The Temperate Warrior

by Renee Vincent

  She’d never felt these emotions before. Most times, as she’d lain listening to the irksome snores of her ruthless fornicators who found a deep sleep following their release, she dared to slit their throats with their own daggers. She’d never had the fortitude to stoop to such a level for she was not the kind of woman to bring despair to their families. She had known what it was like to be without one, to be a young impressionable girl and have her father taken from her by the cold edge of a blade. Many of the men who’d commissioned her to her knees had been fathers and husbands. If she’d relented to taking their lives, she’d be no better than the brutal beasts who had slain her own loved ones.

  Since Gustaf came into her life, she’d felt more foreign emotions than she cared to admit. Passion, joy, and a longing that swelled beyond comprehension. Every fiber of her being yearned for his touch, his voice, his embrace. It was the only thing that kept her alive these few weeks.

  In her past, she’d come close to starving to death many times. Going weeks without food had been nothing compared to waiting for Gustaf. In her times of need, she had prayed to both Thor and the All-father, Odin, to aid in his return, hoping that one morning she’d discover his langskip coming ashore on the distant banks of the Faroes.

  From her viewpoint, atop the lush green hill that sat below the mountain of Knúkur, she could see the grassy rooftops of the many houses below. Like her, the inhabitants of the isle had escaped the torments of Harold ‘the Fairhair’ and lived here in relative peace. No one bothered her as she dwelled in solitude, lest they face the wrath of Gustaf Ræliksen. She had come to learn that his reputation as a deadly swordsman was known far and wide, and any man would be a fool to try his hand at besting Gustaf’s skills.

  The only man who dared to venture up the hillock was a rickety old warrior by the name of Diðrik. She had been reassured by Gustaf that he was a trustworthy friend for many years and he would check on her weekly. Though Diðrik bore the likeness of a shady character with his warily shifting eyes and scrubby bearded face, she had come to enjoy his visits. Along with the pleasant conversation about his late wife and their two adventure-seeking sons, he often brought fresh cow’s milk and skerpikjøt. Though the chewy meat was unlike anything she’d ever eaten, it was certainly a treat for her empty belly.

  As Æsa gathered her cloak tighter beneath her chin, she picked up a wooden pail near the entrance of the meager longhouse to gather water from a nearby stream. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a group of men hiking up the hill. Knowing Diðrik was not due for another couple of days, she watched them. They had bypassed the cluster of homes below, without being hindered or questioned from those around the harbor, and seemed to be heading straight up the steep incline. Their steps resembled the trepidation of raiding Northmen set on plunder.

  Her heart sank and the bucket in her grasp dropped to the ground. Stark, cold fear pierced through her body like shards of ice. She had witnessed the carnage left behind from these kinds of raids a thousand times over, and if not for her silver-tongued bargaining and persuasive feminine attributes, she wouldn’t have been able to survive. It was because of this cruelty that her days as a whore had begun, and now that she’d finally been freed from that lowly submissive life, she wasn’t about to go back. She’d die before she’d let another man force himself upon her.

  Æsa turned on her heels and darted back inside, her only thoughts were of Gustaf and making sure not one man made it atop the hill alive.

  Chapter Three

  Gustaf cocked his head, confused by the sound of the distant slamming door. He’d thought that upon seeing Æsa, she would have run like mad toward him. Instead, she turned her back. He stopped in his tracks and his men did the same. He felt the weight of their stares almost as much as he bore the disappointment of Æsa’s reaction to his return.

  “My lord?” Jørgen murmured.

  Gustaf gazed at his friend for a moment and then back toward the house on the hill, uncertain of her intentions. “Perhaps she wishes not to see me. Was I foolish to believe the promise of a woman?”

  “In my experience, the solidity of a woman’s oath is often stronger than that of a man’s.” Jørgen followed the direction of his chieftain’s eyes. “Forgive me for prying, but did you leave her in a state of anger?”

  Gustaf shook his head. “On the contrary. We had parted with a kiss. She vowed she’d wait for me.” Gustaf recalled the softness of Æsa’s touch upon his face and the sincerity of her words. He knew she had plenty of practice at wooing men, but he assumed she’d not crouch to that level with him. Mayhap he’d been a fool, like all the rest.

  “Then I am certain she waits for you,” Jørgen tried to reason. “Albeit… behind the wood of the door.”

  Gustaf gave him a sideways glance, unimpressed with his friend’s sardonic analysis. He swallowed the hard lump of humiliation and tried to exhaust the heat of his embarrassment through a forceful sigh. “Those of you who’ve taken a wife, step forward.”

  Out of the seven, only three took the harrowing stride forward. One by one, Gustaf looked at each man in desperation. “In the realm of weaponry and warfare, I am a practiced man. I can outwit any opponent who dares to confront me. This you all know well. But, for the love of Odin, will someone please school me in the mind-boggling schemes of the female kind.”

  Before any of the men could voice their knowledge, an unexpected arrow sunk into the ground at Gustaf’s feet. Immediately, everyone dropped to their knees and hid behind the safety of their shields, including Gustaf.

  “With all due respect, my lord,” Snorri said in jest. “There be no mind-boggling schemes here, for without a doubt, your woman is trying to kill you.”

  Gustaf glared at him. “Is that so?”

  “Either that or she has lost the sight in her eyes and thinks you to be a red stag.”

  Gustaf glanced down at the thick gray wolf fur across his shoulders. She would have to be colorblind to mistake his wolf-skin cloak for a deer’s hide. In seeing the ridiculous smile on Snorri’s lips, he scolded himself for even listening to his friend.

  Hunkered down like an idiot, Gustaf whipped his head to the right, waiting to hear Jørgen’s best guess. To his surprise, his other friend possessed the same irreverent smile. “You find humor in this, Jørgen?”

  “My apologies, my lord. But aye, I do.”

  Gustaf sighed and peeked over the rim of his shield, catching a glimpse of Æsa taking aim. Ducking back down, he felt the arrow land its mark in the wood. Grimacing, he tucked himself tighter behind the shield. “Has she gone mad?”

  After an outburst of laughter, Jørgen cleared his throat, trying to gain a sense of seriousness. “Perhaps in your excitement to see her, you have neglected the obvious. My guess is she knows not who beckons her.”

  Gustaf furrowed his brow, none the wiser.

  Jørgen rolled his eyes and tapped his helmet upon his head. “You look like every other Northman who aims to take his spoils.”

  The obvious flooded Gustaf’s brain. How could he be so addlebrained? Before he’d left, he instructed her to do whatever necessary to stay alive. If anyone dared to venture past the harbor, save for Diðrik, he’d demanded she protect herself at all costs. He had even lent his dagger should she need it.

  He was pleased she took so heartily to protecting herself, but where had she acquired the bow and who’d taught her to use it?

  Another arrow whizzed passed, slicing between him and Jørgen. Though Gustaf knew he had to find a way to let Æsa know it was he, the last thing he wanted to do was remove the protective helmet concealing the top half of his face and head.

  “Give me an arrow,” he demanded.

  Jørgen’s eyes widened in shock. “My lord?”

  “Do it!”

  Obediently, Jørgen reached over his shoulder and removed an arrow from his quiver. Locking eyes with his chieftain, he tossed it to him.

  Gustaf dug into his sleeve and pulled out the embroidered piece of cloth
, tying it to the projectile just behind the pointed blade. He pitched it back to his friend and said, “Wait for my signal before firing it.”

  Jørgen’s mouth fell agape. “You wish me to kill her?”

  “Be not so dim of wit,” Gustaf scolded. “I wish you to shoot it in the wall beside her so she knows ‘tis I who have come for her. And you best not miss your mark or I shall have to kill you.”

  Jørgen smiled uneasily and readied himself with his bow. He kept his eyes on Gustaf, waiting for his command. As a fourth arrow careened passed, Gustaf gave the word and Jørgen stood up. With only seconds to spare, he pulled back his bow and let it fly before dropping to the ground and righting his shield in front of him.

  With baited breath, Gustaf waited.

  As the moments ticked by, he clenched his jaw. “Tell me you hit the longhouse and not her.”

  “Of course.”

  Impatience got the best of Gustaf. “What is she doing?”

  “How would I know, my lord,” Jørgen said in irritation. “As you can see from my crouched position, I favor my body devoid of arrows. Why do you not take a gander for yourself?”

  Gustaf growled and tentatively lifted his head above his shield. He could see that Æsa had plucked the arrow from the wood of the longhouse and was scrutinizing the cloth. She jerked her head in his direction, the wind blowing her hair from her face.

  In hesitance, he stood, letting his shield fall to his feet. He raised his hand above his head and waved. He thought he heard a squeal come from her as she brought both hands to her mouth.

  Gustaf glanced at Jørgen, who had begun to stand as well. “Is that a sound I should be wary of?”

  Jørgen laughed. “Not unless you fear the prospect of a woman rushing to leap into your arms,” he concluded, pointing.

  Gustaf looked back at Æsa who was now running down the hill, her smiling face beaming with joy and relief.

  ****

  Æsa could not believe her eyes as she fought to get to Gustaf. A million thoughts raced through her mind, each one swiftly on the heels of the next, matching the speed of her stumbling feet. While her heart leapt, she couldn’t believe she had rained down a multitude of arrows set on killing him. By the look on his face, Gustaf didn’t seem to mind that she had threatened his life. His arms were open and ready to enfold her the moment she’d meet his embrace.

  In less than five more strides, she had finally closed the distance between them and slammed into his chest, her arms wrapping like a vice around his neck. Gustaf hardly staggered from the brunt of the blow. His thick burly body halted the force of her momentum and his arms gathered her up in a wistful spin. Though he made not a sound, his utter joy could be felt in the compelling strength of his grasp and the endearing way he breathed in her scent. She relished in the grandeur of this moment, content to remain in this position forever.

  “You waited for me.”

  His muttered whisper singed the sensitive skin of her neck at the same time it goose-pimpled her flesh. As profound as those words were upon her senses, they weren’t audible enough for his men to hear. She tightened her arms around him and replied in the same covert manner. “Tell me you doubted me not, my temperate warrior.”

  Gustaf buried his head further into the crevice of her neck. “My heart would not let me, but…” he concluded as he set her to her feet, “after the first of many arrows were cast, I must admit you had me thinking twice.”

  Æsa hid her guilt beneath a downward glance. “Forgive me. I meant no harm to you and your—”

  Her chin lifted beneath the insistence of his strong hand. “We all stand before you unscathed,” he said with a smile, aimed at easing her mind. To instill the assertion further, he threw his men a stern look. “Is that not right, men?”

  Collectively, the seven agreed and nodded happily to please their chieftain. Æsa smiled in return, thankful that she hadn’t been an excellent markswoman her first time with the bow. She hated to think what could have happened.

  Sidestepping those disturbing thoughts, she gathered her wits and invited the men into the longhouse. “I regret to say I have not lit a fire within the hearth, nor prepared any food, but the walls do oppose the cool winds.”

  Gustaf narrowed his eyes in wonder. “Had I not bestowed enough silver in your keeping?”

  She stumbled on her words, for she didn’t want Gustaf to think he’d not been generous. “You left me with more than enough, but I was not certain how long ’twould last should you be delayed because of winter. I lived on necessity, my lord, spending your reserves only when my strength of body and mind begged for it.”

  There was a sense of discontentment in Gustaf’s face upon hearing her rationale. In all honesty, there was probably enough there to last her more than two winters, but given her lack of wisdom with living a life of luxury, she had not squandered a single ounce of it simply because of its availability.

  Gustaf looked her up and down as if figuring the amount of bodily weight she’d lost since he last saw her. “Jørgen,” he commanded, never averting his eyes from her.

  “My lord?”

  “Take the men down to the shore and fish. Do not return until there is enough to fill each person’s gut with two.”

  Æsa tried to interject, but Gustaf raised his hand and silenced her. “Better yet, make certain my Æsa has three.”

  The men did as they were told without complaint, but Jørgen, being the closest, muttered a suggestive question as he turned. “And what will you do, my lord?”

  She watched as Gustaf peeled his eyes from her and laid them on his friend. “I shall stoke a fire.”

  Jørgen scoffed and landed a hard pat on Gustaf’s back. “I wager the fire you aim to set will not cook a single fish.”

  Chapter Four

  Æsa felt the burden of Gustaf’s disgruntled stare burning a hole in her back for the entire trek up the hill. Even as they reached the security of the longhouse, she felt the relentless heat of his eyes.

  Strolling past the hearth in the center of the room, she endured the intensity of his weighty gaze behind closed doors, unable to face him. “I have angered you,” she stated solemnly.

  “If I were angry, you would know it.”

  She closed her eyes and drew in a breath of courage. Never in all her days of pleasing men did she care what they thought. Often times, she’d speak ill on purpose so they’d grow tired of her disdainful tongue and pass her on to someone else. But with Gustaf, she couldn’t help but want to gratify him, to know that when he looked at her, there was pride behind his noble eyes.

  By not using the silver he’d given her to live on, she noticed the malcontent that continued to crease his brow. To a degree, she’d insulted him. “If I have not angered you, then I have made you feel less of a man in front of your warriors.”

  Gustaf’s hearty scoff caused her to turn her head in his direction. “Is that what you think?” he asked, drawing near.

  The twinkle of gaiety lighting his blue eyes held her mouth shut. She froze within her thin leather shoes, stiffening over the proximity of his body with hers. He reached for her wrist and pulled her into his arms. “Only if you were gone from this earth, would I be less of a man.”

  His tender words took her by surprise. They were heartfelt and sincere, quite different from the clipped statements he’d made a few moments before. She was not used to a man’s mood swinging from one extreme to the next like a pendulum. It was difficult to keep up.

  He playfully nipped at her nose and backed her against the vertical beam of the room. Sandwiched between the dense face of the wood and the solid wall of his chest, she valued the dominance of his character. With just a simple gesture, he expressed authority and power, by means of a mighty body and challenging eyes, yet behind all that brawny exterior lay a man as gentle as the tender reeds swaying along the marshes.

  She placed her hands on his barrel chest and stroked him around his shoulders, lacing her fingers behind his neck. “I have missed
you, my temperate warrior.”

  He closed his eyes and laid his forehead against hers. “You do realize your pet name does little to describe the fierceness I would rather be remembered for.”

  She rubbed noses with him and reveled in the feel of his body pressed against hers. “Far be it from me to deface your fierce reputation among men, but ‘tis not violent hostility I remember in these hands…” She touched each part of him with a delicate brush of her fingertips. “These eyes, these lips...”

  His lips found hers the moment she spoke of them. The soft wet heat of his mouth had her gasping in surprise and buckling at the knees. With his arms secured around her, he never let her hit the floor as he slipped his tongue past her teeth. Feathers of warmth fanned from her core, spreading throughout her body. She was helpless to the talents of his kiss and welcomed the expertise of his seductive hands caressing her.

  Pinned against the beam, he ground himself against her, his breathing slow and purposeful. She tightened her arms around his neck and hoisted her legs around his waist. His strong, large hands cupped her bottom as he positioned her over his thick erection.

  A hearty moan escaped him and he shuddered, as if a multitude of sensations wracked his body. He spun her from the beam and supported her in his arms, his eyes boring into hers.

  “I should build that fire I promised before I lose all might for such a simple task.”

  He allowed her body to slide ever so slowly down the length of him, setting her to her feet. She brushed her hands down her tunic, adjusting her clothes into place, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Words failed her as she watched him tent the logs of turf in the center hearth. There was so much she wanted to say, but had no idea where to begin. She assumed he and his men had completed their mission, avenging Gustaf’s father, else they would not have returned. But it was a subject which lacked a tactful introduction.