Bjorn grumbled, but no one missed his hand roving over his wife’s body. Strian mounted then helped Gressa onto the horse. Ivar had only brought mounted warriors with him, not wanting to slow their pace. They rode back to the settlement only stopping once to let the horses rest and drink.
Twenty-One
While members of both Ivar’s and Rangvald’s tribes were happy to see them return, Gressa’s welcome was lukewarm at best. Only Lena and Rangvald’s wife Lorna seemed happy to see her.
“Why is she back?” Someone grumbled within the crowd as Strian dismounted and lifted Gressa from the saddle.
“Did Strian capture her again?”
“He can’t see past fucking her to know she’s a spy.”
The last comment elicited a bellow from Strian that made everyone pause.
“Enough!” He roared. “She is my wife. She always has been, and there is no way she will ever be anything else. You will cease accusing her. You will cease taunting her. If I find anyone,anyone, does anything to run afoul of her, I will kill you. She is not a spy. If it wasn’t for Gressa, we wouldn’t know half of what we do about Grímr’s plans and where he’s headed.”
“And if we hadn’t had to chase after her, they would never have known we were prepared to attack. Now we have to chase after him again,” an angry woman's voice came from the warriors still mounted.
Strian spun around, glaring at Magga, one of the two women who had attacked Gressa when she first arrived.
“Do not count on being a woman to spare you. Nor the mistake I made years ago taking a ride between your thighs. Get down.”
Strian’s voice sent chills running down Gressa’s back. She stepped forward, willing to intervene on the woman’s part to keep Strian from murdering her in front of the entire tribe. His glare swung to her, and she took a step back.
“She asked for it. She defied me and now she will die.” Strian softened his gaze as he looked into Gressa’s shocked eyes. He had not meant to direct his anger at her. “No one will mistreat you again.”
Strian looked to Ivar and at the jarl’s nod, he wrenched Magga from the saddle, driving a knife into her middle before she touched the ground. He threw her body from him, knowing she would be dead soon but not before she suffered a painful death.
“Who’s next?” At his demand, many took a step back, shaking their heads. He looked to Gressa, and she understood the question in his eyes. She nodded. “You all want to know why Gressa didn’t try harder to come home. She had her reasons. We had a son who did not survive his birth. He’s buried there. In a Christian grave.”
The last sentence drew gasps as understanding looks spread through the crowd.
“Why couldn’t you have just told us that?” Leif asked.
“Because it was nobody’s damn business but ours,” Strian snapped. “Why would I make my wife relive that pain just to ease the gossips’ nosiness? She’s been a member of this tribe since birth. She’s my wife. That should have been enough for everyone. If it had been anyone else, it would have. Instead you have attached a stigma to her for something she could never control.”
Strian looked around before continuing.
“Yes, Gressa is half Sami. That will make our children part Sami, too. Accept my wife and my children, or we leave.”
“Strian,” Tyra gasped.
“Gressa and Strian aren’t going anywhere. I will deal with anyone, personally, foolish enjoy to insult my sister or my nieces and nephews.” Freya called out. “You know my parents have always welcomed Gressa in their home just as Leif and I have been. Speak against her, and you speak against the jarl’s family. Your death will be your own fault.”
Freya swung down from her horse and pulled Gressa from Strian. She squeezed, making Gressa cough.
“I’m so sorry. I should have protected you, too. You didn’t deserve my censure.” Freya’s voice cracked as she confessed in Gressa’s ear.
“You protected me. More than once.”
Tyra joined the two women in their embrace then the three turned to face the crowd, united once more as they had been as children. With one dead body on the ground, and the jarl’s extended family standing as one, no one dared voice any opposition to Gressa.
“What have you learned?” Rangvald stepped forward.
“Grímr knew someone was approaching. His spies warned him, but we never heard if he knew how many of you rode towards him. My guess is he thought there were far more of you since he abandoned their tents and many of their supplies. He is heading to the coast.” Gressa spoke up, unwilling to fade into the background after Strian defended her. “The man, Rowan, you still hold is Prince Dafydd’s younger brother, but so was a man named Rhys. He was among the archers who captured us and took us to Grímr’s camp. He made the mistake of speaking ill of the dead and threatening Strian. His body is near the embers of a fire, left for the carrion to pick apart. We think Grímr knows the Trondelag is no longer safe for him. There is no one who’ll willing allow him to live on their land, and he has no home to return to since you burned the settlement. Besides, he has no real tribe left. I know most of the men are dead, and the women who escaped Inga’s slave trade surely didn’t return. He swore vengeance for his sons’ deaths, but it was his pride not his heart that spoke. He needs to lick his wounds. I believe he’ll impose upon Dafydd to host him as he stokes the anger Dafydd will undoubtedly feel once he knows one brother is dead, and the other is a prisoner. He’ll try to convince Dafydd to give him more forces to return here, or he’ll claim he has lured us there when we follow.”
Gressa spoke as though their sailing to Wales was a foregone conclusion.
“How large an army could Dafydd raise against us?” Rangvald asked.
