Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Ready, me lady?”
Liv’s voice carried across the courtyard, cutting through the clang of smithy hammers and the low rumble of warriors drilling formations in the training yard.
The healer stood waiting near the gate, one hand adjusting the leather satchel slung across her left shoulder, the other shading her eyes against the crisp morning sun that broke through gray clouds in shafts.
Isolda pulled her cloak tighter against the icy wind sweeping up from the coast, carrying with it the scent of kelp and the distant cry of gulls.
“Aye. Though I half expected me husband tae find some excuse tae keep me locked up.”
“The jarl gave ye his word.” Liv adjusted her satchel, lips twitching with amusement. “And I’ve yet tae see Ragnar Ketilsson go back on a vow he’s made.”
‘Tis true.
He’d actually listened when she’d explained why she needed to go.
“Come,” Liv said, starting toward the gates. “The village willnae wait, and I’ve patients that need tendin’.”
They passed through the inner bailey where warriors trained, their movements sharp and coordinated. But when they reached the outer gate, Freyr stepped into their path, his eyes watchful. “Lady Isolda. Liv.”
“Let me guess,” Isolda said dryly. “He’s assigned ye tae follow us about like he’s expectin’ me tae wander off?”
Freyr’s mouth twitched. “Nae exactly. But aye, ye’ll have four guards accompanyin’ ye.”
“Four?” Isolda crossed her arms. “Fer a simple village visit? That seems excessive—”
“The jarl insists.” Freyr said without hesitation. “Just be grateful he’s lettin’ ye out at all wi’ Douglas sniffin’ about.”
Liv touched Isolda’s elbow gently. “The day’s wastin’, me lady.”
The walk to the village took less than thirty minutes, the path winding down from the keep into rocky terrain that gradually gave way to cultivated fields. Isolda breathed deeply, inhaling the salty air tainted with earth and growing things, and felt the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.
Freedom! Even if it comes with four armed shadows.
The village sprawled along the coastline—timber and stone structures huddled together as if seeking warmth from one another.
Workshops popped up with warped shutters, giving way to cottages with roofs that needed thatch and a small kirk whose weathered cross tilted slightly to the left—as though it had given up trying to withstand the coastal winds.
There was a peculiar stillness around it all—the kind that comes after great violence.
Too many villagers stood in tight clusters, speaking in hushed voices.
A woman clutched a tattered shawl around her shoulders, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow.
Two men worked to repair a door that hung crooked on its hinges, the wood around the latch splintered—evidence of being kicked in.
“What happened here?” Isolda asked quietly.
Liv frowned. “Graham’s men have been strikin’ brutally—ye heard about the deaths, I assume.” She gestured around at the damage, the frightened faces. “Our enemies are just makin’ sure everyone kens they’re nae safe.”
Anger flared hot and bright in Isolda’s chest. “And the guards? Where were they?”
“Spread too thin, me lady. Our enemies ken how tae strike fast and vanish even faster.” Liv paused at the entrance to a small cottage. “This is Siggy’s home—her son took a beatin’ a few nights past tryin’ tae protect the grain stores.”
Inside, the cottage was dim and smelled of herbs and worry. A woman in her forties stepped forward and a young man lay on the bed whose face bore fresh bruises in shades of purple and yellow. He tried to sit up when they stepped inside, but he winced at the movement.
“Dinnae move, lad.” Liv said firmly, setting her satchel on the table.
While Liv worked—asking quiet questions and checking the young man’s injuries gently, Isolda found herself unable to look away from Siggy’s face. The woman’s hands trembled as she clutched a cup of tea that had already gone cold.
“He’s mendin’ well,” Liv announced after a thorough examination. “Naethin’ that willnae heal, though ye’ll be sore fer at least two more weeks, Callum.”
“D’ye think they’ll come back?” Siggy’s voice cracked. “The men who did this.”
Liv’s expression softened.
“The jarl has doubled patrols—” started Isolda.
“And what good are patrols when they strike us in the dead of night?” Siggy’s eyes found Isolda. “Beggin’ yer pardon, me lady, but ‘tis easy fer ye castle folk tae speak of protection when ye’re safe behind those walls.”
Isolda’s heart clenched, though her shame burned hotter than anything ever could.
“Ye’re right.” Isolda said softly. “I havenae earned the right tae speak of protection when I’ve done naethin’ tae contribute tae it.” She moved closer. “I cannae change what’s happened, but if there’s anythin’—anythin’—I can dae tae help, ye need only ask.”
Siggy blinked, clearly surprised. “I didnae mean—”
“Ye meant exactly what ye said, and ye have every right tae say it.”
For a long moment, Siggy studied her, then, slowly, her expression softened. “Ye’re nae what I expected, me lady.”
“Well, that makes two of us then.” Isolda admitted. “But I’m tryin’ tae figure it out.”
They visited three more homes after that, each bearing similar marks of violence and intimidation. Liv tended to injuries while Isolda mixed potions and poultices and dispensed remedies, making an effort to listen to everyone’s stories and offer what little comfort she could.
By the time they’d finished, Isolda’s anger had crystallized into something harder, sharper.
“This has tae stop,” she said.
“Aye,” Liv agreed. “But wars dinnae stop just because we wish them tae, me lady.”
They were making their way toward the village square when movement caught Isolda’s eye—and her pulse kicked.
Ragnar stood near a half-constructed watch platform, his sleeves rolled up despite the chill in the air, speaking with the men around him.
He’d dressed for labor rather than a proper visit—dark leather and wool and Isolda noticed the sawdust covering his coiled, veiny forearms when he pointed toward the platform’s western corner.
Ye’d swear the man’s a honey cake and I havenae eaten in a week!
She couldn’t tear her eyes away, entranced with the way he moved, directing workers with a gesture here, a quiet word there—it reminded her of a craftsman shaping something worth the effort.
He never raised his voice, his posture was relaxed and he was present, helping the men lift the heavy timber instead of just supervising.
Then, he crossed the space toward them.
“Lady Isolda.” His voice was formal, but his eyes swept over her. “Liv.”
“Me jarl.” Liv greeted him with a smile. “Come tae inspect the village, have ye?”
“Somethin’ like that.” He said, his eyes still fixed on Isolda. “How are ye findin’ it?”
“Everyone’s been welcomin’.”
“Och, she’s lyin’.” Liv said cheerfully. “But nay harm, nay foul, and ‘tis a kind lie, so I’ll allow it.”
Ragnar’s brow lifted. “Walk wi’ me?”
Liv made some excuse about checking on another patient and disappeared with remarkable speed, leaving Isolda alone with Ragnar and the four guards who maintained a discreet distance.
“The new guard tower,” he said, gesturing toward the construction. “is comin’ along nicely. It’ll give better sight lines tae the coast—should spot trouble comin’ in time.”
“Will it be enough?”
“Nay.” His honesty surprised her. “But ‘tis a start.”
Isolda studied the villagers going about their day. “They’re scared.”
“Aye.”
T’will be me life if Douglas wins.
She frowned at him. “Ye cannae promise them that—”
“Nay. But I can dae everythin’ in me power tae make them safer than they are now.” He paused, then added quietly. “Same as I dae wi’ ye.”
Before she could respond, a man approached with silver streaks in his beard and shrewd eyes that settled on her with uncomfortable intensity.
“Me jarl,” he said with a respectful nod. “Might I have a word?”
“Aye.” Ragnar turned toward Isolda. “This is Rolf, the village elder—m wife, Lady Isolda.”
“Me lady.” Rolf’s bow was polite but perfunctory. “Beggin’ yer pardon, but clan business—”
“She stays.”
Rolf’s eyebrows rose but his mouth snapped shut.
Ragnar’s hand found the small of Isolda’s back. “Speak freely, man.”
What followed was a detailed discussion about storage capacity, rationing schedules and worries about whether Douglas’s men might strike the farms during harvest. Isolda listened, absorbing the information and watching the way Ragnar navigated the conversation—firm, but fair.
Ragnar turned to her “What d’ye think?”
Every eye in the vicinity swiveled toward Isolda, and Rolf’s expression turned sour. “Me jarl, wi’ respect, these matters are nae—”
“What?” His voice remained pleasant, but there was a dangerous flicker in his blue eyes. “Suitable fer a lass? Too complex fer me wife’s delicate sensibilities?”
Rolf’s mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.
“Because if that’s what ye’re implyin’,” Ragnar continued, his tone deceptively mild, “I’d suggest ye reconsider. Fast. Me wife just spent the mornin’ tendin’ tae the wounded, so I suggest ye let her speak.”
Isolda’s heart stuttered and she took a deep breath. “If ye’re concerned about raids on the farms,” she began carefully, “why put everythin’ in one location? Daes that nae make fer an easy target?”
“Aye, but the alternative requires movin’ and transportin’ hundreds of grain sacks,” Rolf said.
“Aye ‘twill be hard work, but isnae that better than losin’ the entire harvest in one raid?” She countered.
Silence fell around the assembled crowd before Rolf’s voice hardened. “So, we should take advice from a Highlander while one of ‘em plots our destruction—”
“Choose yer next words carefully.”
“She hasnae earned the rétt—”