Page 44 of Her Viking Warrior (Forgotten Sons #2)

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

J arl Egil’s barn was full of defeated men. Bodolf and three of his men were tied up in a pen for goats. The Forgotten Sons were tied up in a pen meant for horses.

Silence came with accusation and sorrow. Perhaps regret, too. Bjorn was sure the accusation was for him. They were beasts of war, and they’d lost.

He’d made a choice to save Ilsa instead of saving his men, and it nearly cost them their lives. They’d smiled at death more times than he could count and came out laughing. Today, the scales favored the enemy. The loss cut to the marrow. It hurt to think, to talk, to move.

He’d chosen Ilsa over his men. Because of that, he deserved their ire. They were drowning in bitterness. Anger, they’d save for later.

If they kept him in their number.

He swallowed hard and shut his eyes. The Forgotten Sons refuting him—it would be the worst kind of exile.

Gnashing his teeth, he could almost hear the gods mocking him.

To be refuted by the Forgotten Sons over a battle for the settlement that exiled him?

An insult heaped upon insult. Defeat’s song came with another sad note: his father had died during the battle, and their last words together were spent on matters of settlement law.

Justice waved her scepter over the land.

Vellefold had lost. The brave thralls Ilsa saved had lost. He had lost.

Sitting in the barn, he was tied up like a prize about to be inspected.

A torch broke the darkness, and the beardless brute who had thrown the burning oar in battle sauntered in with a victor’s swagger.

He wore ankle boots with spjarrar , wool strips wound around the leg from ankle to knee.

The wrappings were for men who walked through dense brush or simple flax farmers.

Firelight showed a plain tunic that had been roughly repaired. Stitching puckered around rips in his brown wool tunic and trousers. He had a face like Gunnar. Women would flock to him. After the tale spread of his victory today, men would too. His magic would be known, far and wide.

“I am Magnus.” The man’s steady gaze searched the Sons. “Which one of you is Bjorn?”

“I am.”

The farmer turned to Brede. “Cut his ropes.”

Brede shuffled forward and went to work, sawing the bindings around Bjorn’s ankles. The thrall jerked and cut, working up a sweat.

“Forgive me,” Brede mumbled. “This will take some time. My blade is dull and these are new ropes.”

Magnus’s mouth curled in a half-smile. “My men were extra cautious when they bound the famous Forgotten Sons.”

“Valgerd makes the best ropes,” Bjorn said calmly.

“I have heard.”

Bjorn watched Brede work, asking a casual, “How is Ilsa?”

He made every effort to act as if he didn’t care. He’d dragged her out of the harbor and laid her face down on the dock. There, he’d pounded her back until she spit up water. Though she breathed, her lips and cheeks had turned blue. Magnus had let thralls carry her away, to where, he didn’t know.

Magnus studied him before answering.

“She lives.”

He sagged against the post. A burden was lifted. The thrall cut the last rope around his ankles and went to work on his tethered wrists.

“Have you come to kill me?” He asked the question as if he’d asked Have you come to trade for wool and rye?

A shot of laughter and, “You are a cool-headed one.” Magnus angled the torch for a better view of the Sons sitting in shadows along the wall. “I spent many a winter’s night hearing tales about all of you.”

“And now you have defeated us.” Bjorn stood up and rubbed his wrists. “If its blood you want, take mine and let these men go.”

Four men were behind Magnus, their weapons ready.

“No more bloodshed. I will not harm you, Bjorn of the Forgotten Sons, if I have your word that you won’t harm me or my men.”

Teeth clamped, he didn’t like this. Trust was a thin thread and he and the Sons were hanging in the wind. He offered a reluctant, “You have it.”

Magnus’s face split in a lop-sided, boyish grin. “I am glad. The time for vengeance is over.”

“Vengeance?” Bjorn dusted straw off his trousers. “Over what?”

“A woman.” The big farmer’s smile tightened. For a moment, he was a boy in a man’s form, ashamed of his admission. He turned, tossing back a curt, “Come. You and I have much to discuss.”

They exited the barn into a clear, starry night. Air soughed gently in barren trees. Cliffs loomed like sentinels at peace. An uncanny stirring touched his war-weary bones. He’d aged today, yet was new. Vellefold was the grand woman brought low yet ready to stand again.

Snow crunching under his boots, Magnus spoke of the survivors.

He’d set his men in Valgerd’s longhouse, and Iduna was tending Vellefold’s wounded in Ilsa’s longhouse.

No blood or fire had reached this back part of Vellefold.

Magnus assured him that Helge and the old women who took care of the babes were tucked away safely in Odell and Gerda’s longhouse.

He walked easily with Magnus, impressed by his orderly thoughtfulness.

The thirst for war was over.

Bjorn was curious about the man he’d meant to kill. “Are you Aseral’s jarl?”

“You’ve been there. Aseral has no jarl.”

As if that was that. Bjorn had visited Aseral years ago as a boy. The hamlet barely survived on its flax harvest.

“There’s nothing for a jarl to lead,” Magnus said. “The land is dead to me. I’m leaving for a new life in Jorvik. I am a landsman there,” he said with pride. “And after today’s victory, a very wealthy landsman.”

The farmer wasn’t seeking Vellefold’s jarldom. It would be a natural thing to ask. When they rounded the cult house, they had a view of the feast hall and the harbor. A corner of Jarl Egil’s hall had burned—the side where his father’s chamber was.

They stopped their trek, and he could only stare at the charred wood. His heart wrenched. A cool wind blew yet he was dry as dust inside.

Magnus offered a torch. “Take this, if you want a better look.”

He took it and walked to the charred hole which stretched to the eaves.

He set one hand on the broken wall. The wood was still warm.

Soot and ashes blackened the bed, the bear pelts, the lamps.

His father’s last breath had been of smoke and defeat as he lay in bed.

The old Viking didn’t have the strength to rouse for battle.

“Where is his body?” he asked.

“At the bottom of the harbor. My men argued against such a burial, but I saw it done.”

“He feasts with Aegir,” he said under his breath.

“That fire was caused by your flaming balls of twine.” Magnus’s voice rang behind him. “One went out of control and hit this wall before going downhill.” Respect threaded the victor’s voice. “A clever weapon. They cost me two longships.”

“They cost me my father.” He touched another spot on burnt wood and turned away.

Charcoal dust coated his fingers. So much loss, so much pain. He wouldn’t blame his father. He would wipe away regrets and accusations like the grit he was rubbing off his fingers. Black bits drifted to the ground. The dust of his past.

He handed the torch back to Magnus. They walked in companionable silence with four of his guards to make certain the walk stayed that way. Mutual respect was growing.

The farmer was in no hurry to enter the longhouse, where celebration was raucous. “I wasn’t going to return after the first raid.” Magnus checked him as if to see how his words landed. “I want you to know that.”

“Is that a confession?”

“No. An injustice corrected,” Magnus said bitterly.

Outside the longhouse, two men stood guard, both with bandages wrapped around their heads. Magnus passed off the torch to one and opened the door. The flax farmer was a success. He could make himself jarl here and proclaim Vellefold part of his holdings. To take by might was the Viking way.

Yet, Bjorn sensed Magnus was like him. Both didn’t want anything to do with the settlement.

When they entered the hall, thralls in ragged skirts and begrimed cheeks scurried to serve the victors.

Their red-rimmed eyes swelled from smoke and exhaustion…

and if he guessed right, from tears. The women Ilsa had vowed to save.

Scrappy fighters, all of them. They’d rammed their small vessel into Magnus’s great longship.

Men drunk with victory raised drinking horns to honor Magnus as he passed by. They were rough farmers, wiping greasy hands across their tunics. Goose and leg of lamb was piled high on trays served. Another goose roasted on a spit.

Bear pelts had been stacked on the raised wooden floor. Beside them, his father’s remaining Rhenish glassware sat on the floor. The silver sacrifice bowls and copper plate from his father’s inner chamber sat there too. Prizes of war.

What else would Magnus claim?

Magnus reached the inner chamber and shut the door. Tension melted from his features.

“I like a good feast now and then, but I prefer quiet nights at home.”

He was a simple farmer.

Magnus jerked his head at the door that once was Bjorn and Thorstein’s shared chamber.

“Come.”

A knock on the door and Ilsa’s voice beckoned them to enter. Hot bile roiled in his stomach.

Would Magnus claim Ilsa?

The door opened, revealing her in a plain white linen under dress.

Bare feet peeked at the hem and her nipples poked the fabric.

Her areolae made two dark circles against white cloth.

She grabbed a blanket off the bed and covered herself.

Wan cheeks and a bruised and bloodied forehead were her battle marks.

A tray of greasy meat and baked bread sat untouched on the table Bjorn had once played games on.

Ilsa was calm, folding the blanket around her frame. A good sign.

A pretty thrall with light freckles sat with her. She rose from her seat and smiled at Bjorn.

“I am Elswith.”

“I am Bjorn.”

She tucked short hair behind one ear. “I know who you are. Lady Ilsa talks of you all the time.”

Ilsa grimaced. “Not all the time.”