The mention of his dead wife did not phase Grímr. Inga had served her purpose even if it had not been as a faithful wife. She bore Einar’s children whom Grímr claimed. He felt no remorse when any of them died but enjoyed the benefits of having sons to fight for him and carry on his legacy. His brother was dead, so he no longer had to ignore Hakin bedding his wife. The only inconvenience he had suffered was with Inga’s death went the income he had used to bribe the warriors Hakin hired. Inga’s slave trade had been profitable, and the money earned enticed more than one Highland mercenary to join Hakin’s forces. Grímr had bribed those same men to give their true allegiance to him rather than Hakin. With Hakin dead, no one stood in the way of his claim to Rangvald and Ivar’s homestead once he captured them. However, Inga’s death meant there was no more money to hire warriors. He had used the very last of what had been aboard his ship to wager the deal with Dafydd. Freya and Erik stole the rest of the bounty Inga gained through her trading and piracy ring.
“Ivar doesn’t hold a grudge against Rangvald for Inga’s part in Eindride’s death, after all, it was Einar who killed his own brother to gain a position closer to Ivar. His killed his own brother to become captain of Ivar’s warriors. Not to mention it was Rangvald who executed Inga for her crimes against her family and her people,” Gressa explained. “Einar killed Eindride believing becoming captain of the warriors would impress Lena and give him more access to the women he truly coveted. He gained nothing since she never saw him as anything but her husband’s vassal.”
“What of Freya and Erik? Their marriage finally binds Ivar and Rangvald by the blood of the couple’s future children. Not to mention Ivar’s son married Rangvald’s niece. I hear Sigrid is already breeding.”
“What of those two? They’re worse than rabbits. They’d rather hide away in their chamber than sail on another mission.” Gressa told only a half truth. Freya and Erik disappeared as often as they could, but they were no worse than Tyra and Bjorn, Leif and Sigrid, or herself and Strian. They would all fight when duty called, but they were four couples who had almost lost their soulmate at one time or another.
“You would have me believe that Ivar and Rangvald’s friendship is dissolving as their people grow weary of living together. Ivar’s own daughter and Rangvald’s son would rather fornicate than fight, and Eindride’s son, your husband Strian, would come fight for the man who helped orchestrate his own father’s death at the hands of his own uncle.”
“Quite a twisted web, but that sums it up.” Gressa nodded. “Tempers are short, and it’s taking very little to spark arguments. With food growing scarce and no reliable way to gather more, people are hungry and angry.”
Gressa waited. She would not offer more until she could be sure how Grímr interpreted her misinformation. There was more than ample food, and Rangvald’s tribe sent food regularly from their homestead, and his warriors helped hunt as often as Ivar’s did. Despite the homestead being crowded, the common enemy and mission had bonded the two tribes more than even Freya and Erik’s or Leif and Sigrid’s marriages could have.
Grímr seemed to mull over everything Gressa fabricated. Gressa watched him as he seemed to come to some conclusion. She forced herself not to speak just because the silence drew out. One of the many lessons in warfare Ivar taught his children and their friends was that silence spoke louder than words. A wise warrior would not need to fill the silence but would use it as a time to observe the enemy, listen to the sounds around them, and watch their surroundings. Silence afforded them time to control the situation. So she waited.
Grímr looked up at Gressa and peeled his lips back in a smile of sorts. He marched to the entrance to his tent and summoned a man to bring Strian. Gressa still held Grímr’s sword, so he could not get close enough to hold her against her will. She was sure it frustrated him that he could not grope her in front of Strian.
Only a few minutes elapsed before a man shoved Strian through the flap and straightened to his full height. He was more than a head taller than Grímr and in much better physical condition. Strian’s eyes darted to Gressa and the sword she clutched in both hands. He turned to Grímr and grunted.
“Your wife has been telling me quite a tale. I wonder if you are familiar with the story, too.”
Strian and Gressa did not need to look at one another to know Grímr was testing them to see if they would tell the same lies or if their stories would not match.
“What is that you want to know? I imagine you are interested in how Ivar and Rangvald’s friendship has suffered from this war your brother started. I would bet you’re curious about how the jarls are keeping their people fed. I even think you’re wondering why I would assist you when my traitorous uncle sold himself to your brother after he killed my father.”
Strian crossed his arms and raised one eyebrow in challenge to Grímr. The men guarding him took him to the tent behind Grímr’s, assuming he would summon the prisoner, and they did not want to keep Grímr waiting. His guards had been Highlanders who did not understand Norse. They had no way of knowing that by putting Strian so close to Grímr’s tent, they had given him the opportunity to listen to every falsehood and exaggeration Gressa told Grímr. He had been prepared to stand in front of his enemy. His kept his back to Gressa, so Grímr could not accuse Gressa of giving Strian hints or codes. He also positioned himself between the foul man who had dared manhandle his wife and the woman he would die to protect.
Grímr once more seemed to size up Strian, as though he was both trying to gauge Strian’s truthfulness and decide whether he stood any chance of defending himself if Strian attacked.
“Perhaps you are wont to know where you should position yourself during an attack on Ivar’s homestead so you can oversee the battle but not dirty your hands. If you listen to me, you won’t need to retreat, running and hiding like a little girl.”
Strian needled Grímr, playing upon the two accusations that would most enrage a Norseman: accusing him of cowardice and effeminacy. Strian bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing as the color rose in Grímr’s face and a vein throbbed in his temples. It was common knowledge that Grímr never fought in the battles if he could avoid it, especially after suffering a severe wound to this thigh that had not healed entirely and now caused him to limp and endure excruciating pain when it rained, a daily condition when in Scotland where he had spent much of his recent time. He would position himself in the back under the pretense of rallying the final waves of troops, but it was so he could beat a hasty retreat when the tide changed, and it was clear that once again he would lose. His brother Hakin had always led the charge, and it cost him his arm. Freya’s sword severed the man’s arm, leaving him with little chance of surviving the blood loss. That only strengthened Grímr’s resolve to not enter the melee without a clear path to escape. Strian tapped his toes in faked impatience.
“These are all fascinating things you and your wife claim, but they do me little good with no way to enter the homestead. I doubt Ivar will fling open the gates to me.”
“That may be true, but he will open them to us,” Strian jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate they would welcome Gressa just as he would. “There are multiple ways to use that to your advantage.”
Grímr waved his hand indicating he was impatient for Strian to continue.
“If you attack at night, we can arrive at the gates as though we escaped from your camp. When the gates open, you can flood through them and overrun the village. They won’t be able to see your men lying in wait. Or we could show you the hidden gate in the wall that surrounds the village. We enter through the main gate to cheers that we returned in one piece while you invade from the back. Or you can use us to lure Leif, Freya, Tyra, and Bjorn from safety within the walls. Take one or all of them captive, and it will force both Rangvald and Ivar to negotiate or surrender.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It can be. Now that you have help from two people who no one would suspect of coming to your aid and know the inner workings of the village and the tribes.”
Strian spoke with a straight face even though both he and Gressa wanted to laugh at how ridiculous their lies were. Grímr’s greed and pride overcame the last shreds of his common sense. He nodded over and over as Strian spoke, some plan taking form in the man’s warped mind.
“We shall use all of that. We will attack at night while you enter through the main gate of the homestead, we will invade through the gate in the wall. We will overrun the village while they all hail the return of their mighty warrior and his beautiful bride.” Grímr looked over Strian’s shoulder at Gressa. “We leave in two days’ time. Until then, I shall collect my ransom for keeping you alive.”
Strian shifted his weight to block Grímr’s view of Gressa.
“If I don’t succeed in killing you, she will run you through with that sword. Then she’ll cut off your bollocks and shove them down your throat until you suffocate or bleed to death. Whichever comes first.”
Grímr’s gaze shifted between the two of them, and he appeared to decide that it was not the right time to force his will upon either of them. He barked a name, and a man entered followed by two more. Two of the men seized Strian while one inched towards Gressa, wary of the sword she brandished.
“Take them to a tent and guard them well. They will try to escape.” Grímr stomped over to the table and snatched a mug of ale from the surface. He drank deeply from it as Gressa inched closer to Strian. Strian put up little fight as they pulled him towards the opening in the tent. Gressa followed and threw down the sword at the last minute before ducking out into the fading sunlight.
Nineteen
