“Quite a twisted web, but that sums it up.” Gressa nodded. “Tempers are short, and it’s taking very little to spark arguments. With food growing scarce and no reliable way to gather more, people are hungry and angry.”
Gressa waited. She would not offer more until she could be sure how Grímr interpreted her misinformation. There was more than ample food, and Rangvald’s tribe sent food regularly from their homestead, and his warriors helped hunt as often as Ivar’s did. Despite the homestead being crowded, the common enemy and mission had bonded the two tribes more than even Freya and Erik’s or Leif and Sigrid’s marriages could have.
Grímr seemed to mull over everything Gressa fabricated. Gressa watched him as he seemed to come to some conclusion. She forced herself not to speak just because the silence drew out. One of the many lessons in warfare Ivar taught his children and their friends was that silence spoke louder than words. A wise warrior would not need to fill the silence but would use it as a time to observe the enemy, listen to the sounds around them, and watch their surroundings. Silence afforded them time to control the situation. So she waited.
Grímr looked up at Gressa and peeled his lips back in a smile of sorts. He marched to the entrance to his tent and summoned a man to bring Strian. Gressa still held Grímr’s sword, so he could not get close enough to hold her against her will. She was sure it frustrated him that he could not grope her in front of Strian.
Only a few minutes elapsed before a man shoved Strian through the flap and straightened to his full height. He was more than a head taller than Grímr and in much better physical condition. Strian’s eyes darted to Gressa and the sword she clutched in both hands. He turned to Grímr and grunted.
“Your wife has been telling me quite a tale. I wonder if you are familiar with the story, too.”
Strian and Gressa did not need to look at one another to know Grímr was testing them to see if they would tell the same lies or if their stories would not match.
“What is that you want to know? I imagine you are interested in how Ivar and Rangvald’s friendship has suffered from this war your brother started. I would bet you’re curious about how the jarls are keeping their people fed. I even think you’re wondering why I would assist you when my traitorous uncle sold himself to your brother after he killed my father.”
Strian crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow in challenge to Grímr. The men guarding him took him to the tent behind Grímr’s, assuming he would summon the prisoner, and they did not want to keep Grímr waiting. His guards had been Highlanders who did not understand Norse. They had no way of knowing that by putting Strian so close to Grímr’s tent, they had given him the opportunity to listen to every falsehood and exaggeration Gressa told Grímr. He had been prepared to stand in front of his enemy. His kept his back to Gressa, so Grímr could not accuse Gressa of giving Strian hints or codes. He also positioned himself between the foul man who had dared manhandle his wife and the woman he would die to protect.
Grímr once more seemed to size up Strian, as though he was both trying to gauge Strian’s truthfulness and decide whether he stood any chance of defending himself if Strian attacked.
“Perhaps you are wont to know where you should position yourself during an attack on Ivar’s homestead so you can oversee the battle but not dirty your hands. If you listen to me, you won’t need to retreat, running and hiding like a little girl.”
Strian needled Grímr, playing upon the two accusations that would most enrage a Norseman: accusing him of cowardice and effeminacy. Strian bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as the color rose in Grímr’s face and a vein throbbed in his temples. It was common knowledge that Grímr never fought in the battles if he could avoid it, especially after suffering a severe wound to this thigh that had not healed entirely and now caused him to limp and endure excruciating pain when it rained, a daily condition when in Scotland where he had spent much of his recent time. He would position himself in the back under the pretense of rallying the final waves of troops, but it was so he could beat a hasty retreat when the tide changed, and it was clear that once again he would lose. His brother Hakin had always led the charge, and it cost him his arm. Freya’s sword severed the man’s arm, leaving him with little chance of surviving the blood loss. That only strengthened Grímr’s resolve to not enter the melee without a clear path to escape. Strian tapped his toes in faked impatience.
“These are all fascinating things you and your wife claim, but they do me little good with no way to enter the homestead. I doubt Ivar will fling open the gates to me.”
“That may be true, but he will open them to us,” Strian jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate they would welcome Gressa just as he would. “There are multiple ways to use that to your advantage.”
Grímr waved his hand indicating he was impatient for Strian to continue.
“If you attack at night, we can arrive at the gates as though we escaped from your camp. When the gates open, you can flood through them and overrun the village. They won’t be able to see your men lying in wait. Or we could show you the hidden gate in the wall that surrounds the village. We enter through the main gate to cheers that we returned in one piece while you invade from the back. Or you can use us to lure Leif, Freya, Tyra, and Bjorn from safety within the walls. Take one or all of them captive, and it will force both Rangvald and Ivar to negotiate or surrender.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It can be. Now that you have help from two people who no one would suspect of coming to your aid and know the inner workings of the village and the tribes.”
Strian spoke with a straight face even though both he and Gressa wanted to laugh at how ridiculous their lies were. Grímr’s greed and pride overcame the last shreds of his common sense. He nodded over and over as Strian spoke, some plan taking form in the man’s warped mind.
“We shall use all of that. We will attack at night while you enter through the main gate of the homestead, we will invade through the gate in the wall. We will overrun the village while they all hail the return of their mighty warrior and his beautiful bride.” Grímr looked over Strian’s shoulder at Gressa. “We leave in two days’ time. Until then, I shall collect my ransom for keeping you alive.”
Strian shifted his weight to block Grímr’s view of Gressa.
“If I don’t succeed in killing you, she will run you through with that sword. Then she’ll cut off your bollocks and shove them down your throat until you suffocate or bleed to death. Whichever comes first.”
Grímr’s gaze shifted between the two of them, and he appeared to decide that it was not the right time to force his will upon either of them. He barked a name, and a man entered followed by two more. Two of the men seized Strian while one inched towards Gressa, wary of the sword she brandished.
“Take them to a tent and guard them well. They will try to escape.” Grímr stomped over to the table and snatched a mug of ale from the surface. He drank deeply from it as Gressa inched closer to Strian. Strian put up little fight as they pulled him towards the opening in the tent. Gressa followed and threw down the sword at the last minute before ducking out into the fading sunlight.
Nineteen
Warriors dragged Strian and Gressa to a tent further away from Grímr’s. This time they had Norse guards who could understand anything they plotted. It was hours before anyone brought them a meager meal of Scottish bannocks, which were dry oatcakes, and two mugs of ale. Their jailors left with one water skein to share between the two of them. They appreciated small mercies: Grímr had allowed them to stay together. The couple huddled together, both for the security they felt in each other’s arms and the opportunity to whisper.
“How much of our stories do you think Grímr believed?” Strian murmured near Gressa’s ear.
“Most of it. His greed and ambition override most people’s rational thoughts. He isn’t stupid enough to rush forward with an attack because we told him how. He will send more spies. That’s w
hy he said we would wait two days. He will check to make sure we didn’t lie.” Gressa spoke in equally low tones. “I pray that our lies about relations deteriorating is enough to overlook the truth about ways to enter the homestead.”
“They should be. How can he know that we’ve been doubling the guards at both gates? He won’t be able to see the extra guards on the ground inside the wall. He’ll only see the defenses Ivar wants him to see. We’ve expected spies the entire time.”
“I suppose. I imagine the others noticed our absence by now, so they must have figured out someone took us. Do you think they’ve sent anyone to search for us?”
“Probably, but without a full army, they won’t come close enough to risk being captured, too. I don’t think this is where Ivar or Rangvald want to hold a battle. Grímr’s too entrenched here. The tents offer too many places for hiding or ambushing our people. If anything, Ivar and Rangvald will lure Grímr away from the camp. He will take us with him as hostages. I don’t think even he’s arrogant enough to believe we will fight on his side.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past him, but I think you’re right. As long as he doesn’t separate us, we should make it through what he plans. I just hope we can get back to our people before they think we have switched allegiances.”
“They won’t.” Strian reassured.
“I’m not so sure. They already believe I’m a spy. It won’t take much for people to argue I bewitched you and forced you to turn against them.” Gressa bit her bottom lip.
“The people who matter won’t think that, and that’s all that matters.”
“Strian, you know that’s about as true as the sky being green. Ivar and Rangvald can control people attacking us, but they can’t control their thoughts or the small things they can do to lash out at us, at me.”
“Then maybe when this is all over, you were right to say we want to travel back with the Welshmen.”
“To be unwanted there, too? The only way that can happen is if Rhys is killed here, and that can’t happen at either of our hands unless we can hide it from Dafydd. If Rhys lives, he will kill you to marry me, and if Dafydd discovers one of us has killed his brother, then we will both be dead.”
“Then we send Tyra and Freya his direction. Neither of them will stand for any woman being forced to marry a man under such conditions.”
Gressa could not repress her smile despite the dire circumstances.
“You are right,” she chuckled.
Five men entering the tent cut their conversation short. None of them said a word, but three of them seized Strian before he could get to his feet. They pinned him down as the other two captured Gressa’s arms and legs. She twisted and squirmed, making it difficult for them to hold on to her. The man attempting to hold her legs released them and stepped forward, driving his fist into her stomach, knocking the wind from her.
“Gressa!” Strian bellowed like an enraged bull. He fought loose of the three men, rampaging towards the men who struggled to carry Gressa through the tent flap. He dove at the man who had punched her, tackling him to the ground. Once more his need to protect Gressa consumed him, and before any of the other men could pull him off, he had choked the life from the man. Strian struck out the moment a guard pulled him to his feet. He kicked one man in the groin as he threw his head forward to headbutt another. He was prepared to move on to the next man when he heard Gressa’s strangled voice call to him. Gressa stood with a man behind her, a beefy arm synching her arms to her side, and the other around her throat. Strian froze. The fight drained from him, and he put up little resistance when three more men rushed forward and forced him to the ground. He watched as a man dragged Gressa away at knife point; he saw the fear in her eyes as she cast one last look over her shoulder. He was not sure if the fear was for him or for herself. He knew his fear was for both.
Gressa was towed behind an enormous Highlander who blocked out any view of where they were going, though she suspected there were only three choices: Grímr’s tent, Rhys’s tent, or the center of the camp where all the men could watch whatever humiliation was planned for her.
She did not have long to wait until she learned it was the last option.
The man dragging her along thrust her forward, and she scrambled to keep her footing to prevent falling into a cook fire.
“You have been causing more trouble, I hear.” Rhys looked up as though her arrival was of little consequence.
“No more than you should expect when you hold two people who offered help as captives.”
“Help,” Rhys’s mirthless chuckle grated on Gressa’s frayed nerves. He continued to look at the sword he sharpened. “And what help is that? And what do you demand in return?”
“You know the answer to both questions. We can provide the information and means needed to enter the settlement and overrun Ivar’s forces.” She remembered that Rhys had only spoken of Ivar while Grímr mentioned both Ivar and Rangvald. If Rhys and Grímr were not aligned in their ideas, mainly because they could barely communicate, she was not the one to correct them. “In return, we want safe passage back to Wales.”
“So, you agree to marry me.”
“I can’t be married to two men at once. Your church doesn’t allow it, and I refuse anyway.”
“My church does not forbid me from marrying a widow,” Rhys looked up, leering at her as his gaze settled on her breasts rather than her face.
“Then I would soon be a widow twice over.” Gressa’s voice had a steel edge no one missed even if they did not understand the Welsh conversation. “Don’t doubt I’ll kill you if you harm Strian.”
“Why do you even want to return to Wales? You continue to refuse my offer of marriage, and you must have realized by now that Dafydd and Enfys sold you to Grímr.”
“You know my reasons,” she hissed.
“Yes. The dead babe that’s already rotted in the ground. I suppose you’ve told that man about his dead son. He agrees to travel back to a foreign land, risk his own death, for a corpse?”
“That man is my husband, and he had a right to know.”
“Your grief has carried on long enough. You’d return to a place you are now unwanted all for bones buried half a score of years ago.”
“Those bones are my child’s. You and your brother refused to grant him a proper burial. You have deprived him of his rightful resting place. I won’t leave him there.”
“He is in his rightful place. In heaven. You know we baptized him.”
“You had no right,” she spat at Rhys. “My gods will never recognize your white christ.”
“You lived among us Christians. You even attended Mass.”
“That doesn’t mean I believed.”
This made Rhys come to his feet. He stepped around the fire and attempted to use his height to intimidate her. It had never worked in the past, but with Strian as a casualty, it did now. She steeled herself for Rhys’s outburst that she was sure would come. She was not disappointed.
“You pagan whore. You defiled our churches and the sanctity of communion by bringing your false gods and beliefs into the house of our Lord and savior.”
Rhys lashed out, the back of his hand aiming for her cheek, but Gressa was just as quick. She ducked away and stepped back, forcing Rhys to step forward as the momentum pulled his body.
“I never claimed to believe in the white christ. I never said I renounced my gods. How could anyone have doubted that when I demanded a proper burial for my son? Or my anger when Dafydd and your priest insisted on a Christian burial. How about when I refused to leave for Scotland because I did not want to leave him with your heathenish people?”
Rhys’s cheeks filled with color as spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. His other hand was quicker and wrapped around Gressa’s braid. He tugged until she had no choice but to bend backward lest he break her neck. He leaned forward and glared at her.
“You ungrateful wench. My brother and his wife took pity on your worthless soul. They welcomed you i
nto their home, fed you, clothed you. They allowed you near their children despite your heretical pagan gods. This how you repay them? Refusing a marriage to a man far above your station, denigrating our places of worship by pretending to accept the right faith, and parading your heathen lover in front the man you are to marry.”
“Let go.”
The two words were calm and clear above Rhys’s vitriol. Gressa counted to five, giving Rhys the opportunity to release her. They were no longer in Wales. They were in the camp of lawless men where survival of the fittest was the rule of the day. She had seen more than one argument settled by a knife fight where only one combatant walked away. If she had been a man, she would have been expected to fight. She had already defended herself more than once since joining this motley band of miscreants. They stripped both Strian and Gressa of their obvious weapons. They confiscated Strian’s sword and Gressa’s bow, but no one searched them for what they could not see. It had surprised the couple that no one investigated whether they had more weapons, especially the Highlanders, since they carried knives wherever they could fit them. Gressa reached into what looked like a loose pocket of her tunic, but it was the sheath to a very sharp and pointed knife. She pulled it free and spun towards Rhys before the man knew what was happening. The point of the knife entered him just below his sternum. Gressa thrust upward until she buried the knife to its hilt. As Rhys looked at her in shock, she spat in his face.
“You won’t survive this. You should have ended your pursuit years ago when I told you I would not marry you. I don’t have a heathen lover. I have a husband who I have remained faithful to since the day we wed. My time with Grímr was born of my devotion to keep Strian alive. You shouldn’t have insulted him, and you shouldn’t have besmirched the memory of my child. For that, you die.” Gressa twisted the knife then ripped it away from his body. “You should have understood by now that I will always choose my family first. My son and my husband.”
Strian (Viking Glory Book 4) Page 14
