Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
“The bastard’s gettin’ bolder.”
Freyr’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation in the solar, drawing every eye to the map spread across the table. His finger stabbed at a point along the western coast, then traced a line north toward Uist.
“Three raids in the past week,” he continued, his expression grim. “Small groups. They’re testin’ our defenses, Ragnar, seein’ where we’re weakest.”
Ragnar leaned forward, studying the marked locations. Each one represented a village burned, livestock stolen, families terrorized. Every one calculated, strategic, designed to spread fear without committing to open battle.
At least fer now.
“How many men?” Olaf, one of the island elders asked from his seat near the fire. The old warrior’s weathered face was creased with concern. “And are we certain they’re Graham’s?”
“Eight tae twelve per raid.” Freyr replied. “And aye, we’ve confirmed it. One of the wounded raiders talked before he bled out. Douglas is payin’ them well—he promises gold and land once he’s secured his position.”
“Once he’s secured what position?” Bjorn interjected, his steward’s mind already working through the implications. “The man’s a minor laird with nae real claim tae—”
“He daesnae view the Pact as legitimate,” Ragnar interrupted quietly, his gaze still fixed firmly on the map. “He’s of mind that the king has nay right tae force Norse-Highland marriages, and that any laird who complies, who gives his daughter tae a jarl, is betrayin’ his kin.”
Silence fell across the solar, heavy and uncomfortable.
“‘Tis treason.” Olaf said finally.
“Aye.” Ragnar straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “Which is exactly why he cannae be allowed tae succeed. If Douglas can disrupt even one of these unions, it undermines the entire Pact. Other lairds will see weakness, and we’ll be back tae open warfare before we can wipe the shite from our eyes. ”
Freyr moved to the next marked location, his jaw tight. “The attack on Lady Isolda wasnae random. It was coordinated, well-planned. The bastard kent exactly where she’d be and when. Which means—”
“Someone’s feedin’ him information.” Ragnar finished.
The implications hung in the air like smoke. If Douglas had spies among the king’s men, or among the servants at the mainland inn, or worse, within Ragnar’s own keep, then Isolda’s safety was even more precarious than he’d thought.
“I want patrols doubled,” Ragnar said, his voice carrying the weight of command. “Every approach tae the island watched, every ship that lands accounted fer. Freyr, ye’ll organize rotations and make sure the men ken—anyone who daesnae belong here gets detained and questioned. Nay exceptions.”
“Aye. And what about the villages? They’re vulnerable if Douglas decides tae escalate.”
“Bring the outer families intae the keep’s protection.” Ragnar decided. “Anyone who cannae fit here can shelter in the village closest tae the castle walls. I’ll nae have our people exposed because I’m too proud tae admit we’re under threat.”
Olaf nodded. “That’s the right call, lad. Yer faither would’ve done the same.”
The words settled warm in Ragnar’s chest, even as the weight of responsibility pressed heavier.
Would he? Or would he have handled this differently—better?
Before he could pursue that thought, the solar door burst open without preamble. Three men strutted in, all wearing the king’s colors, and Ragnar felt his teeth clench automatically.
Lord Huntingdon led the way, his sharp features arranged in an expression that managed to convey both authority and displeasure. The two younger envoys flanked him, their hands resting on their sword hilts in a show of casual threat that fooled absolutely no one in the room.
“Jarl Ketilsson,” Huntingdon said, inclining his head in a greeting. “Fergive the interruption, but we have matters that require immediate attention.”
Ragnar exchanged a glance with Freyr, whose expression had gone carefully neutral. “We’re in the midst of a council meetin’, me laird. Unless the king himself has shown up tae me doorstep—”
“The king has sent us with his full authority tae ensure that the Pact proceeds without interference,” Huntingdon interrupted smoothly. “Which is precisely why we must discuss the current… situation.”
Olaf’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Och, is that so? And what situation might that be?”
Huntingdon’s gaze swept the room, taking in the assembled men, the map, the marked raid locations.
“The attack on Lady MacGregor, of course. Such an incident raises serious questions about security. About whether it is safe tae proceed with the marriage as planned, or whether… alternative arrangements might be more prudent.”
Something cold slid down Ragnar’s spine. “What other arrangements?”
“One might consider moving the lady tae a more… secure location, perhaps. Edinburgh might offer suitable protection until—”
“Nay.” The single word came out flat and absolute.
“Jarl Ketilsson, I must—”
“Lady Isolda stays here. Under me protection.”
Huntingdon’s thin lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “With respect, that’s precisely the sort of decision that’s above yer authority as a jarl. The king himself entrusted us with—”
“Aye. And the same king entrusted me with upholdin’ me end of the Pact.
” Ragnar cut him off, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous.
“Which I will dae. Nay matter the cost. Lady Isolda is safe within these walls, and that’s where she’ll stay.
If ye have any concerns about security, I suggest ye direct them toward findin’ out how the hell Douglas Graham kent where tae find her in the first place. ”
The accusation hung in the air, clear as crystal. Someone had leaked information about Isolda’s location, and that someone had access to the king’s plans.
Huntingdon’s expression hardened. “Ye have the gall tae suggest—”
Ragnar’s tone remained perfectly level, controlled. “The facts speak plainly enough. Douglas kent exactly where she’d be and when. That information came from somewhere, and until we ken the source, I’ll nae be puttin’ me trust in anyone outside of me clan, nae until the threat’s been handled.”
One of the younger envoys stepped forward, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. “Mind yerself, Ketilsson. We’re here on the king’s direct—”
“Enough.” Huntingdon raised a hand, cutting his companion off.
His gaze remained locked on Ragnar, calculating and cold.
“The lady shall remain here. But given the severity of the threat, and the importance of this union to the Crown’s peace, we have nay other choice but tae move the timeline forward. At once.”
Every muscle in Ragnar’s body tensed. “Forward?”
“Just so. The wedding will take place in three days’ time instead of the agreed upon ten.
” Huntingdon’s voice carried the weight of royal decree.
“The other Viking jarls will be informed and advised to make their way urgently. This should be sufficient tae deny Douglas Graham the opportunity to strike again before the marriage is finalized, and it will nay doubt send a clear message that the Pact willnae and cannae be disrupted by rebellious threats.”
“Three days?” Olaf’s voice rose in alarm. “Are ye daft, man? That’s nae enough time tae prepare fer a proper—”
“Three days is what ye are afforded.” Huntingdon said flatly. “The decision has been made. His Majesty was quite clear.”
Ragnar looked at Freyr, whose expression had gone carefully blank—the way it always did when he was biting back arguments he knew wouldn’t be heard. Then at Olaf, who shook his head slightly in sympathy but offered no solutions.
Odin protect me… three days tae convince her this isnae just another cage.
“Fine,” he said finally, the word tasting like ash. “Three days. But the lady will be treated with every courtesy in the meantime, and she’ll nae be harassed or questioned without me presence. Are we clear?”
“Perfectly.” Huntingdon’s smile was sharp. “We’ll leave ye tae yer Council, then. Dae inform the lady of the changes at yer earliest convenience. I trust she shall be… delighted by the news.”
The envoys departed as abruptly as they’d arrived, leaving behind tension thick enough to cut with a blade.
“Bastards.” Freyr muttered once the door had closed. “They kent exactly what they were daein’, showin’ up in the middle of our meetin’ like that.”
“Aye.” Ragnar raked a hand through his hair, suddenly exhausted. “But they’re right about one thing—the sooner the marriage happens, the less opportunity Douglas has tae interfere.”
“And Lady Isolda?” Olaf asked gently. “How dae ye think she’ll take the news?”
Poorly, nay doubt.
“I’ll speak with her,” Ragnar said. “The rest of ye—focus yer efforts on security and other preparations. Freyr, I want those patrols organized by nightfall. Bjorn, work with the household staff tae prepare fer guests. The other jarls will be arrivin’ soon if they’re pushin’ this hard.”
The men dispersed with murmured acknowledgements, leaving Ragnar alone in his solar with his thoughts and the marked map. He traced a single finger over the pattern of the attacks again, searching for some insight into the man’s strategy, but his mind kept drifting to Isolda.
She’s goin’ tae hate me fer this.
The thought shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.
Ragnar left the solar and made his way through the castle’s corridors, nodding absently to servants and guards who stepped aside to let him pass. The family wing was quieter, removed from the bustle of the main halls, and when he reached Isolda’s door, he paused.
No sounds came from within.
Perhaps she’s sleepin’.
Ragnar raised his hand and knocked—not a heavy, demanding pound, but a lighter tap that still somehow managed to sound commanding.
No response.
He knocked again, slightly louder. “Isolda? ‘Tis Ragnar. I need tae speak with ye.”