Gressa was sure to translate each of Freya’s words.
“You’re not?” Enfys whined.
“Not until after you have your babe.” Tyra reassured.
Enfys looked to Gressa, but Gressa cocked an eyebrow, challenging Enfys to ask any favor from her. Tyra cut Enfys loose and pulled her from her chair. She and Freya dragged her from the room before Gressa took a log from the fire and brushed the flames along any surface that would spark. She left the log burning at Dafydd’s feet, his blood dripping into the flames and making them hiss and leap.
Twenty-Eight
“Do you think baring our breasts made that much of a difference? Bjorn will have a fit when he finds out.”
“You can reassure him it made all the difference. Dafydd had odd predilections, and if my devotion to Strian hadn’t been enough to keep me away, the rumors were. He liked pain. The men could have tortured him, but he would not have broken. He has a high tolerance for it. I heard his father abused him and his brothers. Rhys grew up to enjoy inflicting it on others, while Rowan avoids it at all cost, and Dafydd finds, found, it arousing. More so than even seeing our breasts. He would have confessed nothing to them, but then found a woman or even his own hand to pleasure himself as soon as the men abandoned their torture. I knew the type of arousal we would offer and the chance for immediate pleasure would get us what we needed to know. And I wanted the satisfaction of killing him myself.”
The women paused in the passageway, Enfys still with them, as they rushed to put their clothes back to rights, the smell of smoke wafting from beneath the solar door. Once they covered themselves, they shuffled Enfys through the keep and out of a side door that Gressa pointed out. She guided them to the gate they found unlocked. They dragged the pregnant woman, stopping often as she stumbled, until they reached the field where Strian and the others waited. She whistled a loud bird call that she knew would carry back to the keep. It was only a few minutes later that the first plumes of smoke began to rise above the wall.
Gressa stood with her husband and friends as people raced out of the main gate with horses and livestock squealing. Enfys huddled with her children as Ivar and Rangvald led a group of their warriors to corral the people and separate the guardsmen and Welsh warriors from the others. Erik dragged a young boy who looked about the same age as Freya’s barrel man, Freund, who was only twelve. Freund bounded after them, chattering away despite the terrified look on the boy’s face.
“Wonderful,” Freya griped. “Another cabin boy, only this one won’t understand a single order I give.”
“I’ll take him then,” Tyra offered and laughed when her friend huffed. Freya’s gruff exterior guarded a fragile heart that was much larger than she acknowledged.
Erik, Bjorn, Ivar, and Rangvald joined them, and when everyone got a closer look at the boy, they knew they had found a spy. His blond hair and fair skin declared his Norse heritage before he opened his mouth.
“Who is this?” Leif asked.
“We found him hiding in the stables. It seems Grímr sent him to spy on the prince’s household.”
When Freya stepped forward, the boy stood eye to eye with her. She smiled, and the boy’s eyes widened in surprise. Freya was a breath-taking at her worst, but she stole the boy’s breath when she smiled.
“Grímr must trust you a great deal to give you such a vital task. You must have proven yourself to be very brave and very intelligent.” Freya forced awe into her voice but was careful not to overdo it. She knew from Freund that a boy that age was transitioning into a skeptical phase where false praise would get her nowhere. Tyra stepped next to Freya, and the boy looked as though he might collapse. Tyra’s hair was a shade darker than Freya’s platinum locks, but the contrast only showed off both women’s unusual beauty.
“Were you with us in Scotland?” Gressa asked, stepping up to the other women.
Strian looked at his wife and friends, Gressa’s dark waves an even starker contrast against Freya and Tyra’s blonde heads. The women he and his friends had married were more than uncommonly attractive. Even pregnant, Sigrid was striking, but she hung back with Lorna and Lena. He forced himself to return his attention to the questions Gressa asked the boy.
“Yes, I was with you. I saw you with the other archers. You were amazing. After I saw you and the other archers, I wanted to come here to learn. When Grímr wanted one of us younger men to serve as a spy, I jumped at the chance.”
The group bit back their smiles when the boy referred to himself as a younger man. They had all been that age once, eager to prove themselves as warriors of merit.
“Then you must have proven yourself. Where are you from?” Strian asked.
“I’m one of the few from Hakin and Grímr’s tribe who have survived. I’m Inga’s son.”
Strian lifted the boy’s chin and his hair fell away. He was looking at a younger version of himself.
“You’re my cousin,” Strian offered, unsure of what the boy knew.
“Then you are Einar’s nephew.”
“You know that Grímr isn’t your father?” Strian was tentative, but he had to know.
“Everyone knows Einar was my father, but Grímr had no choice but to claim me since he and my mother were married.”
“You should have been raised in our tribe,” Ivar announced. “What’s your name?”
The boy backed away from the imposing figure and looked cautiously at the man who was clearly a jarl.
“Brynjar Grímrson.” The boy grimaced as he spoke his surname.
