by Sandra Lake
“I can demonstrate a few countering moves that my instructor taught me when I was at a height disadvantage. The men from the south are smaller than in the north, hence we use vastly different training methods. Brute strength is not always an advantage. My Castillian sword master is not much larger than you and he moves with such speed that I have never come across his equal. He can put down four men before one has a chance to raise his blade.”
“You would show me? Truly?” Suddenly it felt like they were the only two people in the hall. The noise of the feast melted away, and her ears trained on his every word.
“I would have shown you today if I’d known who you were and you asked. The duke has brought his swordsmen to exchange ideas to strengthen both armies.” He only glanced at her occasionally as he spoke. “I believe women have the right to be taught to handle a blade. Every person traveling the Baltic waters should have the means to protect themselves against a pirate attack.”
“That is what I think!” Katia sat up straighter. “But the Baltic waters are safe. I sail them often with my father. ’Tis the poor Gulf of Finland that is plagued with the Slavic and Rus knaves. I assure you, Sweden’s coast is secure.”
Lothair gave a short laugh. “Traveling surrounded by a dozen warships flying the Jarl of Tronscar’s colors, I should think you arrive safe.”
She scowled at his mocking delivery.
“Pray tell me, little iron princess, what is the exact difference between a Dane or Swede raiding party and a Rus pirate ship?”
She crossed her arms, jerked her head up, and said, “You know what I meant. I will not speak for Denmark, but Sweden on a whole is secure. Our jarls work hard to provide order and security.”
“Yet from a glance, do they not all look the same? They have the same great-grandsires you know,” Lothair challenged. “Same blood as a Norman, Dane, Norwegian, and Swede. Norse Vikings have left their mark on each coast they plundered. Rus legends boast of ancestry from the great Norse Varagian Guard, and surely even your maiden ears have heard tales of their Novgorod origins, which all claim heritage to your fine Swedish shore. Be they Slavic or Rus, or descendants from your very own Swedish grandsires, one and all now take their turns pirating our waters.”
“No one chooses their sire. Nor is a forefather responsible for all his offspring. The past is the past. We are all Christian in the north, unlike some Estonian-, Slavic-, and Rus-held lands that cling to their devil worship. Why, Uppsala was just consecrated and made into an archdiocese by Rome last month. Sweden has its very own archbishop now, or hadn’t you heard? Neither the church, nor the king, nor my father would ever stand for Swedish piracy. They would face equal judgment to any murderer or thief.”
He chuckled, slowly shaking his head and said more quietly, “Your father is a powerful warlord, I’ll grant you that, but he does not control the world, nor the sea. We live in dangerous times, princess,” he said. “Thanks to the present warring rival kings, your father has tripled his wealth selling weapons made from his superior steel. Are you quite certain he desires peace? Law and order would be bad for business, would it not?”
She drew in a sharp breath through her nose. “My father does not make weapons because he desires war. It is what his allies demand, what his king demands. He would much rather make tools for plowing and steel to build stronger fortresses and—” She stopped speaking as Lothair’s face was ripe with amusement. She could tell he was not taking a single word she was saying seriously. “What?”
“Nothing.” He returned to his meal, smirking.
“Tell me,” she demanded, her body twitching with irritation.
“Which king or king-pretender does your father serve this season? You are too young to understand the true nature of corrupt political minds.” He leaned in closer. “Do not fret, iron princess, most maidens are too soft to understand such complex matters.” He was looking at her again—really looking at her this time.
“I am not too soft,” she said, her voice rising with her temper. Why the devil did she agree to wear pink?
“But you are.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. He was enjoying her flaring temper far too much. She suddenly realized he was teasing her.
“Oh, and I imagine you are what—one, two years my senior? And you think yourself so much wiser? You accuse my father of shifting loyalty but what would a German know of loyalty? How many independent kingdoms does Deutschland now boast?”
Lothair glared at her sharply. “So you are familiar with the changing politics of the Holy Roman Empire? You know all about the workings of its pretender, Emperor Frederick, and his bloodthirsty quest for power?” He had lowered his voice and leaned into her chair. Clearly he would not have such a mocking and dangerous speech heard by all.
“I know all about your Saxony conspiracy,” she whispered sharply in return. “If your duke would stop dividing the loyalty of your lands and instead labor for the security of his countrymen and concede to the heir to the German throne, perhaps he would not be in need of my father’s good opinion nor so much of his sought-after weaponry, nor would so many of your young countrymen needed to die on his behalf.”
“Tell that to your father’s kinsmen in the House of Eric. Why don’t they abandon their claim to Sweden’s throne and throw their support behind the House of Sverker?” Lothair’s face was red and he gripped his knife so tight in his fist she wondered if perhaps he may be considering stabbing her with it. “My—” he cut himself off. “The duke serves the will of his people, who would rather die fighting against oppression than beg the mercy of Frederick’s puppet court. I would have you know that the duke would never ask one of his men to die for a cause he himself was not prepared to lay his life down for. I know for a fact the same cannot be said of Emperor Frederick.” He spoke with passion, making him unfortunately all the more attractive and muddying Katia’s thoughts.
“And you don’t think the men that fight for the emperor feel the same sense of righteous indignation that you and the duke feel?” she challenged. “Can it not be argued that any man who takes the battlefield is not all motivated by the same base source: defense of their lord and protection of their kinsmen?”
He laughed at her, a condescending, obnoxious kind of laugh. His anger of moments ago seemed to have drained away and his arrogant self had returned. “Princess, perhaps you had better educate yourself on the true motives of men before you speak so boldly. Ask your father, or better yet, ask your man Tero what he knows of the Routiers, or the Black Company, or the Flemish mercenaries who slaughtered the peasant army in Schwitz for the Holy Roman Emperor’s crusading cause.” He pointed his knife at her. “Those are men who sell their sword and their soul for as little as a new shirt and a few gold coins. Educate yourself, iron princess, before you start spouting off opinions on subjects you know nothing about.”
“Stop calling me that. I’m not a princess.”
His eyes raked up and down her silk gown, letting her opulent outfit make his point.
She sat up straighter, trying to ignore that she felt like a lack-wit child. The sensation of being so firmly put in her place was foreign to her. No guest at her father’s table had ever dared to speak to her so bluntly. “I know things.”
“But do you know the right things?”
“Tronscar has welcomed envoys from kingdoms throughout the Baltic shores and even your noble rival neighbors in Germany. All bring their problems to my father and try to drag him into their troubles, plying him with their tales of abuse. I am well aware of the false intentions of noble dignitaries who come to my father’s door begging for support to fulfill their own self-serving ends.” She stared at him, silently making the accusation that his precious duke was no better than the rest.
Her sour look did not have the effect she had intended.
The sharp lines of his brow softened and he leaned in closer and whispered, “Old kingdoms burn every day and
new ones rise out of their ashes. While Sweden’s nobles crossing swords over which rival king to support, arguing over which king killed whose father, Emperor Frederick and his Slavic friends sit back watching, and at the right time, they will strike. As your countrymen fight each other, ambitious princes plot. Your kinsmen will never see them coming until it is too late.”
His words instantly chilled her to the bone. She hated his smug, arrogant tone, yet something deep inside her said that his sinister warning rang true. It was accurate that she had never heard of two Swedish noblemen sharing the same political viewpoint. Raised voices and pounding fists were the normal tone of any gathering of the highborn. Still, she couldn’t lie down and concede defeat so easily. She wouldn’t want him to think her so easily swayed.
“So you came with a friendly warning for us then,” Katia said, her words ripe with derision. “Your duke is only pretending to befriend the north, is he? Or perhaps he is truly here to take an accounting of our resources to plunder for himself one day. Lie, cheat, and steal away whatever he can get his hands on. I would expect no less from a Saxon,” Katia said with serene sarcasm. She raised her chin and pretended to sip wine from her gold chalice.
Lothair leaned back in his chair, removing the private wall his turned shoulders had created for their hushed discussion. “Lie, cheat, and steal?” he repeated, raising his cup once again to his wine-stained lips. “Only a clever girl who has mastered such qualities would be so quick to recognize them in others.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “I have never cheated nor stolen in my life.”
Appearing once again bored, Lothair rested his head against the back of his high-backed chair and stared at her a long while before saying, “What a feeble denial. I expected no better from a Swede who conceals her identity from her invited guest.”
Katia slammed her chalice down on the table harder than she should have. “I already apologized for that earlier. Do you intend on moaning on about it all evening? Besides, I’m equal parts Dane and Finnish, if you want to be precise.”
Lothair continued to look her hard in the eyes, quickly unraveling her fortitude to be angry. She wouldn’t be the one to break the glaring hostility—she cowered to no man. What felt like hours passed between them before she saw the smallest twinge in the corner of his mouth. His eyes softened for but a fleeting moment. He was teasing her again, toying with her for his own amusement. She was beginning to feel like a cat batting in vain at a string.
“You cannot think of something disparaging to say about the Finnish?” Contemptible rogue.
Katia glanced past Lothair and discovered that her small display of temper had earned the notice of half the head table, who were all watching them closely out of the corners of their eyes.
“I like Finland,” Lothair said loudly, chuckling arrogantly into the silver mug.
Katia turned back to the forgotten platter in front of her. There was nothing else to say. She stewed as loud voices of merriment crashed back over her ears—she had tuned out the noise of the hall during their conversation. She snatched up her chalice of wine, took a large swig, and flopped back into her chair in a very unladylike manner. She could not recall a time in her life when she had felt more scrambled up inside. Did she hate the arrogant prick next to her or was she enamored with him? He was without a doubt the first male she would equally love to kick and kiss.
What made matters worse was that he had gained the upper hand on her for the second time today. She needed to strategize. One thing was becoming embarrassingly clear: her smiles, winks, and softly spoken words had no effect on him.
Chapter 4
Higher and higher the breeze carried the fluttering yellow creature. Shading his eyes, Lothair watched, waited, until an upward gust sent the butterfly over the gray stone wall. A linked crown of iron thorns garnished the top of the outer walls. Fearlessly, the beautiful creature came to rest on the point of a razor-sharp spike.
Lothair stood with his arms folded as he stared up, contemplating the enormity of Tronscar’s keep. The soft, natural beauty of flora and fauna contrasted with the manmade designs, all of which seemed to be designed to glorify steel and weaponry—the tangible representation of Tronscar’s lust for war, power, and blood. Lady Katia was hidden somewhere deep inside those thick layers of stone and iron. At this very moment, she might be looking down on him out of the colored glass windows of one of the high chambers.
Lothair looked away. Life would be simpler if she did not already possess a corner of his mind, if she wasn’t so captivating. He continued to count the spikes on the west parapet wall. The more he tried to push her out of his thoughts, the more she dug in. She smiled for everyone, for everything, all the time. Lothair could now easily read the differences in all her smiles. For her young female companions, she had smiles and endless giggles that filled the halls and yards. For the servant that brought her the bread, she smiled genuinely. For the duke, his own unworthy father, who kept trying to engage her in conversation in Saxon, she forged a grimace-smile.
After Lothair had been seated next to her for a few meals, the jarl seemed to take notice of her smiling in the young swordsman’s direction. They were seated apart after that. Her father had apparently also noticed that she smiled differently for different people.
By the end of the weeklong visit, Lothair was anxious to leave Tronscar. The iron palace was undeniably impressive. Every square inch was carved with intricate patterns. Brightly polished steel and silver works were inlaid into tools and instruments. The custom in the castles of Deutschland he had visited was for the officers to be offered a place to sleep by the hearth in the main hall, with the lower-ranked soldiers housed in the haylofts and outbuildings. Not so in Tronscar. Every man was provided a bed. The secondary barracks offered the visiting envoy bunks, stacked five men high by twenty rows deep. The private chambers given to the noblemen were massive in scale, with beds that had plush mattresses of soft linens, furs, and thick wool.
To understand the character of the Jarl of Tronscar, a man need not look farther than the Great Hall: power and wealth balanced alongside art and function. Nothing in Tronscar was without purpose and design, with the exception perhaps of the opinionated princess that lived above stairs.
Lothair scratched his head, trying to uproot the flower-scented memory of her hair. The harder he worked not to think of the feisty little imp, the more his head rebelled by tormenting him with the remembrance of her last smile and the last searing touch of her small hand upon his.
Nay, he refused to think of her again. The training yards were what he would commit to memory. Aye, an orderly system where bloodthirsty men worked hard every day to improve their skill in killing one another—that was what was truly impressive about this fortress, and nothing more. One day he would replicate much of the well-organized grounds. He had committed to memory his lengthy discussion with the blacksmiths on how to improve on the strength of Lubeck’s steel. He had learned much about the crafting of weaponry, including new methods to smelt and forge iron.
Lothair found such topics endlessly interesting, but the problem was she found such topics endlessly interesting too, and had been a continual presence at his side, ruining the experience. She was part of every one of his memories from Tronscar and he knew not yet how to extract her from his mind.
Lothair needed distance from Katia’s distracting smiles. He prided himself on being disciplined and she was clearly sent to test him. He resolved to think of his sisters as much as possible, asking himself what he would want a twenty-year-old soldier to do in their presence. Over and over he would lecture himself, repeating all of the reasons why Katia’s smiles had no effect on him and never would. She was simply a training tool to help him become the most focused warrior possible.
Lothair needed a hard ride to clear his head. He marched faster toward the stables to borrow a horse.
“Lothair!” Lars, a fellow warr
ior who had grown up in a neighboring village, walked toward him from across the cobblestone yard. “Going to try and ride off some steam, brother?”
“Something like that,” he said. Lothair took a second look at Lars, whose usual mangy flop of black curls was now freshly cleaned and tied back with a thong. Lothair knew his friend bathed for only two reasons: either to soothe his mother’s temper or to impress a maid.
“What have you done?” he asked. He knew that look. Lars was an impulsive lout—some poor Norrland maid would be mourning his loss by morrow’s dawn.
“Nothing.” Lars lied poorly. “Can I borrow a few coin?”
Lothair sighed, knowing he would probably regret what he was about to do, but also knowing he could never abandon a mate in need. “Do not make me regret this. You know the instruction from the duke, ‘No Norrland brawling and no maidens bawling.’”
“A mate of the highest order.” Lars rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Lothair unloaded a fair share to his friend, and wished him luck.
The lower bailey was unusually quiet for a change. Most of the men were probably stealing a midday slumber, trying to sleep off the drink from the night before, and the servants and squires would no doubt be packing up for the coming departure. The envoy, along with a large Norrland escort, would be riding out at first light. Lothair was wishing it were already tomorrow.
The stable master told him that the barracks horses could not be spared. The only beast not spoken for was an ill-tempered warhorse at the end of the stable that he warned Lothair to borrow at his own risk. Apparently, the black stallion was known for taking a pound of flesh from each man who dared ride him.
Lothair approached the horse slowly, from a diagonal angle, with his head slightly bowed. He avoided making eye contact and allowed the brute to get a scent and sense of him before tentatively leaning his arms across the top of the half wall that penned the creature in.
