Chapter 15: The Door at Lund Hold

Garrick drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on my knee.

It was not a gentle grip.

It was the hand of a man who needed to hold on to something while the road tried to throw him off the mountain.

Britta sat between us on the bench seat with her braid in her lap, staring through the windshield.

"How long since the first pain?" I asked.

"An hour and a half. She's eight months and two weeks."

"Is she bleeding?"

"She was this afternoon. A little. The hold healer said it was nothing."

"And your father?"

"He told them not to send for you."

I turned that over.

Eight months, bleeding, and a lord who would rather lose a grandson than call a human.

I put my hand over Garrick's on my knee, and his fingers shifted and laced with mine.

Lund Hold lay over the ridge in a hollow of black firs.

It was an old stone hall with a high wooden roof, a courtyard and an iron gate in a stone wall.

The gate was shut.

Behind it, lanterns burned in every window.

Rolf Lund stood in the middle of the gate on the inside, in his tweed coat, with two big men at his back.

He was not hurrying.

He was waiting, as a man waits who has laid a trap and wants to watch it close.

Garrick stopped the truck and got out.

I got out on the other side with my bag.

"Rolf," Garrick said.

"Your Majesty."

"I have come on the Hearth's call."

"The Hearth has not called. My son's wife has not asked for anyone, and she is under my roof."

"Open the gate."

"No."

"I'm asking."

"I'm refusing."

Garrick's hands closed.

I put a hand on his arm.

"The king may not enter a hold's door uninvited," I said quietly. "That's the law, isn't it? Hester told me."

"Yes."

"Then I'll ask."

I walked to the gate.

I stood close to the iron bars, with my bag in my hand and my breath smoking.

Rolf looked down at me.

His eyes went to my collar, where the flannel had slipped, and to the purple crescent of teeth just above it.

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