Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Torvald found him in the corridor outside the Great Hall.
"A word, me laird," he said, his voice low and gravelly.
They stepped into the shadows of an alcove off the east passage, well away from the hall traffic. Torvald kept his posture neutral, but his jaw was tight in the way that made Ivar worry.
"The rumors from Lorne are moving faster than we thought.
" Torvald crossed his massive arms over his chest. "Three mainland traders pulled Bronn aside at the harbor this morning before the hall opened. Separately. Same story, Callum’s been sending men into the coastal settlements fer two weeks. Nae fighters. Talkers."
Ivar stared at the cold stone wall, his mind already running the calculations.
"The message is the same each time," Torvald continued. "That ye orchestrated the harbor attack yerself. That the wound in yer side was staged. That ye’re using the instability tae argue fer more autonomy from the Crown and the Pact was nae something ye ever intended tae honor."
"And people are listenin'." It wasn’t a question.
"Some. Enough." A pause. "The traders who went tae Bronn werenae sympathetic tae Callum.
They were warning us. But fer every man who warns, there are three who dinnae bother.
" Torvald’s jaw shifted. "He’s been at this a long time, me laird.
Before the weddin', before the harbor. He’s been building this. "
Ivar thought about the man in the lower room. Awake now, according to Einar. Waiting for a final accounting.
"How fast are they moving?" Ivar asked.
"Fast enough to reach the court. Henry’s been sending letters. Whatever he’s writing, he writes it every night." Torvald paused, his eyes narrowing. "That’s nae new information. But the pace of it has changed."
"Aye." Ivar pushed off the wall, the wound in his side giving a dull, rhythmic thrum. "I’ll deal with it."
"There’s more," Torvald said. "Two of the men who came through the harbor as traders the night of the fire, we’ve traced them tae a coastal holding two hours from here.
The holdin' belongs tae a MacPherson. The MacPherson has nay obvious connection to Callum, but his second son spent three months in Lorne last year. "
"Then find the second son."
"Already sent Bronn."
Ivar offered a short, sharp nod. He moved toward the hall, and Torvald fell into step beside him, then peeling off toward the outer passage, back to the dozen things he was always managing at once.
The hall was mid-morning busy. The frantic energy of a keep under observation. Household traffic, two of the King’s men at the far table over a meal, Sigrid directing a servant with a basket near the stairs.
Ivar clocked it in one sweep. Every presence, every position, and every potential threat.
As usual he found Matilda without looking for her, his gaze gravitating towards her.
She was standing near the window at the far end, the place she favored when she wanted the morning light and a solid stone wall at her back.
He understood that about her now. He understood most of her habits.
The small calibrations she made to every room she entered, and he registered them without comment because they required none.
What he registered now, however, was different.
One of the King’s men was beside her. Not the one who spoke at Councils, but the younger one. The one with the smooth face who had said very little since their arrival and whom Ivar had therefore been watching more carefully than the rest.
He was standing close. Not aggressively close, nothing that could be named or challenged directly, but it still made Ivar’s blood boil. He was speaking softly, his head inclined toward her, smiling the smile of a man who believed his own charm was irresistible. A fool!
Matilda’s face was a mask of composed politeness.
Her hands were still at her sides. She was nodding at something the man had said with the exact expression she used when she was being courteous to someone she did not particularly wish to speak to.
A specific, frigid quality Ivar could read from thirty feet.
Ivar crossed the hall.
He did not move quickly. Quick would have given something away and it would have made it a scene, which would have given Henry’s prying quill something to record.
He moved at a perfectly ordinary pace, arrived at her side, and placed his hand at the small of her back. It wasn’t a grip, it was his palm flat and present through the wool of her dress.
The envoy looked up, the smile faltering.
Ivar met the man’s eyes.
"Keeping ye occupied?" Ivar asked. His voice was conversational, mild, yet it held the weight of a stone.
The man stepped back. Not immediately, there was a beat of resistance, a small, foolish assertion of position. But he stepped back. "Laird Gunnarsson. I was just speakin' with Lady Matilda about—"
"Aye." Ivar’s mouth curved into a smile that did nae reach his eyes. "I’m sure ye were."
Another beat. Then the man excused himself and moved away toward the far table. Ivar tracked his exit with his peripheral vision, keeping the "pleasant" expression in place until there was no further need for it.
He became aware that Matilda had turned her head and was looking at him.
He removed his hand from her back. Unhurried. As though it had simply fulfilled its purpose and had no further business being there.
"He was askin' about the mainland trade routes," she said, her voice holding a hint of a challenge. "He has an uncle who runs wool from Stirling."
"Fascinatin'."
"He was perfectly polite," saying it in the tone she used when she was enjoying herself and not advertising it.
"Aye. He was."
She looked at him for a long moment, her hazel eyes searching his. Then she turned back toward the window and the grey morning light off the water.
"Did ye find him charmin'?"
"What is this question?"
"I’m just asking if ye found him charmin'."
Ivar looked at the window, his jaw working. "He was adequately turned out. Pleasant enough manner. Bit too much hair oil for a morning council."
The corner of her mouth moved. "That’s a description, Ivar, nae an answer."
"I answered."
"We both ken ye deflected." She turned toward him fully, and she was closer than he’d registered.
She had moved deliberately while he was looking at the window, and now their boots were nearly touching. She was looking up at him with that direct, clear gaze that had been his undoing since approximately the third day of knowing her. "Are ye concerned?"
He looked at her, at the specific quality of her expression, the held amusement and the genuine question underneath. He chose his words with agonizing care.
"Nay," he said.
"Ye’re sure?"
"I’m sure."
"Ye crossed the hall fairly quickly fer a man who’s sure."
"I walk at an ordinary pace, Matilda."
"Ivar." She said it the way she said it when she was telling him, pleasantly and without heat, that she was not fooled.
Her chin was up. Her eyes were bright. Their boots were still nearly touching, and neither moved back. He was having a conversation about a king’s man’s hair oil with what remained of his dignity, and he was losing.
"I like it," she said. "If that’s what’s making ye careful with yer words."
He looked at her, his pulse thrumming.
"The jealousy," she said, plain and unbothered. "I like it."
His jaw tightened. He was aware of it tightening and was unable to fully prevent the reaction, which was her point and which she had clearly clocked. Her mouth curved properly now, not the restrained version, but a real, teasing smile.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. "Ye’re insufferable."
"Aye," she said cheerfully. "Did ye want breakfast?"
He looked at the timbered ceiling briefly. "I’ve had breakfast."
"The oatcakes dinnae count."
"They were good." He stopped himself. "I’m going tae speak tae Torvald."
"Ye just spoke tae Torvald."
"I have more tae say tae him."
She stepped back and let him go, and he went.
He was entirely aware as he crossed the hall of the fact that he was smiling and could not stop it, which had not been true of him in approximately a decade.
Torvald was waiting at the lower passage. He took one look at Ivar’s face and had the decency not to comment, which was one of his better qualities.
"I was just looking fer ye, me laird. He’s awake," Torvald said. "Einar’s had him since first light."
"Finally, some good news! Let’s finish it."
The lower room was cold and smelled of damp stone and the sharp quality of a space that had been kept sealed for too long.
The man was against the far wall. Not chained, for he was in no condition to require chains, and he looked exactly like what he was, a hired sword who had taken bad coin and worse orders and was arriving at the final accounting of both.
Einar stepped back when they entered.
Ivar crouched in front of the man and looked at him. The head wound had left one eye tracking slightly wrong. His color was poor. But he was conscious and present, which was sufficient for what needed doing.
"I’m going tae ask ye some things," Ivar said, his voice flat and hard, "and ye’re going tae answer them. We’ll dae it quickly if ye decide that’s the better option."
The man’s working eye moved between Ivar and Torvald and he gave a small, bitter laugh that spoke of a man with nothing left to lose. He swallowed, and his voice came out hoarse, like he was forcing the words past a cracked throat.
"Aye," he rasped. "I’ll talk. But nae fer ye, Gunnarsson."
Ivar's eyes narrowed. "I dinnae care who ye think yer talking tae ye’ll answer me now."
The man didn’t flinch, his lips curling into a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Ye dinnae get tae make the rules now. I already did."
Ivar didn’t waste time with threats or anger. Instead, he asked, his voice steady, almost impassive:
"Callum. Tell me what ye ken."
The man took a slow breath before he spoke again, his words measured, the kind of man who had long practiced evasion.