The trader opened it, examined the contents, and nodded with satisfaction. “There we are. Official trade agreement between Laird Kenneth MacLeod and Jarl Erik Thorsen, signed, sealed, and legal as the day is long.” He looked at the young man.
“Right!” The trader clapped his hands together. “Let’s get this cargo off me boat before nightfall catches me. I’ve nay desire tae sail the Minch in darkness.”
The transformation was immediate. What had been a tense standoff dissolved into organized activity as the villagers moved to help unload the precious winter stores. The trader directed traffic with the ease of long practice, his earlier suspicion replaced by professional efficiency.
Bjorn approached Erik, speaking Norse with obvious embarrassment. Erik’s response was too quiet to hear, but she caught the reassuring hand on the older man’s shoulder. No anger. No reprimand. Just understanding.
He’s kind when it matters.
“Me lady?”
Claricia turned to find a woman about her own age—work-roughened hands twisted together, eyes wary but softer than before. “Aye?”
“Thank ye. Fer sortin’ the misunderstandin’.” The woman’s Scots carried heavy Norse inflection but remained clear. “We were gettin’ worried. Winter’s comin’, and without those supplies...”
“Of course. I was glad tae help.”
It was a small thing. A tiny crack in the wall of suspicion. But it felt like a victory nonetheless.
More villagers approached as the unloading continued—tentative, curious, less openly hostile now. A few even smiled. By the time the last barrel was rolled away and the trader was preparing to depart, Claricia felt like she’d run a gauntlet and somehow emerged mostly unscathed on the other side.
The trader departed with the tide, and Bjorn approached with visible relief. “Me jarl, me lady—would ye honor us by takin’ the midday meal? ‘Tis the least we can offer after yer help today.”
Claricia glanced at Erik, saw him weighing the offer against whatever concerns still gnawed at him.
“We’d be honored,” she said before he could refuse.
Erik’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “A short while, then.”
The meal was laid out in Bjorn’s home—the largest cottage in the village, though still modest by castle standards. The room smelled of peat smoke and fish stew, and the table was laid with the kind of food that spoke of people giving everything they had to honor their laird.
Fresh bread, still warm. Roasted fish with herbs Claricia didn’t recognize. Root vegetables in a rich broth. Honey cakes that must have cost dearly. Cheese aged to perfection.
Too much food. Far too much for a village this size to spare.
Claricia watched as Bjorn and his wife piled Erik’s plate high, their faces glowing with pride and devotion. Watched as other villagers gathered—too many for the small room, but no one willing to miss the rare honor of their jarl dining with them.
Erik accepted with grace, but Claricia saw the tension in his shoulders. Saw the way his eyes kept tracking to the thin faces of children peering from doorways. Saw him notice—as she had—that the adults took tiny portions while loading his plate like he was heading into battle.
They’re starvin’ themselves tae feed him.
“Erik.” She used his given name without thinking, and the room went quiet. “Would ye pass the bread?”
His eyes met hers, and she saw understanding flicker. “Aye.”
She took the smallest piece, then turned to a small girl hovering near her mother’s skirts. “This is far too much fer just me, wee lamb. Would ye help me eat it?”
The child’s eyes went wide as moons. She looked to her mother, who nodded hesitantly, then crept forward to accept the bread with reverent hands.
“And this fish.” Claricia divided her portion. “Who wants tae share?”
Slowly, carefully, she worked through the meal—sharing every bite with the children who gathered like hungry sparrows. Erik watched for a moment, then followed suit.
The tension eased. Adults began eating in earnest, though still sparingly. Erik quietly pushed more food toward families with the most children, and Claricia noticed he ate almost nothing—just enough to be polite.
She broke the honey cake in half and offered him a piece. “Then we share. That way neither of us lies about bein’ full.”
The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile but close enough. “Fair terms, wife.”
