Chapter Seven
‘You seem pleased with yourself,’ Agnar said as the hall began to bustle with servants delivering platters of steaming food to the crowded tables.
An entire suckling pig was placed down in front of him, lying flat on a silver platter, stewed apples glistening around it, a carving knife placed at the piglet’s little feet.
His stomach clenched, as he remembered Astra running towards him bare foot.
He’d been bluffing about harming the child, had only said it to ensure Skadi’s obedience.
But when Astra had flown at him from seemingly nowhere, he’d had a moment where his instincts had almost caused him to do the unthinkable.
Thankfully, he’d realised in time and had been able to stop and disarm her safely. But, Odin’s teeth, what if he hadn’t!
He tried to shrug off the unnecessary guilt that plagued him. The child was safe and Skadi had agreed to marry him. He’d achieved a goal that had once seemed impossible.
Tonight, he would allow himself a small celebration, because tomorrow the hard work would begin.
More dishes were placed on the table until the linen that covered it was no longer visible.
Did they expect them to eat everything?
It was a lot for two people and he hated waste.
Too many days of starvation had left him with a deeper appreciation of plenty and going forward he would insist on proper management of their supplies.
He would have to ensure the servants were using leftovers wisely and providing for those less fortunate than those allowed a seat within the hall.
Although…he probably could manage most of it, after the events of the past few days. His mouth watered at the sweet and salty smell of the roasted meat. He hadn’t eaten properly in months. Had he lost weight? Was that why his rump hurt so much on this throne?
‘It is hard to be pleased, considering my position,’ Skadi replied tartly, followed by a sly and mockingly innocent question, ‘Does the seat of power disappoint you, King Agnar?’
He would have smiled, if he wasn’t so uncomfortable. It felt as if he were sitting on a bag of broken blades. The throne’s seat hadn’t looked that rough, cold possibly, because it was stone, but the seat had looked reasonably flat.
Until, of course, he’d sat down…
Still, there had been many times over the years when he’d almost doubted ever achieving his goal of returning to Thrudheim as its king. An uncomfortable chair seemed a small price to pay for attaining it.
‘Did all of your ancestors have rumps of steel?’ he asked mildly, not bothered by her teasing. It was clear she did not welcome his arrival. But the deed was done and in time she would realise it was for the best.
Skadi turned a little in her double-cushioned seat to see him better.
It was awkward to speak to one another in such fixed chairs and it seemed as if Skadi would find fault with everything he said tonight, because she declared, ‘These thrones were carved seven generations ago from the same mountain cliffs that shield us today. They were a gift from the first King of Thrudheim to his bride, Queen Estrid.’
‘He didn’t like her much, then,’ grumbled Agnar with another shift of his buttocks.
The amusement seemed to die in her eyes and she answered sombrely, ‘I suppose not.’ Lifting the glass jug, she poured wine into two equally ornate glass chalices, the blue matching perfectly with the Thrudheim colours.
The banners on the battlements had all been replaced with his own, but the tablecloths, tapestries and some of the hall banners remained in the blue-and-white stripe of her family.
‘What do you think of my banners in your hall?’ he asked. For some reason he wanted to antagonise her enough to bite back at him again. He preferred her spitefulness and amusement to the sad expression that had graced her face a moment ago.
Had Heimdall not been kind to her in their marriage, or did she simply miss him? Both thoughts were alarming in different ways. He’d hated the man, but he’d thought he was at least kind to Skadi. He’d spent a long time wooing her by all accounts.
Why he should care about her sadness was beyond him. Perhaps his vengeance wanted her to suffer more?
He had to admit that he’d expected more regret from her once her anger had settled. At least an apology for what she had done all those years ago. But it appeared she had no regrets for the great suffering she had caused. Which only infuriated him further.
Unconsciously, his hand shifted to the small throwing axe he always kept at his side—the touch of the old blade often comforted him when he was frustrated. It reminded him of his purpose and goals. Unfortunately, his goals and purpose were exactly what was infuriating him right now!
‘They look…’ She paused, sipping her wine with apparent boredom as she examined the black wolf-headed banners on a blood-red field hanging from every beam in her hall. Even Agnar had to admit the number of them was a little excessive. Finally, Skadi answered him with a disappointed sigh, ‘Ugly.’
At his burst of laughter, she raised a single pale brow in question.
Had she thought to offend him? Probably.
But even he could see the colours clashed badly with the serene blue, white and silver of the rest of Thrudheim’s decorations.
Did she hope to intimidate him? He chuckled at the thought and her eyes narrowed further. She looked strange with the dark kohl painted thickly around her eyes—sharp and cruel. Tonight, he suspected she was testing him again, with her wit rather than her sword.
He was willing to rise to her challenge.
She had grown into a formidable queen. The woman in front of him today had worn her crown for so long that it was no longer a costume, but a second skin, deeply ingrained in her every word and action.
He doubted she would, or even could, admit that she’d been wrong… that she’d made a terrible mistake.
When he’d last seen her, she’d been naive and frightened—easily led by the men in her life, tentatively playing the role of Queen, a young maiden’s desires clouding her judgement. Things could have been so different for both of them, if only he’d been a little older.
What had he expected from her? Part of him had imagined the same beautiful, frightened girl to welcome his vengeance.
As a youth he had fantasised about freeing her from Heimdall and Sven’s imprisonment, that she would run to him with tears of repentance and fall on her knees, begging him for forgiveness.
A fanciful notion!
The formidable woman beside him regretted nothing, not even her mistakes. He’d realised it straight away when she’d fiercely defended her child and crown with sword and shield—she would not bend until she was broken.
Skadi was, and had always been, a volatile creature…he supposed that was why he was so obsessed with her. The flaming jewel he could never possess.
Belatedly, he realised she’d been waiting for his answer as she placed his wine closer to her silver trencher with a thud.
He picked up the glass absently, pleased by the surprising weight of it, and sipped from it slowly.
Partly to rile his bride, who was obviously waiting for an answer, and partly because he’d never drunk from a glass before and was half-afraid it might break if it knocked against his teeth.
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘The Thrudheim blue clashes with the scarlet of my banner.’
‘It does.’ She nodded. ‘Red is such a garish colour. I have never liked it.’
‘It is cheaper to produce than blue. Especially that shade of blue.’ He flicked a wrist towards her banners.
‘Indeed…’ She smiled wickedly before delivering another verbal slap. ‘I suppose that is why you picked it, because it was cheap.’
‘Do you think me ashamed of my past?’ he asked, a little irritated that she’d struck home with her poisoned arrow.
She shrugged. ‘I think it would be a disgraceful waste to destroy hundreds of years of Thrudheim tradition on an ugly red banner.’ She then sipped her wine and smiled pleasantly at the servants positioning the final dishes to their table. He was surprised they’d managed to fit much more on.
‘Is everything to your liking, Your Highness?’ asked one of the girls, looking nervously towards him and then back at their mistress as if uncertain.
Did he look annoyed?
He didn’t really care too much about the banners, although, he would like his insignia present—the wolf’s head meant a lot to him. His mother had been known as the She-Wolf and, as he’d grown up, he’d grown to have more in common with the snarling beast than his father’s corrupt side of the family.
A self-conscious thought rattled through his head. Did she think him as ugly as his banners?
The battle for revenge had not been kind to his face. He was covered in scars and women tended to be afraid of him—despite him hardly ever approaching them.
He was significantly younger than Heimdall at least, something which was finally in his favour.
But perhaps she had truly loved her husband—she’d certainly been infatuated with him as a young woman.
Uncomfortably, Agnar realised that if he’d been the same age as the handsome Heimdall, Skadi might still not have accepted him, regardless of their betrothal.
She was certainly far too beautiful to be besotted by someone with his face.
‘It looks delicious, thank you,’ Skadi said sweetly to the servant, before turning back to face him, and adding quietly, ‘It is customary for a king to serve his Queen first and then for him to eat the first bite… A small piece of bread will do if you are not hungry. Otherwise, no one else can begin…’