Page 33 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Bjorn sat rigid as stone. “My plans for revenge melted long ago.”

“Melted? You sound like a skald.”

“No, I mean melted. I put your sword into a blacksmith’s fire and beat it to a mangled mess.”

“Did you?” Egil chuckled. “I parted with much coin for that sword.”

“I know. That’s why I was glad to ruin it.” He felt a grin slide across his face. His father matched it.

“Was that the end of your revenge?” his father asked.

“Most of it. Oddny, the woman who took me in, taught me not to waste my life. She said I had a choice; live in a poisoned past. Or seek my future.”

“A wise woman.” Egil coughed and rested his head on the headboard. “May the gods reward her.”

“I didn’t wait for the gods. As soon as I earned my own silver, I gave most of it to Oddny. To help her and to provide a rich dowry for her daughters.”

“You have no buried hoard?” Egil asked.

Bjorn spread his arms wide. “I am as you see me. Give me my weapons, my friends. I need little else.”

The jarl stared at shadows, mulling this.

“It sounds like a good life.” He faced Bjorn, perplexed. “And you have no wish for revenge?”

“Revenge. Justice. They often look the same.”

Vicious coughs wracked Egil. “They’re not. Far from it.”

The jarl doubled over, snatched a cloth from the furs, and hacked into the linen. When he was done, Bjorn glimpsed bloody mucus on the cloth before Egil balled it tightly in hand.

Wiping his mouth, the jarl went on, “You’re not here for the musings of a dying man.”

Bjorn marveled at their easy conversation.

The old Viking and his exiled son. The past was a blur, reaching for him in this room.

Ghosts of long ago…of rolling and jumping with Thorstein on this bed and being shooed out by his laughing mother while she braided her hair.

Whenever Valda took long journeys to visit family in Jorvik, Arnora spent much time here.

As a boy, he never understood the subtleties of men and women.

Love and lust were foreign words. He couldn’t say he understood much now, and that was on purpose.

Love was a sickness. It weakened men and ruined women.

His mother didn’t deserve what Jarl Egil had given her, a life shuffled aside.

She had been goodness and sunlight—the only woman to have his heart.

She was gone forever. Now, he must speak of another woman.

“Tell me of Ilsa. Why did you make her your hird ? The girl I remember didn’t have an ambitious bone in her body.”

“Ilsa is a woman seasoned by life,” Egil said carefully.

“Do you trust her?”

Red-rimmed eyes pinned him. Age-old stories flickered there of a man who’d seen wickedness and glory.

“You want to know about Halfdan.” Egil huffed softly and looked away. “Ilsa killed him. She did it to save me and herself.”

Bjorn took the words like a punch to his gut. “Are you saying Ilsa meant to kill her husband? That his death was not an accident of war?”

The jarl sat up, laughing like a crafty old fox.

“An accident? No. Ilsa is a talented huntress with the bow and arrow. Her aim is true. Never doubt it.”

“She led me to believe it was hlokk . Caused by the confusion of battle.”

“No, she pointed an arrow at Halfdan.” The jarl stared, hazy-eyed, at the pelt draping his legs.

His chest labored as if he was recalling a bitter day of battle.

“I had killed one of Aseral’s warriors. That’s when I saw Thorstein on the ground, bleeding from his throat.

” The old man’s eyes squeezed shut and he touched his throat, forlorn.

“I fell to my knees beside your brother. And when I looked up, Halfdan stood over, his axe raised to kill me.”

The jarl’s breath was ragged. Years of battle, death, and loss wore on him. Women panted hard to bring life into the world; men panted hard when they left it. Blood, sweat, and pain were constant companions.

Bjorn leaned forward in the chair. “You are certain Halfdan was going to strike you?”

“Yes.” Distance haunted the old man’s face. Eyes opening, the jarl studied the far wall. “It happened quickly. Movement in the trees—Ilsa aiming her bow and arrow at her husband. The arrow flew and…Halfdan fell, dead on the ground beside me.”

Ilsa, a violent woman? He couldn’t believe it.

The jarl heaved a sigh. “She wanted him dead.”

Bjorn fell back in his chair. The girl he knew had never been violent.

Wind rattled the shutters in his father’s chamber, the only pair in the room. Much of the hall was dark with few openings, a simple fact of the northlands. Cold could sneak in otherwise.

The gloom fit his mood.

He scrubbed both hands across his face. “You made her your hird .”

“She saved my life,” the jarl said. He sagged back on his pillows, looking years older.

“It was not an easy marriage. She wanted to divorce Halfdan years ago, but her mother and father begged her to stay with him.” Jarl Egil bowed his head, his features heavy with pain.

“I did the same…begged her to stay with him.”

“Why?”

“Halfdan was a better ivory hunter than Odell. A horrible husband to Ilsa, but the best sea hunter.” The old Viking’s sorrowed gaze met his. “Halfdan brought much wealth to Vellefold.”

“And Ilsa paid the price with her unhappiness.”

Proud Ilsa. She didn’t share painful secrets with him, and why should she? From the very first night in Rouen, he’d badgered her about her lack of fighting skills and stormed out when she’d asked for his help.

“Halfdan had an insatiable hunger for women. The younger, the better. When she vowed to divorce him, he threatened to wipe out Vellefold’s ivory trade. Told her he’d steal Vellefold’s ships.” The jarl pinned Bjorn with a rueful stare. “Two of which were mine.”

“Why didn’t you destroy him?”

The jarl grimaced. “I didn’t know about his threats, not until later. But, Odell and Gerda did. They…” Egil searched the air as if he’d find the right word there. “They threatened her.”

“Threatened Ilsa… Why?”

“Perhaps that’s too strong a word. Who am I to say since I’m no better a father?

” A weak hand batted the air. “All I know is something happened last Mabon season. Halfdan left suddenly and was gone all winter. Back to his old home in the Faroe Islands, I heard. He returned to Vellefold between the raids. That’s when he saw an opportunity. ”

“A chance to become jarl,” Bjorn said. “He kills you and says the enemy felled you. None would question him.”

“Ideal for a man who lusts for power.” Another cough and, “Or a woman.”

A chill skittered down Bjorn’s back.

“Ilsa?”

Egil’s nod was slow. “I have wondered. After I was wounded, she took control of Vellefold like a woman born to it.” He wiped the blood-stained cloth across his mouth.

“She argued against the plan to seek you. Ilsa was convinced you’d be reluctant and not put your whole heart into saving us.

” The old man croaked a laugh. “She wasn’t far off, was she? ”

Bjorn didn’t flinch. His father spoke the truth.

“Yet you made her your hird . Equal to Odell and Bodolf.”

“I did. She has done much good.” His father faced him. “Odell can’t see beyond his greed, and Bodolf is a good man, but he doesn’t have the heart to lead beyond battle. Being jarl is one part might and two parts fairness and reason. He has no patience with people and their grievances.”

“Because he’d lop off their heads.”

They shared a smile over the unmarried hird’s lack of tender mercies with women. Bodolf was best with men and battle.

Bjorn chewed on this news—Ilsa scheming for the jarldom? He couldn’t imagine it.

If she was angling for the jarl’s seat, she’d gambled well—seeking warriors to dispatch Vellefold’s enemies, learning the art of war, and winning the hearts of Vellefold’s people.

He couldn’t say it was the right picture, but he couldn’t argue it was wrong either.

Vexed at being caught unaware, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“Because this is the first time you and I have truly spoken to each other.”

Arms folded, he considered his father. He doesn’t know Ilsa hides thralls . If Egil did, he would’ve said as much by now. It was tempting not to mention her cave, a parting gift to a childhood friend. His heart gentled for the fierce woman who stirred his blood.

Was he in danger of thinking with the flesh between his legs?

He swore under his breath. The grove and the cave beyond it was their childhood. But, these were not childish times. A man was dead. Murdered because he was a lout of a husband?

Was that worthy of death?

If that were true, Egil would’ve been dead a hundred times over.

Knowledge of Ilsa’s unhappiness left an acrid taste in his mouth. Her brazen reach for power did too. The settlement’s order hung by the thinnest threads.

And now he knew the terrible secret of its brightest hird .

The door creaked behind him. Bodolf shuffled in and shut the door with care.

“It does my heart good to see you two together.” He lumbered over to the jarl’s bedside, axe and shield in hand. “Have you settled the jarldom?”

“I won’t take it.”

Bjorn rose, a heavy burden on his shoulders. Egil’s words bore down on him: a leader must be willing to make hard decisions. Even those that hurt him. Bjorn faced both men, resolved.

“I fear one of your number is trying to take the jarldom.”

“Who?” Bodolf fairly spit the word.

“Ilsa.”

There was no joy in saying her name. The jarl was nose down and mute. Bodolf heard her name and thought it a jest.

“You mean the woman who tends our sick?” Bodolf asked, smiling.

“Ilsa has broken Vellefold’s laws. She hides runaway thralls.”

“What?” Bodolf and the jarl’s voices exploded in the chamber.

Another coughing fit wracked Egil. He doubled over and fell back against the pillows, blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.

“She spoke to me of outlawing slavery in Vellefold.” Another cough and, “I told her it was impossible.”

By their stunned faces, neither man knew what Ilsa was doing.

With all the trouble, it was understandable, yet very much against Vellefold’s laws.

Only the master or a jarl could free thralls.

Jarl Egil’s iron-fist ruled over the annual Thing, the late summer gathering where Vikings aired disputes and settle matters of law.

If the stories he’d heard were true, Ilsa gave refuge to thralls belonging to the jarl and her father and mother. None were hers to free.

“Are you certain of this?” Bodolf asked.

“My men tracked footprints on her land.”

Doubt lines etched the old hird’s face. Grumbling, he rested his shield on the jarl’s bed as if the news was too much to bear. Ilsa was a beloved daughter of Vellefold. Many would turn against her.

Bjorn would’ve given Ilsa leeway, sought her out, and tried to understand her.

But she had lied to him. Bitter words, they swirled like poison in his mind. Was she trying to save the jarl the day she killed her husband? Possibly.

Or she saw an opportunity to take what her lout of a husband tried to steal.

Trust in his childhood friend dwindled by the hour. There was one way to keep careful watch of her. He faced Bodolf.

“Take two men and bring Ilsa to me.”

“Now? The hour is late. What can she do?”

“Plenty. She is a resourceful woman.” He suspected the wily huntress could maneuver much with few resources and little time.

“She is Jarl Egil’s hird ,” Bodolf argued.

Bjorn put iron in his voice. “This isn’t a request. I will question her. Tonight.”

“Despite your history with her, Ilsa may not answer you.” The jarl’s face was ashen.

“That will be my problem. It’s why my men and I are here. To bring order to Vellefold.”

“Do what you must.” Egil sunk deep into his pillows. Heavy lids hung over his eyes as he whispered, “Ilsa may have made herself an outlaw, but I am grateful to her.”

“Grateful?” Bodolf’s voice boomed. “For what?”

“She brought my son home.”