by Mary Morgan
He smiled. “You are correct. ’Tis a good game to test your balance and strength, along with swiftness of feet.”
Elspeth stepped in front of him. “I overheard Rorik mention that bones are often broken in this game. Are you sure Erik should be permitted to join this vigorous, rough sport? Are the king’s men aware they may become injured?”
Shrugging, he explained, “He is the chieftain, and he asked to join in the game. He seeks to gain knowledge of what we—Northmen—enjoy. He has boasted of learning certain board games, and I have challenged him later with one called hnefatafl. As for King William’s men, they have played this sport many a time.”
Narrowing her eyes, she protested, “Erik is a kindling stick compared to you…and your boulder-sized men! He will be crushed!”
Magnar fought the smile forming on his mouth. As a rule, he would never jest with his wife in regard to her nephew. However, he enjoyed seeing his wife teem with fury. Her face took on a coloring to rival her locks. Reaching outward, he tugged on a curl that had escaped from her braid. “You have a healer, aye?”
She gave him a glare that would singe the skin from any hardened warrior.
Unable to contain himself, he belted out in laughter.
“You brute,” she scolded, shoving at his chest. “I honestly believed you would let him play the game.”
Recovering quickly, he added, “But we are. Erik is to toss out the skin, and then retreat.”
“You ken my meaning, Magnar.”
He swiftly reached for her before she could leave. Grasping her around the waist, he nuzzled the soft skin below her ear. “Forgive me, Elspeth. I could not resist the temptation to tease you.”
Turning her face toward his lips, she smiled fully. “You must now pay the price for causing me distress.”
He arched a brow and drew back. All thoughts of joining his men in a game were tossed aside in favor of spending time alone with his wife. “Does this involve forms of enticement? One where I allow you to do anything to me?”
Her laugh was low, throaty, and beguiling. Standing on her tip-toes, she leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Banishment from my bed for two nights.”
Horrified, he complained, “You would not dare.”
She flicked a piece of flint from the sleeve of her gown. “You can seek a bed with some of the men in the hall.”
His grip tightened around her waist. “’Tis our chambers. And I have nae desire to sleep near any of my men, especially when my wife is conveniently nearby.”
Casting her gaze behind him, she responded, “There is a sturdy bolt on the door I can use.”
“I will smash the door to shards of wood with my axe!” he thundered, determined to let her know that she should never attempt to keep him from her bed.
Her eyes widened. “Goodness, you are a brute.”
Magnar grimaced and dropped his hands. “On that we are in agreement, wife.”
“Perchance I should return to the abbey for a time,” she suggested, returning her sight to him.
Magnar’s heart clenched. Would she truly leave him? And then he noted a flash of humor cross her face. “Loki’s balls,” he hissed out.
Elspeth cupped his cheeks. “Two can play the jesting game.” Kissing him soundly, she released him. “Your men are waiting.”
He eyed her skeptically. “I am allowed in our chambers?”
“Aye,” she reassured. “Do you honestly believe I would keep you away? Besides, I have nae plans on adding an oak door to the repairs already needed.”
He rubbed a hand down the back of his neck. “Good to hear.”
Magnar turned to leave, yet Elspeth stayed his progress by grasping his hand.
Her smile was as radiant as the sun when she declared, “I love the brute in you, husband, particularly in our chambers.”
Stunned into silence, he brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss along her knuckles. When her hand slipped free, Magnar watched as she ambled toward the group of women.
“Are you done ravishing your wife?” complained Bjorn.
“I say we cease our proposed activity,” recommended Rorik, tossing the bear skin ball within his hands. “An afternoon spent ravishing a woman sounds wiser.”
“The request from the charmer of women is denied,” proclaimed Magnar, reaching for the ball.
“I thought it a wise plan,” admitted Rorik, stumbling back.
Magnar gave his friend a stern look. “Too much drink has addled your thoughts and body.”
“I have had none this morn.”
“Liar.”
Rorik arched a brow in challenge. “Two mugs do not make many.”
Magnar was keenly aware of the man’s scrutiny. Ever since they had arrived at Steinn, Rorik’s habit of drinking and bedding any woman who caught his interest had become unbridled. Several times, he’d attempted to discuss this with the man, but Rorik dismissed any conversation. He sensed concealed frustration within his friend, and until the warrior was ready to talk, Magnar could do nothing.
“Then are you ready?” asked Magnar, scanning the group for the lad.
“We have been ready, unlike our leader,” admitted Rorik.
Ignoring the scornful remark, Magnar shouted, “Come forth, Erik!”
The mass of men parted as the young chieftain dashed forward. “Gunnar was telling me the rules of the game, though he did remark that most do not abide by them.”
“You are correct,” muttered Rorik, scratching behind his ear.
Magnar tossed the ball to the lad. “You can pitch it out into the group of men.”
“Who is the middleman? The one who must attempt to retrieve the ball without any aid?” asked Erik, excitedly.
Regarding each of the men, Magnar’s gaze landed on Rorik.
“Nae,” his friend warned.
Stripping his tunic from his body, Bjorn proposed, “Let another be chosen.”
“Agreed. I shall be the middleman,” stated Magnar.
A combined groan echoed within the group, and Magnar stepped away from the men. Swiftly removing his tunic, he rolled it up and flung the garment toward Elspeth. Stretching his arms overhead, he waited for the barbs about his strength to start. Magnar did not have to wait long, and he smiled inwardly.
“Savage,” shouted one man.
“Beast without a heart! I look forward to making your face so hideous, your wife will turn away while you bed her,” claimed Ivar.
Magnar’s inner beast came to attention. After rolling his shoulders several times, he turned to face the mighty force of men. They continued to fling out their curses and boast who would draw first blood.
Let us take down the weakest first, aye, my friend? Then we’ll break the face of those who made the crudest remarks.
His wolf snarled in agreement.
Erik tossed the ball into the group of men.
After giving partial rein to his wolf, Magnar sprinted at full speed toward them. Instantly, the unruly crowd spurred into action by giving looks of contempt. Magnar knew his eyes had changed to dark shards of ebony. Determined to eliminate each foe, his first blow landed on Rorik’s jaw. The man swayed into Bjorn but remained standing.
Shouts and curses spewed forth as the ball was pitched high to another.
In one swift move, Magnar clipped Ivar in the back of the legs and reached for the ball.
Gunnar rammed into his side, causing Magnar to stumble into Gilmore, one of the king’s guards and miss the catch. The man turned and leveled a blow to Magnar’s nose. Indifferent to the blood gushing forth, he slammed his forehead against the man’s face.
Seeing Rorik fast approaching, Magnar used the dazed man as a shield and barely avoided Rorik’s fist. He then shoved the weakened man against his friend.
“Bastard,” hissed Rorik, his inner wolf showing within his eyes as well. He let Gilmore crumple to the ground and stepped over him without giving him a passing glance.
Magnar hunched down, keenly aware of who had the ball. “Awake
now, are you?”
The rumble of Rorik’s growl surrounded Magnar, but he gave no care. He lunged past his friend, avoiding any further conflict.
Sensing another wolf approach, Magnar reacted swiftly and landed a blow to his foe’s abdomen.
A howl of displeasure left Gunnar gasping on the ground as he fought for air.
He pointed a warning finger at Gunnar. “Better for you to stay down or the next time it might be your ribs you hear cracking.”
Stepping over him, Magnar continued his relentless pursuit in not only taking down all the men, but eager to claim victory by capturing the ball. He succeeded in knocking out Bjorn—a mighty feat in itself, considering the man boasted he’d be the first to draw blood from Magnar.
More men continued to be cut down with his mighty blows. With only a couple men left standing, Magnar studied each—Ivar and Rorik. Both who were intent on doing severe harm to him.
Each displayed a sense of assurance they had won by tossing the ball back and forth to one another.
“You do see your predicament, Magnar, aye?” Rorik smirked with confidence.
Wiping the blood from his nose, he responded, “Do clarify.”
Ivar laughed.
Rorik shifted his stance. “If you take one of us down, the other claims victory. You are unable to win without procuring the ball.”
Ivar nudged Rorik. “We should walk away and claim success.”
Your over-confidence at victory is your downfall. The game has yet to be concluded. With a loud roar, Magnar lunged at both men. Neither had time to thwart his assault. In two consecutive blows, he leveled them flat on their backs.
Magnar quickly retrieved the ball off the ground. Looming over Rorik and Ivar, he scowled. “You should have distanced yourselves from one another. You posed nae threat standing together and spouting a victory before the game was finished. Did you honestly think I would not attack you both?”
Ivar sputtered a curse and stood. “We should not have allowed you to be the middleman.” After spitting out blood onto the ground, he retreated to where the others had gathered.
Rorik made a feeble attempt at moving his jaw. “’Tis broken,” he complained.
Magnar kicked him in the leg. “Nae. Only bruised. I am certain you will find a comely lass to kiss away the pain.”
His friend made to stand. “I have nae desire to hear the lashing from you, if I do yield to the healing charms of a lass.”
Magnar shrugged. “You pay nae heed to what I say.”
Rorik eyed him suspiciously. “Speak your words, Magnar.”
“What troubles you?”
Before his friend had a chance to utter a word, Erik came charging toward them.
“You won!” shouted the lad.
Magnar tossed the ball to him. “Aye. The game has been fought and won.”
“You cheated, though,” stated Rorik.
He nodded slowly. “Aye. But then you were all prepared to show your beasts. I am nae fool.”
Erik snickered. “You mean your wolves.”
Magnar gaped at the young lad as he scampered away. “Wise for his years.”
“You should hear some of the conversations we’ve had with the young chieftain. Not only does he spout his opinion but listens keenly when others give theirs,” acknowledged Rorik.
Magnar fisted his hands on his hips. “He knew we were wolves.”
“His father told him about the king’s elite guards. Furthermore, Erik asked to see my wolf.”
Glancing sharply at his friend, Magnar demanded, “And did you?”
Rorik shook his head. “Nae. But I did tell him on his tenth winter I will take him to the forest and reveal my wolf. It shall be a pledge of protection from both—man and wolf.”
“Good plan.” Placing a firm hand on his friend’s shoulder, he offered, “Come to my solar after the gloaming. We will speak further over a jug of mead.”
Rorik regarded him hesitantly, and then sighed. “I would welcome the conversation.”
Seeing his wife strolling toward them, Magnar released his hold on his friend.
“Your wife seems displeased with your appearance,” teased Rorik as he walked away.
“Aye, aye,” he acknowledged, firmly aware his face was now covered in bruises.
Elspeth approached. “You are a wretched sight!”
He winced when she touched his jaw.
“And your nose is broken,” she declared.
“Not the first time.” He wiped away more blood seeping from the injury.
She handed him his tunic. “You can stanch the flow with this.”
“Thank you, wife.”
Pursing her lips, she cast her gaze to the other men. “I hear Gilmore may have suffered a broken finger. Everyone else appears to have minor injuries.”
“Truly? I thought I did more damage.”
Elspeth glared at him. “Henceforth, this game will never be played inside the hall. You can pass the message to the other men.”
Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, Magnar steered her onward. “Were you concerned for me, wife?”
She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, and he grimaced. “Very much, Magnar. From my vantage, the looks they were giving you were deadly. My heart stopped beating many times.”
Halting his stride, his gaze roamed her features. “You care for me?”
Elspeth’s shoulders relaxed under him. The smile she gave him speared straight through his heart.
“Magnar, I must confess—”
Shouting erupted from the men, and Magnar’s attention fixed on Steinar and another of the king’s guards galloping across the meadow. The grim expression on Steinar’s face did not bode well, and his gut twisted. Releasing his hold on his wife, Magnar waited for their approach.
He gave a curt nod to the man called Gordon. Yet it was Steinar who dismounted and walked toward him.
“The threat has not been vanquished,” announced Steinar.
“Where are they?” demanded Magnar, doing his best to temper the growing unrest.
“At the coast, seeking more men. They barter with amber and coin.”
“Coin?” Elspeth took Magnar’s hand. “Most certainly from our coffers.”
The man remained silent.
Magnar narrowed his eyes. “What else?”
“Their plans are unsure. Unable to secretly gain any information due to another who thwarted my plans to gain inside the inn where they were staying.”
“Thorfinn,” snapped Magnar. “He sensed you were there to spy and told Halvard.”
“Agreed. With more men, I fear they will be arriving forthwith.”
Magnar dropped his wife’s hand. “I require all the wolves, except Gunnar. He shall remain here at Steinn to watch over Erik and my wife, along with some of the other men. Have everyone meet me in the hall. We depart before the first star appears in the night sky.”
“An easy kill in a dark forest, if they have begun their journey here,” declared Steinar.
“Go gather the others,” ordered Magnar.
Hearing his wife’s indrawn breath, Magnar turned toward her. He cupped her chin—warm and soft in his rough hand. “I ken this is not the news we wanted to hear, but trust me, I have nae choice but to end the man’s life. He poses a threat to our king and the people of this keep and elsewhere. For reasons I cannot fathom, he seeks to make Steinn his stronghold, and I cannot allow this.”
Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and she swallowed. “May God keep you safe.”
Magnar fought the emotions within him. His focus was now on a battle—one to the death. That she offered a prayer to her God brought a sense of comfort to him.
When he brushed his lips over Elspeth’s, he whispered, “Upon my return, you can confess how much you care for me, my kærr.”
Chapter Twenty
The flames snapped and hissed into the night sky echoing Thorfinn’s mood. He tossed another piece of kindling into the fire in contempt for Halvard’s
new plan.
“You ken what must be done?” asked Ketil, tossing the carcass of a rabbit into the fire. The man studied him from across the flames, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic.
Thorfinn placed his hands over his bent knees. “’Tis a question that should not be asked.” His regard for the Seer ranked somewhat higher than Halvard, though he often pondered the Seer’s motives.
“True. You seem…unsettled.”
“We have coin, goods, why go back? Why not move onward? Seek others who are not loyal to King William?”
Ketil brushed away pieces of meat from his tunic. “Your insight serves you well. Have you shared your thoughts with Halvard?”
“For what purpose? He seeks vengeance and power. You and I both ken this. We are bound to follow, unless you can offer another plan of action to him.”
Reaching for the ale skin, Ketil guzzled deeply. Afterwards, the man offered it to him.
Thorfinn dismissed the drink with a wave of his hand.
“You must settle the beast within,” observed Ketil, dropping the ale skin beside him.
Thorfinn held back his growl, but he gave the Seer a scathing look. “Your concern for my wolf has been noted.”
“Then will you find rest if the beast continues to prowl inside you?” A sudden thin chill hung on the edge of his words.
In the brief time Thorfinn had known Ketil, he never defied the Seer. Until now.
“Does the beast bother you, Ketil?”
The man belched but refused to answer the question. Withdrawing a rune from the pouch belted at his side, the Seer studied the bone over the flames. “Do you not long to be a leader?”
Thorfinn refused to be led into a trap by confessing anything to this man. “Of what? I do not crave power.”
“The wolves? Have you not considered you might serve Loki in a position by leading the wolves to him?”
He gritted his teeth, despising the unstable God. At present, none of the Gods deserved his service. Thorfinn simply kept silent and complied when the others within their group spoke of the great God Loki. “The wolves are loyal to King William and would not seek to follow another who would lead them away from his service.”
“You should ponder another plan, if you are not happy with the current direction Halvard foresees.”
