Prologue
Lylasku Fortress
Northwest coast of Finland—1150 A.D.
Seabirds screeched overhead, drawing Lida’s gaze heavenward. She felt like she was trapped in a terrible dream, aware of her surroundings yet powerless to control what would befall her next. Lida was certain of only one simple truth: the price she would pay for love was endless sorrow.
“Make haste,” Helika, the mistress of Lylasku and Lida’s mother-in-law, ordered her slaves.
The two servants tightened their grip, dragging Lida toward her judgment at a blurring pace. Her secret had been destined to be exposed, but even so, she hadn’t prepared herself for this inevitable outcome.
A gust of damp autumn wind forced salt air deep into her lungs, whipping her long hair in her face. After all that Lida had lost, what an empty-headed fool she had been to believe God would protect her from more pain. Life is a collection of torturous moments with a sprinkling of joy mixed in. The sooner she adapted her head to this truth, the better prepared her heart would be.
As they passed under the stone arch entryway, moving from daylight into the cavernous hall, Lida strained to adjust her eyes. The mighty riveted iron doors of the fortress shut behind her with a foreboding, heavy clang.
“I demand she be flogged.” Helika elongated her bony neck, turning her face upward to the balcony. She dug her clawlike fingers into Lida’s collarbone, shoving her down. The musty mats made of rushes cut into the tender bones of her kneecaps, pain and fear knotting her muscles.
Lida bowed her head, avoiding eye contact with the servants who were preparing the long tables for the evening meal.
“I warned you.” Helika’s voice echoed into the rafters. She grabbed a fistful of Lida’s hair, forcing her to face the chieftain, who gazed down at them from the second floor.
Lida knew that with his failing eyesight, her father-in-law could not identify her. Her customary braids had been yanked apart. Blood trickled from her nose to her chin and down the collar of her favorite blue gown, which was now torn beyond repair.
“What now, wife?” Chief Rein sighed, slowly descending the stairs. As he drew near, he said, “Release the girl.”
“She is increasing!” Helika answered for all to hear. “I laid eyes on her bloated form in the bathhouse. Proof of what I warned you. She wedded your son for his wealth, your position. She is naught more than a portside harlot.” Helika drew her hand up high and swung, striking the side of Lida’s temple, sending her crashing to the floor.
Church bells tolled behind her eyes, her head absent of a clear thought, and her fingers dragged through the soiled rushes, revealing the unique rose-colored granite below. The great house was constructed with such a beautiful, rare stone, she thought. Her throbbing head held a gale of conflicting thoughts and memories. The red granite stronghold sat proudly on top of a majestic point of land overlooking the sea. A month ago, this house held all her dreams for a joyous future. But her husband’s death at the hands of Swedish crusaders had crushed her tranquility, leaving naught but mournful heartache in its wake.
Lida was disoriented by waves of nausea. Part of her just wanted to coil into a ball and die, while another part cried out to regain a measure of self-control.
In her sixteen years, her mother had trained her for the many trials a woman might face. This was not one of them.
“Your son has been dead for less than a full moon.,” Helika told the chief. Urho’s stepmother was the chief’s second, more adored wife. She never missed the opportunity to make that distintion clear to all. “They were wed only the moon before. She is five moons with child, mayhap more.” She clawed at Lida’s gown. “Behold with your own eyes.”
“Nay, nay—mercy, mistress.” Dizzy, Lida fought against the determined hands that descended upon her. “I beg—” But her arms were restrained, and her gown, bliaut, and under-tunic were pulled up and over her head.
Quivering, naked, and at her father-in-law’s mercy, she gazed down at her foreign shape. Her flat stomach had been replaced with a round bump. Each day her body was ripening more for the babe that would come this winter, much too close to the date of her wedding night.
“Cover yourself,” Chief Rein said. “Leave us, all of you.” The servants scurried out, murmuring with one another as they went.
Racked with violent shudders, Lida struggled to push her arms through the sleeves of her gown.
Breathe. Calm your heart. Settle your mind, she told herself.
“Helika speaks the truth. You are more than two moons with child.”
Teeth chattering, Lida said, “I—I . . . th-th-the babe is Urho’s. I swear upon my life that he is the only man with whom I have lain.” Lida would not deny her sin to Urho’s father. Urho had loved his father, and was mourned by all his family, but especially by Chief Rein.
Lida struggled to find the courage to raise her head. She pressed the back of her hand to her swollen eyelid. Breathe. Look up, her mind whispered.
The sympathetic eyes the chief once held for her were gone. “Explain, Lida.”
“I beg forgiveness, mercy,” she said, unable to control the quiver in her voice. “When Urho came for me in Turku—he—we lay together the night my father gave consent to the contract.” She lowered her eyes. “We were to be wed when he returned from the north. He said we needn’t wait . . . I was promised to him. I loved him, so I . . .” Peering into her father-in-law’s eyes, she found rage, disgust, and rejection.
“You offered my son the pleasure of your body months before your union?”
Lida was unable to form words—she had no defense.
“How many others before my son had such a service from you?” His hand cracked across her cheek, only mildly stinging her skin, yet at the same time tearing through her soul.
“Never return. Go back to your father. He shall decide what is to become of you and your bastard.”
Lida’s eyes burned, pleading for moisture, but she was drained of tears. She was immune to the bruises to her face, the humiliation of her body—nothing could touch her. Nothing would ever hurt as much as the pain of losing Urho. Her one true love was rotting under the ground, gone from this world, and she longed to follow. Urho’s babe growing inside of her was the sole reason she continued to take in breath.
Suddenly, Urho’s half brother, Valto, charged into the hall, gulping for air. “Wait! What has happened? Where are they taking Lida?”
Helika pulled at her son’s shoulder. “Come away. Do not become plagued with her.”
Valto’s voice was shrill. “Nay! Mother, where are they taking Lida?”
Unlike his mother, Valto had been welcoming to Lida when she’d married Urho. Lida had mixed impressions of her brother-in-law, an awkward, stout boy of seventeen summers. She had a measure of sympathy and gratitude toward him, yet often felt ill at ease in his company, uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze upon her.
“She is a whore. She was not pure the day she wed,” Helika declared.
“U-Urho raped her,” stuttered Valto. “In Turku, he lured her outside of her father’s house. If she is with child, Urho is the sire. He forced her.”
“Speak the truth to me.” The chief strode toward Lida, renewing her fear of his raging fists. “Speak!”
“Urho never raped me.” Holding her breath, Lida lifted her head higher. Her child had been conceived in love. With that remembrance, her courage reappeared. “I loved him—I love him.” Urho was the stars in the sky, the beat upon her heart, the air that she breathed. He may be gone from this world, but never from her.
Turning his back to her, the chieftain said, “Take her.”
“Nay!” Valto protested. “Is it not our custom for a brother to take the wife of his fallen brother? She carries Urho’s child. I will take her and claim the child.” Valto’s words instantly formed ice in Lida’s veins. Her inner voice screamed, Run! Her mother had trained her to never ignore this voice; “a woman’s instinct for survival,” she’d always said.
Helika clutched her chest as if she had been stabbed. “Never. Rein, tell him!”
“Son,” the chief said calmly, “heed the wisdom of your mother.”
At this, Helika’s maids began to shoved Lida out of the great hall. Her escorts set a brisk pace down the sloped lawn, headed for the waiting longships.
“Lida, your cloak.” Valto dashed toward her and placed Urho’s brown bear cloak over her shivering shoulders. Urho had wrapped her in this cloak as he kissed her farewell the day he departed to fight in the south. “’Tis unfair. You belong with me.” He secured the cloak pin, his fingers lingering under her chin.
Her spine tingled, not from cold but from a surge of growing distrust. Why had her brother-in-law lied in claiming that Urho raped her?
“You are kind, Valto. My thanks.” That was a lie. Valto was not known for his kindness. She had witnessed several disturbing displays of his temper, mostly directed at slaves and small animals. With Urho by her side, she had never had cause to fear her brother-in-law, but now . . .
“I will fix this and get you back!” Valto called out. “Where you belong.”
She accepted the outstretched hand of Otso, the ship’s navigator. Otso had fought next to her husband and brought his body home for burial. She felt indebted to him, and considered him her friend. Her heart was racing painfully fast, her wounds throbbing, and a sudden flood of gratitude came over her for the secure passage. She boarded without looking back.
She sat at the stern of the vessel, listening to the wind and the sea, searching for comfort and for answers. Her limbs were numb with cold. How would she face her family? How could she explain?
In her belly, she felt the fluttering dance of life deep within her. All other thoughts fell away. Her precious babe needed her, and the movement helped her to focus not on herself but on the tiny life that she had been blessed to protect and grow.
Lida rubbed her belly, answering her unborn child with a firm stroke. “Your mama is here. Never fear, my love, I will take care of you,” she whispered to the bump concealed under her cloak.
It was both a prayer and a promise.
Chapter 1
Eight Years Later . . .
Turku, Southern Finland
Jarl Magnus Knutson sat in a place of honor at the elevated head table overlooking the congested hall, impatiently marinating in boredom. He could not decide what turned his stomach more this evening: the greasy stench coming from the poorly crafted hearth or the herd of females being corralled in front of his table for inspection. Reminding himself why he was there, he tapped the underside of his ring against the arm of his chair. Tic, tic, tic. He needed to pick a wife and get back to more important matters.
Magnus had had his fill of Finland. The Bishop of Turku’s newly constructed residence had been built like a fortified castle, and it was artless, underwhelming, and woefully crafted. The same could describe the maidens being rounded up a few feet away.
“’Twere all you found?” he asked Tero under his breath. He began to think his steward was picking out a new ox to pull a wagon, not a wife to breed his sons. When Magnus had said sturdy, he’d meant not frail. If he had wanted unwashed and shapeless, he would have specified. The sole comely maids in the pack were fathoms too young to suit him.
“Master, these females meet your requirements,” his steward answered, practically licking his lips at the abundant feminine flesh on display.
Magnus mumbled behind his raised cup. “Have they all their teeth?” He arched his brow, reminding his steward of his oversight last month in Riga.
“I would not make that mistake again, master,” Tero answered, clearing his throat to begin the introductions. “I present Miia of house Kivi, Reta of house Rusko, Sohvi of house Joki . . .”
Having passed his thirty-fifth winter, Magnus was well aware of how females perceived him, as evidenced by their blushes and fluttering eyelashes. The fathers of these women desired an alliance with him because of his political power and wealth. For the maidens, the appeal was more primal. All female creatures, human and animal, sought the strongest and most dominant male to mate with. He nodded his respects to the group of women, then returned his attention to his tankard of ale.
Without moving his lips, Tero leaned in and asked, “Not one?”
Magnus ignored his loyal steward.
“But the one on the end,” Tero murmured. “Sohvi, with the dark hair. You always select an ample bosom such as hers at Mak’s.”
“And?”
“And this one is not a whore, she—”
“Too young.”
“She is robust. I assure you. Have her sit with you—”
“Enough. Sit and drink. We weigh anchor for Gamla Stan with the tide. I only suggested a Finnish wife to please the bishop.”
Magnus would forever carry the guilt of his first wife’s death. Helena had been groomed to be a southern princess, and was easily broken in the harsh northern realm. His remorse acted as a continual reminder not to make the same mistake in allowing Tero to select his wife—though the chore was proving more taxing than he expected.
“Aye, Magnus,” Bishop Henry beckoned. “Have you at last selected a maiden?” The bloated clergyman claimed a seat to the right of him. “I can vouch for the virtue of all whom your steward has selected.”
“Be assured, I doubt not their honor, Excellency. What I seek is a serviceable and submissive wife. Land I have. ’Tis sons that I am in need of.” Ten noblemen at the head table bobbed their heads in agreement. No one would dare to disagree with him here. They all needed Magnus’s trade alliances far more than he needed theirs.
The bishop smiled hungrily at the collection of women. “A virile young jarl needs a wife to suit. Turku boasts the comeliest maids of all the Baltic trading ports.”
Magnus suppressed his desire to roll his eyes. Of course the crusading bishop would prefer him to select a Finnish wife. It would guarantee Magnus’s wide-reaching arm of protection for the vulnerable port.
“Let a younger man seek a wife for beauty. I am a practical man, Bishop Henry. A sturdy wife to breed my sons is what I seek—sons to take over the mines, smelt production, trading routes.”
“Very practical indeed.” Bishop Henry stroked his long white beard. “God rewards practical men. I am confident we will find a Finnish female to your taste.”
“My gratitude, Excellency. Regrettably, we sail for Sweden on the morning tide.”
Deep in his cups and enjoying his own tasteless humor, the bishop laughed until ale came out of his nose. “Rankard, why not summon your daughter?” The bishop leaned over and exhaled his sour breath into Magnus’s ear. “When you said serviceable, I had thought of no better than sweet Brigitta.” Stuffed in an ill-fitting velvet gown, a plump young maiden sauntered toward the head table.
By the bishop’s design, the fleshy, full-figured Brigitta “accidentally” fell onto Magnus’s lap, her bosom spilling out the top of her gown. He clenched his jaw with disdain as she squirmed her rump against his groin.
The bishop ogled her breasts. “Glad to see you enjoying the fine hospitality, Magnus.” He raised his cup, toasting the air. “You may thank me later.”
Magnus turned his head away and rolled his eyes.
By the gods, when will this night end?
***
Dewdrops collected, growing heavily into a fat single droplet, running off the celery leaf and down the lace of Lida’s shoe. Working at the end of the lane in the root garden, she tugged another stalk free and shook away the rich soil.
Lida wiped the sweat from her brow and twisted to stretch her aching back. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of a large convoy of wagons as it crested the east hillside, coming from the direction of the church that was under construction. No doubt the bishop’s men bound for the port to fetch more materials. Thinking nothing more of it, she returned to laboring on her hands and knees.
Lida was working less than five paces from the roadside, and the rattling wagons and heavy horses vibrated the earth under her. A moment later, a group of sailors hollered at her, jeering lewdly as they passed. She snapped upright, sending a sinister glare at the crude men, her disdain her only available weapon.
Good riddance.
Concealing herself from the lane by hiding behind the bean stalks, she returned to digging out the turnips.
“Why her?” she heard her sister-in-law, Tina, ask in a pitchy voice. “Tell your brother she will not wed.”
Oh dear, should she announce her presence, or wait for the two gossiping hens to move past?
“She needs to find herself a husband before her youth fades. Surely her mourning has passed and ’tis time she wed again.” Ulla, their neighbor, sounded sincere.
Lida froze in place, her ears burning.
“’Tis naught to do with mourning,” Tina said. “Her daughter is a bastard.”
“I thought she was wed to the Lyyski lad?”
“Aye, but only after he’d tossed up her skirt. His family won’t recognize Katia.”
“I don’t see that’s fair in the least,” Ulla said. “I remember the fellow, all smiles and songs, that one. Could charm the skirt up a nun. I shan’t blame her . . .” The voices began to fade.
Lida lumbered toward the house carrying her basket of greens and fruits, using her thigh to help support the heavy weight. She had stopped caring what was whispered about her, yet she never failed to feel the stinging pain that came from the labels people placed on her daughter.
“Pardon me!” A male voice called out from over her shoulder. “Good woman, come here.” Sitting high upon a loaded wagon, a richly garbed man waved her to the roadside.
Lida regarded him with suspicion. Still, she endeavored to speak with politeness. “I shall stay where I am. What do you seek, sir? I shall fetch my brother to assist.”
“Brother?” The black-haired foreigner’s expression brightened. “Not husband?”
She raised her chin and did not reply.
“I care to purchase your produce. Fear me not.” His smile implied differently. “Our ship sails this hour. I would enjoy a fresh apple for my crossing. I have a heavy purse and will allow you to overcharge me.”
Lida surveyed the foreigner. He had a smooth, dark honey complexion, yet he spoke Finnish crisply, a few words holding a distinct Swedish undertone. His dark brown eyes were not shaped as those of a Swede, but as those of a person from the east, the Far East. Her mother had taught her about the Mongolic people, known for their shrewdness and vast knowledge of the stars and mathematics.
Behind the foreigner’s overloaded wagon followed many more more wagons, transporting an army of fierce warrior-like men, many twice the size of the mysterious Eastern foreigner. Surrounding the wagons, fearsome men rode powerful horses clearly trained for battle rather than for pulling a plow. Most had thick beards, long, yellow hair, and the signature broad shoulders of the Norseman. More arrogant conquerors come to harass her.
How charming. Could this day worsen?
As Lida swept her eyes over the convoy, one man caught her attention. He was hard to overlook—unlike the others, the clean-shaven warrior was obviously highborn. His light auburn hair blew untamed in the wind. Bunched behind his brawny shoulders, a white fur cloak was secured with a substantial gold cloak pin, and he wore matching armbands, heavy belts, and buckles. Every piece of his horse’s tack was made of thick leather and polished steel. Without a doubt, he was a warlord of great importance.
But Lida cared not who they were nor where they were from.
She tossed an apple to the foreigner who had spoken to her. “With compliments of Finland.” She spoke in Swedish rather than Finnish.
“Where did you learn the Swedish tongue?”
“I will fetch my brother. He will be glad to give you a detailed account of our family lineage.” Turning away from the stranger, she continued up the lane.
“I would rather you tell me.”
She did not bother to reply or even look back.
As Magnus rode up alongside the wagon, Tero pointed at the woman, who was now headed toward the farmhouse.
“What about that one?” his steward asked as they watched the spirited female walk away.
Magnus shrugged.
Since it was Magnus’s first shrug, rather than his typcial dismissive flick of a finger, Tero commanded the wagon to pursue the long, gold braid that swayed to and fro ahead of them. With her retreat, the farm girl’s well-proportioned hips and backside offered them an alluring view. Magnus could not help but wonder what secret enticements might be hidden under the offensive brown coarse wool.
Several men emerged from a nearby outbuilding, distracting him from his thoughts. Tero addressed them formally in Finnish. Svin Starkka introduced himself as the eldest son of the family and invited them into the principal house to be introduced to his father, the head of the family.
Apple blossoms were carved into the high beamed entry of the farmhouse, which, to to his surprise, Magnus hadn’t needed to duck under to enter. Heikki Starkka, the patriarch, was nearly the height and girth of a Norrland warrior. The high ceiling and wide doorways were no doubt crafted for the comfort of the owner. The silver-haired man sat with his arms crossed, staring at Magnus unimpressed.
Magnus ignored the offered seat, opting instead to examine the principal hall. He found the clean, well-maintained family home to be constructed with skill and logically organized. It boasted a pleasing scent of fresh-baked bread and thyme. It wasn’t luxurious in any regard, but sound in quality and a reasonable size for a prosperous farmer. The plank wood floor had been recently swept and several soft reed mats were placed at points of entry and under the tables. He approved of the balanced placement of the long table in the center of the hall, directly under the hanging stag horn candleholder. The artistry carved into several of the beech wood chairs and benches impressed him. Resting on each were cushions embroidered with elaborate and colorful designs.
This was not a farm of idle hands.
The eager young Starkka spoke with Tero. Magnus understood little of the Finnish conversation. “They have not finished their harvest. Though they do have cheese and ale to trade.” Tero translated rapidly to Magnus, then turned back to Svin and shook his head. “We depart this very hour for Norrland. May I inquire after your sister, Master Svin? She was kind enough to offer me an apple and—”
“Aye, apples. We have cider, plenty of cider. Is that to your liking, sir?”
Tero smirked. “I was inquiring after the maiden. Is she contracted into wedlock?”
“My sister! Oh, she is a widow.” Young Starkka’s voice trailed off.
Staring at Magnus with disdain, the elderly family head said, “She needs no husband.”
“How unfortunate.” Tero wisely redirected the conversation to the son. “Regardless, we are simply interested in an introduction. We would be happy to purchase barrels of your fine ale if that could be arranged?”
“Aye, well then . . .” Svin turned to the old man. “That does seem reasonable.”
“My daughter will not wed.” The old man did not bother to answer either his son or Tero, speaking in Swedish and directing his words to Magnus. “She stays here.”
“What is her age?” Magnus asked, taking charge of the negotiations.
“Twenty-four, and she will not wed again.”
“What is wrong with her?”
The old man squinted his eyes. “Go back to Sweden, Norrlander.” He abruptly stood and limped toward the doorway.
The farm girl stood under the arch, her wary eyes shifting between the various men in the hall.
Magnus examined her from the top of her fair head, hair held in tightly arranged braids, to her soiled, thin-leather footwear. Her small shoulders appeared solid. Dirt covered her forearms and hands. Normally that would have been a deterrent, yet the labor had left her complexion bright, a pristine image of health. He followed the lines of her delicate neck—it was acutely feminine, as were her facial features. Sculpted, high cheekbones framed a slender, well-balanced nose. Full, rose-hued lips pinched tightly together, displaying her displeasure at the forced introduction. Though she remained silent, she said a great deal with her expressive sapphire eyes. They held an unspoken courage. He liked that. This is good, he thought. He was at last making headway with this wife problem.
“Lida.” Young Starkka stepped forward. The girl inclined her head, acknowledging her brother while never turning her eyes away from Magnus’s stare, impressing him all the more. “This is Jarl Magnus Knutson, from Norrland—”
Magnus grew impatient. “You do not appear to be the age your father claims.”
“Are you accusing my father of dishonesty?” the farm girl asked, in faultless Swedish. No timidity—rare to find in a lowborn female.
***
Lida concentrated on her mother’s training, reminding herself that she was worthy of respect only if she gave it.
“I am inquiring as to your years,” the towering Jarl demanded.
No manners at all. Typical arrogant crusader.
“Whatever years my father has given, that is my age.” Lida answered the giant as bravely as she could as he continued to scrutinize her. He was easily the tallest man she had ever met. His broad shoulders could no doubt pull a plow through their rockiest field.
“Do you not approve of Swedes?” he asked in a voice as cold as the Baltic Sea.
“Not many, since they killed my husband.” She raised her chin higher. “Though my mother is Swedish. I must approve of some.”
“When was he killed?” he asked, his voice devoid of feeling.
“Eight harvests past.” Staring into his eyes was as hypnotizing as searching the deepest ocean at twilight. He was beginning to have a strange effect on her swirling stomach. She did not enjoy the feeling; at least that is what she told herself. “’Twas during the first Swedish crusade. A Norrland sword took him from me.”
“All superior blades are from Norrland.” His words were blunt and arrogant. He was Swedish, after all, she thought.
The hall filled with a thorny silence. Magnus stalked toward her. The scents of pine and leather invaded her lungs, along with a male musk that Lida told herself she must not inhale. For some unexplainable reason, holding his scent in her lungs felt entirely too intimate.
“Why are you not another man’s wife?”
Her heart pounded in her ears. “Because I do not wish to be,” she answered, praying that her unsettled nerves were not apparent to all.
He cocked his head to one side and regarded her for a moment that felt like it stretched on into eternity. “You do not wish to be a wife?”
“Not particularly.”
***
The fascinating creature before Magnus spoke in a submissive tone, yet her eyes were anything but soft or submissive—they were closer to hard and defiant. Either she was lying to herself or to him. Maybe it was both. A craving to bring her to heel swept over him.
“You do not pray to the one true god for sons?” He continued to be impr
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