Page 34 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Nineteen

T wo of Bodolf’s men pulled wide the hall doors, and all eyes went to the dark opening.

Snowflakes swirled, messing with lamp flames and fire pits.

Odell, Frida, and Gerda waited patiently on benches by the food stores.

Gerda hugged herself and whisper-hissed into her husband’s ear.

Valgerd and Kell sat stoically on another bench.

The settlement’s sleepy gossips had poured in when news spread of the late-night goings-on.

Everyone wanted to know: Did Ilsa hide runaway thralls?

Flanked by Bodolf’s men, she shook off their hold and swaggered into the hall. Her hair was unplaited and her mantle unpinned. Green hems swaying, she crossed the hall, her ferocious glare aimed at Bjorn.

“Good luck putting her in chains,” Erik said under his breath.

Bjorn was confident. “It won’t come to that. She’s reasonable.”

Erik angled his head at a row of onlookers. “I see few charitable faces.”

“If she confesses, I will make this trouble go away.”

As long as she’s not scheming against Jarl Egil.

He’d make certain of that in private.

The thralls didn’t matter. The state of Ilsa’s heart did. One glance at the other side of the hall proved Erik was right. Odell’s face was a thunderstorm, his wife and daughter were no different. Ilsa didn’t appear to care about anyone but Bjorn.

If her eyes shot flaming arrows, he’d be scorched head to boot.

She stopped at the foot of the raised floor. “Bjorn.”

“Ilsa.”

She was grumpy and defiant, taking in the coiled chain on the jarl’s seat. “Does Jarl Egil plan to bind you?” She huffed dismissively. “It’s one way to keep you here.”

Helge cackled, poking a fiery log. Sparks flew up like gold pieces. Judgment was coming.

Bjorn saw the woman he considered a friend in a new light.

Sea-green eyes shiny as polished metal, a slender huntress with a mind of her own.

Ilsa was sharp edges and soft angles, fraught with deep, deep cuts.

Vellefold’s troubles had shaped her, but they would not define her.

Her courage was noteworthy. And arrogant.

Truth punched him. She’d been painfully alone for a long time. His own tale of banishment had devoured him such that he missed her proud suffering. Life had whittled her down to a honed huntress. A woman with goodness and strength knit into her bones.

He gripped the back of the chair to keep from striding down the steps and…

To do what?

Sweep her off her feet and hold her as he had mere hours ago?

He should’ve kept his arms around her and never let go.

Ilsa’s brows arched. “Are you going to tell me why I was dragged from my home in the middle of the night?” She waved an arm at their audience. “I’m sure these good folk would like to know. They’ll need something to gossip about tomorrow.”

Nervous titters followed. Even Erik and Gunnar grinned, unabashed.

Ilsa faced him, windblown and full of spirit. What a fighter…

“You know why,” he said calmly.

Her green-eyed gaze pinned him. “If I’m to be accused, you must say it.”

Thorvald was legs sprawled on a bench in his nightly ritual of knife-sharpening. Iduna was nearby, tall and eagle-eyed. Valgerd and Kell were quiet, but the older Viking woman’s stare penetrated. Her watchfulness sent shivers across his nape. He’d swear the old woman was in league with the gods.

When he opened his mouth, witnesses stretched to hear him.

“I speak of Vellefold’s runaway thralls.”

Ilsa’s lips tightened. “What about them?”

So, she wasn’t going to make this easy. Helge poked another log, the embers popping like slivers of gold.

“Are you hiding runaway thralls?” His voice boomed in the silence.

“Yes.”

The hall exploded with shocked gasps. Jaws dropped and an outraged “Ilsa!” came from Gerda who jumped to her feet. The high-born lady rushed forward and pushed past Bodolf’s man.

“Why would you do this?” Gerda cried. She grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Why? The work you have forced on your sister, your father…on me!”

Frazzled wisps framed Gerda’s cheeks. She searched her daughter’s face, but Ilsa was as cool as the marble stone he’d seen in southern lands. An unbreakable woman. Odell was slower, his crutch slamming the earthen floor.

“This is revenge, isn’t it?” Her father asked. “Because of Halfdan.”

“No, this is justice.”

Gerda flew at her daughter. “Your father is right.” Her voice was shaking and livid. “You are being spiteful because we asked you to stay with your husband.”

Ilsa’s stillness fractured. “ Asked? ‘Asked’ mother? You threatened to turn me out when I came to you for help. Your own flesh and blood!” Her voice shook as emotions tumbled.

“My own mother and father preferred a Viking from the Faroes to their own daughter.” She dragged in a harsh breath.

“All because he kept you rich in silver.”

“You benefited just as much, daughter, yet you stole our thralls,” her mother cried.

“I stole no one.” Hair tangled, she was emphatic facing her mother. “Those women came to me and asked for my help. I was glad to give it.”

“They are thralls!” Gerda hissed.

“They. Are. Women!” Ilsa shouted. “The same as you and me, yet you think yourself above them. You’re not!”

Gerda raised a hand and… crack! Ilsa’s head snapped sideways from the force of her mother’s slap.

Stunned voices rippled through the hall.

Bjorn tore down the steps and wedged himself between mother and daughter.

Both women didn’t notice him. Gerda, her eyes like pieces of metal, fought to accuse her daughter.

Color was high on Ilsa’s cheeks. She shoved Bjorn, her chin tipped high as if the red handprint blooming on her cheek was a badge of honor.

“You bartered me the same as you bartered thralls,” she hissed. “As long as you lived in comfort, it didn’t matter what happened to those women.” Chest heaving, Ilsa was wild-eyed. “It was the same for me .”

Agony crept into her last words. Pain speared Bjorn, the truth awful to hear.

Sobs welled up in Gerda. She covered her eyes with the same hand that had slapped her daughter.

Odell shrank to half a man, the once-great ivory hunter slumping on his walking stick.

He couldn’t face his daughter. The entire hall was wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the display.

Even Thorvald ceased his knife sharpening, his fingers curled around the whetstone.

Outside, the wind howled. Bjorn searched Ilsa’s face. She was lost, her features vague. He was a hands breadth from her, yet unnoticed. He’d seen the same hollow stare once before in a water barrel—the day his father had deserted him.

“I have always loved you,” was Gerda’s muffled claim.

“And I have always loved you.” Ilsa’s voice ached, the sound tearing at Bjorn’s heart.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was feral and broken and far, far away.

Odell reached for his wife. “Come. Let us go home.”

Gerda collapsed against Odell. Frida rushed forward and wrapped an arm around her mother.

She murmured comforting words while shooting a wrathful glare at her sister.

Ilsa stiffened. Vellefold’s folk stirred at the spectacle.

Gerda, Odell, and Frida shuffled slowly through the hall, the sound of their mournful voices trailing them.

All color had drained from Ilsa’s cheeks, yet she stood tall. Tonight was her reckoning.

One-by-one, weighty stares landed on Bjorn. The Sons, Bodolf, Iduna, and countless men and women, the folk of Vellefold. Many were perched under shelves brimming with buckets of food.

Food Ilsa had delivered.

At the end of the hall, the great doors were thrown open. Snow and cold gusted, but it was Odell’s voice which cast an icy pall.

“You are the son of Jarl Egil and you are hersir .” The old ivory hunter eyed Bjorn. “My daughter broke our laws. I demand justice. Will you see it done?”