Would Joren ever forgive him for that? Closing his eyes, he prayed to Eisen that it was so. Often, he wondered what his close friend and former admiral thought of whatever story Cara had taken back with her a year ago, on that momentous day when he’d broken her out of the mage’s prison.
A quiet voice in his mind questioned why he hadn’t escaped with Cara. Had he left with his twin, he wouldn’t have to live this lie.
Except it wasn’t all a deception. Deep down, part of him had grown to love the kingdom, its people, and the land.
Twisting in his saddle, Sigurd looked toward the distant castle, the tall towers visible for miles in the valley. Things were terribly wrong in Ridaeron, he had seen as much with his own eyes, but he had also learned that not all was as it seemed. Not all Ridaerons shared their high king’s bloodlust. Like Her Majesty. In contrast to her king, no queen had ever been more beloved by the people of the nation. He knew this because he’d spent much of the year in her company exclusively, accompanying her to one village after the next, to the small farms of the east, and the fishing villages of the west. He’d seen with his own eyes how much the people preferred her over their cruel king.
Thinking of Queen Brynhildr stirred up a confusing tangle of feelings. Now that he had been assigned as her personal bodyguard, one of the honored húskarlar assigned to protect her, matters had become even more complicated. Húskarlar were assigned only to royalty and members of the drottin, whether they were jarls or the lesser nobility.
Given the opportunity, despite all that had happened, he’d come to respect and adore her, as well as acknowledge that the greatest threat to Brynhildr was one he could not protect her from—her husband.
Day after day, Sigurd was forced to watch the king treat her like a pawn on a chessboard. Confusingly, despite her strength, Brynhildr bowed to her husband’s will.
She deserved better.
In his deepest fantasies, he dreamed of sweeping her away to Eisland to live in peace, but he knew she would never leave. She loved her land and her people.
Skittering pebbles and the creak of wood drew him from his thoughts just as a wagon rounded the bend and came into his peripheral view. He twisted in the saddle and raised his hand in greeting, recognizing the two men on the seat.
“’Lo there, Sigurd!” the old man called from the wagon. “It’s a fine day we’re having, no?”
“It is, Arden.” He smiled and brought his mount around, approaching the farmer and his son. Barrels filled to the brim with apples were loaded in the wagon. “Are you and Stenvar headed to market?”
“I wish it were so. No, these are bound for the garrison, where my fine apples will likely end up in a mash rather than a pie.”
“Their loss, my friend.”
“But not yours,” Arden said slyly. “I dropped two barrels at the castle for our lovely queen and have promised more when her favorite variety ripens. She asked that if I saw you on the road to send you back to her.”
Sigurd chuckled. “Then I best get back to her. Travel safely, you two.”
“We will.” Stenvar grinned and reached out to clasp Sigurd’s arm in a friendly manner. “Do you have anything you need carried that way? Or is there anything we can get for you?”
The tempting offer gave him pause and brought his mind to the letter hidden beneath his tunic. In the year since his naming day, he had written Cara a dozen letters—and burned them all. The fear of discovery kept him from trying to smuggle a single note out of the country.
“No, I need nothing. Thank you for the offer.”
“Good day to you then.” Arden tipped his hat then clucked at his horses, guiding them onward.
Sigurd waited until the wagon was a distant speck before pulling the note from his shirt. Taking a match from the pouch on his belt, he dragged the tip against the saddle then held the small flame against the parchment.
No one could know of his attempts to contact home. Not the queen, and most especially not the king.
A full moon hung overhead as Brynhildr placed her offering on the altar to Frigga. Soon as the small cake touched the plate, she regretted it.
She scooped it up and cupped it in her palm, reconsidering yet another useless prayer to the goddess of marriage. All others thus far had gone unanswered.
Why would this be any different?
If she couldn’t save her floundering relationship by her own power, what hope did she have of a goddess concerning herself with the happiness of a mere mortal?
Bryn laughed bitterly and considered pitching the cake over the side of the rail to the ground below.
All of these wishes and prayers. What good are they?
A boot sole touched the stone floor behind her then fell silent. Bryn didn’t lift her head, for she knew the identity of her visitors by their behavior, by their smells, by the simple presence of them. When Gunnar came seeking her, he never entered if he wasn’t furious.
If the servants came, they merely waited, meek and apologetic.
And if it was Sigurd, he joined her. He knew nothing of why she prayed, but he often knelt alongside her, saying nothing.
The steps came nearer than typical for a servant, and the smell of ale and spices filled her nose. Gunnar’s steward. Spineless bastard.
“I hope this evening treats you well, my queen. King Gunnar humbly asks that you meet him in his private chambers to disc—”
“No,” Bryn said, slicing through the man’s request before he finished.
“No?” Knud appeared aghast, deep wrinkles forming in his heavy brow. “But, Your Majesty, our king has asked—”
“I will not join him in our chambers. I wish to sleep alone tonight.”
The steward sputtered, at a loss for words for once in his miserable life. Good.
She remained kneeling in prayer, primed to ignore the man. Eventually he caught on and hurried away, rushing back to his master. Gunnar would be angry, she knew, but she was too damned tired to care anymore. Finishing her prayers, she rose, joints stiff from kneeling on the cold stone floor for so long.
As she made her way through the halls to her chambers, she expected Gunnar to come storming out at any moment, but he never appeared. That was fine by her. More than likely he’d call for one of his preferred concubines. Usually the thought didn’t bother her, but this time, something felt wrong about it all—a slap in the face of a marriage where once they had been enough for each other and they needed no additional bodies in the bedroom. No concubines, no trysts.
It was yet one more way Sigurd had changed her perceptions of the world.
As if her thoughts summoned him, Sigurd rounded the next corner. He skidded to a halt and dipped into a respectful bow. He had taken to his role as one of their own well, sometimes making her forget he came from foreign shores.
Bryn didn’t know when things changed, but Sigurd was both a gift and a blessing, her gilded lantern when all other lights had dimmed. She’d known from the first time she saw him at the slave quarries alongside the other thralls from his kingdom that she’d never want another man as badly as she wanted him.
For the first time in her decade-long marriage to Gunnar, she’d finally wanted to take a consort of her own. That hadn’t happened. Instead, a cruel twist of fate had made the man one of her closest friends and confidants.