by Anthology
“She prefers seið-kona, and you would be best to address her with naught else.”
“And Harold Fairhair has been cursed by her?”
“I am certain he would like to believe he is not. But even now that his golden hair has turned white with age, he has yet to test the validity of her spell.” Gustaf tossed the last bundle to the ground and assisted Æsa from the horse before beginning his story. “’Tis rumored Harold once sought Halldora’s counsel, eager to know his future as king when he was but a lad. Upon a runestone, she foretold of a great man, blessed with long flaxen hair, whose domain would expand further than any king before him, should the boy offer a single lock to cast the spell in his favor. Harold, being arrogant and proud of his golden mane, laughed at Halldora, declaring she was naught more than a senseless old shrew with a talent for conjuring up illusions and false prophecies on the face of a fanciful carved stone. He threw his battle-ax at the boulder and it shattered at her feet. As he turned to leave on his prized stallion, Halldora called upon the powers of the seiðr and cast the fragments of stone in a wide circle, encompassing the entire valley and those few standing within it. A few uttered words later, Harold’s horse lit up in flames and she vowed the same would happen to him should he ever step foot beyond the perimeter again.”
“And you believe this?” Æsa asked skeptically, as Gustaf heaved his belongings on his back and carried them over to the base of a tree.
“’Tis not important if I believe it or even you. What matters is that Harold believes it. As long as he fears Halldora, my men’s families are safe.”
“And what about your family?” she inquired, knowing they lived off the west coast of Ireland.
“My brother, Dægan, never knew of Halldora or this place. He found a better home for our people, far away from Harold’s reach, where they would not need to live in secret.”
Æsa was surprised he mentioned his deceased brother. In all honesty, she wanted to know more about his family as he hardly ever spoke of them. He was a man who shared more than any other male she’d ever known, except for when it came to his family. She assumed it was because he spent so much of his life without them, never speaking of them in order to safeguard their lives.
As she watched him unroll two hides on the ground, she dismissed asking him about his loved ones. “We are staying here for the night?”
“Autumn has come and daylight hours grow short. The further inland we go, the colder it gets, especially at night. We are going to need a fire to survive.” He walked away, exchanging words with his men and sending two in search of nourishment, one to tend the horses, and the last to gather wood for a fire. The only warrior who did not receive a command was Øyven, who remained near his horse, tending to his feathered friend.
In the short time she’d spent with his men, she noticed Øyven often kept to himself, unless Snorri was around to badger him. He stood out as the youngest of the group, his true age hidden behind a face full of soft scruff. His eyes were kind and his smile, on the rare occasion when he chose to display it, lit up his youthful appearance.
Æsa walked over to him, watching how he regarded the falcon with tenderness and care. “May I stay with you for a while?”
Øyven’s eyes searched for Gustaf, probably seeking his chieftain’s approval before answering. Æsa noted the look the two men swapped, as if an unspoken permission was granted, and rolled her eyes. “Does he ever let you think for yourself?”
Øyven didn’t answer her. Instead, he set the cage down on the ground and untied his belongings from his horse.
Feeling discomfited in the silence that followed, she decided to change the subject. “Have you given a name to your bird?” It took a few seconds for the young man to answer, giving her time to poke a finger into the cage and stroke the silken feathers along the falcon’s wing. To her surprise, it did not snap its beak at her or avoid her touch. Øyven seemed to notice it as well, for he spread out his rolled hide and sat beside her with the cage between them.
“Her name is Sæhildr, after my mother.” Taking a thin leather strap from his belt, he opened the cage door and tied the line to the bird’s leg. The other, he secured to his wrist. Reaching in, he allowed the bird to find a perch on his gloved hand and brought it forward, rewarding it with a treat. The falcon gobbled it up and stretched its wings, flashing a beautiful array of brown and black patterned feathers.
Æsa petted the bird again and found it tolerating her affection.
“She is comfortable with you,” Øyven said.
“Sæhildr is beautiful.”
As if the bird enjoyed her praises, it flapped its wings, fluttered about with the tether at her ankle, and landed on Æsa’s shoulder. She felt reluctant to let it perch, though the thick wool of her cloak protected her from its sharp talons.
“Here, give her this.” Øyven produced a small chunk of bait from his pouch and gave it to Æsa. She giggled as the bird seized the food and swallowed, proud that she was interacting with such a marvelous animal.
In an instant, the falcon ascended in the air and returned to Øyven’s hand. “What?” he asked, admiring the keen intelligence of his new pet. “You think you shall gain another bite of food for this?”
Æsa laughed, uncertain what she enjoyed more—the fact that the bird learned to hop from person to person in hopes of gaining a treat or that Øyven was talking to it like it was a human being. As she sat with him, sharing the peregrine seemed to help him open up, and before long, they were enjoying each other’s company, so much that Æsa forgot about the nefarious men tailing them and Ragnar’s ring they’d left behind. The sound of wood clattering in a pile jarred her from her merriment.
A heap of wood and kindling lay at Gustaf’s feet. His dark gaze rested heavily on Øyven. Nervously, Øyven secured the falcon and returned it to its cage.
“I will go in search of water, m’lord,” Øyven said, excusing himself.
Æsa watched Øyven leave then regarded Gustaf’s reaction. “What was that for?”
“Until Jørgen and Snorri return, we should all remain alert. All of us.”
“Meaning?” she taunted.
“Meaning,” he reiterated with distain in his voice, “that the bird would be better use to us if left alone. Animals often hear and see things before we can.”
Like a scolded child, Æsa held her tongue as Gustaf walked toward Øyven’s horse and plucked a few strands of hair from its tail. Tying the binding at both ends of a stick, he created a makeshift bow to which he wrapped another stick, sharpened to a point, in the center. He worked to fashion a drill, using a rock and a spindle. With his foot and knee on a flat piece of wood, he held the rock atop the drilling stick and gripped the bow with his right. In a delicate balance of downward pressure and moving the bow back and forth, the drill stick spun. It took a long time of sawing the bow, but eventually a black powder formed and a sliver of smoke emitted from his relentless effort. With a tiny hot coal burning on the board, Gustaf carefully transferred it to the tinder of leaves and shredded cedar he’d set at the base of the tented wood. By fanning his hand, the coal ignited a flame and blazed through the kindling.
On his haunches, Gustaf waited for the wood to catch. When it snapped and crackled under the blaze, he sat back on the hide he’d spread out and slipped a dagger from his boot. With a sandstone in his grasp, he sat in silence, drawing the edge of his blade against the rock. Slowly, methodically.
Æsa recalled the last time she’d seen him do this. It was before he’d found the last man who murdered his father. She remembered the temperance in his movements, the long, slow strokes of his hand as he sharpened the weapon along the stone. Just as he’d done then, he sat lost in his own world, his mind tumbling with thoughts he’d yet to share.
She imagined it had something to do with feeling helpless. Right now, as they sat waiting for word from Jørgen and Snorri, the unknown was a heavier burden for him than knowing the truth and making the next calculated move. With Gustaf,
everything needed a plan, a goal through which a definite outcome could be seen in order to keep safe those he cherished. It was what he did to ensure his sanity. After losing his father, she suspected he vowed never to be on the unprepared side of treachery again.
“Does whetting your dagger dull the ache in your heart?”
Gustaf glanced at her and continued on with his task. “Of what ache do you speak?”
“The one that makes you fear the things beyond your control—the tragedies you could not prevent. Like your father’s death.”
She watched his hands shake at the mention of his father and how he tried to hide it by increasing the to-and-fro pace of his blade against the stone.
“You know me well,” he said without looking her way.
Æsa prepared her response in her head, hoping she’d not overstep her bounds. “I know you well enough to know you continue to punish yourself over his death. And now you punish yourself even more over me.”
“Dying a thousand deaths in my head to protect you is better than losing you one time in the flesh. I would never recover if I let anything happened to you.”
His voice was devoid of emotion, monotone as he laid open his heart for her. Most would think he was just being aloof, uncaring as he rattled off sentimental words in an impersonal way. But Æsa knew better. He was not only baring his soul to her, but doing so the only way he knew how; by occupying his mind and body with a simple task so his heart couldn’t entertain the idea of failure.
Moved by his words, she stood and made haste to join him on the hide. Dropping to her knees, she laid her hands atop his wrists, impeding his progress with the knife. His eyes met hers and they stared at one another.
Long, heartfelt seconds ticked by as she absorbed the magnitude of his pain. She plucked the tools from his hands and set them at his feet. “I am so sorry for bringing this burden upon you.” Gustaf opened his mouth for rebuttal, but she pressed her finger to his lips, feeding his words back to him. “Yesterday, you were without burden—at peace knowing you had fulfilled your duty as a loyal son. Ready to start your life anew…remember?”
He closed his eyes as if forcing himself to hear her and wait his turn.
“And now, I have thwarted your future happiness with a dark past that follows me everywhere I go. You can deny all you want what I used to be and pretend that I am a woman of worth if it makes it easier for you to accept my shame. But I know what I used to be and I will not let you add me to the list of things you will punish yourself for should you fail. I am not worth it. I am not worth any man’s grief. Or death,” she added.
Slowly, Gustaf opened his eyes and stared at her. His lips drew a straight line across his face. He removed her finger from his mouth and held her wrist in a tight grasp. “May I speak?”
Æsa nodded, steeling herself for the tongue-lashing she knew would follow. He took his time replying, which was worse than having him berate her on the spot. The look in his eyes foretold of his disappointment and his quiet reserve prefaced the exceptional temperance this man was capable of.
“I shall do my best to make myself clear,” he began, his eyes never leaving hers. “We all have a past and oftentimes we have an unfortunate moment in our existence we would rather erase from our memories. But it matters not what we have failed to do, but what we succeed in doing from those failed moments onward. In my past, I failed to protect my family. I am the only one left, save for my nephews on Inis Mór. While my parents’ and brothers’ deaths, brought about by various regrettable circumstances, were not a direct cause of my own negligence, the burden is still the same. Like you, I face that demon every day of my life.
“That being said, our demons do not become us. They are not the bones and flesh of our bodies nor the substance of our hearts. They are recollections of what used to be and what is no longer. Your demon—or your previous life as a whore, as you like to beat upon my brow—is not who you are inside. Your worth is diminished only by the demon you place across your shoulders like a royal cloak. Divest yourself of that, my dearest Æsa, and you will understand the depth of my love and the extent to which I will go to protect you. Gladly protect you,” he reiterated. “Until then, you will just have to take my word for it.”
Chapter Fourteen
Æsa was a curvaceous woman, with large breasts—or so she’d heard countless times—voluptuous childbearing hips and long shapely legs carrying her big-boned frame. But as she knelt before Gustaf, letting his words sink in, she had never felt smaller.
He didn’t care about her past, the one she alone carried with her, and it was evident she had to get rid of that memory if she wanted to have an honest and fruitful life with Gustaf. If he could overlook the demon she left draped across her shoulders and see the woman within, then she had to as well. If she wanted to be his wife, she had to find a way to rid herself of her insecurities and learn to love the woman he helped her to become.
Nothing mattered more to her than Gustaf and making him happy. Making him proud. This was the defining moment in their relationship where she had to either put her past behind and welcome her future as the wife of the great son of Rælik or say farewell to the one thing good and pure in her life.
Gustaf was a man of honor, a man of his word, and he deserved a woman who would offer no less. His words that once held significance for her came rushing back: Tell me you believe in what I say, for I cannot continue to love you if you think my every word is a lie.
“Gustaf, I—”
He shushed her and pulled her into his arms. The warmth of the fire could not match the heat of his embrace. He smelled of cedar and wood smoke and Gustaf, the natural heady scent of raw male power infused in his bronzed skin. She breathed it in and let it erase the strains of regret in her mind and soothe the tension from her body like a gentle caress across her back. The safe confines of her fearless warrior’s arms is where she longed to stay. Right there for the rest of her life.
Forever quickly ended as his men began to filter back into camp. Some had brought piles of berries and mushrooms, carried in the billow of their tunics. Others dropped armfuls of wood to keep the fire going throughout the night, and Øyven succeeded in finding water, lugging several fat skin pouches for everyone to share.
Gustaf ignored their intrusion and lifted her chin, looking deep within her soul. His eyes reflected the fire behind her. Flecks of amber and gold danced amid a background of cobalt blue as he stroked his thumb across her bottom lip.
“Everything I am is invested in you. There is naught you have ever done, or will do, that will make me love you less. Now, let us address a real problem.”
“And that is?” Æsa asked tentatively.
He patted his flat stomach. “My hunger.”
Together, they shared a laugh and prepared to eat from the goodness nature provided. In no time, his men gathered around the fire like hungry wolves, sharing a meal of sweet orange-red cloudberries and plump savory mushrooms. It wasn’t as filling as the fish they ate the other evening, but it was certainly a treat for the empty belly.
The stories and jests his men passed around were equally enjoyable. It was the first time she’d gotten to know them—as easy-going, jovial men with individual personalities and likable qualities instead of fierce unapproachable warriors. She noticed Gautr liked to poke fun at Øyven. Not as much as Snorri, but enough to keep the young man on his guard. Kolskegger had an infectious laugh, as it resounded over the fireside chatter. Beinir was shy like Øyven, but never seemed to refrain from talking about his three sons and the wife he couldn’t wait to see. Tryggvi, the most handsome of the seven, liked all women in general and kept the men entertained with tales of his most memorable trysts.
Though each one possessed an endearing quality beyond the burly throng of muscles, armor, and beards, none was more appealing than the warrior who sat behind her, his arm protectively draped around her waist.
From time to time, he’d pop a berry in her mouth and a kiss to her lips. In doing so
, he prevented her mind from wandering too far from the idle conversations. His sporadic hugs and playful feedings seemed to do as much for her as it did for him, despite that he often scanned the woods, anxious that his two best men had yet to return.
She touched his hand and gave a little squeeze, drawing his attention from the quiet surrounding forest. “Perhaps they went fishing,” she proposed.
He pulled her close and laughed, but the sharp snap of a twig breaking under foot caused everyone, including her, to cease activity.
With hands on their weapons ready to strike, Gustaf and his men listened. They waited, their focus resting on the horses tied to the nearby trees with their ears perked high on alert.
Gustaf tapped Æsa on her shoulder and pressed his finger to his lips to indicate her absolute silence. With another quick gesture, he and his men rose from the fire and quietly took their stance, unsheathing their swords.
Æsa’s heart beat wildly behind her ribs. The light of the fire made it impossible for her to see anyone that might emerge from the trees. She shook with fear, the icy chill of danger creeping under her already goose-pimpled skin.
A bird’s call erupted from the silence, followed by the sight of Jørgen and Snorri on horseback materializing from the darkness. An immeasurable sense of relief overcame her. The other six men, standing poised and rigid in a defensive posture, dropped their sword arms like lead weights were tied to their wrists.
Gustaf sheathed his weapon and eyed Jørgen as he rode up beside him.
“’Tis done,” Jørgen uttered in a low voice, disclosing the number of men that lay dead in Skíringssalr with only one word. “Five.”
Gustaf sighed as he glanced over his shoulder at Æsa. He said nothing to reveal his joy, but she guessed he was more than elated.
She watched him praise his loyal duo with discreetness and helped them tend to their horses, while she was left to tend the mixed emotions plaguing her mind. She drew comfort in knowing Gustaf had been released from his toils of keeping her safe, but she also knew a number of men had died to make it happen. Their deaths were more unsettling than she’d thought possible.