Love Thy Enemy

Prologue

Norway, Spring, A.D. 1239

ANGUISHED CRIES split the quiet evening. The yellow light of flaming torches sent eerie shadows fleeing across the frozen ground and the frightened faces of the people of Ringebu as they came running. With all his years as a battle-hardened warrior, Jarl Magnus thought nothing could surprise him anymore, yet nothing could have prepared him for the calamity he met in the yard of his ancestral home.
Magnus slowed, then stopped, his heart turning to stone as he caught sight of his son, Thor, in his second-in-command’s arms, the boy’s limbs dangling unnaturally as Aksel cradled him to his chest. The utter despair in Aksel’s eyes struck him to the very marrow of his bones. He gathered the slight body to him and fell to one knee. With feverish hands, he searched for signs of life.
“Thor, Thor!” he cried, gently shaking the boy. His eyes followed his hands and settled on Thor’s face, his mind unwilling to accept the pallor of his son’s skin and the blue of his lips for what it was.
A low moan escaped Magnus as he rocked his little son in his arms, his face buried in the soft wool around Thor’s angelic face. He caressed the cold cheek and touched the fine cape, now stiff with frozen blood, as Aksel hesitantly recounted the day’s events.
“We were coming home, the end of a good day,” Aksel croaked. His wife Ingeborg came to him and grasped his hand, her face as stricken and tear-stained as the others’. He cleared his throat. “We were making good time when a rider suddenly appeared from around a curve--coming fast and out of control--headed right for us!
“Svarten veered, lost his footing; and we slid off the road. You know what it is like--steep and treacherous!” Aksel’s words pleaded for understanding. “The sled tipped. I reached to grab Thor--but too late!” The anguish in his voice could not be disguised. “When I came to, the sled lay on its side, the timbers we hauled scattered everywhere. There, beneath the rubble, lay Thor. He was...he was crushed beneath the weight of the timbers, dead!
“There were no signs of the rider. The wretched cur ran away!”
Magnus’s blood pounded in his ears and Aksel’s voice turned to a dull drone, but with Herculean effort, he forced his hurt into the darkest recesses of his heart and concentrated instead on Aksel’s words. A cloak of cold rage settled over him and he welcomed the grip of blood-lust that clutched his heart. Anything was better than the crippling pain of the loss of his son.
“Who, Aksel?” Magnus forced his voice to remain steady. “Do you know the bastard who killed my son?”
“’Twas Oddvar Amundsson, of Loren farm.”

CRIES OF DISMAY and the clash of steel woke Tora Oddvarsdatter in the hearth house at Loren farm. She leaped from her bed but had no time to do more than pull a shift over her nakedness before the door crashed open. She pulled her belt tight around her waist with the ease of long experience and attached the heavy ring of keys that were hers to protect.
A large man stooped low to enter, his form silhouetted in the early morning light. Tora could not see his face, but a shiver ran through her as though a cold draft had blown down the neck of her shift.
She kept her eyes glued to the intruder as Anna, her foster sister, clutched her arm and shrank behind her. Tora straightened her back and closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating on calming her pounding heart. This was her home. She would not be afraid.
Tora’s father, Oddvar, stumbled from his sleeping bench at the crash of the door and crouched between the young women and the image in the doorway, dagger in hand. Alarm gripped Tora as she heard Oddvar’s sharp intake of breath and saw his eyes widen in recognition of the ominous figure in the doorway.
The shadow stepped aside. He gestured with his left hand and armed men immediately filled the windowless dwelling. Tora and Anna backed away and plunked down hard on a bench as they stumbled up against it.
The hulking shape advanced further into the room, and the light through the open door, plus the weak light shining through the smoke hole in the roof, allowed Tora to see him. He held himself erect, as if he commanded the whole world. His face was as chiseled stone, his mouth drawn down in cruel lines. Dark hair hung wild about his broad shoulders and blue eyes flashed hard and cold, latching onto her father.
“You, Amundsson, are a dead man,” he menaced.
Tora gasped at his words and her hand dropped instinctively to her key ring, as a man’s hand would seek the hilt of his sword. The icy gaze fastened on her. She stared boldly back at him, refusing to be daunted despite the pounding of her heart.
She had seen that arrogant look before, she realized. He was Lord Ringebu, the Highland Jarl Magnus, lord of all the territory around them, including their own Loren farm. But what was such a powerful man doing here, his men armed, threatening her father?
The jarl advanced upon Oddvar, who retreated until his back struck the wall. Oddvar glanced at the sword that hung beside him, as if calculating the time it would take to grab it and bring it around to defend himself. The dagger he held was no use against the sword pointing at his breast.
The jarl bared his teeth. “By all means, reach for your weapon so that I might cut your heart out here and now.”
Oddvar froze. Tora stared at him. Why didn’t he defend himself? What was going on?
“You, Amundsson, are a coward and a murderer. You have dishonored your family and have forfeited your right to live,” the jarl said, his voice full of contempt.
Oddvar remained quiet, not responding to the jarl’s barbs. Do something, Father, Tora silently implored him. He looked too shocked to move. Tora could stand it no longer. She leapt to her feet, her face burning with indignation.
“What do you mean by forcing your way in here and insulting my father in this manner? Is this how a man of honor challenges another?” she demanded, gesturing at the jarl’s men.
In her anger, she forgot just whom she faced and advanced nose to chest with the towering brute before her. Anna called out in warning, but too late.
The jarl grabbed Tora’s arm and twisted it behind her back, forcing her to turn and face her father at the same time. He jerked her against him and held his sword to her throat. His body heat blasted through her shift and she could smell the pungent maleness of him. When she tried to arch away, he pulled her tight against him.
“Your father has no honor,” the jarl said.
Tora hissed at his cold, bitter words. And the stabbing pain in her arm! She stood on her tiptoes to lessen the terrible aching then winced as the sharp blade bit into her soft skin. She blinked hard as tears filled her eyes and bit her lip to keep from crying out.
“This is your daughter?” asked the jarl.
Oddvar nodded once, his face chalk white.
“What say you, Amundsson, the life of your child for the life of mine?”
Oddvar’s Adam’s apple bobbed. From the stricken look on her father’s face, Tora believed that the jarl might seriously mean to hurt her.
“Such a shame that this girl-child should have more fire and boldness than her father,” the jarl sneered. “You have not told her of your wickedness, hmm? Then I shall take great pleasure in doing so.”
The sound of angry, insistent voices outside drew the jarl’s attention. He jerked his head and one of his men slipped out the door. The man reappeared a moment later.
“A priest, my lord.” The man’s graying head ducked back out and was replaced by the cowled figure of the visiting priest, Sira Odde.
“What is going on here?” the priest boomed, looking rumpled and annoyed.
No one spoke.
“Who breaks God’s peace?” he demanded, this time addressing the jarl.
“Go away, priest. This is no place for a holy man.”
“On the contrary, it looks as if this is exactly where I am needed.” Sira Odde’s sharp eyes assessed the situation. “I wonder at a great lord’s sword at the throat of a maid. ‘Tis not worthy of your lordship to carry on so.”
“Watch your tongue, priest, lest my sword find your throat to its liking.”
By his clipped words, Tora imagined the jarl clenched his jaw. The harder his voice became, the tighter his grip on her became. She could feel his rapid breaths and the heavy beating of his heart against her back. Her every instinct screamed danger, but she stood helpless. She kept very still, hardly daring to breathe, unwilling to provoke the seething man who held her.
Suddenly, the sword disappeared from her throat and she was shoved across the room toward Anna. Anna caught her and hugged her hard.
She clutched her sore arm as Magnus told of the death of his son in a low monotone, his voice becoming ragged at times. At the point where his man had found Thor’s lifeless body, he could not continue, his agony etched in haggard lines upon his face.
Tora’s heart broke in sorrow for both the boy and his father, despite the accusations he made toward her father. The jarl motioned his man to continue and then stood as still as stone, his face now devoid of all emotion.
Tora waited for her father to deny his involvement in this tragedy. He stood with bowed head, though, his face ashen. Not one protest came from his lips during the whole, horrible tale.
“The man deserves to die,” the man finished, his own face pale. He wiped pearls of sweat from his brow.
“The man deserves punishment,” countered the priest, “and you, Jarl, deserve justice. But I would remind you that your soul is in peril if you murder this man.”
The jarl snorted.
“If you care not for your soul, then remember your pledge and determination to bring justice to every free man in Norway. Think of your struggle alongside King Haakon to establish laws that will rule throughout this country and help to bring it stability and peace.
“If you kill this man, then you are no better than your enemies and present yourself to Norway as a liar and a fraud. You would take the law into your own hands, as men in this land have done for centuries. Do this and the progress you and others have made will have been for naught. Present your case to the Ting.”
Tora held her breath as the jarl shifted his gaze from her father to fix it upon the priest. Finally, he lowered his sword and sheathed it. Apparently the jarl found truth to the priest’s words.
Oddvar slumped down onto the bench and placed his head in his hands, his dagger forgotten at his side. Tora went to him then and placed her trembling hands upon his shoulders.
Her mind reeled. Could the jarl have spoken the truth? She looked up to find his eyes filled with loathing for the two of them. He believed it to be the truth. This time, she dropped her gaze from his. She could not meet the accusation she saw there, or the fury.
“I will spare your worthless life today, cur, but you may not be so lucky at the Ting,” the jarl ground out. “Aksel! Take him to Ringebu and lock him up.”