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Mercia had survived similar conflicts in England, witnessing the execution of many men and women who refused to worship Christ. They were hung or burned as devils and witches. Like her mistress, Mercia accepted the pagans as her own people. What harm was there in extending the same courtesy they showed her? Religious tolerance kept peace in this household, and Tyr demanded it of all his subjects—free or bond.
As she tore another hunk of bread off, something hit her foot. She peeked under the table, finding another balled up piece of sheepskin. Surprised, she reached for it. By God, another pearl?
Intrigued, she studied the men inside. Domarr shared a table with some men, but he was too far away to have rolled the gift across the floor without anyone noticing. Four guards were on duty, stationed at the front and back entryways—they’d been trained not to move a muscle unless called upon.
Blast her bad luck.
Only one person could be trusted to help her. She sipped the last of her mead, then made her way upstairs. Rachelle knew something about the games men played and would aid her in finding the responsible party.
Marteinn watched Mercia climb the stairs. He’d observed her reaction to the wayward arrow in the garden, too. Giving her something to occupy her time might keep her entertained. Women liked gifts, almost expected them. Memories of Kara admiring the flowers he’d often left for her made him smile.
He rubbed his face with both hands. Odin help him. He shouldn’t let another man’s wife dominate his thoughts. Jarl Sigurdsson had offered him some good advice earlier—choose a woman to warm his bed.
Once Mercia disappeared from sight, he headed outside. Fifteen recruits were waiting, anxious to improve their combat skills.
He divided them into three groups, each brandishing wasters so they wouldn’t maim each other with real blades. The oldest and most experienced stood center, waiting to be challenged.
“You two.” Marteinn signaled two brothers to advance. “Come at me as fast as you can.”
Leery at first, both edged forward.
“Is that how you would engage an enemy in battle?” Marteinn scrubbed his face with his free hand, frustrated at their timidity. “Women don’t win places of honor at Odin’s table in Valhalla.”
The boys eyed each other, then raised their weapons and rushed him. He grinned, kicking the closest in the gut, sending him toppling to the ground. The second attempted an awkward stroke, but he blocked it with his ax, splintering the wood.
Shocked and amazed, both boys stared silently at him. “Get up,” he instructed the one on the ground. “Fetch a new sword and challenge me again.”
“Now, Captain?”
“Now!”
The brother, still holding his waster, scrambled to his feet, then screeched a pathetic war cry, running toward him at full speed. He sidestepped, letting the runt miss him, then booted him in the arse, once again causing him to hit dirt. The other students laughed, pointing and making obscene gestures at the brothers.
“There is no room for hesitation or you will die,” Marteinn warned. “You tire too easily. See those sacks of dirt over there?” He pointed to a spot underneath some nearby trees.
“Aye,” the group answered collectively.
“Grab one, hold it above your head, then run up the hill and back.” Each bag weighed nearly two stone. The lads lacked stamina and wouldn’t survive a real fight. “Why are you still here? Do as I say or I’ll make you do it twice.”
The threat worked, they disappeared.
Marteinn slung his ax over his shoulder, satisfied he’d proven his point. He approached the other boys.
Apparently, two things pleased him more than he ever realized; he enjoyed turning weaklings into skilled warriors and teasing Mercia.
Chapter Nine
Rachelle wanted her to pick a man, something she’d never hear the end of until she complied. Maybe Mercia had waited too long, taken advantage of the generous freedoms Jarl Sigurdsson had granted. But she wanted to see Captain Marteinn now, not think about anyone else. Even from a distance, his handsome features and powerful body filled her with awe and desire. And his prowess on the practice field … She stood silent, watching him train, listening to his deep authoritative voice.
“No!” He knocked a lad off his feet. “Grasp the ax like this, not like a goddamned cow udder. You’re not on a farm anymore, boy, you’re training for combat, sworn to protect Jarl Sigurdsson’s interests.”
“But-but …”
“Don’t whine like a child.”
“Yes, Captain.” The boy stood up, brushing dirt from his backside.
“Take it.” Marteinn offered him a long battle ax.
