The Northman's Bride (A Sons of the North Romance Book 3)

by Sandra Lake

  “Hök, carefree? Are we speaking about the same person?” Sovia asked.

  “Aye, carefree. I always saw him playing in the high field as a boy.”

  Sovia did not want to talk about Hök and the sides of him she would never know. She had her mind focused at last. She had made her plan and had precious little time left to execute the final stages. The arrival of guests who would be less on guard as to her motives would be a welcome boon.

  Ylva gazed affectionately over to the jarl, who was speaking with a large man who wore animal skin trousers and a sleeveless tunic. Sovia looked again at Ylva’s well-crafted boots. They were the perfect footwear to increase Sovia’s chances at surviving the mountains.

  “Ylva, it appears our hosts are busy, and since the meal will not be served for a short while still, can I interest you in coming up to my chambers and seeing some of my treasures from my travels? I have silk from regions past the Black Sea, and combs and jewels from all the known kingdoms. My father had a most keen eye for color and texture.” Sovia’s travel chests had been relocated to the storage room across from Hök’s chamber. Lida had thought that having Sovia’s belongings close by would bring her comfort, but all they did was remind Sovia of being forced to do her father’s bidding with the promise that she could later return home for a visit with her son . . . Leif—her heart clinched.

  Ylva leaned over her armrest and said quietly, “From Byzantium?”

  “Even further away than that—there are some from as far away as Valencia, Antioch, and Lucca.” She popped up to her feet and extended her hand. “I have several fine silk gowns from a relative that passed away. They are too long for me. It would be a shame to cut them to pieces to make them smaller, but I think they would be very close to fitting you. Would you like to try one on?”

  “Oh . . . I am not certain, Sovia. You must understand I am not in Tronscar often. We keep to the highlands and mountain country. I—”

  “Well what are you planning to wear to the feast tomorrow? As Lida just said, you are Hök’s second mother, and he would want you to have a fine gown to wear. Please, come—we will at least have fun trying it on.”

  Ylva looked over at a table of finally dressed ladies who had traveled from the capital to celebrate the midsummer solstice. With so many eligible sons of Jarl Magnus present, the hall was teeming with maidens and their mothers, hunting for husbands.

  “All right.” The shy woman bit her lip with excitement.

  ***

  The strong smell of the bonfires woke Sovia.

  Zander or Ansgar would be arriving any moment to ask her again, politely, if she cared to attend the festival of the midnight sun. She would say no, of course.

  Tap, Tap, Tap. Right on time.

  She peeked out the door. “Good midsummer’s eve to you, Zander.”

  The young man blushed. “Good evening to you as well, Lady Sovia. Are you ready for me to escort you down?”

  “Many thanks for thinking of me. Alas my head is aching, so I think I will stay and rest.”

  “You’re sure? We would all like to see you dance and enjoy yourself.”

  “I’m just not up to it.”

  “Well then, neither am I. Do you like chess? I could bring my chair and table out and we could play right here in the corridor. It will be quiet and peaceful and won’t disturb your head.”

  The sweet lad was so gallant—he would not dream of making her feel uncomfortable by being alone in a chamber with her while everyone else in the fortress was outdoors at the festival. She pulled a silver coin out of her pocket and handed it to Zander. “No thank you. But would you do me a kindness and place a wager on Kaj to lose his arm-wrestling match with Stål?”

  “I doubt anyone has this kind of coin to match you. Everyone is placing Kaj taking out Stål.”

  “Whatever you can get me for it then? Truly, Zander, please go have a grand time for me. Dance with pretty maids and don’t break more than a dozen hearts. You do look splendid in that new tunic from your mother.”

  Zander tugged at his black shirt with gold embroidered trim. “You don’t think it looks too flashy, as if I’m trying to hard?”

  “Not at all. Not hard enough, I’d say. Now, go. Lock me in safe and sound.”

  “Are you sure?” As her assigned guard for the night, Zander would feel obligated to sit outside her door. Suggesting he lock her in was the only way Sovia could be sure of him leaving the family floor.

  “Very sure. Pleasant evening, Zander.” With one last smile she closed the door.

  “Sleep well, Lady Sovia,” Zander spoke through the door. “I’ll check in later in case you need something.”

  “Don’t bother. I had Lanna stock me up with a sleeping draft. I won’t hear you knock. I have everything I would need.”

  “Right,” he said, sounding disappointed. She heard the turn of the key and the click of the lock. “Sorry about this,” he mumbled through the door.

  “Have a splendid, magical night, Zander.”

  “Hope you feel better soon, Lady Sovia. Maybe next year you’ll give me that dance.”

  She almost said, I won’t be here next year, but she held herself back. She listened to Zander’s footsteps fade down the corridor.

  As soon as she was sure he was gone for good, Sovia took out her silver combs and started to work on the lock. It was solid and strong, but not original in design. She hadn’t dared hope it would be so easy, but she had the lock open in mere minutes. She crept across the corridor into Stål’s chamber with her bedding and the canopy fabric bunched under her arm. A few short minutes later, his bedding and canopy were stripped, tied, and after the guard rounded the battlement, tumbled out the window down the four-story wall. The guards she noticed never looked toward the keep, but always kept their eyes keenly fixed on the landscape outside the walls. With luck, no one would notice the bedding out the window before Stål retired, and that would hopefully not be until the next day. She was strong from her exercises and descended down the side of the building rapidly.

  Three separate walls circled the principal keep, each quite tall with one gate and multiple guards. The security at the entry to Tronscar was high. However, the exit from Tronscar, especially on such a celebratory eve, when the community was hosting travelers from far and distant shores, was shockingly unguarded. Sovia discovered quickly that any maid with a smile and a well-crafted cloak from the Sami tribe could go as she pleased.

  Outside the walls of the outer city of Tronscar was where the real party was being held. Field hands, miners, masons, steel forgers—there were thousands of people, dozens of different camps and campfires, and many large groups of revelers, drinking, singing, and dancing to their hearts’ content. The ale was supplied by the jarl, the meat by the jarl’s wife—it was a good night to be a citizen of Tronscar.

  As the crowd began to thin out, the sounds of music and cheer fading, she turned toward the west, picked up her skirt, and ran into the forest.

  The sky at the midsummer solstice looked the same as it did in Norway. Stars sparkled across a dusty rose background, framed around the edges with hazy purple. She knew this sky, and it brought her great comfort. The stars would lead her home. Though she had only heard tales of those who had crossed the mountain range that divided their two lands, she had to believe it could be done. She would have several days of little to no darkness, and that would be her greatest advantage in navigating over the mountains, but also put her at greater risk for being detected. All she knew was the faster and farther she traveled this first night, the greater her chances would be.

  She climbed to the top of the first hill west of Tronscar, which was thinly populated with evergreens and more gray rock. On the top of the next hilltop, not far off in the distance, she already saw snow.

  Sovia glanced over her shoulder, to where the bonfires flickered and winked, their smoke rolling l
ike gentle waves of the sea high above the grand fortress walls. It was a shame she would never see Tronscar again. It truly was a magical place, with a kind queen, fiercely handsome king, and scores of dashing young knights.

  If she lived, she would write out the story of Tronscar for her son . . . that is, if she lived.

  Chapter 22

  Hök reached into his velvet purse and stroked a finger against the priceless talisman inside. Having these few small, silky pieces of her hair made everything that had happened real, not been a dream turned nightmare—it had all truly happened. Hök had never carried an amulet before. His sword and his arm had been his talismans until now. He’d found the clippings on table in his chamber, left out like an offering, and he had packed them away in his pocket the day he departed.

  Unannounced, uninvited, and unwelcomed, his young squire charged into Hök’s assigned chamber in his cousin Canute’s new palace, where he was staying. Hök shoved the small pouch into his breast pocket.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  Hök did not bother to turn around and acknowledge the intrusion. He hated nosy squires almost as much as he hated knightly tournaments. Tournaments were a ridiculous waste of time that served no purpose other than appease a bored king and give scheming jarls, such as Jarl Brosa, a convenient means of acceptably and publicly executing the occasional political rival.

  King Canute had delayed Hök’s departure from the Swedish court for over three weeks, stalling him with a tale of an unrivaled envoy of highborn knights that would be arriving to take part in the games. After a ceremony where the king knighted Hök, it was made very clear to Hök that his attendance at the tournament was not optional.

  Also in attendance at the tournament was Prince Jon of Denmark, who was a strong supporter of the Lendmann party. Norrland steel was more valuable than ever and all sides desired to keep Hök’s father as an ally, so the excuse of Sovia’s absence was politely accepted—Behind Prince Jon’s eyes, Hök could see the Dane was up to something.

  Lendmann spies seemed to be everywhere. Whoever held Lady Sovia had the potential means to unite both the Lendmanns and the Birkebeiners. Northern Birkebeiners were loyal to Sovia and the memory of her mother, while in the south of Norway, many in the Lendmann party still pined for the bloodline of Sigurd the Crusader, to which Sovia had the most undisputed, direct line.

  “What is it, Casis?” Hök asked, finally acknowledging the squire.

  “My lord, I thought you would want to know . . .” The young lad shifted nervously where he stood.

  “What?”

  “The Pitch—the banner of Pavlik, my lord. It’s just been hung for tomorrow’s tournament.”

  Hök grabbed an extra blade and shoved it down the side of his boot. So the so-called Danish envoy, for which I have waited for all these weeks, was a trap—likely set by Prince Jon. A part of him had to respect the man for the bold maneuver. Using a tournament as a way to have his enemies attack one another without risk of starting a new war or breaking treaties was a time-tested tradition among kings.

  If Hök died by the hand of Pavlik in the tournament ring, the fault of his death would be his own for willing stepping in the ring. No fault could be laid on either the Rus or Danish court.

  If he should die, unless his wife was carrying his child, Lady Sovia would then be expected to be returned to her nearest male relative, which would be her distant Danish relations. She would be promptly married to a Lendmann noble, and a civil war to place Sovia and her future heir on the throne of Norway would begin. In this way, Prince Jon would ensure a Dane held the throne.

  “I saw a large envoy of Kievan Rus knights entering the great hall. They were going to be presented to the king at the opening of the feast.”

  “Thank you, Casis. You are dismissed for the evening.”

  Hök went directly to speak with Aleksi, his father’s most decorated commander, who had volunteered to travel with Hök to train new guardsmen in Toraslotte.

  Hök and Aleksi stood in the dimly lit corridor that led to the great hall. “Our ships are prepared to weigh anchor—we need not walk in this hall outnumbered, my lord,” Aleksi said. Aleksi was not a timid man, nor one to shrink from a fight. Hök had greatly admired him growing up, but even a battle-happy warrior must know when to retreat rather than willingly step into a trap.

  “King Canute will not allow an all-out slaughter—he will not risk having Norrland turn against him. Prince Jon, and probably Jarl Brosa, seek to undermine my father’s influence by landing a publicly accepted blow. They need to make my death look like a casualty of the games.”

  “Brosa’s acceptance of your union with Lady Sovia was for show?” Aleksi whispered.

  “Aye. Though I never believed it for a moment myself. Lady Bridget still plots openly for my wife’s death, and Jarl Brosa did not know the extent of Sovia’s fortune when she was on the executioner’s platform in Bergen. I’m sure he regrets parting so quickly with her dowry—a man like him does not let that large of a sum of gold slip through his fingers without regret. If he could wed Sovia to his oldest son, that would land her fortune in his hands, as well as grant his bloodthirsty wife the private opportunity to make Sovia wish she were dead.”

  “Does your wife know how fortunate she is that you removed her to Tronscar when you did?”

  “Fortunate is not the word my wife would use.” Hök’s mind traveled back to the night Sovia had stabbed herself in the hall, forever scarring her beautiful skin out of her hate for him. Her screaming threats to end her life woke him from sleep each night, and the sound of her weeping her final pleas never left him.

  Aleksi said, “Until recently, I believed women should be worshipped and yet, much like religion, never fully understood. Now I think differently. It is worth trying to explain to her.”

  “Sovia is not meek as your dear Mimi, Aleksi. She is a dangerous hellcat on the best of days.”

  “Meek? Have you forgotten my wife entirely, friend. She can skin me alive with a single glare.”

  “Do you speak of the same Mimi who blew kisses to you from the harbor as we departed?”

  “Aye.” Aleksi smiled. Hök sighed internally. Sovia had been right to compare love to the softening of a man’s head—he never would have imagined his good friend would have succumbed to such a helpless state.

  Done conferring for the moment, the two men entered the hall, which was dense with smoke from the poorly vented chimney. High on the dais, thirty-four-year-old King Canute I of Sweden sat on his throne chair at the head table.

  With a horn of ale in hand, King Canute spoke with a bent head toward a young noble from Denmark.

  From across the hall, Hök easily spotted his chief adversary, a man with eyes a color of blue so light that they were almost completely white in appearance from a distance. Hök had seen black hair and eyes like that before only on one man: Pavlik the Pitch. But the man that sat next to the young king was not Pavlik.

  As the guest of honor for the past few weeks, Hök had been assigned a seat at the king’s table, which he had no intention of resigning for the new Rus arrivals.

  “Hök! Come join us.” The king summoned him over. “Have you heard, my friend,” Canute said to the noble next to him, “that my young kinsman here was recently made earl of Østmarka by King Sverre?”

  “Indeed,” the young Rus knight said, appearing unimpressed.

  “Your Majesty.” Hök bowed as he approached. The young Rus trained his eyes on Hök, closely examining his every move, as any future challenger would.

  “Our honored knights have arrived and the games may begin at last,” Canute said. Honored knights? Only a few short months ago, every Rus was an enemy and threat to Sweden. “Sir Voinovich was knighted just last month by the King of Denmark, which was why it took him so long to join us.”

  Canute leaned back in his chair with a smug, satisfied g
rin, deaf, dumb, and blind to the snakes and lions that he had opened his capital to, and who now lounged at his feasting table, waiting for the opportunity to take their next bite.

  Chapter 23

  Hök stayed quiet. This kind of pomp and ceremony rarely required much participation on his part. His father’s advice was always to conceal emotion and opinion in such company. A rambling tongue was often a sign of overcompensation or insecurity.

  King Canute turned to Voinovich and asked, “Are you acquainted with Earl Hök, Sir Voinovich?” Had the king pickled his brain with Polska grain wine and forgotten the last hundred years of war with Kievan Rus tribes? The most recent bloody battles were only months behind them! It took every ounce of Hök’s strength to not draw his weapon on his enemy, who was clearly manipulating his king.

  “I have not had the pleasure, Your Majesty. Of course I have had the pleasure of hosting the earl’s wife and her father while they stayed in Kiev,” Voinovich said.

  “Of course, Hök would know your brother Pavlik quite well, since they chased each other about the Gulf of Finland for these last few summers,” Canute said dismissively. Voinovich chuckled.

  “I am eager to be reacquainted with Lady Sovia,” Voinovich said. “Well she be joining us?” He returned his eyes to Hök. “It has been far too long since I have had the joy of the company of my little kotik.” Kotik—the pleasure, Hök rapidly translated, and visions of slitting the man’s throat soon followed.

  “Aye, yes, I had almost forgotten how she had an eye for you when she danced at that Yule feast all those years ago,” Prince Jon said, entering the conversation with a knowing grin. “You had all the maids in a fluster that year, eh, Voin.”

  The implied overfamiliarity with Hök’s wife was provoking him to murder, which would break the peace accord right here and now at the king’s table. Whether Voinovich killed Hök, or Hök killed Voinovich and was then executed for murder—either way, Jarl Brosa would get what he and his wife desired in the end.