Page 19 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Nine

J arl Egil’s matselja plunked another bucket of sand on the square table.

“That is all of my sand.” Her pebble-sized eyes glared at grains falling through the table’s crevices.

“You can have it back when we’re done,” Bjorn said, as an olive branch.

The stoop-shouldered woman hadn’t been around when he was a boy.

Her place as keeper of the longhouse was one of the many changes since he was last here.

A lesser hall than Longsword’s, the high ceiling rafters closed in on him.

A knot formed at his nape, and no amount of rubbing could make the tension go away.

His father slept behind that eastern wall.

“I’ll have a word with the jarl when he awakens,” the crony sniped. “This is too much, looking after the lot of you and the jarl. Now you take my sand. How will I clean the tables and scrub my pots? With the thralls gone, it’s just me keeping this hall. It’s too much, I tell you! Too much.”

Odell’s wife, Gerda, steered the servant to the fire pit where steam rose from three black cauldrons. “Come, Helge. Frida and I are here to help you.”

Thorvald dumped the last of the sand across the table. “That one has vinegar in her veins.”

“Everyone is tense.” Erik snapped twigs while Gunnar worked around him, spreading sand evenly.

“It is to be expected. The people were nearly wiped out.” Thorfinn clipped his beard bands into place. Moments ago, he’d scraped a blade across his jaws, leaving a thin beard lock at the base of his chin.

“Our cheery welcome is done. Now we work.” Bjorn drew a finger through the grains.

Over the years, the Forgotten Sons had formed certain habits—getting the lay of the land with a makeshift map came first. They’d made them in dirt, sand, and ashes.

No warrior could be successful without knowing the terrain.

Desert Kings and viziers made maps of clay.

Greeks painted pictures of land on scrolls.

Longsword continued the practice with ox hides: one map hung on his wall and the other secret map he kept hidden.

The Sons had done this often, with symbols a second language only they understood.

Thorvald lined bigger rocks on the table for mountains. “That old bird keeps pecking at you. If she’s not careful, the bear from Rouen will bite back.”

“She’s harmless.” Bjorn set small stones in place. “I’d complain if I was charged to keep this hall without extra hands to help.”

A wiry spitfire, the matselja retied her red head scarf beside the fire pit. The longhouse could seat a hundred-fifty, two hundred tightly, and she kept this all by herself? No wonder she complained. Jarl Egil should’ve had twenty thralls in attendance. Longsword had thirty.

Vellefold’s feast hall had wide benches built into one wall, beds for the Sons.

Above them, spears—too many to count—flared in sunburst patterns on the wall; bronze-plated buckets brimming with apples, plums, turnips, onions, and leeks sat on shelves on the other side of the hall.

The rest sat on the floor in plain iron-banded buckets…

all part of the bounty Ilsa delivered. Yet, Vellefold’s people credited the Forgotten Sons for the bounty.

Between the clamor of their arrival and Ilsa’s stunning admission, there was no opportunity to set the matter right.

Her ship’s homecoming had been well-timed. That shelf had been empty and much food stores depleted when he and the men had first entered the hall. Battle wrote its story inside the feast hall. A scorched post tilted as if it tired of holding up the damaged roof, evidence of fire from the last raid.

The far end of the hall was unharmed. A wood platform raised three steps off the earthen floor, ending at a plain wall holding two crossed axes and Jarl Egil’s shield.

Black and brown bear rugs draped the flooring with a heavy oak chair in the middle.

Two silver cauldrons, ceremonial bows, flanked the jarl’s seat.

A smith had long ago imprinted gods and giants on the silver, their metallic eyes glinting orange from firelight.

The silvery gods beckoned. Come see what’s here .

His gaze went higher. A white fur draped the jarl’s chair. He stared at it, peculiar numbness flaring under his breastbone. Three slashes ruined the fur’s edge, the work of a fledgling hunter skinning his first bear—the pelt from his first kill.

How old was he then? Eleven?

He swallowed hard when a silken purr floated behind him.

“Of all the riches in this hall, Jarl Egil values that pelt the most.”

Ilsa . She swept into his presence like fresh air on his skin.

Piney yet exotic. Her scent wrapped around him, a hint of hot sands and cool desert nights.

The aroma belonged to the finest, dark-haired concubines, not a blond Norsewoman.

But this was the essence of Ilsa. She was different from other Viking women and proud of it.

Molars clamping, he forced his attention on the fur. No woman should smell and sound that good.

“Do you think I care what Egil values?”

“You’re staring at it like you do.” She was matter-of-fact, turning the timeworn hunter’s prize into a weapon, probably to soften his heart for the jarl—a futile cause. His heart was not for the taking.

But the fair huntress could try.

Not ogling Ilsa was a worthless battle. He turned and sucked in a fast breath. The seafaring woman he’d traveled with had transformed to Freyja in the flesh, a goddess of sensual delights. He had to stare.

Odin help him, he was only a man.

Plain dark wool hugged every slope and curve of her lithe frame. Strangely, she showed almost no skin. Brows knitting, he heard a teasing question. How could a woman fascinate a man and not reveal more flesh?

A long braid hung from the crown of Ilsa’s head with two smaller plaits coiled around its base.

The severe pull elongated fierce green eyes.

A thin line of kohl added mystery to their angled shape.

She was vivid, striking. Men in southern kingdoms would pay a high price to steal her.

Those hired thieves would lose because this woman would not be taken.

Aromatic oil sheened her proud face, even her mouth glistened. Light caught a lone bead on her lower lip. Tension coiled at the base of his spine.

That bead.

It could be a pearl drop of his essence. A beastly, sensual thought…Ilsa’s mouth and his?—

He cleared his throat. “You look…fair.” He cringed. For once, he wished he had a talent for words.

“Thank you.”

Erik’s snicker rasped into a cough. The dark-haired warrior scrubbed a hand over his mouth, the corners of his eyes creasing with humor. The rest of the men stayed nose-to-task, smoothing already flattened sand, except Gunnar. A devilish gleam lit his eyes.

“I’m sure Bjorn meant to say you are the fairest star of the north, lady. It does my heart good to see a true Viking woman such as you.”

“Why thank you, Gunnar. What a pleasant greeting.” Ilsa took two steps toward the table. “What is this?”

“A map of Vellefold.” Gunnar gestured to a row of rocks. “Perhaps you’d like to help?”

Bjorn’s goodwill slipped. “Since when do you need help making a sand map?”

“Since we know little about the lay of the land,” Gunnar shot back before turning to Ilsa. “Ignore him, lady. Bjorn’s likely taxed from the journey. Afterall, he is the oldest of the Sons.”

Bjorn snorted. The Whelp.

Grinning, Gunnar waved a hand at the map.

“Erik and I scoured Vellefold’s defenses and her entry points.

From the west, the fjord…” His pointing finger directed her attention.

“From the east, mountains and shielings where Bjorn tells us Aseral’s fighters came twice, yet the north is supposed to be impassable.

” He pointed lower. “This part, the south, is unknown. A forest as far as we can tell. Scouting is needed there.”

“ My forest,” she said firmly. “It’s part of my farmstead, which stretches from the outskirts of the settlement all the way to Jord’s brows…the cliffs we passed today.” She looked to the men. “All of you saw them. No enemy can scale them. Don’t waste your time on my lands.”

Gunnar cleared his throat. “We did see the cliffs, lady, but we need to check?—”

“No. You will not.”

Her tone was iron. Erik and Thorfinn exchanged sharp glances.

Ilsa scanned their faces, recovering her calm. “Is it not true that all of you want to go home before the seas are impassable? This, the east—” she waved an elegant hand over rocks in the sand “—is where you need to look.”

“Because you have our welfare in mind,” Erik said dryly.

“No. Vellefold’s. That is why you’re here.”

She faced Erik with a backbone of iron. Bjorn couldn’t stop his smile of grudging respect. She was formidable, but Erik was uncowed.

“You want us to concentrate on one place only.” The dark-eyed warrior looked like he was ready to chew nails. “The place where Aseral’s fighters disappeared.”

“Bjorn has already told you about it.”

“We share everything, lady.” Erik’s black eyes narrowed a fraction. Air was taut, a woman asserting her authority amongst seasoned warriors.

“Then, you must agree, it makes sense to turn your attention to the east.” Hands folding at her waist, she smiled gamely at the men. “But first, you will want to get settled. Did my sister tell you where to find the jarl’s sauna? All of you are welcome to it.”

“A sauna would be good.” Gunnar rubbed his jaw. “I wanted to shave before we supped, but I doubt there’s time.”

“Shave? Those sprouts?” Thorvald hooted. “Don’t cut your chin hunting for them.”

The men laughed, and tension faded. Ilsa took two steps away from the table, missing Gunnar cuffing Thorvald’s arm.

The smash-faced giant rolled his eyes, mouthing fairest star of the north.

Color crept into Gunnar’s cheeks, his smile splitting wider.

Snatches of humor were a good sign. His brothers were at ease—except Erik. He was eyeing Ilsa’s back warily.