Chapter Twelve
Questions of Allegiance
“Just what is an oath of allegiance?” Noelle queried, hanging on Brandon’s every word.
“Similar to pledging fealty to a king.”
Brandon seemed eager to provide the answers she needed to understand Norse customs. “Jarls are considered as distinguished as princes in these lands. Admired and deeply loved because they don’t rule from lofty places, but live amongst their people.
This country is without an heir, and the men you see sitting at Rand’s high table are tasked with enforcing the laws that unify the Trondelag.
Your master is an integral part of the future of this territory … ”
She didn’t like thinking of Randvior as her master.
Brandon continued, “And if Norway wishes to remain independent, a king will need to be anointed. There are ambitious men living beyond these borders, competing for control of our lands. A kingless territory is an attractive temptation for any man trying to leave his mark on the world.” His face darkened. “War is inevitable.”
She understood, having grown up in a country crippled by countless rebellions.
If Randvior faced half the challenges her father had, she knew what to expect.
And ships were the most coveted luxuries of the age.
Randvior’s vessels carried merchandise from exotic lands back to his country.
Taxable goods and high tariffs, if imposed, meant great wealth for any ruler.
She fixed her gaze on Randvior. He was the type of man any zealous king would seek as an ally.
But no matter how influential or experienced Randvior appeared, someone needed to instruct him on how to treat a lady. She felt too hot and aware of everything about him, including his stubborn refusal to marry her. An innocent flirtation with a stranger should wake him up.
A perfectly amiable male specimen sitting three tables away gave her hope. Young and potent, he shared similar physical characteristics with Randvior. Brilliant eyes met hers. He smiled and she diverted her eyes. Then she looked back.
He patted the bench next to him. She shook her head. Brandon stared at her, then looked his direction.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Noelle fussed with the necklace about her throat. Her eyes fluttered closed, then opened to focus on a glass of wine on the table.
Brandon dismissed the boy with a flick of his wrist. “Give me credit,” he winked. “I know a thing or two about wooing the fairer sex.”
Noelle managed a pale smile. Uncomfortable with Brandon’s intrusion, she searched the room silently.
Thralls were shuffling furniture. Much to her amazement, the ten soldiers Randvior commandeered from her father marched into the room and lined up along the west wall.
They appeared well nourished and were dressed in clean shirts and breeches.
Her cheeks flushed. She had convinced herself that Randvior intended them for hard labor.
Or even worse. Again, her chest tightened with guilt.
Forgive me for doubting you …
Her spirit soared as they greeted her—all smiles. Samuel and Henry were especially enthused.
Randvior stood and signaled for silence.
He looked as dominant as a bull. Noelle sat forward and stared.
She could see the rigid muscle all over his body through the layers of wool and leather he wore.
The broadsword sheathed at his hip and war axe strapped across his back lent an appealing savagery to his appearance. He resembled a bloodthirsty god.
Brandon snorted. “Perhaps your roving eye is cured?” He cast a sidewise glance at Randvior. “He’s a man deserving respect from everyone. And I believe he desires an heir.”
Heat rose on her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. Despite her misguided attempt to make Randvior jealous, she found herself incapable of following through with it. And now Brandon was on to her.
“Ah …” He wagged his finger. “And what do you think he’s doing when he makes love to you lass, playing house?”
She hated the clandestine nature of their relationship.
Everyone knew what was going on. Only she refused to admit it.
Patience gone, she scowled at Brandon. Noelle didn’t appreciate his impertinence—at all.
Oh, that lousy Scot had a way of getting under her skin.
Fortunately, their conversation was cut short.
Randvior stared down at her. Heat jetted from his eyes.
“With gratitude we offer thanks to father Odin for bringing us home again. My wealth has increased in Iceland, Scotland, and the Orkneys. We raised shelters, established trading rights, and left behind enough men to protect Sigurdsson holdings until next season. Before returning, we visited Durham …”
“An heir.” Brandon whispered tauntingly.
She refused to give birth to bastards!
Moments later, after the toast, the guests mingled freely. Noelle tapped into her courage again and headed for the young man she singled out in the crowd before.
Randvior snatched her arm and swung her back into her chair. He didn’t have to say a word; she read everything in his eyes.
“I want you to stay where I can see you,” he seethed. A sadistic smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “Nothing escapes my eyes, Noelle.”
Randvior reclaimed his throne. He couldn’t shake his combative feelings or the growing doubt in his mind.
Had he treated her so unkindly that she needed to solicit her feminine charms to attract another suitor?
Did she think her bad behavior would go unchecked?
Or that he wouldn’t notice the newly appointed rival tripping over his own tongue to get close to her?
The hall echoed with celebration. The clamor of heavy boots stomping and weapons hitting tabletops made the floorboards quiver. The chanting began.
Randvior, Randvior, Randvior Numerous men recounted his accomplishments.
The unprecedented success of his western expeditions, his continued dedication to safeguarding trading routes and honoring treaties with rival kingdoms, and his influence amongst the Varangians benefited nearly every man in western Norway.
These men gathered to renew alliances and swear oaths of protection.
His home would be well defended next season.
Jarls, both great and humble, arrived with conscripts from their personal huskarlar, warriors they would leave behind as testament to their loyalty.
Dozens of men came forward and kneeled at his feet.
Some would accompany Randvior on his next expedition and serve in his comitatus as members of his prestigious war band.
His gold sword lay across his knees with hundreds of gold and silver oath rings set in the pommel.
One by one, each man stood. They latched onto the hilt with one hand and grasped the oath rings with the other and swore on Odin’s countenance to protect him.
“By seizing this sword I pledge my life in service to Jarl Randvior Sigurdsson and his captains. Defying all others.”
Once sworn, they lined up behind the high table. Sixty-seven warriors swore oaths of protection. Afterward, the English soldiers were offered the same opportunity. They pledged their lives in service. Anything promised greater reward than slavery.
Everyone drank. Even the slaves were allowed to celebrate as long as the master’s cup was kept full.
Thralls provided an endless supply of ale and wine.
Randvior wanted to get pissed—filthy stinking drunk.
He needed to forget everything before he took his frustrations out on an innocent man.
He slammed three servings of ale and called for another as he urged a voluptuous thrall onto his lap.
She giggled and held the horn to his lips.
He teased, prodded her arse, and pinched her nipples, his eyes coolly fastened on Noelle’s astonished face.
Let her feel the depth of my bitterness before she ever considers flirting with another man again.
He knew drink and wenches were a volatile combination.
And Noelle was definitely not the kind of lady to sit timidly and watch him indulge in the pleasures of another woman’s body.
She bent over Brandon and whispered something in his ear.
Brandon shook his head, adamantly. Noelle shrugged and disappeared.
Randvior’s lips curled malevolently. He brushed the woman from his lap and staggered to Brandon’s table.
“What did she say?”
A haughty grin split Brandon’s face. “She asked for my assistance to restore her family’s honor. She asked me to marry her.”
Randvior wanted to slap the egoistical look off his face.
“Are you of a mind to accept?”
“You’d consider me a damnable liar if I denied any attraction for the girl.”
Randvior grabbed a glass of wine off the table and choked it down. He wiped his mouth dry. “If you were any other man, I’d kill you for that admission.”
“Aye,” the Scotsman agreed. “And if I weren’t your friend, I’d conveniently forget to tell you to take that enchanting girl as your wife before another man does.”
Randvior grunted and shot him an appreciative look. “I intend to.”
Desperate to escape the humiliation of Randvior’s drunken display, Noelle bolted outside.
The only place she felt safe was in the bathhouse, shielded from inquiring minds.
She shivered, finding herself once again poorly equipped for the cold.
Shelter stood only a few yards away. She hurried and nearly lost her footing as her silk slippers skated across the ice.
She slammed the bathhouse door shut behind her.
Randvior’s unpredictability and his mother’s conniving and interference were driving her crazy.
She had lost too many people she loved to simply accept her precarious position is this household.
But it seemed futile to resist Randvior.
She sat on a chair near the large fire pit, warmed her hands, then rested her head on the table.