Chapter 1
Tronscar Fortress
Norrland, Sweden—Summer 1165
“Cynisca of Sparta didn’t win the Olympic Games by sitting around watching her arse grow,” Katia said. “She had to have gotten her hands dirty at one point.”
Katia looked down and, much to her vexation, realized her bosom had grown yet again. “Pull it tighter, Tosh, or I’ll never fit.”
With nimble fingers, her handmaiden yanked the ends of the binding, flattening Katia’s chest.
“Useless, bothersome appendages,” Katia muttered.
“It’s because you don’t know how to use them correctly.” Demonstrating, Tosha leaned forward and squeezed her shoulders together, creating a valley of cleavage that a small child could fall into. “My appendages got me three offers for my hand last night alone,” she said, giggling with pride. Tosha had fluffy, dark brown curls that framed her pretty face perfectly, with full cheeks that were in a near perpetual state of blushing. She was eager to be swept away to become the wife to some flea-bitten brute, and was entering womanhood enthusiastically, as were all of Katia’s sixteen-year-old friends.
“Did you lose all your good sense when your chest swelled up? We swore to never become like those blockheaded cows moaning for a husband.” Katia wiggled into her final piece of body armor.
Tosha yanked the leather strap at the back of Katia’s breastplate. “Nay, it was you who swore that oath. I still think being a wife and mother is purpose well enough for me. Whoever filled your head with useless drivel about the pitfalls of wifehood did you no favors.”
Lately, Katia was beginning to think that her dearest friend was lost to her and would never understand. “Argh! Tosh, my—”
Cutting the disagreement short, her friend placed her hand lightly on Katia’s shoulder and locked eyes with her in the looking glass, her face sober, her big brown eyes suddenly filling with fear. “A cloud hangs heavy over you, Kat. I feel it in my bones,” Tosha said, begrudgingly fastening the final engraved silver buckle to Katia’s armored girdle. “I beg you to reconsider this match.”
Drawing in a deep breath, Katia found calm within the scent of the freshly oiled leather and steel that surrounded her. Searching for the right words to convince her friend, Katia’s eyes roamed around her bedchamber. By her own design, her chamber could be mistaken for that of a son in battle training instead of a princess. Next to her bed, which was engraved and painted with fire-breathing dragons, was her cypress trunk filled with weaponry and armor. She treasured the contents of the trunk far more than the cedar chest that sat next to it, which was filled with rare fabrics and exotic gowns.
Tosha continued to shake her head disapprovingly. “Your father will lock you in your chamber until after summer solstice. You’ll miss the entire festival—’tis not worth the risk.”
“My far will never know, Tosh.” Katia tucked the last of her hair under her helmet. She hadn’t a clue why people insisted on referring to her hair as a crown of glory. Crown of nuisance was more like it. “He is overwrought negotiating with the duke. King Karl has really made a mess of things apparently. All his commanders are attending the meeting. This is the perfect opportunity for me to slip into the ring for a few rounds and test my skill for once.”
“Kat!” Tosha scrunched up her face, clearly frustrated with the repetitive debate.
“If we were boys, we would have been sent to sea for training long ago,” Katia interjected. “If sitting around embroidering and ordering about servants is to be my destiny, well, I wholly reject it.” Katia’s anger was rising—perfect motivation with which to enter the sparring ring. Perhaps arguing with her friend before every match had its benefits.
Katia placed her gloved hands on her friend’s shoulders. “Fate will just have to think up a new destiny for me. I shall not be my father’s pampered pony any longer.” She released a deep breath, cooling her temper back down. “How will I ever truly test my skill if all my sparring partners are afraid to take an honest swing at me? Tero said that the duke has brought with him his top warriors to spar with Tronscar’s. They are renowned for their speed and accuracy.”
Katia was bored with her role as a shiny ornament in her father’s great hall and determined to prove that she had genuine skill in battle tactics, as well as a desire to learn more. After her shield maiden lessons, her second favorite pursuit was to hold her ear to the door of her father’s war council chamber. Perhaps if she distinguished herself in the ring, he would invite her inside for once.
“What if you get hurt?” Tosha whined. “Your father will be furious, and think of your mother’s condition. She is so near her time—”
“She is always with child.” Katia rolled her eyes to the heavens. “Really, if I used that as my line of reasoning, I would never step foot outside of the bloody fortress gate.”
Perhaps Tosha didn’t understand because she hadn’t been present for Katia’s long interrogation of her father’s top military advisor. Tero was of Far Eastern descent and had studied ancient history from all the known empires, past and present. Tosha found him dull, while Katia found his vast knowledgeable endlessly interesting.
Boiling over with excitement, Katia continued, “I cannot pass up the opportunity to learn from the best trainers in the Baltic shores. Do you not understand? I must seize the day.” She winked, lowered her visor, and promptly headed for the secret escape staircase that led from her chamber into the hidden tunnels to the stables.
***
Sunshine blanketed the ring in a hazy white glow. The breeze carried the scent of sweaty men and warm ale. With good sport and good drink readily on hand, it was a glorious day to be in Tronscar. All eyes were engrossed in watching the pair of young recruits parading their skills in the sparring ring.
A lean, sandy-haired Saxony boy who was not wearing a helmet—overconfident, Katia thought—was wiping the ring with Søren, her usual sparring partner. Circling the high rails, she studied them, waiting her turn. Søren’s feet tended to tire quickly, causing him to stumble and flop about. Sure enough, Søren tripped and landed facedown in the soft gravel while dodging a swing. Dissatisfied cries from the Tronscar supporters rose up from the crowd. The round had ended before it had even really begun.
Swinging his blade with grace and agility, the young Saxon clearly had a well-practiced arm. Søren’s blade, which was much thicker and heavier, had slowed him down, giving the Saxon swordsman little challenge.
Katia’s blade had been forged specially for her, made with the strongest Norrland steel and counterbalanced to accommodate her smaller grip. In many ways, she thought of her sword as a fifth limb.
The Saxon offered a hand to Søren, pulling him up from the soft gravel and slapping his opponent’s back.
This was Katia’s chance. Her heart raced as wild as a young colt, and she barely felt the weight of her armor. She was ready. She knew the odds of winning were not in her favor. He was easily a full head taller than her. She just hoped to exceed Søren’s round and make the Saxon work a little for his victory. She would be no match for his strength, speed, or reach, but perhaps she could tire him out enough to land an honest blow or two.
She glanced over to Rikard and nodded. He shook his head no. She ignored her sword master and ducked under the rail to take her position in the ring.
The crowd of Saxon onlookers burst out laughing, yelling to their young champion that he was being warmed up with children.
Tosha had positioned herself next to the crowd of foreigners. She said loudly, “I wager my little brother can go three rounds against your thin-wristed swordsman.” Tosha smacked Katia’s coin on the rail with a loud clang. It worked. The crowd shut their mouths and focused on the shiny coin balancing on top of the fence. Every Saxon present began shouting for their warrior to teach the lad a lesson.
From ten paces away, the swordsman stared her down. “Boy, your sister does you no favors.”
It was the first time Katia got a good look at the man. He had a long, straight nose that drew the eye down to a set of full lips. His features were bold and almost tauntingly refined, as if begging to be marred and scratched. He was younger than she thought, only a few winters older than her—ten and seven, ten and eight perhaps. Although his manner was prickly toward her, his bright green eyes were kind and she could sense the concern he felt for his much smaller challenger. Concealed behind her visor, she smiled all the more. Holding out for the three rounds and besting the arrogant, handsome smile off his face would be good fun.
Katia raised her sword, challenging her opponent, and took her position. She nodded at Søren to hammer the bell and took the first step and swing. Their swords met over her head with a glorious clang. Steel on steel was the greatest sound in the world.
Her feet skidded on the dirt from the fast-paced movements of returning blows, blocking and slashing. In minutes, sweat from her brow began to sting her eyes. To her annoyance, her opponent didn’t appear to have broken a sweat at all. Like all the rest, he was going soft on her. As the last few moments of the first round were slipping away, Katia dropped down and swung at his shine plate, coming up fast with another slash to his shoulder guard—two clean hits.
Near-feral cheers from the people of Tronscar inundated the training yards. They knew the sight of Katia in her practice armor. Witnessing her get even one decent hit on this peacock was a reason to celebrate. Katia strutted over to the corner, bowing and waving to entertain her audience.
Rikard grabbed her by the scruff of the neck. “You mangy little goat. The jarl shall be incensed when he hears of this.” Rikard jerked her to the corner to drag her from the ring. “Be gone with you.”
“My dear fellow.” With her back to the Saxon crowd, Katia raised her visor. “You are worried for naught. My far will understand that I am simply endeavoring to improve my skill. He will not mind in the least.” She bent down to the bucket, picked up the ladle, and took a small sip of water to rinse her parched throat. She felt slightly bad lying to her old friend, yet not bad enough to heed his council and cut her fun short.
“Have you thought what will happen to the lad if he injures you?” Rikard grabbed her by the edge of her breastplate, jerking her up and forward. “If this goes too far and he takes a cheap shot, half of the men in this courtyard will slit his throat where he stands.”
“Truly, Rikard, the men think this is hilarious. If I win, it will provide the greatest of taunts, the poor Saxon being bested by a woman.”
“You are no woman. You’re a weaseling squirrel full of trouble. When your far—”
The bell hammered. Katia winked and smiled at Rikard. “Wish me luck.”
Katia found the second round much more fun. The tempo was faster and most definitely more challenging, though she still sensed the Saxon holding back.
Their blades met over her head and she twisted her wrist and spun on her heels, dislodging her sword from her opponent’s lock and thwarting his attack. It did not register as a point, but the defense maneuver had been executed perfectly. Rikard would have to be proud of her for that at least.
Her lungs burned from exertion, but still she felt weightless. She hummed her favorite tune in her head, timing out the length of the round. In the final few moments, he raised his arm high. Her reaction was too slow, and his blade came down hard on the thick steel plate of her shoulder.
Hammered like a nail into the ground, Katia crumbled to one knee. Granting her no quarter, the Saxon came in fast for a second swing. She rolled, hearing the whoosh of his blade cut through the air above her ear. Rising to her feet, she stayed low, preparing to roll again. The bell for the second break hammered.
Marching back to her friends with her head high, she squared her shoulders as best she could. She told herself simply to ignore the fire that burned below her dented armor. Showing pain would surely get her yanked out of the match.
Tosha rushed to her side. “Kat, are you all right?”
“Of course. That will teach me for being slow in my counter.”
“Don’t be daft!” Tosh shrieked. “This is enough. Thank the man for his time and be done with this.” Her friend sounded more winded than her.
“It was one clean hit. I hardly felt it.” Katia drank more water than she should have, praying in vain that the cool drink would soothe the burning pain of her shoulder. “I need to keep out of his reach. One more round and we win. I can do this.”
Long shadows began to grow all around her. Tronscar’s highest-ranked guards and officers crowded around, blocking out the sun.
“You are finished now, Lady Katia.” Arne, a baby-faced guard, growled down at her. His beard was soft yellow, almost white, and reminded her of a spring lamb.
“Aye, Arne, practically done, just five more minutes. Is that a new leather brigandine? The riveting is splendid.” She would simply distract them by flattery and changing the subject.
“The jarl will have our heads, my lady,” Samson said with a measure of sympathy in his tone.
“Gratitude, friends,” Katia said, deciding she would need to pour on the charm. “I am learning so very much. I thank you all for your support and patience.” They stood with arms crossed, mouths gaping open a little, lost as to how to convince her. At times, Katia thought, getting what she wanted out of men was so easy. A few soft, complimentary words and a smile were a readily available currency.
The bell sounded, and with one last wink to reassure the concerned faces, she lowered her visor and returned to the center of the ring for her moment of glory.
Her handsome opponent greeted her with a smirk. His teeth were straight and white, blinding her for a moment. “Who are you, the village pet? I haven’t seen this much coddling since I left my mother’s breast.”
Suddenly he appeared less attractive. Katia shrugged and used the sting from her shoulder to fuel her inner fire to win. She answered his taunt by raising her blade. Slash. Spin. Duck. Block. Duck. Spin. Slash. The clash and scrap of steel on steel was her favorite tune.
Within a minute, however, his speed began to overwhelm Katia, causing her to step back as she blocked blow after blow. She was using only defense and retreat maneuvers at this point. The cheers had fallen silent, soon followed by her father’s guards calling to have the match stopped. Katia knew that time was running out. She needed to do something. Quick.
Using her small stature to her advantage, she charged in low and smashed down hard on her opponent’s boot. Unlike herself, the Saxon wore no shield plating below the thigh.
“Little cur!” He groaned loudly and made his first error by dropping his chin and peering at his crunched foot.
Taking advantage, she head butted him with her helmet. A bloody nose should teach him to wear more armor, a helmet at the very least. He stumbled a few steps back with bewilderment, murderous rage rising quickly in his pretty eyes.
Not smiling now, are you, Saxon?
His long arm darted out, reached around, and grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, raising her a clear foot off the ground. She wiggled madly, kicking and flailing her legs. He tossed his sword down and punched her in the side of her head.
With church bells clanging in her ears, she tried to find her footing, but the world tilted on its axle. As her vision came back into focus, she witnessed a raging mob of spectators charging into the ring.
Heaven help her. She had ignited war between Tronscar and North Saxony.
Katia shook her head. “Stop! Stop, wait no!” she screeched, part out of panic for the trouble she had created, part out of the lack of ability to control her pitch. She tore off her helmet as Hansel and Kaj, two of the best swordsmen in Tronscar, fixed aim upon her Saxon opponent.
From behind her, a Saxon shouted, “It’s a girl!” freezing the crowd of Saxon men in place.
Katia shook her head a few more times to ease the bell tolling in her ears. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders and back. “I hate to lose a wager, but since we have been interrupted, I regretfully concede the match to you, sir.” Katia smiled, extending her gloved hand to her scowling opponent. He did not accept it. “My gratitude for the rounds. That was splendid fun.”
Observing that no harm had been done, the crowd began to disburse. Problem solved, she thought.
“Who the hell do you think you are? I could have killed you!” her opponent bellowed.
“I doubt that,” she said, blinking, trying to bring his piercing emerald green eyes into focus over the double vision she was currently experiencing. “May I inquire as to your name, my good man?” Regardless of the pain and humiliation, Katia continued to grin, waiting for her smile to do its magic and smooth over the small embarrassment.
“Who are you?” the Saxon said with a snarl. He turned to Rikard and pointed. “Is she yours?”
“No, I am not his,” Katia said, straining to keep a smile on her face. “I am my own person, thank you very much. My name is Katia. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. And you are?”
Hell’s bells! Why was her smile not working?
Chapter 2
Lothair dragged in a slow, deep breath and instructed the raging beast inside him to calm. The girl that stood before him, dressed from throat to boot in leather and steel-plated armor, did not look like much of a girl. Other than the long mess of gold silk that fell down around her shoulders, and her distracting pouty mouth. Or her flawless skin, with youthfully plump cheeks bright red from exercise and the long, thick, fluttering eyelashes. Other than that, she was nothing but a scrap of a lad.
“Lothair,” he said to answer her question. He realized he was staring and snapped his head away.
He grabbed the coin out of Fisk’s hand and threw it at her feet. “I don’t make bets with liars and cheats.”
She gasped and jerked her head back. “I am not a cheat! I only wanted my turn. Are you saying that if I had introduced myself, you would have agreed to step into the ring with me?”
Lothair took two steps closer but was cut short by a wall of Norrland henchmen who stepped forward, blocking his path.
The pushy little imp pried her way in between them, turned to face the guards, smiled, and patted their arms as if they were errand dogs. “My thanks, Arne, Nero, Samson. But I would prefer to speak to our guest myself.”
“Who are you?” As soon as Lothair asked, the answer came to him. Jarl Magnus Knutson had four sons and one daughter. He had assumed the daughter was a child like the others, not the age of a grown maiden.
“Again, my name is Katia.” She smiled brightly, revealing a row of radiant white teeth. She was annoyingly more feminine by the second. Curse it! For the hundredth time he asked himself why had he agreed to come on this tiresome journey north.
“And I thought I was the one that took the blow to the head,” she said, laughing off the seriousness of the situation. Undoubtedly she was a spoiled harpy who used her comely features as a weapon on every male crossing her path.
Lothair closed his eyes, no longer able to look at the crater-size dent to her armor that he had delivered.
From the other side of the training yard came a sound reminiscent of an angry bear. “Katia!” The sea of spectators silently retreated.
Flinching, the pretty little warrior shut her eyes. Her smile was pained as she turned to face the wrath of the mighty Jarl of Tronscar.
Jarl Magnus Knutson had an imposing stature in any man’s opinion. Though he was said to be a man of forty-five winters, he appeared to be in prime health and form. His thunderous voice originated from his bearlike chest. Trimmed with gold, the jarl’s black tunic held enough fabric to make two regular-size garments. As he plowed toward the sparring ring, his gold family crest was displayed proudly, signifying him as a member of the royal House of Eric. At his right side, his regal wife was adorned in equal finery.
Friherrinna Lida of Tronscar was a renowned beauty throughout the Baltics, and Lothair could see why, regardless of the fact that her stomach stuck out like a shelf—clear evidence of the jarl’s continued virility. Her hair was in gold braids entwined with jewel combs that captured the sunlight, causing her head to appear to glow.
“Far, you missed all the sport. It was such fun.” The girl skipped over to the irate jarl, and an equally angry friherrinna. “Oh, Mama, you should have seen how well I did. Søren did not even make it a round. I went two rounds and I would—”
“Go to your chamber,” the jarl said in a low snarl, hardly moving his lips. “Hand your sword to Rikard. You will have no further use for it.”
“Oh, Far, it was simply a little exercise—” Katia began to make her excuses.
“Katia.” The friherrinna interrupted in a soft but serious voice. “Your father has given you instruction. I suggest you take your leave before you get yourself in more trouble.”
“But, Mother,” Katia started.
“Now!” Jarl Magnus’s growl echoed across the sparring ring. The girl sullenly handed the sword off, turned with her chin high in the air, and stomped her ironclad feet in the direction of the fortress. If Lothair had not just been within seconds of losing his life to a bloodthirsty mob at her expense, he may have felt a measure of pity for the spirited girl.
The Duke of Saxony approached his side. “What were you thinking, Lothair?” his father mumbled into his ear. “Sparring with a Tronscar maiden—the jarl’s daughter no less!”
“Some fox placed a wager that her little brother could go three rounds. I—”
His father waved him off. “Our position here is tenuous.” The duke took him by the shoulder. “We need this trade agreement with Knutson. You will apologize and take responsibility. Do you understand me?”
The jarl approached before Lothair could answer. “I beg your pardon, your grace, in neglecting to make a proper introduction of my daughter, but, alas, I believe I shall be locking her in her chamber for the next hundred years.”
The duke laughed politely. “Spirited young maidens, Magnus—what is to be done?” He slapped the jarl’s shoulder as if the two men were old friends instead of newly forged allies. His father was a gifted talker when he needed to be. And given the recent conflict with his rival, the power-hungry Frederick Barbarossa, his father needed to shore up as much weaponry and as many ships as he could get his hands on.
His father cupped the back of Lothair’s neck, pulling him into the conversation. “May I introduce my nephew, Baron Lothair of Hanseatz. He desires to make his apologies, Magnus. He deeply regrets putting the maiden at risk.”
Lothair had to work hard not to slap his father’s hand off. For the hundredth time he wondered how it was possible to respect someone so greatly and at the same time despise him. As the duke’s illegitimate son, he told himself that it was an unusual kindness for a nobleman to pay any notice to his bastards, especially those born to a chambermaid. He could understand his father’s reasons to hide the truth of his parentage and claim Lothair as a nephew rather than his own offspring, yet he still resented him for it. Beneath all his deceit, his father took such risks out of love for his mother and for his siblings, which was why he struggled to go along with the falsehood, even though he could feel it rotting his insides a little more with each passing year.
Lothair smiled stiffly and uttered a begrudging apology, bowing at the waist before the friherrinna.
“No apologies,” Jarl Magnus said. “Our daughter has her ways of getting what she wants. Her mother believes I am to blame for this thorny trait.” The jarl shook his head, but his eyes brightened and the corner of his mouth turned up in a small smile that poorly masked his pride in his daughter. “She sets her mind to something and there is no stopping her. Hence, the need to lock her indefinitely in her chamber.” The jarl chuckled from low in his belly. With such a proud father, Lothair expected the fetching girl would be locked away no longer than the time it took her to climb the high south tower of the jarl’s private residence, which Tero, the steward, had warned him was strictly prohibited.
Lothair’s father laughed at the jarl’s joke and, shoulder to shoulder, the men strolled back toward the principal keep, heads bent in conversation. Lothair would never understand the contrary nature of fathers, indulging their children only to find fault with the qualities they had fostered. This was yet another glaring example of why he would never put himself at risk of becoming a father.
He rubbed the swollen bump on his nose. He would use it as his most recent reminder of why his chosen life path was the correct one.
Every day the constant compulsion to run, to break free of his fraudulent life, grew stronger. The need for truth used to haunt him only in the quiet, sleepless hours of night. Now this need haunted his days as well. Searching for his life’s purpose had begun to feel like an incurable disease of his heart.
Lothair took his place with his countrymen, watching one of his fellow soldiers and a lanky Norrlander have their turn in the center of the ring.
When he was younger, residing in the southern German territory of Nordgau, Lothair had thought that becoming a warrior would be the answer to all his problems. The duke’s sister and her husband, who was conveniently barren, agreed to pass Lothair off as their son and heir, though they had no true affection to spare for him. They did, however, provide the best tutors they could find. He had acquired a measure of skill as a swordsman and he had dreamed of one day being able to support his true family and cast off the protection of the duke’s web of lies.
Though his mother had borne the duke five children, three still living, she continued to work as a housekeeper, while Lothair was treated as the young master. He was celebrated while his mother was viewed as a fallen woman and shunned by most in the community. His mother and sisters’ adoring devotion to the duke curdled in Lothair’s gut.
Becoming his father’s pawn was the only path he knew for certain he wouldn’t be taking. With his uncle succumbing to the plague last year, Lothair was now the master of several prosperous holdings, none that he had earned, nor was deserving of. Daily, his conscience gnawed away at his self-worth.
Perhaps he could dedicate his life to the pursuit of justice, but then question would be, which side of justice? Every peasant, every maid and smith, every king and pirate shouted for their particular injustices.
Peace then? He could attach himself to whoever worked to bring peace to the Baltic shores, yet that would mean choosing one of a dozen rival kings who all claimed the right to rule overlapping kingdoms. In his lifetime, he’d not witnessed one highborn house that did not act with corruption and hypocrisy.
Lothair needed to find his life’s purpose soon and get started. He wanted to make his mark, fight without fear and with truth and purpose, and finally die young, before the winds of time eroded his moral center as it seemed to do to all men.
Never would he live a life of lies like his father. Never. He would be true to himself or die trying.
***
Several hours later, not long after the midday meal, Katia burst through the door of her parents’ bedchamber. “Mama! I swear this time I will drown them both.” She held her prisoner
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