Bjarndýr Skáli, 1029 A.D. Spring
Fields had been ploughed, the gentle rains nourished wheat grains into tender sprouts, swallows and sparrows built nests in bough branches, the air hummed with spring song, chirps, toad croaks, piglets squealing. Torsten surveyed his lands and felt well content, the mild spring weather a harbinger of a bountiful fall harvest. The tentative peace that had settled over the lands after King Canute’s coronation still held.
Ainslin had safely birthed a girl child, Inga, a raven-haired babe with emerald eyes, dimples, and a gurgling laugh that never failed to make his stomach clench. Jarvik, Magnus, Njal, and Ruard teased him mercilessly about his entrancement and swore last eve that if he mentioned his daughter more than thrice a meal, they would all take him on the training ground.
The dusting of misty clouds sparing him the full heat of the sun vanished as a strong east-west breeze cleared the blue skies. Torsten shifted restlessly in the saddle and abruptly called off his inspection of his tenant farms. He touched his heels to Prúðr’s flanks, the stallion broke into a gallop, and steed and jarl raced to his lodge.
He dismounted, jaunted the four steps to the landing, and threw open the pine door. He grinned when he found chamber after chamber empty, knowing where he would find his family. Ainslin had discovered the hot springs that fed the bathhouse also fed the lagoon located in a nook in the mountainside. During her pregnancy, they had spent many memorable nights and days of pleasure in the shallow pool.
Bursting around the bend, he drank in the sight of his wife, daughter, and two sons cavorting in the warm waters.
“Papa,” Rob squealed. “Inga belched like a warrior.”
He glanced to Ainslin, who grimaced and agreed, “She did, but mayhap her new brother will belch louder.”
“New brother?” He hardly dared hope.
“Or sister, we shall know by first snowfall,” Ainslin replied gifting him with the beatific smile of the virgin who’d come to his bed many moons ago.