Torsten studied his slumbering wife and a wry grin quirked his mouth.
Not once had she tossed or turned, not while he dressed and armed himself, not even after he fetched her trunks from the cottage she and her nurse, Martha, had occupied during the last couple of days. She slept like the dead.
But, he had kept her awake and active until dawn’s glorious red and orange streaks lightened the dark horizon. Because he had observed her mellow nature, the tender care she showed for her sons, he had anticipated having to woo her gently and slowly. He had not expected her passionate response to him. In truth, naught that occurred last night could he have predicted.
He had taken her maidenhead. No man had ever known her carnally. Pride puffed his ribcage to bursting. She was his and his alone. Yet, he had been crude and crass in the taking of her. Too overcome with lust to care for her as he should have. He vowed to court her with more finesse.
And prayed to the gods his vaunted discipline would return and allow him to do so, but her sweet, innocent, ardent enjoyment of their fucking did him in. When she insisted on kissing his pecker, he had spilled his seed like a gawky and immature boy of three and ten summers who had never swived a woman.
Self-disgust crashed over him.
Ever since his fifth and tenth year when he attained his warrior status, he adhered to a strict routine and prided himself on his discipline. Never had a woman shattered his self-control—until Ainslin. He had hoped that once he’d had her, her appeal would lessen.
He snorted.
Even now he lingered too long simply because he enjoyed watching her flushed skin, the way she curled her knees to her elbows, and slept with her hands under one cheek.
Lout, dolt—to be so addlepated about a mere female.
No more.
Ainslin belonged to him, now. She would know her place as his wife. He had loitered too long in her company and could not afford the distraction of her when more important matters needed his attention.
’Twas time to immerse himself in the ways of men. Aye. This day he would train with his men and reinforce the self-restraint inherent to him.
Torsten marched to the door of his bed chamber, glanced back, hesitated for a moment, but forced his legs to stalk forward through the lodge. Once outside in the crisp spring air, he hurried to Bear Hall. As he marched through the doorway, Ruard greeted him with a shout.
Seated at the head table, his brother hefted a horn of ale, and saluted him. “To your bride, brother, and your wedding night.”
His men all stood at once and raised their horns and bellowed, “To Jarl Torsten and his new bride.”
Torsten inclined his head in acknowledgment of the group toast. He strolled around the dais, jumped the two-foot height, and eased his chair away from the table.
One of the many kitchen boys approached and filled Torsten’s horn with ale. He raised the carved utensil. “To your new lady, Ainslin of Stjórardalr.”
His men roared the pledge and all drank.
When the din receded, Torsten sat and addressed Ruard. “I thank you for standing proxy for me yester eve.”
“’Twas my honor. Your lady is lovely. Such a meek and mild woman. She did not speak unless I addressed her directly. She appears eager to please.”
Meek and mild?
Torsten strangled a hoot of laughter.
Eager to please?
Mayhap.
A wench carrying a basket of bread approached the head table. At Ruard’s and Torsten’s signals, she placed a small loaf on each of their wooden plates. Kitchen boys wove their way to the two men and, in short order, jam, cheese, smoked bacon, and a thick porridge filled their dishes.
“Any word from Jarvik?” Torsten broke off a chunk of bread and used his eating knife to slather the Bilberry jam on a thick slice.
“Nay. I must say, brother, that I did not expect you to welcome her sons. They are another man’s get.” Ruard scooped his porridge into his mouth.
Aye.
Earl Sigrid of Northdam.
Torsten bit off a piece of cheese. It tasted rancid. He decided not to tell Ruard what he had learned last eve.
“She cares for the lads and will be more content with them here.” Torsten washed away the sour flavor coating his tongue with a mouthful of ale. “Enough of my bride. After we break our fast, assemble the men. We will train all morn.”
Ruard grinned. “A man whose prick is well and truly sated has not the energy to spar the morning after his bedding night. Was she too timid? Did you not plow your sword thoroughly?”
Torsten didn’t bother to hide his smirk. “My sword will best yours this day. I wager you will crawl back to the hall for the náttverðr.”
“Nay. Yours will be the knees swollen and broken from crawling,” Ruard retorted.
Torsten spied Thora, the maid he’d chosen to attend Ainslin, eating the morning repast. Waving a hand, he gesticulated for her to attend him. She scrambled off her bench and nigh sprinted toward the dais.
She dipped a swift curtsey. “My Lord.”
“Attend to your mistress this morn, Thora. When I left the lodge Lady Ainslin still slept. Do not disturb her rest, but await her.”
“Aye, my lord. I will see to her right away.”
“Nay. Finish your meal, then go to her.” The young maiden’s nervousness in his presence proved palpable. The hands grasping her skirts twitched and she almost fell over attempting a deep curtsey.
Before he left the hall, Torsten summoned Helga and ordered her to send food to the lodge for Ainslin to break her fast. Not knowing whether Ainslin could read, he also gave Helga verbal instructions for whomsoever took the tray to her, bidding his wife rest until he returned to the lodge to escort her to the noon meal.
’Twas a full hour later before Ruard and Torsten arrived at the practice field. Over three score warriors and their attendants filled the immense meadow.
After dividing the men into smaller groups, Torsten and Ruard decided to spar. Since it approached mid-day, the full circle of the sun hung in the middle of a flawless powder blue sky. With no wind to cool the blazing fire of the globe above them, both men shed their tunics, and engaged in a furious melee. The two brothers were equally matched, with Ruard being more nimble, and Torsten more muscular and powerful.
Metal clanged, men bellowed and grunted, boys on the verge of manhood egged on all the fighting participants. Soon a tumultuous racket echoed off the surrounding mountains.
Hooves pounded dry, packed dirt.
The ground shook and rumbled beneath the warriors’ feet.
At first, Torsten didn’t notice the intruders, but some instinct made him bark, “Hold Ruard. Look yonder. Is that not two of Jarvik’s men?”
Two men mounted on black warhorses charged to the field.
Without hesitating, Torsten plunged four fingers in his mouth, and issued a piercing whistle. One by one, the battling warriors stilled.
Not more than a minute elapsed. The mounted men drew upon their reins and halted right in front of Ruard and Torsten. Both soldiers leaped off their horses and bowed to Torsten.
“My lord,” The larger of the two declared. “We come with an urgent message from your brother. He wishes to inform you that Earl Sigrid of Northdam heads this way. One of your lady’s sons took ill last eve and cannot travel. Jarvik and the boys will arrive on the morrow.”
Sigrid? Here?
He cursed the gods, Mother Nature, fortune, and his own stupidity. Sigrid must suspect something. A bolt of panic struck him. He needed to secure Ainslin immediately. Imprison her in his lodge and ensure that Sigrid never saw her and never saw the sons he had fathered.
»»•««
Ainslin awoke to find Torsten gone.
She stretched her arms over her head and her erect nipples brushed against the silky, but cool, sheets. A shiver crept across her shoulders. She pulled the crisp linen up to her nose and the faint aroma of Torsten, all male and musky, had her smiling so broadly, her cheeks ached. Sensual images of their entwined and joined bodies from the night before heated her flesh. Her woman’s parts tingled.
A peek out the window showed the sun high in the sky. Shocked she, who rose with the cock’s crow every day, had slept till what must be near luncheon, Ainslin scrambled off the well-appointed bed. In daylight, Torsten’s chamber appeared more luxuriant and spacious. A crackling fire blazed in the stone hearth opposite where she stood.
Had Torsten returned to feed more logs?
Or had a maid stoked the flames?
Then she noticed her two trunks underneath the half-shuttered window.
Had she slumbered so deeply that she had not heard both metal chests’ arrival?
A flicker of panic had her rocking on her heels.
She prayed Torsten had been the one to retrieve her trunks and not one of his men. She had been naked under the sheets. She did not want Torsten to believe her a wanton female. Although, after her greedy caressing of his pecker last night…she covered her face with her hands.
What must he think of her?
Straightening her spine, she marched over to the gleaming chests, and opened both. “Why did he not wake me? Now all will think me a slugabed.”
The empty chamber did not reply.
Ainslin heaved a sigh. “I will prove them wrong this very day.”
Helga had met her match, she vowed.
Determined to prove her worth and claim her position as the new lady of Bear Hall, Ainslin donned a cream, high-necked chemise, a forest green front-laced crytel with cream ribbons, matching hose and garters, and her half boots. She found her ivory comb, brushed the tangles from her locks, braided her hair, and used a matching emerald ribbon to secure the plait.
Satisfied her dress and hair were in accordance of her status as the wife of the Jarl of Stjórardalr, she smoothed an errant lock into place. Taking a deep breath for courage, she headed to the front chamber, and opened the door.
The sun hung like an enormous golden ball in the precise middle of a sky so blue and splendid the hue stole her breath. Standing on the first landing before the few steps leading to a worn path, she surveyed her surroundings.
What a beautiful vista lay before her.
A dense forest of thick-trunked pines blocked the left side of the lodge. She had to crane back to glimpse the needles of the tips of the trees shaking in the wind. Yet, though the breeze blustered up above, the wall formed by the woods checked the gusts near the lodge to a gentle stream.
Inhaling the perfume of spring, the smells all fresh and piney, she made her way down the steps, and followed the trail to the longhouse. She kept a brisk pace, but scrutinized all the cottages and thatched roofs in the distance.
‘Twas easy to match sounds to buildings.
The intermittent lowing of cows came from a long and narrow structure on her left. Fenced off pastures verdant with a thick carpet of grass divided the area between the stables and the cattle yards. Lumbering hogs with swollen bellies rolled in the muddied banks of a brook bristling down the slight slopes leading to flatter land.
An elongated lake to the right of what must be Bear Hall appeared to run right into the horse-shoe shaped harbor far away in the distance. Several longships with sails of brilliant colors, here a deep scarlet, there a pristine white, another the shade of a dusky deer, bobbed and weaved on the surface of a sparkling sapphire sea.
She rounded the corner of a hut and spied three rosy-cheeked girls scattering feed to a bountiful flock of chickens squawking and flapping wings and pecking at the ground and each other. A herd of geese alerted to the source of easy and available food took flight and added cawing and honking to the tumultuous racket.
Ainslin had to grin when one of the girls dropped her basket and covered her ears with her hands. The hullabaloo was deafening. She hurried past the girls and the hens and breathed a sigh of relief when the ruckus receded.
Bear Hall stood in the center of a high and wide flat-topped mound.
Pausing to study the exterior, she admired the massive structure, which she estimated to be at least twice the height of her over-tall husband. Plumes of charcoal smoke wafted from wooden smoke-holes on opposite ends of the longhouse’s heavily-turfed thatched roof.
Two smaller, but similar, buildings were located within a three-stride distance of either end of the longhouse. Not a single tree, shrub, or flower stained the low-cut grassy earth fronting the approach to the buildings. A lilting breeze ruffled the wisps of her hair that had escaped her braid while she walked.
She brushed the tickling locks away and near stumbled.
Four men armed with every weapon imaginable, cross bows, quivers of arrows, axes, swords, daggers, and strange long blades sculpted into a curve, guarded the mammoth slab of a door in the exact center of Bear Hall. Numerous warriors had defended Hadrain’s keep, but not a single man had carried so many dangerous weapons. Forcing her legs to continue strolling, she wondered why Torsten felt the need to defend what seemed like an isolated fortress.
Did enemies surround the holding?
As she neared the entrance to the longhouse, the four men on either side of the door bowed and clasped a palm to their left shoulder.
“Welcome milady,” four rumbling voices entombed.
Startled, she scanned each bearded face, and was even more surprised at their broad smiles and white teeth. She hadn’t anticipated that such fierce visages could actually spare a grin.
“Thank you,” she replied and, when one warrior threw the door open, hurried inside.
Scrumptious fragrances surged to her nose; the yeasty scent of bread baking, the mouth-watering odor of venison roasting, and a hint of the tart fragrance of vinegar. She sniffed the humid air and her stomach growled its emptiness.
Servants bustled in the hall carrying trays, buckets, balls of wool, and platters of food in different directions. Hearths at either ends of the room blazed. Fresh, balmy breezes chased the fires’ smoke through two open doorways, one on the furthest most right, and the other in a similar position on the left. She marveled at the stone fireplaces lodged snug and tight within the thick walls. Only in King Canute’s court had she first encountered the modern marvel of brick chimneys that absorbed the blistering smoke and haze produced by indoor fires.
Following the delicious food aromas, Ainslin threaded through the chamber. A slew of men bearing benches tromped into the hall. Behind them came a dozen or so warriors lugging trestle tables. She recognized the familiar preparations for the midday meal. Happy anticipation flowed through her. She had been raised to manage a keep and enjoyed every minute of performing her duties.
’Twas time to claim the keys to the keep and to Bear Hall’s spice chests.
Time to assert her authority as the new lady of Bjarndýr Skáli.
She strode to the open door on the left of the room and took three steps into the outbuilding nearest the longhouse, the kitchen. Hadrain had spoken of this new plan for a keep, separating the hall and living quarters from the kitchens because the latter was so prone to incineration, but this was her first encounter with such a design.
Four stone pits with raging fires were carved into each end of the rectangular kitchen. Numerous tables and benches filled the center of the chamber. Women, girls, and young boys worked at various tasks. Two lean and rangy spit lads turned a pair of roasting suckling hogs. An older woman worked a shiny ball of dough into a round loaf. Several seated females chopped an array of root vegetables.
Ainslin bit back a grin at the familiar babble of people at work. Voices, some low, some raised, some insistent, swarmed around her ears. She strained, but understood only small bits and phrases of the Norse being spoken.
The chattering voices trailed into silence as first one person, then another, and another, became aware of Ainslin’s presence. She steeled her spine when all eyes gawked at her.
At once, she spotted her nemesis seated on a bench at the center of a long table. Helga, in the midst of scolding and poking at a chubby girl of mayhap eight summers, stopped wagging her finger, and lifted her head.
Their stares locked in battle.
Helga threw her many chins into a challenging angle and pivoted to give Ainslin her broad and fattened back.
Furious at the woman for giving her the cut direct, Ainslin stomped to stand directly in front of Helga. “I am the lady of Bear Hall. The household keys are mine to keep.”