by Jianne Carlo
Ruard’s mouth twitched. He broke into loud guffaws. “She…”
More chortling. “Bumps…”
He slapped his thigh and shook with laughter.
Torsten rolled his eyes. “Walk, brother. And when you can contain your amusement, talk.”
It took a full five minutes for Ruard to contain his hilarity. “It appears Helga reacts to certain flowers and berries. When she comes into contact with them, she breaks into itchy bumps. From what I can make out, your wife gifted Helga with a beautiful carved box filled with dried and perfumed flowers. By chance, these flowers happened to be the one and same to which Helga reacts. Our stepsister is moaning and groaning and howling in her hut.”
Against his will, Torsten’s mouth quirked. “By Thor’s toes, how did Ainslin discover this?”
“I know not, but your wife is now in full charge of the hall and she takes her duties most seriously. I only wish I had been there to see the all of it.” Ruard sniggered again.
Torsten tried to picture his sweet and seemingly innocent wife deliberately gifting Hela with an itching box. He struggled to contain his mirth, but hooted and snorted out loud all the way to the longhouse.
’Twas not much later when he joined his demure wife at the head table. Prettily flushed, bristling with excitement, she beamed at him when he bowed to her, captured her palm, kissed the back of her hand, and then sat.
“You are much pleased with yourself, Ainslin.”
“Aye, Torsten, I am. For the problem of Helga is no longer. She readily yielded the spice keys to me, and has decided to leave with her betrothed after the feast on the morrow. Indeed, most of her belongings are ready to be loaded onto Jarl Olsson’s longship.”
Right then, Njal took his place on the bench to Torsten’s left. “Njal, meet my wife, your new sister, the lady Ainslin.”
“’Tis pleased am I to finally greet you, Ainslin. Torsten has spoken of naught but your beauty and your gentle nature, but he did no justice to your exquisite emerald eyes, your ruby lips—”
Torsten elbowed Njal’s ribs. “Desist at once, Njal. Ainslin, pay no attention to my brother’s flowery words and over-flattering praise. Howbeit, I have charged Njal with the defense of the holding and you must obey his commands in my absence.”
Alarm glittered in Ainslin’s eyes. “You are leaving Stjórardalr?”
“Nay, sweetling.” Njal sniggered and Torsten turned to glare at him, before returning to look down at his wife.
“’Tis a precautionary practice of the Jomsvikings to name a second in command for a holding. What smells so delicious?” The aroma of yeasty fresh bread had his mouth watering. Licking her puss and having a spigot licked, or in this case, stroked, had worked him ravenous.
“Fresh baked bread, my lords. I, too, am most pleased to meet you, Njal.” Ainslin signaled a wench carrying a basket who hastened to her side. She plucked a fat loaf from the basket and offered the round to him. “Pray, my lord, have a loaf of bread. ’Tis warm from the ovens, and was made by my hand.”
He blinked. “You made the bread for all gathered here?”
No wonder she hadn’t met him at the lodge. Over five score were seated at the trestle tables and benches in the hall.
“Nay, husband, I baked one basket of bread, which will serve the head table.” She pushed a crock of butter to him.
After breaking the loaf in two, he buttered both halves, broke off a morsel, and fed her the chunk. She glared at him and motioned for him to taste her offering.
He bit off a large hank and chewed, soft, moist, and flavored with dill and crusted with bits of salt. He savored the taste before swallowing and whispered in her ear, “’Tis delicious, Ainslin. You are a woman of many talents. You can make bread and tickle my pickle.”
She pinched her mouth together, then giggled, and whispered, “Tickle your pickle. Is that what I did this aft?”
“Aye.” He set his palm above her knee and squeezed. “And you did a magnificent job of it.”
Ainslin’s first náttverðr went, for the most part, smoothly. The food was plentiful, ale and wine flowed, and the conversations in the hall lively and amusing. True, ’twere a few spills, arguments, and fisticuffs, but naught of import.
Chest tight with pride, Torsten felt compelled to raise a toast to his wife. “Hear, hear. I thank my wife, the lady Ainslin, for this wonderful meal. ’Tis eve, we retire early in preparation for the jousting in the morn, but on the morrow eve we will feast the night long and celebrate our union. To Lady Ainslin.”
The hall broke into a deafening din with warriors bellowing the toast and banging metal and wooden mugs and horns on the tables.
Knowing the drinking would continue into the wee hours, Torsten helped Ainslin to stand, lifted their joined hands high, and bowed to his people and the wedding guests.
Instead of walking back to the lodge, Torsten signaled for his steed, and he and Ainslin made short shrift of the twenty-minute stroll. His wife’s exertions were beginning to show in her frequent yawns and her drooping head. By the time they arrived at the lodge, she had fallen asleep.
Ignoring the cockstand that arisen at the beginning of the meal, he carried Ainslin to their bed, and when she showed no signs of awakening, undressed her tenderly. For some time he watched her sweet repose, but then shed his garments, and slipped both of them under the furs. He tucked her back to his front and stifled a groan when her naked, plump bottom abraded his erection. ’Twould be hours before he slept.
To his surprise when he opened his eyes, Ainslin was staring at him. He, whose warrior training made him awaken at the slightest movement or sound, had not been aware of the change in her breathing.
“Good morn, husband. The sun peeks over the horizon and I must leave you to see to the morning repast. But I was loath to wake you—you slept so deeply.” She brushed a lock of his hair from his cheek, the touch so tender it felt as if a dagger had pierced ’tween his ribs.
She smelled of wildflowers and spring and was so beautiful in the faint light, he could not bear the thought of her leaving his embrace. He nuzzled her nape and muttered, “Let the women see to the repast. They prepare it every day.”
“Torsten,” she coaxed, “I beg you. Let me not be tardy on this my first morn as the lady of Stjórardalr. I need your support.”
For a moment his temper and urgent need to spill his seed almost made him refuse, but he understood the necessity of her establishing her command. He met her gaze, brushed his lips first to one arched brow, then the other. “I will take you to Bear Hall, lady mine, but you must promise me to return to here at noon, and grant me an hour of your time.”
“You are the best of husbands.” She kissed him full on the mouth and dared to tease his open with her tongue.
He growled, the rumble echoing into her, and broke the kiss. “You kiss me at your own risk of tardiness, wife. Come. Let us dress and while we don our garments, tell me the tale of how you gained victory over Helga with flowers and itching.”
Ainslin shot him a wary peek. “You are displeased? But truly, ’twas the only way I could think of to remove Helga and establish my authority. If she were around, she would’ve sown—”
Torsten stood, pulled her off the bed, and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist. “You misunderstand. I care not the how of it. I keep trying to picture Helga, the gift, and the bumps, and I needs know the details.”
Ainslin explained her plan and the roles Greta, Wilma, and Thora played. “Thora came to get me and Wilma. When we arrived at the kitchens, Helga was screaming and scratching and cursing the gods and all the ungrateful people of Stjórardalr. In truth, I was so overwhelmed with guilt that I nigh confessed, but Wilma swiftly intervened and told Helga that she could ease her suffering.”
Surprised when Ainslin ducked out of his embrace and hurried to the other side of the bed, he grabbed his breeches from his garment chest, and followed her. “Is aught amiss?”
She promptly burst into a fit of violen
t giggles and collapsed onto the bed.
“Ruard could not stop laughing when he told me what he knew last eve,” Torsten commented, he sat next to her, and patted her back. “Catch your breath, elska.”
It took Ainslin some time to regain her composure. “Oh, Torsten. ’Twas a sight to behold. Helga, naked and submerged in a tub of snow and water, angry red bumps over every bit of her skin. She called me a witch, Wilma a sorceress, and vowed never to set foot on Stjórardalr again. She nigh threw the household keys at me, and those to the spice chests. I will have to confess my sins to the priest.”
Torsten palmed her beautiful face. “You cannot stop grinning. Methinks the deed will be worth whatever penance your priest doles out.”
Chapter Twelve
By noon on the following day, Ainslin began to believe that between herself, Greta, Wilma, and Thora they had the food and drink for the wedding feast under control.
Multiple fires roasting beef, venison, hog—Torsten had insisted on hunting for her favorite meat first thing that morn—mutton, swine, duck, and goat had the kitchens so hot almost all working there wore layers of sweat. Wide, shallow cauldrons sat atop the low fires of the kitchen hearths roasting honey and butter drizzled cabbage, beets, leeks, onions, seaweed, peas, and mushrooms. Makeshift fire pits outside the kitchens cooked cauldrons of Fiskesuppe, a stew native to country, made with cod, salmon, turnips, carrots, parsnips, and wild celery.
Though Ainslin had removed her sleeves a while back, perspiration banded her forehead, and she swiped the back of her hand at the moisture. “I vow, the thought of a swim in a tub of snow and cold water sounds wonderful to me right now.”
Greta, who was in command of the sweets to be served at the end of the feast, announced, “We have yet to finish the cloudberry puddings, the crabapple and nut cakes, and the sloes and plum tarts. Milady, I fear your swim will have to wait for a few days.”
“Aye, and the rushes in the hall still have to be changed, the smoked fish needs to be warmed, the casks of ale and wine have not arrived from the village ale house,” Thora declared.
Ainslin frowned, not at the work left to be done, but by something Greta mentioned. “A few days?”
“Aye, milady, the feasting will last for five eves. Each day, the men will hunt, the farmers and their thralls will forage for vegetables, and we will begin cooking again,” Greta explained.
“Five eves?” Ainslin reeled. How had none informed her of this? How had Torsten not informed her? She felt like kicking his shin, or cuffing his shoulder, but ’twould probably hurt her more than him.
A five day feast was unheard of even at King Canute’s court. A celebration lasted at most two days, and, on the third, all departed.
Dismay had Ainslin stymied. The people of the keep would be nigh exhausted by the time the celebrations were completed. Mayhap she should have welcomed Helga’s assistance, but—nay—Torsten’s step-sister would’ve hindered her at every opportunity. Ainslin gathered her mettle and resolved to ensure that the food and drink, not only never flagged, but exceeded in taste and amount each eve.
Greta winced. “Did the jarl not tell you, milady?”
“Nay,” Ainslin replied, thoughts of pinching Torsten’s ears filling her mind. “Know you where is the jarl?”
Thora answered, “One of the thralls said he’s in the stables seeing to new arrivals.”
Before she could ask for directions, Ainslin spotted Torsten in the kitchen doorway surveying the activity. Keeping Torsten in focus, she hastened to him. When she neared him, a knight with a polished helm in his hand appeared at his side. The man had a familiar face, but still wore his hauberk, and she couldn’t place him.
“Ainslin,” Torsten’s voice carried over the din in the kitchen. “Sigrid, Earl of Northdam, has arrived at the same time as your sons and my brother, Jarvik.”
Bile rushed up her throat, her stomach roiled. Ainslin’s nails bit into her palms as she fought to contain her panicked terror. Yearning to sprint to her sons, she deliberately slowed her steps, and took three deep inhales.
“My lords,” Ainslin greeted the two men, dipping a curtsey first to Torsten and then to Sigrid. “Welcome, Earl Northdam.”
The words tasted bitter.
“Ainslin,” Sigrid intoned.
“Pray, my lord. Where are my sons?” Ainslin directed the question to Torsten.
“Your steward and his wife have taken them to the lodge.” He held her gaze, a wealth of unsaid warning in his eyes.
Ainslin near fainted with relief.
Brom and Rob were here.
Feisal and Eileen were here.
But, so was Sigrid.
“King Canute’s representative, Svein Knútsson, also arrived yesterday. He brought a missive for me from the king, and I must needs answer immediately. I will accompany you to our lodge, wife, and attend to my duty while you attend to yours.”
Torsten pivoted to address Sigrid. “Do you hunt, Earl Northdam?”
Sigrid of Northdam didn’t bother to hide the insult he felt. “Better than even King Canute himself. No man bests me in the hunt.”
“Then you will be pleased to accompany the hunt my brothers, Njal and Jarvik, are about to lead.” Torsten signaled and Njal and Jarvik, appeared at his side. “Allow me to introduce them to you. To the right is Njal, to the left, Jarvik.”
“A pleasure,” Njal inclined his head.
“The Earl and I met earlier at Stjórardalr’s harbor. Howbeit, I have not met my new sister. Lady Ainslin, I am Jarvik, youngest brother to your husband.” Jarvik favored Ainslin with a flamboyant bow worthy of a royal courtier.
Discombobulated and dizzy, Ainslin sank into a low curtsey. “Welcome Jarvik, I thank you for your service.”
For bringing her sons to Stjórardalr safe and sound, Jarvik would have her undying gratitude. She could scarce bring her gaze to Sigrid and the nearness of his feared countenance had panic shattering her reason. She attempted to collect the questions rioting through her mind.
Why had the king sent Svein? What did Sigrid know?
She fought to keep her turmoil from her face.
Njal clamped his palm to his chest. “We will see you at the feast anon, brother. ’Twill be our pleasure to keep Earl Sigrid entertained while you attend to your duties. Earl, Jarvik informs me your ship is of the new design now favored in Mercia. Mayhap you would give us a tour after the hunt?”
At once she understood Torsten’s strategy. Sigrid would not have a moment alone betwixt now and the feast. Some of her hysteria receded.
“’Twould be my pleasure,” Sigrid said, his tone frustrated and infuriated.
Ainslin had heard that tone before when Hadrain had forbidden Sigrid the carnal use of a serving wench and banished the girl, for her safety, to the care of the burly blacksmith, her father.
Torsten uttered not a word, but simply watched the three men, Njal, Jarvik, and Sigrid, leave the kitchen. He gestured again and one of the warriors wearing his colors, blue and gold, appeared. “Take another man and follow Earl Northdam. One of you report to me at once if he manages to escape my brothers’ guard, the other stick to Northdam like a tick on a bull.”
“Aye, aye, milord.” The warrior repeated the same chest touching gesture Njal had given his brother moments before.
Torsten extended an arm. “Make me acquainted with my new sons.”
His sons? He won her heart once more with the claim. Tears of joy pricked at Ainslin’s eyes. She met his gaze and smiled, laying her hand on his. As they walked through the hall, Torsten murmured, “All will be well, Ainslin.”
“Why is he here now? Lavanya has been dead three winters,” Ainslin whispered.
Torsten kept their pace to a lazy stroll even after the longhouse vanished from sight, while all she yearned to do was gallop to her boys.
“Fear not, Ainslin. You and the boys are mine now. I will see no harm befalls any of you.” Torsten placed his other hand on hers and gave her a little squeeze. “
We will speak of the feast until we are safely ensconced in the lodge. How goes the preparation for our wedding feast?”
All at once her ire returned. “Think you, you could not have informed me ’tis to last five eves, my lord?”
“Take care, wife. You well know I dislike your my lording. Choose to use that title when you wish to pick a fight. Methinks you should have more pressing concerns at the moment,” Torsten warned.
“How was I to know? ’Tis one thing to plan food for one eve and one morn, but five?” She sighed, knowing her upset with him didn’t matter anymore.
“Ask Helga to stay if you need help,” Torsten suggested.
Ainslin rolled her eyes. “Nay. I will manage.”
“I can assign some of the squires and pages to the kitchens if that will help.” He offered.
He could be so thoughtful and so dense. “Aye. ’Twill be of great assistance.”
Their lodge came into view and her excitement soared. How she craved to touch and hold her sons. That she had not birthed the boys meant naught. She loved them as if they were her own.
“Relax now, wife. I have guards stationed all around the lodge. Five warriors are assigned to guard you and the boys at all times. Are you ready, elska?” He halted and ran his knuckles over her cheek. “’Tis wonderful to see your eyes shining with happiness.”
All feeling save that of gratefulness and affection dissipated. In less than three days, she had come to care for Torsten more than any other save her Mama and Papa. “My thanks, Torsten, for everything.”
They climbed the steps and he opened the door.
Another notion occurred to her as they entered the hearth and dining front room. “How did Feisal and Eileen get here so quickly? I only told you of them two eves ago.”
He chuckled. “When Jarvik arrived at Castle Næss to pick up the boys, your steward and his wife refused to give Rob and Brom to Jarvik unless he agreed to take the two of them along.”
She owed Feisal and Eileen more than she could ever repay. “’Tis exactly what I have come to expect from them, but that they arrived at the same time as Sigrid. ’Tis cannot be a simple coincidence. Can it?”
