by Sandra Lake
“I will be taking my family home now, Sverre,” Hök said, dropping the title of king. He pointed up to the Birkebeiner guards, who still held weapons at the ready. “Good luck with that.”
With a confident stride, her husband walked toward her, his eyes fixed on hers, hungry for her. “Aleksi, do you have a scrap a linen to spare a friend?” Hök waited until the cloth was placed in his hand and then wrapped it around his own wound before approaching her. “I wouldn’t want to ruin another one of your fetching silk gowns, my love,” he said gruffly and pulled her to him, holding her tight. When he finally released her, he shouted to his men and marched toward the palace gates, Aron, Stål, and Aleksi trailing behind, Leif now sitting on Aron’s shoulders.
“You are leaving all my land and fortune behind, just like that?” Sovia asked. She was too scared to look over her shoulder. “But that means you will have wed me for nothing. I bring you and your family nothing.”
“I have the treasure,” he said, his eyes fixed on the rowboats that would take them back to the ships.
“But that is just some silly piece of wood. Don’t tell me you buy into that church fable.”
“They can burn the medallion for all I care. I have you and our son. Hunt and his men will look out for Tronscar’s borders. Of that I am sure.”
“But you can’t leave with nothing! Much of my dowry is transportable in gold and jewels.”
“Sov, my love, would you do me the service of shutting up for an hour or so. You can chew my ear off the entire voyage home. For now, I’d like to bask in a few moments of victory, as I claim my prize.” And then he kissed her, not possessively, but with reverence and devotion, as if she alone were the most precious thing to him in the world.
Chapter 33
1185
Tronscar
Appearing annoyed and bored, Jarl Magnus Knutson sat opposite to Jarl Birger Brosa at his war council table. Every seat at the table was filled by either a noblemen or his councilor. At the end of the table sat King Canute of Sweden.
Tero, speaking for Jarl Magnus, slid a piece of parchment to Jarl Brosa’s top aide. Written on the paper was the new price Tronscar would be charging for steel in the coming year, and the new price set for ships and shipping.
“That price is extortion. No king has the coin to afford that!” Hakon shoved the parchment to Brosa.
Bishop Absalom had been given his own piece of parchment with an even higher price the day before. “You have made your point, Jarl Magnus,” he said. “We were hasty last harvest in not seeking your counsel before moving forward with our collective plans. What is it that you want?”
Jarl Magnus signaled to have the council chamber door opened. Hök stood and offered his arm to his wife as she entered the chamber. Sovia was dressed in a pale yellow silk gown that was quite tight across her swollen stomach. Her veil was white and her gold head ring shone like a halo over her glowing features. He guided her to a bench that was set against the wall and sat down beside her. Leif hopped up on Hök’s knee and waved a hello to his papa Magnus. The atmosphere among the visiting men became noticeably uncomfortable. No one wished to look at Lady Sovia or her son, who was now toying with his medallion, spinning it around his finger. Bishop Absalom sunk a little deeper into his chair, throwing furtive glances over at the medallion and then turning back away. This display of family unity, of course, was Jarl Magnus’s way of reminding the scheming politicians of what had brought them all to this point.
There was no more room for compromises and no one to blame for Tronscar’s new independent position except the allies that sought to use her good will for their own gain.
Hök placed his hand over his wife’s stomach and rubbed his child a silent hello. He turned his head and smiled at his wife. She rested her hand over his and smiled in return. Sovia’s countenance was calm and serene—gone were her wild, defiant eyes, replaced with peace and contentment.
“What I propose to you men is this,” Jarl Magnus said, abruptly silencing the whispered conversations that had broken out around the room. “Tronscar will supply her allies with steel at the new price, just as soon as all past debts have been paid. Additionally, due to the irregular payment for merchandise in the years past, there will be no future lending.
“Friends, if you wish to take your enemies to war, you must first pay for it in coin, up front, and in advance of delivery.” Jarl Magnus turned and looked over his shoulder at Lady Sovia, sending her a very precise nod.
The table erupted in raised voices. Poor Tero would no doubt be arguing with the men late into the night.
His piece said, Jarl Magnus pushed away from the table and walked over to offer Sovia his arm. “You must be hungry, daughter. Lida used to always take a second breakfast when she was this far along in her time. I myself could be tempted by a second helping. I’m feeling in a rather celebratory mood.”
Sovia smiled and accepted the offered arm. “I would not say no to one of Lida’s nut bread rolls—and maybe some herring—oh and a horn of cider and—”
Leif turned up his nose and winced in Hök’s direction. “Herring and cider? She isn’t going to make me eat that too, is she?”
“Fear not, little man. I’ll protect you,” Hök said.
“Magnus,” Brosa called out from behind them as they were leaving the hall. “A moment, friend.”
“Perhaps I will have a moment later, Brosa. We are in search of refreshment for an expecting mother; we haven’t any time to delay,” Jarl Magnus said, patting Sovia’s hand affectionately.
“A moment alone, Magnus,” Brosa said.
“What you have to say to me, sir, you may say to my co-counsel here. Lady Sovia was the chief architect of my latest political decisions and the outcome has suited me well. I foresee seeking out her opinion on most courtly matters for years to come.”
Brosa let out a small growl of frustration. “It would be in Sweden’s best interest for her ruling classes to be in harmony and not at odds. We want the same for our country—peace among our classes, without wasteful civil war. You and I have always had this in agreement.”
“That we have, Brosa.”
“I propose an alliance between our houses. You have many sons who need wives and I have many daughters in need of husbands. Let us join our houses and strengthen Sweden from within.” Jarl Brosa extended his arm out to Jarl Magnus, which his father accepted. “My daughter Ellen by my concubine Isabelle is coming of age this summer. She is a fine girl and I am willing to have one of your sons appointed baron upon the union.” Brosa was wealthy in land and since he held the purse strings for the king, he had the power to title whomever he pleased.
Magnus nodded a moment. “As long as our interests remain keeping the peace among our shores, I consider our houses united. As for contracting my sons into unions with your daughters, this I cannot do. My sons will forge their own destinies, but I thank you, sir, for your offer.”
Brosa was deflated, his shoulders slumping. “Perhaps you will take further time to consider.”
“Not necessary, Brosa.”
Brosa turned on his heels, his head bent forward as he rubbed his temples. “Bridget is not going to be happy with this,” he said under his breath as he dragged his feet back toward his ship, where his discontented wife awaited him.
“Do you truly trust me, Hök?” Sovia whispered.
“You know I do.”
“Then may I give myself an early gift for birthing you this fine son or daughter in the coming month?”
“Aye, your wish is my command.”
“Jarl Brosa,” Sovia called out. “I do have one small suggestion, that you and your wife might find . . . pleasing. As a token of good will, from Tronscar to Jutland.”
It was clear in his slow steps that Brosa was not keen on being summoned back by Sovia.
“I understand after the last row in Nidaros, you l
ost large numbers of Birkebeiner men to the northern tribes. ’Tis a shame,” Sovia said. The display of her returned confidence always delighted Hök. “May I suggest Tronscar offer a seasoned commander? I understand Kaj Bjornsson is eager for new horizons.”
“Kaj? Was he not one of your top men, Hök?” Brosa asked.
“Aye, he fought with distinction at the battle of Bithynia,” Hök said.
“I believe I have heard of this warrior,” Brosa said, a hesitant smile coming across his lips.
“He is anxious to be posted where he can work and live in close quarters with his Rus comrades,” Sovia said. “I would expect he’d be keen to work under the Slavic and Rus leadership.”
“That could be arranged. My thanks to you, Lady Sovia,” Brosa said, frowning. Clearly confused by his good fortune, he wandered toward the exit.
Leif and Magnus had wandered off as well, too impatient with the craving for a second breakfast to wait on Sovia and Hök.
“Do I get to ask what that was all about?” Hök said. “Kaj nearly got himself hanged in a tavern last week over an argument with a Rus sea captain—the man hears a Rus or Slavic accent and he descends into madness a minute later.”
“So I’ve heard.” Sovia began strolling, cradling the underside of her heavy belly as she walked. “Thank you for not making an objection.”
Hök gently tugged her back and encircled her in his arms. “Wife, I will need more of an explanation than that.”
“I saw the opportunity to offer my enemy an olive branch. They are both manipulative jackals that deserve one another,” his wife said sweetly.
“Kaj? What is going on?”
She did not look him in the eye, but picked at the bits of dust and lint on his tunic. “Can I just say that Kaj and I do not get along?”
“Probably not.”
“Fine, but I will have no fighting over this. I have had my vengeance over him the way I want it. You are not to interfere—”
He tightened his grip around her. “Sov, just tell me what he did.”
“He treated me as all men treated me before becoming your wife. It was truly not that big of a deal, and no more than I could handle on my own.”
“What did he do to you?”
“He attempted to trade and bargain with me for my body several times when you had assigned him to be my guard. Of course the transaction never took place, but it struck me that perhaps he should move on from your service.”
Hök sat on a bench, not ready to leave the privacy of the garden just yet. He pulled her down onto his lap and tilted her chin up so she was looking him in the eye. “What did he do to you? Did he force himself on you?”
“He tried, yes, but your brothers were quick to come to my aid.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
She shrugged and her eyes cast down again. “What was I to say? Men had always treated me as such before I came to Tronscar and lived among your family.”
“You deserve to be treated like a lady, because you are a lady.”
She took his hand and placed it back on her belly. He grabbed up her face and kissed her hard. His hand traveled down her throat and cupped her breast, his want for her ripening body mounting.
He slowed down the kiss, keeping his hand pressed to her cheek, keeping their heads pressed close together at the brow. “You spent many years, many formative years, at the hands of a demon who tried time and time again to take the goodness from you, but he failed, my love. You are a woman of unbreakable spirit and strength and I pray to God our child holds every one of your qualities. You are goodness and light and by the grace of God, I was blessed with you as my wife.” He kissed her again, and she melted into his arms.
“Stop talking, Hök. And more kissing.”
“Your wish is my command, sweet Sovia.”
Epilogue
1189
The Iron Maiden weaved up the Helga River toward Toraslotte. Her son stood at the bow, leaning out over the water, with her husband standing protectively behind him. The wind was high—a storm was coming in off the North Sea just behind them, chasing them inland to the protective passage of Celiafjord.
“Do you see any?” Hök shouted out to Leif.
“No. No Kraken!” Leif beamed, with mischief in his eyes. Her son took the role of storyteller and chief entertainer in the family quite seriously. Hök beamed back his own mischievous smile, and left little Stål at the bow, with his hand in his older brother’s, and strolled back to the stern, where Sovia sat with their six-month-old daughter Cecillia, who was sleeping in her fur-lined basket.
“Let’s get her ahead of those storm clouds, men,” her husband boomed. The crew gave a rousing cheer and sat down to the oars. Sovia’s heart soared with excitement and anticipation to see all her dearly beloved servants after such a long time away. Yet her time away from home had been fruitful and fulfilling. Sovia breathed the crispness of the greenery of the valley that rose up to meet them. “Do you smell that, my love? That is the smell of home.” She spoke to her babe.
“So much beauty aboard one ship—no wonder the sea monsters have been charmed to sleep,” Hök said, leaning down to first kiss Sovia’s cheek and then their daughter’s. He gingerly collected her into his arms, raising her high against his chest like the proud papa that he was.
With each tender kiss he gave their sweet girl, or every boastful claim of their daughter’s beauty, Sovia’s heart hurt a little more for her own lost childhood, grieved a little more for the little girl that she had been. She still mourned for the part of herself that had been unjustly stolen. It took seeing her precious children in the arms of a worthy father for her to realize just how much her young soul had suffered, and yet she had survived, which renewed a measure of her pride.
Hök’s unfailing love and devotion to his family forced her to look deep into old wounds and air them out in the light of day, but with every tender kiss and loving embrace from her husband to her children, her wounds healed a bit more.
The sheep that stood down by the water’s edge rose their heads as they approached, baaing her a welcome home. She quickly looked to Leif and little Stål to point them out, but her eldest son was already doing that himself, for his little brother. Since Cecilia’s birth, Stål had shifted from being her babe to becoming Leif’s little shadow. Leif took tremendous pride in being the leader of the Höksons.
King Sverre had been negotiating and pleading for Hök to return to Toraslotte and reclaim his seat as earl for years, but her husband was overly cautious with his family’s safety and wouldn’t risk Sovia or their children to any more political plots. Upon Sovia’s birthing Stål three years past, her husband had sworn a vow to her that none of their children would ever be used to advance a king’s interest. Her children would have what she had not, and be raised with the free spirit of a Magnusson, granted the freedom to grow and learn with the loving guidance from their parents.
Leif, who at eleven years old suddenly seemed so large to her, picked up his little brother and held him on his hip, pointing his arms out like an arrow, speaking in his little brother’s ear, telling him no doubt wondrous, exaggerated tales of Toraslotte.
Far off to the west were the snowcapped mountains that had always been there, comforting her with their indestructible presence. They now welcomed her family home, standing at military salute.
Sovia cupped her hand over her eyes and searched the peaks, trying to figure out what exciting wonder Leif was trying to point out to Stål, and eventually she found what held their rapt attention.
“Welcome home to you as well, demon bird,” she said. She smiled. A hawk, with his majestic, powerful wings fully extended, dug deep into the mountain air, and rose higher and higher, circling his domain, screeching out his battle call, soaring over them all.
Historical Note
While researching The Iron Princess, I came across the fa
scinating history of Sigurd the Crusader. Medieval Norway was such an unbelievably vicious and chaotic time, with a steady stream of kings being murdered, daughters being shipped off to wed rival kings, and warlords and clergy constantly switching sides. During Sigurd’s reign, he did in fact travel to far and distant shores, crusading and coming to the aid of Jerusalem. Legend holds that he was given a reward for ending the siege on the city—a fragment sliver of what was referred to as the true cross. It was also fact that after a long and unhappy marriage to Malmfred of Kiev that Sigurd divorced his wife. It is disputed that he then married his longtime mistress, Cecillia.
Although I love the rich history of Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, I wanted to make clear that my Sons of the North series is a work of pure fiction. The Northman’s Bride does skirt around Norway in the civil war era, which lasted from 1130 to 1240. Wars were fought between rival kings and pretenders to the throne, and the victors of the warring parties always placed their man on the throne, starting with the death of King Sigurd the Crusader in 1130. Near the end of the twelfth century, two rival parties, the Birkebeiner and the Bagler, emerged as the dominant political powers, and shaped the foundation of politics in both countries. It is also fact that Sweden’s Jarl Birger Brosa was a leader of sorts of the Birkebeiner party, which helped bring both King Sverre of Norway and King Canute I of Sweden into power during this period of rival kings, when neither country had clear succession laws. But, that is where the accuracy of the history in my stories ends.
It sure is a fun and dangerous time in which to set a love story. However, all characters, several locations, and all events appearing in this work are fictitious, purely fabrications of my imagination, and I hope you all found them entertaining.
Sandra Lake is the author of The Warlord’s Wife and The Iron Princess. She was raised in rural Canada and married her childhood sweetheart (who at times was her childhood nemesis). They are currently living happily-ever-after along with their sons and unruly husky.