Sword of Vengeance: A Medieval Viking Historical Romance (Warrior's Claim Book 2)

by Avery Maitland

  Iri had influence, and he had no reason to lie to her. Bersi was no fool, he could see that the Jarl’s young advisor was in love with Torunn. It was also obvious that she knew his secret as well.

  Bersi pitied the man. He knew the pain that came with the desire for something that was out of reach.

  His desires were not the same as Iri’s, but the pain was just as keen.

  “Iri… What do the men whisper about in the great hall?” she asked again.

  “They talk of many things,” Iri said nervously. “But your father’s death, Jarl Arndt… they speak of his blasphemies—”

  Water splashed over the edges of the washtub and onto the furs that had been laid out as Torunn turned around quickly to glare at Iri. “You are never to speak of such things,” she snarled. “The priests themselves guaranteed his entry into Valhalla. You will not—”

  Iri held up his hands in defense and looked away from Torunn’s angry face. “You will have no argument from me,” he said softly. He knew as well as Bersi did that the priests had gone out of their way to ensure such things. Torunn knew it, too, though she would never admit how much it plagued her.

  But Bersi had heard her murmuring in the night. Praying to the gods to allow her father to pass into Odin’s great hall, drink from his mead horn, and sit beside his own father at the long table set out by the gods and tended by Valkyries…

  He hoped that her prayers were not in vain, but he had his own doubts.

  “And what do you suggest that I do?” she blazed. She gestured at Bersi angrily. “My own slave seeks to tell me how I should react to such things.”

  Iri looked at him in surprise and Bersi did not look away.

  “I have seen the weapons, too,” he said.

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  Iri’s lips pressed into a thin line as he looked back to Torunn. “I hope you will take my advice, Torunn. Be watchful. And do not trust your brothers.”

  “You are asking me not to trust the Jarl?” Torunn snorted. She was trying to be strong, but Bersi could hear the doubt in her voice. She was a stubborn woman, and she did not want to be led or controlled. But this was not about control. It was about keeping her alive. He didn’t know why that feeling was so strong, but he could not shake it. If she did not believe him—if she dismissed their concerns—her own wedding could be her death.

  Chapter 3 ~ Torunn

  The hot water should have made her feel sluggish, but having to sit there and listen to Bersi, and now Iri tell her that her brothers were plotting against the interests of their own people was anything but relaxing.

  She did not want to marry Jarl Sigurd, that was definitely true, but she did not want to see the man murdered while he was a guest at their father’s table.

  Both men were waiting for a reaction— No, they were waiting for her support. She did not want to believe them, but it would have been foolish to dismiss what they had said. Varin had made his concerns known first, but Varin could be dismissed. He was still grieving the loss of her father, as she was, and could be forgiven for seeing treachery where there was none. Younger warriors had taken his place, and his position in Skaro was in doubt. Even if he was wrong, his words had weight and could cast a seed of doubt into her mind.

  Bersi was a rebel. A slave. Of course he wanted to see unrest in Skaro. She did not doubt that for a moment. She could not take him at his word. How would that look? If she were questioned and named him as one of her advisors—she would be laughed at. And he would be killed for his part in it.

  No. She could not believe him.

  And now Iri. Advisor to two Jarls. The youngest member of her father’s counsel… And the one who had been left behind to ensure that Skaro would still be intact when he returned. Iri had the ear of the new Jarl. And while Torunn would have been a fool to believe that Hallvard would bare his soul to Iri over a cup of mead, Iri would have seen things that others could not.

  But trusting Iri felt like a betrayal...

  Confusion swirled around her like the heated water and she eased herself back against the wooden slats of the washtub. Torunn closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  Both men were waiting for her answer, but what kind of answer did they want? And was it even something she could give?

  “Torunn—” Iri was determined to force her into action. But that was the last thing she wanted to do.

  She held up a hand. “I need to think,” she said stiffly.

  “But—”

  “Do not argue with me, Iri. Just get out.”

  “Torunn—”

  “I said, get out!”

  She heard Bersi’s solid footsteps as he led the Jarl’s advisor to the door. She did not turn around to look at him as the wooden door creaked on its hinges and then closed. The iron latch fell into place and Torunn leaned her head back against the wooden tub.

  “If you—”

  Bersi’s voice was soft and encouraging, but she did not want to listen to him either.

  “Shut your mouth,” she snapped. “More hot rocks.”

  He knew better than to argue with her. And Torunn kept her eyes closed as he returned to the fire.

  She would use this time to think. To weigh her options.

  If they were right, then she was not the only one in danger. Jarl Sigued would not arrive in Skaro without warriors of his own, and if anything should happen, Skaro would not escape unscathed.

  What if she did act? What if she confronted her brothers? If Varin, Bersi, and Iri were lying… it would be her that would bear the weight of the Jarl’s revenge.

  But what if they were right?

  Until she could be sure… she would say nothing. They would say nothing. She would not listen to them.

  “Mistress—”

  “No more,” she said with an exhausted sigh. “I have had enough scheming for one day.” She held out her hand for her mead cup and kept her eyes closed. Bersi’s fingers grazed her palm as he placed the cup in her hand and she relished the shiver that rippled up her arm as he touched her.

  It would be simple enough to have him if she wanted. All she would have to do was command him. He would be willing to do anything she said, she knew that already. She had briefly entertained the idea of teasing him again—the memory of his body beneath hers and the sound of his frustrated groan as she had pressed against him had fueled many a late night fantasy.

  But now was not the time. She had too much to think about, and her time to play was running shorter than she wanted to admit. Before long the ice would melt and Jarl Sigurd’s ships would arrive.

  And then everything would change.

  Torunn hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to pretend that nothing was wrong. Bersi’s warning, and Iri’s desperate plea echoed in her mind with every moment that passed. It had been difficult enough to be in her brothers’ presence before she had suspected their treachery… but now that three others had come to her with their concerns, it was more difficult to ignore her own suspicions.

  What if they were right?

  The question haunted her day and night.

  Every step she took through Skaro’s streets beat it harder into her mind.

  “Torunn, you are distracted today,” Hallvard said. He stared at her over the edge of his mead cup and Torunn met his eyes boldly. He looked so much like their father, with the same pale eyes. But Hallvard’s gaze was more piercing, and the set of his mouth was cruel. They had never been close, but it was only now that she began to wonder why that was.

  “You look troubled, sister,” Asgaut observed from his seat at Hallvard’s left hand. “Perhaps she is preoccupied with thoughts of her wedding?”

  Torunn made a face and drained her cup.

  She had not wanted to accept her brother’s invitation to supper, but she could not decline it, either. Hallvard’s eye had been on her for some weeks, and she was chafing under his scrutiny.

  “And why shouldn’t she be?” he said with a smile. �
��Jarl Sigurd is a very rich man, with a great deal of influence. He will be a powerful ally in the months to come.”

  Torunn refilled her cup and took another drink. The mead tasted bitter in her mouth and she immediately wished that she had brought her own jug with her. Helvi added spices and other sweet things to her mead, but her brothers liked it bitter.

  She hated it when they talked about her as though she was not in the same room. Sitting beside them.

  Asgaut chuckled and stabbed his knife into the meat on his plate.

  Torunn watched him closely. The people of Skaro were on the edge of desperation… her brothers’ constant feasting and carousing had depleted the village storehouses. For them, spring could not come soon enough.

  It did not help matters that Jarl Sigurd’s arrival would bring more feasting, more excess. And the wedding...

  “What preparations are being made?” Torunn asked. “The storehouses… Can we bear the burden of a great celebration so soon after winter? The herds have not yet returned from their winter grounds, and they will be lean and hungry when they do.”

  The great herds of game that always returned with the fresh leaves and new growth of spring would not be healthy enough to hunt until some weeks after the ice thawed… Their father would have known that.

  “Our sister the hunter,” Asgaut chuckled. “You need not trouble yourself with the plans, Torunn. Hallvard and I will see to everything. All you need to do is prepare your wardrobe.”

  Torunn narrowed her eyes at her brothers. “You would have me do nothing?”

  Hallvard laughed and refilled his cup. “Marriage is an important step in any woman’s life, Torunn. You are right to be concerned that all will be well. But you may take our assurance that everything will be as it should be. You will be married to Jarl Sigurd with all ceremony and grandeur, and no one will doubt that you are valued as my sister, and as the new wife of a powerful Jarl.”

  “Is this meant to comfort me?” She blurted out the question and stared at Hallvard. Asgaut shifted in his seat and concentrated on cutting his meat, but Hallvard held her gaze without flinching. A slow smile spread across his face, but the expression was cruel, not warm and comforting.

  No, she realized suddenly, Hallvard looked nothing like their father. A spectre of him, perhaps. But only a hint in the shape of his jaw or the width of his shoulders… nothing more.

  He set down his cup and tapped his blunt fingers on the wooden table. The sound drilled into her mind and she gritted her teeth as he looked her over. “You should take comfort, sister,” he said. “I could have given you to anyone who asked. Father would have. I heard him talking about it. He would have sold you to anyone with enough gold in their coffers to fund his raids and build more boats.” Hallvard leaned back in his chair and regarded her carefully. “It was difficult to make him leave the Saxons this time…” he said. “We had only just convinced him of the folly of the raid when he was wounded.”

  Torunn’s eyes darted to Asgaut, but he was looking at his plate. Sawing the tough cut of meat furiously with his knife as his brother spoke.

  “Surely, you would not wish for me to follow our father’s wishes for you?” Hallvard continued. “I have a long list of Jarls, and men who are not so highly placed who would gladly pay whatever I asked to take you as their wife.”

  Torunn glared at him. “You would sell me…”

  “I could,” Hallvard said in a bored tone. “But I have chosen to make the right choice for you, my dear sister, and for Skaro. Surely, you can appreciate that.”

  She couldn’t. She hated him for it.

  Their father would never have sold her away. He had promised her that she could choose her husband. Hallvard was lying. He had to be. Her father would never be so desperate for ships and gold as to trade her to the highest bidder.

  She could not accept it. She would not.

  “Of course,” she replied. She forced herself to smile as she raised her cup to him. “You are too kind, brother.”

  Hallvard slapped the table with his palm. “You will see,” he said. “Jarl Sigurd will make you a very happy woman. And a rich one. If you cannot be happy, at least you will be well taken care of.”

  Torunn’s jaw ached from keeping her mouth shut and her fingers itched to pull her knife from her belt. It took everything in her to stay seated when all she wanted to do was leap across the table, pin her brother to the ground with her knee in his chest and shout all of her anger into his face.

  But she could do none of those things.

  The warriors who stood at the door and drank at a nearby fire would have made short work of her. An assault on the Jarl, even by his sister—even if he deserved it—would not be forgiven easily. As satisfying as it would be to watch her brother’s reaction to such an unexpected attack, she could not take that chance. She drank her mead and ate what she could of the meal that had been set before her. As soon as she could, she left her father’s house and walked through the village streets with determined steps.

  Things had changed in the weeks since Iri had come to her with what he knew.

  She had taken her time to consider what had been said, but she had made no decisions of her own. Not yet. But having to sit across the table from Hallvard and listen to his smug, patronizing words, was too much to bear. She had to make a decision. Soon.

  It would only be a matter of days before the ice in the harbor would begin to move. If she did not act quickly, her chance would be lost. She had not thought that her own life would be in danger, but the possibility was there.

  She was too headstrong, difficult to control… and she took pride in that fact. Her father had always praised her for it, but she could feel Hallvard’s resistance. And anger. They had never understood one another, but she had never cared one way or the other about how he felt. She had thought that her father would always be there to protect her, and by the time he could no longer do so, she would be strong enough to make her own way.

  But her father had died before his time.

  Stolen from her.

  From all of them.

  As she moved through the village, she could feel eyes watching her steps. The people had always been good to her. She could imagine that they respected her when she had taken her father’s seat… but their whispers were different now. The eyes that watched her were haunted and angry. Her family was eating and living well while the village supplies dwindled.

  Torunn lifted her chin and quickened her pace. She had to be sure that she made the right decision, not just for herself, but for Skaro. She had to be sure… otherwise the possibility of her death would become a certainty.

  The room was dark save for the soft glow of the candles that burned at the corner of the room. Bersi’s breathing was soft and rhythmic, but Torunn knew that he was not sleeping. He insisted upon sleeping on the floor by her bed. No matter how many times she had commanded him to leave, she had still woken in the morning to find him tending the fire or sitting nearby. His presence was comforting, but she hated to admit it.

  As she stared up at the beams above her head, she counted the days since the snow had melted. Jarl Sigurd’s arrival was imminent… All it would take was—

  A loud CRACK echoed through the house and Torunn sat up straight. She held her breath, waiting for another sound.

  “The ice is breaking,” Bersi said softly.

  “Hush.”

  She waited, barely breathing as she listened. The fire popped softly and Torunn’s fingers gripped the fur that covered her bed.

  CRACK.

  The ice was breaking.

  Torunn bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from cursing. A muffled cheer pierced the silence and Torunn blinked hard as tears stung her eyes. Of course the people would be overjoyed. The day the ice broke was always cause for happiness. The ice would begin to move, and traders could come to their shores once more. The herds would return to Skaro’s forests, and food would be plentiful again as Frigga’s blessings rained down on
them.

  Like everyone else, Torunn had always anticipated the first breaking of the ice and celebrated it with the village. But at that moment, all Torunn felt was the biting cold of her future bearing down on her.

  She pushed back her furs, placed her bare feet on the floor and took a deep breath before braiding her hair with quick motions.

  “What are you doing?” Bersi’s question rumbled through the silence.

  “Get up,” she snapped.

  “Why?”

  “Do as I command you!”

  Why did he have to choose that particular moment to be stubborn?

  “Yes, mistress,” he replied softly. He grunted as he sat up and pulled his tunic over his bare torso.

  Torunn turned away, flung her braid over her shoulder, and stood up. Her discarded breeches lay on a nearby chair and she tugged them over her legs and tied the leather laces with numb fingers.

  She reached for her tunic, but Bersi was there beside her and he pressed a clean one into her hand. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Torunn glared up at him and pulled the tunic over her head. She snatched her belt from him and secured it around her hips. “To the great hall,” she said firmly. “You are going to show me what you’ve seen. Convince me of the truth.”

  Bersi’s eyes widened.

  “Now?”

  “Now,” she snapped.

  She half-expected him to argue with her, but he nodded briefly and turned to fetch her cloak as she fastened her knife to her belt.

  It was too late to change things now, but it was not too late to be prepared for what might come. She refused to go forward blindly. If Bersi was right, if there were weapons hidden in the great hall, perhaps she could warn Jarl Sigurd—perhaps she could convince him not to marry her.

  Being allied with traitors and murders would be more difficult for a man like Sigurd to accept. A younger man might not have cared. But Sigurd and her father had an alliance once—surely he could be reasoned with.