by Sandra Lake
Hök dug his fingers into the wood armrest, restraining himself.
“Have you not heard, Voin?” Canute said. “My cousin was wed to Lady Sovia but two months ago.”
“Aye, so I heard,” Voinovich said and derisively raised his ale in a mock toast to Hök.
***
The peak of the mountain was much windier than Sovia had expected. She had had her eyes fixed on a small black dot for most of the day, using it as a touchstone to keep her bearings. When the dot grew a little bigger, she realized it was a cave and would provide an excellent place to rest. Her breathing began to labor and weaken, as if a heavy man were sitting on her chest, but still she trudged on.
Before leaving Tronscar, she had come up with a fairly reasonable plan, or so she thought at the time. First, she would sneak into Toraslotte in the night. Second, she would find Aina and say good-bye, possibly forever. That would be painful but necessary, and Aina would understand. She and Leif would steal away in the night and continue deeper into the mountains. She would travel to the farm of Aina’s sister, who lived alone in the mountains, and there Sovia and Leif would stay. Sovia had given Aina’s sister the livestock to start her own little flock. They would be welcomed and safe and eventually, forgotten by the rest of the world, dismissed as unimportant collateral damage from the last usurped throne.
A part of her kicked herself for not coming up with this plan the year Leif was born.
Of course, the one major crack in her plan, was first, she had to survive the journey to Toraslotte. The everlasting summer sun had sunk shallowly behind a mountain, yet the light from the sky had barely dimmed, shifting into moonlight so strong and soaked with a flat light that it cast long shadows over the bold gray rock faces that jutted out of the snow.
Finally, Sovia reached the mouth of the narrow cave. She dragged her small pack under her head, curled her legs under her cloak, and closed her eyes. The wind whistled through the cave, and her head throbbed, eyes and lungs burning. It was a good burn, she told herself. Dead people couldn’t feel their lungs burn, nor their legs quiver and cramp. All this pain meant she was still alive, still free, and that much closer to Toraslotte.
In her dream, Sovia was encompassed in warmth, and loud purring—she peeked an eyelid open and drew in a quick breath, covering her mouth to hold in her scream.
Three large spotted kittens were curled into little balls into her side. She slowly turned her head, hoping to not find a fourth, much larger and hungrier mother mountain cat, but there was none.
She stood up slowly, careful not to wake the sleeping kittens, anxious to make her departure before the mother returned and mistook her for a threat to her beautiful babies. She reached down for her small pack of food and water, and all at once the three kittens were circling around the bottom of her cloak, weaving in and under the thick wool of her skirt, rubbing against her leather-clad legs.
“Are you hungry?” She opened her sack and pulled out a strip of cured elk meat. She broke off a few tiny chunks with her teeth and gave a piece to each kitten, and then ate a few large bites herself. “Be good for your mother you three. Have a pleasant day being . . . well, doing what mountain cats do. Go play.” She shooed away the kittens and stuck her head out of the cave.
The sky was a hypnotic haze of endless brightness. She must have slept at least three hours. She cupped her hands over her eyes to shield them from the bright glare of the sun, which was bounding like a sharp blade across the surface of the snow. Her eyes ached from the glare.
The screech of a hawk overhead drew her eyes heavenward. He soared high above her, circling, but she couldn’t look up toward the sun for long.
In a few hours, she would be at the summit, and from there she hoped to see the lower ridgeline of the green forest and valley that would lead her home. Perhaps she would be able to spot smoke from a cottage chimney on the Norway side. Perhaps she could even take shelter with a family in the northeast of Nidaros and rest for a day. If she was blessed with more good weather and they lent her a horse, she could be home to her son in a week.
That thought was the motivation she needed to trudge ahead. A short distance away from the cave, she noticed a chunk of tan fur on the gravelly, hard-packed snow and then another, larger bloody piece of fur. She cautiously stuck her head around the corner of a boulder and discovered where an animal had eaten its meal recently.
“Oh, no! Not the mother!”
Sovia twisted her head back in the direction of the cave and saw three small balls of fur tripping and stumbling through the snow, following her footprints up the mountain.
The menacing hawk circled overhead, descending lower and lower.
She began running, retracing her steps through the snow, waving her hands overhead. That demon bird was not going to get her babes. How they had somehow instantly come to belong to her was not relevant. They were small and beautiful and they needed her. With the first kitten safely tucked under her arm, she ran faster for the second. The bird saw his chance for a snack was coming to an end, and he dove straight down, wings outstretched.
“No!” Sovia charged the hawk with her arms flapping the sides of her cloak. “Get away! Go to the devil, you demon bird! I hate you! I hate you!” It felt oddly freeing shouting out her hate. She picked up a hunk of snow and chucked it at the bird. The third little fur ball stood, trembling between them. She crouched down and the kitten wobbled toward her in the deep snow. She scooped him up in her arms and charged, screaming at the hawk. It all happened in an instant but for a change, she had won. The bird retreated.
“Get away. You cannot have my babes!” The demon bird stood his ground a few feet away, perched arrogantly on the lip of the cave, before finally leaping up and digging his powerful wings into the air, leaving Sovia and her babes in peace.
“Never come back, you hateful creature!” Sovia flopped down hard in the snow. She was already trembling with exhaustion and the day had just begun. The kittens climbed on her and she stroked their fluffy heads, digging out a few more chucks of elk for everyone.
“Well. We have a long day ahead. Shall we be off?” She tucked two cats in the hood of her cloak, which hung down her back, and one kitten under her arm. Once she was out of the danger of the steep, snowy mountain range, she would make them walk. Until then she needed to move at a faster pace, and had no time to worry about a kitten wandering off or falling behind.
***
The sun was high and Sovia’s eyes burned so greatly that it felt like they could start bleeding at any moment. Her eyelid twitching got worse as she summited the peak. She shielded her eyes by cupping her hands around them, but they still blurred.
Feeling disconnected from the mountain, she swayed. She sat down and closed her eyes. The pain and spinning worsened. She felt like she could float right off the mountain into the clouds. Then what would become of her son? And her new precious cargo, what would happen to them?
The hawk would come back and eat them then eat her. Hök would discover Leif in Toraslotte and he would hate him for his red hair and send him away to be consumed by Leif’s father . . .
“I hate birds.”
Her mind skipped and danced . . . she was dancing in Ryazan, feeling like the most beautiful girl in the world. She rose higher on her toes, feeling tall and sure, the wind in her long hair as she spun around and around. Across the floor was Stål Magnusson, who turned out to be Hök Magnusson. His eyes squinted at her as his smile grew larger. She spun closer and deliberately landed in his strong, welcoming arms. His hair flopped in front of his sparkling eyes and he almost kissed her right there, in front of the entire feast. She began to spin again and this time it was from the blow of a fist to her cheek that knocked her clear across Voinovich’s chamber, sprawled out on the cold floor, her back scraping on the stone, legs shaking, feeling colder than ice.
She must get up, she kept telling herself. “Get up be
fore he comes back.”
She rested her forehead in the snow. The cold would help. In a few minutes she would be fine and be able to see and continue on.
The cold felt good pressing into her throbbing head, yet it felt harder and harder to breathe.
Sovia didn’t think she slept. Time just seemed to stop. The wind whistled in her ears. The sun warmed the back of her head as the snow soothed her burning eyes and face.
The kittens purred. She could feel one of their little hearts beating into hers.
“He will have to eat me first, my children.”
“Sovia,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Lady Sovia, you are safe now.”
She opened her eyes and saw nothing but clouds, and she was floating in them so she must have died after all. The mountain had gotten the better of her.
“Take care of my babes and my son.” She stretched her arms out and a kitten was placed in her arms.
“Were there more than three?”
“The hawk tried to eat them. But I wouldn’t let him. Demon bird. They are mine now,” she said.
“All right. They will be yours.” The man’s voice was soothing, definite and trustworthy. If the voice said they were hers, then they were.
“Many thanks. Are you my angel? You don’t sound like a demon.”
He laughed softly.
“Neither. Rest, little one.” A cloth was placed over her eyes. “You will feel well again. I will have you back to your husband in a short while. It will go faster if you sleep.”
“My husband? You must be a demon then,” she said and then softly sank into a white pool of nothingness.
Chapter 24
Soaked in sweat from his latest round, Hök dropped down to a chair in his tournament tent and wondered where the hell his squire was. The only thing the twerp was good for was to help him unfasten the bloody armor.
Casis stumbled into the tent. “Earl Hök—” He buckled over, trying to catch his breath, nearly as sweaty as Hök. “A ship . . .” Pant, wheeze. “Jarl of Tronscar’s banners . . . anchor in the harbor.”
Hök dropped his head into his hands. “Fak.” His father was here.
He began to undress, fiddling with clasps made for much smaller fingers than his. “Damn, useless tin.”
“Here, sir, let me.”
Hök mumbled a curse and the young squire gave a lopsided smile.
“Forgive my temper. I’m not usually such a bastard.”
“My father makes me jump out of my skin too, my lord. I can only image how much worse it would be if he was a jarl.”
A hip-deep tub and buckets of water arrived. Hök stood in the tub and drenched himself with the cold water, scrubbing the worst of the filth away.
Adorned more comfortably in his Tronscar leathers, Hök made his way down to the harbor in search of his father. He didn’t need to search for long. Jarl Magnus plowed through a crowd of fishermen like the keel of broad ship slicing through the sea.
“Father.” Hök opened his arms and was met with a rib-bruising embrace. “I did not expect a visit so soon.”
“You left your home with talk of settling urgent matters in your new property, and I find you here, behaving as a child, playing with sticks and spears.” His father crossed his arms and glared his disappointment.
“Sir, I—”
“Magnus Knutson! Ah, it is you,” bellowed Jarl Brosa from across the town square. People scurried out of the way as he made his way across the newly cobblestone street.
“Brosa, you look in good health.”
“I am indeed in good health and fine spirits.” Jarl Brosa patted his rounded belly. “Come to cheer on your son, have you? Well you have my congratulations on rearing a fine swordsman. He will be squaring off in the ring with a fine Rus knight tomorrow. You have arrived just in time.” Jarl Brosa slapped Hök’s shoulder and laughed. No doubt the jovial display was meant to cover the fact that his father’s rival had designed these games in order to remove Hök as Sovia’s husband by publicly arranging for his death, or perhaps he was simply drunk with bloodlust from the constant display of blood sport.
“I have come with an urgent message for my son.” Magnus was not amused, nor impressed. He held up a small scroll without a seal.
It was only four words, written in his mother’s hand. Hök, Come home now.
His mother never made commands. His father issued commands all the time, but his mother . . . this must be the very worst of news. The matter could not be over his wife—his brother had sent word just last week that she was once again growing in strength and good humor. His mind then leapt to the worst-possible scenario. His mother was dying and wished a final farewell with her children.
Hök asked his father, “Is she ill?”
His father nodded grimly. His mother was dying. His stomach twisted.
“Is who ill?” Jarl Brosa asked, looking back and forth between him and his father.
“My mother,” Hök answered.
“His wife,” his father answered.
“Lady Sovia!” Jarl Brosa’s nostrils flared. If Sovia died before she remarried, her lands would be forfeited to King Sverre—along with her fortune, most likely making Sverre wealthier than Jarl Brosa, something Brosa would not easily accept. “What is wrong with her?” Brosa asked with anger and stiff concern ripe in his tone.
“My wife is of the belief that only the comfort of her husband will hasten her recovery. As you can understand, Brosa, Hök will need to excuse himself from his sport and return to his responsibilities,” Magnus said.
“Yes, yes of course. I will have my ships prepared at once. Prince Jon and his countrymen will be concerned for the welfare of their relation and would have no delay in hearing reports.”
“Prince Jon?” Jarl Magnus snarled—Jon’s close connections and support of the Kievan Rus throughout the last war was well known.
“My wife would not wish to disturb the court,” Hök said quickly, trying to avoid a public display. “As you know, Sovia has a taste for the dramatics. Reassure her relations that I shall send reports as to her condition.”
“If her condition be not dire, surely you can delay your departure a few days. The tournament finals are tomorrow,” Jarl Brosa said, gesturing toward the fairgrounds.
“I forfeit the prize to Voinovich. I expect his coffers are in need of the win far more than mine.”
“Voinovich?” Jarl Magnus said, his temper seconds from erupting.
“The war with our Rus neighbors is over, Magnus.” Jarl Brosa patted Jarl Magnus condescendingly on the shoulder. “’Tis time to reestablish trade. Is that not what you have always professed to want?”
Stål got his restrained temperament from their mother, while Hök got his temper from his father. Therefore he could tell that Magnus was seconds from punching Brosa in the face.
“Excuse us, Jarl Brosa. I will assemble my men for our immediate departure.” Hök bowed.
“I’ll be waiting on my ship, son,” his father said.
***
Thunder cracked overhead as Tronscar’s fleet coasted up the fjord into the port of Ostervall. It would be a muddy ride home for Hök and his father.
Few details on Sovia’s condition had been shared, which did not surprise Hök. Magnus was the Wait and see the mess you made type of father. All he said was that Uncle Hök had found Sovia on the Norwegian side of the borderlands, leaving Hök to think about in every possibility of how she arrived so far from home. Did she bribe his men? Who helped her? Who had betrayed him?
One thing was for certain—Sovia was not one to make idle threats. She had kept her oath, nearly succeeded in ending her life by venturing onto a deadly mountain range. Either way, she had not remained in Tronscar past the month deadline she had decreed.
Fak. His wife would rather fall to her death, be eaten by wolves, and freeze
off her face than wait for his return in his secure home for a few months.
He had planned on bringing Sovia to Toraslotte after he had established his authority and put new guards and overseers in place. Was it so difficult to wait for a year? He couldn’t have kept her from her Norwegian supporters any longer than that without risking some sort of dissention among the ruling classes. Of course, he hadn’t shared his plan with Sovia, but instead had issued an empty threat with hopes that it would keep her in line in his absence.
As the sky opened, a deluge of rain came down on their heads, and his father mounted his waiting warhorse. With a light touch, his father nudged his horse forward. “We Norrlanders are hard men, son.”
Hök’s horse Nobel trotted eagerly beside Magnus’s mount.
“My father was a brutal man, cold and hard to the marrow of his bone,” Magnus said as they rode. “He told me that soft, warm climates breed soft, warm men. I’ve found that he was right. I went too long in my life being cold and hardened in my heart before I allowed your mother’s warmth to corrupt me, and I’ve lived a richer life for it.”
“Father, Sovia will never be like Mother.”
“Of course she will never be your mother. What kind of man weds his mother?”
“I mean she will never be a complement to me as mother is to you. She will . . . she will always be Sovia.”
“Then I will pity her for the years that lay ahead.” He snorted in an irritated sort of way that drove Hök cross-eyed with frustration.
“And what would you have me do, throw my memory over my shoulder and forget all I know of her, all she openly shares with everyone that asks? I am constantly on the verge of murder and madness with this cursed woman.”
Hök felt for sure the vermin Voinovich had been her lover. The Rus noble had taken every opportunity to drop barbs into conversation, clearly aiming to provoke Hök.
