The Warlord's Wife

by Sandra Lake

  “Keep up, Hakon. Do you think I am as stupid as you? I sent a girl from Mak’s to speak with the chief. She identified herself as the jarl’s sister. Told the Morgdor that the jarl’s half-breed brother is the one who desires Tronscar for himself. Then I sent the girl to service the men at the hunting camp. She’ll never make it back through the gates. Nothing can be traced back to me. Nothing.”

  She pushed past the simpleton.

  “You practically raised him as your son. Why . . .”

  She released a long, annoyed breath. “Vulnerability is a liability. I have no desire to sit happily like a lame duck, as you do. I’ve worked my entire youth, twenty years for this miserable Knut, and for what? I will have what I am owed, Hakon. My family comes first. Stop being such a whelp and be a real man. Mayhaps then I will consider letting you top me for a change.”

  ***

  Peeking over the wagoner’s shoulder, Lida and Katia watched the thick evergreen forest peel back, opening as a curtain to reveal white-capped mountains off in the distance. The open field before them was blanketed in a dark, mossy grass speckled with small white flowers and gray granite boulders. The air was crisp, heavy with the blended scent of pine and the fast-flowing mountain stream that rushed past the wagon to the east of them.

  Constructed with dark gray stone, the stronghold ascended out of the top of the hillside, contrasting ominously with the natural splendor. Surrounded by a forty-foot wall and crowned with iron thorns, the imposing fortress was an ideal retreat for Lucifer. Lida could not begin to calculate the height of the peaked roofline or the number of windows, many of them filled with rare colored glass, most likely from the Byzantine empire. This was no warm family home in which to raise babes—it resembled more of a citadel constructed to honor savagery. The massive scale, the dark color, and the spikes and spears that came out of the walls at all angles sent a shiver to her toes.

  It was not what she’d expected. But what had she expected? He was the jarl of the so-called Iron Kingdom. She shook her head, trying to find some sort of redeeming quality in her husband or his ridiculously fortified black castle.

  “Impressive, is it not?” Tero rode up next to the wagon, smiling with the pride of a new father revealing his firstborn.

  “I suppose that is one word to describe it,” Lida replied.

  “The jarl built it from the foundation; very little of his father’s original holding remains. In less than ten winters, he has transformed this entire region into the most prosperous village outside of the king’s city.”

  The obnoxious horns announcing the approaching convoy grew louder with every turn of the wagon wheels.

  “You seem pleased to be returning, Tero.”

  “I have proudly called Tronscar my home for eleven years, Friherrinna.”

  “The jarl is a fortunate man to have such a loyal steward.”

  “’Tis I who am fortunate. I owe the jarl my life many times over. Yet he allows me to repay him in service, placing me in a position of great honor among his people.”

  “Are you not a slave to Tronscar?” she asked.

  “Jarl Magnus does not acquire slaves, Friherrinna. They die too quickly, creating a need for replacement and retraining. Only freemen have the will to survive the north.”

  “No slaves? None?” Lida found that impossible to believe, with an ambitious king who continued to conquer land after land.

  “If a slave is brought here, or a man finds himself indebted, the jarl’s law is to set the date of his release. Three winters is the maximum time. Then the man is offered wages or passage south. Of course, men found guilty of a blood crime are sent to the mines. The jarl does not believe in wasting life. He is a very judicious ruler, Friherrinna. I humbly offer that you may share my pride in serving him soon enough.” Tero rode back into formation with a smug, satisfied grin on his face.

  It benefits no one to disagree with such a zealot, Lida thought, keeping silent.

  “Mama, is that the king’s castle? Where he lives with the queen?”

  “No, my love. That is Jarl Magnus’s fortress.”

  “Oh, Tero said it was very pretty, but it looks scary to me.”

  “Tero said pretty?”

  “Well, not pretty, but shiny and grand. That sounded pretty.”

  “I suppose Tero and the jarl’s idea of pretty is different from ours. But we must be polite about how we speak to the jarl about his fortress. I do not think he would like people to think of it as pretty. We will say it is grand, as Tero does.”

  “Very well, Mama. This is a wonderful adventure. What will happen next?”

  “Oh, my love, I cannot say. I need to tell you something very important. If anything ever were to happen to me, you must find someone that you trust. Tero, perhaps. Ask to be returned home to Turku. Uncle Peter is looking after your farm there. Grandma and Grandpa will take care of you. So, if you ever need to, Katia, you must find your way back home to Turku. Promise me.”

  “Not without you, Mama.” Her daughter tilted her head, and she smiled as Lida’s mother did, causing Lida to miss her mother all the more.

  “This will probably never come to pass—just in case we are ever separated. Your family in Turku will always love you and take care of you.”

  “Aye, Mama, but the jarl is our family, and I shall have a sister and he will love us. True, Mama?” Her daughter looked at her with such confidence that Lida had to bite her lip not to shout out the truth. No, he does not love you. He does not love me. We are his property. He is seemingly incapable of love, joy, laughter, smiling, or happiness. Only in Finland is that real; not here. Nevertheless, she said none of those things. She falsely smiled and kissed her daughter’s sweet head. One day, Katia would learn all these truths for herself, but not yet. Not today.

  The towering iron gates of Tronscar closed behind the convoy, the noise sounding like a crack of lightning and vibrating her to the core. Lida was draped in white fur and dripping gold from every limb—she must have been the most richly garbed slave who was ever transported north.

  She swallowed the last small scrap of her remaining pride. Locking a look of serene indifference on her face, she accepted Jarl Magnus’s offered hand and was led down into the crowded courtyard. Thousands of eager villagers had come to greet their jarl and his returning men.

  Lida remembered her brother saying the jarl’s first wife had died in childbirth after less than a year in Tronscar. She wondered how long would she last as the new chosen pet of the jarl of Norrland.

  Chapter 9

  Nodding with approval, Magnus inspected his stronghold. With his wife on his arm, he entered his great hall to greet his household servants, who waited in line for his inspection.

  As he’d instructed, herbs had been mixed in the freshly laid rushes that covered the ground. The sweet-spice oil from the east that he preferred burned in polished copper bowls scattered among the tables, filling his hall with a fresh aroma. His loyal servants had done well indeed in his three-month absence.

  His chest filling with pride for both the home he presented to his wife and the queen he presented his people, Magnus said, “I present your new mistress, Friherrinna Lida, and her daughter, Katia.”

  Lida squeezed her daughter’s hand for added courage.

  The jarl’s voice rose up to the vaulted ceiling, echoing off the gray stone walls. “I expect you to serve them as you serve me. Respect them as you respect me.” The jarl’s voice carried the weight of a mountain.

  He strode forward, pulling Lida along by her arm, Katia towed behind her.

  “Hakon, my master steward.” The jarl patted the shoulder of the balding man.

  “Greetings, my jarl,” the master steward said, looking directly in his master’s eyes with a proud, stern nod. He had a handsome face with a strong jaw.

  The jarl moved to the next man. “Goran, commander of the g
uard.” Same nod and arm lock for the equally tall, stoic warrior, who had a severe scar crossing his right cheek down to his chin. His shoulders were wide, his arms thick, and his facial features as bright as a young boy greeting a beloved father, eyes sparkling with excitement.

  The jarl slapped the shoulder of the next man in line. “Arttu, commander of the night watch.” Well-groomed and in pristine attire, the younger man had a thick beard he was no doubt very proud of and the same look of giddy delight on his face while greeting his master with an arm lock.

  Lida noticed all the men were polished, washed, and well-dressed.

  “Roffe, first battalion commander.” The last man the jarl introduced was no less handsome or healthy in appearance, although slightly thicker in the middle.

  The jarl turned his attention to introduce three women. “Klara, domestic domina.” From the small lines around her mouth and eyes, Lida surmised the dark-haired woman to be perhaps forty years old, though her years had subtracted little from her beauty. “The hall is well arranged, Klara. Well done.”

  Klara stood tall and nodded respectfully to her master, raising her chin up, holding her full lips in a tightly pressed line. “You, know me, master. I live to serve,” the housekeeper said in a placid, dull tone. With an air of dry detachment, she raised her hands in a gesture of indifference to the jarl’s compliment. Her hands came to rest on her well-rounded hips, drawing Lida’s attention to the overly tight leather belt and clothing.

  The jarl boomed with laughter at the sardonic retort and smirk, something Lida had not thought him capable of. “I have missed you, Klara. The sharped-tongued wenches of Selinus have nothing on you.”

  “I should hope not,” she said. She jutted her hip to the side in a provocative manner, jangling the large set of keys that hung from a silver chain from her belt. Every man in the hall had his eyes trained to her voluptuous form. Confident authority rested comfortably on her shoulders.

  Moving down the line, the jarl introduced two young, attractive women. “Ragna and Ylva, Klara’s primaries.” Lida guessed they were both close to her own age; perhaps dark-haired Ragna was a little older and blond Ylva slightly younger. Their figures and appeal were heightened by clean, form-fitting serving gowns of high-quality wool with leather trim. They had not a hair out of place nor a smudge of dirt on their garments or hands.

  As her husband introduced the female servants, Lida watched their eyes. Robust, gray-eyed Ragna tilted her head in a slight bow, flashing her sultry eyes up to search her master’s gaze. Ylva was no maiden, but still she had a very pretty face with the rosy cheeks of youth. Her bold eyes never lowered or looked away from the jarl. All three women seemed to be very confident in their jarl’s approval.

  Very telling. Within Lida’s first moments behind Tronscar’s walls, she had met at least two of the women who had spent time in the jarl’s bed.

  The jarl inclined his head closer to Lida. “They will serve you well, as they have served Norrland. Tero!”

  “Master.” Tero stepped forward. Out of the corner of her eye, Lida noticed Klara shifted her weight back, puckering her lips out slightly, clearly unimpressed by greeting Tero safely home.

  As the jarl spoke with Tero and Klara, more of his top men swarmed around the group of servants, giving and receiving embraces and breaking into hushed conversation.

  “Klara has an unexpected addition to our household,” the jarl told Tero. “Have a selection of fine fabrics and furs available to her to make ready for the child. Have a chamber on my private floor prepared. Adjustments will be made. Klara, I ask you see to them directly—the child tires at an early hour.”

  A smirk spread across Klara’s lips. “Without delay, master.”

  Hakon pushed through the throng of people, a scroll raised over his head. “My jarl, conscripts from Agnafit, I beg your pardon, Stadsholmen arrived . . .” The jarl turned his back to Lida as he spoke to Tero in a hushed tone.

  Lida bent down to Katia and whispered, “Are you all right, my love?”

  “Oh, yes, Mama. There are so many people and so many tables and benches, all of Turku could come for a visit.” Her daughter began to ramble on excitedly about all the finery, but Lida’s attention was pulled away by Tero and Klara, who clearly had not missed one another’s company.

  “I have recorded the entire shipment of domestic goods, domina,” Tero said in a cold tone Lida had never heard him use before. “I will be cross-checking my account with consumption throughout the winter so that I will have an accounting before we depart next spring,”

  “Indeed? Spring seems so far away. I do love a good, long summer sea voyage, Mongol,” Klara said dryly. “Especially when taken by elfin foreign bean counters who annoy me.”

  The jarl snickered, surprising Lida again with his abrupt transformation into a jovial, lax leader. Such snippy, inciting remarks would never have been tolerated on the voyage, let alone laughed off. “Klara, what would we do without you? Play nice with Tero; he had a taxing summer.”

  “Poor Tero.” Klara patted the steward’s cheek a little too hard. “Were you miserable without us? Perhaps almost as miserable as we are when you are with us?”

  The hall boomed with laughter at Klara’s jest.

  Still chuckling under his breath, the jarl marched forward, fairly dragging Lida behind him and requiring Katia to step quickly to keep up. The three of them climbed the steps of the dais one after the other. The platform held a massive fireplace with a carved mantel and a large sitting area arranged at a comfortable distance from the fire. The head table overlooked the great hall, which could indeed house all the residents of Turku with room to spare.

  The jarl claimed an imposing, white fur–lined iron throne in the center of the table, directly under a chandelier that held more than a hundred lit candles. Lida had never seen such metalwork as these before; and the silver! Who had ever seen so much silver simply lying about?

  Lida restrained her expression to one of serene indifference. This opulent hall was not her home. It was her master’s home. Why should she be impressed?

  Magnus removed his fur cloak and handed it out to the side without comment. Indeed, thanking someone for his or her assistance must be a foreign concept to him, Lida thought—other than his favored domina, of course.

  He unfastened the gold clasp on Lida’s ridiculous cloak and handed it off to a servant, then pointed for her to sit on the fur-lined iron chair beside his. Should she thank him for the commanded seat or follow his example and simply grunt her acknowledgment?

  She was saved from deciding when the jarl spoke. “That color of stone suits you. It pleases me to gaze upon it. You will wear it often. Does your child need something from the kitchen?” He was looking out over his hall with the arrogant pride of satisfaction written on his face, and it took Lida a moment to realize he was addressing her.

  Lida could not keep up with his strange manners. He was so thoughtless about so many things, yet he inquired after Katia’s needs and arranged personally for the ribbon for her hair and fur for her mantle. The man made no sense.

  “Milk, if possible. Do you keep a bovine or goat?”

  He raised one brow into a peak, leaned over, and spoke gruffly into her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “I have hundreds of goats, even more sheep, and a thousand head of cattle. I do not keep one of anything.” He leaned back and loudly said, “Ragna, bring the child milk, the mistress wine.” The servant bobbed her head and was gone.

  Under Magnus’s watchful eye, his men filed into the hall for the return celebration feast. They were not pristine as he usually insisted, but he made concessions on travel days. He detested needless filth, yet strived to rule with balance and reason.

  “Mama, Tero spoke true. ’Tis shiny and pretty,” the girl whispered excitedly to her mother. She was not so quiet that Magnus did not hear.

  “Did the child call my hall p
retty?” he asked his wife.

  “Aye,” his wife answered without apology.

  “I thought that was what I heard. Does she know other Swedish words besides pretty?”

  “She knows all words. Finnish and Swedish. She chooses to only use her favorites.”

  “Interesting. Does she know any other tongues?”

  “Why not ask her yourself? She is listening to every word you are speaking.”

  Sure enough, the girl leaned forward and smiled at him. “A little Saxon, a lot of Frank, and lots and lots of Danish. My grandma knows even more,” the child said with a sparkle in her eye.

  Magnus leaned back and reached for his ale, not quite certain how he felt about a little person having more knowledge than him. It was most disturbing.

  Lida ate a small portion of everything offered. The variety astonished her: smoked fish, three different dishes of perfectly roasted meats, tasty, seasoned soft-boiled root vegetables, and crisp cabbage. To nobody’s surprise, the mixed red and blue berries with cream poured over a small sweet cake was Katia’s favorite. Lida could not find anything to improve upon. Her purpose here had shrunk to a singular role.

  “Was the meat not prepared to your liking, Lida?” Klara asked, leaning down the table to catch her attention.

  “Nay, I am certain it is delicious. I have taken my fill on your fine garden offerings.” She smiled and nodded her thanks to the housekeeper.

  “Address my wife as Friherrinna, domina, not Lida,” the jarl said, correcting his servant.

  Klara pursed her lips and, in a feigned gesture of submission, bowed her head to the jarl and then to Lida. With the jarl’s interference, Lida thought, she would have the entire hall detesting her before the evening was done.

  Her daughter’s eyelids drooped, her little angel clearly exhausted from all the “adventures” of the past few days. A moment later, she curled up on the plush fur-lined chair, fast asleep.

  “If I may retire”—Lida reached down for her child—“I will see Katia to her bed.”