Æsa could only smile, for she knew she would not fall prey to hopeless wishes turning into despair and misery as he suggested.
Gustaf furrowed his brow above curious eyes. “You find humor in my words?”
“Nay, m’lord.”
“Then why do your lips linger in a grin fit only for the self-satisfied lot of this world?”
“Because I am overjoyed with the news I have received as of late. A revelation, if you will.”
“Oh?” he asked, cocking his head. “And what would that be?”
Æsa straightened her face and looked him square in the eye. “I am with child.”
Immediately, he sat up and grimaced. “Stop this.”
“But ’tis true.”
“Odin help me!” He stood up, throwing the warm cloak off his back. He snatched his breeches from the ground and jammed his legs into each pant hole.
“Gustaf, please…”
“Æsa, I demand you cease this adamant behavior at once. You do not have to mislead me in order to keep me in your bed. I told you before, on my very knees, I would not take a mistress to conceive a child. Why will you not believe me? What must I say to convince you?”
Æsa ignored the cold air that wisped over her bare skin from his sudden retreat, and stood up as well, her hands on her hips. Naked as the day she was born, she planted herself in front of him. “What must I say to convince you?”
****
Gustaf regarded her obstinate stance, looking her up and down in her naked form. Her hair wildly fell in untidy scarlet locks over her breasts. Her navel, with no sign of pregnancy, peeked out above a tempting patch of auburn curls in the center of her curvaceous hips. Her legs, long and shapely, supported her stubborn self. If not for the cool, night air of the low-lying gorge, he imagined her smooth, ivory skin would be heated to a lovely shade of pink given how rapidly her blood heated under the discussion.
He almost allowed a smile to slip in seeing how beautiful she looked when she was angry. Thinking better of it, he bent to retrieve her kirtle from the ground and handed it to her. “You will catch your death of cold.”
She swiped it from his hands and threw it on. “Appease me not with your idle concerns over my health. What should concern you is that I am carrying your child.”
Frustrated, he gripped her arms and shook her once to stifle her incessantly wagging tongue. “How is it that you are now pregnant as the sun sets—and rightly sure of it—yet just this morning you feared you were incapable of such a thing? How is that possible, Æsa? Can you explain that to me?”
“I was mistaken.”
Groaning, he released her and gathered the rest of his belongings. “Mistaken, huh?” He punched his arms through his sleeves of his tunic and secured his sword and scabbard at his hip. His boots were next, along with his wolf-skin cloak. “Delirious, more like it,” he muttered under his breath.
“I heard that,” she snapped as she swung the bear cloak around her shoulders. As she slipped her feet into her thin leather shoes, she returned the favor by muttering as well. “And to think Halldora said all would be well after I told him. Humph!”
“What did you say?”
Exasperated, Æsa straightened from her stooped position and gave him a stern look. “I said, Halldora claimed all would be well once I told you I was with child. For a woman who boasts to know just about everything, she certainly lacks in predicting your swinging moods.”
“Wait,” he said, holding up his hands. “Halldora told you that you were with child?”
She crossed her arms. “Aye. When you went off to hunt with the others, she came to me and told me I carried your son.”
“A son.”
“Aye, a son,” Æsa reiterated. “Yours. Inside my womb.” She waved it off quickly. “Only you know her better than I. Would she lie about something like this?”
“A son.”
“Aye, Gustaf, a son.”
“My son.”
Æsa finally noticed he began to believe and was in dire need of reassurance. She stepped toward him and captured his hands, resting them on her belly. He stared at her middle in awe. Beneath his palms lay a tiny miracle, a blessing from the gods—if what Halldora said was true.
His overwhelming elation contracted in his heart and his throat went dry. He collapsed to his knees and leaned his forehead against her belly, hiding the pool of tears welling in his eyes. He held them at bay, refusing to let them fall in front of Æsa. He’d already bared enough of his soul for one day.
As he came to accept the news, Æsa threaded her fingers in his hair and cradled his head. “Can it be true?”
Gustaf lifted his face and peered into her loving eyes. “Halldora is an overbearing, intrusive old woman, but she is not a liar. Nor have I ever known her to be wrong. If she says a child grows in your womb, then ’tis so.” A grin split his lips as he heard his own words. He leapt to his feet and embraced her body in a joyous hug. Tucking his head in the soft haven of her thick hair, he whispered his delight. “We are going to have a son. A strong, stubborn, unreasonable, mischievous son!”
Æsa’s laughter filled his heart with an unfamiliar happiness. “Only if he takes after you.”
“Odin help us all if he does,” Gustaf said in haste. “Come, we must tell everyone the grand news.”
In an exuberant twist, he swung her up in his arms and carried her over to the tethered horse. Hoisting her upon its back, his excitement escalated as he imagined bursting through the mead hall and proclaiming the condition of his betrothed. Along with the good hunt, the men would have an additional reason to stay submerged in their cups.
Dashing to the tree, he jerked the knotted reins free and threw them over the horse’s head, unprepared for the arrow that sunk deep into his left shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The piercing pain and momentous force of the projectile hurled Gustaf’s upper body backward, forcing him to stagger on his feet. Everything happened so fast—the horse reared, Æsa screamed, and both toppled to the ground in a heap as he suddenly realized they were under attack.
From a distance, Gustaf heard the approach of thunderous hooves, but his concern lay solely on his pregnant betrothed beneath his flailing stead. He shouted her name and stumbled to save her, only to be halted by another arrow penetrating his right thigh.
Groaning in agony, his leg gave out and he plummeted to his knees. With his eyes locked on the horse scrambling to stand, he grasped the wooden arrow sticking out of his limb and broke off the end. By the time he did the same with the one in his shoulder, the horse jostled erect and sprinted away, leaving an unconscious Æsa behind.
“Æsa!” Gustaf bellowed. His heart sank and a cold sweat broke out over every inch of his body. He crawled to her, desperate to ensure she was still alive. He reached out to touch her and another arrow whizzed past his head.
He looked up and saw five men galloping towards him, their swords unsheathed and ready to cut down anything in their path. Struggling to stand, he unsheathed his weapon and limped several yards in front of Æsa, putting himself between their attackers and his helpless lover. Planting his feet wide, he double fisted his sword and set his sights on the man in the lead. With one harrowing sweep, he slashed at the legs of the charging horse, causing the animal to fall headfirst to the ground. The rider took a nasty spill, his blade hurling from his hand.
Gustaf had only enough time to see the weaponless man struggling to release his pinned leg from under the fallen horse before another rider aimed to take him down. He ducked below the oncoming sword, dodging decapitation, but couldn’t get back into position quick enough to warrant a counter blow.
The second rider circled, joining the other three who had already surrounded him, trotting in a wide berth out of Gustaf’s reach. He kept his eyes on the mounted men, glancing once in Æsa’s direction to see if her condition had changed. He tried not to worry about whether she was alive or dead, for he had more pressing matters at hand. If he didn’t
ward of these men—someway, somehow—both of them were as good as dead.
From behind him, Gustaf heard the man on the ground finally pull his leg free and curse like mad as he hobbled to regain his sword. He assumed the wounded man was their leader for no one spoke or struck out against Gustaf as he grappled with his injury.
Gustaf glimpsed over his shoulder just in time to take in the man’s angry face, but didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t familiar with any of the assailants, making him hard pressed to understand the objective of their assault. Were they seeking vengeance upon him or were they after Æsa?
His question was soon answered as the man on foot approached her.
Gustaf spun on his heels, pain shooting like fire through his thigh. “Get away from her!” The four others, circling him on horseback, no longer held his attention. He glared at the audacious man who ignored him, sheathed his sword, and knelt on one knee beside Æsa. The man stroked her cheek with the back of his hand and dropped his knuckles beneath her jaw at her jugular.
Gustaf’s blood boiled as he was forced to watch this man touch her. He wanted to rush forward, stake his broad sword in his foe’s beating heart, and pluck it from his chest. But he stood still and quiet—eager to know if Æsa still lived.
The man breathed a sigh of relief and stood, glaring at the mounted archer. “She lives, fortunate for you.” His cold gray eyes turned to Gustaf and a sinister grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “As for you…you could not be less fortunate. The fact that you still breathe in my presence is a regrettable circumstance.”
“Who are you?” Gustaf barked, adjusting his grip on the hilt. Inside, he begged the bastard to step within swordarm’s reach so he could run him through.
“I doubt you would know my name, but Æsa here,” he stated, gesturing toward her lifeless body, “knows me very well.” He blatantly groped his crotch with his right hand as if to boast that he’d pleasured her in the past.
Gustaf swallowed the bile that rose in his throat, his gut twisting, his body shaking with fury. He caught a glimpse of a silver ring on the man’s hand and recognized it like a slap in the face. “So, ‘twas you who planted Ragnar’s ring for Æsa to find on Skúvoy.” His mind continued to turn over the events following their departure from the Faroes. He recalled the five men who followed them by boat and the large sum of silver he paid to have them killed. Jorgen and Snorri had confirmed that five lay dead in the forest, but evidently it was not the correct group of men who’d met their fates.
The man’s laughter interrupted Gustaf’s thoughts. “I can see you are quite confused. Allow me to enlighten you.” He paced back and forth as he spoke. “You generously gave a group of six men a massive amount of silver to keep me from following you, but you failed to divvy it up between them. Your mercenary payment remained in one man’s pocket and thus, making it easier for me to offer him a better, more profitable deal. You see, I proposed that he keep the sum himself, guaranteeing he would be five times richer and, of course, alive to spend it…if he just walked away. I assume you are smart enough to fill in the rest.”
His conceited smile sliced right through Gustaf.
“Every man has a price,” he continued to orate. “And I am willing to wager Æsa has one as well. Care to find out what that might be?”
“Touch her and you die,” Gustaf warned, pointing his sword directly at the man’s chest.
Again the man laughed, unshaken by the threat. “It bears mentioning that you are quite taken with the whore.” He wagged his brows in a taunting manner. “So, this should be interesting.” Gazing at Æsa, he lowered himself to his good knee and brushed her hair from her face.
Gustaf leapt forward, but the four on horseback halted his progress, their swords positioned to take him down with one fatal swipe. His heart hammered in his chest. His pulse pounded in his ears as his vision blurred. He was incapable of moving without enduring some sort of injury from the three blades ready to cut him to pieces, if not the one bow nocked with an arrow for his heart. His mind searched for a way to escape their guard, but nothing proved to be fortuitous. Every scenario left him gravely wounded and powerless to save Æsa. He’d have to bide his time until an opportunity presented itself. If one never turned up, he concluded he’d die honorably to initiate one. He would not go down without a fight.
“Æsa, love,” the man crooned, feigning sincerity. “Open your eyes. I have a surprise for you.” He shook her gently and for a few long moments whispered words Gustaf could not hear.
Gustaf grew restless as he watched this man try to rouse her from sleep. He hated to think what this milksop would do once she came to, the twisted things he’d make Æsa choose between. Silently, he prayed to his Almighty Odin that she’d not awaken and become a pawn in this bastard’s game. After that, he sent up a request to Thor that his mind be clear, his body be strong, and his sword be swift and accurate. He liked to think his pleas didn’t go unheard from the gods who’d watched over him all these years, but he couldn’t help feeling very alone. His last thought was of his retreating horse and how he hoped the frightened animal would make it back to the others. Surely, someone would see the riderless steed and come looking for him—unless of course they were all too drunk to realize the oddity of such an observation. For once, he regretted stepping beyond the perimeter of the rune stones. If he’d remained within its boundaries, Halldora would have known that he and Æsa were in danger and could alert his men. As it stood, the only chance he had of someone coming to his aid was if his horse drew someone’s attention.
Trembling as he stood, Gustaf clenched his teeth. He watched the leader lower his face toward Æsa.
“I grow impatient, love.” Distaste lathered his voice. “Wake up.”
Æsa did not awaken upon his command and, with keen annoyance in his actions, the man gripped her cloak under her chin and lifted her head from the ground. “Wake up, you whore!”
His hand came down hard across her cheek and Gustaf came undone. He rushed forward, adrenaline surging through his body. He punched the horse’s muzzle in front of him and it reared, opening the circle temporarily. Gustaf seized the moment and advanced on his enemy.
He was able to take about four harrowing strides before a sword blade struck him across his back. The force jolted him forward unscathed, his thick wolf-skin cloak saving him from a debilitating wound, but he fell facedown in the dirt.
Before he could get up, he was jerked to his knees by his hair and held upright with a sword pointed at his back.
“Gustaf!”
Æsa’s voice rang true and loud, but when he looked, he found that she was held captive with a dagger at her throat. He double fisted his sword and dared to disregard the tip of the blade pressed soundly into his spine.
“Ah, Gustaf is your name,” the man who trapped Æsa under his knife said in reminiscent loathing. “Would that be Gustaf, the notorious eldest son of Rælik—the spawn of the man my father, Ragnar, killed so many years ago? I thought you dead.”
Gustaf’s brain nearly exploded. He remembered the harrowing tale that Æsa told of Ragnar’s son and how he raped her for sport. “I suppose I could say I heard the same about you, Ásmundr.”
“So, you do know me,” Ásmundr replied, looking down his nose at Æsa. “What else did she tell you about me?”
“Naught else of import, I assure you.”
Ásmundr’s laughter cut through the dark forest like lightning. Gustaf grew to despise that sound and swore he’d personally cut out the man’s voice box so he’d be unable to make another peep when he killed him slow and methodically.
“She is a coy little lass,” Ásmundr jibed, rubbing his crooked nose along her soft neck. “I venture to say she probably forgot to mention that we were once lovers. That together we were going in search of my father’s hidden silver—you know, the payment that Harold ‘the Fairhair’ bestowed upon Ragnar and his nine other cohorts to murder your father. But my father got jealous and banished me before I had a chance to
whisk her away to safety. I vowed I would come back for her and kill my father, but it seems you and your men beat me to it. I should bestow my gratitude toward you. Alas, I shall refrain from such pleasantries given you stole what was mine.”
“I am not yours!” Æsa bellowed. “I never was!”
Ásmundr tightened his arm around her waist and pushed the blade further against her skin. “I gave you not permission to speak, Æsa. Open your mouth again and I will cut out your tongue!” When she settled down, Ásmundr praised her. “That’s it…there is the obedient thrall I know and love.” His eyes widened and glared at Gustaf. “Before you even think of using that sword in one desperate attempt to save this worthless woman, I suggest you drop it, lest I kill her right now.”
“Gustaf, nay!” Æsa shouted. “He lies. He will not kill me. He needs me. I am the only one who knows where the silver is buried, you know this. He cannot find the silver without my help, else he would have dug it up already.”
Gustaf was torn. What Æsa said made perfect sense, but he wasn’t so certain about Ásmundr or how much he was willing to risk. He knew the man was ruthless and greedy, much like his father. If he were a betting man, he would’ve called his bluff. Ultimately, her life was at stake and he wasn’t willing to take that gamble.
To his surprise, Ásmundr released his hold on Æsa and sheathed his dagger. “What she says is true. I do need her. I cannot find the silver without her. Which means…” he said, drawing out his words on purpose as his eyes came to rest on Gustaf’s, “I have no use for you.” He locked gazes with the man standing behind Gustaf. “Kill him.”
“Nay!” Æsa screeched, running to Gustaf’s aid, but Ásmundr yanked her back.
Gustaf spun wildly to his left, his sword mowing the legs of his foe like a scythe. The man collapsed without rendering a single injury to Gustaf’s back and screamed in pain at the stubs of bloodied flesh below his knees. Gustaf twirled his sword in his hands, tip downward, and thrust it deep into the suffering man’s chest.
Righting to his feet, Gustaf turned to take on the next man who posed the most threat—the mounted archer. He bent, dodging another sword swing aimed at his head, and snatched a dagger from his boot sheath. With precision and speed, he launched it in a sideways throw. The blade found a home in the archer’s shoulder, sending him off the back of the horse.
The Temperate Warrior Page 16