But it also needs people who will actually get things done.
She stood, and smoothed her skirts, and checked her face one more time in the distorting square of old mirror. Then she slipped out of the door and, so as not to wake her husband, ever so gently pulled it shut.
The one called Greenway was skulking in the corridor outside. It seemed when it came to Northmen, the more picturesque the name, the more of a self-regarding thug it belonged to.
He gave her a leering look up and down. “Can’t give you long.”
Gold flashed in the shaft of light from the narrow window and she pressed the coin into his palm. “Best not waste our time, then.”
She heard the blades before she saw them. That familiar scrape of steel, shuffle of feet, grunting of snatched breath.
She stepped out into a narrow yard beside Skarling’s Hall, a circle of patchy lawn hemmed in by grey stone walls, a training dummy in old mail and battered helm leaning against a rack of swords and spears.
Two men prowled the edge of the grass with shields and long sticks, bulky with straw matting. Stour stood between them, sword in hand, stripped to the waist, lean and muscular and shining with sweat, steaming faintly in the dawn chill. Savine wondered if this display of raw manliness was for her benefit. More than likely. Who understood the importance of appearances better than she did, after all?
The so-called Great Wolf sprang hissing at one of his training partners, so suddenly and so savagely Savine put a protective hand over her belly on an instinct. She had to force herself not to jerk back as Stour chopped at the shield and sent splinters flying, ducked the stick and darted under it, shoving the man against the wall with his shoulder and making him grunt. Stour caught the rim of the shield, kneed the man in the gut, then dealt his leg a vicious blow with the flat of his sword and dropped him mewling on the ground.
All done in a couple of breaths’ worth of focused violence, so that as his other training partner lumbered up, the King of the Northmen was already prancing away on the balls of his feet. Through sweat-dark hair, his eyes slid over to Savine.
“Like what you see?” He spoke the common tongue after all. But she had guessed that at the feast, from the way he had listened to her and Leo talking.
“Who wouldn’t?” She made herself step forward, around the fallen man, groaning as he clutched at his straw-padded leg. “The Great Wolf! Grandson of Bethod and rightful King of the Northmen! The greatest warrior in the Circle of the World, they say, and I can well believe it.”
“You’re almost as quick with a compliment as I am with a sword.” Stour loosed a flurry of lightning jabs at the man still standing, point gouging at his shield fast as a woodpecker and making him shuffle nervously back.
“No more than the truth.” It was a while since she’d stepped into a fencing circle herself, but she knew enough about swordsmanship to see his skill. He was even better than Leo. But even more vain, too. She wondered whether that preening arrogance would make an effective shield if Bremer dan Gorst came for him meaning business. It was something she would rather like to see.
“Can’t say I don’t enjoy your flattery,” he said, grinning, “but if you want my warriors, you’ll need to offer me more.”
“Of course. I will need a gift fit for a king. I was thinking, maybe… Uffrith?”
Stour froze, sword back for another jab. “Eh?”
“A city by the sea. One of the North’s greatest, I am told, though in truth it seemed a little… primitive to me.”
“Well,” he whispered, narrowing those horrible wet eyes at her. “We’re known more for our swords than our cities up here.” He dodged a swing of the stick without even looking, caught it with his free hand, slipped around the shield and clubbed the straw-strapped warrior in the face with the pommel of his sword.
The man gave a sharp cry as he fell to his knees with his hands to his bloody mouth. Stour gave a sneer of disgust as he planted his boot on the man’s chest and shoved him onto his back. “Didn’t realise Uffrith was yours to give.”
“It is mine to let you take.” Savine walked closer, shrugging as if they talked of the weather. “What’s a Protectorate without anyone protecting it, after all?”
“Available.” And Stour nudged his fallen sparring partner towards the archway with a lazy kick. “You got some bones, woman, stepping into the wolf’s jaws this way. Got to admire that. But I do worry.” He rolled the man over with another kick and made him squeal. “I worry you might be one o’ those folk likes to promise everything to everyone and somehow thinks she’ll never be called on to pay.”
He stepped closer, raising his sword, point towards her, and it took all her courage to stand her ground. She could tell from the murderous glint on its edge that this was no practice blade. “I worry you can’t be trusted.” And he brushed her neck gently with the point.
They called him the Great Wolf and Savine did not doubt he was well named. She could hear his growling breath. Smell his sour sweat. A wild dog indeed. And you cannot show a dog your fear. Her skin crawled, her heart thudded, but she forced herself to stand still, forced herself to meet his eye as the cold point tickled at her throat, then along her shoulder, caught something just inside her collar and eased it out.
“After all…” Dangling from the end of his sword was the necklace of runes Rikke had given her. “Aren’t you and your husband best of friends with that fucking witch?”
It was an apt word for Rikke these days. Savine had almost flinched at the sight of the tattoos inked into her bony face, one of the pale eyes she had once so admired seeing nothing, the other far too much. She thought of Rikke’s hand resting on her stomach. Her delighted laugh as the baby shifted. The truest person he knew, Leo had said, and Savine felt a pang of guilt. A rare thing for her. Rarer than ever, since Valbeck. But she had chosen her path, and it led to the throne, whoever she had to step over on the way. Conscience would have been even worse to show than fear.
“Trust is a poor foundation for an alliance. Almost as poor as friendship.” Savine stared at Stour down the blade of his sword. “Both can shake loose in a storm, and there is a storm coming. Self-interest, on the other hand, has deeper roots. We need you. And you need us. Today, and tomorrow. Rikke is useful to us today. But afterwards…?”
She stepped forwards. Stepped forward so suddenly she gave Stour no choice but to stab her through the throat or pull his sword away. Close as they were he had no room, caught his arm against his body, twisted his wrist clumsily and had to let his sword drop, clattering down between the two of them.
“Afterwards, you will be lord from the Whiteflow to the Crinna and beyond. A true King of the Northmen.” She sank down, and took his sword gently by the blade, and offered the hilt to him as she stood. “All of them. Something I understand your father could never quite manage.”
“Well, in that case…” He wrapped his fingers around the grip, his eyes flicking about all over her face and his teeth bared in a hungry grin. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Of course.” She smiled as she stepped away. As if she never had any fear, or any conscience, or any doubts at all. If you think it often enough, perhaps it makes it so. “I never offer deals until I know they will be taken.”