nothing.”
“You cannot lie to me, Tove. Remember?”
She let out a breath and walked on to the platform, climbing into his lap. Leaning against his arm, she said, “Some boys from the village told me I shouldn’t be fighting. They said I should be learning how to sew from my … from my mother.”
Her father’s brows drew down. “Who are these boys?” he demanded.
“It doesn’t matter who they are,” she replied.
He stroked the side of his face with his finger and sighed. “Perhaps they are right, Tove.”
She stiffened in his arms. “What do you mean, Father?”
“I mean, you are going to have to stop playing around in the dust and dirt and learn the skills a woman should have. You could be married in a couple of years, bearing children of your own.”
“I don’t want to get married, Father. I want to fight.”
Her father picked her up and set her on her feet in front of him. “You know that cannot be.”
“Why not?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips defiantly.
“Because you are too precious to me. You are my only daughter and you could get seriously injured if you fight. Those boys will soon grow into men and they will be stronger than you in every way. I don’t want you to practice anymore. Leave swordplay for the boys.”
“That’s not fair,” she pouted.
Her father laughed gently. “Life is not fair.”
“Halvdan? There are still more people to be heard,” Ivor announced, walking back into the hall.
“Yes, of course,” he replied. To Tove he said, “Go and get cleaned up. You’re covered in dirt and you have straw in your hair.”
Tove walked toward the back of the hall, but stood in the shadows when her father’s conversation with his advisor caught her attention.
“I have just heard that some houses on the farthest fringes of the village have been attacked,” Ivor said, his voice grave.
“By who?” Halvdan demanded.
“Canute Borg and his men. They left one boy alive who was told to report to you.”
“With what message?” His voice was tight.
“That they are loyal to Vadik Dalgaard and only him.”
There was a crash as her father swept away the cup and plate of food from the arm of his chair. “This is the third attack this month,” he roared. “Who else will join Dalgaard in his quest to unseat me?”
Halvdan’s question surprised Tove. She didn’t know her father’s position as chieftain was a point of contention. Were there some people out there who wished to see him gone?
Shaken, Tove left the hall and went to the area where she slept. She was still so angry with the boys, but also angry with her father for not allowing her to fight. She was good with the sword. She was even better with a spear, but she would never be able to use either skill if her father denied her the opportunity to practice. Well, she wasn’t going to listen to him. If what she’d overheard was true, he would need every able-bodied fighter he could find, including her.
Without changing out of her dress, Tove snuck out and made her way to the beach. She walked on the shore, watching the fishing boats coming and going. She kicked at the loose stones, sending them skittering into the water.
“Did you go and cry to your father?” someone asked snidely.
Tove looked up and found Sefi glaring at her. Blood had dried under his nose and on his chin. Patches of red were splashed on the front of his tunic. She smiled. “Did you?”
The boy’s hands curled into tight fists at his sides. He seemed to be shaking with rage as he pulled on the handle of his wooden sword. He drew it and held it in front of him. Tove reached for hers too, matching his stance. Jarl and Roland, Sefi’s friends, ran up, drawing their swords too. Tove looked at them, then glanced behind her. She was too close to the water. Her boots were sinking into the sand already. As if the boys had heard her thoughts, they began closing in.
“We’re going to teach you a lesson, Tove,” Jarl said,
“You cannot lie to me, Tove. Remember?”
She let out a breath and walked on to the platform, climbing into his lap. Leaning against his arm, she said, “Some boys from the village told me I shouldn’t be fighting. They said I should be learning how to sew from my … from my mother.”
Her father’s brows drew down. “Who are these boys?” he demanded.
“It doesn’t matter who they are,” she replied.
He stroked the side of his face with his finger and sighed. “Perhaps they are right, Tove.”
She stiffened in his arms. “What do you mean, Father?”
“I mean, you are going to have to stop playing around in the dust and dirt and learn the skills a woman should have. You could be married in a couple of years, bearing children of your own.”
“I don’t want to get married, Father. I want to fight.”
Her father picked her up and set her on her feet in front of him. “You know that cannot be.”
“Why not?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips defiantly.
“Because you are too precious to me. You are my only daughter and you could get seriously injured if you fight. Those boys will soon grow into men and they will be stronger than you in every way. I don’t want you to practice anymore. Leave swordplay for the boys.”
“That’s not fair,” she pouted.
Her father laughed gently. “Life is not fair.”
“Halvdan? There are still more people to be heard,” Ivor announced, walking back into the hall.
“Yes, of course,” he replied. To Tove he said, “Go and get cleaned up. You’re covered in dirt and you have straw in your hair.”
Tove walked toward the back of the hall, but stood in the shadows when her father’s conversation with his advisor caught her attention.
“I have just heard that some houses on the farthest fringes of the village have been attacked,” Ivor said, his voice grave.
“By who?” Halvdan demanded.
“Canute Borg and his men. They left one boy alive who was told to report to you.”
“With what message?” His voice was tight.
“That they are loyal to Vadik Dalgaard and only him.”
There was a crash as her father swept away the cup and plate of food from the arm of his chair. “This is the third attack this month,” he roared. “Who else will join Dalgaard in his quest to unseat me?”
Halvdan’s question surprised Tove. She didn’t know her father’s position as chieftain was a point of contention. Were there some people out there who wished to see him gone?
Shaken, Tove left the hall and went to the area where she slept. She was still so angry with the boys, but also angry with her father for not allowing her to fight. She was good with the sword. She was even better with a spear, but she would never be able to use either skill if her father denied her the opportunity to practice. Well, she wasn’t going to listen to him. If what she’d overheard was true, he would need every able-bodied fighter he could find, including her.
Without changing out of her dress, Tove snuck out and made her way to the beach. She walked on the shore, watching the fishing boats coming and going. She kicked at the loose stones, sending them skittering into the water.
“Did you go and cry to your father?” someone asked snidely.
Tove looked up and found Sefi glaring at her. Blood had dried under his nose and on his chin. Patches of red were splashed on the front of his tunic. She smiled. “Did you?”
The boy’s hands curled into tight fists at his sides. He seemed to be shaking with rage as he pulled on the handle of his wooden sword. He drew it and held it in front of him. Tove reached for hers too, matching his stance. Jarl and Roland, Sefi’s friends, ran up, drawing their swords too. Tove looked at them, then glanced behind her. She was too close to the water. Her boots were sinking into the sand already. As if the boys had heard her thoughts, they began closing in.
“We’re going to teach you a lesson, Tove,” Jarl said,
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