by Jianne Carlo
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Published by The Hartwood Publishing Group, LLC,
Hartwood Publishing, Phoenix, Arizona
www.hartwoodpublishing.com
The Bear and the Bride
Copyright © 2010 by Jianne Carlo
Hartwood Release: January 2017
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
The Bear and the Bride by Jianne Carlo
The first book in bestselling author Jianne Carlo’s beloved Viking Warriors series is back, expanded and updated!
Torsten, Jarl of Stjórardalr also known as the Northern Bear, glimpses Ainslin of Cumbria, a recent widow with two sons, and immediately covets her for his wife. He outmaneuvers his rival, Ainslin’s neighbor Earl Sigrid, and receives the king’s blessing to marry her.
Ainslin fears Torsten’s reaction when he discovers she’s a virgin. How to explain both her maidenhead and twin sons? She leaves Mercia to marry Torsten and live in Norway to keep her boys safe.
Ainslin’s worst nightmares are realized when her former neighbor – Earl Sigrid – arrives in Norway for King Canute’s coronation. Sigrid cannot discover the dark secret she keeps, a secret that could destroy her marriage.
What does Sigrid suspect?
Will Torsten cast Ainslin and the boys aside when he discovers the truth?
Dedication
For Georgia, for your friendship, for all you’ve taught me, and for simply just being you.
Xoxoxo,
J.
Chapter One
Stjórardalr, Norway A.D. 1028
“Ye have been married afore,” Martha stated, then cursed when a knot in Ainslin’s waist-length golden curls refused to unsnarl. “It’ll no be a shock, the doing of it.”
Ainslin gently pried the comb from her nurse’s arthritic fingers and didn’t bother to point out the obvious differences between her current marriage and the last. “Warm yourself by the fire, Martha. I’ll tend to my hair. ’Twas chilly in the hall during the náttverðr.”
Aye, frosted more described the tone the jarl’s sister used when she spoke to Ainslin during the interminable evening repast the Vikings termed the náttverðr.
“’Tis better the ladies o’ the house don’t tend to ye,” Martha muttered. “The new master’s sister is no to my liking. She has the evil eye, does that one.”
Ainslin repressed a sigh at the truth of her words.
Helga, stepsister to Torsten, Jarl of Stjórardalr, hadn’t addressed Ainslin more than thrice since her arrival two evenings before. The clipped replies to the few queries she’d ventured quelled her last hopes of making this union a happy one.
Not once had Helga, as she should have, introduced her to the housekeeper and the steward. By all rights, the large ring of keys affixed to Helga’s iron girdle should’ve been ceremoniously handed over to Ainslin within hours of her arrival. Howbeit, that had not occurred.
Ainslin stared at the dancing flames in the hearth and drew the carved ivory comb, a present from King Canute’s handfast wife, Ælfgifu, through her hair. She had no taste for the coming battle with Helga, but would not allow the nasty-tempered termagant to hold onto what should be hers. She prayed to discover an ally in her new husband.
New husband. A forlorn sigh escaped her lips.
Twice she’d been married by proxy. True, this was her third spouse, but she considered her first marriage a farce of sorts. Married by proxy during her tenth summer to a young knight seven years her senior, he had died in battle before claiming her. To her shame, she scarce recalled his face and had a terrible time remembering his full name and titles.
After the death of her beloved second husband, Hadrain, Earl of Hitchin, Ainslin had prayed long and fervently that King Canute would be too involved in solidifying his realm to turn his attention to such a piddling matter as a new spouse for her. As the months went by and no word came from the king’s court, her nerve-wracking fretting had lessened.
Then, not a moon past, the edict had arrived delivered by no less a regal messenger than Canute’s eldest son with Ælfgifu, Svein Knútsson, a young knight of only twelve summers. She read the scroll Svein handed her with dreaded trepidation and had near swooned at the harsh wording. Commanded to depart within three days to marry the man warriors referred to as the Norðanverðr Bjarndýr, the Northern Bear, she was given leave to take one companion, and no mention was made of her two sons.
Ainslin was aware, as were all of the kingdom, of the enmity between Canute’s new wife, Emma, and his hand-fasted wife, Ælfgifu. Ainslin cursed the day Ælfgifu had shown partiality to her for Emma would never have spent her a moment’s notice otherwise. Last summer, after learning that Ælfgifu favored Ainslin, Emma commanded Ainslin to court and she had no recourse but to obey. Unable to bear being separated from her sons, she’d taken them with her. ‘Twas then Emma discovered Ainslin’s utter devotion to her boys.
Would that she had never revealed her weakness to the new queen.
Bitterness welled in her throat.
What plans did Queen Emma have for her sons?
Fear lanced a painful band around her chest.
Her mind scrambled in panic.
Lord, God, keep her boys safe.
She recited the Lord’s Prayer over and over and, gradually, her pulse halted its furious hammering in her ears.
“Milady, what is amiss?” Martha shifted on her stool and leaned forward to brush Ainlsin’s cheek. “Ye’ve lost yer color.”
“Naught is wrong. I simply recalled my sickness on the journey here.” Though devoted to Ainslin, Martha’s simple disposition could not comprehend the subtleties of court politics, nor the terrible wars between King Canute’s two wives.
“I feared for ye on the seas, milady. I did indeed, but ye’ve gained somewhat of the flesh you lost. In time, all will be well again.”
Martha’s reassurances didn’t alleviate Ainslin’s dread.
‘Twas Svein and his warrior retinue who had been charged with transporting Ainslin and Martha to the longhouse known as Bjarndýr Skáli, Bear Hall. The journey by sea and land had lasted three sennights.
“Do ye think he will call for ye this night?”
Ainslin had no doubt about the he to whom Martha referred. She shrugged. “I know not if I should believe Helga and that the Jarl has indeed returned here. I venture ‘twould not be beyond Helga to feed me false.”
“Methinks better to have it done now than to wait.”
Hiding a small smile of agreement as well as a shiver of fright, Ainslin wondered if mayhap Martha had the rightness of the matter, but then again, her loyal servant had no knowledge of the true nature of Ainslin’s second marriage.
“He’ll no expect a bloodied sheet.” Martha gathered the sewing Ainslin had been working on earlier, two new tunics for her twins, Brom and Rob.
And ’twas the crux of the matter, for ’tw
ould be a bloody sheet unless she found a way to…
To what she knew not.
For the last part of the journey, she’d worried and agonized, not knowing how her new husband would react to her unbroken maidenhead.
Briefly, she’d considered taking a lover, but whom?
One of the guards?
They were all the jarl’s men.
An innkeeper?
She shuddered remembering the missing teeth of one, the stench of rotting fish on another, and the manure ground into the furred forearm of the last hostel owner.
Her current predicament was the result of her Hadrain’s kindness and age. None knew or suspected her last marriage hadn’t been consummated, not when she stood the proud mother of two dearling sons.
“My lady,” a soft voice called, and a muted tap sounded on the hut’s door.
“Enter.” Ainslin set down the comb and folded her hands together, steeling her spine for the inevitable announcement.
The serving girl, Thora, the one friendly face she’d encountered in two days, peeked around the solid wood. “The jarl has returned, my lady. He stands ready to receive you.”
Ainslin’s heart quaked, and her stomach hollowed.
The jarl’s brother, Ruard, had stood proxy not hours earlier when the priest conducted the ceremony. She hadn’t voiced all the questions buzzing like swarms of bees in her head. Yet Ruard had volunteered to explain to Ainslin that the jarl had encountered an unexpected delay and the marriage must take place before sunset according to the marriage contracts.
She prayed her husband had Ruard’s easy smile.
Did the jarl look like his brother?
Did he have eyes the color of the sea?
Hair the color of ripe wheat?
Ruard’s gentle treatment of her had given Ainslin hope. From birth, she’d heard the tales of the vicious berserkers who’d pillaged Northumbria and Mercia, and she’d expected harsh treatment from her Norse spouse and his brethren.
Resting a hand on the lone table in the cottage, she levered to her feet, her knees suddenly too weak to support her frame.
Martha heaved off the bench, snatched the cloak from the pallet near the blazing fire, and limped over to Ainslin.
She hated to make her old nurse rise and walk, but needed the few moments to compose her mind and prepare for meeting her spouse, the new stepfather of her sons.
Ainslin accepted the mantle, settled the warm furs around her shoulders, and fastened the cloth with a brooch. “I am ready, Thora.”
She straightened, murmured farewell to Martha, and left the cozy hut.
Spring hadn’t quite settled on the ground, and patches of snow carpeted the mountains behind the hut. Dense pine forests covered the steep slopes. The hazy light made mischief with the shadows. What appeared to be small animals resting in the newly sprung meadow grasses turned out to be knolls when she walked closer.
A slight breeze nipped at her ungloved hands, and an icy gust slipped under the fur cloak, swirling the skirts of the emerald colored crytel she wore. Martha had insisted Ainslin wear the front-laced gown, her finest, for the ceremony. The scooped-neck chemise underneath the silk provided little protection against the cold.
She tugged the fur-lined mantle tighter around her.
Taking a deep inhale, the pungent pine fragrance somehow soothing, she held her breath, and then blew out slowly. A smile tugged at her lips when she saw the dancing exhale frosted by the chill. Her twin sons considered blowing out frosty air as much fun as watching jesters tumble.
Thora walked three paces in front of Ainslin, weaving around the many huts of the settlement. ’Twould take time to accustom to this seaside fortress, so different from her previous home, Castle Næss. The vast stone longhouse, the stables, cattle pens, and the dozens of cottages inside the walled settlement contrasted sharply with Hadrain’s motte and bailey keep in Cumbria.
Ainslin glanced ahead and stubbed a toe on a rock. They walked to a dwelling built into the mountain’s slope. A copse of trees blocked a portion of the abode.
Why so distant from the longhouse?
So none may hear her screams?
She must not falter.
She must please him.
She must persuade him to send for Brom and Rob.
“This way, my lady,” Thora called, halting where the thick tree trunks divided, and a narrow path appeared.
The warmth of the sun disappeared, and a sudden wind lifted her loose curls, sending chills around her nape. Night fell swift and absolute, full darkness descending in the time it took to stride a score footsteps. The moon ventured from the clouds shielding the stars, and a silvery stream of light illuminated the lodge nestled into the mountainside.
Thora halted in front of the log structure. Hewn from massive pine trunks, the abode proved larger than Ainslin expected. No caretaker’s one-room dwelling this, but a residence fit for a jarl as powerful and wealthy as the Northern Bear.
“My lord,” Thora cried out, knocking on the wood. “Your lady is here.”
The door opened, and a monstrous form crowded the doorway. A fire crackled and sparked behind the jarl, the light throwing his features into shadows. Ainslin licked her lips, caught the nervous movement, clamped her mouth shut, and folded her hands at her waist.
“’Twill be all, Thora.”
His voice, so deep as to mimic the growl of a bear, crawled into her belly. He had the size of a great black bear too. She had to squeeze her legs together to stay standing and not turn and sprint back to Martha and safety.
Thora dipped a curtsy and spun around, leaving Ainslin standing alone. She swallowed furiously when twigs snapped under the girl’s retreating footsteps.
“Come in, my lady.” He stepped to the side and waved a hand to the blazing fireplace. “The fire will warm your chilled flesh.”
She concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other, and stopped only when a stray spark from the fire singed the back of her hand. Slowly, Ainslin turned to face the man she would call husband from this day onward.
He wore leather boots the color of a fawn, buttery and brown, with flecks of white ash. She gauged his feet three times the size of hers. Dark, loose breeches, the blue of a deep fjord, disappeared into the finely wrought boots. The braided hem of his tunic reminded her of the markets near King Canute’s courts, where she’d first touched silk from the East.
An intricate semblance of a bear, embroidered in gold thread, preceded the matching braid of the tunic’s neck. He wore no belt, no cloak, and she hesitated for three of the beats leaping in the hollow of his throat before lifting her gaze from his throat to his face.
Norðanverðr Bjarndýr.
Warrior.
Husband.
“Be seated,” he commanded. Two chairs of a size to house his enormous frame, separated by a square table, stood to the right of the stone fireplace. Without further ado, he swiveled, and took a giant stride to the door.
Ainslin held her breath, skidded to the chair, and collapsed onto the wooden seat. Her feet didn’t reach the planked floor, the hard seatback soared above her head, and she peeped at him, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight movement. Her heart drummed so loudly in her ears, she couldn’t think, and her fingers fumbled to unfasten the brooch pinning her cloak together.
Spying him stoking the fire, she stared at his back.
Hair lush and black with blue glints fell to shoulders of such width, her breathing stuttered. For a heartbeat, Ainslin’s eyes refused to focus and her insides warmed. The chill from the short walk evaporated, and her toes curled in the half boots she wore. A wave of heat rode her flesh, akin to a flame from the fire reaching under her crytel and licking her from ankles to neck. The heavy furs suddenly were too hot to bear, and she shrugged the cloak off letting the material clump behind her back.
The rustle of his garments, and the sound of his boots squeaking on the wood as he stood, stilled her movements. Averting her eyes, Ainslin pretended to ad
just the chain gyrdel riding low on her waist, rubbing a thumb over a familiar flower carving in the gold mesh.
His scent, leather, smoke, and a tang of pine, grew more intense as he strode to table. His aroma seemed to shroud her. She could no longer smell any hint of the lavender bath she had had earlier on her skin. The air in the room seemed to take on substance and weighted her shoulders. Ainslin stared at the knots in the pine table, aware he heard her quick inhales, and warmth blossomed in her cheeks.
I have seen eight and ten summers. I am no green maiden.
She prayed he didn’t notice her flushed face, her trembling fingers, or the rapid fanning of her lashes.
“I like not this maiden’s pretense of nerves.” Using the toe of one boot, he moved the opposite chair back. “We are wed by the king’s choice. The alliance is beneficial for both of us.”
His arrogance made her teeth snap together. She welcomed the anger, but remained silent.
“What, no protest?”
“Pray continue,” she replied, her voice dulcet and soft. “I am anxious to know the advantages of becoming a married woman with no control over my lands or my wealth. As a widow, I enjoyed control of both.”
“Your sons need a guardian,” he retorted, and reached to the bench along the wall for a clay pitcher and two glass goblets.
“My sons are in Cumbria,” she stated. “With no protection save the king’s decree.”
He set a glass in front of her, poured wine into the green vessel, then filled his goblet, rested the jug on the table, and leaned back in the chair. His lips quirked, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. For the first time, she met his stare full on, and her heart skipped a slew of thumps at the storm in his gray eyes.
»»•««
“Nay, my lady,” Torsten drawled, stretched his feet beyond the wide table, his boots sounding a soft thud in the momentary silence. “Your sons journey to Bear Hall, as we speak.”
She gasped and opened her mouth, but didn’t voice a word. Instead, a rosy hue tinted her flesh, and her gaze dropped from his.
