The Northman's Bride (A Sons of the North Romance Book 3)

by Sandra Lake

  “Blasphemy!” “Godless viper!” “Take her!” the besieged collective of clergymen shouted.

  “I suggest trial by ordeal, my lady,” the archbishop said.

  “Aye, trial by ordeal,” someone shouted from the crowd.

  “Let God be the judge,” a clergymen said more loudly.

  “Trial by water!” called out a woman from in the rear of the crowd.

  A hysterical, mocking laugh bubbled from Sovia. “Come, come, one and all. My sins are great indeed. I danced with the Lady Bridget’s lover a fortnight ago. I gave him over the moment she wanted him back. Did I not, Commander Fersen? Come join me on this fine stage and take your turn being shorn as a sheep before we take our fateful swim. I’m certain your lover here is missing your company. It is for a worthy cause after all, commander. These good people need their entertainment, and your fine queen needs her exercise.”

  Hök groaned. Prideful little fool is going to kill herself by provocation, he thought bitterly.

  “Shut up!” Lady Bridget screamed. “Shut her up!”

  Standing stronger than ever, Sovia now directed her insults at the mob.

  “How typically Christian of you to make one pay for the sins of so many.” She pointed her finger down to the crowd. “Hypocrites. Liars. Murderers. All of you. Blood and shame is on all of your hands—”

  Shut up, reckless fool, Hök said in his head.

  The king bellowed. “You know very well what you stand accused of, Lady Sovia. You are a traitor and the punishment for traitors is death.”

  “I have broken no vow of obedience to this monarch. Did I follow the instruction of my father to make friends within your court? Aye, that I did, Your Majesty,” Sovia said boldly, her chin jerking higher into the air. “What those men said to my father is between them and if treason was committed, then it is upon your men’s heads for their loose lips and my father for betraying you.”

  She had just given the king enough evidence to hang her with her own words. It was equal to committing suicide.

  “King Sverre.” Count Flanders, Hök’s frail and elderly great-uncle, stepped forward. His reputation was well established throughout the Baltic shores, and he had traveled north to await the end of the war and be one of the first ambassadors to petition the new court for peace and trade agreements. “I respectfully request to be heard.”

  “Speak, my good man.” The king waved Count Flanders forward.

  The old man slowly spoke to both the crowd and the king. “Our peace accord with Denmark is held but on a string. Though I do not approve of Lady Sovia’s deportment, I see no need for her execution. Her father is recently slain. Without his influence, I would surmise she possesses no continued threat to your throne. However, her countrymen from Nidaros hold her life to have great value. Should she perish by trial by ordeal, or by way of execution on this day—well, they could find that strain on the already fragile accord we have just arrived at.” Hök’s uncle bowed his head and stepped back, having said his piece. Sovia should learn from the meek manner of this wise man, Hök thought.

  Hanrik, the king’s aged advisor, stroked his long white beard and leaned into the conversation. “I humbly agree with Count Flanders, sire,” Hanrik said. “Might I suggest we continue this discussion in closed council?”

  “Very well.” King Sverre rose up out of his chair.

  Hök returned his gaze to the wretched beauty that stood stoically silent before all. Of all people, she did not deserve his mercy, yet neither did she deserve death.

  King Sverre rubbed his temple for several minutes and looked blankly over to Jarl Brosa. “Do you think your wife has had her pound of flesh yet?”

  Jarl Brosa, who Hök suspected truly held the power here, nodded.

  Lady Bridget, flush with wrath, shouted, “You cannot be serious—”

  Jarl Brosa abruptly stood, clearly trying not to appear annoyed by his wife’s insubordination. “Jailer, return Lady Sovia to her cell.” He then turned back to the king. “Perhaps it is best we confer with all parties involved before making a final decision.”

  Hök stepped forward without another thought, shouldering his way quickly through the crowd. “Jarl Brosa, King Sverre, I humbly request an audience.”

  “Hök, my lad.” The king extended his arms and folded Hök into a backslapping embrace. The two men had fought next to one another several times over the last three years. “I did not hear of your return.” King Sverre raised his hands to the crowd and a mild cheer came up. “Our honored Norrland warriors have returned to us.”

  The king and Hök’s men spoke quickly, answering questions of troop movements and which battles had been won and lost.

  Hök’s eyes drifted back to the town square, following the path of the now-silent prisoner. Hands tied in front, feet in shackles, she was being pushed and shoved back to her cell, but the mob had begun to push and pull as a tempest without course, some shouting for mercy, some shouting for blood, and many just shouting from the violent tension that was rapidly breaking out. The high officials, among whom Hök stood, displayed a lack of care for what was transpiring in the crowd, as they were safely guarded by a wall of warriors.

  “I don’t care about Jon Kuvlang’s claim,” King Sverre was saying, his back turned to the crowd as he began to walk toward the palace. “He has no coin, no support—” The king rambled on, but Hök’s attention was torn away. He’d lost sight of Sovia, and the crowd had begun to move down to the water’s edge.

  There was a splash, and Hök’s heart stopped. A flash of red hair was visible at the surface of the water but only for a moment before the archbishop’s long staff pushed her under. The mob had taken Sovia’s judgment into its own hands.

  Hök ran, stripping armor off and shoving his way down to the wharf. He dove in and grabbed a fistful of linen shift, dragging the bound woman back to the surface. Kaj was waiting on the dock to pull her out of the water. Her eyes were shut tight, her lips thin and blue as she gasped for air.

  “Take her. Don’t let them kill her,” Hök said to his trusted comrade. He hoisted himself out of the water, drew his sword preparing to do battle, and shook his head, sending ice water into the faces of the surrounding clergy.

  The king shouted over the crowd, pushing his way to the dock. “I commanded her taken to her cell!”

  “You are the authority of the land, sire. But we are God’s authority over the sinful souls of this world,” the archbishop said, going toe to toe with the new monarch. It was well known that the church had little respect for the new king, and it was even clearer that King Sverre had nothing but contempt for the clergy.

  “I say who lives or dies. We resume the trials tomorrow.” The king turned to Hök and placed an arm around his shoulder. “’Tis a comfort to have you near, my friend. At least I have one man I can trust to hear my words and heed my commands.”

  The king, his councilors, and the men in robes all began to argue.

  Crumpled in a wet heap at their feet, Sovia coughed loudly, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering violently. Her eyes remained closed and Hök began to fear the ice water might yet claim her life. A young recruit to Hök’s crew handed him a blanket to wrap himself in, but no one was making a move to help Sovia. Hök accepted the blanket, crouched down, and wrapped it tight around the blue-lipped girl. In this moment that was all that she was: a small-framed girl. She was no longer the regal hellcat that had humiliated him all those years ago, but simply a defenseless girl. A swell of protective instinct came over him.

  She opened her eyes then, their faces inches apart. Instantly a look of horror came into her eyes—she recognized him. The fact that she had not shown fear for anyone other than him pleased him in a sick, vengeful kind of way.

  “I suppose you assume I am indebted to you now,” she said through chattering teeth.

  “Nay. I didn’t pluck you o
ut of the water for your benefit.”

  “Of course. You couldn’t extract your own vengeance on me if I were already dead.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Sovia. I’m not here for you.”

  Her temper spiked and she seemed to recover from the cold slightly. She pushed up off the dock with her own power and glared at him with arrogant contempt. She may have been naught more than a wet, shorn sheep but she held herself as a prized hen, ready to peck out the eyes of her tormentors. He wished to God he didn’t find that strength in her so damn appealing.

  There was something that felt well earned in her arrogant stance, and a surge of desire stirred in Hök. A strong, confident woman had always been a dangerous attraction for him.

  “I’ve done you a favor really. An important, albeit costly lesson to learn.” Her words, spoken to him so long ago, echoed in his head, knocking any residual desire clear out of him.

  “Losing breaks or builds a man’s backbone,” his sister Katia always said. He’d lost sorely at the hands of Sovia seven years ago, and had come away with a steel backbone. He’d learned at the hand of the heartless hellcat that “love is a grave madness of the mind.” Only a rare few men, such as his father, were blessed with a truly virtuous woman who was worthy and capable of love. All others were simply pretty forgers.

  “My honored guest, come. Let us find you a fire to warm by.” The king impatiently gestured toward the palace. “Let us retire and drink to the sorrows of our fallen comrades. Let us speak of calmer seas to come.”

  The king rested his hand on Hök’s shoulder, leading him up a cobblestone lane and through the newly constructed iron gates of the king’s palace. He turned back, peering over his shoulder. His eyes fixed on the wet, shorn redhead being pushed and shoved through the open prison doors.

  Chapter 5

  With a hammering bang, Hök slammed his chalice onto the feasting table, spilling ale over his fist. “Tero, speak the words to King Sverre that you spoke to me,” Hök said louder. Tero, the high councilor of Tronscar, had traveled to Bergen to deliver private correspondence from Hök’s father. The king was drunk, and his careless ranting had begun to poison the minds of even the few people in the hall sober enough to remember his rant in the morning.

  As Jarl Magnus’s emissary for decades now, Tero was respected for his strategic counsel, but on this night his words of caution and peace fell on deaf ears.

  The King of Norway wiped his greasy mouth on the back of his hand. “Well, speak up!”

  Tero said, “The Norrland fleet have had heavy losses. Jarl Magnus desires to reduce his fleet on the southern shores and concentrate on rebuilding and weapons manufacturing.” Tero bowed his head and leaned back into his chair, avoiding the king’s stare.

  “Your father wishes to desert me, Hök, in my hour of need,” King Sverre said.

  Jarl Brosa added, “I have never known Jarl Magnus to run from a fight.”

  “Nor I.” Hök clenched his teeth, practicing a significant amount of self-restraint to not reply to the implied insult to his father. “We have pursued the Rus army across the sea and inland for a hundred miles. I see no evidence to call this new action a retreat. You are the victor, King Sverre—no one is suggesting we flee from battle, but my men have borne a high cost for this victory.”

  “Your men?” Jarl Brosa scoffed. “You mean my men, don’t you, young man?” Brosa turned and grinned at the pretty, plump mistress sitting to his left. “What say you, Mika? Do our young kinsmen deserve a short reprieve from serving their jarl? Have they earned such distinction?” He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. The girl blushed, turned her head into the jarl’s shoulder, and giggled.

  Before Hök had left home to fight for Jarl Brosa five years ago, his father had warned him to keep his eyes and ears open and learn from the leadership skills of Brosa, yet to never turn his back on him. His father both admired and distrusted Jarl Brosa.

  In a short time, Brosa had brilliantly made himself indispensable to the monarchies of both Norway and Sweden. In Sweden, he had thrown his support behind a rival king, who had won the throne. Sweden’s civil war had ended ten years ago, the tribal clans and rival factions coming under Brosa’s control, and now he had used the same strategy in Norway. Beloved by his countrymen, feared by his enemies, and seemingly without ambition to gain the throne himself, Jarl Brosa had placed himself in a position where he was in no danger of losing his power. His power made him a threat to everyone, and yet at the same time, a threat to no king. With each victory he achieved for the young monarchs in both countries, Brosa was gifted more lands and more gold. He had taken Bridget Haraldsdotter, the former young Queen of Sweden, as his wife because of her royal bloodline and powerful connections in the courts of Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. In many ways, he was now the most powerful man in the entire Baltic region.

  The king laughed, waving his hand lazily in the air. “Fine. Have it Jarl Magnus’s way. Return to your father and rebuild his little iron kingdom. However, Brosa and I are of the same mind: expansion of the Norwegian empire is the only way to secure lasting peace. The archbishop agrees. ’Tis God’s will that I bring peace and cleanse the world of false gods.”

  How thoughtful of the power-hungry archbishop to offer the king such a holy excuse to wage his next war.

  The king continued. “I will not forget what you and your men have done for me. Be assured, I will give elevated titles to all of your Norrland commanders.” Of course he would give them titles, Hök thought. Titles were cheap and the king’s coffers nearly run dry. “How does Earl Hök sound to you? Boy! More wine.” The king gestured to his squire, waving his hand toward Hök’s cup. “You appear far too serious and sober, my good fellow.”

  Hök chewed on the inside of his cheek. The time to ask the king for favors was now, before he sobered.

  Tero must be thinking the same thing, as he nudged Hök’s leg under the table. “The Nidaros matter,” he whispered.

  “Your Majesty, there is a concern to your neighbors in Tronscar—,” Hök began.

  “Tronscar, Tronscar. I swear you would think the world began and ended there.” The king laughed and his men joined him. “Speak your mind freely, comrade.”

  “In a narrow valley west of Tronscar, there is but one mountain that separates my family’s land from Norway, east from Nidaros territory. My uncle once spoke of the climb. In summer, the snow becomes like grain, easily tread upon. He said it took him but a day in fair weather to summit.”

  “And you ask for permission to raid Nidaros, and undermine the factions that are resistant to my throne there? Be my guest, good fellow. I’ll send the rope.” The table roared with laughter.

  Tero stiffened. Neither of them was content to have Tronscar’s security as a matter of jest.

  “Lady Sovia is from the Nidaros region, and is well supported there. To show mercy to her, and set our wrath aside for the sake of peace, will foster unity,” Hök said. Immediately, he knew he had gone too far and said too much. The king squinted his eyes, sobering with his disdain for Hök’s words.

  The king’s lip turned from a laugh into a snarl. “Why would I permit that traitorous bitch to remain on my land a moment longer than I must?”

  Hök inclined his head. “She is a concern of great importance to Tronscar’s security as well as to the civil unrest in your own country.”

  Lady Sovia had noble lineage and support of the northern chieftains. Whereas Sverre’s claim to a royal bloodline rested on the word of an admitted adulteress, a woman who was married to a tradesman, but claimed to have been a paramour of King Sigurd.

  An advisor cleared his throat. “I fear I must agree with young Lord Hök. If Lady Sovia were to come to a violent end, it could shore up Lendmann’s support with the southern houses.” Everyone present knew that had the potential to hurtle Norway straight back into civil war.

  The king roared i
n frustration. “That wench will be a boil on my backside until the day she dies.”

  “Sire, I believe I have arrived at a simple solution,” the advisor continued. “Yesterday you granted land and title to Commander Ludvik for his service and compensation for the leg he lost in battle. Why not bestow upon him yet another gift—the gift of a wife?”

  Hök covered over his mouth with the back of his hand, choking down his ale. Ludvik was said to be a commander who got results, yet he took heavy losses in each battle he entered, and seemed to have no concern for the men who lay dead at his feet. Most who had served at sea with him believed him deranged.

  “Fine. Lock her away at Ludvik’s and cut off her contact with her highborn relatives in the south.” The king grinned, his good cheer returning.

  Hök’s outrage spurred him into speech. “Ludvik took heavy losses, yes, but out of his own stupidity and miscalculation. Tronscar lost far more and what is her reward? More talk of war, when all we have ever wanted was secure seas upon which to sail our trade ships.” Hök knew he had entered dangerous grounds. His head swam in visions of a redhead with beautiful, large green eyes. Ludvik would beat and break that magnificent arrogance right out of her.

  The king sat up straight. “Apparently I have woken the sleeping young stag of Norrland. Aye, I know your people have paid a heavy price with lost men. Speak plainly, good fellow. What is it you want?”

  “I—” The words caught in his throat.

  Tero grabbed his arm and whispered in his ear. “Once these words are spoken you will never be able to take them back.”

  “Tell me the words then,” Hök hissed under his breath.

  “If your mind is set on securing our borders, what are you willing to sacrifice for it?” Tero said.

  “Bloody hell,” he whispered and pounded his fist to the table. “I will wed her,” he said loudly.