She looked up at him, touched by his integrity and courage. She was ready to die for him. She trusted him.
Without warning, the King wrapped his strong arm around her waist and pulled her tightly to his chest. His kiss was deep, primal, rough and without apology. It was an act of conquest. He pressed her closer as his hand explored her breast possessively.
She rose to him like a call to battle. It was as if her tunic were not there at all and it was wrong. But she couldn’t force herself to resist. She was as starved for this as he was. She wanted to lose herself in a euphoria that didn’t drown her in blood. But this would ruin everything.
She drew back from him, her heart pounding in a mix of resistance and desire. “This cannot happen, my lord.”
He let her go, but lust still glinted in his eyes. “Can’t it? Don’t lie to me, you want it as much as any other woman.”
She shook her head, trying to maintain perspective, trying to maintain control. She couldn’t let him win this. She couldn’t let herself do it.
“You have a wife now, my lord, a wife who may be part of a new negotiation to keep the peace. And we must keep the peace for now.”
“The peace.” He ground the words out as if they were a curse.
She picked up her bow. “It is how we will win. We must win, my lord. To do that, we must hold respect for each other and stay focused on victory. With your kind permission, my King, I will see to my other duties.” With a quick nod, she hurried out of the room without waiting to hear if he would grant his consent.
The King watched her go with a mixture of frustration and admiration. He counted himself lucky that she was female. With so much wisdom and control at such a tender age, he didn’t relish the thought of one day facing an opponent like her at the head of an opposing army. She was learning very fast.
He was not obsessed with virgins like some men. Virgins were skittish and boring. But Gunnar and Ari had guarded her safety well. Those two were no longer in the picture and he had felt her open curiosity. He wanted to be the first man inside her, to carve his royal name there as the monarch of her body. More than that, she was like no other woman of his experience.
He needed her advice and her sword, so he had to handle this matter with care. But she was the only one who had ever said no to him. He should want her dead for that. Instead, he wanted her more than any woman he had ever known. It was just a matter of time.
In the Great Hall, everyone stepped aside to give her space as she made for the door. She was a warrior to be respected, a guardian of the King. Once outside, she touched her fingertips lightly to her lips. They were tender from the forcefulness of the King’s kiss. The rule remained true, she could trust no one but herself, not even the man for whom she would forfeit her life, perhaps especially not him.
She didn’t need anyone else. Alone, she had guarded the King in battle. And on her own, she had walked away from his invitation to a world of unwise passions she could only imagine. She had not failed herself, and that was what mattered the most. She was sure now that the warnings she had been given in the past were, in fact, mild ones. This was her time of rising, and nothing would stop her now.
She looked to the shifting skies overhead, longing for some sign from Ari that all was well now. His words came back to her. It was the song of her sword that she should listen to, not the songs of men. The music from the Hall rose as the warriors within stomped in time and beat their fists on the tables. The songs of men...
But even above all the din from inside, she heard the storm’s approach. It was massive, monstrous, and soon the heavens split open in a blasting display of light and fury that could only be likened to an act of vengeance. Yet those inside the Hall appeared to hear none of this. It was like this horrific explosion of Nature’s temper was aimed only at her.
The rains fell as if to drown the world and Fljótdís ducked under the broad eaves of the Hall. She was drenched to the bone, all thoughts of greatness reduced to soaking shivers. She gave the skies a hard look of true respect. An event of this magnitude was not random. There was a reason behind it, a reason it had been sent. She stepped out of the protection and the winds nearly robbed her of breath as she shouted to the skies.
“Is this your doing, Ari? Have you sent Thor himself from Valhalla? Please, Ari, tell me what this nightmare means.”
Part II
Chapter 12
A cruel wind whipped wildly through the trees as Fljótdís entered the King’s tent with a stride of battle-seasoned authority, a woman with many victories to her credit. She nodded to each man present and they acknowledged their genuine respect in return. She reviewed those present with a subtle yet practised eye.
They were five, Ulrik, the one with dark eyes, Helgi, the redhead, and Hakon, three strong warriors who had loyally fought side by side with her in countless battles and raids through the years. There were also two unfamiliar outsiders who looked to be representatives of some Earl. And, of course, King Harald was in attendance. She hoped he wasn’t too drunk and distracted to deal with this situation. He was nothing of the man he once was and it made things difficult and hazardous.
She stood next to the King and regarded the messengers evenly. “We have newcomers, I see, my lord.”
There was a look of pride on Harald’s face over the woman warrior at his side. “These are messengers from Earl Einarr.”
Fljótdís crossed her arms, revealing a stunning and efficient arsenal of custom made weaponry at her waist. She was every bit a woman of war as she regarded these men coolly. “And is Earl Einarr ready to join us?”
One of the messengers rose to his feet self-consciously. He was having trouble keeping his eyes respectful toward this breathtaking and unexpected woman, so he lowered them and concentrated on his boots.
“Indeed, my lord Einarr is ready, your graces. He will send you forty-eight of his men. Most of them are trained very well. But some may need...a little polishing.”
Harald had been drinking since he had awakened that morning and he laid a steadying hand on the back of his chair. He smiled and gave Fljótdís a sly wink. “I am sure Fljótdís will take care of that issue.”
Fljótdís kept her sight trained on the messengers and the two men began to perspire, despite the cold. The smell of expensive wine on the King’s breath beside her was strong, too strong. This meeting needed to be finished. “Not a problem, my lord. How long will it take till your Earl can send these men?”
The messenger looked relieved that he might get through this mission alive. “As soon as we give your message to our lord, he will send them out. They should arrive on Torsdag.”
She considered this proposition. Thor’s Day, that was three days away. There was little time to gather their forces. King Torvaldson to the east was preparing for war, gathering men from the length and breadth of his kingdom and beyond. It was a serious threat. They had to be ready and they needed all the men they could get. Thank the gods, all of Harald’s Earls had answered his call to battle, hoping to add to their own coffers with the spoils. But what she had seen in today’s reconnaissance filled her with worry.
She brushed her fingers against the Thor’s pendant on her neck, an old habit for when she felt a need for steadfastness and courage. “Deliver our message to your lord immediately. Do not fail in your mission. I know your faces now and I do not forget. Or forgive.”
“As you command!” The messengers nodded and left at a run.
Ulrik frowned at Fljótdís. “It’s bad, then. What did you see?”
She observed that the King looked undisturbed by these developing events. He poured himself yet another cup of wine casually. She wanted to slap him out of his stupor. But he was still her King, so she kept her mind on the business at hand.
“Torvaldson has gathered a sizeable army, around three hundred strong. He has established a camp about ten days’ march to the east.”
“So we have ten days of peace, then,” Helgi grumbled into his mead with a snort
.
This war was making everyone unsettled and irritable. Even Hakon, who usually couldn’t shut the Hel up, held his tongue for the moment.
Harald offered Fljótdís a cup of wine, but she pushed it away. He shrugged and poured the contents of her cup into his own.
He sat down heavily in his chair and swirled the wine in his cup, causing it to slosh over the top. “We have two hundred and thirty-four men right now, plus Einarr’s forty-eight. So, I find our forces very equal.”
She gave him a disapproving look that he had come to know very well.
“It doesn’t mean we should be complacent, my King. We all know the reputation of Torvaldson’s warriors.”
Harald gave her a covetous smile and drank deeply from his wine. “And I’m sure they have heard of yours.”
She looked to the three men on the other side of the table. Without a word, they nodded their respect and left the tent. She turned back to the King and gave him a look that promised no mercy.
Harald shrugged, his demeanour showing that he honestly wasn’t sure why she was so angry with him. “What is it?”
He had that look in his eye and she kept the table between them. “With all due respect, my King, I cannot believe you take this battle so lightly. This is the greatest battle of your reign. We have challenged the gods and we must do everything we can to be sure they will grant us victory. Nothing is certain in war.” His sight wandered from her face to her breasts and she pounded her fist on the table, forcing him to pay attention. “This is a war we must not lose, my King!”
Harald put the cup aside. He was on the move. “I never worry about such things anymore because I know you will bring me victory as you have always done. You are favoured by the gods, my Fljótdís. Everyone says it.”
He walked around the table and stood behind her. With one quick move, he pulled her close to him. He grabbed her breast greedily and inhaled the wind-dampened scent of her hair as his desire hardened against her hip.
His voice was rough with lust. “And you are definitely favoured by me.”
She freed herself easily from his hold and glared at him, cold and impatient. “Not now.”
Harald gave her a superior smile. “I recall a time when you were not so quick to refuse your King. You were obedient to my commands.”
There were some mistakes in life that could never be undone. She had fallen for his amorous tricks in those early days out of a sense of loyalty, out of loneliness and curiosity, and even now, the sound of Irena’s laughter at her gullibility still rang harshly in her ears. Some mistakes in life were never made again.
“Those were different days, my King. I was a foolish girl whose priorities were misguided. I have no such shortcomings now. And by your leave, my lord, your time would be better spent right now not in reminiscing about lost pleasures but by working on ways to keep your crown and the head beneath it.”
As usual these days, she left him speechless as she exited the tent. The wind was relentless as she walked through the camp, nodding to the warriors as she passed. She had fought at the King’s side and her battle scars and the trust of the King’s men were well earned with her sweat and blood.
It had taken a long time to prove herself to them all. Many had laughed at her. Many more had held on to their doubts despite the evidence of their own eyes. But now every man in this army was fully prepared to follow her command and even lay down their lives for her because of who she was and what she was.
And in return, she saw to it that her warriors were treated well. They were good men. It was her duty to be sure they were fed and trained to the highest levels possible, and she made certain that their families were safe while they are away. Even these strong and brave men needed encouragement from time to time.
She crossed the road and went deeper into the forest where she found what she was looking for, a small waterfall that was sheltered from the wind. It was private, hers alone. If the others knew about it, they were smart enough to give her this space.
Stripping away her clothing, she dove into the pool beneath the falling waters. The pool was as cold as the Rivers of Niflheim, but it made her blood run faster and it made her feel alive. She needed to cool her anger against the King. Such anger was dangerous for them both and she had to get it under control. This taming of her temper was becoming a daily ritual.
Harald was a fool. Since she had started to lead his army and succeed, he had lost interest in politics. He wasn’t the man she had known at the start, the man who had been a great leader, a strong king and good friend to the men she had valued the most in her life. Now he was a shadow of that man, and he was someone who had broken her pride and resistance in those early days.
It had been the last thing she expected that dismal winter night, King Harald, drunk and on his knees before her, broken, suffering the pain of his own haunted soul, lost, begging for her charity, weeping for her to comfort him and give him sanctuary inside her out of her devotion for him as her King.
It probably shouldn’t have shocked her, but it did. She had told him to gather himself, had even threatened to leave the town for good over his behaviour. But he had howled all the more and pressed his dagger to his chest with the promise that his death would be on her conscience if she refused him this one small, secret favour. He told her she owed it to him to ease his pain if her heart was truly loyal. He was her sovereign, her ruler. It was her duty to obey him.
She had been born to protect her King. She didn’t believe he would actually go through with it and take his own life, but if in his drunken state he managed to do it, it would go against everything she had ever been taught, everything she held dear.
He had been in a desperate rush to take her before she changed her mind. The coupling had been harsh and hurtful and in the end, he had spilt himself inside her like an animal. He had rolled off of her and immediately passed out. She had risen from the furs, straightened her clothing and left his quarters without a word, looking for any bucket or trough where she could try to wash herself clean.
She had realized the danger from the King, knowing that he would put a bastard child inside her if she wasn’t careful. It was a blessing that she knew a trustworthy woman who was a Healer who had provided her with a herbal mixture that prevented her from conceiving. Egileif was dedicated to her safety and care, the one woman on Earth she trusted. She took the herbs to this day to protect herself and her future. It gave her a sense of freedom.
Harald had pressured her into more clandestine meetings, but her coldness had eventually sent him looking for warmer playthings. He had come to accept that her sword and her counsel were even more vital to him than the call of her sex. He couldn’t afford to lose her, so he played his cards wisely with her, most of the time. She would never surrender again, on the battlefield or to any man, even if that man was her King and even if it cost her her life.
The King had turned her heart to stone that night, and his descent into uselessness had hardened it even more. He was drunk most of the time now and the parade of women to his bed was notorious far beyond the town. His life was a gluttony of wine and flesh.
Often, she had to replace him on the battlefield because he was too drunk or too hungover to hold a sword. How many times had she had to get him up off the bed to save a situation? How many times had she had to speak on his behalf while he sat and polished his crown like the town simpleton? It couldn’t go on. She had to persuade him to change his ways. There was no one else to do it.
She climbed out of the waterfall shivering and dressed quickly. Her problems were not solved, but she felt renewed. It was time for a horn of mead and the company of her men. Such things would clear her mind and make her strong. It was who she was, a woman who would rather drink with men she knew and trusted than spend even a few minutes in the company of maidens.
She returned from the daily reconnaissance and was relieved to see that Einarr’s men had arrived at last. She headed directly to the meadow where the new warriors practis
ed. She hoped Einarr’s men didn’t all have their heads up their arses.
Ulrik stood at the edge of the meadow, chewing on a blade of dry grass. He watched the action with a stoic expression, occasionally biting out a curse at someone’s foolish behaviour with a sword.
Fljótdís came to stand beside him. She crossed her arms and regarded the action with a critical eye. Most of the new recruits were in decent shape, some of them skilled. But a few... She sighed heavily. They were useless. There was too much to be done and no time to do it.
She bumped her shoulder against Ulrik’s companionably. “What do you think? Should we just butcher them now and be done with it?”
Ulrik turned to her, his face ridged with many scars, proof of his loyalty to her and to the King. “They’ll do. With some exceptions.”
She cocked her head and gave him a small smile. “I can always trust you and your judgment.”
Ulrik was usually a sullen man. But his dark eyes expressed gratitude and loyalty to her. He was always next to her in battle. He had saved her life many times and she had saved his a few times as well. He was the only man she had really trusted since Ari’s death. He was her second in command now and she made sure that while she was away, the men understood that to disobey Ulrik was to disobey her. There was no mercy for disobedience. It could cost them their lives. It could cost them a war.
Fljótdís considered the new warriors again. “So, what do you say, my friend, which one? Pick one for me. I need a good stretch.”
Ulrik almost smiled. “You never change, Fljótdís.”
“Not even a little, my friend. You’ll do well to remember it.”
Ulrik pointed at one of the warriors. “That one.”
She frowned when she saw a little thin fellow who dropped his sword twice. “Oh, come on, not that one. I want to have some fun.”
Ulrik lifted her arm and pointed it at a different man. A very different man.
Ulrik had her attention now. The warrior in question was tall, strong, with handsome features despite his scars. His light brown hair was disciplined into a thick, sturdy braid that reached well down the centre of his back. He handled his sword like it was an extension of his body, his actions smooth, steady, unpredictable, experienced and very smart. There was a sense of rhythm to his every move, a deadly dance, effortless, yet somehow well planned. He was a master of combat.
Fljótdís- Daughter of the North Page 12