“I don’t know. I won’t return to their service, and I fear for your safety, but my heart demands I return to our son as much as it insists I protect you. I don’t know that I can do both.”
“What if you let me worry about protecting myself?”
“Never.” Gressa’s visceral reaction was unwavering and immediate.
Strian could not fight the smile that wanted to break through. He looked at his wife who stood a foot shorter than him and who weighed slightly more than half his weight. She was a fierce warrior in her own right, but it seemed almost humorous that she was his protector.
“Then what do you propose?”
Gressa swallowed before offering her solution.
“We bring him home.”
“You would have us exhume his bones and bring them here? I thought you did not want to remain here. I thought you believed Wales is your home.”
“What other way is there? You aren’t safe in Wales, and I can’t leave him.”
“There’s your safety here to consider.”
“I’m your wife and we are once again living as a married couple. That should ensure my safety as long you don’t get yourself killed.”
Strian shook his head.
“No.”
Gressa’s brow crinkled as she tried to understand which part he was against.
“Gressa, I will be more useful as a warrior in Wales than you are remaining here. I was a fool not to consider that before I dragged you back here, but now I know the risk. That’s why I agreed to go to Wales with you in the first place. If we disturb his bones, then the gods may not choose him for Helgafjell.”
“Do you think the gods would overlook he was but a babe when he died? Would they punish us for wanting to ensure we buried him among our people and our gods?” Gressa countered.
“I don’t know. None of these choices feel right. What about your mother’s people? Would they accept us?”
“Of course not. I’ve never even met them. A half Norse woman with her Norse husband and a dead baby doesn’t strike me as people who will receive an invitation to live among them.”
“Can we not find somewhere else in Wales to live that is beyond Dafydd’s reach?”
“Perhaps. There are other principalities, but I don’t think you’d be any safer. I blended in because of my darker hair. Your blond hair is a beacon that screams you’re Norse.”
“Not all of our people have such light hair. I’m sure the Welsh have seen other Norsemen with dark hair. They cannot assume every blond man is there to raid and pillage.”
“No. Only the ones who don’t speak their language.”
“You learned it. So can I.”
“It took me years of living there before I sounded like a native. It’s not an easy one to learn. It’s not one I could teach you in the time it takes to sail there.”
“Then we are at an impasse.”
“What if we sail there, but only I go ashore? I gather his remains and return to the ship without you or any of the others stepping foot on Welsh land.”
“Absolutely not. You were sold to them as a slave and given to Grímr as one. I don’t doubt for a minute that they could enslave you again given half a chance.”
Gressa turned back to face the water as her shoulders hunched, and she wrapped her arms around her middle.
“Then the only choices are for me to return without you, or we leave him there.”
Strian slid his arms around her waist and leaned his body against hers as though he could be a shield from the world’s cruelty.
“Must we decide today? There is too much to consider to make our decision now. Let us think about it more before we choose.”
Gressa nodded her head but continued to look out at the water that could carry them back to their son.
“What was his name?”
“Strian. Strian Striansson.”
Twelve
Both Strian and Gressa were weary as they walked back to the homestead. Neither wanted to talk, and neither wanted to face the tribe’s accusations. They steered towards their longhouse, but the crowd remained in the center of the village. They could not make it to their home without being seen. Strian felt Gressa tense as they passed through the gates and people noticed their return.
“There she is. Why would she have run if she did not want to escape her guilt?” A man called out.
“Strian returns with his thrall. He’s captured her once again,” a woman’s voice rose from the buzzing of the crowd.
It was obvious that Strian was not returning with a captive as they walked with their arms wrapped around each other. Strian pulled her so close to his side, it felt as though he would meld them into one.
“Don’t listen to them. Ivar knows you’re not a traitor, and so do those who matter. They won’t allow these accusations to continue.”
“If you believe that, then you did not see or hear Ivar when he accused me of being friends with those men.”
“He won’t turn his back on you. You were like a second daughter to him. He and Lena raised you. He knows you wouldn’t betray us.”
“If you say so.”
Gressa was far from convinced, and Strian’s optimism and naivety only made her more wary. They walked until they reached Ivar and their friends. While Leif and the others bore looks of sympathy and worry, Ivar’s was a storm cloud.
“Why did you run if you aren’t guilty?”
“Why would I stay when I am being accused?”
“To assert your innocence,” Ivar growled.
“Innocence everyone has already decided doesn’t exist. Besides, I didn’t run. I walked.”
“Gressa,” Strian hissed. Everyone knew of Ivar’s temper. The last thing Strian wanted was for Ivar to release it upon Gressa. Then he could not protect her.
“You better confess all that you know,” Ivar threatened.
“I already did. I told you who those men are. I suggested you ransom them or kill them at your choice. I told you I choose Strian over those men.”
“Perhaps you choose Strian so you can continue to spy,” Rangvald offered. The other clan leader had stood observing the scene before and after Gressa and Strian disappeared into the woods.
“Father,” Erik challenged.
Rangvald shrugged but did not retract his words.
“And who was I supposed to report to? Do you think I could slip off to meet with Grímr’s men when they were so easily captured? Do you think I would guarantee my own death? Or do you think I would steal a longboat to sail on my own?”
“You lived among their people for nearly as long as you lived among us.” Ivar asserted.
“And they gave me as much choice to leave as they gave me to move there.”
“From what I saw, you were anything but relieved to reunite with your husband,” Rangvald stated.
“I had my reasons.”
“Yes. You’re a traitor!” A faceless voice bellowed.
“She is not.” Strian’s tone was as smooth and strong as a slab of marble. “She is my wife. I’m aware of her intentions, and I understand why she did not return. She had her reasons, and these accusations are reason enough on their own for her not to want to return.”
Strian’s gaze swept across the gathering. Taller than most, he looked around him at people he had known his entire life.
“When we discovered my uncle Eirnar’s perfidy, how he coveted Lena, how he sired Rangvald’s sister’s children and that Inga plotted against her own tribe with him, how he sold our secrets to Hakin and Grímr, and how he killed his own brother, none of you accused me of being a traitor. You did not question my loyalty because of my relation to Einar. But now you stand before me and accuse my wife. No one gave her a choice about where she goes or who she answers to. Our enemy sold her as a thrall in Wales but released as a free woman. She was ordered to serve our enemy but did not try to escape me. She had reason to fear returning here, and you clearly justified those worries. But I still claim her as my wife, an
d we live as a married couple would. We have proven that in the three days we spent in the privacy of our home. You have no reason and no right to accuse her. She did not lie or refuse to tell us who those men are. She even accepted their death rather than turn against this tribe. What more do you want?”
Strian’s voice carried, the resolve and anger evident to everyone. He turned his gaze to Ivar, disregarding Ivar’s position as jarl and his vow of fealty.
“You can stand here accusing a woman you raised. A woman you trained to fight and taught loyalty. Yet you think she would turn against us. That makes me wonder how well you did as a father to her if you’re convinced she is honorless.”
“Strian,” Gressa tugged on his arm as her eyes widened to saucers. Questioning their jarl and posing his own accusations could see Strian dead.
“You overstep, Strian. You will keep your head only because I have known you since you were born, and I raised Gressa as though she were my own. But time changes people just as it can change their alliances. She is your responsibility now. If I’m wrong to trust you, and you’re wrong to trust her, it’s not just her life that will be forfeit.”
Ivar’s threat lingered in the air as he and Rangvald left the crowd. The moment the two jarls left, the crowd surged towards Gressa. Strian and his friends only had seconds to draw their weapons and circle Gressa for her protection.
“You will not touch this woman,” Leif’s voice was low but carried the authority that came from being first in line for the jarldom. “My father has not condemned her, and neither will you. She is Strian’s wife and is under his protection. If that is not enough, she is under mine as the heir to this jarldom. She is under Freya’s, the daughter of our jarl, and her husband Erik’s, son of our ally. She has Tyra’s, captain of our fleet, and Bjorn’s, the captain of our forces. You will not harm her without facing our wrath. Which one of you would stand against any of us, denounce our authority? Test any of us, and you will die.”
“Anyone who attempts to make her look guilty or makes any further accusations will be treated as a person without honor and will find themselves tied to the níðstöng. The shaming pole shall become your new home.” The tribe members knew Freya’s warning carried a greater promise of death than anyone else’s among the jarl’s leaders. She was intensely loyal and slow to forgive, making her someone others rarely crossed. “Leave now. Return to your homes or your duties. We will see those who linger as lazy and shirking their responsibilities. They will find themselves shoveling shite from the cesspit.”
No one waited to determine whether Freya’s warning was a hollow promise. Once everyone scattered, Strian lowered his sword. The others followed suit. Strian pulled Gressa into his arms and held her, anxious over her exchange with Ivar and his tribe members’ threats.
“I’m all right,” Gressa murmured as she ran her hand over Strian’s heart.
“Just let me hold you until my fear goes away. I need to feel you safe against me,” Strian’s breath brushed her ear as he whispered.
Gressa wound her arms around his waist, content to be held after the draining morning. Their friends gave the couple their privacy as they turned away.
“We can’t let her be alone now,” Tyra kept her voice quiet. “Someone will attack her if they see her by herself.”
“You’re right, but she’ll refuse our help. She’ll feel as much a captive as those Welshmen.” Freya nodded her head towards the níðstöng, the tall wooden pole made from a tree trunk where they shackled prisoners or accused while awaiting their fate.
“I don’t have a solution, but I will ask Sigrid if she has seen anything,” Leif offered. Leif’s wife, Sigrid, was renowned for her gift of second sight. So much so that Hakin, Grímr’s older brother, had her kidnapped early in the ongoing battle. “Perhaps she’s had a vision or can cast the runes.”
Erik and Bjorn stood quietly, neither having anything to add to the conversation, but they were in agreement that their friend’s wife needed more protection than the woman would willingly accept.
Thirteen
Gressa knew her friends were handing her off one after another, rarely leaving her alone. She appreciated the time to reconnect and rebuild what had been an unbreakable friendship when they were children. But after three weeks she was tired of being followed everywhere, feeling once more like a thrall than a shield maiden and a free woman. She had tried to bring it up with Strian, but his look of worry then resolve made her abandon hope that he would agree to dismissing her guard. Gressa was honest with herself and knew they were right to protect her, even if the over protectiveness chafed. She saw the looks directed at her and even caught some of the whispers.
It came to a head one afternoon as she walked with Freya and Tyra to the kitchens. She joined the other two in the kitchens after their training in the morning. She worked alongside other women from their tribe, but the women kept their distance as though they would catch an illness from being too close. Tyra and Freya huddled around her, pretending there was not an expanding rift between Gressa and the other women of the tribe. They shielded her from anyone who might insult her, but Gressa was growing claustrophobic from their constant attention. When they needed more eggs for the bread dough, she dashed out before Freya or Tyra could stop her.
“I’ll fetch them,” Gressa leaped at the chance to volunteer. She looked to Freya and Tyra as they exchanged a look, deciding who would be her chaperone. “I’ll be gone only a moment.”
Gressa grabbed a basket as she bolted for the door that led outside. She basked in the freedom she lost a month earlier when the Welshmen arrived and her life once more tilted on its axis. She did not dally as she made her way to the chicken coop. She was bent over, reaching for eggs under the roosting hens when voices that were much too near reached her.
“Her bodyguards seem to have abandoned her. It was only a matter of time before they grew fed up of playing nursemaid to the Laplander.”
Gressa recognized the men’s voices as one that belonged to boys she had avoided as a child. She did not bristle from the pejorative name for her mother’s people, but she did from their proximity. She inched her fingers toward the knife sheathed at the front of her belt. She drew it, prepared for the inevitable attack. She had it clutched in her hand when strong hands bit into her waist and dragged her backwards. A hand clamped over her mouth as an arm that felt like an iron chain wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms to her side. She kept the knife pointing down, hoping to conceal it until she had the opportunity to use it on her captors rather than them using it on her. Despite having a hand over her mouth, her head was unrestrained. She threw it back with as much force as her neck could muster. It crashed into the man’s nose, cracking it with a crunching sound. Rather than release her, the man’s fingers bit into her cheek. She tried to snap her teeth but could only reach the edge of his hand, no flesh within reach to bite down upon. A second man stepped in front of her, attempting to gather her legs. He made the mistake of stepping in line with them. She threw her upper body’s weight backwards as she kicked her booted foot into the man’s groin. Her foot landed in its desired destination, but it only gave the second captor the chance to grab her ankle as he pulled her other foot from the ground. She writhed and twisted as she tried to break free.
A third man appeared from beyond Gressa’s peripheral vision, landing his fist in her exposed middle. She slashed out with her knife and tore through the man’s forearm. He reeled back, and Gressa twisted her wrist to stab his throat. Blood geysered from the attacker’s neck, spraying Gressa and the other two assailants. The warm fluid hit her face, galvanizing her into further action. She threw her head back once more contacting the man’s already broken nose. His grasp loosened as he howled in pain. With a little freedom to move her arms, she felt for the sensitive flesh beneath his wrist and dug her nails in as she pinched, hoping to break the skin. Her teeth sank into the fleshy side of the man’s hand until she tasted blood. He dropped his hold on her, and as her body
crashed against the ground, she released a blood-curdling scream. She scrambled on the ground trying to twist away from the man who held her legs. She tried to kick, but while her legs moved, she could not connect with his body.
“Scream if you want, but no one who cares will hear you, and no one who hates you will come to your rescue.” The man dragged her along the ground, small rocks and pebbles abrading her skin despite the tunic she wore. She screamed over and over, but the man did not slow. He pulled her around a storage building before throwing himself onto her, fumbling with the laces of his leather pants. She could feel his arousal pressing against her leg and wanted to be ill. She even tried to conjure vomit she could spew at him.
Once he had his cock free, he set his sights on the laces to Gressa’s pants. She tried to bring her knee up between his, but his weight kept her pinned to the ground. When he tried to push her pants from her hips, she sank her hips against the ground, refusing to budge. A hand she had not expected slapped her hard enough to twist her head. She cried out in pain, but she meant her scream more as a distraction than a hope for rescue. She wrestled her arms free and gouged her thumbs into the man’s eyes. His hand came around her throat and tightened the deeper she plunged her thumb. She released one eye to push her knuckles against his Adam’s apple and windpipe. As he gasped for air just as she did, she used the last bit of strength she had as stars danced in the blackness before her eyes to dig her feet into the ground and thrust upwards as she twisted, hoping to buck her assailant off her. It gained her some leverage, and his body rolled from hers, but not completely. She screamed once more, but a hand grasped her hair and yanked backwards. Gressa groaned as the man whose nose she broke returned to the fight. A knife bit into the skin at Gressa’s throat, and pressure convinced her to stop fighting the assault. She would have to wait until she had a better position to defend herself without having her neck sliced.
Strian (Viking Glory Book 4) Page 9
