7. 7Inga’s Questions at the Reeve’s Table
The reeve’s search had left the great hall smelling of wet wool, ash, and suspicion.
Inga stood near the long tables while a guard carried her opened chest toward the women’s quarters. Her folded gowns had been disturbed, the gold clasp hidden beneath her bodice now resting against her skin like a hot coin. Even the torn bridal veil wound around her wrist seemed to accuse her.
At the high table, Einar Bjarni watched her over the rim of a wooden cup.
“Your wife is waiting,” Inga said.
The reeve’s mouth tightened. “A wife waits for her husband.”
“Then I am fortunate that my husband is not here to command me.”
A flicker passed through his eyes. Not amusement. Calculation.
Rurik had gone to the seaward wall with two guards, ordered there before she could ask what he meant to do about the search. He had touched the iron ring on her finger as if reminding himself of their bargain, then left without a word. His silence still stung more sharply than the cold.
Einar gestured to the bench opposite him. “Sit, Inga Hrolfsdottir.”
She sat, keeping her back straight. The bench was rough beneath her palms. Around them, the fortress moved through its evening meal: knives scraping bowls, boots striking the packed floor, smoke curling beneath the rafters. No one spoke loudly near the reeve’s table.
“You ordered my belongings searched,” she said.
“I did.”
“On whose authority?”
“The authority of the man who keeps this fortress.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one you are owed.”
Inga felt the familiar old anger rise - the same anger that had burned when her father had spoken of her betrothal as though she were a bale of wool to be weighed and traded. She pressed her thumb against the iron ring until its edge bit her skin.
“I am Rurik Eiriksson’s wife,” she said. “By the fortress’s own word. If you search me, you search his household. If you accuse me, you accuse him.”
“I accuse no one.”
“Then why look for papers bearing my family name?”
Einar lifted his cup, but did not drink. “Do you know the first oath of a household wife?”
“I know several.”
“Speak one.”
“A wife keeps faith with the household that shelters her.”
“And if the household sheltering her stands against the household of her birth?”
“Then she must know which oath was spoken first.”
The reeve studied her. “You answer like a merchant’s daughter.”
“I am a merchant’s daughter.”
“Yet you came here with no dowry chest, no kin, and a husband whose name you bought with a bargain made aboard ship.”
The words struck close. Inga kept her face still.
“You have searched my clothing,” she said. “Must you also search my marriage?”
“If it is false, it may conceal a truth more dangerous than a stolen clasp.”
Her fingers closed over the gold beneath her bodice. The clasp had been ransom once, payment for passage and protection. Rurik knew of it. Einar did not. She wondered whether the reeve had sent hands through her garments hoping to find it.
“You believe I carried the tribute ledger,” she said.
“I believe the ledger vanished after it was altered.”
“Rurik told me the entries were changed before his ship sailed.”
“And you believe everything your husband tells you?”
“No.” The answer came too swiftly.
A guard passing behind her slowed. Einar noticed. His gaze moved to the iron ring, then back to her face.
“Good,” he said. “A woman who believes every word spoken by a man is a poor keeper of any household.”
“Then tell me what you do believe.”
“That the tribute was counted at Skara. That the ledger bore a seal connected to the men who arranged your betrothal. That the record reaching this fortress named a different weight of silver than the record kept by the crown’s clerk.”
Inga’s breath caught despite herself. “The crown’s clerk?”
Einar leaned forward. The smell of ale and smoke clung to him.
“Do not pretend ignorance. Your father traded along those waters. Your betrothed’s household dealt in the same accounts.”
“My father dealt in cloth, grain, and salt fish. I was not permitted near the tribute chests.”
“Not permitted?” His brows rose. “Or not interested?”
“I was interested enough to notice when men lied.”
“Then you noticed much.”
She lowered her gaze to the table. A dark stain marked the wood where some careless hand had spilled blood or wine. Her mind returned to the altered ledger: the seal, the missing pages, Rurik’s confession that he had known and kept silent. He had said he feared for others. He had not said who.
“Who ordered the search?” she asked.
Einar’s fingers tapped once against his cup. “You ask the wrong question.”
“No. I ask the question that concerns my safety.”
“Your safety concerns the fortress.”
“Then answer me.”
The reeve’s eyes hardened. “A sealed message came before you did. It named a woman traveling under a false marriage, carrying knowledge of a stolen tribute. It demanded that she be held until the rightful party claimed her.”
The hall seemed to narrow around her.
“Who sent it?”
“The seal was broken when it reached me.”
“By whom?”
“By me.”
“Then you know.”
“I know the message came through a mainland lord’s household.”
“Which lord?”
Einar’s silence was answer enough to prove he had one.
Inga rose. “You mean to keep me ignorant while searching my possessions and calling me dangerous.”
“I mean to keep this fortress from being dragged into a feud between men who count silver with one hand and draw blades with the other.”
“And Rurik?”
“Your husband is a ship captain, not a lord. He may defend you at the gate. He cannot make your name lawful.”
The words landed harder than she expected. Her legal status had been a shield aboard the ship, a story spoken loudly enough to frighten away pursuit. Here, within stone walls and under a reeve’s seal, the truth of it was thin as sailcloth.
“Then what am I?” she asked.
Einar regarded her for a long moment. “A woman who fled a betrothal before the marriage bond was made. A merchant’s daughter claimed by her father’s household. A traveler who entered this fortress under a captain’s protection. And, if Rurik’s word is accepted, his wife.”
“If?”
“The gods are not witnesses here. Oaths are.”
“I spoke mine.”
“To whom?”
“To Rurik.”
“Before whom?”
“The sea. His crew. Anyone who heard.”
“Not enough for a land claim.”
Heat rose beneath her collar. “You would deny me because no priest or law-speaker stood on the deck?”
“I would deny no one. I would know what can be defended when your father’s men come asking for you.”
“My father’s men are not the only danger.”
At last, Einar’s expression shifted. Something wary entered it.
“You think the theft links to your betrothal.”
“I know the seal on the altered ledger belongs to that circle.”
“Belongs?” he asked softly. “Or was copied?”
“I do not know.”
“Then you know less than you think.”
“Tell me.”
He leaned back. “You have the habit of demanding doors open because you knock upon them.”
“And you have the habit of calling a locked door wisdom.”
A few heads turned. Einar’s hand stopped tapping.
For a moment, Inga believed she had gone too far. Then the reeve gave a low, humorless laugh.
“Your husband chose a sharp-tongued bride.”
“My husband chose a useful one.”
“Did he?”
The question carried Rurik’s voice in its wake - not the sound, but the wound of it. Useful. A bargain. Protection purchased with a false wife.
Inga held Einar’s stare. “You searched for letters. You found none. You searched for proof that I am more than Rurik’s wife. You found only the proof that I know enough to trouble you.”
“Perhaps.”
“Where was the tribute meant to go?”
The reeve’s gaze shifted toward the fire. Logs cracked, sending sparks up the stone throat of the hearth.
“Mainland,” he said.
“That is not a destination.”
“No.”
“Name it.”
“Why?”
“Because if the tribute was bound for a lord tied to my betrothal, then I may know who arranged the theft.”
“And if you do?”
“Then I can tell Rurik.”
“You think he will trust what you tell him?”
“He may not. But he will hear it.”
Einar’s jaw worked. He looked past her toward the gate, where the last gray light showed between the timber bars.
“The tribute was meant for Lord Hakon of Caithness,” he said at last.
The name struck through her like a blade drawn under the ribs.
Lord Hakon’s hall had hosted the negotiations for her betrothal. His men had stood beside her father when the terms were praised as an honor. His seal had appeared on letters carried between Skara and the mainland.
“You see,” Einar said. “You know him.”
“I know of him.”
“Do not make that distinction too carefully. It will not save you.”
“Who was to deliver the silver?”
His face closed again.
“You have given me the lord’s name. Give me the courier.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the courier may still be alive.”
“Then he is the man we need.”
“He is the man someone will kill if his name leaves this table.”
Inga leaned across the wood. “You think I will tell Lord Hakon?”
“I think you will tell Rurik.”
“And you think Rurik will do what?”
“Take his ship into waters where a captain has no protection but his crew and his luck.”
“He is already in danger.”
“Because of you?”
“Because someone altered his ledger and sent him toward a charge of theft.”
Einar’s eyes sharpened. “You speak as though you mean to stand beside him when the accusation comes.”
“I do.”
The reeve looked at the iron ring on her finger. “You cling to that little band as if it makes you untouchable.”
“It makes my choice visible.”
“Choice?” His voice lowered. “If your marriage is challenged, your father may claim you. If Rurik is accused, the fortress may cast him out. If Lord Hakon demands the tribute, no ring will shield either of you.”
“Then why test me with household oaths?”
“Because a person’s answer shows where she believes she belongs.”
The words unsettled her more than his threats. She had expected a trap, not a question that reached beneath the bargain.
“I belong where I am not treated as cargo,” she said.
Einar watched her in silence.
At last he bent toward the guard standing nearby and murmured something. The man left through the side passage. Inga heard the scrape of a bolt, then footsteps fading toward the store rooms.
“What have you done?” she asked.
“Nothing yet.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It should not be.”
The guard returned with a narrow strip of waxed cloth. Einar took it, unfolded it, and revealed a faint mark pressed into the wax: three short cuts beside a circle.
“The courier uses this sign,” he said. “He was to leave the tribute at a mainland landing below Lord Hakon’s hall.”
“Which landing?”
Einar folded the cloth again. “You have had enough.”
“Not nearly.”
“You have gained more than I intended to give.”
“And lost what?”
His eyes moved toward the passage where her chest had vanished.
“Your belongings will remain under guard until I decide whether your name is a danger to this fortress.”
Inga’s anger faltered. “You have no right.”
“Perhaps not. But I have walls, men, and the reeve’s seal.”
He rose, ending the audience.
She did not move. “You said the courier may still be alive. Is he inside the fortress?”
Einar paused.
That pause was answer enough.
“Tell me his name.”
“No.”
“Then tell me how I will know him.”
The reeve looked down at her, his face carved harshly by firelight.
“He will ask for the wife of the sea captain,” he said. “And if you are wise, you will not answer.”
Then he turned away.
Inga remained at the table, listening to the hall swallow his footsteps. She had wanted the hand behind the search. Instead, she had gained Lord Hakon, a hidden landing, and a courier close enough to speak her title.
It was a lead.
It was also a warning that the courier already knew she was here.