Page 40 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Four

D aylight flooded the hall as Valgerd, Kell, and their grandsons passed under the lintel. The boys were armed with shields and axes, their bows and quivers slung over their shoulders.

“I must go,” Iduna said.

“Will we see you on the practice field?”

She faced him, her brow knitting and her eyes reminding him of thick smoke. Eyes like Gudrun the witch of Rouen.

“I will do my duty to Vellefold.” And she slipped away, a flurry of skirts, taking his peace with her.

Mere paces where he stood, his father lay dying.

Across the hall, Erik sat on the side of a bench bed, fixing the garter on his boot.

Gunnar was talking with Thorfinn, and Thorvald clapped a heavy hand on Erik’s shoulder, jesting about something if judging by his hearty laugh.

And Rurik? He was probably kissing his new wife’s swelling belly in Rouen.

Loyalty was their gift to him. Since arriving in Vellefold, he’d not returned it.

He scratched his jaw. An idea for bold action was forming.

Flaunt Viking laws? Ignore his father and steal Ilsa away to Rouen?

A place she wouldn’t go. He could bind her with ropes and steal her, but his stubborn huntress had made a vow to save thralls.

A worthy act. She would resent his effort to save her and find her way back to Vellefold.

Such was the power of a blood oath spoken by a determined woman.

Even if he set sail today, despite all he and the Sons had accomplished, Longsword would punish the Sons and withhold their ivory payment.

His choices were muddied. One was clear. Ilsa.

He walked through the hall and stopped by Helge serving porridge to a trio of old women facing the fire pit. He touched her bony shoulder.

“Helge.”

She turned to him. “Yes, Lord?”

He almost corrected her Lord-ing him. “When you’re finished here, gather blankets, food, pillows, and water. Take them to Ilsa and tend to her needs. Give her whatever she asks for.”

Her scarf head bobbed up and down. “Yes, Lord.”

“You know where she is?”

Nodding, she used her apron to wipe her weathered hands. “I am done here. Would you like me to serve you before I see to Lady Ilsa?”

“No. I’ll serve myself. Go to her.”

He scooped porridge into a bowl. Across the fire pit, Helge’s friends sat, eating their porridge, their aged eyes fixed on the flames.

What secrets did these elders hide? They’d seen enough merriment honoring marriage and battle.

Feasts for both could be cut from the same cloth.

His bowl full, he took a seat on the middle step of the raised floor and ate.

Wood creaked beside him. Joints cracking, Bodolf settled his heavy frame on a bear pelt beside Bjorn.

“Winter is not here, but my bones feel its bite,” the old Viking said.

Bjorn hummed agreement and dragged his spoon through the bowl. Harvest season ended with the early snow, yet Jul felt like a long, long time away.

Bodolf’s chin dipped to his chest. A thick, scarred finger traced an aimless line in the pelt. “I saw that Iduna paid you a visit this morning.”

“She did.”

Woe was heavy in rheumy brown eyes. “Then you know of the jarl’s oath with Ilsa.” Bodolf said the words in a voice for Bjorn’s ears alone.

“And you supported it?” he asked.

“I did. Egil thought sending Ilsa was the only way to reach you.”

He glanced sharply at the old Viking. “Using a woman’s troubles to benefit him?”

Bodolf’s shoulders sagged. The old warrior was looking away when a loud, “Lord Bjorn!” tore through the longhouse.

The feast hall door had flown wide open. Bjorn stood up, squinting at blinding daylight and snow. Helge was running to him with surprising speed for one her age. Her thin chest heaved as she strove to catch her breath.

“It is Lady Ilsa—she is gone!”

Every eye was on him. The Sons strode forward. Children and parents leaped off benches to crowd closer. All crammed the hall, forming a half circle before him.

Helge’s eyes were as big as bowls. “I found the chain with its fetters unlocked and a rope cut to pieces.” She dug into a large apron pocket. “And I found this on the floor.”

She held out the green-gold torque. Stunned, he took its cold weight in hand.

Erik pushed forward and planted a foot on the bottom step. “Want us to search her farmstead?”

“The five of us can spread out and cover more ground,” Thorvald said. “We’ll find her.”

A cackled floated from behind the gathered folk. “No, you won’t.”

Valgerd . He tightened his grip on the torque. “Come forward.”

People scuttled sideways for Valgerd to sidle through. When she reached the bottom step, she adjusted the ragged bear pelt covering her shoulders. Kell was a half-step behind her, worry on his face. He touched his wife’s arm.

“Valgerd,” he chided, casting a fearful glance at Bjorn.

Her work-thick fingers patted his hand. “This is my doing, husband. I will speak.”

“No. We do this together.” Holding her hand, Kell inched forward to stand at her side.

A wide smile creased Valgerd’s tanned, wrinkled face. The small exchange humbled Bjorn. Time wrote a story with those two, one of deep devotion and true love.

If only my father had done the same. And stayed true to the woman he’d loved.

Limbs heavy, Bjorn dropped into the jarl’s seat. Twice in as many days, he put himself here. Turning over the torque, he knew what he was doing.

“Tell me, Valgerd, why won’t we find Ilsa.”

Her green-eyed stare roved over him in the great chair.

Everyone in the hall, from wide-eyed Turid to Bodolf and the Forgotten Sons, gaped.

Light blasted the hall from the door left open, which no one stirred to shut.

Cold came, but with many huddled together, the chill was bearable. None wanted to miss this.

“You won’t find Ilsa because she left with the women she vowed to save.”

“How?” Erik demanded.

“Her boat, of course.” She tossed back her braid, eyeing him as if the warrior had gone soft in the head.

“The boat we need to get home,” Erik ground out.

“It is hers,” she shot back. “The fog gave Ilsa perfect cover to sneak away. The thralls went with her.” Valgerd faced Bjorn, her bony chin defiant. “After last night’s display, she had no choice.”

“We have no ship to go after her.” Thorvald slammed meaty arms across his chest. “Odell’s ship won’t be done until spring.”

“Then you may hunt her come spring or you can go home. The choice is yours.” Valgerd’s voice shook.

“Let me give you fair warning, you oaf—you’ll never find Ilsa.

She is done with this place.” Valgerd spun around, her voice raised for the crowd.

“You, her own people, were quick to take food she offered, and the comfort she gave.” Lips curling with spite, Valgerd finished her slow accusing circle.

“You were all just as quick to gossip at her misfortune.” The old rope maker ended her circle with Bjorn. “And you put her in chains.”

“Valgerd…” He warned.

“The gods may take their due.” The old rope maker’s voice shook. “From you. From all of us.”

“That may be, old one.” His words rang hollow to his ears. “That may be, but I will find her.”

It wouldn’t be today. Or tomorrow, but he would find her. Loneliness was ripping through him. Ilsa had left him. Tapping the torque on his thigh, he clamped his mouth shut. He’d swear that he was tasting the tang of Birka’s salty waters.

Pelts scattered across the steps blurred. Why didn’t she tell him?

He snorted softly. A woman I put in chains, sharing her plan to escape?

Of all Ilsa’s crimes, the escape was likely not planned, but she’d seized the chance to flee.

And why wouldn’t she? The rope maker was behind this.

Probably stole the key to Ilsa’s fetters.

She had to be in league with others, Iduna chief among them.

The fostra had barely spoken ten words to him since he’d landed; this morning, her conversation flowed.

A fine ploy. Iduna had fed him tales of Ilsa, and he, hungry for every crumb, had devoured them.

Setting a guard at the cult house door had never crossed his mind.

His pride took a hit. Scheming women…

This whole mess was supposed to be done today. A private plea to Jarl Egil on behalf of Ilsa and he’d count the matter done.

Instead, the mess got bigger.

He planted his elbow on the arm rest.

His brothers were angry. His father was dying.

The people he and his brothers had come to help still needed a shepherd.

When he left, none would lead them. Their best hope had sailed off under the veil of fog.

With Ilsa gone, Vellefold would crumble, and for the first time, he cared about that.

On the other end of the scale was his vow to see the Sons returned to Rouen by Jul . Rurik expected the same.

Was the Rus Viking watching the Seine River, looking for his brothers’ return?

He rubbed his forehead. An ache was starting to pound there.

Loyalty came at a high price. This time, he couldn’t pay it.

“Bjorn…” Erik called to him. “What are we going to do?”

All eyes were on him. Pushing up from the chair, he looked to his brothers.

“We do what we do best. We prepare for a fight.” He raised his voice for the assembly. “Every day, each of you will show up on the practice field. When we’re done, every hand in this hall will work to finish Odell’s ship.” He could feel a tick on his jaw. “My men and I will take it.”

Valgerd laughed. “You mean you will steal it.”

“Yes.”

Bodolf stirred beside him. “What about Ilsa?”

“She’s your outlaw. Not mine.” He dropped the torque on the seat, anger at her desertion burning bright. “I don’t hunt women, but by the gods, I will find her.”

Thorfinn’s brows shot to his hairline. Thorvald and Gunnar exchanged wary glances. If they, brothers or not, asked what was the difference between hunting a woman and finding her , he’d knock them flat to the ground.

What will you do when you find her? was another question. The answer eluded him.

Another Viking maid made her way forward and stood respectfully looking up at him at the bottom step. Little Turid, the sweet girl who’d laughed at his talking fruit.

“Who will be our jarl?” Her girlish question melted him.

Her woeful, imploring eyes drove daggers into his heart. He went to her and dropped to one knee. It was enough to undo them both. The little girl launched herself at him and wrapped thin arms around his neck.

“I want you to be jarl,” she whispered, “ and be my father.”

Eyes shut, he hugged her back. Her sweetness wrapped him in tender chains. Small in size, Turid was as kind and fierce-hearted as Ilsa. The little Viking girl left him tongue-tied. She deserved better.

“Turid,” her mother’s voice called. “Come, my child.”

Her mother, Blenda, stepped forward. A brown scarf wrapped the matron’s head, adding to her pallor. Colorless lips creased in a weak smile.

“Forgive us, Lord Bjorn.”

A lur horn echoed in the fjord as she tugged her daughter’s arm free of its hold on his neck. Turid’s eyes rounded in terror. Screams bounced off the rafters.

The enemy had come.