Chapter 5 #2
The Great Hall opened before him, firelight dancing across ancient tapestries that depicted battles his ancestors had fought when those lands answered only to Norse kings.
Harald, Magnus, Ivar, and Ragnar already occupied seats around the long oak table, their expressions ranging from amused to concerned as they watched him enter.
“About bloody time,” Ivar drawled, his dark eyes glittering with mischief above the rim of his ale horn. “We were beginnin’ tae wonder if yer bride had drowned ye fer sport.”
“Give him a moment, Ivar.” Harald’s voice carried the weight of command even when suggesting patience. “The man just fished his betrothed from the Inner Minch. I’d wager he has more pressin’ concerns than entertainin’ yer wit.”
“Wit implies cleverness,” Magnus observed mildly, though the faint smile playing at his lips took any sting from the words. “What Ivar possesses is more akin tae… persistent audacity.”
Ragnar said nothing, but his steady blue gaze tracked Erik’s movement as he claimed the chair at the table’s head—a silent assessment that missed nothing and judged even less.
“How is she?” Magnus asked once Erik had settled, his tone shifting to genuine concern. “Aksel mentioned she wasnae breathin’ when ye pulled her aboard.”
“She’s alive.” Erik poured himself a measure of ale from the pitcher, needing the burn to settle the knot in his chest. “Furious, soaked tae the bone, and convinced I’m the demon who murdered her braither, but alive.”
“Well, that’s a start,” Ivar said cheerfully. “Most marriages begin with far less passion.”
“Ivar, shut yer face before I shut it fer ye.” The words came out harsher than Erik intended, but the image of Claricia’s pale, lifeless face as he’d breathed air back into her lungs still haunted him.
The way her eyes had flown open, green-blue and blazing with life—and then the sharp crack of her palm against his jaw.
I’d take a thousand such slaps if it meant she kept breathin’.
“Fergive me braither.” Harald’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “He forgets that nae all of us find amusement in others’ misfortune.”
“Braither?” Erik’s eyebrows rose despite himself. “Since when dae ye claim kinship with this whelp?”
“Since he saved me arse in that skirmish off Lewis last summer,” Harald replied, though his expression remained impassive. “Braithers in arms, if nae by blood. Though some days I question the wisdom of that debt.”
“As dae I,” Ivar muttered into his ale, earning a sharp look from Magnus.
Ragnar finally broke his silence, his deep voice carrying across the hall like distant thunder. “The attackers. What dae we ken of them?”
Erik’s hands tightened around his horn. Trust Ragnar to cut through the posturing and reach the heart of the matter.
“Naethin’ yet. They wore nay clan colors, used grappling hooks that suggest practice, and seemed determined tae either kill or capture the lady.
We’ve one survivor, unconscious in the dungeons. ”
“’Tis mere inconvenience,” Magnus murmured. “Dead men cannae talk, but unconscious ones are only temporarily silent.”
“Aye. He’ll wake.” Erik’s tone brooked no argument. “And when he daes, he’ll tell me everythin’ he kens about who sent him and why.”
“Ye think this was planned?” Harald leaned forward, his strategist’s mind already working through possibilities.
“Possibly.” Erik rolled the ale horn between his palms, feeling the smooth wood worn by generations of jarls before him. “Or someone with a personal grudge against the match. I’ve heard said that the lady was already promised tae Duncan MacRae of Clan MacRae.”
Ivar whistled low. “MacRae daesnae strike me as the type tae accept royal annulment with grace.”
“Is any man?” Ragnar asked quietly. “The king’s decree stripped away promised alliances, severed betrothals, humiliated proud lairds across the Highlands. We’d be fools tae think there’ll be nae resistance.”
A heavy silence settled over the table, broken only by the pop and hiss of logs in the great hearth.
“The Pact demands we each take a Highland bride,” Harald said finally, his pale eyes reflecting firelight. “But the Pact daesnae guarantee those brides will survive long enough tae wed us. Or that we’ll survive weddin’ them.”
“Cheerful bastard, arenae ye?” Ivar raised his horn in mock salute. “Here’s tae marriage, death, and the fine line between them.”
“Here’s tae Erik bein’ the first tae test those waters,” Magnus added, though his hazel eyes held sympathy rather than mockery. “May the rest of us learn from yer mistakes.”
“Generous of ye.” Erik drained his ale in one long pull, feeling the burn all the way down. “Though I suspect each of our brides will bring their own unique flavor of catastrophe.”
“Undoubtedly.” Harald’s mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Though at least yers tried tae drown herself before ye could muck it up. That shows initiative.”
Despite everything—the attack, the danger, the impossible task ahead—Erik felt laughter rumble in his chest. These men understood. They stood bound by the same decree, facing the same impossible odds, each carrying wounds from wars that had stolen too much and given back too little.
“The weddin’ takes place in two days,” Erik said, his voice hardening with resolve.
“The royal envoy will witness it, verify the union, and report back tae Alexander. Until then, we keep the lady safe, find out who attacked her ship, and pray tae whatever gods still listen that this daesnae end in bloodshed.”
Erik pushed back from the table, the chair scraping against stone. “I want guards doubled on all approaches tae the castle. Magnus, ye have the sharpest eyes—position yer men on the walls. Harald, yer ships still patrol the waters?”
“Aye. Naething approaches Skye without me say-so.”
“Good. Ivar, Ragnar—” Erik hesitated, measuring his next words carefully. “I need ye both tae make inquiries. Discreetly. Find out what ye can about Duncan MacRae. His whereabouts, his allies, whether he has cause tae want this match destroyed.”
“Ye really think a spurned Highland laird would attack a royal decree?” Ragnar’s tone suggested he already knew the answer.
“I think a man with naethin’ left tae lose is the most dangerous creature alive.” Erik met each of their gazes in turn. “And I’ll nae take chances with me wife’s safety.”
“Yer wife,” Magnus repeated softly. “She’s nae that yet, braither.”
“She will be.” The certainty in Erik’s voice surprised even himself. “Two days from now, Claricia Mackenzie will be Lady of Skye. And anyone who tries tae stop that will answer tae me.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with promise and threat. The four jarls exchanged glances—some amused, some thoughtful, all knowing that Erik had just drawn a line in the sand that he’d defend with blood if necessary.
“Well then.” Ivar stood, stretching like a satisfied cat. “I suppose we’d best make sure ye survive tae see yer wedding night. Would be a shame tae waste all this drama on a corpse.”
“Yer concern is touchin’,” Erik said dryly.
“Isnae it?” Ivar grinned, that reckless spark dancing in his dark eyes. “I’m practically a saint.”
“Saints dinnae usually reek of ale and hubris,” Magnus observed.
Harald rose with the fluid grace of a man constantly ready for battle. “We’ll see tae our tasks, Erik. Ye focus on yer bride. And fer the love of Odin’s ravens, try nae tae make things worse before the wedding.”
“How could I possibly make things worse?”
The four jarls looked at him with identical expressions of amused disbelief.
“Ye’re Erik Thorsen,” Ragnar said simply. “Ye’ll find a way. Now, let’s get tae dinner so we can meet the new Lady Thorsen and see what all the fuss is about.”