The Warlord's Wife

by Sandra Lake

  “Grandma said she would like me to come draw in her chamber. I must be quick. She will teach me more shapes.” Katia spun on her heel and scampered up the back stairs.

  Feeling as if the weight of a mountain were on her shoulders, Lida walked reluctantly back into the hall.

  Tero sat in the best chair with a horn of cider in hand. Lida’s brothers and their wives sat close at the steward’s side.

  Tero stood. “Aye, my dear lady. Please take my seat; it is most comfortable.”

  Glaring at her family, Lida ignored the offer and sat on the bench.

  “Lida.” Her brother Peter’s clipped tone held a warning. “We have discussed Jarl Magnus’s proposals with Tero and discovered many interesting facts.” Her brother sent her a meaningful look. His stiff jaw and beady eyes told her he was prepared to twist her arm raw, as cruelly as he had when they were children, to get her to marry the Swede. She froze her face into the neutral expression of polite indifference that her mother had taught her.

  “He will release you to return to Finland once his sons have grown . . .” Peter’s words trailed off. “Perhaps as little as five winters. He is very practical and will purchase you a farm here,” he added with growing excitement. No doubt Peter was already mentally harvesting the crops of that imagined farm. “When he releases you, you would return to your family as a wealthy woman.”

  “He commands a hundred trade ships, Lida,” Svin said, next in line to twist her arm. “His men have labeled his lands the Iron Kingdom. ’Tis no jest. I’ve heard of it from the men down at the docks.”

  “Good for you, Svin. Why don’t you go birth his bastards for him then? Better yet, why not send Tina? She looked well enough impressed with him,” Lida said, holding no apology in her tone. Thank heavens her mother was not above stairs to overhear.

  “Why, you ungrateful shrew!” Tina erupted. “How dare you speak of me—”

  “Enough!” Her father, who never raised his voice, roared. “You have your answer,” he told Tero. “My daughter stays. Now go.” Red in the face, he pointed to the door.

  “My apologies for creating unrest in your home, sir.” The steward nodded to her father and started toward the doorway. “I only wish to correct the lady on one point. Jarl Magnus does not seek bastards, but trueborn heirs to lead his vast empire. He is seeking a wife, not a slave. That is the offer he presents.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Lida said. “Allow me to correct you, sir. Jarl Magnus presents me with nothing—‘tis you who does his presenting.” She spoke in a soft tone that had an undercurrent of Norrland steel—or at least she hoped it did.

  From his blank expression, it was clear Tero had expected her to swoon or even be grateful for this unsolicited offer to be a warlord’s breeding mare. She could not be further from grateful. In fact, this entire mess left her insides twitching with irritation.

  ***

  Bishop Henry had been overjoyed to loan Magnus the use of his private council chamber, since the jarl had delayed his departure from Finland. Filled with ornaments gilded in gold and furnishings draped in velvet, the overfilled chamber was clearly intended to impress its guests with the grandeur of the Holy Roman order more than actually serve a practical purpose. The bishop, who claimed God blesses practical men, often fell short of his own words.

  Magnus glanced up from his correspondence, his foul mood rapidly returning. “What do you mean she said no?”

  Tero nervously shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Her family, with the exception of her father, seemed receptive. Regrettably, the lady was not.”

  “Why should that matter?” Magnus threw down his quill. “You offered the farm—are they holding out for a higher price? I shall not put up with another spoiled female, Tero. We shall sail for Stadsholmen as we planned.” His steward furrowed his brow, appearing confused.

  “Agnafit,” Magnus grunted, remembering the new name of the city. His cousin, the king of Sweden, needed to stop renaming everything. It was very tiresome—which returned his mind to what presently irritated him. He slammed his fist to the table. “Senseless wench.”

  How dare she refuse me? She would rather waste her remaining fertile years on a mud hill than rise above her station? He would not have it.

  Magnus stood, and his chair crashed to the floor behind him.

  Leaning against the far wall, his chief officer, Aleksi, spoke up. “In our fathers’ day, you could have tossed her in your ship and been halfway back to Tronscar by now.”

  “Our forefathers had all the fun.” Magnus chugged the rest of his wine and slammed his chalice to the table. “They answered to no one, while we’re cursed with blockheaded kings enforcing their petty laws and clergy with their endless writ and holy orders.”

  “A handful of soft-footed men and we could sort this out quickly, Jarl.” Aleksi commanded the jarl’s men as a general, but he still strategized like a pirate.

  “’Tis why I like you, Aleksi, and have you for my war council—”

  “Nay, nay,” his steward interrupted. “The bishop wrote a new law forbidding us to kidnap Finnish maidens and drag them north, remember?” Tero hesitated while Magnus and Aleksi scowled at him. “Master, may I offer an alternative?” Magnus gripped the chalice in his hand, waiting for Tero’s advice. “Might you think to ask her yourself? Perhaps speak to her father, meet her daughter? She may feel rushed to decide on the spot.”

  “Rushed to decide? ’Tis no time for jesting, my friend.” Magnus scoffed. That could not possibly be the answer. “I have wasted enough time speaking with the father.”

  “Aye, indeed,” Tero said, and continued more quietly, “yet you departed without explaining your intent—”

  “’Tis obvious what my intent is. I am a jarl. I do not beg for wives. Fathers bring their daughters to me. Women come to me.”

  “Perhaps you may invite her to feast with you this eve?” his steward suggested. “Here, of course. Impress her with the nobility that she would be exposed to as the friherrinna of Tronscar.”

  “You may invite her to feast, but regardless of if she consents, we sail on the morning tide. I begin to think I’d prefer a sensible Swedish woman.” With that, he dismissed Tero and endeavored to return his concentration to a trade agreement with a southern jarl about a shipment of steel, but it was to no avail. His mind kept wandering back to the blond braid.

  No simpleminded farm girl was going to say no to him. If he wanted her, then he would have her. That was the end of it.

  ***

  Constructed on the highest level of land, the unfinished stone church cast long shadows across the lower bailey. Warm orange rays from the setting sun wrapped around her shoulders, yet Lida continued to shiver. Riding on horseback and holding tight to her father’s sides, she entered the open gates of the jarl of Turku’s fortress. It had been rebuilt and shared yards with the bishop’s recently completed residence.

  Lida ignored her instinct to dig in her heels as she was escorted inside on her father’s arm. New braziers and hanging candleholders filled the great hall with an unearthly glow. Lida and her family were ushered forward to sit at a long table, closest to where the bishop and the noblemen from Sweden sat. To her relief, the intimidating jarl of Norrland was not present.

  She had been expecting a boorish feast filled with Norrland men. Lida was shocked to find the tables teeming with merry villagers. Delicate, fragrant arrangements of the last of the summer’s wildflowers were spread throughout the hall. Opulent chalices were filled with wine, and baskets of nut bread and platters of fruits and cheeses were being served—things which were reserved for the finest of occasions. Lida should have been impressed and enjoyed this rare occasion, but she could not.

  As a cow being led to slaughter, she felt anxious, scanning the hall, waiting for the axe to fall. She wished she had been allowed to stay home with her mother and daughter. Her moth
er’s foot ailment had flared up again, no doubt worsening due to the tension within the family.

  After the jarl’s steward had taken his leave, her brothers and their wives had argued, yelling and stomping as Lida sat silently, staring across at her father, who as usual said nothing. She could not help but feel a measure of anger toward him for leaving this all on her shoulders.

  Fathers and husbands never allowed their females to make their own decisions. Every woman in her village was treated in such fashion. But her father was different. He would never force her to accept a man simply because it benefitted him. At one time this freedom of choice had felt like a rich blessing. Tonight, she felt alone and conflicted.

  Her sisters-in-law had muttered insults, while her brothers, with some genuine concern, worked on convincing her to accept the proposal. They claimed their reasons were in her and Katia’s best interest, but she saw them to be nothing more than self-serving. That was when Ingerid, her mother, had stepped in.

  “I will speak alone with my daughter,” Ingerid said in a velvety tone.

  Obediently nodding, one after another, everyone but Lida quit the hall.

  “My dove, how are you fairing?” she said, opening her arms to Lida. “If ’tis not a simple aye or nay, may I ask why this offer pains you?”

  Her mother was the wisest person Lida knew, and at times, also the most annoying. The village women teased Lida that her mother was the most ill-equipped farmwife, but would make the fairest of queens. She was perfectly tempered, never lashing out, making living up to her standards nothing short of exhausting. She sat waiting for Lida to admit what she already knew but had not the courage to voice.

  “I—I did not care for the way he looked at me.” That was not at all true, and her mother tilted her head, seeing easily through Lida’s falsehood. The truth was so far from what she had said that Lida struggled to breathe. Ingerid simply continued to smile. Curse, her parents were vexing. “Why does father not simply bully me into deciding what he prefers? ’Twould make this much simpler.”

  “Very well, my love. You know your heart best. If you do not wish for more children, then that is the right decision for you.”

  “Ugh, Mother!” Lida scratched her fingers into her tight braids. “What of the farm? What of Svin and Peter and their needs? Father cannot afford to take on more laborers. Our crops are spread too thin on such a small amount of land. What will become of us?”

  “You need not cloud your decision with such matters,” Ingerid said with naive confidence.

  The last few years had been hard on her parents as they aged rapidly. Lida had not the heart to challenge her mother. Her parents had no knowledge of her brothers’ poor management of the estate, the failed seed that cost them so dearly or the wasteful spending and irregular saving. But Lida knew. Her brothers’ families would continue to grow, their wives would demand a greater share of the family income, and the once well-sized manor home would become very small, very fast. What would happen to Katia then?

  “That silver-tongued steward did a fine job wooing your brothers, did he not?” Her mother nudged her shoulder, trying to lighten her spirits.

  “All of Turku is talking of this supposed great jarl of Norrland,” Lida said. “They say he rules his northern kingdom of icy steel with justice and honor.” Lida looked to her mother and they both burst into giggles.

  “Since when could you trust a Swedish sailor not to brag with bloated tales of his homeland?” Ingerid’s laugh sounded as light as a song.

  “He sounds like a warlord to me,” Lida said, and her throat closed up. “He may be wealthy and powerful, but it is only because he has the biggest and sharpest sticks. Rarely are such distinctions earned from justice and mercy.”

  “True, true.”

  Lida slumped her shoulders as she felt a weight pressing in on her. “They say he is the king of Sweden’s favored cousin, that his children would hold titles and power throughout the Baltic Sea. Why would he make an offer for me?”

  Ingerid tenderly stroked Lida’s cheek. “Impeccable taste. The man does have eyes.” She sighed. “From my window, his strapping shoulders did strike me as terribly judicious,” her mother said with another small giggle. “Tell me you were not a smidge flattered.”

  Lida did not giggle. Instead she closed her eyes to the remembrance of pain, the rejection, the black pit of loss that had taken her years to climb out of. “How can I accept a man I do not love, a man who does not love me, and is most likely incapable of love? I would be nothing more than his high-titled whore.”

  “Thus is the plight of all women. You have your answer then.”

  Lida exhaled, feeling defeated. “Katia needs a name.”

  “Her name is lovely.”

  “You know of what I speak. Why should my sin, my mistake, cost her so dearly?”

  “Do you consider her a mistake?”

  “Never.” Her daughter was not a bastard, but a child conceived in love; a blessing, not a curse.

  Lida’s thoughts were reluctantly catching up with her mother’s as she began to understand her line of reasoning.

  “Destiny has two ways of crushing us; by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them,” Ingerid said. “That is what the Greeks say anyway.”

  Lida dropped her confused head onto her mother’s shoulder. She didn’t want to admit to the twinge of flattery she’d felt at Magnus’s offer. It felt wrong and sinful. “He would be more a slave owner than a husband. Nothing as you and father are.”

  Her mother rubbed her back. “The Greeks say there is no such thing as chance and choice. We fail to see that we can control our own destiny; make ourselves do whatever is possible; make ourselves become whatever we long to be.”

  “I hate the Greeks,” Lida mumbled. Why could she not have a regular mother as her friends in the village? Reading and writing in four different tongues was not a fruitful skill for a farmer’s wife. Studying herbs and seeds would have been far more useful than shallow proverbs. “I don’t care what the Greeks say. I want to know what you think! Tell me what I should do.”

  A serving girl tripped, sending her silver tray of smoked fish crashing to the floor. Lida blankly stared at the mess, still lost in her thoughts.

  Logic and reason warred with instinct, her need to protect Katia fighting with her desire to spare her own heart and stay with what she knew: her family and the security of Turku. Her stomach twisted, the back of her head throbbed, and her leg jitter persisted. Was it greedy to desire a better life for Katia, a secure future for her aging parents, and—aye, the buried desire for more children? And what of her secret yearning to feel wanted by a man, to give and take pleasure from him? So many nights she had wished that she had never tasted the pleasures of the marriage bed. How could one long for a food they had never tasted? ’Twas the longing for that taste that burdened her.

  The deluge of feelings was followed by the memory of the heartless, icy stare of the jarl. She thought of the forbidden, intoxicating musk that she’d resisted indulging in and the obvious waves of power that had fairly rolled off his shoulders. He held the power to consume her and leave her decimated beyond repair. To never be loved, but more likely be degraded as chattel. Could she bear such treatment?

  Lida tried to take comfort from her mother’s wisdom, but the entire day had truly been one troubling moment after another, leaving her mind swimming with unanswered questions.

  Mute and feeling numb all over, she watched people move around her as if in a dream, a very nerve-racking, unpleasant sort of dream. The kind of dream where she was standing on the edge of a cliff, suddenly falling, falling to the ground—

  “Jarl Magnus requests the honor of speaking with you, my lady,” Tero said, snapping Lida out of her internal conflict.

  Tina elbowed her in the ribs. This was why they had been invited to the fortress. The price she must pay for their meal.
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  Chapter 3

  Tero led her down a series of long, torch-lit corridors. Lida’s nerves frayed a little more with each step.

  At last, they came to a large, well-lit chamber. Before she could catch her breath to settle her racing heart, the door clanged shut behind her, leaving her alone with the fiercely handsome, very problematic jarl.

  Stacks of parchment and piles of scrolls littered the tables, with the exception of the table before the jarl. A quill, stamp, elk-horn handled dagger, and blotter were all neatly laid out in front of him.

  He glanced up from the scroll. “Be seated,” he said in a deep, velvety voice, and pointed to a chair directly across from his own.

  “I would prefer to stand,” she said, while struggling to maintain the serene tone her mother insisted upon.

  “I would prefer you to sit.” He pointed again to the chair.

  How barbarically charming of him.

  She sat on the edge of the chair, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap.

  “I have chosen to speak with you, to hear your counteroffer and conclude the negotiations.” He leaned forward, his stare nailing her to the uncomfortable seat. “Was the farm not grand enough for you?”

  “My usual price for breeding illegitimate children has gone up,” she replied softly.

  The corner of his mouth raised slightly with what appeared to be a hint of amusement.

  Her discomfort grew. His eyes roamed over her torso, lingering on her bosom.

  Rudeness of the highest order. He may be handsome, well-groomed and important, but under his fancy garb he had nothing more than the manners of a barbarian.

  Lida noticed powerful men rarely bothered with politeness or modest decorum. The women that sought the coveted role of wife to a wealthy man usually paid a very high price, often surrendering their self-worth. She had little interest in finery; basic material possessions were all she needed to live a comfortable life. The wife of such a man as the jarl would never be cherished. She would be polished and put on a shelf, taken down when he had use for her, and surely only spoken to when necessary.