Page 17 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Eight

L eather scrunched in her fist. Ilsa looked down. She had a death grip on the strap of her leather bag.

“Frida and Bjorn look perfect together, don’t they?”

“ Ehhhhh , Frida just smells better,” Ardith said.

Ilsa hiccupped a laugh. “She does.”

Tension evaporated off her shoulders. It had always been so with Ardith, a true friend and ally.

“But you’re smarter,” Ardith quipped.

She swung around to face her. “And older. Men don’t want smart, older women.”

“Oh, men like you, lady. He’d probably choose you, but you reek of sea salt and sweat, and ladies such as you are supposed to smell nice.”

There was no need to name the he in question. Another gift of Ardith’s friendship was her uncanny ability to read Ilsa’s mood and know the lay of her mind.

“You have it wrong, my friend. Women like you and me are supposed to be who we want to be,” she said with an eye to Jarl Egil’s hall. “None of that matters because I wouldn’t choose him.”

Ardith snorted. “Whatever you say, lady.”

Two male thralls staked torches outside the feast hall. The task done, they scurried inside and shut the doors with a solid thunk . Vellefold’s people who weren’t inside, clutched their mantles, said their good-byes, and sought the warmth of their own homes.

She ought to do the same. But she could only stare at the closed door. She was expected there. Soon.

“Frida is a fresh beginning for any man. I am broken goods.”

Ardith pushed off the runestone, a fervor flushing her cheeks.

“Don’t you say that lady. Don’t you ever say that.

Perfumed clothes and tender hands don’t make one woman better than another.

It’s what’s in here—” her balled fist struck her chest “—a worthy heart, and yours is better than silver and gold.”

She dipped her head under the weighty praise. “I’ve not forgotten my blood oath to you.”

“I know you haven’t. I’m counting on your honor, lady.” A rare smile cracked Ardith’s face. “And should you forget, I’ll be the biggest pain in your arse and remind you.”

She laughed. It was a good sound, her letting go. True, warriors, raids, and winters coming bite worried her. Adequate food and protection did too. What was one vow to a friend? More responsibility. As if enough burdens hadn’t been heaped on her shoulders already…

Ardith dragged in a long breath. “You worry me, lady. All you have done to save us.” Hazel eyes softened at the corners. “Find joy where you can. For tomorrow, you could be dead.”

“Such hope and cheer you spread.” Checking the hall, she was wary.

Had she delivered a warrior? Or unleashed a dragon?

There were times on the journey that she wondered…

Was Bjorn here to help? Or pour out vengeance?

“ Ehhhh . Keep your hope and cheer, lady. I’ll take what I can manage today.” Ardith’s lanky legs ranged two casual steps, a signal their conversation was done. “I will sup with Valgerd. Go home and prepare yourself. And later…” Ardith’s voice dropped. “…later I will check on our friends.”

“Be careful.”

Ardith swung around with a jaunty step. “No one’s caught me yet.”

Ilsa’s own feet landed quickly on the path leading her away from the settlement. Pines, Rowan trees, and Linden trees lined the road until tall birches marked her farmstead. With fleet strides, she tried to free her mind of Bjorn and Frida. The images were unrelenting.

His head tipping to catch Frida’s every word…

Frida’s arm linking with Bjorn’s…

Their bodies close as they walked.

Thankfully, a lyrical voice called to her. “Ilsa, my child, you are home.”

It was Iduna, wearer of plain brown skirts and red glass beads.

With a pure white braid thick as a child’s arm, she could be old.

Firm skin and clear blue eyes said otherwise.

Iduna had been her fostra , the wet nurse who’d witnessed her birth.

Years she’d plaited Ilsa’s braids and cleaned her skinned knees.

Now she kept Ilsa’s longhouse. More kindred spirit than mother, Iduna had soothed her as an older sister would when life had turned cruel last harvest season.

Iduna’s counsel had nudged her, Be the huntress of your fate.

It was no surprise the fostra chided, “What are you doing up here when our guests are down there?” Iduna was peering at the dark settlement where a few souls set torches outside their doors. “Is your father taking credit for the alarm you set?”

“Possibly. I don’t mind.” She embraced the woman who’d practically raised her. “I got a glimpse of the man he used to be when he welcomed Bjorn and his men.”

“You are too loyal to him.”

“He is my father,” she reasoned. “The idea was mine, but the lur horns were his.” A cleansing sigh and, “Let us go home.”

Home. It was good to anticipate the comfort and familiarity of her own longhouse.

Iduna’s lips clamped in distaste. Odell was never an easy topic between them.

Years ago, her father had shattered bones on his left leg while hunting ivory.

The limb had never properly healed. Today, she witnessed the same enthusiasm in him when she’d wed Halfdan ten summers ago.

Her father reveled in the company of bold men.

He loved his daughters, but Halfdan was the son he never had, a man to lead his ships on ivory hunts after her father was maimed.

Her dead husband was the dark, connecting thread in her secrets, and Iduna knew them all.

A handsome, ambitious Viking from the Faroes, Halfdan had been a skilled ivory hunter who’d ruled the seas with her father’s ships. With Halfdan, those vessels danced on waves as if he’d made a pact with Aegir’s daughter and sealed the bargain with sex and blood.

Everyone believed he had.

A dull ache throbbed in her leg. Scanning the forest, she rubbed the old wound. In quiet moments, when night fell, she feared Halfdan would walk out from those trees full of bloodlust.

His death haunted her.

A hand on her shoulder startled her. Iduna.

“He is gone, Ilsa.”

Hand at her side, she forced herself to ignore the old leg wound.

It haunted her like her dead husband—the past that wouldn’t let her go.

Crossing her yard, leaves drifted like falling snow, kindly yellows and fire oranges.

Her longhouse was the last home on the outskirts of Vellefold.

Secluded. Peaceful. Perfect for a woman who wanted to be left alone.

Iduna’s gait matched hers. She turned her face to Ilsa. “I saw Jarl Egil’s son. He looks…strong.”

Which was Iduna’s subtle way of saying a man appealed to the fair sex. Ilsa would not touch that conversational thread.

“When did you see him?” she asked.

“When I was gathering moss near the Rowan tree. The two of you were talking at the front of your boat.” Ageless eyes sought hers. “Is the exiled son a good man?”

“You mean, can we trust him?”

Iduna’s brow wrinkled with impatience. “Yes. Is he trustworthy?”

Thoughts of Bjorn knotted her insides. Unraveling them was best done in solitude.

“I don’t know.”

A huff and, “Ilsa, you traveled with him on a small vessel. A man can’t help but show his true nature when hobbled like that.”

“I don’t know.” Two quick steps and “I—I suppose he has shown some goodness. He is the same yet…different.”

A wool-covered arm blocked the longhouse door. “Did something happen between you and Jarl Egil’s son?”

“Iduna…” she growled.

Her homecoming was supposed to be victorious.

She’d brought home the prized son with his band of brothers.

Vellefold was saved…wasn’t it? Yet, restlessness hounded her.

At least her home was tranquil. A golden canopy of trees covered her longhouse.

And there was her garden with its rows of vegetables, her sheep idling in a pen.

All was shut tight save the south facing skybur door, the room for making cheese and skyr . The open door meant one thing.

“Let us not discuss Jarl Egil’s son. He is a knot that will soon enough be untied.” She shut the skybur door with care, and let the leather bad slide off her shoulder. “Instead, tell me if our friends stayed well-fed when I was gone.”

“They were.” Iduna’s graceful hand took the bag. “Now will you explain to me this ‘same and different’ with Jarl Egil’s son?”

She scooped water from a rain barrel and doused her face. “I wouldn’t call him Jarl Egil’s son.”

She gripped the barrel’s rim. In the dancing water, a wild thing stared back. Lean-featured with glowing eyes. A sun-whitened mane and fur-trimmed mantle skimming her cheeks.

How did Bjorn see her? A dangerous woman, he’d said.

But how do I see him?

“Bjorn is…” her voice softened and she took her time answering.

“He is commanding. Quiet…with an easy smile.” Her grip on the barrel firmed.

“And he has a deep voice that touches places inside me. Sometimes his stare makes me shiver as if I’ve walked naked in an icy river.

” She marched to her longhouse door and shoved it open. “And he prefers dark-haired women.”

Iduna’s eyes lit with perception. Ilsa passed her, tore off her mantle and plopped herself on the nearest bench. The longhouse was dark save bright orange embers radiating in the fire pit.

“Then your sister’s friendliness with Bjorn won’t bother you, will it?” Iduna collected the mantle off the bench. “I saw them walking to the feast hall.”

Ilsa yanked off her boot garters. Jealousy was an ugly stew inside her. “If she convinces him to stay, so be it.”

One boot dropped to the floor with a thud. Iduna hung the travel bag and mantle on pegs. She walked to the fire pit and selected a smoldering twig.

“Yet, Bjorn’s eyes were on you.” Iduna set the twig to a wide soapstone lamp, then another. Flames poofed , and comforting light chased away darkness.

She laughed harshly. “That might’ve been when he propositioned me.”

“Did he?”

“Then, Frida welcomed him, and well…” she let her words trail off.