Medieval Wolfe Boxed Set: A De Wolfe Connected World Collection of Victorian and Medieval Tales
Page 71
In the deep stillness of the night, it turned very cold, but they did not notice. The thick layers of furs and the loving kept them warm.
Epilog
Tamescombe Valley – Cumbra-land
Late December – The Month of Threshing – 1081
The dreaming quiet of deep winter lay upon Tamescombe Valley. That peace also blessed the little cottage Yrsa shared with Elrik. Within the homely walls all was snug and redolent of the freshly cut boughs hung earlier that day.
She smiled as she sat by the fire, stitching new garments. Elrik would come home soon from his duty patrolling the valley perimeter and they would dress for the eve’s celebration. ’Twas the heart of the Festival of Yule and Betek prepared to wed Engl, his merry, brown haired lass, while for Keir and Branwen, the new favored topic of conversation was grandchildren.
As if thought of her husband brought him more swiftly to her, he lifted the door latch and stepped inside, his gaze seeking her first.
Love swelled anew within her breast. She set aside the sewing. How she enjoyed following his familiar routine of shedding outer clothing and the accoutrements of a man prepared at any moment for battle. In the four and ten months since their wedding it had become one of her favorite times of the day, for when he finished, no matter his humor, he never failed to put aside the warrior to become the husband. He would come straight to her, take her in his arms and kiss her until naught filled her body and mind except him and the feel of him, his scent, his strength, his tenderness.
This eve, moisture glistened on his fur cloak.
“Does it snow, my love?”
He grinned, for he knew her enjoyment of new fallen snow. “It does, though for now, ’tis but light. Oran thinks by morn ’twill be deep enough for the children to play in.”
She stood to meet him as he approached. “Only the children?”
His chuckle rasped huskily from the cold as he reached for her, and for a time, they spoke with naught but their lips and hearts.
Only slowly did he release her. The gold flecks in his gray eyes shone bright, though a somber humor had taken hold of him as they kissed. “Are you well, my heart?”
“I am.” He still asked that question oft, for the difficult, exhausting birth of their daughter, Aine, five months past had first weakened Yrsa physically and then left her foundering. She struggled one day with emotions of deep sadness and guilt, though she could not understand why, and the next, with no feelings at all.
She slept badly and wept oft and for no good reason, for valley life, while hard, was also good. Aine grew more beautiful each day and her name, which meant happiness, fully suited her nature. Aye, and the joy of Yrsa’s love for her husband and child still lived in her heart, but had become buried so deep beneath other, painful feelings she could not seem to find it.
Branwen tried to reassure her. “The condition is not uncommon among new mothers, Yrsa. Time will heal it, but you must be patient, obey my counsel and seek encouragement from your friends when it becomes unbearable.”
And so it had, though Elrik worried ceaselessly. When he could not be with her, he insured one of the women remained always close by. But the worst was over now, and life was coming round, normal again.
He allowed her to slip from his arms to pick up the tiny, unfinished garment she sewed and hold it up for his inspection. “What think you?”
A mock scowl drew down his brows and tightened his lips. “Hmmm. A bit on the small side for you, methinks.” When she but rolled her eyes, he grinned. “’Twas a foolish jest. I will seek to do better next time.”
“Look you at the smile on my face, husband. I thought the jest fine enough. Oh, Elrik, I am happy. You fill my life with so much love. Even when I am wroth with you it matters not.”
“There are times you are wroth with me? Why, I knew that not. Surely I am a husband of such good, wise and thoughtful nature no wife could find aught of which to disapprove.”
She laughed. “That is better, husband, yet think you my unseemly outbursts of vexation might be further allayed by a mite of humility added to the goodness, wisdom and thoughtfulness?” Before he could answer, small, impatient sounds rose from the cradle on the other side of the fire pit. “Aine wakes.”
“Allow me,” he said, and after dropping a sweet kiss upon her lips, he strode to the cradle. “Ho, little one.” He grinned as he picked up their child. “Such a face you make.” He stroked Aine’s tiny brows with the tip of one large finger. “There now, that is better.” He cuddled her to his broad chest and rocked her. “You know who holds you, and aye, it pleases you.” He returned to stand in front of Yrsa. “Wife, our daughter bears an unpleasant odor. I suspect ’tis the source of her small ill temper. What shall we do about it?”
She took Aine from him. “I shall change her while you gather your clothes and retreat to the bathhouse.”
“That bad, is it? It has been but what, three or four days since last I went there?”
“Five days, and do not dawdle lest we be late for Betek’s wedding. Heard you the silly man allowed Uckdryd to persuade him to wed Engl in accordance with valley custom?”
He laughed. “So he said, though I warned him he would regret it.”
“Oh, and I nigh forgot. This morn, after you left for your duty upon the moors, Mabina came. She bore news from outside. Have you yet been told?”
“That word came to Keir from Sir Estienne that King Malcolm abandoned the search for Dugald and his forces—and one hopes, the valley—and returned his focus to harassing England? Aye, Betek passed on the message just now, on his way to the bathhouse.”
Yrsa dropped her daughter’s soiled linen into a water-filled bucket to soak and then set the child to her breast. As Aine fed, she sang softly. Snared by the silent stillness on the other side of the room she looked up, the music dying in her throat.
“Were I to live forever, Yrsa,” Elrik said, his gaze upon her and Aine, “the marvel of watching my daughter suckle at your breast would always be among the most precious of my memories.” He moved to sit beside her at the hearth, one big hand resting upon her knee. “I tire not of filling my gaze and my heart with the sight of you together.”
Peace welled within her, mingling with a sense of profound contentment. “We have found our way and our place, have we not, my Brábanter warrior? For so long, we struggled, I with my bitterness, you with your guilt.”
“We have, rose of my heart.” The tenderness in his eyes seared a sweet, sweet path to embrace her passion. “Yrsa, I have spoken naught of this before now, but ’tis something you should know. I have come to understand ’twas not the sacrifice of my own blood that redeemed my bloodstained soul. In so much, even my death would be vain. Rather, ’twas your love that drew me from the brink.”
She swallowed hard, for the foolish tears still came too easily. “And ’tis with you, Elrik of Breda, I have at long last found a home for my heart.”
Outside, snow drifted, sifting through bare tree limbs. Voices, some lifted in song, told of valley folk hasting along the paths to home and hearth to prepare for a wedding.
THE END
About the Author
Màiri Norris lives in Hampton Roads, Virginia with three cats and her husband, a retired Coast Guard master chief. She is a US Navy vet, loves travel, especially to Scotland, and enjoys dollhouse miniatures when not writing. She is a member of Celtic Hearts Romance Writers and Chesapeake Romance Writers, chapters of Romance Writers of America, and Clan Donald, USA. A lover of history, she also enjoys reading and writing historical romance.
Her next work, Scent of Wild Roses, the fourth novel in the Ballads of the Roses series, will be available in 2016.
Visit Màiri and learn more about this book and her upcoming novels at:
mairinorris.com
www.romancingyesteryear.com
Connect with Màiri on her Facebook page at:
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al Wolfe Boxed Set: A De Wolfe Connected World Collection of Victorian and Medieval Tales