“You would have to be witless not to know I love you,” Netta whispered. “Did I not kill a man? When I must leave the room, I run every step of the way until I’m back again. If that is not love, I know not what to call it.”
He smiled and grasped her hand to pull her down beside him.
“Have I told you this day how much you mean to me?”
“This day? You have never told me any such thing.”
“Nay? Hmm.” He rubbed his chin. “Then have I told you lately how much I love you?” Seeing her blush, he grinned.
“Lately? You have never told me that either.”
“Nay? Hmm. When I call you mo gradh, my love, dinna you know its meaning?” He rubbed his face against her hair and inhaled her sweet rose scent. “You have been my love from the day you put the worms in my stew. You will be my love when our grandchildren are old and gray.”
“Worms made you love me? You are most strange, husband.”
“Nay. Not the wiggly things, but the deviltry in your eyes when you did it.”
“Yet you let me eat from your trencher, with worms, when you knew all along the disgusting things were there?”
Horrified at the thought that mayhap a worm had been on her first bites of stew, Netta slapped her hand over her mouth. Jumping off the bed, she grabbed the nearby bucket. Mereck held her head and assured her that, before she could eat it, Elise had knocked the lone portion graced with a worm out of her hand. When she had control of her stomach, she grabbed the water pitcher from the bedside table.
“If Elise had not stopped me, would you have kept silent?” She peered at him through narrowed eyes.
“Of course.”
Poised to pour the cold water over him, Mereck grabbed her. They laughed and tussled over the pitcher. The water spilled, drenching them both.
“You didna let me finish, love. I wouldna have spoken, for I would have taken your hand and lifted the onion to show you what you drooled over. Hmm. Knowing your hearty appetite, I wondered if you would have popped it into your mouth anyway? Extra meat, mayhap?”
Netta howled with laughter. Mereck pulled her beneath him and began to kiss her witless.
It was a beautiful night for loving.
Mereck proved how much he loved his Netta.
Again and again and again.
Epilogue
Bleddyn reassured Mereck, for nigh on the hundredth time, that Netta’s labor progressed smoothly. They did not need Bleddyn’s presence in the birthing chamber, for Brianna saw no signs of trouble.
He also assured Mereck, time and time again, that helping Netta through her travail would not harm Brianna’s babe. She would labor with her own bairn in another month, and she glowed with health.
Mereck wondered if Brianna and Bran’s hearing would e’er be the same? Netta made up curses of her own instead of borrowing from someone else. He sighed when she shouted she would kill that “flipping, mind-eating, savage barbarian.”
Conner grinned and rolled his eyes at the other men. Netta’s last shriek proved too much for Mereck. He shoved past Eric and Marcus, whom Brianna had stationed outside the room to keep him from entering, and crashed through the doorway. He stopped dead in his tracks.
His wife’s bloodcurdling scream did not divert his attention from the sight of his bairn entering the world. Seeing the blood, his mind screamed with memories of witnessing Brianna’s terrible ordeal, and of the Baresark legend.
Hearing a loud crash, the men ran into Netta’s room.
The bed had not fallen. Mereck had. He lay passed out cold on the floor, his face as white as Brianna’s roses.
Damron shook his head in disgust as they left the room. Some time later, a very sheepish Mereck awoke and squeezed his eyes shut. Damn. His head hurt. He pushed himself to his feet, gripped his head with his big hands and wove his way to his wife’s side.
“You have stopped screaming curses about me, love. Does it mean you forgive me?”
He sounded so hopeful that Netta laughed. And she cursed him again with the pain the laughter caused.
“Did you enjoy your rest, my fearless Baresark? Had you slept any longer, you would have missed our son’s christening.”
The two brothers stood beside the bed where Netta slept. Mereck held his swaddled son in his arms. Even a blind man would have sensed the pride radiating from every pore in Mereck’s body. Grinning, he peeled back the plaid to show Damron what a beautiful son Netta had given him.
When the bairn lay naked to their gaze, Mereck pointed out that he had beautiful black hair like his mother. His eyes would surely be her lovely violet color, for now they seemed deep indigo.
He had all his fingers. Mereck counted to make sure.
And all his toes…
“God’s holy teeth!” The words were a whispered shout, if such a thing exists. “Look at me puir wee Donald, brither.”
Mereck stared down at what marked the babe his heir and not his heiress. His eyes misted and he gulped. The fact he reverted to a Scottish brogue proved his distress.
“Dinna tell me darlin’ Netta, but our bairn has a dreadful deformity.”
Damron looked at his brother’s son and frowned.
“What deformity, brither? I see no extra limbs or strange marks.”
“Blessed sweet Jesus. Look at his ballocks.” Mereck whispered so low Damron leaned closer to hear. “Do ye no’ see how huge they be? Oh, me puir son,” he groaned. “The lad will ne’er be able to walk with sech a burden betwixt his legs.”
Brianna chuckled behind him. He turned and glared at her.
“It’s no deformity, Mereck. All wee boys are born with swollen, er, ballocks. In a sennight they’ll be normal.”
Mereck’s relieved sigh whooshed so strong it fluttered the hair over Brianna’s forehead.
Everyone tiptoed in to see his treasure, then left him alone with his loves. He went to lay beside Netta, the babe snuggled tight to his chest. She woke after a time and smiled at him.
“What think you of our son, husband?” Netta’s voice was hoarse from all the shouting she had done.
“He is the most beautiful bairn I have e’er seen.” Mereck didna consider he had seen few unclothed nurslings. “Look, Netta. See how perfect our wee bairn is.”
He stripped the babe of his swaddling to show her their bare-arsed marvel.
“Oh my word, love,” Netta exclaimed, staring down at her naked son. “He is your very image.”
Seeing her wide eyes, Mereck’s heart was near to breaking.
“Do ye think we have made another Baresark?”
“Nay, love. Not a Baresark.” She reached up and kissed him between his eyes. “One day, our Donald will be exactly like his father—a kind and gentle man.”
Author’s Note
Before the usual blather about using words appropriate for the time period, I thought you might be interested in the old crone from the prologue. This character comes from my childhood in Key West, Florida. My sister, Dolores, and I used to run when we’d see her shuffling down the sidewalk toward our house. If she followed us as we raced down our driveway to the backyard, we’d run like our lives depended on it, yelling for our grandma.
We weren’t being mean. Old Beyahita—that was her true name—was really scary. And from the time we could talk, we’d heard the old conchs whispering that she was a witch. We weren’t taking any chances that she would cast a horrendous curse on us and…oh my. Mayhap she did! That would explain all these characters prancing around in my mind, demanding I bring them to life in my tales of love through the ages…
As usual, dear reader, please keep in mind that it is not always possible to use only eleventh-century words found in English Through the Ages, by William Brohaugh.
For instance, trencher wasn’t in common usage in 1073. The Encyclopedia Britannica described it as “…originally a thick slice of bread, used as a primitive form of plate for eating and for slicing meat (hence its derivation from “trancher”—to cut, or carve)…”
&
nbsp; In narrative, I do not believe it necessary to be so stringent with word choices.
Baresark was the early spelling for a berserker. In excerpts from “The Saga of King Hrolf Kraki,” translated by Jesse Byock, “…berserkers seem to have been members of cults connected with Odin in his capacity as god of warriors.”
They further detail: “His men went to battle without armor and acted like mad dogs or wolves. They bit into their shields and were as strong as bears or bulls. They killed men, but neither fire nor iron harmed them. This madness is called berserker-fury.”
Relax and let my stories transport you to another time.
Sincerely,
Sophia
Visit me at www.sophiajohnson.net
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