The Temperate Warrior

by Renee Vincent

  “My father is dead.”

  Jørgen clutched his heart as he amended the statement. “Your father left when you were but a lad of four. And you would be twenty and seven now. Your brother, Ulfr, would be twenty and five. Is he there with you?”

  Silence followed, save for the blustery wind that howled in their ears. Jørgen’s desperation to convince his eldest son of his identity seemed to climb to immeasurable heights. Like a list, he spouted things only a father and husband would know.

  “Your mother’s name is Gunnhildr and she has a crooked finger on her right hand because she punched the horse that nearly toppled you when you were two and told me not so it could be splinted. Ulfr has a scar under his left eye where you struck him with the wooden sword your uncle fashioned for you on your birthday. A sennight before I left, I strung bows for you and your brother, asking you both to protect your mother in my absence. I suspect they are nocked with arrows pointed at my weary heart as we speak, but please know not a day has gone by that I have not thought of the family I left behind.” Jørgen kicked his leg over the horse’s neck and slid out of the saddle, throwing aside his weapon and shield. Divested of arms, he outstretched his hands. “Please come forward and let me see the fine young men you have grown into. Please…I need to see you. Do not send me away, I beg you. I have come home.” His voice cracked as he repeated his last words. “Your father has come home.”

  Out of the forest and through the gray mist, rode a tall, strapping lad with broad shoulders and stout legs on a black destrier. In his grasp, a longbow held careful aim on Jørgen’s heart. At his hip was a broadsword and a multitude of daggers sheathed along his belt. Donned in a wolf-skin cloak and knee-high fur-lined boots, he was not a man to be underestimated—a warrior that would make any father proud.

  The young man circled Jørgen on the horse, its hooves stomping into the ground as he gawked, his eyes guarded and menacing. From behind him, another strode out on horseback, younger in age but no less daunting. Like his brother, he employed a tactic of intimidation as he approached, his stare affixed to the father they thought dead.

  Gustaf held his position, his gaze juggling between Jørgen and the two warriors who surrounded them, their weapons still drawn for the kill. The emotion that befell Jørgen consumed him. Twenty-three years worth of pent-up pain, elation, and relief washed over him. Silently, his shoulders shook as if he was caught in a fit of laughter, but Gustaf knew better. He was on the verge of breaking down, his knees buckling at the sight of his two brave sons before him, all grown-up into full-fledged, fearless champions.

  All at once, Jørgen’s legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, sobbing. The two men lowered their weapons and dismounted, running to his aid. With both of them at either side, they helped him to his feet.

  “Is it really you, Father?” Ketill asked, studying Jørgen’s face for a sign of familiarity.

  Tears of joy ran down Jørgen’s cheeks as he felt the touch of his own flesh and blood and looked into the pairs of eyes akin to his own. There was no denying he sired the two handsome lads at his side. “Of course ‘tis I. Look at me.” He grabbed each of his sons’ nape and pulled them into a firm hug. “Look at how you have grown! Odin’s blood, your mother feeds you well.”

  Hearty embraces were traded over gales of blissful laughter. It was a beautiful sound to hear mature men rejoice, for it wasn’t a common occurrence amongst Gustaf’s tight band of mercenaries. He’d never seen Jørgen weep and he doubted he would ever see it again.

  He sheathed his sword and glanced at Æsa. She, too, fell prey to the emotional scene. Her bottom lip quivered and twice the amount of tears fell from her eyes as she witnessed the long-awaited reunion between father and sons.

  One by one, Gustaf’s men sheathed their weapons and dismounted to join in on the fun. Introductions were met with fervent, manly embraces as they reacquainted themselves with the two warriors they once knew as rowdy boys—everyone, save for Øyven who had come into the group at a later date. He remained on his horse, respectfully quiet and reserved.

  “And this is,” Jørgen commenced, holding out his upturned hand in Gustaf’s direction, “the great son of Rælik. Gustaf, my most loyal friend and lord.”

  Gustaf could barely look them in the eye, for he was the very reason they’d been separated from their father for nigh a quarter of a century. Guilt encouraged his next words. “Forgive me for keeping your father away so long. ’Twas not my intention to—”

  Ketill and Ulfr dropped to their knees before him and hung their heads in humble gratitude. “You have brought our father back from the dead. We are indebted to you, my lord.”

  Gustaf gazed upon the subservient lads at his feet. Their blind servitude reminded him of the unconditional fealty Jørgen had provided him all these years and he was moved by their gesture. “On your feet, lads.”

  The two looked to their father before righting themselves. Gustaf bowed his head and stood before Jørgen. “I should be kneeling before you, my friend. Your sacrifice goes beyond what any man should be expected to offer.” He averted his eyes toward Ketill and Ulfr. “If you serve anyone, it should be your father. Not I.”

  Jørgen marched forward and stood eye to eye with him. “I have no regrets, m’lord. I would serve you again if necessary.”

  Gustaf had no doubts. But Jørgen’s days of being without his loved ones were over and it gave him greater pleasure to know they could celebrate this occasion together. He flung his arm around his friend’s shoulder and jerked him into a stroll toward the forest. “If you insist upon serving me, Jørgen, a large drinking horn full of mead would suit me just fine.”

  A roar of vigorous shouts erupted as every man came to the same consensus.

  “What are we waiting for, men?” Jørgen announced, his fist in the air. “Let us go home.”

  Snorri mounted before all the others and yanked his horse to rise up on its hind legs. “May the mead run aplenty and the women run amok!”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Æsa should have felt as cheerful as the rest. It was a grand day to be among those who had finally made it home to their families and friends. The joyful noise of everyone’s surprise carried like squawking seagulls throughout the valley. Not one villager could contain themselves as they came bustling out of their longhouses. Squeals of surprise rang out as some came to realize their husbands, brothers, and fathers were alive. At times, their feet could not carry them fast enough as they bolted into the arms of the returned warriors.

  She understood well the elation that swelled in their hearts, for not long ago she’d felt the same upon Gustaf’s homecoming. She remembered how she nearly tripped on her own two feet to get to him and how his strong embrace nearly crushed her ribs as he swung her around.

  This was a special day for all, yet her heart didn’t soar with the others. Her spirits were weighted down by Gustaf’s cold rejection and his aloof behavior. He remained standoffish, even as the people came and welcomed him on his arrival. To add to her suffering, he placed the horse between them, a purposeful move to emphasize his position on the matter of their heated discussion. He seemed to do everything in his power to keep a safe distance from her as if she’d inflict severe pain on his body should he get too close. It was difficult for her to bear, knowing he had no desire to be near her. He might as well have run his dagger through her heart, for it would’ve been less painful.

  Hot tears stung her eyes again, but she refused let them fall. Before, they were easy to disguise as Jørgen and his sons had come together. She recalled the quick glance Gustaf had given her and how it seemed to register with him. She knew she’d fooled him into thinking it was because of the moment, but he wouldn’t be so daft as to be duped again.

  She lifted her chin and forced a smile so she would not steal attention away from the men who were more deserving. She walked along side the horse, not daring to reach across its withers and touch Gustaf’s hand that rested in its mane. It was a risk at best, o
ne she was not willing to take given he made every effort to keep his distance from her. The fact that he didn’t even introduce her to one single person cut her to the bone.

  Watching as his men embraced their family members with exuberant glee filled her lonely heart with sorrow. This was not how it was supposed to be. She and Gustaf were so perfect together and yet they couldn’t be farther apart. In an assembly of many, she never felt more alone.

  As they were ushered toward a large wooden building in the center of many surrounding longhouses made of wood and reeds, Æsa’s focus was directed to Ketill and Ulfr. They remounted their horses and trotted in a circle, rallying the others.

  Ketill, being the more dominant, announced their plan. “Let us hunt together as brothers united. Who is with me? Father?”

  Jørgen lifted his head from the haven of his wife’s neck. Holding fast to her body, he eventually shook his head. “You will have to forgive me, son. I have other intentions this day.”

  Suggestive remarks and jests flew about with no remorse. Ulfr even covered his ears as the insinuations were made about his parents.

  “Surely not every man is as weak as my father.” Ketill winked at Jørgen as he searched the faces of the many able-bodied men surrounding him. “I would hope some of you still get hard with the thrill of a hunt.”

  Snorri was the first to pipe up. “That would be me.” With as much fervor as his words evoked, he mounted his horse and trotted up beside Ulfr. “What say you, Gustaf?”

  To Æsa’s dismay, Gustaf didn’t think twice. He grabbed a firm hold of mane and kicked his leg up over the horse. “Count me in.”

  Her heart sank and a hard lump knotted in her throat. Her hand caught his knee before she realized she’d touched him. “What should I do in your absence, m’lord?” Her voice fractured as she spoke and she hated that she felt so weak in looking up at him, desperate for just one kind word to fall from his lips.

  “You can stay back with the rest,” he said coldly. “I suspect you will get along just fine, as you are well accustomed to consorting with strangers.”

  He was the first to break eye contact, whipping his head around and slapping his reins against the horse’s flank. As he tore away with the few others who’d enlisted, she was left to suffer the blow he so callously delivered. She felt ill. Embarrassed. Flushed and nauseated. She clutched her stomach and, with her other hand, reached for stability. Air was the only thing she had within reach and her balance wavered.

  One of the women grabbed her hand and steadied her by the elbow. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  She tried to focus her blurry vision. The woman split into two separate bodies and spoke with two distinct voices in unison. “You look not well. Perhaps, you are spent from the long journey.”

  Æsa nodded and squeezed the woman’s hand tighter. She felt like the ground was slipping from under her. A strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her against a firm chest. A male’s chest, muscled and warm.

  “I will watch over her.”

  The familiar voice belonged to Øyven and she swiveled her head to see if she was mistaken. She caught a glimpse of his youthful face and wondered why the shy warrior bothered to assist her.

  Before she could voice that her condition would improve with a few given moments of reprieve, he hoisted her limp body upon his horse. In seconds, he mounted behind her.

  Sitting sidesaddle, she teetered as the horse danced beneath her. Øyven’s arms detained her on both sides; one forearm steadied her from flipping backward, while the other rested beneath her bosom. His hands took charge of the reins and she found a strange comfort in his bold behavior.

  “Might there be a stable for my horse?” he asked of the woman lingering behind.

  “Of course.” She pointed to the far end of the village. “I will send for my brother to aid you.”

  “No need.”

  Even in her delusional state, Æsa could tell the woman wished to get acquainted with Øyven. She was close in age to him and her eyes, piercing through long dark lashes, sparkled with interest.

  “Shall I fetch you some water,” she asked, bestowing one last desperate offer as an innocent ploy to see him again.

  He patted the pouch at his hip. “I have plenty, but thank you.”

  With a click of his tongue, the horse lunged forward and Æsa fell sideways, her body leaning into Øyven’s torso from the momentum of the quick start. She pushed away, struggling to sit upright, but his arm pulled her back down.

  “Sit still.”

  His command unsettled her, but she gave no fight over his unusual dominance. The sway of the horse wreaked havoc on her tumbling stomach as well as her befuddled brain. She never knew the assertive side of Øyven and wasn’t certain what to make of it. “Why?” was all she could muster amid her confusion.

  “Why what?”

  Why are you doing this? Why do you waste your time with me when you could be elsewhere, becoming friendly with that lovely girl who was taken by your handsomeness?

  All those questions and more raced through her mind, but only one surfaced. “Why did you not go hunting with the others?”

  His breath blew out of his lungs in one hearty scoff. “Unless the people of Dal Hinna Dauðu have a hankering for rodents and small hares, my bird and I would be useless on the hunt. Besides, I need you.”

  Æsa stiffened. She had no idea what he meant by the term “need,” and she worried what Gustaf would say to such an intimate statement. “You need me?”

  He laughed at her now. “You are the only one my falcon feels safe with. Who else is going to watch her while I tend to my horse? What did you think I meant?”

  She smiled inwardly, breathing a little easier after his innocent explanation. She should have known better than to think a loyal subject of Gustaf would be so aggressive as to make advances right under his nose. Øyven was a perceptive fellow and a benevolent warrior, two traits that distinguished him from the rest, and he’d be the last person who’d ever betray Gustaf.

  They came to a halt at the entrance of a wooden barn and the potent smell of fresh manure and old hay invaded her nostrils. She swallowed back the urge to gag, thinking she was still woozy from the emotional extremes she’d encountered throughout the day. In the morning, she’d felt breathless, bursting with uncontrollable excitement as Gustaf had finally unleashed himself. Vindication was a foreign experience for her. Then, in the blink of an eye, she plummeted to rock bottom. She ruined everything with a few insensible words. Spoken only to prove how deeply she loved him and how much she was willing to sacrifice, she’d probably done irreparable damage to their relationship. The thought sickened her to tears again.

  “You’re crying.” Øyven’s words weren’t so much a perception as it was a statement depicting his befuddlement over what he should do or say to comfort her. His arms hesitated to hold her, but eventually they found their way around her. “He meant not what he said, Æsa. Gustaf is a good man.”

  “I know he is good.” And it only made her feel worse. “I hurt him, Øyven. I insulted him. I—” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him how. Her shame was like a rampant fever, thieving her of intellect and strength of body. All she wanted to do was curl up into a ball in some remote place and hide away for the remainder of their stay.

  Øyven didn’t encourage her to divulge any more than what she’d already given up. Instead, he lifted her in his arms, swung his leg over the saddle and jumped to his feet. He carried her inside the barn and found a pile of uneaten hay in the corner. Laying her down, he presented a sympathetic smile, nothing more.

  Like her, his tongue was tied. He stood up and left to retrieve his horse, his movements quick but calm.

  Æsa took this moment to collect herself, and she assumed in some strange way, Øyven was too. She looked around the spacious barn. She found comfort in the solitude provided here, though she could still hear the enthusiasm of the celebration outside.

  Her thoughts wandered back to G
ustaf and how he’d left in haste to hunt for the feast that would take place this night. She wondered if she plagued his mind as much as he plagued hers. The image she had of him, barreling through the forest on a galloping steed, his dark blond hair whipping against the gray wolf-skin cloak at his shoulders, brought a sense of pride to her wounded heart. He was all she ever wanted in a man; valiant and righteous. Charming and charismatic. Dignified with a rugged appeal to his handsome stature. His gentleness was beyond compare and his occasional lack of temperance was quickly becoming her favorite quality.

  She assumed he thought of it as a fault, as he blamed her offer of taking a mistress on his unrestrained actions akin to the men of her past. But she regarded it as an attribute of his authority and power with a slight trace of weakness. She would like to think she was his weakness. However, after getting the cold shoulder the only thing he lacked was the ability to forget what she’d said.

  Would he ever forgive her?

  “Of course, he will forgive you child.”

  A frail woman’s voice from out of nowhere startled Æsa and caused her thoughts to scatter like frightened ducks on an early morning pond. She whipped her head in the direction of the voice and caught sight of a gray-haired woman of tiny build entering the barn. She stood no taller than an adolescent girl but the wrinkles harassing her face proved her age-old maturity. Her slow, unsteady gait demonstrated that the strength in her bones had failed long before the sharpness of her mind and the crooked smile fixed on her lips prefaced that she harbored no resentment toward the hardships life had given her.

  Æsa felt uneasy with the elderly woman and her keen sense of foresight. She sat still as the woman approached and sat beside her in the hay. Long, bony fingers reached for hers and took hold. The chill of the woman’s skin presented a whole host of indefinite feelings and before she could ask her name, the old woman spoke again.