CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“With respect, me jarl, our lady has nay business bein’ here.”
Ragnar didn’t lift his gaze from the map. He’d heard Olaf voice every complaint known to man over the past eighteen years—about taxes, about tides, about the cost of imported timber—but this particular grievance carried a different weight.
“‘Tis a war council.” Olaf pressed, his weathered hands braced on the table. “We’ve held them the same way since yer grandsire’s time.”
“Times change, Olaf.”
“Aye, and nae always fer the better.”
Freyr shifted near the door, arms folded, his expression neutral. The elders sat round the table, a wall of grey beards and disapproval, and across the solar, two younger warriors stood atattention, their eyes darting between their jarl and the woman sitting quietly in the window alcove.
Ragnar let the silence stretch. He’d learned young that silence unnerved men more than shouting ever could.
“Bjorn.” He said quietly. “Ye were at the eastern approach when Douglas’s men hit the village, werenae ye?”
“Aye, me jarl.”
“And how many of the bastards came fer me wife?”
“Three. They bypassed the granary, the livestock, the supply stores. Went straight fer the healer’s tent.”
Ragnar straightened to his full height, his shadow cutting across the map like a blade. “Nae the grain. Nae the silver.Her.” His gaze swept every man in the room. “She had tae fight like a wild beast tae fend ‘em off.” Ragnar’s voice dropped slightly. “If I’d arrived three seconds later, she wouldnae be sitttin’ here. So, she stays wi’ me.”
Olaf’s mouth opened, then closed, but nobody spoke. The fire cracked and spat in the hearth.
Ragnar turned back to the map. “Now. Guards on the inner keep double from tonight. I want four men on the main gate at all hours, two on the eastern wall, and nay one enters without bein’ accounted fer by name. Freyr?—”
He pushed off the doorframe. “Rotated the watch this mornin’. Put Gunnar on the night shift—he’s got the sharpest eyes and he daesnae drink.”
“The northern approach?”
“I’ve two men in the tree line and a runner at the crossin’. Anythin’ moves, we’ll ken.”
Ragnar nodded. “Lady Isolda stays within the inner keep until further notice.” He caught her gaze across the room—saw the flash of rebellion in her eyes. “That isnae a suggestion.”
“I didnae say anythin’,” she replied, her voice even.
“Yer face is daein’ all the talkin’.”
Her mouth pressed flat, but she inclined her head.
“Bjorn, send word tae Skye, Barra, Mull and Lewis. They need tae ken what’s happened and what we’re facin’.” He paused, something cold settling behind his ribs. “Douglas isnae finished. He’ll come again, and when he daes, I want every sword ready tae move.”
“Aye, me jarl.” Bjorn said.
“Go.”
The elders filed out, shoulders stiff with opinions. But then, Olaf paused at the door, glanced back at Isolda, and gave her a single nod. She returned it. And something in her expression cracked open—just for a heartbeat—before she smoothed it away.
But Ragnar caught it.
Ye’ve never had someone acknowledge ye before.
“I need tae draft letters and go over the coastal maps wi’ Freyr,” he said. “Could be a few hours.”
She rose from the alcove, her bandaged hand careful against the stone. She paused at the door, looked back, and then she was gone.
