by Jianne Carlo
“I am inclined to think not. Worry not, sweetling, you will all be safe. Now, ’tis time to greet our sons, so shake off that frown.” He twined their fingers together and pressed his lips to her temple. “Feisal and Eileen have one of the back rooms, and our sons, the other. Their presence plus ours will ensure that Rob and Brom are never alone.”
Reassured by the protective measures Torsten had taken, she let the tension seep from her rigid spine, and her stiff neck muscles. “I cannot wait to see my sons.”
’Twas only then she realized that he had said our sons not once, not twice, but thrice today. “Beg pardon, husband. Our sons. I have long thought of them as mine alone, but from this day forward no more.”
He guided her down the hallway, past their chamber, past the entrance to the log hut that contained the hot stones and the springs, and around a bend. Here the corridor widened into a small room with two open doors at either end.
She glimpsed a chestnut mop of hair, a chubby torso wearing a knee-length tunic, and a pair of bare legs, and two feet with wriggling toes.
“Rob,” she called
The boy whipped around and nigh overbalanced, but righted himself. “Mama!”
At the sound of Rob’s high-pitched wail, Ainslin dropped to her knees and flung her arms wide. Her child ran into her embrace. “Rob. I am so happy you’re here.”
She stroked his back and sniffed his hair. “Where’s Brom?”
“Here, Mama.”
Ainslin looked up to find Brom standing next to Eileen in front of the open doorway, waving a chunk of bread in the air. She lifted Rob, who straddled his long legs over her hipbone, and rose to her feet.
“I rode a horse, Mama. I saw the sea. And I sailed a ship,” Rob bellowed in her ear.
“Did not,” protested Brom as he toddled in her direction, chewing on the crusty end of the morsel.
When he reached Ainslin, Brom craned his neck to stare at Torsten, who stood at her side. “Are you our new papa?”
“I am,” Torsten answered.
“Brom, Rob, meet your new papa, Jarl Torsten,” Ainslin said.
“What is a jarl?” Rob piped as he wriggled free of her hold and slipped to the floor.
Ainslin didn’t anticipate Torsten’s reaction. He chuckled, squatted, and scooped a boy in either arm. “A jarl is a leader of men.”
Rob touched Torsten’s clean-shaven face. “You lead men in battle?”
“Are you a warrior?” Brom asked before he crammed the remaining chunk of bread into his mouth.
“I am,” Torsten replied. He glanced over his shoulder, and flashed her a grin. “And this is your new home.”
Her eyes filled with unshed tears and she wanted to swear fealty to him, to let him know he had her undying loyalty from this day on.
Both Brom and Rob began peppering Torsten with questions, their voices growing louder as each brother attempted to garner the Jarl’s sole attention. Torsten wore a bemused expression Ainslin knew well. Her sons were not of the strong, silent warrior bent and she frequently wished for blessed silence.
“Nay,” Torsten near bellowed. “One question at a time. Who is the elder?”
Rob pouted and then wailed, “Mama, ’tis not fair. Why did you not have me first? Why is Brom always first?”
“A warrior does not bewail the order of things,” Torsten explained. “Nor does he seek his mother’s assistance. Do you not aspire to your own sword, Rob?”
Eileen’s gaze met Ainslin’s and both women smiled. Ainslin ran over to the woman, who was part mother, part friend, part advisor, and hugged her tightly. “My thanks, Eileen, for coming without my even asking.”
“Feisal and I could not allow the twins to travel alone. And I missed you dearly.” Eileen returned her attention to Torsten and the boys. “Your Jarl will soon have the boys sorted.”
“He is a good man. I have been most fortunate. Where is Feisal?”
“Right here, milady.” Feisal walked out of the second door. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”
Ainslin, Eileen, and Feisal followed Torsten and the boys back to the main chamber, Ainslin marveling at the boys’ sudden silence. Torsten’s long stride took him out of hearing distance in mere minutes.
“Eileen, how comes Earl Northdam to the Norse lands?” Ainslin linked arms with the steward’s wife.
Feisal, walking alongside Ainslin, answered, “’Tis we who are with him, my lady. The earl journeys in support of King Canute who would be King of England, Denmark, and Norway. Jarl Torsten’s brother arranged our passage on his ship.”
Eileen set her mouth to Ainslin’s ear. “Earl Sigrid does not suspect.”
“How can you be cert?” Ainslin met the other woman’s glance. “Rob and Brom have dark brown hair nigh the color of Sigrid’s, and both have three dimples like he does Their eyes are the color of honey, again, the same as his. My eyes are green and my hair is the color of daffodils. Hadrain’s eyes were blue. I know not what his hair color used to be since he was bald most of my life.”
“Both Feisal and I are cert, my lady. Do not worry.”
Ainslin knew Eileen wanted to reassure her, but she couldn’t help wonder how Sigrid could not see the resemblance.
“We listened when he spoke Norse to his warriors and not once did he speak of the boys. Indeed, he banned them from his presence. Methinks he dislikes babes and children.”
Sigrid had banned the boys from his presence? Surely, that was a good omen. Ainslin had forgotten Eileen’s fluency in the Norse language.
“Eileen, what does elska mean?” Ainslin regretted the blurted query immediately.
“’Tis Norse for dearling or sweetling, my lady.”
A blush warmed Ainslin from head to toe.
Torsten had deposited the boys on a rug in front of the hearth, where a low fire popped and crackled. To Ainslin’s utter shock and delight, the boys were playing with a wooden array of toys. Each twin had in front of him a tiny bear, a hog, a sheep with two little lambs, a helmeted warrior carrying a shield, and a small wooden sword.
Rob and Brom couldn’t decide which toy to play with and kept picking up one in each hand, and then squealing and dropping their handful for two others.
Amazed at the abundancy of carvings, she lifted her gaze to Torsten’s, only to find him looking abashed. “Torsten? I have never seen two children with so many toys. How on earth did you accumulate so many?”
He shrugged. “Last winter was particularly dark and gloomy and devoid of visitors. I enjoy carving.”
Speechless, she could only gape at him. He had carved the toys himself. For boys not of his loins. If ’twere not for Eileen and Feisal and the twins’ presence she would have thrown herself into his arms. No doubt existed in her mind any longer. She had fallen in love with her Viking husband.
“I needs leave you, now. I have to deliver this answer to the king’s message. He has invited us to attend his coronation in Trondheim. Earl Sigrid is also invited. So, worry not, wife. Sigrid’s destination is Trondheim, not Bjarndýr Skáli.”
Ainslin let out the breath she didn’t know she held. “But, he is here. Why?”
His hand firmed around her neck, his thumb stroked her jaw, and the storm in his eyes told Ainslin of his desire. “My brother, Njal, spent much time at the king’s court in Mercia. He says the gossip there is of how he lusts after you. ’Tis said that he tumbles only women with your hair and eye color. He came after you. Methinks in the hopes of tupping you should you be dissatisfied with your barbaric Viking husband.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Methinks, Earl Sigrid is here for your blood, brother,” Njal proclaimed.
The waning sun cast shadows over the rippling lake, in which Torsten, Jarvik, Ruard, and Njal swam. Between the evening’s feast and their sons’ frantic energy, though he craved to sheathe his cock in her heat, Torsten had decided Ainslin needed rest rather than his lustful attentions. ’Twas the reason he agreed to swim before the banquet began.
Torsten snorted. “What? He murders me and claims Ainslin? Even with the full force of his retinue, Sigrid and his men are outnumbered three-to-one by our warriors.”
“You have the right of it, brother. Yet, I agree with Njal having spent the better part of the day with the man. Sigrid seethes with fury. The way he undresses your wife with his eyes is an insult. He doesn’t bother to hide his licentious intent. That says to me, he has some devious scheme. Mayhap poison?” Jarvik suggested.
“With so many here for the feast, including servants and thralls, ’twould be easy to slip one of his men into the kitchens,” Ruard concurred.
“Aye. All that is so, but he will be seated at the head table, and Ainslin is wont to prepare the food for the dais herself, even to the point of making the bread. How could he target me, alone, and be assured of success? Nay. Methinks he has some other treachery in mind.” But what? Torsten had wracked his brain since Sigrid’s arrival and still had no answers.
“Assign trusted guards to the kitchens, particularly the wine and the ale reserved for the head table. ’Tis cannot hurt,” Njal advocated.
“Nay, it cannot. We must be vigilant not only this eve, but each morn, noon, and night for as long as the feast continues. The sun rims the horizon. ’Tis time for us to dress for the meal,” Torsten announced.
“Aye.” Jarvik struck out for the shore.
The three brothers followed and made a race of it. Ruard, who swam like a powerful whale, cried victory.
As they dried off, Njal offered Torsten one more pearl of observation. “Sigrid cares not for children, be they male or female. While we hunted this aft, he slapped more than one boy assigned to gather fallen pigeons and squabs. And when we returned to the stables, he threw a horn of ale at a serving girl crying that the brew was bitter. Methinks, he would have hit her too, if I had not been around.”
Torsten had overheard Eileen saying something similar about Sigrid’s dislike of young ones in reassurance to Ainslin at the lodge. Another part of the puzzle he could not fit into place.
Unfortunately, rank determined the order of seating at the head table for a banquet. When Torsten realized that meant Sigrid sat one down from Ainslin with only Jarl Olsson between them, he fumed. He had expected Jarl Gulaksen, another close neighbor and ally, to attend, but apparently the man had contracted a violent stomach ailment. Gulasken would have added one more body between Ainslin and Sigrid.
The feast began with Torsten’s welcome speech and the introduction of Ainslin as the new Lady of Stjórardalr. He kept his felicitations short, but spared no praise in his presentation of his wife to all assembled. His words were possessive and contained an inherent warning to one particular Earl. Sigrid noticed. His face went ruddy and if ears could emit smoke, his would have.
“Be at ease, elska,” Torsten murmured to Ainslin. He captured her hand and, knowing Sigrid couldn’t miss his action, rested their twined fingers on the table. “Bjarndýr Skáli has never shone as bright as it does this eve. I am proud of all you’ve accomplished.”
Green eyes glittering with joy, she queried, “I please you, husband?”
“Aye, Ainslin, you please me well.” He bent close to her ear, his lips brushed the tip, and the slight contact had his pecker standing at attention. “And I will show you how much later in our lodge.”
“Torsten. Eileen says elska means dearling. ’Tis so?” He loved the tender way she covered their joined hands.
“Aye. You are my dearling wife, Ainslin.” And he meant every single word and so much more.
“Then, Torsten, you are my love.”
Astonished, he could do not but stare at her.
She loved him.
He had won her heart.
The crowded hall faded into a blur.
He heard naught but the echo of her fierce pronouncement.
Smelled only the floral spring of the soap she used.
Where their hands touched, his skin felt ablaze.
“Torsten.” Ruard, seated on his other side, elbowed him in the side.
Reluctantly, Torsten tore his dazed gaze away from his wife’s, and demanded, “What is so important?”
“Ainslin must signal for the food. All are waiting.” Ruard fair hissed in exasperation. “By the gods, I hope I never suffer from the ailment of caring for a woman.”
“You should be so fortunate as I am,” Torsten asserted. He turned back to his dearling wife. “You must signal for the food to begin serving.”
The feast began in earnest with Ainslin’s wave of her hand.
“What do we eat, this eve wife?” Torsten watched as young lads and girls carrying platters entered the great hall. As with keeping with tradition, the head table was served first.
“I take no credit for the planning of the courses. ’Twas all Helga’s doing. I must admit to admiration for her skills at managing a five day feast.” She grasped his arm and all he could think of was her fingers on his cock. “You must promise to include Helga in your thanks when you end the banquet this eve for she leaves on the morrow, and I would have her know her hard work was acknowledged.”
Astonished by her generosity, he acquiesced, “Your wish is my command. I will praise Helga in my speech. So, tell me of the coming food for I am ravenous.”
“Cold smoked fish platters, steamed shrimp, scallops and mussels, boiled King and Brown crabs, Fiskuppe with brown bread, and then mutton stew. After that boiled and stuffed fowl, platters of assorted roasted meats accompanied by vegetables, trays of hard cheeses supplemented with berry jams and hulled barley flat breads. And to end the meal, cloudberry pudding, crabapple and nut cakes, and sloes and plum tarts.” Ainslin ticked off each course as she named them.
“You licked your lips when you mentioned the shrimp. ’Tis a particular favorite of yours?” Mayhap he’d get Greta to prepare a bowl for them to eat later on.
“Oh aye. The shrimp I ate before coming here were as big as your finger. True, they were tasty. But the tiny shrimp from the waters here at Stjórardalr—why I could eat two score without blinking. They are sweet and salty and delicious. Methinks, my mouth’s watering right now.” Ainslin paused when the wench assigned to the head table served her and Torsten first as required by tradition. She felt for her eating knife, attached by rope to her girdle.
But, Torsten stayed her with a raised hand. “Nay, wife. This eve, I serve you.”
Never had he enjoyed a meal more. He learned every single one of Ainslin’s preferences and discovered she did indeed love the boiled shrimp coated in rich butter. He fed her both her portion and the one he’d taken for himself.
But, as the night wore on, she ate less and less. When the mutton stew was brought out, he noticed a thin sheen of perspiration covering her forehead and more beads of sweat on the supple skin between her nose and upper lip.
“Ainslin, are you well? You are so pale.” Torsten grasped her shoulder and turned her on the bench to face him.
“I’m just a little dizzy. ’Tis overwarm in here.” She propped her brow on the back of her hand. “In truth, mayhap I ate something that didn’t agree with me. My stomach roils inside.”
Jarvik’s comment about poison reared like an ugly gorgon. Panic crashed through Torsten. He pivoted and grabbed Ruard. “Ainslin is dizzy and sweating and her belly aches. I’m taking her to Wilma the Wise. Don’t let that bugger out of your sight.”
“Walk her out, Torsten. You don’t want Sigrid aware of what’s happening. Not to worry, we will handle all. I will make a bawdy joke about eager brides and husbands.”
Torsten helped Ainslin to her stand, he wrapped his arms around her, and lifted her off the dais.
Ruard lurched to his feet and roared, “Behold, my brother is too eager to wait until the last course. Prick her well, hard, and long, Jarl.”
Vaguely aware of the stomping and clunking and roaring behind him, Torsten kept a firm arm around Ainslin’s waist, and a close eye on the increasing pastiness of the cheek nearest him.
Thora, who had been assigned to oversee the hall, came to him, as soon as he neared the kitchens. “My lord, what’s wrong? Why is milady green?”
“Green?” He swept Ainslin off her feet and searched her features. She’d gone from nigh colorless to a ghostly white-tinged green. “Where is Wilma?”
“Helping Greta cook, my lord.”
“Tell her to get her supplies and come to the lodge. I have reason to believe my wife has been poisoned. Tell her to hurry.” Torsten had faced his first violent battle at fourteen summers and he had pissed himself he was so scared, but the mere notion his precious wife could be dying had him petrified.
Jarvik appeared at his side. “I called for your steed. I’ll help you with her.”
Time went by too slowly. It took forever to get Ainslin to the lodge, longer for Eileen and him to get her into bed, and an eternity before Wilma arrived at their bedroom.
But, it took the blink of an eye for Ainslin to begin vomiting her insides out. Wilma and Eileen exiled him to the main chamber when he berated them for not giving her some herbal remedy. He sat in his chair, elbows on knees, palms jammed against his forehead, and he did something he had never done in his life before.
He prayed.
To Eir, to Freya, the goddesses of healing.
To Odin because of his mightiness.
To the Christian god Ainslin believed in. He promised the Lord Jesus she had spoken of that he would build a Christian church in his holding if she lived.
“My lord.”
Torsten let his hands fall and glimpsed Feisal standing near. “You have news?”
“Aye. Wilma and Eileen both agree, ’tis bad food. They forced her to empty her belly and she is dozing. Her color has returned.” Feisal scrubbed a hand over his bearded jaw. “Eileen and I have cared for her since her mother passed. She scared me out of my wits this eve. Milady never sickens save…”
Torsten heard naught beyond her color has returned. The Christian god, this Jesus, had powers greater than Odin, Eir, and Freya combined.
She would live.
He had to see her. “Go tell those women they will not chase me from my wife again. I will see her and I will see her now.”
