by Sandra Lake
The king froze.
“You, wed the red harlot?” Brosa finally said, a sinister smile coming over his face. “Her relatives will be delighted if she is chosen by Magnus Knutson for one of his sons.”
“She could be removed from Norway for a time,” Tero added cautiously, “ostensibly to become familiar with her new family, until the climate here has quieted.”
“Bring her here,” the king commanded. “Her devil’s tongue could lead us into war just as soon as set us free from it. Let’s see if she’s willing to bargain.”
A mix of relief and queasiness coursed through Hök. This turn of events was happening too quickly—his armpits were sweating at a prolific rate. What the hell have I just done? Why the bloody hell did I open my mouth?
“Come now, fellow,” the king said. “Don’t look so distressed. I will not hold you to it. The wine and a weary heart spoke for you.”
“I am the second son, Your Majesty. I desire my own land. I won far more battles for you than Ludvik. Grant me Lady Sovia and I will see that her lands and people are turned in purpose to serve you.”
The king repositioned himself higher in his chair and stretched his arms out onto the armrests. The idea of gaining the full support and resources of the Nidaros district had sobered him up completely. But before he could speak, all turned attention to the archway at the far end of the hall.
Sovia stood there, statuesque, and with one look, Hök knew why he had spoken up and petitioned the king for her. He wanted her. It was reckless and half-witted of him to desire her after her betrayal and rejection of him, and the angry, prideful side of his brain protested. She was a greater danger to his heart than ever before and yet he couldn’t deny his strong pull toward her. Every woman he had met since her had always been a colorless comparison.
Hök reminded himself that he was no longer an impulsive, randy whelp, but rather a battle-hardened leader. Men constantly wed women for land and political stability, and they all kept their heads. So would he.
Sovia approached the high table with a limp she had not possessed when she’d departed the square earlier.
Hök gripped the arms of his chair to restrain himself. Men that would beat a female captive were deserving of a shallow grave.
“Twice in one day, Your Majesty,” Sovia said boldly. “Have you missed me so?”
The king’s nose turned up in disgust. “Hold your tongue, witch. Your days under my roof are numbered.”
Chapter 6
For the first time, Hök caught sight of Sovia flinching. The slight wince wouldn’t be noticeable to many, but she swallowed a little too hard and her eyes shifted a little too quickly around the congested hall. She was wearing nothing more than a thin rag of a garment, but she refused to tremble from the chill in the windy hall or cower in fear before her fate.
“You pose a series of problems to my court.” Sverre pointed his fork at her. “As you know, most in this hall wish to see you dead.”
Sovia’s back straightened, as if she was preparing herself to be hung at that very moment. Hök admired her self-possession. It was a shame such self-control was wasted on a woman. She would have made an excellent battle commander.
“An alternative fate has been proposed to resolve the inconvenience of your presence in my court,” the king said. “Are you not going to ask me, witch? Are you not at all curious?”
“I have never had a say in what my fate might be,” Sovia said. “Why waste your time by asking? You will do with me whatever is your will.”
“You are a clever girl,” the king said, and turned to his companions. “I have never approved of women being educated. Far too dangerous.”
“How right you are,” Jarl Brosa groaned, likely thinking of his own wife, who was known for her scheming, political mind.
“You, woman, are a problem,” the king said.
She tilted her head down—not in a full bow, but with more submission than she had shown anyone up to that point. She breathed slowly, clearly working to restrain her temper. “I do not wish to be, Your Majesty.”
The king leaned forward. “Well then, what is your wish?”
“I would return to my home in Toraslotte, Your Majesty,” she said with a distinctly meeker tone. “I would speak of your mercy and generosity and send you a generous tribute by way of my gratitude.”
“Mercy, generosity, tribute . . . lies fall off your tongue as easily as your favors. I killed your father and his men. I shamed you publicly. Why would you falsely claim I am generous to you?”
“You have slain my enemy, therefore I think you deserving of tribute.”
“Which enemy of yours did I slay?”
“My father, of course.”
Conversation broke out in the hall, and both of the king’s advisors spoke at once.
Hök kept silent, watching Sovia closely. Her words clearly had a ring of truth. She had considered her own father an enemy.
For the first time since she’d entered the hall, Lady Sovia’s eyes fell on Hök, and their eyes locked but for a moment. Her cheeks paled and her balance faltered. She took a step out to the side, and her jailer yanked her arm, holding her steady.
A murderous rage for the man that dared touch her tore through him. Hök was on his feet. She’s mine! he snarled silently from within.
Descending from the dais, Hök unwrapped his fur mantle from his shoulders. He shoved the jailer away and draped the mantle on her shoulders. As he secured his gold cloak pin, she kept her eyes and head down, refusing to meet his gaze. Good, he thought. It pleased him that she feared him. It would be simpler that way.
“Your Majesty,” Hök said. “The hour grows late. I request that you inform your prisoner of her fate and excuse me and my men so that we may prepare for our departure.” Hök bowed his head.
“So be it, comrade,” the king said. “Though you do take all the fun out of it, Hök.
“Lady Sovia, if you wish to quit my dungeon, you will enter into wedlock with Lord Hök, making him the new master of Toraslotte.” He pointed his knife at her and leaned forward across the table. “You will sign a contract stating your union with Magnusson was of your own free will, design, and desire. Heed my warning: your people will know of this generosity and mercy I have granted you, and you will be the agent of peace, uniting our country, or so help me God I will swing the axe of judgment across your pretty little neck myself.
“Whether you ever see your castle again will be the decision of Lord Hök. Do you accept these conditions, Lady Sovia?”
Her head lifted and she answered quietly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
***
The wedding vows were said before a priest, and not one word was spoken to Sovia as she signed the final scroll that would be delivered to her guardsmen in Nidaros. Before the wedding, her sole interaction with Hök was him draping his white fur mantle across her shoulders, which he’d later snatched off as he escorted her into a small, warm bedchamber, where he then abandoned her, locking her in.
How long would her new husband ignore her? Sovia wondered. No doubt he would enjoy extracting his vengeance upon her person. A part of her would prefer a slap or kick to the icy disregard he had given her thus far. If she was truly honest with herself, she knew that if any man had cause to extract pain from her, it was Hök Magnusson. The memory of his youthful blue eyes, full of pain, so shocked that she had betrayed him, had haunted her sleep for years.
Footsteps shuffled down the hall, drawing closer to her door. She steeled herself, trying to prepare for whoever came through the door—husband or jailer. Keys rattled and a Swedish tongue muttered curses. Through the slats of the door, she could make out the face of the councilor to Norrland. He held a candle in one hand, a bundle under his arm. Before the door was opened, he knocked.
“Enter,” she said.
“Good eve to you, mistress. I thought to
bring you a change of—” Tero was interrupted by a commotion behind him.
“Fak! Tero. I nearly ran you through! What the hell are you doing here?” It was Hök’s voice, but she could not make out his face.
“I came to bring your wife a few of her personal—,” Tero started.
“Don’t call her that.” Hök pushed through the door. “She won’t be needing any of those,” he said, looking down at the silk gown and slippers Tero held in his arms. Hök chucked the bundle of wrinkled fabric he was carrying onto the small bed.
“What happened to your leg?” he asked coldly.
“I had a metal sliver in my foot, is all,” Sovia responded. “From when the blacksmith put my shackles on.”
He glared at her. She couldn’t tell if he wanted her foot to be injured or not.
“And how does it feel now, my lady?” Tero asked sincerely.
“Fine.” Her eyes shifted back and forth between master and servant.
Hök reached out and touched her hair roughly, his warm fingers briskly exploring the back of her head as if he was searching for lice. He made a gruff snorting sound.
She interpreted the sound as an indication that he was satisfied her head wound was going to be fine as well. He crossed over to the cabinet on the side of her bed, pulled out a clean bandage, and wet it with water. His touch was hot and yet made her feel colder somehow. He cleaned her wound like a seasoned warrior, no doubt having tended to his own wounds on many occasions. He smelled the same as she remembered, fresh pine soap and sea air.
“Does it need stitching?” Tero asked, holding the candle higher for Hök to see.
“Nay. But stock the ship with a draft for fever, in case.”
“Yes, I have just the thing,” Tero said. Both men spoke as if Sovia was not even there. With her health inspection done, her husband held the door open for his servant, quit her chamber, and the door locked again. She heard Hök and Tero arguing as they made their way back down the corridor, leaving her once again all alone in the dark. She hated the dark.
The hour had grown very late and she wondered where or with whom Hök would be sleeping tonight if it was not to be with her . . . he was a most finely formed man, and was no doubt taking advantage of the opportunity to spend the night with the dozen maids in the hall that would be vying for the honor of his company. And odd feeling of jealously bit at her heart, though she told herself she had no right to feel it.
Hök had done her a great service in saving her first from drowning and then from being given to some brutal war captain. Perhaps tomorrow she should thank him.
She fumbled with the coarse wool of the bundle and determined from the poor stitching and smell that it was probably a serf’s serving gown. But it was warm. A second blanket had also been included in the bundle her husband had left her, and Sovia said a small prayer of thanks, wrapping herself up in warmth.
She lay down on the small cot and listened to a distant echoing drip of water. Whatever came next, she had to keep her wits about her. It was the only way she would ever get back to her son. Leif was now nearly seven years old and he still very much needed a mother’s love, as she needed her son’s love. Eventually, she drifted off to sleep, clinging to thoughts of him.
Her eyes flew open a moment later at the sound of a dabchick bird outside her window—the same dabchick call that her faithful manservant, Hunt, had used to summon her when they’d gone hiking in the mountains as a child. She jumped up on her bed and pulled herself up to the small window. She could see Hunt, waving his arms over his head from the ground. Her bedchamber was only on the second story, and she could hear his voice clearly.
“My lady,” Hunt whispered loudly. Moonlight shone down on him.
“Hunt, my dear fellow. How are you? What news from home?” she whisper-shouted.
“All is ready, my lady. Lower out of the window and I will catch you.”
She looked down at the shackles on her feet. “I am unable to climb up to the window. My dear Hunt, I beg you return to Toraslotte and care and guard my treasure there. You know my heart is in Toraslotte. If you have any love for me, you will go there and protect my heart.”
Suddenly a large figure emerged from the shadows, sword drawn.
“So you keep your heart separate from your person.” It was Hök. “That explains your heartlessness.”
Hunt drew his sword and took his stance.
She truly was heartless in this moment, for her heart had stopped. “My kinsman only came to seek out my—”
“We all know what he came to seek out,” her husband said, staring at Hunt.
Hunt swung his sword.
“Hunt, please no!” she shouted, in a desperate panic for her friend’s safety.
Hök easily overpowered her man, and soon Hunt was pinned to the ground under her husband’s boot.
“You are not fit to breathe the same air as our lady,” Hunt panted.
“I want no war with you,” Hök said. “You and your men fought bravely at Ednu. You and I want the same thing for this country. A strong king that will return this land to purpose and prosperity.”
“How can there be peace when you Norrland dogs come to defile our lady? I swore an oath to her mother to protect her and by God I will.”
“Would you be quiet, Hunt!” Sovia shouted. “Lord Hök is doing our king a great service. I desired this union. It is the best possible outcome for Toraslotte. Please go home and tell all that I am well and on my way to Sweden to forge alliances with my new kinsmen but will be home soon.”
Hök’s blade slowly retreated from Hunt’s neck, and he stepped back a few paces, allowing Hunt to rise. “Go back to your home, man. The war is over and the spoils handed down. Lady Sovia is no longer your concern.”
“She will always be our concern,” Hunt said with a feisty growl. His loyalty brought her a measure of comfort, because she knew that Hunt held regard for her son, and in her absence, Leif would be well loved and protected.
“Go home, man,” Hök said. “I promised to protect her as my own flesh and I intend to keep it. Until King Sverre’s authority is well established, this land is the most dangerous place for her and you well know it.”
Hunt looked up at the window. She wanted to cry for the look of defeat he held. She smiled at him instead and said, “Give Aina and all the children my love. Godspeed in your return home, Hunt.”
He looked up at her for a long moment, then retreated back into the shadows in the direction of the main gates. Sovia’s heart sank to a new low. Hunt had been her only chance of getting home safely, and now he was gone, leaving her in the care of this man whom she had spurned years ago. Aina had once told her that there was nothing more dangerous in the world than a scorned lover.
Chapter 7
Head held high, Sovia boarded the crowded warship destined for Tronscar. The vessel was clearly designed for carrying troops rather than cargo. Iron shields lined the side rails. Narrow and long, the deck could hold a hundred or more men sitting in rows of ten. Thick, rounded, battle-scarred shoulders sat positioned at the oars. Their last battle must have been little more than days behind them, as she could see fresh wounds being aired in the muted light of dawn.
Kaj, Hök’s second in command and her current escort, tightened his grip on her arm, directing her around the many sail lines. They were headed for the stern of the long warship. Not one man looked up at her as she passed.
A sudden, clipped word from the helm caused the oars to bite into the sea, lurching the ship forward. Sovia turned her face into the wind. The white-capped, surging sea was taking her in the opposite direction from where she longed to go, taking her farther away from home. Her heart was squeezed into a vise of pain, yearning for her son.
Hök Magnusson was the new master of Toraslotte, the castle her grandfather had built into the mountains east of Nidaros. She would surely find a way b
ack, eventually. She just needed to exercise patience and discretion. Not all men were shallow-minded idiots like her father. Hök would soon come to see that it was in his best interest to voyage to his new holding, even if it was just to make an accounting of its resources. This journey into Norrland was but a delay, she repeated to herself several times. Sadly, her brain was not to be easily persuaded.
She had heard tales of her destination. Hök’s father, the mighty Jarl of the Iron Kingdom, was infamous for his grand fortress, which was said to be impenetrable. Tronscar guarded the knowledge that had advanced the strength of steel, and through the power of that knowledge, had become almost a nation unto itself in terms of power.
The sun beat down on her head, yet she could not retain its warmth. She had cold ears, a cold neck, and no place to hide her face, even for just the briefest of private moments, making her miss her hair for the hundredth time that day.
It was only hair, she lectured herself. Thankfully, it would grow again. Many others lost their hair to disease, and it would never regrow. Gratitude was the secret key to contentment, her nurse Aina always said.
Kaj finally released her arm, shoving her to a bench at the stern of the vessel. He was a fit man about ten years Hök’s senior, and Sovia wondered if having to obey the commands of a younger man was part of the cause for his vicious temperament. Sovia could tell he was the sort of soulless man who found pleasure in delivering pain and humiliation to his underlings. She had decided to deny him the satisfaction of seeing her unease and distress. She was fed up with that sort of man. So she ignored him, which she knew would nettle him all the more.
Contemplating the ragged state of her fingernails, Sovia thought about what sort of man her husband would turn out to be. It was oddly revealing to find herself wed at last. Her father had written promised betrothals for her hand countless times for the purpose of his fraudulent schemes. She was now in the hands of Hök Magnusson, no longer bait dangled on a hook.
