Page 35 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Twenty

B jorn’s stony manner slipped.

His voice split the air, responding to her father, “Thoughtful of you to elevate me, Odell. But this is a matter for the jarl’s judgment, not mine.”

Her father bristled at Bjorn’s mocking tone.

Looking at her father, she clutched her midsection.

Rage and sorrow stewed in her belly. This was the scale on which she balanced her life.

Her father was a broken man, yet she still loved him.

Years of his and her mother’s goodness and love thrived in her.

So, did the poison of their greed and rejection when she’d gone to them, a broken woman.

She could never hate them, but it was time she stood up to them.

Her survival, and the women who needed her, depended on it.

Snow and wind hissed behind her father, fighting to stand tall in the doorway. “We both know the jarl may breathe his last breath soon. It’s why you’re here—” Odell’s four-fingered hand gestured at the hall “—to lead us.”

“I am here to defeat your enemies and see your people are battle-ready. Nothing more.”

Her father stamped his crutch into the ground. “Then, why did you drag Ilsa before the jarl’s seat?”

“To make certain she’s not in league with Aseral.”

Shock rippled through the hall.

“She may be,” her father said spitefully.

“Father!” Ilsa hissed, her voice rising above cries of dismay in the hall. “Has anger twisted your heart that much? To believe that I would harm my own people?”

“I don’t know what I believe.” Odell’s bitter gaze searched the crowd.

“Where is Jarl Egil? We know he is too weak to sit in judgment here.” He huffed dismissively and pointed at Bjorn.

“You know what must happen and who must lead us. My daughter admitted to a terrible theft. Now it is for you to do something about it.”

The pronouncement rang in the hall, her father’s parting gift before he shut the door.

Anger lines slashed above Bjorn’s nose. He was chewing on the obvious—leadership’s mantle was his whether he wanted it or not.

She was tempted to rub his scowl away. To assure him, this would pass.

Crazed emotions bubbled inside her. If words were knives, she’d been gutted like a fish tonight.

Yet, this wasn’t the worst. Hugging herself for warmth, she tipped her face to the smoke scarred ceiling.

She was utterly alone.

Only she would face judgment. She’d make sure of it.

The women were safe. Iduna and Ardith knew where they were hidden—so did Bjorn.

What would Egil’s bastard son do?

Vellefold’s laws were ironclad. Thralls were no different than silver and gold: theft of one was as bad as theft of the other. Most Viking settlements lived by the same code. Punishments were simple. Banishment, whipping, or death. She hugged herself tighter, her fingers digging into her ribs.

Skin on her back was so, so cold. Her fate had been sealed by the number of women she harbored, too many to ask for mercy.

Copper’s tang flooded her tongue. She was tasting fear.

Her fate was a burden on Bjorn’s shoulders. Not Egil’s.

“Ilsa broke Vellefold’s laws,” he said gruffly to the hall. “I will grant mercy if she tells the assembly where she hides the women.”

She flinched. Bjorn’s decree punched her. His face was granite and his eyes on the crowd, not her, though they were inches from each other.

Well, well. The warrior speaks up and makes a decision.

Bjorn was almost gentle when he looked at her and spoke for all to hear, “It is an easy thing to eliminate confusion. Women returned to their rightful homes is honorable.”

Her lungs squeezed. Breathing was difficult. Skin around Bjorn’s eyes softened. He knew she hid the women in her grove, yet he said nothing. The burden was on her to reveal their whereabouts. She searched his face.

Did he support her bid to free the thralls?

Her heart raced. She wavered on her feet when she stole a glance at the crowd.

Scathing stares could burn holes in her, such was their ire.

Thralls were life’s blood to Viking homes.

They brought ease to overworked farmers, helped harried mothers, and were as much a way of life as Vellefold’s ivory trade.

Few faces in the humble crowd were sympathetic.

The Forgotten Sons were no less kind. The wary wolf pack eyed her and Bjorn as if messages were understood. The dark Viking, Erik, stood beside the jarl’s seat. By his scowl, Erik didn’t like what was unfolding.

Hope sparked in her. Valgerd stood by the hall’s charred post, her features tight with hope. She should’ve listened to her counsel and asked the man she once called friend for help.

“Ilsa…” Bjorn’s voice dragged her back. “What have you to say?”

Spine straight, she answered, “You said it best. The women should be returned to their rightful homes.” Arms falling to her sides, she announced to all, “Vellefold was never their rightful home.” The hall was aghast when she faced Bjorn. “I will never tell you where they hide.”

“Ilsa…” Bjorn groaned her name.

A clamor erupted. The ground was solid beneath her, more so than it had been in a long time. Head high, she pivoted to the gathering. Her gaze swept from the Forgotten Sons to those sitting in shadows on the other side.

“I have made three blood oaths. One, to free stolen women and two, to bring Vellefold’s banished son home. The third is between me and the gods.” Her voice rose amidst a chorus of startled breaths. “Before I die, I will see them finished.”

Raucous chatter pitched. Smoke thickened, but through the haze, Valgerd and Iduna were nodding, their smiles welcome and needful.

Others were less charitable. Older farmers and their wives sniped at each other.

A divide cut Vellefold in two: those who supported Ilsa and those who didn’t.

Most women’s hearts had softened to her.

They knew the gossip about Halfdan. Some had witnessed his horrid behavior—none had ever stepped forward to stop it.

Few knew the horrendous life she’d endured.

Bodolf’s disappointment was a knife to her heart. The old warrior lumbered forward, grim-faced.

“Ilsa. You lied to me.”

“I hope you can forgive me.”

“Why?” Bodolf’s voice rasped with exhaustion.

“I—I was uncertain.”

The old warrior grunted. “But now you are certain.” His dark gaze darted from her to the air behind her.

To the hall, she raised her voice. “May the gods judge me as they see fit.”

Metal’s clink sent a cascade of shivers down her spine. She spun around. Bjorn was walking with heavy feet down the steps, the chain swinging from his hands.

“Someday the gods will render their decree. Today, you hear mine.” Firelight danced on hobnails encircling the wolf head on Bjorn’s chest. “I’ll ask one last time. Where do you hide the women?”

He was close. She searched his face, could see the glint of whiskers around his mouth and the flatness in his eyes.

What game does he play?

Bjorn knew about the cave, yet he said nothing. She strained to find meaning in the chain, eyeing the iron links. But…nothing. Bjorn’s mouth was an unforgiving line. He was a stalwart Viking, flexing his leadership muscles. On her.

She was calm. “My answer is the same.”

“I will get the truth from you. All of it,” he vowed.

“I’d like to see you try,” she whispered.

A faint smile broke his harsh visage. For a moment, they could be the only two in the hall—until Bjorn turned and handed the chain to Bodolf.

“Bind her and take her to my father’s cult house.”

Her knees buckled. She heard distant voices. Valgerd, Iduna, Kell’s, but the loudest noise was the clank of iron as Bodolf’s men manacled her ankles.

Most chilling of all was Bjorn, turning his back on her. Scalding tears pricked her eyes. Her dearest friend had deserted her. She blinked fast, willing the tears gone. By all the gods, she would not let him see her cry.

She didn’t have to worry about that. Bjorn was taking labored steps toward the jarl’s seat.

Standing by the chair, he addressed the hall. “Ilsa is guilty of theft. She will stay in chains and face Jarl Egil tomorrow for final judgment.”

Her throat clogged. She couldn’t speak.

Bodolf’s men led her across the longhouse, the chains clinking, cold and loud. Thorvald pushed open the heavy oak door for them. She tottered past the smash-faced giant, shivering. Fat white snowflakes landed around her. She looked over her shoulder. Thorvald’s glower didn’t surprise her.

Bjorn sitting in the jarl’s seat did.