25. The Twisted Bargain
XXV
THE TWISTED BARGAIN
Erik crouched in the attic’s corner. Sweat dripped from his brow. He rolled his shoulder slowly, the scar tugging like a tight thread beneath his skin.
It still ached, even a month later. Seren had stitched him up in excellence, with steady hands and a gentle touch that made him want it again.
He couldn’t forget the warmth of her breath on his neck or the brush of her fingers when she wiped the blood from his back. He remembered her voice when she whispered that she would choose him.
Had she said it to raise his spirits as a friend would? Had she meant it? Had her tears been solely for her family? Were some of them for him?
He’d read her eyes—they longed for something. Was it him or her family? Both?
It was a question that plagued his mind because for six months, he’d hated himself after the stairwell.
But the one night in the council chamber upon his return made him wonder whether she had pushed him away because she had to.
If her kiss upon his cheek wasn’t forgiveness, but a sympathetic message, she loved him too.
It didn’t matter, though.
He was likely misunderstanding her good nature, once again. Reading too much into her actions, the spaces between her words.
And if he wasn’t, what would come of it? A stolen night here and there, and if found, scandal, torture, and death to follow.
He had tried to push Seren far from his mind, but she was stuck in his heart.
The healed wound ached as he raised his makeshift training blade toward his son.
Ragnar was fast. Baldwin had taught him well.
The daylight flickered across the stone wall from the attic’s narrow window slit.
Henry had let Erik visit his son every week since he’d come home from the six-month campaign. But he’d never given either Erik or Baldwin permission to train Ragnar to fight.
If Reynard stood guard, Erik did not teach Ragnar. Reynard was too hard to read, too quiet to tell where his loyalty or care resided. But that day, Baldwin stood outside Ragnar’s attic door.
The wolf carving Seren had given Ragnar stood on the bedside next to Erik’s bear trinket, both a little worn now, a little darker from the oils from Ragnar’s hand.
The first thing Ragnar told him was about the wolf and the tale Seren told him. Erik reiterated the importance of knowing when to strike, when to wait, and when to move.
Erik watched it from the shadows of the attic.
He had made one just like it years ago in the north, back when he still carved things with care.
It had rounded edges with its snout raised to the moon.
A northern wolf, meant for howling and protection.
Seren’s wolf was like her, intelligent and cunning, sleek and beautiful.
He was teaching his son how to kill, but Seren was teaching him how to endure. She was teaching his son strength. And mercy. And patience. Everything he should have been but never had enough time to do.
Ragnar swung his wooden sword.
“Good,” Erik said with a smirk. “Foot back. Remember, as I come to you, use my force against me. Don’t try to compete with strength against strength. If you do, you will not endure even if you win.”
Erik approached and corrected Ragnar’s form before beginning again.
Ragnar blocked his strike and placed a fist on Erik’s back as if he held a dagger.
Erik grabbed Ragnar’s head and pulled it into his chest. “That’s my little wolf.”
Ragnar laughed, and his eyes shone. It was moments like that Erik lived for. He shifted his grip on the training blade, favoring the injured side.
“Remember, if you are holding a blade and want to kill, aim beyond your target so you have the force to do what you need to do.”
Ragnar pushed him away.
“Again,” Ragnar said low, not to draw attention, though his footsteps were hard.
“Be light on your feet—not just now but in every battle. Strength will win you ground, but fade fast. It’s the man who can last the longest who walks away. Save your breath, keep your stance, and strike when it counts.”
Ragnar looked at his feet.
“Step back. One foot over the other,” Erik guided. “Soft.”
Ragnar stepped lightly.
Erik smiled. His son was smart like his mother and his adoptive mother. “You’re a quick study both in the art of fighting and your lessons. You should be so proud of yourself, little wolf.”
Father Osbert had told Erik he’d never had a chapel boy so studious in his lessons. He’d learned to read and write quicker than any of the noble boys he’d taught, and had nearly memorized entire holy books.
The priest would be saddened to know Erik and Baldwin had taught him to fight. But Ragnar’s future was uncertain. The boy was never supposed to be anything more than leverage. He needed to prepare him for whatever he faced, with or without his father.
Erik adjusted Ragnar’s grip on the practice sword. "Tighter. You lose the hilt, you die."
Footsteps approached, and Erik took the training blades and hid them under Ragnar’s bed. Ragnar pointed to the scribbles he’d made on the wall and started talking about the Book of Matthew just as the door opened.
“The Lord wishes for both the Commander and his son in the great hall,” the steward said.
“Do I need my uniform?” Erik asked.
The steward sized him up. “You’ll be fine. He was adamant that you come at once.”
Erik took Ragnar under his arm. It was never good when Henry called Ragnar to the hall. The steward left, and Baldwin gave Erik a cautious glare as he followed them.
Ragnar walked along with a smile on his face, so Erik whispered, “Trust me, my son. Do not let Lord Henry provoke you, no matter what he does.”
Henry never let a child grow without reminding him who ruled over him.
“Know I love you,” Erik said, “and whatever I do, it is to keep you safe.”
Ragnar’s smile fell as if the gravity of the situation hit him hard in the face. “I understand, Father.”
They entered the great hall off the stairs.
David, a month shy of his fifth birthday, stood beside his father, little and wide-eyed.
Seren stood behind them, off to the side, with her handmaids. Her face was grim. The tension hummed across the room.
Erik scanned the great hall.
Father Osbert sat in the corner, near the corridor.
The tutor, Bertrand, sat in Seren’s seat on the dais, with a proud nose.
Geoffrey and Jovin were across the way, seated at the command table.
Tomas and a few other guards lined the hall.
Henry’s two guards were on the dais flanking him, with an additional two knights flanking Henry’s seat of honor.
Overall, Lord Henry had a small audience, but Erik didn’t let that soothe the knots in his belly.
Astrid was killed in front of a small audience.
“The Norsemen could join us,” Henry said with a soft chuckle.
The room reverberated with polite chuckles.
“You are likely wondering why I have called you here,” Henry said, glaring at Ragnar.
Erik’s hand never left Ragnar’s shoulder as he peered at Geoffrey and Jovin. They had taken up his command while Erik healed from his wound. He wondered if both he and Ragnar were going to meet their end in the next few moments.
“Commander de Montfort, stand aside and let your boy stand in front of David,” Henry ordered.
Erik’s hand slid off Ragnar’s shoulder, and he stood aside.
"Kneel," Henry ordered Ragnar.
The muscles tensed in Ragnar's jaw and his shoulders. He was nearing the end of his childhood, but he was already learning that kneeling before cruelty is a kind of death no one wants. Still, Ragnar kneeled.
Henry grabbed David’s wrist, lifted the child’s arm, and with it, slapped Ragnar across the face.
David yanked his hand back, crossed his arms, and said, "No."
Henry slapped David hard as if he were a disobedient pet.
Ragnar’s jaw clenched.
“Now, my son,” Henry said through gritted teeth. “You are going to learn a very important lesson today.” Henry squeezed David’s shoulder. “Repeat what I tell you.”
Henry stooped and whispered in David’s ear.
David turned and yelled “No” in his father’s face.
Henry grabbed David’s jaw and squeezed. “You will do what I say.”
Ragnar’s hands clenched. Erik hoped he stayed still. So far, Ragnar did as he was told and nothing more.
“Say it, or I’ll make you hit him again,” Henry said to David.
David’s voice came thin as he spat the words quickly. "You’re my dog, Ragnar. You do not strike unless I tell you. I am above you. You are . . .”
Henry leaned close to the boy. “Say the last part."
David shook his head.
Henry took his hand and slapped Ragnar again, harder. Ragnar faltered on his knee.
"You’re hurting him!" David shouted and, in a futile attempt, tried to yank his hand away.
Henry squeezed David’s cheeks until the boy yelped. “Say it, you disobedient child.”
Ragnar growled and stood.
Henry paused, peering up at the thirteen-year-old giant of a boy.
Seren lifted her hand, palm down.
“No, Ragnar,” Erik muttered, taking a small step forward, and wishing for his armor.
“Seems this boy needs a good reminder of his place. Cut his heels. Perhaps he will learn when he does not get to stand,” Henry ordered.
Before the guards could respond, Erik moved. There was only one action he could take that might save his son’s life and maybe Seren’s. He acted so she wouldn’t.
There was no choice. Not when Henry smiled like that.
Odin, forgive me. Forgive me, Astrid. Forgive me, Seren. Forgive me, son.
He was at Ragnar’s back with the blade from his boot drawn, with its steel against his son’s throat.
Ragnar didn’t flinch, trusting his father completely.
Seren had come forward. Erik wished she had stayed back, but she loved Ragnar as her own. How would he expect her to stay still at such a command?
If David had been ten years older, he would have gone for Henry’s throat, with no hesitation in slicing it.
Henry laughed. "Going to kill your own blood, pagan?”
“The deal was clear,” Erik said, deep and raw. “Be good to my son, and I’ll be good to you.”