The Warlord's Wife Read online

  “Let a younger man seek a wife for beauty. I am a practical man, Bishop Henry. A sturdy wife to breed my sons is what I seek—sons to take over the mines, smelt production, trading routes.”

  “Very practical indeed.” Bishop Henry stroked his long white beard. “God rewards practical men. I am confident we will find a Finnish female to your taste.”

  “My gratitude, Excellency. Regrettably, we sail for Sweden on the morning tide.”

  Deep in his cups and enjoying his own tasteless humor, the bishop laughed until ale came out of his nose. “Rankard, why not summon your daughter?” The bishop leaned over and exhaled his sour breath into Magnus’s ear. “When you said serviceable, I had thought of no better than sweet Brigitta.” Stuffed in an ill-fitting velvet gown, a plump young maiden sauntered toward the head table.

  By the bishop’s design, the fleshy, full-figured Brigitta “accidentally” fell onto Magnus’s lap, her bosom spilling out the top of her gown. He clenched his jaw with disdain as she squirmed her rump against his groin.

  The bishop ogled her breasts. “Glad to see you enjoying the fine hospitality, Magnus.” He raised his cup, toasting the air. “You may thank me later.”

  Magnus turned his head away and rolled his eyes.

  By the gods, when will this night end?

  ***

  Dewdrops collected, growing heavily into a fat single droplet, running off the celery leaf and down the lace of Lida’s shoe. Working at the end of the lane in the root garden, she tugged another stalk free and shook away the rich soil.

  Lida wiped the sweat from her brow and twisted to stretch her aching back. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of a large convoy of wagons as it crested the east hillside, coming from the direction of the church that was under construction. No doubt the bishop’s men bound for the port to fetch more materials. Thinking nothing more of it, she returned to laboring on her hands and knees.

  Lida was working less than five paces from the roadside, and the rattling wagons and heavy horses vibrated the earth under her. A moment later, a group of sailors hollered at her, jeering lewdly as they passed. She snapped upright, sending a sinister glare at the crude men, her disdain her only available weapon.

  Good riddance.

  Concealing herself from the lane by hiding behind the bean stalks, she returned to digging out the turnips.

  “Why her?” she heard her sister-in-law, Tina, ask in a pitchy voice. “Tell your brother she will not wed.”

  Oh dear, should she announce her presence, or wait for the two gossiping hens to move past?

  “She needs to find herself a husband before her youth fades. Surely her mourning has passed and ’tis time she wed again.” Ulla, their neighbor, sounded sincere.

  Lida froze in place, her ears burning.

  “’Tis naught to do with mourning,” Tina said. “Her daughter is a bastard.”

  “I thought she was wed to the Lyyski lad?”

  “Aye, but only after he’d tossed up her skirt. His family won’t recognize Katia.”

  “I don’t see that’s fair in the least,” Ulla said. “I remember the fellow, all smiles and songs, that one. Could charm the skirt up a nun. I shan’t blame her . . .” The voices began to fade.

  Lida lumbered toward the house carrying her basket of greens and fruits, using her thigh to help support the heavy weight. She had stopped caring what was whispered about her, yet she never failed to feel the stinging pain that came from the labels people placed on her daughter.

  “Pardon me!” A male voice called out from over her shoulder. “Good woman, come here.” Sitting high upon a loaded wagon, a richly garbed man waved her to the roadside.

  Lida regarded him with suspicion. Still, she endeavored to speak with politeness. “I shall stay where I am. What do you seek, sir? I shall fetch my brother to assist.”

  “Brother?” The black-haired foreigner’s expression brightened. “Not husband?”

  She raised her chin and did not reply.

  “I care to purchase your produce. Fear me not.” His smile implied differently. “Our ship sails this hour. I would enjoy a fresh apple for my crossing. I have a heavy purse and will allow you to overcharge me.”

  Lida surveyed the foreigner. He had a smooth, dark honey complexion, yet he spoke Finnish crisply, a few words holding a distinct Swedish undertone. His dark brown eyes were not shaped as those of a Swede, but as those of a person from the east, the Far East. Her mother had taught her about the Mongolic people, known for their shrewdness and vast knowledge of the stars and mathematics.

  Behind the foreigner’s overloaded wagon followed many more more wagons, transporting an army of fierce warrior-like men, many twice the size of the mysterious Eastern foreigner. Surrounding the wagons, fearsome men rode powerful horses clearly trained for battle rather than for pulling a plow. Most had thick beards, long, yellow hair, and the signature broad shoulders of the Norseman. More arrogant conquerors come to harass her.

  How charming. Could this day worsen?

  As Lida swept her eyes over the convoy, one man caught her attention. He was hard to overlook—unlike the others, the clean-shaven warrior was obviously highborn. His light auburn hair blew untamed in the wind. Bunched behind his brawny shoulders, a white fur cloak was secured with a substantial gold cloak pin, and he wore matching armbands, heavy belts, and buckles. Every piece of his horse’s tack was made of thick leather and polished steel. Without a doubt, he was a warlord of great importance.

  But Lida cared not who they were nor where they were from.

  She tossed an apple to the foreigner who had spoken to her. “With compliments of Finland.” She spoke in Swedish rather than Finnish.

  “Where did you learn the Swedish tongue?”

  “I will fetch my brother. He will be glad to give you a detailed account of our family lineage.” Turning away from the stranger, she continued up the lane.

  “I would rather you tell me.”

  She did not bother to reply or even look back.

  As Magnus rode up alongside the wagon, Tero pointed at the woman, who was now headed toward the farmhouse.

  “What about that one?” his steward asked as they watched the spirited female walk away.

  Magnus shrugged.

  Since it was Magnus’s first shrug, rather than his typcial dismissive flick of a finger, Tero commanded the wagon to pursue the long, gold braid that swayed to and fro ahead of them. With her retreat, the farm girl’s well-proportioned hips and backside offered them an alluring view. Magnus could not help but wonder what secret enticements might be hidden under the offensive brown coarse wool.

  Several men emerged from a nearby outbuilding, distracting him from his thoughts. Tero addressed them formally in Finnish. Svin Starkka introduced himself as the eldest son of the family and invited them into the principal house to be introduced to his father, the head of the family.

  Apple blossoms were carved into the high beamed entry of the farmhouse, which, to to his surprise, Magnus hadn’t needed to duck under to enter. Heikki Starkka, the patriarch, was nearly the height and girth of a Norrland warrior. The high ceiling and wide doorways were no doubt crafted for the comfort of the owner. The silver-haired man sat with his arms crossed, staring at Magnus unimpressed.

  Magnus ignored the offered seat, opting instead to examine the principal hall. He found the clean, well-maintained family home to be constructed with skill and logically organized. It boasted a pleasing scent of fresh-baked bread and thyme. It wasn’t luxurious in any regard, but sound in quality and a reasonable size for a prosperous farmer. The plank wood floor had been recently swept and several soft reed mats were placed at points of entry and under the tables. He approved of the balanced placement of the long table in the center of the hall, directly under the hanging stag horn candleholder. The artistry carved into several of the beech wood chairs
and benches impressed him. Resting on each were cushions embroidered with elaborate and colorful designs.

  This was not a farm of idle hands.

  The eager young Starkka spoke with Tero. Magnus understood little of the Finnish conversation. “They have not finished their harvest. Though they do have cheese and ale to trade.” Tero translated rapidly to Magnus, then turned back to Svin and shook his head. “We depart this very hour for Norrland. May I inquire after your sister, Master Svin? She was kind enough to offer me an apple and—”

  “Aye, apples. We have cider, plenty of cider. Is that to your liking, sir?”

  Tero smirked. “I was inquiring after the maiden. Is she contracted into wedlock?”

  “My sister! Oh, she is a widow.” Young Starkka’s voice trailed off.

  Staring at Magnus with disdain, the elderly family head said, “She needs no husband.”

  “How unfortunate.” Tero wisely redirected the conversation to the son. “Regardless, we are simply interested in an introduction. We would be happy to purchase barrels of your fine ale if that could be arranged?”

  “Aye, well then . . .” Svin turned to the old man. “That does seem reasonable.”

  “My daughter will not wed.” The old man did not bother to answer either his son or Tero, speaking in Swedish and directing his words to Magnus. “She stays here.”

  “What is her age?” Magnus asked, taking charge of the negotiations.

  “Twenty-four, and she will not wed again.”

  “What is wrong with her?”

  The old man squinted his eyes. “Go back to Sweden, Norrlander.” He abruptly stood and limped toward the doorway.

  The farm girl stood under the arch, her wary eyes shifting between the various men in the hall.

  Magnus examined her from the top of her fair head, hair held in tightly arranged braids, to her soiled, thin-leather footwear. Her small shoulders appeared solid. Dirt covered her forearms and hands. Normally that would have been a deterrent, yet the labor had left her complexion bright, a pristine image of health. He followed the lines of her delicate neck—it was acutely feminine, as were her facial features. Sculpted, high cheekbones framed a slender, well-balanced nose. Full, rose-hued lips pinched tightly together, displaying her displeasure at the forced introduction. Though she remained silent, she said a great deal with her expressive sapphire eyes. They held an unspoken courage. He liked that. This is good, he thought. He was at last making headway with this wife problem.

  “Lida.” Young Starkka stepped forward. The girl inclined her head, acknowledging her brother while never turning her eyes away from Magnus’s stare, impressing him all the more. “This is Jarl Magnus Knutson, from Norrland—”

  Magnus grew impatient. “You do not appear to be the age your father claims.”

  “Are you accusing my father of dishonesty?” the farm girl asked, in faultless Swedish. No timidity—rare to find in a lowborn female.

  ***

  Lida concentrated on her mother’s training, reminding herself that she was worthy of respect only if she gave it.

  “I am inquiring as to your years,” the towering Jarl demanded.

  No manners at all. Typical arrogant crusader.

  “Whatever years my father has given, that is my age.” Lida answered the giant as bravely as she could as he continued to scrutinize her. He was easily the tallest man she had ever met. His broad shoulders could no doubt pull a plow through their rockiest field.

  “Do you not approve of Swedes?” he asked in a voice as cold as the Baltic Sea.

  “Not many, since they killed my husband.” She raised her chin higher. “Though my mother is Swedish. I must approve of some.”

  “When was he killed?” he asked, his voice devoid of feeling.

  “Eight harvests past.” Staring into his eyes was as hypnotizing as searching the deepest ocean at twilight. He was beginning to have a strange effect on her swirling stomach. She did not enjoy the feeling; at least that is what she told herself. “’Twas during the first Swedish crusade. A Norrland sword took him from me.”

  “All superior blades are from Norrland.” His words were blunt and arrogant. He was Swedish, after all, she thought.

  The hall filled with a thorny silence. Magnus stalked toward her. The scents of pine and leather invaded her lungs, along with a male musk that Lida told herself she must not inhale. For some unexplainable reason, holding his scent in her lungs felt entirely too intimate.

  “Why are you not another man’s wife?”

  Her heart pounded in her ears. “Because I do not wish to be,” she answered, praying that her unsettled nerves were not apparent to all.

  He cocked his head to one side and regarded her for a moment that felt like it stretched on into eternity. “You do not wish to be a wife?”

  “Not particularly.”

  ***

  The fascinating creature before Magnus spoke in a submissive tone, yet her eyes were anything but soft or submissive—they were closer to hard and defiant. Either she was lying to herself or to him. Maybe it was both. A craving to bring her to heel swept over him.

  “You do not pray to the one true god for sons?” He continued to be impressed by her ability to hold his gaze without backing down, her actions a contradiction to her tone.

  Lida clasped her hands in front of her. “I am a mother and content with the blessing I have,” she said mildly. But her delivery was every bit of a challenge to him.

  Her chin rose higher. Magnus liked that. It wasn’t outright rebellion, but she had an opinion. He found this intriguing, and oddly stirring. He began to circle her, ignoring every person in the hall except for the proud, strong female before him. She turned her shoulders with him, following his eyes, guarding her back.

  Good instincts. That pleased him further.

  Examining her braided rope belt, he began to doubt her claim of a child. Her hips were pleasingly curved, yet she was acutely narrow at the waist. “At what age did you birth your child?”

  Her brows hitched upward. “Ten and six.”

  “How many days did you labor?”

  Her nostrils flared as she breathed in sharply. “The length expected.”

  “And is the child in good health? Is it of solid form?” Magnus addressed the family head, since the woman was apparently annoyed with his questioning.

  “She is in perfect health and excellent form,” Lida answered, vexation ripe in her tone.

  Ignoring her obstinate display, Magnus turned to Tero. “I will take this one.” He glanced over at the farmer’s daughter, then strode out of the stone and timber farmhouse.

  He’d leave his steward to finalize the details while he rode ahead to his ships and informed his men they had the evening off duty.

  Tonight he would wed the farm girl from Turku and tomorrow he’d sail for Tronscar at dawn.

  Chapter 2

  Lida shook her head at Magnus’s preposterous statement. “Who put him up to this jest?” she asked, searching the faces of her family members. “Was it you, Svin? ’Twas poor humor. Father could have chest pains if you are not careful.” She turned and began clearing the horns of ale and plates of uneaten cheese that had been offered as a sampling but not consumed.

  These Swedes are wasteful as well as rude.

  “Lida.” Svin stilled her hand. Her sour-faced sister-in-law, Tina, slid under her brother’s arm. “The jarl made you an offer.”

  “Nay, he did not.” She shook her head at her dim elder brother. “This man and his cart of rude sailors want to laugh at us before they shove off back to where they are from.” With her arms loaded, she turned to retreat to the kitchen.

  The steward blocked her path. “A dowry is not required,” he said. “Merely a consensually signed contract. A generous bride price and a favorable trade agreement will be offered to your father. They will
become the wealthiest family in Turku for it. My jarl honors you, my lady.”

  “Regrettably, I must decline,” Lida said with more sarcasm than her mother would find acceptable. “I pray you have a safe voyage, sir. If you will excuse me, you are blocking my path.” She skirted around the foreigner, dropped the platters in the kitchen, and fled for the privacy of her chamber.

  With her head spinning and her heart racing, Lida pressed her back into the closed door. Why is it that the most strikingly attractive men are always the most ill-mannered? The cantankerous jarl had pierced straight through her with his possessing stare, rendering her breathless.

  This pulsing fire that stirred in her belly had trapped her once before. The last time she had such a reaction from simply looking at a man, her heart had ended up shattered into a thousand sharp pieces.

  Never again. She had learned that lesson the hard way.

  She sat on her box bed. The shutters had been left open, spilling in the late-morning sun, warming the normally chilly room. She took comfort in the familiar surroundings. This chamber was real. It grounded her and helped her clear her mind of the unreal events that had taken place in her family’s hall.

  Without warning, her chamber door burst open. She bit her tongue, holding back her scream.

  “Mama.” Her daughter, Katia, stood beaming in the doorway. “See what I made.” Thank heavens ’twas not the fearsome warlord come to toss her over his shoulder and claim her as his—what a ridiculous notion. Her stomach clenched with a shameful desire that image stirred.

  “Grandpa said to come show you and tell you to come see him after.” Her daughter swished her little skirt, twisting back and forth with excitement she could not contain.

  “You did this all by yourself?” Lida asked, examining the charcoal drawing. Katia bobbed her head. “This is very good.” She pushed her daughter’s silk hair behind her ear and looked into the sparkling green sea eyes. Her daughter’s sweetness never failed to calm and focus Lida’s heart on what truly mattered, wiping away all selfish and foolish yearnings.