Nena by Ann Boelter (red white royal blue txt) 📗

obedience on the matter. He was his third in command, behind Tryggr, but now, with Tryggr’s injury, he would be acting second. Jarl had originally dismissed Altene’s idea of returning Nena to her leather dress when his view with this new one was so much better, but he had not considered the daily traffic in his tent. Seeing Gunnar also appreciating the display made the idea of her being covered suddenly much more appealing.

“You’ve taken account of the men’s injuries?” Jarl asked.

“Aye,” Gunnar frowned. “The healer has been far busier than expected and requests at least several days before we move camp.”

“I feared it would be so,” Jarl said and nodded. “Send out the scouts at first light to verify again this position is safe. Make sure they are aware of how costly the inaccuracy of their last report has proven to be. I would not have that mistake repeated.” Jarl’s words were laced with underlying threat.

Gunnar nodded.

“Assuming they find nothing new, inform the men that we’ll remain here for a week. That should be enough time for the injured to heal and to replenish our stores. These lands are rich. There is plenty of feed for the horses and the game is bountiful. We’ve pushed hard and made good time; all could use the rest. It serves no purpose to rush an attack on the next village short-handed. It would only jeopardize the healthy. Once the wounded are healed enough to travel, we’ll move north to the next target.”

Gunnar raised his eyebrows. “A whole week? The men will very much appreciate their leader’s warm consideration for their comfort. And I’m sure it has nothing to do with your wanting extra time to explore your new toy.” Gunnar grinned, then drained his mug and set it down on the table with a thud. “Though a word of advice.” His grin widened as he nodded toward Nena. “With such a beauty occupying your time, you may well need another battle, sooner than later, to get any rest yourself.” Gunnar stood and started toward the tent flap.

Jarl shook his head and smiled. “Get the hell out of here before I change my mind and let the men know it was your fault.”

“As you command,” Gunnar said with a mock bow and a rakish smile.

Nena could still hear the blond man laughing after the tent flap closed behind him. These Northmen had strange ways. Their behavior bordered on disrespectful—as if they served by choice and not decree. The lower soldiers and guards seemed to respond properly to their leader, but those of higher rank were given much more leeway. It would never be so with the Dor. She couldn’t imagine a warrior speaking to her father as this Gunnar had just done Jarl. Not even her elder brother, Lothor, would be permitted such transgression.

The next rattle of the thin boards requesting permission to enter was one of his guards bringing food. Nena’s mouth watered as the smell of roasted pheasant filled the tent. Though her throat was raw and parched from the smoke and the battle, for a moment her hunger overpowered her thirst. After Jarl’s maps were removed from the table and the large tray of food placed there, the guard exited.

Jarl came to stand in front of her. “I know you’re hungry and probably more than a little thirsty, so can you behave long enough to eat if I release you?” he asked.

Nena only stared at him. Though she longed for nothing more than to say yes, a warrior did not beg their captors.

Jarl contemplated her a moment longer, cocked his head then grunted, “I didn’t think so. I’ll eat first, then deal with you.” He returned to the table and took a seat facing her.

Nena watched him pull tender strips of meat from a drumstick with his teeth, then suck the ends of the greasy bone before laying it on the side of his plate. Her stomach growled painfully. He washed each bite down with a large swallow of wine, clearly savoring every mouthful. His eyes met hers as he reached for another piece. “You could be eating now, too,” he said. “If I could trust you.”

Nena did not respond. The savory smells swirling around inside the tent had fanned her hunger to a raging flame, and she was sure he was intentionally eating as slowly as possible to torture her. It seemed an eternity before he had eaten his fill. After multiple portions of meat, he ate several small fried cakes, chewing each one slowly and deliberately. The cakes were foreign to her but appeared to be made from some type of ground grain. Finally, he pushed his plate aside.

She watched with great interest as he cut off both sides of the pheasant breast and laid the chunks on a second plate. She doubted it was by accident that he gave her no piece with a bone she might use as a weapon. Just as Altene had refused to give her a clasp with the new dress and made her tie it in a knot behind her neck instead. After adding two of the fried cakes to the plate, Jarl picked it up, grabbed a nearby waterskin, and came to stand before her again.

“It’s been a long day, and I’m not up for another fight right now. You can eat here tonight. We’ll try out your table manners tomorrow.”

He set the plate and water bag on the floor, just within her reach, then stepped back as if she were some wild animal that needed coaxing. It wasn’t necessary. With her hands still bound together, she grabbed the waterskin and gulped down long deep swallows of the lukewarm fluid until it was almost empty. Then without acknowledging him, she picked up a whole breast and tore off half of it with her teeth. She chewed it quickly, swallowed, then stuffed the other half into her mouth and did the same. It was followed immediately by the first grain cake, then