“Looks a little small to be one of your battle dogs. So what use does he have?”
“Who else would eat up all the scraps off the floor?”
“Dagmar.”
“All right, all right. Fine. I have a conscience. There. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.” He crouched in front of her and wiped her face with the sleeve of his linen shirt. “Annwyl’s going to like you. She doesn’t like to think she has a conscience either.”
“I’m not going with you, but I will give you the information you need and I have maps that should help.”
“Good. You’ll bring them with you when we leave for the Southlands in the morning.”
He had to know this was dangerous. Ragnar wanted her in the south for a reason, but neither of them knew why. “Don’t be foolish, Gwenvael.”
“I’m not.” He grabbed the wine and settled on the ground, his back against the trunk. He took her hand and tugged her to his side. The thought of sitting on the ground did nothing for her, but it seemed an evening for such things.
Taking a sip, he handed her the bottle. “Before we do anything, though, I need answers to important questions. Honest, direct answers.”
“All right.”
“What’s coming for Annwyl?”
“Minotaurs.”
He sighed. “I asked for honest, direct answers.”
“And that’s what you got.”
“Minotaurs? Standing cows are coming for Annwyl? You want me to believe that?”
“Standing cows that are trained from birth to kill in the name of whatever gods their elders worship.”
“Did Ragnar tell you about the Minotaurs?”
“He did. But I heard it from others. I believe it’s true.”
“Fine. Then I’ll believe it’s true as well.” Gwenvael took another drink of wine. “I have to say the day is getting stranger.”
“And your second question?”
“How did you get the name Beast?”
Dagmar rubbed her forehead, the pain of her past returning violently. “And that’s important to know why?”
“Tell me.”
Dagmar held her hand out. “More wine.”
“When I was thirteen,” she began, suddenly looking much younger than her thirty winters, “one of my father’s nephews came to visit. He was much older than I, but we’d never gotten along. Apparently I was a ‘know-it-all bitch who should be tossed into a convent’ while he ‘should have been strangled at birth and thrown off a mountainside as our ancestors used to do.’ Needless to say, when he came to visit this time, we kept our distance. Yet he was never a smart boy and rumors quickly spread that he’d been making fun of me to his men. Telling them I was ‘growing into a right beast.’ I ignored it, even though my father and brothers had also heard the same rumors. But I didn’t say a word or complain. Just didn’t see the point.
“One night, a day or so before he was supposed to return to his father’s lands, I left the kennels and was about to enter the fortress. I heard one of the servant girls and went around the corner to make sure everything was all right. I didn’t like what I saw and she seemed to be even unhappier, so I grabbed my cousin and pulled him away. Angry and drunk, he grabbed my throat and punched me in the face, breaking my spectacles.”
“Bastard.”
She chuckled, but kept with her story. “As usual, however, I was not alone. I had Canute’s great-grandfather with me. As he’d been trained to do, he took my cousin to the ground by the throat and held him there, waiting for my next command.” She stopped, took another gulp of wine. “My cousin was begging me to call him off, and by this point my father and three eldest brothers were standing behind me after they’d been fetched by the servants. I looked at my father and said, ‘I shouldn’t.’ He replied, ‘But as a Northlander, we all know you will.’ I knew what was expected, so I did it.” She swallowed. “I gave the command and my dog … finished him. The next day my father sent the remains back to my uncle with a note that read, ‘A little gift from The Beast.’ ”
“And that uncle was Jökull?”
She nodded. “And that was Jökull’s favorite son. Not long after was the siege that killed my brother’s wife.”
“You blame yourself.”
“Sometimes. I can’t help but wonder where we’d be if I’d only given a different command.”
“Too late for those thoughts. They don’t help. Besides, I don’t worry about what I should have done. I only worry about what I’m going to do now.”
“Yes. That sounds about right for you.”
He got to his feet. “Come on. We need to get ready.”
“You still plan to bring me to the Southlands?” She held out her hand and he grabbed it, easily hauling her to her feet. “Seems foolish to me.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.” But he didn’t think so. Nothing had ever felt more right before in Gwenvael’s life than taking Dagmar Reinholdt to Dark Plains with him.
“I’ll need to send my father another letter before we go.” She wiped the dirt from the back of her skirt with both hands and gave that wicked little grin he’d learned to enjoy. “And I think I could use your help with wording.”
Sigmar shoveled food into his mouth and completely ignored his daughter-in-law. Ever since Dagmar had gone off with the dragon, his oldest boy’s wife had been more and more impossible.
It wasn’t news that she hated his daughter, but she needed to face the fact that she didn’t stand a chance against The Beast. Few did.
“All I’m suggesting is that a marriage between her and Lord Tryggvi would do you very well.”
“Is that right?” Sigmar asked, putting down his spoon. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s the ruler of Spikenhammer and is an excellent warrior.”
“True enough. What else?”
“What else? Well, I know his mother is—”
“His mother? What do I care about his mother? I mean what about him? Which gods does he worship?”
“I don’t know. Who cares?”
“You should. What if he worships them gods that demand sacrifices? Human sacrifices,” he said before she could mention oxen or deer. “How does he handle crime in his city? What kind of executions does he run? Does he believe in torture? If so, what kind?”
Her mouth opened and closed several times, but she had no answers.
“That’s the difference between you two.” He looked at his sons, each of them eating heartily before they headed off for training. “Isn’t that right?”
They grunted agreements around their food.
“You don’t know those answers, girl, but she would. She sure as f**k wouldn’t come to me with some half-thought-out idea. She’d have already asked the questions and found the answers.” He slammed his finger into his temple several times. “ ’Cause she thinks that one does. Which is more than I can say about you.”
She looked at Sigmar’s oldest. “You going to let him talk to me that way?”
“Only if he’s right. And he’s right.”
“My lord.” One of the servants rushed in. He was the one Dagmar worked closest with, and he now handled many of her duties now that she was gone. He was smarter than most but feared Sigmar enough not to push anything. “Another missive from Lady Dagmar. It seems to be nearly three days old.”
“Read it,” Sigmar ordered him.
Opening the sealed parchment quickly he began, “ ‘Dearest Father. I hope this letter finds you well. I know I promised to be at Gestur’s by now, but there’s been another change of plan.’ ”
Sigmar sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Bloody ’ell.”
“A-ha!” His daughter-in-law said, but when they all stared at her, she simmered down.
“Go on,” Sigmar prompted.
“ ‘I am heading into the Southlands to meet with Queen Annwyl personally. I hope to get you at least one more legion. Perhaps two.’ ”
“Damn that girl.”
“Should we go after her?” his oldest asked, motioning to one of the serving girls for more food.
“A few weeks ago I would have said yes. But that monk, Ragnar, stopped by here two days ago and told me Jökull’s on the move. I’d feel better if I knew she was someplace else. Even with that”—he sneered—“weeper.”
“As would I,” his son agreed. “And hopefully she can work her way around the Mad Bitch of Garbhán Isle.”
“So you’re going to let her get away with disobeying you?” his daughter-in-law nearly screamed.
“Quiet!” He motioned to the servant holding the letter. “Finish it.”
“ ‘I know this is not what you wanted to hear from me, but I need you to trust that I’ll do what is best for our people.’ ” That Sigmar already knew. Of that he had no doubt and never would. “ ‘Please be safe and think before you act.’ ”
Sigmar and his sons laughed at that one as the servant continued to read.
“ ‘And Kikka has been having it off with the stablemaster. The Weeper and I watched her get used like a whore for nearly two hours. I am sorry I had to tell you this way, but I thought it was best you know. Yours … Dagmar.’ ”
The entire room had fallen silent, and everyone, even the servants, now gawked at his daughter-in-law.
“She’s lying!” she cried desperately.
But no one had any doubts to the truth of what Dagmar had written, and Sigmar knew both his daughter and daughter-in-law well enough to know that if he searched for proof, he’d find more than enough of it.
Such a foolish girl, Sigmar thought as he stood and picked up his favored battle ax. He’d leave his eldest to deal with that wife of his while he dealt with the stablemaster.
As he walked out into the courtyard, eleven of his sons behind him, he did have to chuckle and wonder, did that stupid girl really think she could take on The Beast—and win?
Chapter 17
“Dagmar!”
Dagmar instantly sat up, her eyes snapping open, and she yelled, “I am not lying!”
The big dragon beneath her sighed. “Wake up, ya dozy cow. We’re almost home.”
She yawned and stretched, rubbing her hands across her face before digging into her satchel for her spectacles. She’d stopped wearing them an hour into their return flight. Too many times the dragon had dipped or spun to the side in mid-flight, and Dagmar had realized that if she was holding onto the dragon’s mane within an inch of her life, she couldn’t be expected to make a wild grab for her spectacles as well.
Putting them on, making sure they fit properly behind her ears, she glanced around. “It’s beautiful,” she finally said. All lush greenery and thick-leafed trees.
“Yes. Nearly as beautiful as I am.”
With her hands tangled in his mane, Dagmar leaned over a bit and looked toward one of the many lakes covering the land. “What’s going on there?”