by Sandra Lake
The Warlord’s Wife
Sandra Lake
InterMix Books, New York
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE WARLORD’S WIFE
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / March 2015
Copyright © 2015 by Sandra Lake.
Excerpt from The Iron Princess copyright © 2015 by Sandra Lake.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18718-4
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Dedicated to openhearted strangers who give freely of their time and talents to help inspire us all for the better: Jacki G, Maggie Jagger, Coreene Callahan, and Julie Mianecki.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Acknowledgments
A preview of The Iron Princess
About the Author
Prologue
Lylasku Fortress
Northwest coast of Finland—1150 A.D.
Seabirds screeched overhead, drawing Lida’s gaze heavenward. She felt like she was trapped in a terrible dream, aware of her surroundings yet powerless to control what would befall her next. Lida was certain of only one simple truth: the price she would pay for love was endless sorrow.
“Make haste,” Helika, the mistress of Lylasku and Lida’s mother-in-law, ordered her slaves.
The two servants tightened their grip, dragging Lida toward her judgment at a blurring pace. Her secret had been destined to be exposed, but even so, she hadn’t prepared herself for this inevitable outcome.
A gust of damp autumn wind forced salt air deep into her lungs, whipping her long hair in her face. After all that Lida had lost, what an empty-headed fool she had been to believe God would protect her from more pain. Life is a collection of torturous moments with a sprinkling of joy mixed in. The sooner she adapted her head to this truth, the better prepared her heart would be.
As they passed under the stone arch entryway, moving from daylight into the cavernous hall, Lida strained to adjust her eyes. The mighty riveted iron doors of the fortress shut behind her with a foreboding, heavy clang.
“I demand she be flogged.” Helika elongated her bony neck, turning her face upward to the balcony. She dug her clawlike fingers into Lida’s collarbone, shoving her down. The musty mats made of rushes cut into the tender bones of her kneecaps, pain and fear knotting her muscles.
Lida bowed her head, avoiding eye contact with the servants who were preparing the long tables for the evening meal.
“I warned you.” Helika’s voice echoed into the rafters. She grabbed a fistful of Lida’s hair, forcing her to face the chieftain, who gazed down at them from the second floor.
Lida knew that with his failing eyesight, her father-in-law could not identify her. Her customary braids had been yanked apart. Blood trickled from her nose to her chin and down the collar of her favorite blue gown, which was now torn beyond repair.
“What now, wife?” Chief Rein sighed, slowly descending the stairs. As he drew near, he said, “Release the girl.”
“She is increasing!” Helika answered for all to hear. “I laid eyes on her bloated form in the bathhouse. Proof of what I warned you. She wedded your son for his wealth, your position. She is naught more than a portside harlot.” Helika drew her hand up high and swung, striking the side of Lida’s temple, sending her crashing to the floor.
Church bells tolled behind her eyes, her head absent of a clear thought, and her fingers dragged through the soiled rushes, revealing the unique rose-colored granite below. The great house was constructed with such a beautiful, rare stone, she thought. Her throbbing head held a gale of conflicting thoughts and memories. The red granite stronghold sat proudly on top of a majestic point of land overlooking the sea. A month ago, this house held all her dreams for a joyous future. But her husband’s death at the hands of Swedish crusaders had crushed her tranquility, leaving naught but mournful heartache in its wake.
Lida was disoriented by waves of nausea. Part of her just wanted to coil into a ball and die, while another part cried out to regain a measure of self-control.
In her sixteen years, her mother had trained her for the many trials a woman might face. This was not one of them.
“Your son has been dead for less than a full moon.,” Helika told the chief. Urho’s stepmother was the chief’s second, more adored wife. She never missed the opportunity to make that distintion clear to all. “They were wed only the moon before. She is five moons with child, mayhap more.” She clawed at Lida’s gown. “Behold with your own eyes.”
“Nay, nay—mercy, mistress.” Dizzy, Lida fought against the determined hands that descended upon her. “I beg—” But her arms were restrained, and her gown, bliaut, and under-tunic were pulled up and over her head.
Quivering, naked, and at her father-in-law’s mercy, she gazed down at her foreign shape. Her flat sto
mach had been replaced with a round bump. Each day her body was ripening more for the babe that would come this winter, much too close to the date of her wedding night.
“Cover yourself,” Chief Rein said. “Leave us, all of you.” The servants scurried out, murmuring with one another as they went.
Racked with violent shudders, Lida struggled to push her arms through the sleeves of her gown.
Breathe. Calm your heart. Settle your mind, she told herself.
“Helika speaks the truth. You are more than two moons with child.”
Teeth chattering, Lida said, “I—I . . . th-th-the babe is Urho’s. I swear upon my life that he is the only man with whom I have lain.” Lida would not deny her sin to Urho’s father. Urho had loved his father, and was mourned by all his family, but especially by Chief Rein.
Lida struggled to find the courage to raise her head. She pressed the back of her hand to her swollen eyelid. Breathe. Look up, her mind whispered.
The sympathetic eyes the chief once held for her were gone. “Explain, Lida.”
“I beg forgiveness, mercy,” she said, unable to control the quiver in her voice. “When Urho came for me in Turku—he—we lay together the night my father gave consent to the contract.” She lowered her eyes. “We were to be wed when he returned from the north. He said we needn’t wait . . . I was promised to him. I loved him, so I . . .” Peering into her father-in-law’s eyes, she found rage, disgust, and rejection.
“You offered my son the pleasure of your body months before your union?”
Lida was unable to form words—she had no defense.
“How many others before my son had such a service from you?” His hand cracked across her cheek, only mildly stinging her skin, yet at the same time tearing through her soul.
“Never return. Go back to your father. He shall decide what is to become of you and your bastard.”
Lida’s eyes burned, pleading for moisture, but she was drained of tears. She was immune to the bruises to her face, the humiliation of her body—nothing could touch her. Nothing would ever hurt as much as the pain of losing Urho. Her one true love was rotting under the ground, gone from this world, and she longed to follow. Urho’s babe growing inside of her was the sole reason she continued to take in breath.
Suddenly, Urho’s half brother, Valto, charged into the hall, gulping for air. “Wait! What has happened? Where are they taking Lida?”
Helika pulled at her son’s shoulder. “Come away. Do not become plagued with her.”
Valto’s voice was shrill. “Nay! Mother, where are they taking Lida?”
Unlike his mother, Valto had been welcoming to Lida when she’d married Urho. Lida had mixed impressions of her brother-in-law, an awkward, stout boy of seventeen summers. She had a measure of sympathy and gratitude toward him, yet often felt ill at ease in his company, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze upon her.
“She is a whore. She was not pure the day she wed,” Helika declared.
“U-Urho raped her,” stuttered Valto. “In Turku, he lured her outside of her father’s house. If she is with child, Urho is the sire. He forced her.”
“Speak the truth to me.” The chief strode toward Lida, renewing her fear of his raging fists. “Speak!”
“Urho never raped me.” Holding her breath, Lida lifted her head higher. Her child had been conceived in love. With that remembrance, her courage reappeared. “I loved him—I love him.” Urho was the stars in the sky, the beat upon her heart, the air that she breathed. He may be gone from this world, but never from her.
Turning his back to her, the chieftain said, “Take her.”
“Nay!” Valto protested. “Is it not our custom for a brother to take the wife of his fallen brother? She carries Urho’s child. I will take her and claim the child.” Valto’s words instantly formed ice in Lida’s veins. Her inner voice screamed, Run! Her mother had trained her to never ignore this voice; “a woman’s instinct for survival,” she’d always said.
Helika clutched her chest as if she had been stabbed. “Never. Rein, tell him!”
“Son,” the chief said calmly, “heed the wisdom of your mother.”
At this, Helika’s maids began to shoved Lida out of the great hall. Her escorts set a brisk pace down the sloped lawn, headed for the waiting longships.
“Lida, your cloak.” Valto dashed toward her and placed Urho’s brown bear cloak over her shivering shoulders. Urho had wrapped her in this cloak as he kissed her farewell the day he departed to fight in the south. “’Tis unfair. You belong with me.” He secured the cloak pin, his fingers lingering under her chin.
Her spine tingled, not from cold but from a surge of growing distrust. Why had her brother-in-law lied in claiming that Urho raped her?
“You are kind, Valto. My thanks.” That was a lie. Valto was not known for his kindness. She had witnessed several disturbing displays of his temper, mostly directed at slaves and small animals. With Urho by her side, she had never had cause to fear her brother-in-law, but now . . .
“I will fix this and get you back!” Valto called out. “Where you belong.”
She accepted the outstretched hand of Otso, the ship’s navigator. Otso had fought next to her husband and brought his body home for burial. She felt indebted to him, and considered him her friend. Her heart was racing painfully fast, her wounds throbbing, and a sudden flood of gratitude came over her for the secure passage. She boarded without looking back.
She sat at the stern of the vessel, listening to the wind and the sea, searching for comfort and for answers. Her limbs were numb with cold. How would she face her family? How could she explain?
In her belly, she felt the fluttering dance of life deep within her. All other thoughts fell away. Her precious babe needed her, and the movement helped her to focus not on herself but on the tiny life that she had been blessed to protect and grow.
Lida rubbed her belly, answering her unborn child with a firm stroke. “Your mama is here. Never fear, my love, I will take care of you,” she whispered to the bump concealed under her cloak.
It was both a prayer and a promise.
Chapter 1
Eight Years Later . . .
Turku, Southern Finland
Jarl Magnus Knutson sat in a place of honor at the elevated head table overlooking the congested hall, impatiently marinating in boredom. He could not decide what turned his stomach more this evening: the greasy stench coming from the poorly crafted hearth or the herd of females being corralled in front of his table for inspection. Reminding himself why he was there, he tapped the underside of his ring against the arm of his chair. Tic, tic, tic. He needed to pick a wife and get back to more important matters.
Magnus had had his fill of Finland. The Bishop of Turku’s newly constructed residence had been built like a fortified castle, and it was artless, underwhelming, and woefully crafted. The same could describe the maidens being rounded up a few feet away.
“’Twere all you found?” he asked Tero under his breath. He began to think his steward was picking out a new ox to pull a wagon, not a wife to breed his sons. When Magnus had said sturdy, he’d meant not frail. If he had wanted unwashed and shapeless, he would have specified. The sole comely maids in the pack were fathoms too young to suit him.
“Master, these females meet your requirements,” his steward answered, practically licking his lips at the abundant feminine flesh on display.
Magnus mumbled behind his raised cup. “Have they all their teeth?” He arched his brow, reminding his steward of his oversight last month in Riga.
“I would not make that mistake again, master,” Tero answered, clearing his throat to begin the introductions. “I present Miia of house Kivi, Reta of house Rusko, Sohvi of house Joki . . .”
Having passed his thirty-fifth winter, Magnus was well aware of how females perceived him, as evidenced by their blushe
s and fluttering eyelashes. The fathers of these women desired an alliance with him because of his political power and wealth. For the maidens, the appeal was more primal. All female creatures, human and animal, sought the strongest and most dominant male to mate with. He nodded his respects to the group of women, then returned his attention to his tankard of ale.
Without moving his lips, Tero leaned in and asked, “Not one?”
Magnus ignored his loyal steward.
“But the one on the end,” Tero murmured. “Sohvi, with the dark hair. You always select an ample bosom such as hers at Mak’s.”
“And?”
“And this one is not a whore, she—”
“Too young.”
“She is robust. I assure you. Have her sit with you—”
“Enough. Sit and drink. We weigh anchor for Gamla Stan with the tide. I only suggested a Finnish wife to please the bishop.”
Magnus would forever carry the guilt of his first wife’s death. Helena had been groomed to be a southern princess, and was easily broken in the harsh northern realm. His remorse acted as a continual reminder not to make the same mistake in allowing Tero to select his wife—though the chore was proving more taxing than he expected.
“Aye, Magnus,” Bishop Henry beckoned. “Have you at last selected a maiden?” The bloated clergyman claimed a seat to the right of him. “I can vouch for the virtue of all whom your steward has selected.”
“Be assured, I doubt not their honor, Excellency. What I seek is a serviceable and submissive wife. Land I have. ’Tis sons that I am in need of.” Ten noblemen at the head table bobbed their heads in agreement. No one would dare to disagree with him here. They all needed Magnus’s trade alliances far more than he needed theirs.
The bishop smiled hungrily at the collection of women. “A virile young jarl needs a wife to suit. Turku boasts the comeliest maids of all the Baltic trading ports.”
Magnus suppressed his desire to roll his eyes. Of course the crusading bishop would prefer him to select a Finnish wife. It would guarantee Magnus’s wide-reaching arm of protection for the vulnerable port.