“Ye ken Olaf’s goin’ tae sulk fer a week.” Freyr said, crossing his arms.
“Let him.”
“And the elders will talk.”
“Good. Let them talk about a jarl who defends his wife.” Ragnar reached for the coastal charts.
The maid set the tray on the small table near the hearth with a quiet clatter, but Isolda stopped her before she could leave.
“Wait. Is the venison from today’s roast?”
“Aye, milady. Cut fresh nae an hour ago.”
Isolda lifted the cloth and inspected the food—roasted venison carved thick, a loaf of bread, a dish of honeyed butter, and two cups beside a flagon of mead. She touched the bread. Still warm.
“And the crust—is it the crispier batch from the lower oven?”
The maid blinked. “I... believe so, me lady. Cook said ye asked fer it specifically.”
“I did.” Isolda rearranged the tray, moving the bread closer to his side. A small thing. A ridiculous thing, probably. But she’d watched him, always saving the crispest crust for last, always buttering it with that slow, deliberate focus he brought to everything.
Arrangin’ food fer a Viking warlord like some lovesick tavern wife. What’s become of me?
“Will there be anythin’ else, me lady?”
“Nay. Thank ye, Astrid.”
The maid bobbed and disappeared.
Isolda changed out of her day gown into a simpler shift. Her bandaged hands made the laces difficult, and she cursed under her breath twice before managing.
The fire had almost burned to embers by the time the door opened.
Ragnar filled the frame the way he always did—tall, broad, sucking all the air from a room simply by existing in it. But his dark blond hair, which had grown longer since the wedding, was disheveled, his tunic creased, and the lines around his eyes spoke of a weariness that went deeper than missing sleep.
He stepped forward when he saw the table.
“Ye arranged supper.” His voice came rough.
“Dinnae make it intae somethin’ grand.”
“Ye didnae have tae?—”
“Justsit downand eat, Ragnar.”
He crossed the room, unbuckling his sword belt and hanging it on the hook by the door before lowering himself into the chair across from her. For a moment, they simply sat. The fire popped softly between them, and the wind moaned against the shutters.
Ragnar reached for the bread, turned it over, and ran his thumb across the crust. “Ye noticed.”
“I notice a lot of things. Dinnae let it go tae yer head.” She cut a piece of venison and set it on his plate, avoiding his eyes. “When did ye last eat?”
“This mornin’. I think.”
“Yethink?”
“There was bread. Possibly cheese. Freyr may have thrown an apple at me at some point.”
She pushed the honeyed butter toward him. “Eat. All of it. I’ll nae have ye faintin’ on me.”