeed. Bitterness tightened her chest as she walked between the tables.
She could feel the eyes of the warriors upon her and she did not falter or look away from the empty chair that had been left for her.
Jarl Sigurd was seated across from her, and he glared in her direction like an angry boar. His small eyes were narrowed and his cheeks were red from drink.
A spiteful man. Angry and cruel.
Asgaut sat to his brother’s left, and though the sun had not yet fully set below the horizon, he was well and truly drunk. He lurched to the side and held out his mead horn to be refilled. Torunn was embarrassed for him, but it would not have mattered to Asgaut. He would remember nothing of this night, nor the one before it. He would fall into bed with his servants and forget everything in the tangle of flesh…
If only her life could be so simple.
“You have started without me,” she said as she reached her chair.
“We would have waited all night,” Hallvard said with a broad grin. “But Jarl Sigurd was eager to get the festivities underway.”
Torunn’s smile was thin as she took her seat. “So I see.”
But there was nothing different about this gathering than any other one she had witnessed in that hall since her brothers had returned to Skaro. She had been to many wedding feasts, and none of them resembled anything around her.
And the hard glare of her intended husband was unexpectedly unsettling.
“Eager,” he snarled. “The more time I waste in Skaro, the more I question our alliance, Jarl Hallvard.”
Hallvard laughed as though the visiting Jarl had just told the most hilarious joke he had ever heard and Torunn hated him all the more.
“The Jarl is just nervous,” he said. “He has had so many wives, but none as splendid as you, Sister.”
Torunn held out her cup to be filled, but she did not drink from it.
Sword of Vengeance: A Medieval Viking Historical Romance (Warrior's Claim Book 2) Page 12
