“I would be lying if I said I didn’t fear it, too. But it can’t control us. We can’t let it. We already lost so many years of being together, of having a family. I don’t want to miss our chances now. I’d rather picture a future filled with children and grandchildren. And for now, I rather enjoy picturing how we try to make those children.” She brushed her lips against him again, feathering a kiss on each side of his mouth. “But for now, I want to sleep. I expect you to hold me and not let go until I wake again. Then I want to practice making those babies.”
Gressa rolled over and nestled into Strian’s body as he spooned her. Her eyes drifted shut, and Strian soon felt her breathing deepened. As he matched his breathing to hers, he slid into slumber, too.
Fifteen
The next morning, Ivar summoned them to stand before him. Deep lines were etched between his eyebrows, ones Gressa did not remember from all those years ago. His eyes looked tired and his face drawn. Gressa was nervous as she faced the man she had longed to call father. As a child, she often wondered why Ivar could not have been her true father. Now she feared his love had run out. Ivar looked up as they approached. Before they reached him, he marched forward and pulled Gressa into a tight embrace. She felt him shudder as she wrapped her arms around him. It felt so familiar, just as it had when she was young and hurt by the unkind words of the other children or fell while playing. She half imagined he might pull her onto his lap just as he had when she turned to him for comfort as a child. She wished that he could.
“Gressa, I am ashamed of how I treated you in front of the tribe, of how I could cast doubt on you, and how I have neglected you since your return. It’s my fault. All of it. You being left behind only to returning to suspicion and hostility. I’ve said you are welcome here, but I have not shown it. I have not been the father I pledged to be or the one you deserved.” Ivar held her as he made his confession.
“I don’t blame you. You had more people than just me to worry about. You may have been, are, my adoptive father, but you are still our jarl. You did what you thought was best. You welcomed me home with the same warmth as you do now. This, this hug and these words, make up for much. Father.” Gressa tried out the word and waited for Ivar to recoil, fearing she had gone too far. Instead his hold only tightened.
“You have no idea how I longed to hear you call me that rather than Ivar. I care for you just as I do Freya and Tyra. I harbor guilt that I did not do enough for either you or Tyra. She is like a daughter to me, and I should have made her come to live with us after she lost her parents too, but she was older, and I thought it best she lived with her aunt and uncle.”
“Regret is getting us nowhere. The past is done and as it will remain. I’d rather look to a better future.”
“You have become quite sage, daughter.”
They embraced for a moment longer before they pulled apart, and Gressa returned to Strian’s side as their friends joined them.
“Gressa, we need your knowledge of the Welsh. The men don’t speak any Norse, or at least have not let on if they do. We can’t learn anything from them. You’re the only one who speaks both languages.” Ivar paused as he seemed to consider his thoughts before sharing them. “Rangvald and I need to know as much about how the Welsh fight as we can. It seems Grímr has abandoned his search for Scottish mercenaries and is relying on the Welsh bowmen. We’ve had reports that attackers have killed sentries near the borders on both my land and Rangvald’s. We believe they are trying to weaken our defenses to make it easier to attack either this homestead or Rangvald’s. Once again, you are the only one with that knowledge.”
Gressa’s gaze did not waiver once as she looked into Ivar’s eyes while he explained the situation.
“There were two hundred Welsh footmen and archers who traveled with Grímr. After the battle at the Ross keep, I would say you killed only a quarter of the force. The few men who made it over the wall and then the archers who rode into the bailey. Grímr purposely held back many of the foot warriors in case the battle tide turned against him and he needed to retreat to plan for the next one. He has at least a hundred but likely a hundred and fifty men still with him.” Gressa finally looked around the group after watching Rangvald and Lorna join them. They sat in chairs beside Ivar’s and Lena’s, showing their elevated status. “I didn’t hear of any specific plans beyond the battle at the Scottish keep. He was unprepared for your allies to arrive. He thought you would show up and was prepared to fight, but he did not expect a second wave of fighters to arrive. I suspect he once more used his son who bears an unlikely resemblance to him even though I heard he was a bastard sired by another man. He makes his son pretend to be him, so he can move around during battles without anyone being able to keep up with two men who appear the same but are going in different directions. He has no qualms about retreating and fleeing, leaving his son to be captured or killed in his place.”
“That bluidy well explains why we can never catch the bastard,” Lorna grumbled, her brogue trying to inch into her voice.
“I was not with Grímr’s forces very long, and I don’t know what he negotiated with Dafydd,” Gressa lips drew in and pursed as she thought of just what the two men had negotiated for her to be the only woman sent to Grímr’s aid. “I can only guess based on the Welsh tactics I learned. Their archers are better than any others, anywhere. Grímr will most likely try to lure your forces into the woods near here. Then he’ll have the bowmen pick off your warriors one by one until Grímr’s men can overrun you and sack the homestead. Once he’s brought the tribe to its knees, he will either destroy the holding or leave his sons in charge before moving onto Rangvald’s. One thing I did hear was he’s no longer interested in capturing and possessing the extra land. He wants each of you dead more than the power. He figures the power and land will come naturally after he slaughters all of you.”
Gressa felt Strian’s grip on her waist tighten as he gave her a reassuring squeeze. He must have known how to she dreaded looking around the group.
“Do you know when he plans this attack?” Rangvald spoke up for the first time.
“It has to be soon. The weather will change and be too unpredictable. Now that you have royal prisoners, Grímr will have a hard time getting the Welsh to cooperate. You could ransom the men to Rhys like I said the day you captured them, but you should exchange them for Grímr. He has no value to Rhys, and I doubt Dafydd ever thought he would gain much from his alliance after he was paid.”
“Do you think you can get those men to talk?” Lena’s eyes showed the concern she felt for Gressa.
“I don’t know. I told them I was happy to finally return to my husband. They will know where my loyalty lies.”
“Lie to them.” Strian broke in. “Tell them you had to say that in front of everyone. Tell them you had to trick me into thinking you want to stay to keep yourself alive. Ask them how you can escape.”
Gressa shook her head vehemently.
“No. Whether or not anyone else understands what I’m saying, I will never let them think I want to return to Grímr’s aid. They know---” she trailed off.
“Then let them think you want to return to Dafydd and Enfys. They don’t know you’re aware of the couple’s betrayal. They might speak more if they think you’re naive or ignorant of the truth.”
Gressa could see the reasoning to that, but one last concern refused to let go.
“And when the tribe members see me talking to them? They will all believe I am what they accused me of. They will surely go after me, and I’m not convinced any, even all of, you can protect me from an angry mob.”
“We will have the prisoners brought here where you can speak privately, or at least they will believe that, and we can guard you with us hidden nearby.” Freya offered the only solution that could work.
“Fine, but not without my sword.” She had once believed Rowan, Afan, and Afon were her friends, but now she questioned whether anyone in the ten years she lived in Wales had ever been her friend.
Gressa and Strian stood together alone as they waited for Freya to retrieve Gressa’s sword and for guards to bring the Welshmen. Strian’s hands rested on her shoulders as he peered into her eyes. He saw resolve and determination as she bristled with anxious anticipation.
“I will stay with you if you want,” Strian offered.
