The Iron Princess (2 page)

Within a minute, however, his speed began to overwhelm Katia, causing her to step back as she blocked blow after blow. She was using only defense and retreat maneuvers at this point. The cheers had fallen silent, soon followed by her father’s guards calling to have the match stopped. Katia knew that time was running out. She needed to do something. Quick.

Using her small stature to her advantage, she charged in low and smashed down hard on her opponent’s boot. Unlike herself, the Saxon wore no shield plating below the thigh.

“Little cur!” He groaned loudly and made his first error by dropping his chin and peering at his crunched foot.

Taking advantage, she head butted him with her helmet. A bloody nose should teach him to wear more armor, a helmet at the very least. He stumbled a few steps back with bewilderment, murderous rage rising quickly in his pretty eyes.

Not smiling now, are you, Saxon?

His long arm darted out, reached around, and grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, raising her a clear foot off the ground. She wiggled madly, kicking and flailing her legs. He tossed his sword down and punched her in the side of her head.

With church bells clanging in her ears, she tried to find her footing, but the world tilted on its axle. As her vision came back into focus, she witnessed a raging mob of spectators charging into the ring.

Heaven help her. She had ignited war between Tronscar and North Saxony.

Katia shook her head. “Stop! Stop, wait no!” she screeched, part out of panic for the trouble she had created, part out of the lack of ability to control her pitch. She tore off her helmet as Hansel and Kaj, two of the best swordsmen in Tronscar, fixed aim upon her Saxon opponent.

From behind her, a Saxon shouted, “It’s a girl!” freezing the crowd of Saxon men in place.

Katia shook her head a few more times to ease the bell tolling in her ears. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders and back. “I hate to lose a wager, but since we have been interrupted, I regretfully concede the match to you, sir.” Katia smiled, extending her gloved hand to her scowling opponent. He did not accept it. “My gratitude for the rounds. That was splendid fun.”

Observing that no harm had been done, the crowd began to disburse.
Problem solved
, she thought.

“Who the hell do you think you are? I could have killed you!” her opponent bellowed.

“I doubt that,” she said, blinking, trying to bring his piercing emerald green eyes into focus over the double vision she was currently experiencing. “May I inquire as to your name, my good man?” Regardless of the pain and humiliation, Katia continued to grin, waiting for her smile to do its magic and smooth over the small embarrassment.

“Who are you?” the Saxon said with a snarl. He turned to Rikard and pointed. “Is she yours?”

“No, I am not his,” Katia said, straining to keep a smile on her face. “I am my own person, thank you very much. My name is Katia. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. And you are?”

Hell’s bells! Why was her smile not working?

Lothair dragged in a slow, deep breath and instructed the raging beast inside him to calm. The girl that stood before him, dressed from throat to boot in leather and steel-plated armor, did not look like much of a girl. Other than the long mess of gold silk that fell down around her shoulders, and her distracting pouty mouth. Or her flawless skin, with youthfully plump cheeks bright red from exercise and the long, thick, fluttering eyelashes. Other than that, she was nothing but a scrap of a lad.

“Lothair,” he said to answer her question. He realized he was staring and snapped his head away.

He grabbed the coin out of Fisk’s hand and threw it at her feet. “I don’t make bets with liars and cheats.”

She gasped and jerked her head back. “I am not a cheat! I only wanted my turn. Are you saying that if I had introduced myself, you would have agreed to step into the ring with me?”

Lothair took two steps closer but was cut short by a wall of Norrland henchmen who stepped forward, blocking his path.

The pushy little imp pried her way in between them, turned to face the guards, smiled, and patted their arms as if they were errand dogs. “My thanks, Arne, Nero, Samson. But I would prefer to speak to our guest myself.”

“Who are you?” As soon as Lothair asked, the answer came to him. Jarl Magnus Knutson had four sons and one daughter. He had assumed the daughter was a child like the others, not the age of a grown maiden.

“Again, my name is Katia.” She smiled brightly, revealing a row of radiant white teeth. She was annoyingly more feminine by the second.
Curse it!
For the hundredth time he asked himself why had he agreed to come on this tiresome journey north.

“And I thought I was the one that took the blow to the head,” she said, laughing off the seriousness of the situation. Undoubtedly she was a spoiled harpy who used her comely features as a weapon on every male crossing her path.

Lothair closed his eyes, no longer able to look at the crater-size dent to her armor that he had delivered.

From the other side of the training yard came a sound reminiscent of an angry bear. “Katia!” The sea of spectators silently retreated.

Flinching, the pretty little warrior shut her eyes. Her smile was pained as she turned to face the wrath of the mighty Jarl of Tronscar.

Jarl Magnus Knutson had an imposing stature in any man’s opinion. Though he was said to be a man of forty-five winters, he appeared to be in prime health and form. His thunderous voice originated from his bearlike chest. Trimmed with gold, the jarl’s black tunic held enough fabric to make two regular-size garments. As he plowed toward the sparring ring, his gold family crest was displayed proudly, signifying him as a member of the royal House of Eric. At his right side, his regal wife was adorned in equal finery.

Friherrinna Lida of Tronscar was a renowned beauty throughout the Baltics, and Lothair could see why, regardless of the fact that her stomach stuck out like a shelf—clear evidence of the jarl’s continued virility. Her hair was in gold braids entwined with jewel combs that captured the sunlight, causing her head to appear to glow.

“Far, you missed all the sport. It was such fun.” The girl skipped over to the irate jarl, and an equally angry friherrinna. “Oh, Mama, you should have seen how well I did. Søren did not even make it a round. I went two rounds and I would—”

“Go to your chamber,” the jarl said in a low snarl, hardly moving his lips. “Hand your sword to Rikard. You will have no further use for it.”

“Oh, Far, it was simply a little exercise—” Katia began to make her excuses.

“Katia.” The friherrinna interrupted in a soft but serious voice. “Your father has given you instruction. I suggest you take your leave before you get yourself in more trouble.”

“But, Mother,” Katia started.

“Now!” Jarl Magnus’s growl echoed across the sparring ring. The girl sullenly handed the sword off, turned with her chin high in the air, and stomped her ironclad feet in the direction of the fortress. If Lothair had not just been within seconds of losing his life to a bloodthirsty mob at her expense, he may have felt a measure of pity for the spirited girl.

The Duke of Saxony approached his side. “What were you thinking, Lothair?” his father mumbled into his ear. “Sparring with a Tronscar maiden—the jarl’s daughter no less!”

“Some fox placed a wager that her little brother could go three rounds. I—”

His father waved him off. “Our position here is tenuous.” The duke took him by the shoulder. “We need this trade agreement with Knutson. You will apologize and take responsibility. Do you understand me?”

The jarl approached before Lothair could answer. “I beg your pardon, your grace, in neglecting to make a proper introduction of my daughter, but, alas, I believe I shall be locking her in her chamber for the next hundred years.”

The duke laughed politely. “Spirited young maidens, Magnus—what is to be done?” He slapped the jarl’s shoulder as if the two men were old friends instead of newly forged allies. His father was a gifted talker when he needed to be. And given the recent conflict with his rival, the power-hungry Frederick Barbarossa, his father needed to shore up as much weaponry and as many ships as he could get his hands on.

His father cupped the back of Lothair’s neck, pulling him into the conversation. “May I introduce my nephew, Baron Lothair of Hanseatz. He desires to make his apologies, Magnus. He deeply regrets putting the maiden at risk.”

Lothair had to work hard not to slap his father’s hand off. For the hundredth time he wondered how it was possible to respect someone so greatly and at the same time despise him. As the duke’s illegitimate son, he told himself that it was an unusual kindness for a nobleman to pay any notice to his bastards, especially those born to a chambermaid. He could understand his father’s reasons to hide the truth of his parentage and claim Lothair as a nephew rather than his own offspring, yet he still resented him for it. Beneath all his deceit, his father took such risks out of love for his mother and for his siblings, which was why he struggled to go along with the falsehood, even though he could feel it rotting his insides a little more with each passing year.

Lothair smiled stiffly and uttered a begrudging apology, bowing at the waist before the friherrinna.

“No apologies,” Jarl Magnus said. “Our daughter has her ways of getting what she wants. Her mother believes I am to blame for this thorny trait.” The jarl shook his head, but his eyes brightened and the corner of his mouth turned up in a small smile that poorly masked his pride in his daughter. “She sets her mind to something and there is no stopping her. Hence, the need to lock her indefinitely in her chamber.” The jarl chuckled from low in his belly. With such a proud father, Lothair expected the fetching girl would be locked away no longer than the time it took her to climb the high south tower of the jarl’s private residence, which Tero, the steward, had warned him was strictly prohibited.

Lothair’s father laughed at the jarl’s joke and, shoulder to shoulder, the men strolled back toward the principal keep, heads bent in conversation. Lothair would never understand the contrary nature of fathers, indulging their children only to find fault with the qualities they had fostered. This was yet another glaring example of why he would never put himself at risk of becoming a father.

He rubbed the swollen bump on his nose. He would use it as his most recent reminder of why his chosen life path was the correct one.

Every day the constant compulsion to run, to break free of his fraudulent life, grew stronger. The need for truth used to haunt him only in the quiet, sleepless hours of night. Now this need haunted his days as well. Searching for his life’s purpose had begun to feel like an incurable disease of his heart.

Lothair took his place with his countrymen, watching one of his fellow soldiers and a lanky Norrlander have their turn in the center of the ring.

When he was younger, residing in the southern German territory of Nordgau, Lothair had thought that becoming a warrior would be the answer to all his problems. The duke’s sister and her husband, who was conveniently barren, agreed to pass Lothair off as their son and heir, though they had no true affection to spare for him. They did, however, provide the best tutors they could find. He had acquired a measure of skill as a swordsman and he had dreamed of one day being able to support his true family and cast off the protection of the duke’s web of lies.

Though his mother had borne the duke five children, three still living, she continued to work as a housekeeper, while Lothair was treated as the young master. He was celebrated while his mother was viewed as a fallen woman and shunned by most in the community. His mother and sisters’ adoring devotion to the duke curdled in Lothair’s gut.

Becoming his father’s pawn was the only path he knew for certain he wouldn’t be taking. With his uncle succumbing to the plague last year, Lothair was now the master of several prosperous holdings, none that he had earned, nor was deserving of. Daily, his conscience gnawed away at his self-worth.

Perhaps he could dedicate his life to the pursuit of justice, but then question would be, which side of justice? Every peasant, every maid and smith, every king and pirate shouted for their particular injustices.

Peace then?
He could attach himself to whoever worked to bring peace to the Baltic shores, yet that would mean choosing one of a dozen rival kings who all claimed the right to rule overlapping kingdoms. In his lifetime, he’d not witnessed one highborn house that did not act with corruption and hypocrisy.

Lothair needed to find his life’s purpose soon and get started. He wanted to make his mark, fight without fear and with truth and purpose, and finally die young, before the winds of time eroded his moral center as it seemed to do to all men.

Never would he live a life of lies like his father. Never. He would be true to himself or die trying.

***

Several hours later, not long after the midday meal, Katia burst through the door of her parents’ bedchamber. “Mama! I swear this time I will drown them both.” She held her prisoners in place by their back collars. Her twin brothers of seven summers twisted and wiggled like eels to break free.

Lida was sitting at the window bench, using the light from the open shutters for her sewing. “What have they done now?” she asked, glancing up with little surprise.

Katia stood with her wet hair dripping all over the fur rug. “Tosh and I were in the sauna and these two sent the swine loose on us. Tosh is terrified of swine. She ran screaming out of the bathhouse without a stitch of clothing. Half of the kitchen servants saw her backside. If these two demons keep this up, she will go stay with her sister in Birja and I will have no one.”

Lida sighed and lowered her embroidery to her lap. “Boys, I will be speaking to your father about this.”

“No Mama, please,” groaned Hök, completely unrepentant.

“I beg your pardon, Mama,” Stål said. The boys exchanged sly smirks that told Katia everything. Neither one was sorry, and they would probably do it again for a fleeting glimpse of Tosha’s backside.

“Katia, leave them to me,” Lida said. “Go dry your hair and ready yourself for the feast. You are in need of a little redemption of your own this evening.”

The late afternoon sun bathed the chamber in a bright warm light, and the scent of pine was carried in on the breeze coming down from Folkebyte Mountain. Although she was often annoyed with her mother’s unshakable, serene manner, Katia loved seeing her like this—warm, happy, and humming as she stroked her growing belly. It was a direct contrast to her memory of her mother when she was a child. In Finland, her mother had worked from dawn to dusk in the fields. Before Lida married the jarl, Katia rarely remembered her mother ever laughing or humming.

Mollified, Katia kissed her mother’s cheek, sank down on the window bench next to her, and rubbed her taut belly. Her brothers slunk to the far corner of the room and began rummaging through the jarl’s assortment of ornamental weaponry. Her fifth brother or first sister would be born in two more moons. Every night she asked God for just one sister. She did not think she could survive another brother. To be sure, they were always adorable as babes, but once they started to have the run of the keep, there was no rest for anyone.

Her mother swept Katia’s wet hair to the side. “Why not wear a few braids tonight? You know how your father loves to see your hair arranged.”

“Just for tonight.” Katia continued to rub her mother’s stomach. The unborn babe kicked back. What must it feel like to have a creature moving around under your skin? The entire mystery of conception and carrying around a miniature person inside puzzled her, but her mother seemed always excited by the prospect of more annoying hellions to fill the fortress.

“Do you think it is true, that the duke is secretly an agent for the House of Eric and trying to shore up Father’s support?” she quietly asked her mother. Katia had come to understand long ago that most husbands, especially rulers, did not openly seek the counsel of their wives in political matters. But her stepfather, Jarl Magnus, was not an ordinary man. Nearly every night she could find her parents having long discussions before the hearth in their bedchamber, and the jarl always seemed open and eager to hear his wife’s opinions.

“We cannot be certain, even if he were to denounce the House of Eric before the entire hall,” Lida said while continuing her delicate, perfect stitches. “I’m sure the duke would say whatever he thought most advantageous at the time. He does appear overly desperate for weaponry and your father’s good opinion.”

Sweden was again on the brink of civil war. Jarl Magnus was a direct descendant of Eric the Victorious, one of the first kings of Sweden. Ten years ago, the jarl’s cousin, King Eric the Saint, had seized the throne from Sverker I the Elder, and house Eric and house Sverker had been battling over who had the right to rule ever since.

Politics fascinated Katia and, at times, desperately confused her. If only her father would invite her into his council chamber, instead of forcing her to eavesdrop outside the door, she suspected she would not be half as confused. From what she did understand, Jarl Magnus had declared himself openly in support of the current King Karl of house Sverker, even though that would go against supporting his own relations. The jarl had said that the unity of Sweden was more important than one family’s claim to the throne.