“You are both very self-righteous to demand I follow the teachings of your white christ when neither of you can do the same. Just because I don’t believe in a god who allowed others to betray and murder him doesn’t mean I didn’t listen to your tales. Your false god spoke of turning the other cheek to those who wrong you, but Enfys, you sold me to an evil man when you thought I wronged you. Jealousy consumed you. Dafydd, you’re taught not to covet another man’s wife, but yet you did when you knew I was already wed and planned to continue if I had married your own brother. Neither of you are honest, and you both seem to live by the ways of your angry god from before the white christ came. An eye for an eye? That sounds more like our gods than what you preach. Your white christ died for what? For you to go to some place that no one knows of, no one can tell you what awaits you. Our gods tell us of the feasting and glory of Valhalla. Our god Odin sacrificed his eye for greater wisdom, but yours gave his life for what? You still sin, as you call it. Odin does not need food to sustain him. Wine is both meat and drink. Yours nearly sold his soul for food when he fasted for forty days and night. Bah. What do I need your gods for?”
Gressa took a deep breath. She had vented more than she intended, but the betrayal still stung. She had misplaced her trust, and for that she was sorry, but she was not sorry for pointing out their faults and hypocrisy.
“You would do well to fall on your knees and pray now to your god because we are far stronger than you, and you are stuck with no way to flee. We can come to your table peacefully and await Grímr’s arrival. We can have our last fight and defeat him with none of your people coming to harm. Or we can pillage and plunder, ravage your homes and fields, and leave you all for dead while we destroy Grímr. Choose as I can sense my countrymen grow impatient.”
“We are a well-fortified town, you know that. And I am not without allies.” Dafydd pushed forward his chest, but he only elicited howls of laughter from the Norsemen and women who could see him.
“You won’t make it off the dock alive. Dead men don’t speak, so what allies will hear your call? We are already in the village.” Gressa pointed behind Dafydd and Enfys to where she had spotted a band of Highlanders fighting their way through the village towards the dock. “I suppose they are even less patient than we are. They must have gone ashore while we carried on like old women. It seems they have already made your choice.”
Gressa pushed back on Strian and turned to let Ivar and Rangvald pass. With the forward movement of the jarls, the entire Norse band surged forward once more. Ivar grabbed Dafydd and held a knife to his throat as the captured prince pulled a knife from his belt. A bolt of long blonde hair hurtled through the wave of Norse warriors. Lena’s knife embedded itself in Dafydd’s upper arm before he could strike with his own knife.
“Thank you, wife,” Ivar grinned.
“I will be sure you thank me tonight, my love.” Lena tossed back.
Lorna had run alongside Lena but continued on until she reached Enfys. While she was aware and careful of the pregnant woman’s belly, she ensured Enfys could not summon any more guards nor bellow anymore orders.
With both the prince and princess captured with little effort, Tyra signaled for the birlinns to sail closer, and soon Highlanders swarmed the shore from both directions. Welsh men and women screamed and ran for shelter, but unlike a raiding party, the Norse were not interested in ransacking homes or overrunning the people. They would let the people live to tell the tale of the Norse invaders who battled their own people and prevailed on the foreign soil.
Gressa watched as Freya stepped forward to help Lorna maneuver Enfys towards the royal keep. The woman continued to fight despite her condition. Lorna and Freya attempted to control her without hurting her, but Enfys became so unruly that Freya slapped her hard across the face. The stunned princess became more compliant. Ivar and Rangvald each seized one of Dafydd’s arms, showing the Welsh people that their prince was no longer in control and that his fate depended upon the two men who held him as their prisoner.
Leif helped Sigrid onto the dock as Tyra and Bjorn came to join them.
“Sigrid, did you summon the crows?” Tyra inquired.
Sigrid held her belly as she shook her head.
“I don’t have that kind of power. All Father sent those on his own. I would like to cast my runes soon though. I foresaw this confrontation just before we arrived, and along with it, I saw spies leaving the village. I don’t know whether they are Grímr’s, one of the prince’s enemies, or even an ally’s men. But I feel a need to hurry.”
“I want you to rest as soon as you’re done.” Leif whispered none too quietly.
“I won’t break.”
“But you might have our babe here.” When Sigrid bit her lip and looked away, Leif exploded. “Damn it, Sigrid! I knew we shouldn’t have come. How could you endanger yourself again?”
“Again? I don’t recall ever voluntarily putting myself in danger. My gift put me in danger with Hakin and then being your wife isn’t without its own risks.” Sigrid stood toe to toe with her husband, her hands on her belly as she leaned so far back, she looked like she might topple, but it was the only way to see her husband.
Leif put their debate to an end with a searing kiss that had Sigrid clinging to his tunic and yanking him back down when he tried to pull away. Leif swept Sigrid into his arms and followed everyone else who seemed to be following Dafydd and Enfys. Gressa wondered how any of them knew where to go.
Twenty-Seven
Gressa and Strian followed the others, and Gressa led the way to the prince and princess’s home. The royal family lived in a large brick castle that sat upon a raised mound of earth towards the center of the village. A brick wall surrounded gardens and training fields Gressa had spent hours in. As she entered through the gate, she saw men sparring along with targets set up for the archers. After years on these grounds, she expected she would feel a sense of familiarity and comfort returning to them, but now they felt cold, austere, and repressive. A chill shimmied along her spine as she heard the familiar thwack of an arrow hitting the straw and wood target. She considered refusing to continue any further, rather wanting to return to Strian’s boat. A sense of foreboding consumed her.
Strian sensed as much as saw Gressa trepidation as they entered the royal grounds. Gressa seemed even more on edge, if that was possible, than she did when she argued with Dafydd and Enfys. He lifted his arm, inviting her to walk closer. She needed little persuading. Gressa pressed against Strian’s side, and he felt her tremors.
“What’s wrong?” Strian murmured.
“Everything.”
Strian had not heard Gressa sound so defeated since the day they returned to the homestead, and she burst into tears before collapsing.
“Gressa?” Strian’s concern was clear as Gressa wrapped her arm around his waist and clung to the fabric near her hand.
“This doesn’t feel right. Like something very horrible is about to go very wrong.”
Gressa looked around and spotted Sigrid who had stopped near a tree. Leif whittled over her, and in turn, Sigrid was trying to shoo him away. Gressa pointed in their direction, and Strian led them to the other couple.
“Sigrid, you feel it too, don’t you?”
