Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
“How many dead?”
Ragnar kept his voice level and controlled despite the war room feeling too small. Perhaps it was the weight of what they were about to discuss that made the stone walls feel like they were pressing inward.
Erik stood across from him, Magnus to his right while Ivar leaned against the wall with deceptive casualness. Freyr hovered by the door, his arms crossed and his expression grim while Olaf shifted in his seat.
“Seven villagers confirmed, two of which were bairns.” Freyr’s tone was cold. “Three more that willnae last till dawn.”
Ragnar’s hands tightened on the table’s edge, threatening to snap the solid wood. Douglas Graham had sent grown men to slaughter innocent children in a fishing village that posed no strategic advantage or threat.
Calculated. Deliberate. Personal.
“Yer scout?” Magnus asked. “The one who escaped—is he talkin’?”
“Aye.” Freyr straightened. “Lost an eye and half of his sword arm, but Liv’s patched him up well enough. He’s in the infirmary.”
They went to Liv’s chambers to speak to him.
The scout was a good, loyal man who had a wife and two daughters. Ragnar’s insides twisted in anger.
“Hvitserk.” Ragnar kept his voice quiet. “Can ye remember what happened?”
“Aye, me jarl.” The words came rough, damaged, sounding pained. “We were checkin’ the nets by the creek. They came on us hard and fast—ten men, maybe twelve… I dinnae… they kent exactly where we’d be.”
“Armed?” Erik’s question was sharp.
“Swords. Axes. One had a bow.” Hvitserk touched the bandage covering his ruined eye. “They didnae rob us, didnae even try. They just…went straight fer the village and started slaughterin’.”
The room absorbed this in silence. Ragnar’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth protested and he had to force himself to relax.
Control yerself!
“Did ye recognize any of the bastards?” Magnus leaned forward.
“Nae their faces, but…” he hesitated, his good eye finding Ragnar’s. “Their tartans, aye. They were wearin’ Graham colors—I’d stake what’s left of me life on it.”
They’d all suspected it, but hearing it hit different.
“Ye’re absolutely certain?” Ragnar had to focus to keep his tone even, even though wild rage simmered beneath his ribs.
“Grew up near Graham lands, me jarl. I ken the patterns well.” He swayed precariously and one of the guards steadied him. “There’s… there’s more, me jarl. The one with the bow, he let me live when he could’ve—”
Ivar straightened from the wall. “Why?”
“Tae carry a message.” Hvitserk’s voice dropped. “He said tae tell the Stag that Douglas Graham is watchin’. Watchin’ the coast, the keeps… everythin’ in Uist.”
The temperature in the room dropped. Ragnar didn’t move, didn’t react, but his mind raced a million miles ahead, calculating, analyzing the threat from every possible angle.
The bastard wants me tae ken he’s out there, wants me tae ken he can strike anywhere, anytime.
“Thank ye Hvitserk, Rest now, I will return tae check on ye,” Ragnar said. The moment the door closed behind them, Ivar stepped closer.
“So, this Douglas wants ye rattled enough tae make mistakes. Question is whether he’s got the spine tae back his threats, or if he’s just a dog barkin’ behind a fence.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes.
“More than that,” Magnus traced a finger along the map spread before them across the table, for in the meantime they had reached the study.
“He’s tellin’ ye he can strike whenever he chooses, where he chooses.
Ragnar, ye ken as well as I dae that stone walls and armed men mean naethin’ when he’s already slithered intae yer head. ”
“‘Twas never about the village or the folk.” Erik’s eyes were sharp. “Harbors and armories—those are targets if ye want tae cripple someone. This?” he gestured dismissively. “This was about makin’ ye watch yer people bleed.”
“All this shows,” Freyr stood, pacing the room, “is that the bastard’s mad enough tae murder bairns!”
“And that nowhere is safe,” Erik added flatly. “That anyone under the protection of Ragnar Ketilsson can be taken. We all ken that fear is a better weapon than any blade.”
Magnus’s fingers drummed against the table. “ótti er en svere,” he muttered.
Fear is worse than swords.
“Me faither used tae say that. Said a man who’s afraid makes mistakes. Acts rashly.”
“Or hesitates when he shouldnae,” Ivar added, his dark eyes finding Ragnar’s. “Which I’d wager is exactly what the wretch is countin’ on.”
Ragnar felt the weight of their attention, of the unspoken question swimming in the air.
Will fear fer her make me weak when strength is needed most?
The answer terrified him more than any blade ever could.
“We dinnae give him the satisfaction.” Ragnar’s voice came out hard. “We choose otherwise.”
Erik’s mouth twitched. “Aye but ‘tis easier said than done when ye’ve got somethin’ tae lose, Ragnar.”
The words settled cold and heavy in Ragnar’s gut. This wasn’t about territory or strategy. This was Douglas trying to break him, trying to make him afraid for everyone under his protection—trying to make him afraid for her, so he couldn’t think straight.
The thought of Isolda—probably fast asleep in her chamber, unaware that a maniac was watching the castle—sent hot rage through Ragnar’s veins. She had no idea in how much danger she was simply by existing, by being associated with him and with the Pact.
By matterin’ tae me.
The thought startled him.
“So, what’s the plan?” Freyr asked. “Double the patrols? Pull the outer villages back?”
“Ye’d be giving that wretch exactly what he wants.” Ivar’s tone was sharp. “We pull back, consolidate, show weakness and before we can wipe our arse’s every enemy from here tae Edinburgh starts wonderin’ if the Pact’s worth the ink it’s written in.”
“Aye, but ‘tis better tae show weakness than bury more bairns.”
“Enough.” Ragnar’s voice cut through the building argument.
He forced himself to look up from the map, to meet the men’s eyes with calm certainty even as his instincts screamed at him, warning him.
“We’re nae abandonin’ the villages. But we will double the patrols.
Freyr, send word tae every settlement within a day’s ride—if they see anythin’ suspicious, they sound the alarm immediately.
“And Graham?” Magnus asked quietly. “Dae we strike back at him? Because the moment we move, we show our hand—whether we want tae or nae. And ye can ken that Douglas will be watchin’ fer exactly that.”
“Nae yet.” The words tasted like ash but Ragnar pushed on. “He’s baitin’ us. The moment we retaliate, he’ll claim we’re the aggressors. That the Pact is naethin’ but Vikings bringin’ savagery and tyranny tae the realm.”
“So ye expect us tae just sit back and dae naethin?” Erik looked incredulous. “Just let him—”
“I didnae say that.” Ragnar straightened, and something in his expression made even Ivar go still. “I said, nae yet. But when we move, we end it.”
The men nodded their heads, absorbing this.
“How long?” Erik asked, cutting through the planning.
Ragnar’s hands curled into tight fists on the table. “Douglas is nae a patient man, that much is clear. He’ll escalate, and when he daes, we’ll be ready fer him.”
The men spent the next hour discussing guard rotations, supply stockpiles and contingency plans. Ragnar listened, responded, gave orders—all while part of his mind snagged on one thought:
As long as he’s out there prowlin’, she’s nae safe here, nae anywhere.
Finally, he dismissed them. Erik clasped his shoulder briefly and Magnus murmured something about standing ready. Even Ivar’s usual mockery was uncharacteristically absent as he left.
Ragnar remained in the study, staring at maps that offered no answers. Every possible scenario ended the same way—with Isolda in danger.
He couldn’t send her away. Couldn’t lock her up. But he could make damn sure Douglas never got close enough to try.
“Freyr.”
“Aye?”
“Double the guards on Lady Isolda’s chambers. Station men at every corridor between her rooms and the Great Hall. I want eyes on her movements at all times—but discreet. Dinnae make it obvious.”
Freyr’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. Understanding. “How many men?”
“As many as it takes. And Freyr?” Ragnar met his gaze. “I want yer best. Men who willnae hesitate if it comes tae it.”
Freyr nodded slowly. “I’ll see it done.” He turned to leave, then paused. “She’ll notice, ye ken. The lass misses naethin’.”
“Aye.” Ragnar’s jaw tightened. “But she willnae ken why. Nae yet.”
“And when she asks?”
“She willnae.” Ragnar forced himself to believe it. “Isolda’s nae one tae demand explanations when she can figure things out on her own.”
Freyr studied him for a long moment. “Ye care about her.”
“She’s under me protection.”
“That’s nae what I said.”
Ragnar turned back to the map, dismissing him. But Freyr’s words lingered long after his footsteps faded.
Isolda noticed the additional guards before supper.
Two men stationed outside her chamber where there had been one. Another at the corridor’s end who pretended to inspect a wall torch but whose eyes never left her door. A third near the stairwell, positioned with perfect sight lines.
She remembered the messenger that had arrived at the training yard. Watched Ragnar’s expression shift from calm to something lethal. Seen him dismiss everyone—even her and the other women—without explanation.
And now this.
Dead bairns, would rattle anyone.
She’d overheard whispers in the corridors, caught enough fragments of hushed conversations between servants. An attack on a village. People slaughtered. Douglas Graham’s name spoken like a curse.
The same Douglas Graham who’d tried to take her on that rain-soaked road.
Isolda stepped into her chamber and closed the door. Leaned against it, eyes fixed on nothing.
He’s is comin’ fer me.