Held so tenderly within Alarik’s embrace, she had, at long last... come home.
EPILOGUE
“Mama! Mama! Tell us again of the vision—the one you first had of Papa!” a child’s voice demanded. “Gunnar will not believe me!”
As Elienor swept into the skali, a throng of children rushed to surround her, led by her eldest daughter, Kirsten, who bore her mother’s blue eyes and father’s blond hair. All eyed her hopefully, and her own eyes lit with merriment as she glanced up to spy Nissa supervising the preparation of the tables for nattver. Upon Alva’s passing, Nissa had quietly stepped into the task, taking her lessons from Alva. At Elienor’s look, Nissa merely smiled, and shrugged, telling Elienor by that gesture that she’d been unable to sway the children from asking yet again.
Jesu! How many times would she be called upon to recount the tale? As it was, she felt she’d told it near a thousand times. Ahh, well... Alva had warned her, rest her soul. It was simply that because it had been so long now since she’d had a single vision, she found herself e’er recounting the same tales. It was a wonder no one ever seemed to tire of them. She sighed, capitulating.
“Very well.” She smiled as she scanned the faces of her expectant audience, for among the children were her own two daughters: Kirsten and Dahlia. Along with them, Bjorn and Nissa’s five, four girls, and their ever recalcitrant son, Gunnar. And the quiet lad who always lagged behind belonged to Sigurd and Clarisse.
Finding a suitable spot, Elienor adjusted her skirts and sat. And no sooner had she done so than her youngest daughter, Dahlia, scurried into her lap. After her came Mischief, eager as always. Her daughter shrieked happily, hugging the dog, and Elienor put her fingers to her lips, shushing her, for their infant son, Krossbyr, was fast asleep in their bedchamber, with Alarik watching over him. It never ceased to amaze Elienor how many hours he spent simply watching the babe.
“You didn’t truly spy Uncle Alarik first in a dream!” Gunnar exclaimed.
Elienor merely smiled, for he said the same each time. Truthfully she was beginning to wonder if it was his ploy to persuade her to recount the tale yet again.
“’Tis the truth she did,” a deep voice resounded behind them. Elienor turned, startled to hear Alarik’s voice so soon after putting the babe abed.
But she wasn’t the only one startled by his unexpected appearance. Mischief bounded up, darting toward Alarik’s boots. No longer a small pup, the big dog nearly toppled Alarik.
Elienor stifled a giggle.
The children laughed hysterically.
“Oh, Papa!” Kirsten exclaimed. “’Tis as though he abhors you!”
“Nei,” Alarik denied, frowning, refusing to believe that after all these years the mutt had still not grown to tolerate him at least. He bent to scratch Mischief’s ears and the dog snapped at him, barely missing his fingers. The children giggled again. Alarik’s frown deepened. “Demon hound!” he groused, and then his brows collided further when Bjorn sauntered in along with Brother Vernay in tow, the two of them ensconced in another of their heated debates over which god, or gods, were the true ones. Alarik suspected the argument would be unending, for both men were resolute in their beliefs. Mischief saw them and bounded after them, leaping up excitedly, first upon Bjorn, and then Vernay, lapping them with relish. “Ungrateful beast,” Alarik muttered beneath his breath.
Seeing his forsaken expression, Elienor urged Dahlia from her lap and rose to embrace him. “You are beloved!” she reminded him with a girlish giggle.
And seeing their mother and father embracing, their daughters rushed forth, each embracing one of his legs. “We do love you Papa!” they announced in unison, and Alarik once again sent a silent prayer of gratitude heavenward that his warriors were not present to view such a tender display. Never would they let him forget it Sigurd particularly.
Alarik and Bjorn shared a quick look, for Bjorn, too, was burdened with his share of overly affectionate females, and then he released Elienor, bending to lift both his daughters up into his arms. But as each kissed his cheeks with their soft little lips, he wondered in awe how he had ever felt himself too manly for this. What could be more male, he asked himself, arrogantly, then to be surrounded by the females one loved?
“Papa?”
Alarik peered down at his youngest daughter.
“Did you know the first time you saw Mama that she was the one?” Her eyes were bright with the prospect. “Did you?”
He glanced briefly at the mother of his children, sharing a private look with her. He stifled a chuckle. “And did you ask your mother that question?” he wondered aloud, bouncing Dahlia.
“Yaaaaah!” his daughters shouted simultaneously.
He shook his head in an attempt to restore his hearing. “And what did she say?” He again glanced at his wife, smiling softly as he awaited their reply.
“She said aye!” Dahlia whispered enthusiastically in his ear.
“She said she knew when first she saw you!” Kirsten added.
Alarik cleared his throat, remembering the tale somewhat differently. Elienor shrugged, smiling coyly. “Then, aye,” he relented, winking at Elienor, thinking suddenly that mayhap It was the truth after all. He grinned roguishly. “From the very first moment!” he told them, bending to restore his children to their feet. They clung to his neck a moment, and he pried them loose, straightening to look into his wife’s beautiful violet eyes—as beautiful now as they’d been the day he’d first beheld her. His arms went out to seize her to him before she could flee. “From the very first,” he said to her face, daring her to dispute him.
Elienor’s eyes twinkled with mirth. She laughed. “From the very first,” she acquiesced, returning an impish smile.
Across the skali Bjorn made a choking sound and looked to his own wife, but prudently said nothing.
Alarik ignored him, abruptly sweeping his wife up into his arms. She gave a little shriek as he hauled her toward their chamber, their chamber, he thought with a satisfied grin. With a little luck from Frey, he’d catch up to his younger brother yet, he vowed. “You lie very well, my love,” he accused her, with a roguish grin.
Elienor merely smiled. “As do you, mine husband!” She wrapped her arms about his neck.
“What say you tell me the tale?” he asked her huskily.
Elienor giggled and nodded.
“But she hasn’t told us the story yet, Uncle Alarik!” Gunnar protested, leaping up, giving his anxiousness away.
Alarik never heard the protest. He’d already shut the bedchamber door behind him.
“Odin’s breath!” Gunnar exclaimed. “I didn’t get to hear the story! And Uncle Alarik’s already heard it! How oft must he hear the story?” he whined, and the skali erupted with peals of laughter, for no one had asked to hear the tale more than Gunnar Long-Ears had!
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Olav Trygvason of Norway did in fact die much as I’ve depicted here, though when he dove into the water, he went in alone, for Alarik and Elienor, alas, live only in my heart—and, I hope, in yours now as well. I’ve taken great pains to stay true to my research in that I’ve drawn Olav as best I saw him, and I even have gone so far as to include dialogue actually attributed to him by the Heimskringla (The lives of the Norse Kings) by Snorre Sturlason, edited by Erling Monsen, translated by A. H. Smith. But I have also taken incredible literary license with the circumstances surrounding the elusive battle of Svolde, as well as the battle itself. The truth remains, however, that Olav Trygvason of Norway was a zealous man who, while he may or may not have held to his faith,” did oppress his people to such a degree that they felt they had no choice but to rise up against him. Some of those opposing him were Christian themselves (such as Svein Forkbeard), who resented Olav’s ultimatums and iron fist.
As for the rumors that he survived die battle, perhaps he did, but he never again returned to claim his throne or his lands. The remaining Scandinavian kings divided his kingdom among themselves.
Other e-books by
Tanya Anne Crosby
THE IMPOSTOR PRINCE
THE IMPOSTORS KISS
LION HEART
HAPPILY EVER AFTER
ON BENDED KNEE
PERFECT IN MY SIGHT
LYON’S GIFT
THE MACKINNON’S BRIDE
KISSED
ONCE UPON A KISS
VIKING’S PRIZE
SAGEBRUSH BRIDE
ANGEL OF FIRE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tanya has written seventeen novels, all of which have graced numerous bestseller lists including the New York Times and USA Today. Best known for stories charged with emotion and humor, and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She lives with her husband, two dogs and two moody cats in North Michigan.
For more information:
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