He was grinning like a cat given a bowl full of cream. What was he so happy about? Why were Snorri and his warriors here? What did they want?
“You never mentioned to me that your sister was also a warrior, Geir,” Snorri said. “Vragi tells me that she wishes to join the raids this summer, is that true?”
“No,” my brother blurted out, then tried to cover the outburst with a laugh. “Freya knows only of gutting fish and keeping house. She’s no warrior.”
I bristled, then bit the insides of my cheeks when Snorri gave me an amused smile. “You disagree, Freya? You believe you can fight?”
“I…” I swallowed hard, sweat trickling down my spine because they were all staring at me. Best to give the truth, especially since my skills were known. “My father taught me to fight when I was a girl. I can handle myself.”
“Your father is Erik.”
“Was,” I corrected. “He died a year ago.”
“It was in a fight, wasn’t it?”
My cheeks stung as I bit into them, unsure whether my brother had lied or if the lord had simply not cared enough to remember the details. “No, my lord. Dropped dead the night of my wedding. Herb-woman said it was his heart.”
Snorri rubbed his chin. “Shame. Erik was a fierce warrior in his prime. We fought side-by-side in many shield walls. If he taught you, then what you’ve learned is good. And I can always use more warriors.”
“She’s a married woman,” Geir responded before I had the chance to answer. “With respect, Freya should be focused on family, not fighting.”
“Agreed,” Snorri replied. “But Vragi tells me that’s not the case. That Freya thinks more of fighting than of babies.”
Oh gods.
Understanding of what was happening struck me at the same time it did Geir, his face blanching. Vragi wished to end our marriage and had asked the jarl to witness it. Bile burned up my throat, because as much as I wished to be rid of him, I knew the consequences. Knew it would be my family that suffered because I couldn’t keep my cursed mouth shut.
“Let us see if Freya is a better warrior than she is a wife,” Snorri continued. “Give her a weapon, Geir.”
My brother didn’t move.
The jarl’s eyes hardened. “You would defy me in this?”
“I would not see my sister harmed.”
Geir would protect me out of pride. I knew it, and I refused to watch it happen when all that needed to be done was for me to accept shaming. Maybe that would be enough to appease Vragi, and he’d reconsider. “Give me your sword, Geir.”
My brother whirled on me, amber eyes blazing. “Freya, no!”
I held out my hand.
He stared me down, and I silently willed him to understand how this would play out. To see that the only harm I’d come to was a few bruises and a solid blow to my pride. A blow that I was willing to take for the sake of him and our mother.
Seconds passed, the tension in the clearing mounting. Then Geir reluctantly drew his weapon, handing it to me hilt-first. I closed my fingers over the leather grip, feeling the weight of it. Feeling the rightness of it. Behind the jarl, one of the warriors began to dismount, but Snorri shook his head at him and looked to the dark-haired warrior I’d flirted with on the beach. “Bjorn, you will test Freya’s prowess.”
Bjorn.
My confidence shattered at his name, understanding of who he was hitting me like a battering ram to the gut. He was Jarl Snorri’s son and heir. Which would have been bad enough, but he was also a child of Tyr, the god having granted him a drop of blood and all the magic that came with it at his conception. My brother had told me many times of this man’s prowess on the battlefield—a warrior without equal who left only the dead and dying in his wake. And he was who Snorri wanted me to fight?
I might have vomited, but Bjorn started laughing.
He slapped a hand against his saddle, spine bent backward as he let out loud guffaws. This went on for several moments before he wiped at his eyes, leveling a finger at Snorri. “All those who say you have no sense of humor are liars, Father.”
“I made no jest.” Snorri’s voice was cool, and beneath his beard, his jaw worked back and forth with obvious annoyance.
Or at least, obvious to me. Bjorn only barked out a laugh. “You want me to fight this…girl? To fight a fishmonger’s wife who has barely the strength to lift the weapon in her hand?”
It was a struggle not to scowl, for while the weapon was heavy, it was no heavier than a bucket of fish and I carried those all day.