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

by Sandra Lake

  “What would you have me call you?” she asked. “Darling seems too silly and jailer seems too . . .” She waved a hand in the air, searching for the right word. ”. . . lackluster. I—”

  “I would prefer you lost the ability to form words. Hold your tongue.”

  Chapter 11

  The vaulted, arched ceiling and mammoth hearth of Tronscar’s fortress were crafted with such delicate artistry that Sovia was certain no cathedral could rival them. Candleholders hung from the rafters, adorned with the spring’s first blooms, and the rushes under the lower tables were mixed with stalks of sweetgrass, rosemary, and thyme; it would be a waste of valuable herbs indeed, if the kitchens were not so clearly overstocked with nature’s bounty. The benches all seemed to be lined with colorful cushions, and the tapestries that brightened the dark gray stone walls were masterfully done, with depictions of peaceful forests and rivers, and snowcapped mountains. The red and gold banners of Tronscar hung behind the head table, which was covered with fine cloth and arranged with a feast fit for a king on his coronation day.

  Jarl Magnus Knutson had traveled extensively to sell his steel and ships to distant kings, and he had clearly returned home with rare treasures and new building designs. Sovia suspected her great-grandfather Sigurd would have liked Jarl Magnus and had much in common with him.

  Hök led her forward to the short set of steps that ascended to the upper level, which separated the jarl’s family tables from the rest of tables in the hall. The Magnussons mixed in the crowd, laughing and talking loudly with their companions.

  Unfortunately, Kaj’s sour face was easy enough to spot among the crowd. She’d need to watch her back around that one. But for tonight, she ignored him and let her eyes wander past him to the multitude of large, bearded men, many with savage skin art that often was not accepted at court. Suddenly feeling rather short, she wondered if there were any average-sized men in this keep.

  Hök pulled out an iron chair that was lined with white fur, as were all the chairs at the head table. She sat and he shoved the chair forward, caging her at the table with the arms of the heavy seat. Her husband then headed for the finely sculpted hearth.

  There, Sovia’s gaze met the piercing stare of the Jarl of Tronscar, Magnus Knutson. A fiercely handsome man, despite his years, his silver hair gave him an air of wisdom, rather than the sense of age and weakness often found in similarly aged men. She suspected that he could live to a thousand years and still have a look of power and control. His impressive collection of sons stood around him, all with bright, smiling faces of jovial merriment, at ease and relaxed in their father’s company. As Hök approached him, his father rose from his high-backed chair by the fire and embraced Hök. The jarl began to boom with laughter and picked Hök up off his feet. Certainly the bear hug would have crushed a regular-sized person.

  Sovia was usually never envious of other people. It was a rule she had made for herself many years ago. Envy only ever stripped her of the peace and contentment she managed to summon through positive and grateful reflection . . . but here, watching the genuine, open display of love between Hök and his family . . . she envied him. She envied them all. She would never know that feeling of unconditional acceptance if she remained in this country, nor would her child back in Norway, if left to be raised without her.

  The thought of home weighed her down like a millstone around her neck. Every day, every hour she continued to be absent from her son’s life felt like a failing on her part, even though she had been removed from her home by force of her father. But Leif wouldn’t know that—he was just a child, who would feel abandoned by his mother . . . a feeling she knew all too well.

  That love and acceptance by family, by blood, love from parent to child were all that mattered in the world. She must get back to Toraslotte. Power, gold, beauty . . . nothing was real, nothing compared to the simple, pure embrace of a mother and her child. Sovia also had concerns beyond her son’s upbringing. What if the Lendmann party, King Sverre’s rival faction, learned that a great-grandson of Sigurd lived? What if Voinovich returned, looking for her, and laid eyes on her son—who was undeniably his son? Hunt and Aina would protect him, but what if—

  Goose bumps rose to the surface of her skin. Leif. She silently repeated her child’s name over and over in her heart. Leif was real—he was not a forged dream her mind had somehow conjured to survive, although sometimes late at night she feared that he was just a figment of her imagination. The lines between hope and desperation blurred in the darkest hours of night.

  Oh, how she hated the dark.

  “Leif is real,” she whispered, longing to simply hear her son’s name spoken out loud. There. This was the focus and determination Sovia had been lacking.

  Gratitude replaced the envy she had initially felt for this family’s open display of affection.

  “Hök! Hök!” Shrieking in unison, two little blond heads tore past her and launched themselves at her husband like human catapults. Hök’s embrace swallowed up the two children. Shrieks of glee and squeals of tickled laughter soon followed.

  She guessed the little girl to be about ten summers. Her white blond hair was tangled and in need of a few braids to hold it back out of her sweet face. More voices rose with laughter as two women joined the family circle.

  Sovia tried not to stare, determined to gaze out over the hall, but the scene in the corner of her eye continued to draw her attention.

  A regal woman with white-gold hair arranged in thick-coiled braids slipped under Hök’s arm and embraced him around his center. She closed her eyes, and it looked to Sovia almost as though she was smelling him. It was clear that this woman must be the Friherrinna of Tronscar, Lady Lida, his mother. Sovia knew all too well the irresistible comfort that smelling her child’s head brought a mother.

  The second, younger woman was petite in scale compared to the men around her, but just as handsome in her features. She kissed Hök’s cheek and then followed with a sharp pinch to his upper arm. She must be the legendary sister, Baroness Katia Hanseatz, the shield maiden spy from Tronscar that had fought alongside her husband in more than a few well-known pirate attacks.

  They were a sight to be seen, loud, playful, and overflowing with love and affection for one another. Though she continued to try to distract herself, Sovia could not take her eyes off them.

  Her chair was suddenly yanked out from behind. The iron legs scraped loudly against the floor, and she clutched her armrests so as not tumble to the stone floor. She twisted her head around and up. The jarl’s dark piercing blue eyes bored down into her. “Why do you sit in my son’s chair?” She didn’t need an introduction—she knew he recognized her from that fateful day years ago.

  “Because this is where he commanded I sit, my lord.”

  The jarl turned back, looking over at his family. “Hök.” With one word, the jarl silenced the hall, and his family members froze like statues. “What is Losnadotter doing in your seat, at my table, in my home?”

  If Jarl Magnus was not keen on her sitting at his table, just wait until he heard the happy news that she now carried his house’s name.

  Hök stepped forward, with his arm around Lady Lida. “Mother, may I present Lady Sovia, heiress of Toraslotte.”

  The Friherrinna of Tronscar walked as if she glided on air. Sovia did not know if it was best to stay safely seated in her chair or rise to greet the matriarch. The man who was towering over her seemed to have a louder bark than bite, and she hazarded a guess that while he would render her his due contempt, there was little risk in him striking her.

  Wedding Hök had not been Sovia’s design, nor fault. It was by the king’s decree. It was also Hök’s ambition, to both prevent another civil war and to acquire her lands, that had placed Sovia, who had a ruined reputation, in the role of his bride. She mustn’t cower, she told herself. She would not apologize for being here, nor for being herself.

&
nbsp; That said, Sovia had no wish to be here. If his family despised her, they would surely demand Hök remove her from their company sooner rather than later, and that would suit Sovia just fine. The only other sensible place for Hök to send her was Toraslotte. She liked this new plan.

  Squaring her shoulders, Sovia raised her chin and stood to greet Lady Lida.

  Sovia would not bow. Her mother had been a princess of Norway, Sigurdsdatter, and there was no one in attendance that she knew of who held royal blood higher than hers. If anything, they should bow to her . . . they wouldn’t dream of it of course, but still, if there was bowing and curtsying to be done, it would be not done by her.

  “Welcome to our home, Lady Sovia.” The beautiful matriarch stretched out both her hands to take Sovia’s in hers. A warm smile rested on her face, her features soft and serene. “Hök had not sent us word that he would be bringing any guests with him. I would have come to greet you earlier. Forgive me.” Hök’s mother leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

  Sovia’s stomach growled, embarrassingly loud. “It is an honor to meet you, friherrinna. I beg your pardon for my rudeness, but your son has not seen to my rations for the day just yet. I was wondering if I may trouble you for a roll?”

  “I beg your pardon?” The matriarch turned a disproving glare up at her son. “Hök, have you not seen to the comfort of your guest?”

  “She is not my guest, mother. King Sverre and Jarl Brosa placed her in my keeping.”

  “Prisoner? Why would Brosa send his war criminals here?” Jarl Magnus asked, staring down at her.

  “Magnus. This—,” the friherrinna started.

  “Lida.” The jarl pointed to a small boy of about three years of age, only a few feet away, who had just tripped on a rug and was clearly about to start squalling. “See to our grandson while I have words with our son.”

  “Magnus. Hök. This young lady is starving, and I will not have her delayed in being served her meal. Everyone, take your seats,” the friherrinna said, her tone firm yet serene. “Katia, your son is in need of attention,” she added, referring to the boy.

  “You are very kind, friherrinna. The nut bread does smell divine,” Sovia said. It was true—her mouth was watering.

  “’Tis a recipe of my mother’s.” The friherrinna guided her back to the table.

  “You have a fine home, Lady Lida. I have not seen a palace in all of my travels that could compare to this immaculate splendor.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Lady Lida personally served Sovia a roll. “Our poor guest is starved half to death. Why was she not escorted down earlier for a meal, or refreshment ordered up to her guest chamber? Which chamber have you placed her in? I have recently renewed the fabrics in the east tower—”

  “Mother!” Hök said. “Sovia is not my guest nor is she yours. She is my wife and my responsibility. Do not concern yourself with her comfort.”

  “Your wife.” Lady Lida clutched her chest.

  “Your what?” Jarl Magus asked. It sounded more like a curse than a question.

  All hell broke loose as son made excuses to his mother and the mother spoke over her son toward the husband, daughter over mother, brothers over brothers and then the jarl over everyone. No one was listening to anyone.

  Taking advantage of the distraction of the argument, Sovia wolfed down the roll and reached across the table for another. They were still warm and she shoved it in her mouth before anyone could snatch it away from her or send her away from the table.

  “I married her to stave off more civil war within Norway, which would have left our borders vulnerable to Pavlik’s agents,” Hök said, pointing angrily down at Sovia. All eyes were now fixed on her.

  “This is her, isn’t it, Hök?” Katia said. “The woman who seduced you, forcing father’s hand at the Sea Dragon council?” Katia pushed past her taller brothers to come within striking distance of Sovia. Sovia had no fear of being struck by Hök or any of the men in his family, but his sister, being a female herself, may not hold the same distinction in hitting a woman.

  “Aye. It’s her all right,” Stål said, his disgusted glare matching the jarl’s perfectly.

  “She can eat in the barn with the hogs,” Katia said. “What were you thinking to bring her in here, Hök?”

  “I would be delighted to visit the stables,” Sovia said, trying hard to maintain her dignity. “I expect them to have far better manners and less bickering than I find here.” She stood back up and stared her sister-in-law square in the eye. If Katia wanted a fight, Sovia would be happy to oblige her.

  Chapter 12

  Lady Lida ignored the snarling anger of both her husband and her children, and serenely waved a hand out to the side. “Ragna, bring out the main courses, if you please. Our guest . . . or shall I say the new addition to the family, is near faint with hunger and in need of the roast elk immediately.” She placed her hands on Sovia’s shoulders and guided her back down into her chair. “You disappoint me, Katia.” Lida turned and directed her calm, collected disapproval on her son. “As do you, Hök.” Sovia actually felt a little bit bad for him. “Magnus, take your seat. All of you, take your seats.”

  With one commanding wave of her hand, the Friherrinna of Tronscar had taken full command of the hall. “Hök, you will please continue to explain how I come to have a daughter-in-law in in my chambermaid’s frock, sitting at my table in such a starved state.” One of her fine brows arched pointedly high.

  Sovia was distracted as steaming platters of meat were placed in front of her, but she listened to her husband speaking as best she could. “Baron Losna was executed in Bergen,” he said, “for selling secrets to every warlord he came across. Sovia was next to be executed for being his accomplice.” He spoke with about as much emotion as one would use when recalling the selection of vegetables at the winter market. “Count Flanders, as well as Tero and the king’s council, all advised against her execution. They feared igniting a new war within Norway’s southern nobles and dividing support from the Nidaros faction, which supported Sovia’s mother and grandmother.”

  Sovia inhaled deeply, taking in the rich, flavorful aroma of the meat. She reached for a fork and impolitely drove into a thick piece of sweetly roasted meat infused with rosemary and onions. She had to stifle a moan. It was either the most delicious piece of meat ever prepared or it had been so long since she’d had proper food that a piece of charcoal would have tasted delicious.

  Tero and the jarl began to discuss the political details of Sovia’s marriage into their family as the best way to prevent another long summer at war. No one seemed too happy with Tero, as he was strongly in favor of the marriage being the best and only way to achieve this.

  Careful to direct her eyes and words only to the lady of the keep, Sovia pointed at her plate. “This is delicious,” she said. “Is that tarragon in the seasoning?”

  The friherrinna nodded and continued to watch her eat. She whispered to a servant and a moment later Sovia was served wine, and a steaming bowl of fennel heads was placed beside her.

  Recognizing the chambermaid, Sovia said, “Many thanks, Lanna.” She dove into the next offered fare.

  Suddenly, a large elbow invaded her space, bumping her arm, causing her to spill her wine down the front of her frock.

  “Fak, Stål,” her husband said.

  “Language, Hök,” his mother scorned. “You are not out at sea, dining with your men. Pass your lady wife the fresh herring, son.”

  “She’s not my lady wife, mother. She is more like my prisoner.”

  “‘I now pronounce you man and wife’ were the bishop’s exact words,” Sovia said, reaching over his plate and scooping up some herring.

  “Mind your tongue at my mother’s table,” Hök muttered. He glared at Sovia as a platter of poultry was placed in front of her. She looked up at the serving girl. “This looks and smells like heaven. Please pas
s on my compliments to your cooks.” She speared a juicy chicken leg.

  Down the table, the jarl was speaking in hushed tones to his councilor, and another man who appeared to be his son-in-law. The friherrinna was still watching her. “Saffron?” she asked, pointing to the poultry.

  “Yes,” the friherrinna said, a warm, friendly smile on her face.

  Such exotic and expensive herbs and spices from all over the world! Tronscar was not just grand, but evidently very well supplied.

  “I’m curious, Sovia, how long before you stab my brother in the back this time?” Katia asked. Half the table went silent and turned their attention in her direction. Sovia knew she shouldn’t have allowed herself to get so comfortable at the table.

  “Kat, ignore that she’s even here. The more you address her, the more you give her license to speak,” Hök said.

  “Do you think you will hold out an entire month?” Katia asked, ignoring her brother’s suggestion.

  “She will not be betraying me or Tronscar,” Hök said. “She will not be trusted with any information worthy of betrayal.”

  That suited Sovia just fine.

  “All she needs to do is count the ships that are at the ready in Ostervall harbor or calculate the rate of steel production. Gorchakov would pay good coin to know that information alone,” said Baron Lothair, from the far end of the table.

  “Mikhail Gorchakov?” Hök asked.

  “Aye, Gorchakov was simply the mule. Pavlik and Losna have had dealings for many years. It was Pavlik and his brother, his hound enforcer Voinovich, that Losna was an agent for during the last dozen years,” Baron Lothair said. Sovia’s blood turned to ice in her veins at the name Voinovich, but she had many years of experience in protecting herself by giving nothing away. It was much too dangerous to be connected to Pavlik. If Voinovich knew where to find her, then—her stomach suddenly twisted. Would he try to come after her again? The demon was brainless but not gutless. He had made several threats to her father over the years, demanding to be loaned Sovia, but Hunt and his men had always been able to stay one step ahead of him, hiding her in the mountains when the Rus officials had ventured north to visit with her father.