Page 11 of Merciful Salvation

“Listen carefully,” Aaron said. “You’ve tormented me enough. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll bring Olaf’s wrath upon you—confiscate your lands and men. Pledge loyalty to the king and I will forget this insult.”

Erik sobered. He scratched his bearded chin, still seated. “Are you in agony, Scotsman?”

Even under threat of severe punishment, this man wouldn’t yield. “Hardly,” Aaron snapped, annoyed with his haughty manner.

“Then scrape your ballocks off the floor, milord. A sense of humor sees a man through hard times.”

“Aye,” Aaron admitted grudgingly. “But such effrontery can get a man killed. We are not intimate friends, Jarl Erik.”

“No.” the elder nodded. “Nor do I think we ever can be.”

Short on patience, Aaron tapped his foot on the floor. He couldn’t shake the image of Kara revealing her identity, her golden hair tumbling down her back after she removed her helmet. Of course he’d made a fool of himself already. How could he have mistaken a careless girl for a male? He’d deal with those feelings later.

“My conditions have changed,” Aaron added suddenly. “You will pledge three warriors now.”

Erik smiled widely. “Three? What makes you think I won’t kill you first?”

Aaron pounded his fist against his chest. “If that’s your intention, do it now.”

Erik stared at him for a long time, saying nothing. “I told you before, I have no use for a blasted Christian. If I had my way, I’d sacrifice you to Odin. Your blood would greatly benefit King Olaf, even if he doesn’t realize it.”

Aaron snatched a cup of mead off the table, then drank it down. Every instinct told him to strike. Reduce this blustering madman to a pile of shite on the floor. For the second time today, Erik the Baldmade sure to publicly disrespect him. Aaron’s eyes were on his. The elder jarl would likely be a formidable adversary in hand-to-hand combat. In fact, he suddenly relished the idea. Heat rose in his cheeks. He’d seldom denied himself the pleasure of a good fight in the past. Especially one he was sure he could win. Bloody Vikings and their king... But bloodshed wouldn’t foster cooperation or respect.Swallow your bitter pride.

He slammed his cup on the table and sighed, again holding his temper back. “My faith has nothing to do with this, Jarl Erik. You specifically told me you’ve served with men from all backgrounds. Put aside your disdain for me and honor the king. Be the first jarl to take a stand against any man who undermines the king’s efforts to solidify our nation.”

“Before any decision is made,” Erik said, “perhaps you’d like to prove yourself as a leader. Accept a challenge from my captain. Since we’re all sure ofyoursex, there won’t be any special allowances made.”

Laughter from the crowd deepened Aaron’s rage. He rested his right hand on the hilt of his sword. Sometimes unexpected blessings came at the most interesting time. He couldn’t turn down a chance to recover his honor. “Name your agent.”

“Marteinn.” Erik’s wolfish grin made Aaron’s blood boil.

Why not his son, Gunter? Or Erik himself? By selecting someone outside his family, the jarl silently flung another insult at him. But, he’d not complain. Marteinn strode to the center of the hall, his sword already in hand.

“First blood wins,” Erik declared.

“Are you in need of training?” Marteinn taunted. “Shall I fight with one hand tied behind my back?” He tossed his sword between his hands. Grinning, he tucked his left arm at his side.

“You.” Aaron focused on him. “You will pay for this.”

Back and forth across the room they moved, slashing violently,swords locked and then released. Aaron gained ground first, driving his opponent to the wall. Then Marteinn landed such a powerful blow it numbed his arm. Aaron shook his head. Sweat ran down his face. The captain forced him backward a few feet, hacking wildly. Aaron recovered, jabbing his opponent’s gut, feeling resistance. Although the tip of his sword left a hole in his shirt, there was no blood. Aaron gnashed his teeth. Cheat. The bastard had to be wearing a metal plate. Erik the Bald had no intention of making this a fair match.

Unwilling to end the fight, Aaron propelled forward, pinning Marteinn against the wall. He shoved his knee between the captain’s legs, grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and dropped his blade. “Evenly matched?” He punched Marteinn in the stomach, his knuckles meeting metal. “Well, milord?” he called over his shoulder. “You’ve placed me in a precarious position. Shall I tell you how we deal with dishonest men in the field?” He’d not be played a second time.

“My captain doesn’t question my orders,” Erik said. “Direct your hostilities at me.”

Aaron considered his words while staring into Marteinn’s dark eyes. No fear showed on his face. “Get out of my sight,” Aaron spit, releasing him.

Marteinn straightened his tunic, then sheathed his weapon. “I apologize—”

“It means nothing.” Aaron turned his back on him and glared at Erik. “The game is over.”

“Make no mistake.” The jarl stood. “Anything I choose has nothing to do with you, Jarl McNally. You were little more than a worm inside your mother’s womb when I commanded King Hardrada’s army. I know what it means to devote my life to this country—to Odin—to my brethren whose sons were lost—whose mothers still shed tears whenever they remember what they’ve sacrificed. I’ve professed my loyalty. You’ll get your conscripts.”

“At what cost?” Aaron asked as he circled the high table. He’d heldhis tongue on more than one occasion tonight. Given up his honor to placate an intolerant old fool. It wouldn’t happen again. He stood next to Gunter now. “Move your chair aside.”

Gunter gazed at his father, then back at Aaron. “No.”

Aaron growled and kicked Gunter’s chair. The frame splintered and he tumbled to the floor. Pulling a knife from his boot, he straddled the jarl’s errant son. He held the blade to Gunter’s neck. “First blood wins?”