Page 39 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

But Iduna? She appeared to grasp for nothing.

Tall, her milk-white hands gripping the chair, her pale hair coiled at her nape, she reflected modest grace and humility.

No more than a copper brooch glinted in her shoulder while she watched him eat.

And the red glass beads around her neck looked like the same she wore when he was a boy.

“Did you know that everyone’s bellies are full because of Ilsa?” Iduna gestured at the tray. “She is the reason you have bread this morning.”

He glanced at the closed bed chamber door. Iduna’s gaze followed his.

“I gave Egil a sleeping tincture when I arrived. He had a bad night.”

“I have to rouse him. The people will gather.”

“He won’t awaken until sundown,” she said.

He swallowed more ale and cuffed wetness off the corner of his mouth. “If you can give him a tincture to make him sleep, then you can give Egil something to wake him up.”

“Let him sleep at least another hour. What harm can come of that?”

He took another bite of bread, wary of the fostra . She was too…certain.

“Did laying with Ilsa sway you?” Her mouth pursed and her ageless stare roved over him with knowing. “Don’t bother denying it. I smell her on you.”

“I kept Ilsa warm. Nothing else.”

Slim fingers drummed wood. Iduna’s eyes narrowed to calculating slits. “Whatever happened between you and Ilsa is not my business.”

Her scrutiny told him otherwise.

“It isn’t your business, but because you are a respected woman and beloved of Ilsa, I’ll give you a morsel of my conversation with her. The part where I told her I’d argue for her release.”

Iduna considered that.

“What if your influence doesn’t work? What then?”

“It may not,” he admitted.

“That’s not good enough.”

“If you have a better plan, I’m ready to hear it. But I cannot release her simply because you ask it of me.”

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the chair. “I’ll tell you what you need to hear, son of Egil. You need to know the truth. Since you left us?—”

“You mean my banishment .” He said the word with acid-sharp force.

Her nod was pacifying. “Since you were banished, your father spent his wealth recklessly. Valda did the same. More ships. More men. More raids. Many that ended in disaster. Egil was Hel-bent on his own destruction.”

“Raids make a Viking wealthy,” he said dryly.

“Not this time. Egil lost ships to storms and mysterious fogs. Others were lost to unworthy men who served the jarl. Desertion, lack of proper care for the vessels. Then, Odell’s body was crushed between his own ship and an island rock.

It was his last ivory hunt. Valda’s answer was to make more sacrifices of silver and gold to Aegir.

” She pinned him with a level stare. “And I don’t mean tossing a single coin into the sea like Valgerd. ”

He soured on hearing Valda’s name. “What does that have to do with Ilsa and the bread I’m eating?”

“It is everything,” she said in a rush. “The gods were insatiable. Egil gave and they took. Your father knew he’d erred in casting his son aside.”

“And how do you know this?”

Her smile was serene. “Because I comforted him.”

He nudged his cup aside and eyed the door. His father was a busy man with any woman, save his own wife. With Valda’s poisonous tongue, it was easy to understand.

“Egil would’ve given all his wealth to have you back.” She cast her attention to shelves once crammed with displays of wealth. “I’d say he nearly did.”

“Because I have the last of his silver ingots.”

“What you see in here and in the hall is what simpler jarls have. Surely you know that.” Iduna drifted to an empty shelf and touched were Rhenish glassware once sat.

Only a few pieces remained. Beside the shelf was the copper disc.

She checked her reflection, adding, “Egil was brought to his knees because of one bad decision. Soon the settlement paid the price.” She spun around to face him.

“Last spring, trouble reached our food stores.”

He tore off another bite of bread and popped it into his mouth. Most warriors didn’t bother with details of salting fish, checking root cellars, or culling herds. It was done for them, a rhythm of life barely noted. He swallowed his bite.

“I heard fires from the second raid destroyed much of your food stores.”

“We have food because Ilsa paid for it. All of it.” Iduna’s voice cut to the quick. “Ask yourself what jewelry does Ilsa wear?”

He scowled, eyeing the half-eaten bread in front of him.

Jewelry? He barely noticed such things. He’d watched Ilsa’s hips, her smile, her hair, her breasts.

Not what adorned her. There had been the Byzantine-designed earrings clustered with small emerald stones—rich enough to feed an entire village.

Air gusted out of him. That night in Longsword’s map room…

The scale had teetered as if rezla , a bargain, had been newly struck. The ivory had procured him and the Sons’ service.

Ilsa’s gold-and-emerald earrings bought food for her people.

“She went to Rouen for food,” he said flatly.

“For food and for you. Her blood oath to Egil.” Iduna was ablaze with righteous fury.

Bereft of words, he stroked his beard. More of the riddle that was Ilsa fell into place, told to him by Iduna.

“For a year now, she has seen much of the settlement fed. Not Egil. Not Bodolf. And certainly not Odell,” she scoffed. “He watches what’s left of his wealth like a hawk. Ilsa sent Ardith to different ports to buy food…just enough to look like normal trade.”

“Never enough to appear desperate,” he said. To buy too much food in one place would signal just how weak Vellefold had become.

“I was the first to tend Egil when he was wounded. I heard everything. He agreed to spare her life for killing Halfdan. He would let it be known that it was an accident of war—if she brought you back to Vellefold.”

He marveled at the news. The sacrifices Ilsa made for others…

“He also wanted to keep what remained of his silver,” she said.

“Because he thought it would appeal to a roving warrior,” he finished what really didn’t need to be said, but it felt good. To make sense of Vellefold’s secrets and understand the depths of Ilsa’s goodness.

Halfdan probably was going after the jarl that day in battle.

The ivory hunter saw weakness as any predator would.

And Ilsa saw an opportunity to be rid of a violent husband.

She had saved Egil’s life, and the old Viking used her goodness to his advantage.

He sent the perfect messenger—a childhood friend, now a beautiful woman—to ask the exiled son to come home.

“Egil didn’t know she was hiding thralls. But he did know Halfdan was a wretch.” The fostra’s mouth pursed again. “Ilsa is a free woman. She made her choices.”

Clearly, she and Ilsa had a difference of opinion on those choices. Iduna smoothed her skirts and went on.

“Over summer, Egil came to respect Ilsa. To lean on her. Her goodness. Her kindness. She argued in private that the settlement would be fine without you. Then, word came after Midsumarblot that the famed Forgotten Sons were in Rouen.”

“And Egil held her to her vow.” He rose from the table, confounded.

“There could be no better person for the task than Ilsa,” she said quietly.

The hall was stirring to life. Children giggled over bowls of oat-and-barley porridge.

Mothers clucked at babes. Young and old stomped snow off their feet upon entering.

Weapons were in several hands. Vellefold’s people would break their fast and gossip about Ilsa—the woman who bought the food that filled their bellies.

Once satisfied, they’d trail off to the practice field none the wiser for her sacrifices.

Iduna stood beside him, her arms loosely crossed. “Bodolf learned later of Egil and Ilsa’s blood oath.”

While they spoke, the old hird lumbered into the hall.

He was laughing with six men who were often in tow along with the red-haired boy he’d taken in.

Bodolf cuffed the boy’s shoulder, his face shining with gruff affection…

until his eyes caught Iduna’s. The hird’s cheer wilted.

Brows furrowing, he took the first seat on a bench.

Odell, Gerda, and Frida were not in the hall. Shame would keep them away.

“Be kind to Bodolf,” Iduna said. “He has a simple warrior’s mind.”

“Like me.”

Pale eyes slanted sideways at him. “You’re nothing like him. Skalds will sing of you for generations to come.”

“Did you cast the runes at my birth?”

He asked in jest, his lightness fading when seriousness laced Iduna’s features.

“I did not, but do not fear, Bjorn. Any fool can see that what I say is the truth.”

They watched the assembly. He was still absorbing the wealth of information heaped on him and what would come of it. Iduna lifted a white linen scarf off her shoulders and covered her head, a signal she was preparing to leave.

“Ask yourself, how many pretty arm rings has Frida worn since you’ve arrived? How many kerstans does she own? Two? Three?” The fostra’s profile was stark and beautiful against lime-washed walls. “Gerda wears her best jet earrings every day, and she has more brooches than you or I can count.”

The hall bustled with cheer. Their cheeks rosy and full. Some of them had to know the truth. They had to have an inkling of what truly went on. Gerda and Odell were of high standing, and they’d practically sold their daughter to keep it.

Hadn’t Egil done the same with him? Rid himself of his son, to please a waspish wife?

His path and Ilsa’s were similar, a binding truth which could not be undone.

“Gerda and Odell have lost much,” he said as more people poured into the hall.

Iduna hummed light agreement. “They did. Much gold and silver, but nothing compared to what others have lost.”

Like his father, Gerda and Odell’s ships were sunk in the harbor. He’d say his respect for them sank as well.

“Don’t forget her female thralls,” he said with humor.

Iduna snorted softly. “Gerda will live.”

Would Ilsa?