by Sandra Lake
She peeled off her robe, preparing to join him in his bath.
“The water is cold,” he said. “Fetch the domina and tell her to have more water sent up for you.”
“It does not bother me.” She tied her hair into a knot atop her head. She stepped into the bath and sat at his feet. She lathered her hands with his soft soap, stood and slid her hands carefully across her body and down in between her legs. She must hate him greatly to desire to control him so completely. She rinsed and stepped out.
“Would you like me to help you bathe?” she asked.
“Nay.” Magnus snatched the soap and started to lather his arms, uncertain of how much more torture he could take from her rousing touch. What game was she playing?
Lida retrieved the additional pails of rinsing water that were waiting by the fire. With care, she helped her husband rinse the soap from his stalwart body, examining every rippling of muscles, every small scar. When he moved above her, she could feel every muscle in his body, taut and engaged. To touch him and know that he welcomed her touch made her so giddy as to question her own sanity. Torturously and deliberately, her husband built in her the most powerful and pleasurable releases imaginable.
With this last coupling, he had taken her somewhere she did not know existed, somewhere deep inside her own soul, or perhaps inside his. When would he tire of her and return to his other wenches? For now, she decided to enjoy his attention while she had it. She could no longer deny that she craved his touch.
The undercurrent of feeling had changed between them. Last evening, after he had touched her so gently with the healing salve, she had yearned for him to continue. The craving had returned when he carried Katia back to the great hall. Her daughter was so happy in his arms, so excited for his attention, as if Magnus were the sun and whomever he allowed to bask in his rays could not help but feel warmed to the core.
What baffled her was that he clearly had no concept of how to behave with children. He did not even know how to speak with them, yet Lida saw signs of his natural protectiveness, patience, and tenderness toward her child. He would make a good father, once he had more practice. Learning to say Katia’s name would be a good start; speaking to her directly would be the second step. Perhaps by the time their first child was born he would be on his way. The thought made her smile.
She sat across from her husband, in front of the fire, in silent contemplation.
He filled her chalice of wine. “Why did you serve me now in this way?”
“I suppose I am becoming more familiar with your ways.”
“I do not think that is why.”
Was this a trick? He seemed suspicious. After what they had just experienced, such blissful pleasure, would he be so judgmental? ’Twas offensive. Following his lead, she decided to be plainly spoken.
“I no longer feel as I did before.” She swallowed down her awkwardness. She had entered this union of her own free will. She needed to accept her role and work at improving his unflattering impression of her as a troublesome wife. “I no longer feel like your whore. You do not treat me as such in front of your people. You continue to treat my daughter with kindness, and I have come to believe that you will be an excellent father to our children. I served you because I wished to.” Her heart raced. If he rejected her now, how would she go on? How would she hold her head up again?
“Did you service your dead man with your mouth as you have serviced me? Did he instruct you in how to pleasure a man?” her husband asked, staring at her coldly, draining all warmth from the chamber.
“Aye—well—nay—” She had never spoken so plainly of intimacies. “You are most attentive to my”—she waved her hand, trying to grasp at the proper words—“pleasure. I was attempting to return your . . . attention.” Her mouth was parched from the blunt discussion. She took a large drink of water.
“You have never taken a man in your mouth before?”
Lida choked, spitting water out in a most unladylike manner. “Nay, that was my first time. ’Twas not to your liking?” She was about to burst into flames of embarrassment.
“You performed well. What was he like, your dead man? Why did you let him have you before you wed? Did he force you?”
“Nay, Urho would have never. He loved me. Or at least . . .” She could no longer look him in the eye, so she turned her gaze to the low-burning fire and continued more quietly. “I was young and fell in love very quickly—too quickly.” She swallowed the small lump of pain in her throat. “I felt untouchable, invincible from harm or sadness, protected from the world with the love we had for one another. Everything was possible when I was with him, but I was a fool, a young stupid girl with an empty head, overly trusting and unrealistic. Years later I learned that half of his village thought themselves in love with him, and he was in love with half the village. I was of no more value to him than the average dairymaid. I learned the high cost of love. I went from a maid, to a wife, to a widow, and a few months after that I was a mother.” She finished and finally raised her eyes back up. Magnus stared at her, but no longer with a look of judgment. Possibly it may have been some measure of understanding.
“Helena detested Tronscar, and all of Norrland,” he said. “I should never have agreed to the union. ’Twas a mistake I will regret until the day I die.” It shocked her to hear him admit to a mistake so freely. “My cousin brokered an alliance with the Danes, and she was part of the treaty. Tero was sent to select one of three available highborn daughters.” He let out a loud sigh of regret and leaned back in his chair. “Much like my mother, she was not raised for the climate of Norrland. She was from the same island as my mother, in fact. Our mothers had even been friends. Our babe came early, and she died. Her last words were that she did not want to die in the north. I returned her bones to her family so she could be buried with them.”
“I am sorry for your loss, Magnus.”
“I wondered if she died simply to abandon the north sooner.”
The word “abandon” stung her ears and her heart. They sat in silence for a long while, staring into the dwindling embers. To think of death as a form of abandonment was tragic. His mother had returned to the south when he was but a babe—clearly, Magnus’s cold heart had been well-earned.
“That is why you offered me the chance to return to Turku. I understand now. Thank you for telling me.”
He stared into her eyes, his lips pushed into a hard line. “I will not allow you to leave, Lida. You will always remain with me. I will never release you.”
Chapter 15
“I am your wife, Magnus. I have no design nor desire to leave you.” Or abandon you. He held an odd notion of bereavement. Perhaps he rejected the notion of mourning and the inevitable fear of death and loss as a form of weakness blighting his male pride. That would explain so much.
He stood, towering over her, staring at her with such intensity that a shiver traveled up her spine. Effortlessly, he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. “You will rest. The feast will last until first morn’s light.” She could not help but smile at him. His eyes softened to reveal the fatigue they held. He wanted to rest but would never admit it.
She was beginning to understand him at last. He glared at Katia because he liked her, desired to protect her. He glared at her because though he did not want to admit it, he liked having her close by his side. Perhaps some of his attention would last after she confirmed that she was with child. She suspected she might be, but would wait until she passed her second moon cycle. She selfishly wanted his attention for a little while longer.
***
The feast was like nothing Lida could have prepared for. Loud, boisterous Norrland men laughed and sang together as jovial young boys. Mouthwatering smells of seasoned roasting meats and freshly baked nut bread and sweet cakes combined to create a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Young and old celebrated together, sharing as equals.
&nbs
p; The people of Tronscar worked hard, in a harsh, unforgiving climate. Knowing they were a brotherhood of ironworkers and warriors, Lida had expected to find them living barbaric and cold lives, yet the opposite was true. They lived generous lives, openly sharing their warmth and friendship, loyal not only to Tronscar and its jarl, but to one another.
Lida proudly wore the gold armband bearing Magnus’s mark. The hall was loud and lively with musicians roaming about, singers and poets reciting verses, and fire-eaters putting on a fantastic display. Katia was in a continual state of giddiness.
In the courtyard, a thousand people danced around the fire pits, smoke rising into the starlit night. Magnus held her daughter high in his arms as he walked about the courtyard, claiming his concern about “the child” being stepped on. Lida suspected his true reason for carrying her daughter on his shoulders was as much for his own enjoyment in showing off the happy little girl as it was for her safety.
Katia chatted in her husband’s ear, naming all the stars that her grandpa had taught her. Her husband never spoke to her daughter, but Lida could tell that he listened to every word. When Katia finally fell asleep on his mighty shoulders, a part of Lida’s insides throbbed. Her husband held her sleeping daughter like a father would hold his own child. When Lida suggested he might rest Katia upon the throne chair, he simply growled at her, “Nay, the child is fine where she is.” Lida turned her head to hide her smile.
After many hours and countless chalices of delicious malt wine, her husband informed her that she was tired and that he would escort her to their bedchamber. As the blended family of three climbed the stairs together, Lida’s heart began to swell with contentment and joy, envisioning the years to come, with more sleeping babes to carry to bed after such a splendid night.
***
Tapping the underside of his ring against the arm of his chair, Magnus struggled to return his attention to the conscript before him. For the past fortnight, he had discreetly arranged his daily activities around two people. One, a serene female who shared his bed, and the other, a smaller, talkative female who took up residence down the hall.
Magnus begrudged his wife the time she spent learning to manage the household. He preferred to have her all to himself, yet every day she spent more time in the kitchens with the cooks, going over menus and becoming friendly with the other women of the village.
New weavers were hired, and his wife asked permission to make changes to their work and living quarters. He had no interest in the subject of women and their foreign systems of hierarchy, so he left it for Klara to arrange, giving his wife authority to make whatever changes she wished. This left the nursemaid and Katia alone more often. Several times he had happened upon them above stairs, the nurse sleeping on the child’s bed and the young girl roaming about on her own. This is how he suspected Katia had found her way to the hall outside his council chamber, unattended.
“Here, Alistair. Come here, kitty, kitty.” Crawling on her hands and knees past Magnus’s open door, the girl was a mess of tangled blond hair. “Come here, you rascal.”
Scanning the corridor, Magnus saw neither a cat nor the nurse. Someone should see that the child did not wonder outdoors into the yard unattended. With the newly constructed blasting furnace, she could be harmed if she entered the wrong building at the wrong time. Someone needed to put the girl back where she belonged, and he did not want to be the one who did it.
“You!” he called out to her.
Her little hand froze, still in midair for her next crawl forward. “I lost my cat, Jarl Magnus. Have you seen Alistair?”
“Nay.”
“Oh.” She deflated. “If you do, can you catch him for me? I would be most grateful. My mama will be cross with me if I let him loose to find trouble. She said I am not to let him near your chambers and I am not to let him scratch you or Tero because that would get you cross and then you may not let me keep Alistair above stairs.”
“I have seen no cat.”
“Oh.” She continued to crawl, calling out for the animal.
“You may wait for your mother in here.” He pointed inside his chamber. “I have parchment and a quill. You may practice your letters.”
“Truly?” She sprang to her feet.
She immediately set to drawing cats, smudging ink all over her hands and getting it on her gown and cheek. Magnus thought to tell her to take caution, but he noticed her struggling to hold the quill, so he decided it was best to leave her to continue to improve on her own.
“I must speak with Aleksi now,” he informed her.
“Oh, I like Aleksi very much. He has pretty eyes. They are the same color blue as my cousin Layla’s eyes. When I have a sister, I hope she will have eyes just like—”
“You may come.” He stood, and so did she.
“Will you smack him with your sword? I like watching you smack the men with your sword. It is so funny.”
He stopped and looked down at her. “Funny” was the last word he wanted to be used in describing his sparring. “We do not practice for your amusement, little one. We are preparing for battle, should we have need to defend the fortress or ourselves when we are in transit.”
“Oh—but it is funny when the other man falls on his bum. Mama does not want me to say ‘ass,’ so I call it a ‘bum.’ You knock the other man on his bum every time. It is funny.”
Magnus did not respond.
Once they were in the training yard, he lifted her out of the snow and placed her on the rail to watch the men practicing in the ring. He held one hand around her middle to secure her in place. She clapped and cheered for both men and laughed when the recruit fell to the fresh snow on his backside.
Magnus suppressed the mounting smile and the laugh that wanted to escape his control. She was a destructive influence.
“I want to be a warrior like him when I am bigger, Jarl Magnus. When will it be my turn?”
What a ridiculous notion. But then, he stopped and looked at her again. She was indeed going to be as beautiful as her mother. That was a pressing concern. Why could she not learn the sword? He would not always be there to protect her. Though not common in Tronscar, shield maidens were a proud part of the history of Norrland. “Woman should not wish to be warriors, but rather wish to be mothers,” he said, and returned his attention to the men sparring.
“Oh.” Her bubbling excitement dimmed.
“But they can learn to protect themselves and their families. A shield maiden is an honorable pursuit for any female. However, it is not a game. It is only for serious-minded persons.”
“Oh.” She was thinking. He had spent enough time in her company to understand when her eyes were distracted with some new amusement and when she was trying to figure something out. She picked up languages like most people pick up winter colds, and she was always working to improve and learn more. “Then I will laugh with Tero and not laugh while I have my turn to fight and spin. I swear to it, Jarl Magnus.”
“Very well then. You will be taught.”
“Goody.” She made a high-pitched squealing sound. “Oh, thank you.” She threw her little arms around his neck and squeezed. She was strong, at least. She would be able to hold up a good size practice shield and stick.
“Roffe informed me that he has two dogs that are exceptional. I do not have time for cats. Dogs have value and purpose in the north.”
“Cats have purpose. They are cute and cuddly and they purr and they make you happy. They eat mice and they are your friends, they clean themselves and they eat the fried liver for you if your mother tries to force you eat it for your meal, and they are soft and they have lots of different colors and they pounce on balls and it makes me laugh and they are cute—”
“You said that one.”
“Which one?”
“You repeated that they were cute.”
She laughed, “That is because they
are very cute and cuddly. See, Jarl Magnus, cats have a purpose, but I like dogs too. My grandma never let me have a dog because she said she would not put up with the racket but I loved Ulla’s dog, Samson. He is so sweet and would lick my face and wag his tail and—”
“Dogs are not sweet.”
“Yes they are. Especially the ones that chase your stick and dig funny holes in the garden to bury bones and—”
“Dogs are not funny. Your dog will be your companion to protect you until you can protect yourself. It will stay by your side at all times and not be taught to chase sticks. It will be taught to attack anyone that would threaten you.”
“Oh.” She was thinking again. “I will just keep my cat then.”
“You will come meet the dogs and then decide.” He picked her up and marched to the kennels. She curled her tiny arm around his neck. He liked the odd, warm feeling it brought him.
The little one picked the white elkhound with a gray spot on its ear. A good choice, he thought. “Her tail looks fluffy and soft” was her reasoning. He was about to correct her and explain that the dog would be a fierce protector of its master, but he decided to let her keep her ridiculous notion that the dog was a toy to “cuddle and pet.” He undoubtedly would have a lot of training to do with both the dog and the child.
“The animal needs a name,” he said to her as they strode back to the great hall, the dog following close at the child’s side. “So that the hound may respond to your commands.”
Looking straight ahead, she tapped her finger to her lips. “Umm, how about Fluffy? Her tail is so pretty.”
“Nay,” he said.
“Lady?”
Entering the hall, his stomach growled at the smell of fresh baked bread. “Nay.”
“Cutie?”
“Nay.” The child must be hungry too; she had not eaten since midday.
“Beauty?”
“Nay.”
“Angel?”
