The Peacemaker

by Jianne Carlo

  “Darwent, I should like to have an accounting of your stewardship.” Njal dusted his palms, stood, and gripped the table edge. “I must greet my guests from last eve and then I will see you in the steward’s chamber.”

  Not bothering to check the man’s reaction, Njal turned to his brothers. “My wife has informed me that the lord’s library has been cleared for my use. Shall we adjourn there?”

  Magnus’ lips twitched but he said with all solemnity, “We but follow your command.”

  Once they were all settled into chairs in front of a newly built fire in the room his wife dubbed the library, though nary a book occupied the shelves lining the chamber’s walls, Njal ordered, “Speak. Tell me all you’ve learned.”

  Jarvik set his feet atop a low table. “What think you of your new steward?”

  “Bettina would have him gone at once.”

  “Darwent is but a wasp in a nest of serpents.” Magnus leaned forward, his elbows resting on bent knees. “Earl Mordred commands all in this region.”

  “And I am commanded to negotiate a treaty with him.” Njal did not like the expression either one of his brothers wore. “A thief I can deal with. ’Tis not a hardship.”

  “Aye, selling cattle and sheep and giving no coin back to the castle is but petty thieving.” Magnus rested his worn leather boots on the ridge of the fireplace. “But to do so when there are hungry mouths to feed and three moons of winter drawing near is stupidity itself.”

  “I cannot both negotiate a treaty and accuse the earl of theft.” Njal leaned back in his chair. “’Tis plain now why my wife hunts boar, and by Odin’s toes I will punish the ones who put her in such danger.”

  “Mayhap ’tis not the only punishment you need consider.” Jarvik straightened. “For I fear that your lady’s mother has been abused by the earl.”

  Njal’s blood boiled. He trapped Jarvik’s gaze and said, his voice soft as a spring breeze whispering over meadow grass, “Think you Earl Mordred touched my wife?”

  Chapter Four

  “Make haste, Luca.” Bettina doggedly followed the twisting path up the knoll, concentrating on placing one booted foot in front of the other. Her husband’s attentions last eve and this morn had left her euphoric but exhausted, and not a little tender. Twinges in body parts hitherto unused, plus her aching ankle, slowed her progress somewhat.

  Mayhap ’twas not such a brilliant ploy to hunt the morn after being wedded, but the thought of humiliating Earl Mordred during the king’s visit held too much appeal for her to stay abed.

  Petalia had strict orders not to disturb her rest.

  Njal was meeting with Darwent.

  None would notice her absence, and who would suspect a new bride of poaching?

  She squeezed between two large boulders atop the hillside. Mayhap it had not been wise to include Brock in the plan, but she could not manage three fat swine alone.

  “What game do we hunt today, my lady?” Luca scrambled after her, climbing into the natural crevice created by a rotting oak trunk and a jagged rock.

  “This morn we take Earl Mordred’s three prize barrows. He has been fattening yonder pigs since spring and cook tells me he plans to slaughter them when King Máel Coluim arrives on the morrow for the treaty signing.” Bettina plucked an arrow from her quiver and loaded her crossbow. “I would give up much, Luca, could I find the means to see his face when he learns the pigs are no more.”

  Luca grinned at her but said not a word. He twisted in the direction they’d come from, and shaded his eyes. “Brock has crested the hill. ’Tis a wise choice to use his cart, milady. I fear the castle’s cart could not bear such a load.”

  “Aye. One of these barrows is twice the size of the wild boar we caught two morns ago.” Bettina hunched down and took aim.

  The barrows went down with nary a fight, but castrated pigs held not the menace of a wild male boar. Bettina had learned that much in the last three seasons.

  Brock arrived before the animals drew their last breath.

  She disarmed her crossbow and greeted the strapping man, a childhood friend and an avowed enemy of the earl.

  “Be careful, milady. Earl Mordred is back in residence.” Brock swiped his sleeve over the sweat dripping off his chin. ’Twas heated work loading the enormous beasties into the cart.

  “Nay.” Bettina’s belly coiled tight for ’twas treason to steal from a noble. “None mentioned his return. He did not attend the ceremony last eve.”

  Bile gushed up her throat.

  “’Tis indeed fortunate his men are not on patrol this morn. The fates favor you, milady.” Brock grinned. “The earl will be in a rage. My sole regret is not remaining to see his countenance when he learns of the theft.”

  She smiled though fear washed bitter over her tongue. “’Tis what I have just told Luca. ’Tis a grievous sin to give such fine meat away, but the earl will tear the village apart looking for the poacher. I am loath to burden you with taking the pigs to the coast, Brock. You must make haste.” Bettina rubbed a sore shoulder. “Send a message when you return.”

  “No worries, milady. All know I oft trade with the Norsemen who ply the coast. I will return henceforth and send word with the washerwoman.”

  “God be with you, Brock.”

  “And you, milady.”

  “Milady, the sun is high in the sky.” Luca tugged at her sleeve. “We cannot tarry here.”

  One glance at the cloudless blue horizon, the bright globe unleashing the starkness of the landscape, had Bettina hastening to return to the castle forthwith.

  She and Luca snuck through the kitchens and parted company at the foot of the servants’ stairs. Her breathing didn’t return to normal until she reached the chamber on the third floor. ’Twas the room where Bettina hid the manly breeches and tunics she wore while hunting or robbing Earl Mordred’s rent collectors.

  After washing hurriedly, she donned one of the new cyrtels Mama had commissioned, braided her hair, and tied the ends with a blue ribbon to match her dress. It took her no time at all to sneak into the master’s chamber. She left the door open and retrieved her house slippers from the pile of clothes in the corner.

  “Where have you been?”

  Bettina jumped and twisted to the door.

  Though the fire in the hearth had long dwindled to naught but cinders, heat scalded Bettina’s cheeks.

  “Answer me, child. Where have you been?”

  Mama only called her “child” when she was furious.

  “I am waiting.” Mama stuck one hand on her hip and her foot tapped the floor, beating the rat-a-tat of a Highlander’s war drum.

  Bowing her head to compose her features, Bettina shoved her feet into the cloth shoes and forced a smile that died the moment she noted her mother’s angry scowl. “’Tis not like you to rise so early.”

  “You avoid my question, Bettina.” Mama looked pale and drawn, and she had dark circles under her eyes. For the past sennight, her health had seemed to improve, and last eve she had been positively radiant.

  Bettina clenched her jaw. “The earl has paid us a visit?”

  “He is with Lord Njal and his brothers.” Mama’s mouth pursed. “I have not said a word all these seasons. I have not once asked about the roasted boar, or the venison, not even the pheasants and partridges. But it cannot continue, Bettina. You must stop at once. Think you of your new husband. Seek you to see him hang?”

  The room spun. Her knees buckled. Bettina grabbed the back of the chair and straightened. She dared not meet her mother’s gaze.

  Lord help, Mama knew about the hunting. Mayhap she knew not of the stolen rents.

  “How long have you known?”

  “The earl will not touch me again. Not now that Lord Njal is in residence. You must stop extracting this revenge.”

  Bettina choked on a sob. Tears spiked her lashes, blurring her vision. “How long, Mama? How long after Papa died did Earl Mordred harm you?”

  “’Tis of no consequence now.” Mama
captured her hands and squeezed her fingers. “’Tis over, Bettina. I have made arrangements to retire to the abbey at Shelbourne within the sennight.”

  “Nay.” Bettina hugged her mother’s frail form. “I cannot abide you leaving. Please, Mama, not now.”

  “Lady Gwen. Bettina.” Lord Njal’s deep voice made them both flinch.

  Limbs quaking, Bettina glanced to the doorway to find her husband standing at the entrance to the room.

  Turning her back to him, Bettina scrubbed the moisture from her face and pinched her cheeks before twisting around. “My lord. Good morn.”

  “Is aught amiss?” His hooded eyes studied her intently before moving on to her mother.

  “Nay, my lord.” Bettina tried for a smile but her lips would not hold the formation. “’Tis matters of the keep we were discussing.”

  One brow rose. “I would remind you of our pact, wife.”

  What to do? Confess to treason? Tell Njal of Mama’s bruises? That Mordred may have raped Mama? The truth won naught.

  “Mama is not well this morn, my lord. She insists on greeting our visitors and I but try to persuade her to rest.”

  Njal’s gaze shifted. “You are indeed pale this morn, Lady Gwen. Pray heed your daughter’s advice. My wife and I will greet Earl Mordred and give him your regrets.”

  “If you but wait a moment, my lord, I will find Petalia to tend to Mama, and then join you in the hall.” Bettina crooked her hand with her mother’s. “Come. Let me take you to your chamber.”

  Brazen though she might be most oft, Bettina could not look Njal full in the eyes. Her shoulder brushed his arm as she and Mama walked through the doorway. The slight contact sizzled, she drew in a sharp breath, and the scent of him, all leather and male, cloaked her like a well-worn favorite shawl.

  Bettina’s mind raced as she hurried down the hallway after settling Mama in her chamber. Over and over his words repeated in her mind: loyalty and trust, begin as we mean to go on, trust, loyalty. Her head ached to bursting. She longed to fling herself on the floor, drum her heels, and scream her rage and frustration.

  Gaze following the cracks and crevices in the stone floor, she bumped into what felt like a hard wall but when she blinked became Njal’s rock-hard chest. The rippled chest with the soft hair her hands had caressed this morn and last eve, the taut flesh her mouth had tasted and savored.

  He tilted her chin so their eyes met. “I will have the truth later, wife. Not just about your and Lady Gwen’s tears, but also about your absence from the keep this morn.”

  Her knees gave way and she grabbed his arms for support.

  “Odin’s toes.” He scooped her high against his chest. “What has you as pale as Thor’s ghost?” Shaking his head, he declared, “Mordred can deal with my brothers. We will settle this now.”

  She butted his chest. “Nay. Nay. Njal, I beg of you. I must greet Earl Mordred. I give you my word I will tell all after he has departed.”

  I will think of something. I always do.

  Halting, he drew back. Their gazes met and she held still, willing him to believe her words.

  “I have your oath? The truth, all of it?”

  Mayhap Mama and I can both retire to the abbey. For he will cast me aside once he learns the truth.

  “Aye. All of it.” She stifled a sigh.

  He slid her down his body.

  Regret and a sense of loss heavier than the three barrows she killed earlier weighted her shoulders at the thought of him divorcing her. Never to feel his manhood pulsing inside her again, never to wallow in the scent of him, never to thrill to the taste of him… The morose thoughts had her lips quivering, and foolish tears misted her eyes.

  His loud sigh sifted through her hair tickling her nape, and she peeked up at him.

  “’Tis a sorry puzzle you are, wife. What has your shoulders slumped, your brows furrowed, and your mouth pouting?” His thumb brushed said pouting mouth.

  She said the first thought that popped into her frozen mind. “I fear I am not meant for a convent.”

  * * *

  Had she not seemed so dejected, Njal would’ve roared with laughter, for never had Bettina spoken a truer word. He could not begin to fathom the way her mind worked. What had her musing on convents?

  “Whilst my curiosity overflows, ’tis neither the time nor the place to indulge it.” Njal drew his knuckles along her cheeks, marveling once more at her soft skin. The silks and fabrics of the East could not compare to Bettina’s supple flesh. “Darwent is with the earl.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes.

  “Let naught of our plans show on your face, Bettina. Act the welcoming lady.”

  “Of course, my lord.” She fiddled with her hair ribbon and kept her eyes cast down.

  “’Tis not wise to let any know your strengths, but more so for a foe. Trust me in this, wife.”

  The forlorn twist to her mouth worried him, for he would lay odds Bettina never moped. ’Twas the reason her earlier tears caused him concern.

  “Think you I would challenge Earl Mordred to play Fox and Geese?” She tossed her braid over one shoulder. “Nay. I will simper and giggle and play the empty-headed maiden.”

  Njal suppressed a grin at the return of her defiance. “You would eat all his geese in two casts of the die.”

  “Do we play Fox and Geese again this eve, my lord?”

  “Njal.” Unable to resist, he leaned close enough to trace the whorls of her ear with his tongue and when she gasped, he grazed her lobe, suckling the plump flesh. “Say my name.”

  “Njal.” Her whisper had a breathless catch and a deep pink stole across her face.

  By Odin’s toes, her blush thickened his cock and drew his sac up tight. He placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and steered her to the stairs. In a low voice he asked, “How fare your womanly parts this morn, sweetling?”

  She looked up from under slotted lids and the saucy cant to her lips shot lust-bolts to his twitching prick. “My womanly parts are all atingle. Njal.”

  And by Thor’s hammer, she looked full at his bulging breeches and ran her tongue along the seam of her mouth as she spoke the words. He stumbled on the first step.

  A loud commotion reached Njal’s ears afore they were halfway down the stairs. He surveyed the hall and discovered a group of mail-clad men standing with Earl Mordred, Darwent, and his brothers.

  “Scour every hut, every cottage, every farm.” Earl Mordred’s shouted command had his men jumping to attention and ayeing him loudly.

  “Our earl appears distraught.” Njal sniffed her hair and grinned when the now-familiar hazel and rosewater fragrance filled his lungs. ’Twas oddly rich and warming, and reminded him of the scent of the morning cocoa sprinkled with toasted hazelnuts they served at the Danish court.

  “Methinks he may have mislaid some treasure.”

  Her mocking tone drew his attention and he frowned at the sparrow-caught-the-worm smile she wore. She noticed him looking at her, straightened, and pressed her lips together. Unease climbed his spine like a spider weaving a web. What game did Bettina play? For she had that fox-seizing-the-geese glee written in the sharp arch of her brows.

  They arrived at the foot of the stairs to meet the earl, his warriors, and Njal’s brothers.

  “Lord Njal.” Earl Mordred had the eyes of a stoat, slanted, set a tad too wide for the broad snout separating the orbs, and of a murky riverbed color not quite brown, not quite hazel, more the shade of slime.

  “Mordred.” Njal inclined his head. “You seem disturbed. Is aught amiss?”

  “Aye.” Mordred fair snarled. “Thieves stole my prize barrows.”

  “An item of some value?” Njal had no notion of what a barrow might be.

  “A prize pig, brother. Castrated to fatten quickly.” Magnus had managed to imprint a font of obscure facts in his oversize skull. “Very tasty meat when roasted or stewed.”

  “Much like boar.” Jarvik’s smile didn’t quite reflect in his blue eyes. �
��Not so, sister?”

  “Boar meat is indeed sweet, brother Jarvik, but I am partial to roasted barrow.” Bettina batted her lashes. “Mayhap you have misplaced your creatures, Earl Mordred? For your new lands are vast indeed. Mayhap the wee beasties have wandered into a hidden knoll?”

  Njal tried not to stare at his wife. He had not believed she could actually simper, but she mimicked a mindless female to perfection.

  The earl’s bead-like eyes narrowed. “My men are searching every dwelling in the village. Any peasant caught with barrow flesh will hang on the morrow.”

  “Will you join us for our noon meal, my lord? ’Tis simple fare, fowl, bread, and cheese.” Bettina signaled a kitchen boy. “May I offer you a horn of ale, my lord?”

  Magnus and Jarvik looked at Bettina as if she’d grown three score heads, and so might have Njal had he not been riveted by the sudden widening of the earl’s beady eyes. What had his wife said that had so captured the earl’s interest?

  “I thank you for your offer, but I must see to finding whosoever has been poaching my barrows. Where is your mother? I needs consult her on a matter.” Earl Mordred glanced at the wide arch leading to the kitchens.

  Beside him, Bettina went rigid and her hands curled into tight fists.

  “Lady Gwen is much exhausted from the preparations for our vows yester eve.” Njal drew Bettina’s hand atop his and curled his thumb over her knuckles. “’Tis a pity you could not attend, Mordred, well pleased though we were to have Hal the Herald as witness.”

  “The king had need of me.” Earl Mordred fixed his piggy eyes on Bettina. “’Tis thrice in as many sennights Lady Gwen has taken to her bed. When I return to my keep I will instruct my healer to attend her ladyship.”

  “Mama is but tired, Earl Mordred, and well you know she has a horror of healers. Pray do not send your healer as he will not be received.” All pretense of good humor evaporated from Bettina’s face.

  “As your lord and guardian, I decide your mother’s treatment.” Mordred’s face purpled and his puffy cheeks filled.