The Warlord's Wife (2 page)

Eight Years Later . . .

Turku, Southern Finland

Jarl Magnus Knutson sat in a place of honor at the elevated head table overlooking the congested hall, impatiently marinating in boredom. He could not decide what turned his stomach more this evening: the greasy stench coming from the poorly crafted hearth or the herd of females being corralled in front of his table for inspection. Reminding himself why he was there, he tapped the underside of his ring against the arm of his chair.
Tic, tic, tic.
He needed to pick a wife and get back to more important matters.

Magnus had had his fill of Finland. The Bishop of Turku’s newly constructed residence had been built like a fortified castle, and it was artless, underwhelming, and woefully crafted. The same could describe the maidens being rounded up a few feet away.

“’Twere all you found?” he asked Tero under his breath. He began to think his steward was picking out a new ox to pull a wagon, not a wife to breed his sons. When Magnus had said sturdy, he’d meant not frail. If he had wanted unwashed and shapeless, he would have specified. The sole comely maids in the pack were fathoms too young to suit him.

“Master, these females meet your requirements,” his steward answered, practically licking his lips at the abundant feminine flesh on display.

Magnus mumbled behind his raised cup. “Have they all their teeth?” He arched his brow, reminding his steward of his oversight last month in Riga.

“I would not make that mistake again, master,” Tero answered, clearing his throat to begin the introductions. “I present Miia of house Kivi, Reta of house Rusko, Sohvi of house Joki . . .”

Having passed his thirty-fifth winter, Magnus was well aware of how females perceived him, as evidenced by their blushes and fluttering eyelashes. The fathers of these women desired an alliance with him because of his political power and wealth. For the maidens, the appeal was more primal. All female creatures, human and animal, sought the strongest and most dominant male to mate with. He nodded his respects to the group of women, then returned his attention to his tankard of ale.

Without moving his lips, Tero leaned in and asked, “Not one?”

Magnus ignored his loyal steward.

“But the one on the end,” Tero murmured. “Sohvi, with the dark hair. You always select an ample bosom such as hers at Mak’s.”

“And?”

“And this one is not a whore, she—”

“Too young.”

“She is robust. I assure you. Have her sit with you—”

“Enough. Sit and drink. We weigh anchor for Gamla Stan with the tide. I only suggested a Finnish wife to please the bishop.”

Magnus would forever carry the guilt of his first wife’s death. Helena had been groomed to be a southern princess, and was easily broken in the harsh northern realm. His remorse acted as a continual reminder not to make the same mistake in allowing Tero to select his wife—though the chore was proving more taxing than he expected.

“Aye, Magnus,” Bishop Henry beckoned. “Have you at last selected a maiden?” The bloated clergyman claimed a seat to the right of him. “I can vouch for the virtue of all whom your steward has selected.”

“Be assured, I doubt not their honor, Excellency. What I seek is a serviceable and submissive wife. Land I have. ’Tis sons that I am in need of.” Ten noblemen at the head table bobbed their heads in agreement. No one would dare to disagree with him here. They all needed Magnus’s trade alliances far more than he needed theirs.

The bishop smiled hungrily at the collection of women. “A virile young jarl needs a wife to suit. Turku boasts the comeliest maids of all the Baltic trading ports.”

Magnus suppressed his desire to roll his eyes. Of course the crusading bishop would prefer him to select a Finnish wife. It would guarantee Magnus’s wide-reaching arm of protection for the vulnerable port.

“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.