“Greetings, Jarl Svagnar,” he said, bowing. “It is an honour to meet you after so long.”
“No, it is my honour,” Svagnar said, grasping the young man’s arm. “Arkavik owes you a great debt, and so do I. If it should please you, let us talk more privately later.”
“Of course,” the young man looked about the crowd with a slight frown. “Anything that I can do to help end this conflict, I will gladly do.”
He spoke with a sincerity that warmed Svagnar. “Please, Sir Byram, eat and drink your fill. I must greet my guests, but soon we shall speak of more serious matters.”
Svagnar strode through the hall, heading towards the great table. Many of the guests were important people who had travelled far to be here. The jarls of Kjarven and Erleskal, Arkavik’s neighbouring countries, were here, accompanied by their individual Jarlsguard. Also present were influential Lazulai merchants who travelled around the world buying and trading Arkaviki-crafted artefacts and weapons. Noble folk of Assaria and Erkatha, who oft travelled to Arkavik to purchase precious metal and sapphires, had come to pay their respects.
Arkavik had long been an insular country, and Svagnar had worked hard to build alliances with these people - people he hoped would stand by him in his bid to end the war. Svagnar greeted each one personally, thanking them for their presence at the feast.
Soon, he spotted Ylva engrossed in conversation with noblewomen from Erkatha. Making excuses, he pulled her aside: “You look beautiful tonight, sister. Has the princess not come?”
“Yes, she has. I think you will find her ravishing. I left her talking to Gunnar, over there somewhere.”
Svagnar followed the direction she indicated. A distance away, he finally saw the young princess. Ylva had not exaggerated: she looked sublime. Her hair was half pulled into the intricate braids of a shieldmaiden, the rest falling free about her shoulders, and she wore a gown laced at the back, displaying the slimness of her exquisite waist. Kohl rimmed her eyes, making them appear more blue and ferocious than ever, quickening Svagnar's pulse.
As he drew closer, he noticed that she was no longer speaking to Gunnar, but to Sir Byram, the young Veritian man Svagnar had met earlier. Her dark head was bowed towards his and her hand rested on his arm as she talked intently. He listened to her and nodded, and then she pressed her hand against the plate of armour at his chest and hastened away from him.
The conversation lasted only the merest moment before the two were parting and making their separate ways through the crowd. And yet Svagnar found his heart hammering as though he had surprised the two in the most intimate act imaginable. He felt a strange, hot anger pulse through him, the image of her pale hand pressing against the knight’s chest fixed in his mind.
It stood to reason that they would have known each other. If Byram was high in her father’s service, then she would have seen him often. And Svagnar had stolen the princess from her country and companions - it was natural she should be relieved to see a familiar face. Svagnar swallowed back the urge to race through the hall and grab the princess. He wanted to kiss her full on her serious mouth for all to see. He wanted everybody in the hall to know that she was his and his alone. But in truth, she was not. There was no justification for his jealousy. He might have stolen her, but she was not his to own or possess. She had made that abundantly clear.
It would be no good approaching the princess now. He would only say something to mortify himself, or her, or both. So instead, he reminded himself he was jarl. He strode towards the head of the table, and greeted his guests, raising a glass to them.
“Thank you, friends, for coming from every corner of Westmere to celebrate this occasion. A strange occasion it is, no doubt, for you are all aware of the conflict between Arkavik and Veritier. But I see peace and prosperity in Arkavik’s future and you are all a part of this. So thank you, my friends, for being here. Eat, drink, be merry. Tonight, we think only of the future, we think only of peace.”
A roaring cheer answered him, his guests raising their cups high. Louder than all others were his own people, his Jarlsguard and followers. The Arkaviki roared their approval, their eyes full of hope, their faces open and joyful. His mood improved, Svagnar finally approached his future wife where she sat perched in an alcove, alone and deep in thought, a cup of wine forgotten in her hand.
“What ails you, princess?”
She jumped slightly as he approached her, and he saw it was not sadness but fear that twisted the beautiful features of her face. She was pale, and her eyes were huge when she turned them upon him.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “It is a beautiful feast, and… and your guests have come a long way to be here. I did not expect that.”
He thought of her quiet words to the young Veritian knight. Forcing his voice to remain calm, he said: “You did not expect to see the knight from Veritier.”
She lowered her eyes. Her voice trembled: “No. I did not expect to see him.”
“He is here only because he seeks peace for his people, as I seek peace for mine.”
“Yes,” she said in a small voice. She drank and her hand shook around her cup. “He is a good man.”
Svagnar hesitated. “You know him well?”
She gave a mirthless laugh: “No. No, I do not know him well.”
Svagnar stepped in front of her: perched as she was upon the alcove, she was at the right height to be facing him. Not towering above her was a strange change in circumstances, and he took advantage of it, leaning forward to take her hand. It was surprisingly cold, and though she looked up at him with surprise, she made no movement to free it from his hold.
“You are sad, princess. Does the knight trouble you?”
She shook her head: “No, I… I think I begin now to feel the weight of my future settle upon me.”
“The weight of our marriage?” he asked, hoping it was not what she meant.
She smiled wryly, peering up at him through her eyelashes in a way that sent a flame of lust straight through him: “If my only problem was having to marry you, I would not be so worried.”
Before he could question her about this enigmatic statement, a hand on his elbow stopped Svagnar. Spinning around, he saw that Eirik stood beside him, pointing his chin towards the doorway.
“Svagnar, will you come? Sir Byram awaits.”
He gave Svagnar a meaningful look, and Svagnar nodded, reluctantly releasing the princess’s hand. Before he walked away, he cast one more look at her: her haunted expression made his heart and mind boil with feelings he did not have the time to fathom.
Had the fate of his country not been at stake, he would have wanted nothing more than to take those pale cheeks in his hands, to prompt her for the truth of what she felt, to beg her to tell him something that might give him hope. But confronting the princess once and for all would need to wait.
Eirik led him from the hall and towards the meeting room where he consulted with counsellors and conducted business. It was a small, well-lit room, with a generous fire in the hearth, carpets upon the floor and walls covered with maps. In the centre was a large, sturdy table, scattered with missives, maps and ledgers, and around the table sat Sir Byram, Gunnar, and Svagnar’s most trusted advisor, old Solmund, a well-travelled man with a mind sharp as the point of an arrow.
Svagnar closed the door behind him and took a seat. Gunnar and Solmund were both frowning. All was not well.
“Jarl, I come to partake in your celebrations, but I’m afraid I also bring ill news,” Byram spoke, clear and straight to the point. “Owayn sends another attack to your shores soon. He believes his daughter is still to marry the Karschan prince, and he has become bold with the knowledge he will soon be able to draw from Karscha for resources and support.”
“Not a week seems to go by without there be news of another attack,” Gunnar snarled, his face dark with fury. “Does the man never rest?”
“He greatly desires access to your mines and forges,” Byram spoke honestly.
�
�When will his ships reach our shores?” Svagnar asked.
“They travel slowly, for the ships are heavily armed,” Byram said. “A week at most.”
“I marry the princess in three days. How fast can you bring the news to your king?”
Byram hesitated. “Owayn will soon be leaving Veritier. He intends to accompany his army this time.”
“Owayn is coming to Arkavik?” asked Eirik, shocked into speaking. “For what purpose?”
“He believes Arkavik is breaking. He believes it is ripe for taking,” Byram said, dropping in eyes as though it shamed him to speak his king’s thoughts.
“If Owayn arrives to find that his daughter is my wife, will it stop the attack?”
“Yes, but…”
“Can you return to Veritier in time to make sure you will travel with him?”
“I am part of his Kingsguard. It was my intention to return to his side as soon as I could. He believes I have come to spy.”
“He does not know I took his daughter?”
Byram hesitated once more: “He does not.”
“And if you tell him, will that stay his hand?”
“Jarl, if he thinks his daughter is in your hands, he will come to see it for himself. Most likely he will wish to bargain with you. He might offer you peace for the return of his daughter, but it would be a lie. But… but if Owayn thinks his daughter’s sons will rule Arkavik, then he will never move against you again.”
“Very well. Solmund, what do you make of this?”
Svagnar stood, leaning over the table and staring at his counsellor’s thoughtful face.
Solmund spoke, slow and clear: “My jarl, send our friend Sir Byram back to his king, wed the princess. When Owayn arrives upon our shores, we will prepare defences, but send messengers to bid him meet you in person. Here, you will show him your wife, and promise him you will get sons on her. Send the Veritian king away, and get the princess with child. That is the only way I can foresee peace.”
Svagnar nodded and turned to Byram. The young man was listening carefully, his face drawn with worry. Svagnar suddenly realised how tired the Veritian knight must be, for dark shadows gathered around his eyes. He must have travelled long and hard to arrive in time for the feast.
“Byram. What think you?”
“I think it could work. Were I you, Jarl Svagnar, I would - I would prepare for battle still, just in case Owayn does not believe you or strikes you before he meets you. I hear rumours he has even been conferring with mercenaries in preparation of this campaign.”
Svagnar bowed his head in gratitude: “Thank you. I admire your sincerity, Sir Byram of Veritier. Very well. Rest now and leave tonight: I will send with you my fastest longship and my best rowers. Take a raven, too, and if there is anything important you must impart, send it back.”
The men stood up, filing out of the room. Before Byram could leave, Svagnar stopped him, laying a hand on his shoulder: “I know you risk much by doing this, and when our countries are finally united, I will seek to reward you.”
“I seek no reward, jarl. Only to end this ignoble bloodshed.”
“You are a good man, Sir Byram,” Svagnar said. He spoke sincerely. The young man impressed him. Svagnar suddenly felt shame at the boyish jealousy he had felt earlier when he had seen the princess speak to him.
Vowing to banish further foolish emotions, Svagnar left the Veritian knight to eat and drink in the great hall. He busied himself finding Mikkel instead. He ordered his fastest longship to be prepared, generous rations of food, water, mead and furs to be packed onto the ship, and for messengers to go find his best rowers. He told Mikkel to pay the rowers’ families generously. Finally, he asked his dutiful housecarl to place a caged raven or two on the longship for Byram to take with him.
Once done, Svagnar returned to the hall where his guests were making merry with great alacrity. Wine flowed like water, music and laughter made the wooden beams tremble beneath the ceiling and the smell of rich food perfumed the air. Leaning against the doorway, Svagnar observed his guests as they ate and conversed and danced. These people all expected his plan to work. So why could he sense a dull dread settle upon him?
All he needed do to succeed was to marry a beautiful woman. The fact that he would eventually need to bed this woman should have filled him with pleasure. In truth, Svagnar desperately longed to bed the princess; the thought of it haunted his mind, and lately not a night passed without he should be tormented by dreams of her frowning face and pretty mouth and pale body as he fucked her into his furs.
But the princess had shown no desire towards him. Svagnar already felt like a beast for wanting her so desperately when she had shown him nothing but cool disdain, and at best, mild tolerance.
Svagnar sighed, and his misery deepened further when he spotted his future bride: her throat pale, her waist wrapped in dark velvet, her hair floating against her flushed cheeks as she moved through the crowd. Svagnar’s heart sank: for the princess’s hand gripped Sir Byram's arm, and she was leading him away from the hall. He had sworn to banish all jealousy, but it was precisely jealousy, rearing its black and ugly head, that roared through his chest at that moment.
He fought the urge to follow them, to throw accusations, to bellow and rage. But the princess was not his, and Sir Byram was a valued, generous ally, without whom Arkavik could never have hoped for an easy peace. Forcing himself to swallow his wrath and jealousy, Svagnar trudged to the table where his guard sat, feasting and making most merry. He needed a distraction from the storm of dread and jealousy raging within him.
Gunnar sat with a servant girl upon his lap, squeezing her luscious waist, and Svagnar found that the pretty girl did nothing to stir him. Sitting down with a sigh, he cast a meaningful glance at Gunnar, who laughed and propped the girl onto her feet, gesturing her away with a little tap on her buttocks. She giggled and ran off, and Gunnar turned to face Svagnar, pouring him a goblet of spiced wine.
“What ails you now, great jarl, that you should look so furious in the midst of your own feast?”
Svagnar drank deeply from his cup and admitted:
“I find myself troubled by my bride.”
Gunnar laughed, and the men leaned forward, listening closely. Eirik, who was eating meat off a bone, pointed out:
“You seem to find yourself troubled by your bride often as of late, Svagnar.”
“She is most troublesome,” Svagnar agreed.
Gunnar slapped his back and said rousingly: “Come now, man! Why pine over her when you could have any woman in Arkavik? Any woman in Westmere! Not a woman would deny you, Svagnar, be she tavern wench or countess, shieldmaiden or queen.”
“I want neither a tavern wench nor a countess, neither a shieldmaiden nor a queen,” Svagnar sighed wretchedly, draining his cup and refilling it. “The hellhound princess has cast a curse upon me. I cannot bear to think of any woman but her.”
Kylan, who had been listening with a frown, suddenly slammed his fist into the table, exclaiming: “Then it is simple, jarl! Find her, throw her over your shoulder, and take her to your bed. Do not let her leave until she is limping or with child.”
“By the gods, who would have thought you would be the voice of reason?” Svagnar said, suddenly cheered. He raised his goblet to Kylan. “You are a mad bastard, Kylan Without-Death, and the gods love you for it!”
The men cheered, drinking to Kylan, who was nodding and saying: “In truth, Svagnar, you’ve coveted her for your bed ever since you brought back the little Veritian wench.”
Gunnar scoffed: “Earlier than that, even. You were pining for her on the longship back from Veritier. Either the chit has something magnificent hidden beneath her clothes or you are right and she has cast a dark spell upon you. Some Veritian sorcery, no doubt.”
Svagnar turned a glare upon Gunnar, growling: “Do not speak of what’s hidden beneath her clothes, Gunnar. It is not for you to think about.”
“No indeed, jarl,” sniggered Gunnar. “You do enou
gh of that yourself. I don’t think you ever stop thinking about what’s beneath her clothes.”
“I think on it from time to time,” admitted Svagnar, sipping more wine.
The alcohol was loosening his lips and lifting his spirits. Allowing his guards to know his strange and disturbing feelings for his stolen bride was a weight off his mind, and their clear approval was warming. They did not seem to resent him for wanting to bed the Veritian woman, despite her father causing them such misery.
He wondered, for an instant, if he should live to be happy. If he would marry his bride and end the war, and bed the woman he could not stop thinking about and keep her for his own. He wondered if she might grow to love him, and bear him sons, and reign at his side.
His fantasy shattered into splinters when he looked up to see Byram emerge into the hall. A worried frown darkened his face, as though something heavy weighed upon his mind.
Svagnar wondered what had passed between him and the princess. Surely, a lover’s embrace would have left the knight smiling. Unless he wanted her for himself when she was Svagnar’s. A pain pierced Svagnar’s chest to think the princess might feel this way too; her heart belonging to another when she was compelled to marry him.
“Come, jarl, banish your dark thoughts and drink!” called Kylan, handing him a full goblet. “You will be wedding and bedding the princess before you know it.”
Svagnar nodded and drained the cup, his comrades cheering and slapping his back. They were right. What did it matter if she loved another when she would still be his? He needed to stop thinking of the knight, and start thinking of his nuptials, of his future, of Arkavik’s future. He needed to think about all the things he would gain. And forget about the one thing he might never possess: the princess’s heart.
Chapter XI
Aster the Nobody
Byram reappeared into the great hall, flanked by Svagnar and his guards. Aster felt as though she might suffocate on the breath she held.
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