by Paula Quinn
If Fiske had a capable son, a marriage might be in Silvia’s future.
Chapter Fifteen
On the fifth night at the farm, Konal instructed Silvia to prepare for a feast he was holding for his tenants. In order to foster loyalty and peace, he thought it worth the cost of a few fattened sheep and fresh vegetables. He expected her to wear one of the gowns Prince Ivarr had gifted her with and would sit with him at the high table. All in the name of establishing her as an important part of his new household. An honored position for any slave—as he so aptly reminded her before she went to her room to dress.
The idea of belonging to someone, the way livestock or property did, hadn’t sunk in. Nor would it. Freedom remained her true goal, the inspiration needed to wake every day with purpose. For the sooner she won her master’s trust and respect, the quicker she was sure he’d let her go. Then she could return to York with the scrolls, repair her cottage, and live the life of a recluse, or join a convent. The monks would give her letters of recommendation, maybe even find a cloister nearby so they could visit on holy days.
Saga encouraged her to sit on the stool so the girl could arrange her long hair. “If you wish to please the jarl, let me braid the sides of your hair in Norse fashion.”
She gazed at the girl, tempted to say she wasn’t a bloody Viking, but a Saxon. However, Saga had been so kind, staying close, and getting Silvia whatever she needed. “Do you think adorning my hair and body with pleasing things will help me win my freedom?”
She looked uncertain. “You wish to return to Jorvik?”
“I wish to return to my own life.”
“Living amongst the Danes?”
“Nay,” she said. “That is a tragedy I could do without. I miss the monks and my cottage. My garden and scrolls.”
Saga pulled a comb through the tangles in her hair. “What use are written words? A woman need only concern herself with pleasing her family and finding a husband who will provide for her.”
She couldn’t fault the girl for her beliefs. She’d been raised as most women, to serve men without question. But Silvia’s sire had given her a rare gift—knowledge—and nothing would keep her from it. Not even an axe-wielding giant.
“I’m afraid you will find me a great disappointment, Saga. My desires are not the same as yours. Of course I’ve dreamed of marriage and children, hoping to someday meet the kind of man who would appreciate my talents. But once they find out I possess the skills of a scribe, they disappear.”
“Jarl Konal hasn’t abandoned you.”
She met the maid’s gaze. “No. But there is a reason for that … I am a thrall.”
“No man has ever watched me the way our master watches you.”
Silvia chuckled. “He fears I’ll run away, nothing more.”
Saga’s deft fingers worked quickly, leaving four tight braids on either side of Silvia’s face, with tiny gold beads on the ends.
“And now for the dress,” she said, walking to the narrow bed where a purple gown had been laid out. “The embroidery is the best I’ve ever seen.” Saga held it up.
Silvia slipped out of her wool garment and allowed the maid to pull the new dress over her head. The soft linen felt good against her skin. Once the laces were tied, the maid stepped back and looked her over carefully.
“Once our master sees you in this, I think you might change your mind about why he watches you so closely. And if the jarl is only interested in keeping you here, then my brothers will surely compete for your attention.”
“Brothers?”
“Aye,” she said. “Both fishermen in Norway. But once we came here, they were forced to learn farming and how to tend sheep.”
“Do you miss your country?”
“Aye.”
“Then surely you can sympathize with me—Jorvik is the only place I’ve ever lived. No matter how kind Jarl Konal is to me, or how helpful you are, I long for the familiar sights and sounds of my own home. So many have died, and now more than ever…” Tears burned her eyes, but she wiped them away, realizing her words were lost on a girl from the very place her captor came from.
“Why did you stop speaking?” Saga asked.
“Some thoughts are better left unsaid, Saga. I am a Saxon. You are Norse. Your loyalties will always be to the jarl and your family.”
“That doesn’t mean we cannot be friends.”
“Maybe,” she said. “But it surely signifies our limits. You will be expected to report anything suspicious I say to Konal.”
The maid nodded. “Yes.”
Someone knocked on the door then. “Jarl Konal wants you to come out,” a man called.
Silvia sighed. Unaccustomed to wearing such finery, she felt as if she were in an entertainer’s costume instead of a gown. She walked to the door and opened it, finding a stranger waiting for her. He bowed.
“I will escort you to the table,” he said.
The hall had been transformed. Torch stands were positioned in the corners, illuminating the space in soft light. Bundles of flowers tied together with colorful ribbons decorated the walls. A second trestle table had been set up on the far side of the room and that’s where Konal waited. As she passed by the men and women at the lower table and standing about, they acknowledged her with smiles or a bend of the head.
What had the jarl done to prepare his servants to accept the daughter of a scribe from Jorvik as an honored guest? For though most of his tenants shared her blood, the leaders in York often overtaxed farmers, creating deep contention.
Konal stood once she reached the table. “Silvia.” His eyes gleamed with desire.
She curtsied, then greeted the men and women at the high table. All members of Saga’s family, including her two brothers.
Seated to Konal’s left, she accepted a cup of mead from him. “Thank you,” she said, taking a tentative sip.
He leaned close. “The color of your gown suits you, Silvia. But I’m afraid it makes me want to rip it off your perfect body.”
This time she gulped the mead, needing something to steady her nerves. Whenever he spoke so boldly, her blood boiled. His hands and lips were temptations she knew she must resist.
Freshly bathed, beard trimmed, and wearing a dark tunic with breeches, the jarl appeared a new man. A thick silver chain hung about his neck, matching bracelets on his wrists.
“I could say the same to you, milord.” Perhaps if she returned his sentiments with equal ardor, he’d cease teasing her.
His eyebrows rose and he studied her closely. “Is that an offer?”
“Tis merely a compliment. I have never seen you without armor.”
“Then I thank you,” he said. “But remember, I have seen you without clothes and prefer it over any of the finery Ivarr has given you.”
Her cheeks flushed, but gratefully, the women serving the meal approached the table, stopping the conversation.
“Milord,” Queenie spoke. “The meat is ready.”
Six trenchers were placed on the two tables, filled with mutton and gravy. Fresh bread, beans, carrots, and turnips were also offered. The jarl helped himself first, filling his plate, then cut a generous piece of meat for Silvia. A servant refilled his cup with mead and he sampled it, then stood up, raising his vessel high.
“Tonight, I open my home to all of you not only as your master, but as a friend. Those who live in peace thrive. War has crippled this land. Violence has claimed thousands of lives, Northmen and Saxons alike. But here, away from Jorvik and the bloody Danes, I offer you another way to live. I will not condemn you if you don’t judge me. I will protect you from the swords of your enemies if you swear allegiance to the house of Konal the Red. These lands will always hold a special place in my heart for it marks the beginning of a new time for me. I am no longer just a second son, but a jarl. And I protect what I care for.”
She didn’t miss the quick look her master gave her at the same time he said those last words. The same promise he’d made her before, only now it extende
d to the families living on his steading. And once again, Silvia found herself caught up in the passion he exuded, believing every word her natural born enemy spoke.
“After you have filled your stomachs and drank your mead and wine, I will offer all the men in this room the chance to take an oath of allegiance. Those who refuse are free to go.”
Applause followed and Konal grinned. “Aye,” he continued. “Let the whole bloody world burn down around us, but peace will be kept under this roof.” He sat down again, scooping her hand off the table and gave it a squeeze. “Did I not promise to take care of you?”
She nodded.
“And do you accept the challenge of being mistress of this house?”
“I will do whatever you ask, milord.”
“Including considering a match between you and one of those men sitting over there?” He gestured at Saga’s brothers.
The question shocked her. A match? What did he mean exactly? “A marriage?”
“Aye.”
“How much mead have you drank, milord?”
Konal’s rich laughter filled the room. “Not enough to cloud my mind, Silvia. Surely you know I will leave this place soon. Once I am satisfied with the improvements and trust the men managing my affairs, I will resume my life in Norway. Knowing you are safe has become an important part of my plans.”
“B-but…”
“Wait.” He held his hand up, stopping her. “Do not ask me to send you back to Jorvik. The moment we met, your fate changed forever. And though I may not have the privilege of being an active part of your life, the gods have revealed to me what I must do to safeguard your future. If you marry a Norseman, no one outside of these walls will ever know you’re a Saxon. For in this household, you will always be regarded as part of my family.”
She didn’t know what to say. One minute he was pawing at her, kissing her, fondling her body with hunger, the next, offering her protection and a husband? Should she take his concern as a compliment or utter rejection?
“Milord…” The words wouldn’t come.
“Have I surprised you?” he asked.
“Days ago you wanted to kill me.”
“Days ago you gave me every reason to seek your end.”
“What has changed?” she asked, finding the courage to look him in the eyes.
“Me.”
Dear God in heaven. No man had ever shared his intimate feelings with her. And judging by the tone of his voice and the expression on his face, he meant it. She’d influenced him in some way and he cared for her.
“Our short history together is tainted with hatred and violence.”
“I forgive you,” he said.
A chill spiraled up her spine as she continued to stare into the depths of his dark blue eyes. If a heathen understood the meaning of forgiveness, what else did he know?
Chapter Sixteen
After the meal ended, the tables were moved aside, and two men with flutes performed. At first, everyone congregated in the center of the hall, listening in silence. Konal wanted to show these people how to enjoy their time together. Music shouldn’t be wasted. Eyeing Silvia beside him, he slipped his arm about her waist. She smiled up at him, her sweet lips ready for hot kisses. But he’d spare her in public and, instead, guided her to an open space between the musicians and crowd.
He bowed before her, then took her hands in his, showing her how to step to the melody.
“You dance?” she asked.
“I do many things.”
He twirled her around, then reclaimed her tiny body, his palms momentarily rested on her hips. It didn’t take long for Fiske to lead his wife in the same Norse dance, then soon several couples followed. The men and women who chose not to participate, clapped their hands enthusiastically.
After several songs, the color in Silvia’s cheeks only made her more beautiful. Breathless, she stepped back from Konal.
“I am in need of a drink.”
“I will not permit you to stop yet.” He turned and waved at someone across the room.
Seconds later, one of Saga’s brothers joined them. Konal introduced him. “Silvia, this is Gunnar, the eldest of Fiske’s children.”
The broad-shouldered man bowed. “I am honored to meet you.”
She eyed both men nervously. “I am winded, milord. Must I…”
“Saga will bring you some water.”
A new chorus began and Gunnar swept her away from Konal.
As he watched them lean and sway, the sight of her in another man’s arms pierced his heart. His personal feelings didn’t matter though. Keeping her safe did. Looking away, he strutted back to the high table and asked Saga to take Silvia a drink.
“She is a delicate girl. But my son likes the idea of marriage suddenly.” Fiske stood beside him.
“What man wouldn’t for a bride as ripe as Silvia?”
His countryman rubbed his chin. “And has she been plucked?”
Although a legitimate question, it angered Konal. “The answer is for the girl to give to the man that wins her hand.”
“Aye, milord.”
“Am I to understand that one of your sons is ready to accept my terms? Whoever the girl chooses will receive thirty acres of land and enough money to build a cottage suitable for Silvia to live in and to furnish it.”
“A more generous offer than we expected.”
“And you’ll welcome her as a daughter, protecting her at all costs?”
“I swear upon Odin’s eye.”
Konal gripped the man’s shoulder. “After this melody ends, send your other son to dance with her.” He turned to go.
“Wait, Jarl Konal.”
“What is it?”
“If I may speak freely…”
“Permission granted.”
“After raising six children of my own, it is my duty to sense when something upsets them. You are only a few years older than my firstborn. If you love the girl, why don’t you marry her?”
Konal growled, displeased his servant had spoken too freely. “I’ve never claimed to feel anything.”
Fiske smirked. “A blind fool could see the attraction you share.”
“Physical need doesn’t mean I love her. Any man would be tempted by her beauty and fiery spirit. But for your sake, Fiske, I will answer plainly. Even if I wished to keep her, my family wouldn’t accept her. As a slave or concubine maybe, and I refuse to expose her to the cruel world any foreigner faces in our homeland. The Trondelag is full of vicious people who look for any reason to spill the blood of a Saxon. You should know this as well as I.”
“But you are the son of a jarl.”
“And obligated to my father until I establish my own house.”
“I understand, milord.”
With a last longing look at Silvia, Konal grabbed a wineskin off the wall near the door and went outside. A dip in the creek’s cold water would help calm his jealousy.
*
Seated between both of Fiske’s attentive sons, Silvia tried to be friendly. Gunnar had green eyes and blond hair, his brother Tarben had darker coloring like his mother. But neither could keep her attention like Konal. Occasionally, she mentally blocked out their voices and scanned the room for the jarl.
She’d watched him leave over an hour ago and his continued absence worried her.
Tarben offered her another cup of mead.
“No,” she said. “I’ve had three already—enough to make it hard to walk a straight path.”
He grinned. “You can lean upon my arm so you won’t stumble.”
“And mine,” Gunnar added.
“If you’d be so kind as to excuse me.” She stood up, intent on searching for Konal. “I would like to take a short walk, alone.”
The tenants gathered outside wished her well as she headed for the back of the cottage. A footpath led to the creek, the place she guessed Konal would be. She found him lounging on the ground, staring at the evening sky. Not wanting to disturb him, she stopped a few feet behind him an
d waited for him to acknowledge her presence.
“You’ve found me,” he finally said.
The man surely had eyes in the back of his head. “Aye.”
“Did Fiske’s handsome sons disappoint you?”
“Both are determined to win my affection.”
He repositioned himself so he could see her, lying on his side. “Do you favor one yet?”
She thought about it. If she said no, he’d force them upon her again and again until she chose one. If she lied, it might earn her more time to convince him to set her free. “Yes.”
He sat up then, his eyes narrowed on her. “Which?”
“Gunnar.”
“Wisely chosen. First born sons receive the greatest shares of their father’s wealth.”
“Is that what you think interests me?”
“If it didn’t, I’d consider you a foolish girl.”
His casual manner hurt her in ways she couldn’t describe. “Please don’t make me marry someone I don’t love.”
“Love?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “A childish notion.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You have a vivid imagination, Silvia. Your future husband will surely appreciate the years of entertainment you will provide. But in the real world, where men and women die every day from starvation or war, love is the last thing they look for in a marriage. You require the protection a Norse name can give you. A secure home. Children to deepen your bond with Fiske’s family. If love is in your future, it will come in time.”
“When did you lose faith in love, milord? After Eira died?”
Even in the fading light she could see the change in his features. Rage flashed in his eyes. He stood up, taking a defensive posture. “What right have you to speak her name? Didn’t I forbid it?”
She trembled then, a kernel of fear burst inside her stomach. “If you expect me to bend to your will, sir, then I deserve the truth. How can you force me into a marriage I do not want if you can’t explain why you don’t believe in a love match?”
