by Sandra Lake
“Of what did he die? We have not lost a prisoner in five years.”
“’Twas not to be helped. Fever, my jarl.”
Magnus highly doubted that. In his distraction over the last few months, his prison had come to resemble more of a dungeon, filthy and neglected throughout. If a man was guilty of a blood crime he could choose his fate: a swift death or a life slaving in the mines. A man guilty of a lesser crime would be punished with fruitful labor until his sentence was completed. That was how his father ruled Tronscar, and that was how Magnus had assumed his jail was run still.
Magnus had assumed wrong.
The fisherman was inadequately clothed in threadbare rags, with festering wounds on his bare feet—‘twas a testament to his will that he was alive.
“Unlock the door. Now!” Magnus commanded.
The prisoner woke, using considerable effort to push himself to sit.
“Do you speak Swedish?” he asked. The man shook his head. “Come. You will speak with my steward.” He helped the man up, but the frail man jerked his arm away.
His brother entered the cell and began to speak slowly in broken Finnish.
“He says you are a horse’s ass but he would thank you for a bath,” Hök said. Magnus looked at the man, and his brother started to chuckle. “My Finnish is not so good, though I am learning it from a bright young girl. I may have mixed up ass for good and horse for man—not that far off.”
The fisherman flicked his eyes between Magnus and his brother, confusion, anger, and uneasiness written on his face.
After seeing Otso placed safely in the care of Tero, Magnus returned with a heavy step to the now-bustling great hall. Standing in the shadow of the alcove beside his brother forced him to see the hall with Hök’s eyes. His brother’s eyes fell pointedly on certain individuals, and Magnus followed his gaze.
The evidence of these machinations all led back to the same person. A trusted person, who for months had placed doubts in his mind about his wife’s fidelity, had sent Ylva to the bathhouse, and had assigned a sadistic nurse to watch over the once-happy girl who was now withdrawn.
Magnus would not stop until every detail and motive was laid clear before him.
He approached the head table with the hound at his side. Tight braids adorned his stepdaughter’s bowed head. Magnus sat next to her. His brother stood in front of her, blocking her from the gaze of the hall.
Magnus gently touched the delicate blond braid. The little girl flinched. Blinding rage began to cloud his vision. He needed to focus and stay calm, so as not to frighten the child further.
“Lika has missed you,” he told Katia. “She told me that she has not wagged her tail for months.” The girl held panic in her eyes, sending a silent message of warning to Magnus by shaking her head. “She will not bite you, Katia. I would never let her harm you.”
“I know she would never hurt me,” she whispered.
“Then why not say hello to your pet?” he asked. Katia’s eyes searched around the hall in worry. Hök leaned in closer, farther shielding her. Magnus whispered, “Did someone tell you not to pet her?” She nodded. “Do you like having you hair braided?” She shook her head. “Who braided you hair?”
“Janetta.”
Magnus was about to roar, but held it in a moment longer. “Did she tell you not to pet the dog?” The girl blinked, not knowing how to answer. “What did she do to Lika?”
“I cannot tell you; ’tis a secret. If I tell, bad things will happen.”
“Tero!” Magnus stood and pulled Katia into his arms. “Seal the doors. I want Klara, Janetta, Ragna, and all household servants secured in the hall. I shall return.”
He removed Katia to her chamber, his brother and Lika following behind. He placed the child on the fur rug in front of the hearth, the embers from the morning fire still warming the chamber. The elkhound approached, head down, and laid her muzzle in the child’s lap.
“You know, Katia, the secrets of what you will make me for my next drawing or hiding places for your treasures—those secrets are good. Especially if no one is hurt. But not all secrets should be kept. Did you tell your mother that someone was burning your dog and that is what made her bite you?”
Katia shook her head. “My mama is having babies. She needs to rest, Jarl Magnus. I am not allowed to bother her.”
“You are right that she needs to rest, but you are always allowed to bother your mother. Would you like to tell me your secrets? I will tell you one of mine and Hök will tell you one of his.”
“Hök does not have secrets.” She smiled shyly up at her friend, and Magnus felt a twinge of jealousy that his brother had a more calming effect on the child than he did.
“I have one.” His brother sat down on the floor across from the child. “When I was a boy, my mother died.”
“Huh!” Katia gasped and touched his brother on the knee. “Did you cry forever? I would cry forever.”
Hök pet her hand. “Aye. I cried a lot. Now I smile when I think of her. She would have liked you. She was a woman who liked adventure, like you. I was a few winters older than you are now when she died. I didn’t want to go live with my father’s people and I didn’t like being with many of my mother’s people, so I kept it a secret, ran away to the forest, and lived alone. I liked it at first. No one told me what to eat, when to bathe, when to chop wood—but then do you know what happened?” Hanging on to every word, the little girl shook her head. “I got lonely. So I told my secret to my brother. We decided that I would visit him when I was lonely and he would visit me when he was. If I had never told him my secret, Katia, I would still be lonely.”
She leaned down and kissed the dog’s head. The dog licked her face. “Janetta does not like dogs. She does not like cats either, but cats are harder to hit with a stick, and dogs stay put. Lika did not like Janetta smacking me. She would growl at Janetta, and she bit her once, not meanly, just to tell Janetta to go away. That is when Janetta started to be meaner. She made the iron stick red in the fire and then would poke Lika.” Tears poured from Katia, and Magnus looked to Hök. One of them should do something. He had not come prepared to deal with tears. Shouting, insults, anger, yes; but tears put him on his heels. Especially little-girl tears.
“Pick her up,” his brother mumbled.
Magnus did.
“She will never come near you or Lika again, and if you are scared ever again, you will tell me. I am your jarl . . . and your stepfather. ’Tis my duty to protect you.” He patted her back as she soaked the collar of his tunic. “We shall go speak with your mother. She will need to be informed why Janetta has her head shaved and gown burned in the middle of the yard.”
Katia shrieked, “Her hair? No, Jarl Magnus, that is her only pretty part. She will be ugly after.”
“She is already ugly, Katia. We will alter her outside to match her inside.” He walked down the corridor with the child in his arms. It felt right to hold her. He pulled the leather ties from her hair and ran his fingers through it, releasing the braid. “Better?” Nodding, Katia smiled brightly. He would definitely need to stockpile more steel for when she was older. “You do not trust me yet, Katia, but one day you will. I shall earn it from you.”
“And you will teach me to spin about with a sword and shield. You said I could learn.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“So I did. Now, I wish not to upset your mother, but I see no way around this one. You must tell her everything. After, we will fix what we can.” He nodded to her for reassurance and, mimicking him, she stiffly returned his nod.
***
Katia had fallen asleep talking to her unborn brother and sister, telling them that she would be their nurse, promising never to braid their hair.
The brave little girl had worked out in her head that she needed to protect her beloved dog by not speaking up, believing Lika would be safer in the kennel than sleeping on her b
ed.
“What will you do?” Lida asked her husband in a hushed tone, stroking her daughter’s hair. She longed to reach out and touch him, heal the broken seam that had come between them.
“I would burn her alive if I thought it would not upset too many of her relations. She is a witch and deserves no better,” he said in a dark, gravelly voice that was filled with exhaustion.
“Will you really cut her hair?” Lida whispered, not wanting to wake her daughter.
“Aye. She can walk barefoot to the next village. If I grant her mercy.”
“That will not go over well with Klara, or half of the men under your command.”
“They are under my command,” he said, raising his voice. His eyes cast down to Katia, and he softened. In an undertone, he said, “I placed her in a position of honor in my household, and she betrayed me. No one betrays me and goes unpunished.”
“I betrayed you,” she said, jarring him out of his introspective deadlock. “I knew Klara was lying to you, and still I kept it from you. I was not certain of the right course of action. She holds great power in Tronscar. She has the loyalty of all your men, either by birth, marriage, or by seeing to all their”—she arched her brows to their highest point—“needs. And I do not just mean baking them their favorite cakes. Well, that she oversees as well, but you understand my meaning.”
He leaned forward. “How do you know this?”
“The day Lika nipped Katia, I had spoken with Ylva and seen to her new position with the weavers. Ylva introduced me to several women. ’Twas the same story for all. Klara . . .” Lida did not want to say the words out loud. “She teaches the women to serve the men in Tronscar in all things.
“Her motive is the real question. I understand her desire to retain her elevated position, although this is a disgusting way to go about securing it. What I cannot unravel is if she was simply trying to give you and your men the very best care, or if she was trying to gain control of them, and you, to serve her own interests and purposes. I fear, Magnus, that we will never have the answer to that question, and therefore the decision on how to move forward becomes more difficult.”
“There is no difficulty. She will be banished from Tronscar,” he said, his rage palpable.
“I would ask you reconsider.”
“You offer her forgiveness?” he hissed. “After what she did to Katia?” His gaze turned angry. “After what she did to you? She convinced me that you were a whore, made me doubt that you carry my child—”
“Children,” Lida interrupted.
Glancing at her stomach, he regained a measure of control. “I cannot release her for the crimes that she has rendered upon my house.”
“And what crimes are those, exactly? She placed well-trained, eager women in your bed. She ran a very clean, capable kitchen, and she will say she regrets Janetta’s lack of experience with children. She will have a plausible reason for it all. The fact remains, she served this house her entire life, her sons have served you; two have died in your service.”
“Her high wages compensate her well for her service to this keep. Her sons are hardworking men, as all my men are. I hold no culpability in the deaths of either of her lost sons. One drank heavily and fell off a cliff; the other died of a plague that took all my men serving at Kura last spring. She committed treason to this house; nothing more.”
Lida reached out for his hand, placing it upon her stomach, connecting him with his children. “Klara needs to be removed but not shamed, or she will leave this house vulnerable. This house must be secure when our children are born. We must neutralize our enemies, not produce new ones.”
“How can you . . . have such logic on this matter? I thirst for blood when I think of what she has done,” he said, staring at their joined hands on her stomach. “When I think of how close she came to taking you—this—from me.”
“Women are emotional beings, Magnus, but not stupid. My mother taught me to think from all angles and sides. We need to find a solution, and then little by little we will cleanse Tronscar of Klara’s mess.”
“What do you . . . think I should do?” The words left his mouth clearly, but Lida was still not certain if she could trust her ears. Magnus Knutson of Tronscar, Jarl of Norrland, asked a woman for advice?
Do not gloat. It will make him reconsider.
She suppressed her smile. “She is advancing in years. Tell your people that you are grateful for her service and give her a purse of gold. You have too much of it anyway. Build her a fine cottage outside the inner bailey, as a further tribute to the Hirsi clan for their service. Do as you wish with Janetta, but do so after Klara has been honored. It will appear to be a later discovery and not the cause of the domina’s removal. Little by little, strip Klara of her power and influence.
“Your top men need to stop tupping the household maids and be provided leave to use the services of Mak’s house, if they have a need for it. Or, better yet, Magnus, encourage some of them to wed. A man with a wife and children is far more loyal and bound to Tronscar than one who has nothing to lose.”
“How do you know this?” her husband asked, earnestly searching her eyes.
“Logic.” She shrugged.
Hunching his shoulders, Magnus ran his hand over his unkempt beard. She missed seeing his handsome face unmasked.
“Speak with Tero.” She reached for his hand, craving the connection of his eyes. “The poor man has a lot of work ahead of him. He may know how best to deal with Janetta. I do not wish to see her again. In my condition, I fear that I would lose my self-control and the babes would come early. Perhaps, tonight in the hall, announce Klara’s retirement from domina, and be generous with your words in front of your men. ’Tis good for them to see you openhanded, to think that you would do the same for them in their turn after so many years of service.”
She longed to kiss him, but it was too soon for that. She was so grotesquely large, she assumed he would not think to look at her as he once had. She wondered if he would ever look at her with that intense, lustful passion again.
Her poor husband appeared drained as he dragged his feet out of her chamber. A hint of worry crept into her heart.
Why had Klara tried so hard to have Lida removed from the jarl’s favor? What was her motivation, her long-term intent? Jealousy, or simply cruel hatred? Or was it something more, something larger, something deeply rooted?
The questions shadowed her sleep. She struggled to find a comfortable position with the whirlwind of movement stirring against her bladder.
Chapter 20
Hakon waited for Klara in the darkest corner of the tavern. Neither of them had much else to do these days but drink and plan. He stood and pulled out a chair for her.
“You smell like you’ve been bathing with the sheep,” Klara said. She ignored the chair he’d offered and sat in his chair, which was warmer and had a better sight line of the door.
“Don’t aim your temper at me, Klara. I never imagined all of our hard labor collapsing in a day,” Hakon grunted.
“Our hard labor?”
“’Tis not what I—”
“The goat-headed mules applauded the jarl’s decision. My only mistake was underestimating the bloated sow.” Who slept in Janetta’s rightful place.
Hakon toyed with his blade, scratching lines into the table. “When I saw the return of the half-breed, I knew there would be trouble.”
“Ale, Klara?” the serving wench asked.
“Not the brightest candle in the room, are we, sapling?” Klara yanked the girl’s braid, hard. “Mistress Hirsi to you.”
“Mistress Hirsi.” Mak shuffled over to her table. “This one is new. She needs—”
“She is fat and slow. What have you been feeding them?”
“I swear—nothing more than gruel.” The greasy whelp put his hands up. “The men like to take a meal with the girls. I nev
er fail to charge them for the whore’s time and food.”
Klara snorted.
Stupid cows.
Coiling the girl’s braid into her fist, Klara pulled her in. “Here’s your lesson of the day: never believe you are important to them. They see you as a hole to wet their prick. Nothing more.” She shoved the girl away and turned to her sour-breathed, useless partners.
She crossed her arms, pushing her breasts up, regaining the men’s attention. “We need to come up with a new plan. These bastards think they can push me out, pay me off with one lousy purse, like some goat herder. I will not molder in some worthless shack for the rest of my life.”
“Mistress, you’re the wealthiest woman in Tronscar,” Mak stammered. “The house the jarl is buildin’ for you will be second to none.”
“You are a fool, Mak. My house will always be second to Lida’s. I refuse to live there—instead I shall move to Bolinas. They’ll think I’m doing it to be closer to my grandchildren, and suspicion will abate.” Klara could not stomach a moment longer with these simpleminded, powerless boys. She rose up from the table. “You will question every trader, every merchant. Coin, cunt, weapons, whatever the price—someone knows something.” She turned her attention to Hakon. “What did we learn about her bastard’s father?”
“The fisherman Otso didn’t speak. Before the other one died, though, he said he heard Otso had been friends with the friherrinna’s first husband. He remembered him saying he had once had a top position to a chieftain’s son in Österland,” Hakon said.
“Bring this Otso here. Have your best grain wine and wench ready for him. If he still will not talk, send for Dag. At least one of my useless sons has the mettle to do what needs to be done. Find out which chief, which village, and do it now!” Klara flicked her foxtail cloak over her shoulder, smacking the useless sod Mak in the face.
She stepped outdoors into the damp air and took a deep breath. She could smell spring nearing. She had much work to do—especially finalizing Janetta’s travel arrangements and strategizing placements for spies in the jarl’s household.