The Temperate Warrior Page 14

  “You needn’t worry yourself. You have only injured the man’s pride.”

  Æsa’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You can hear my thoughts?”

  “I hear everything. As soon as one steps foot within the boundary of the rune stones, their thoughts do not go unheard. ‘Tis a curse of mine at times.”

  The woman turned her head and regarded Øyven standing beside his horse. He stood as a silhouette, the details of his youthful face lost in the shadows as he held fast to the bridle in one hand and a bird cage in the other. Æsa could not see where his gaze lay, but she felt his scrutiny just the same. In Gustaf’s absence, he’d become an overly protective figure, much like his chieftain.

  The old woman spoke before Øyven could ascertain her name or her purpose. “I heard your thoughts too, young man.” A gray brow lifted above her harsh gaze despite the implication of amusement in her smile. “That was my granddaughter you looked upon with wanton eyes. Shame on you.”

  Øyven cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. In one swift remark, she’d all but stripped Øyven of his dominance and sent him on his way with his tail tucked between his legs. The shy, subservient warrior had returned and he hunched over like a scolded child. “Who are you?”

  “I am Halldora, the condemned heretic—or the guardian of Dal Hinna Dauðu, whichever you favor. I prefer the latter.”

  Æsa recalled the grand story Gustaf had told her about Harold ‘the Fairhair’ and his horse that lit up in flames due to Halldora’s spell. To her, it seemed like an imaginary tale too far-fetched to believe, but now she wasn’t so sure. “Is it true you cursed the King of Norway?”

  The grin on the old woman’s face pushed more wrinkles around her eyes. “The truth lies within the circle of the rune stones. Unless the old bastard dares to cross it, we may never know. Yet, ‘tis with great certainty that I can attest to the proud king’s trepidation. To date, he has failed to muster his bravado for such an attempt and I doubt he ever will as long as there is breath in me. ‘Tis my only hope that I outlive the old worm.”

  “The spell dies with you?” Æsa asked.

  “Naught is forever, child. That is the will of the gods.” Halldora reached up with a trembling hand and stroked Æsa’s hair. “And just like the curse that will one day cease to exist with my death, so will Gustaf’s bitterness. He will not stay mad for long…especially when you tell him you are with child.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I beg your pardon?” Æsa asked, uncertain she’d heard Halldora correctly.

  She turned her attention back to Øyven who had begun to untack his horse. “If you still doubt my ability to hear your thoughts, my good man, then perhaps you should cease to think at all. But since you continue to wonder about the innocent beauty who has captured your attention, you would do best to treat her with as much respect as you have given Æsa.”

  Øyven’s hand paused over the girth momentarily before he jerked the leather strap free. The young warrior seemed quite offended that his personal thoughts had been invaded and publicly disclosed. Æsa wasn’t sure what could have possibly run through his mind, given his outward gentlemanly demeanor, but it must have been something short of appropriate for Halldora to call him on it.

  “When you are finished tending your horse, Øyven, you may leave your precious bird in Æsa’s capable hands and ask my granddaughter, Helga, for the water she so generously offered to fetch for you. I have no qualms about you pursuing her as I know you are, above all things, well mannered and conscientious. Go beyond that and I will have to slap you.”

  Øyven didn’t respond to the threat, nor did he argue with the suggestion. Æsa could only imagine the man wanted to get as far away as possible so he could save himself from any more embarrassment. He slid the saddle from the horse’s back and stood it up, horn downward, on the barn floor. After that, he led his horse into an empty stall and closed the gate. He pitched in an armful of hay and bent to retrieve the cage.

  As he neared Æsa, his eyes harbored a definite sense of discontentment. He knelt before her and took a roll of thin twine from his belt. “’Twould be good to let Sæhildr stretch her wings.” He glanced at Halldora and back. He seemed uncomfortable leaving her alone with the old woman, or maybe he was just unnerved with her in his head.

  “Øyven is unsettled by both reasons,” Halldora answered aloud. She patted his knee in reassurance. “Æsa will be safe with me, as will your falcon. Now go.”

  Øyven ignored her and righted his gaze at Æsa. “Are you certain?”

  Æsa nodded. “I will be well.”

  “If you need me—”

  Halldora waved her rickety hands in front of her, shooing him. “Ach, she heard you, lad, now be off.”

  Reluctantly, Øyven stood and exited the barn. Part of Æsa went with him as she watched him go, wishing she would have begged him not to leave her alone with the eccentric old witch. She quickly erased that thought, fearing Halldora might have already heard it.

  “Now, where were we?” Halldora muttered, taking Æsa’s hand. “Oh, aye, the babe.” She closed her eyes as if she were making her assessments through the contact made between their joined hands.

  Æsa watched with wide eyes as Halldora smiled and rocked to a rhythm only she could hear.

  “Make no mistake, you are with child.” She turned her ear toward Æsa’s body and listened. “’Tis a boy. His heartbeat is strong and steady, like his father’s.”

  Æsa wanted to cry out and rejoice in this miracle, but her suspicions got the best of her. “How can this be?”

  Halldora’s eyes shot open. “I assume you are not so naïve to question the intimate particulars of how a child comes to be. You have lain with the mighty warrior, aye?”

  Countless times, she thought.

  “Ah, then the rest should be obvious.”

  Æsa’s thoughts shot back to the day she’d met Gustaf and the fact that she’d shared a bed with Ragnar only a few days before.

  “Fear not, my child. The babe does not belong to Ragnar. Your menses came afore you laid with Gustaf.”

  Æsa tried to remember, but it seemed her days with Gustaf had run together. She’d been so caught up in his noble presence after he rescued her, that the many weeks with him consumed her to the point of losing track of her cycle. She gripped Halldora’s hand in earnest. “How far along am I?”

  “Shh…” Halldora soothed. “I promise you, this child is Gustaf’s. His heart may be strong, but ’tis only a few moons old.” She took Æsa’s hands and placed them on her belly, not yet showing signs of pregnancy. “Relish this moment, child. The gods have given you a gift. An answer to the prayer you have lifted to them since Gustaf’s return. You have his heir growing in your womb. Now, all you have to do is tell him.”

  Æsa’s heart sank. She closed her eyes in shame. “He will not speak with me.”

  “He will,” Halldora stated with confidence. She closed her eyes again and began channeling her foresight over the distant men who hunted in the forest. “It pains him to be away from you, and he feels remorse for speaking to you so harshly. He thinks this even as he takes aim upon a massive brown bear eating berries—”

  “A bear?”

  Halldora smiled and shushed her as if her outspoken concern would distract Gustaf from making the kill. “Its hide is what he wants. He has aspirations of making you a bear cloak because he does not favor the one you are wearing.” Momentarily, Halldora peeked out from one bulging eyeball to gaze at the fur draped around Æsa’s shoulders and lowered her lid again to resume her vision. “I believe the man hates Ragnar more than you do. Ulfr has agreed to tan the hide, but ‘tis a surprise—so, pretend astonishment when Gustaf gives it to you in a fortnight.”

  Æsa tried to appreciate the explicit account of Gustaf’s thoughts and the knowledge she’d been given about a new cloak, but she was more concerned he was face to face with a dangerous beast.

  “Oh my.”

  Æsa watched as Halldora�
�s face shriveled up with apprehension. “What is it? What do you see?”

  “The bear smells Gustaf and ‘tis looking right at him. He is walking around a tree to get a better view.”

  “Gustaf or the bear?”

  “Gustaf,” Halldora answered. “He needs to get closer to ensure a swift kill. He is not as skilled with the bow as Jørgen.”

  Æsa bit down hard, her teeth clamped tightly to keep from screaming. Suddenly, she was not so fond of Halldora’s visions.

  “He has his aim, but does not release the arrow. The other men are taunting the animal as they ride around on horseback. They are working in unison to anger the bear, to get it to stand on its hind legs. Gustaf is drawing near.”

  “Nay!”

  “Hush, child. He knows what he is doing. This is not his first kill.”

  Æsa didn’t care if it was his five-hundredth kill. She knew a bear could maul a man with one swipe of his mighty paw, or, at the least, tear his flesh from his bones with its dagger-like claws and teeth. Even if Gustaf dodged that gruesome demise, the bear was more than capable of running him down on foot. Unless Gustaf pierced the animal’s heart on the first shot, her courageous warrior was as good as dead.

  Æsa squeezed the old woman’s hands, waiting with baited breath for the outcome. Halldora’s eyes slowly opened and gazed into hers, no emotion registering. She stared as if something bad had happened and had no way of sharing the horrible news. The wait became intolerable.

  Æsa let go of Halldora’s hands and gripped her by the arms. She shook her until she broke the trance, and the old woman blinked as if she’d leapt back into her own thoughts. “Please, Halldora! Tell me. Is Gustaf all right?”

  A smile curved her thin lips. “’Tis said that the paws and thighs of a bear are the sweetest meat. I suspect we shall come to form our own opinion soon enough.”

  ****

  Gustaf came trotting through the forest in front of the men who were carrying their praises of the valiant hunt on their lips. Ulfr and Ketill brought up the rear, dragging the trophy bear Gustaf had brought down with one kill shot through the heart. Lugged behind their two horses, the bear was a massive animal, a lone male that had been stocking up on reserves for his upcoming winter’s nap just moments before its demise. Its size proved to yield more than enough meat for the feast at hand, with a heroic tale, leading up to its mighty fall, to boot.

  Gustaf knew the men would spend the rest of the evening in the Great Hall, drinking, feasting, and taking turns telling the story to the entire village. It was customary to hear each man try to outdo his fellow chronicler in a dramatic oration, one that boasted both great detail and enthusiasm in the course of its presentation.

  There was only one who could put the best narrators in their place, and that was his brother Dægan. He could seize everyone’s interest with a single introduction and hold their undying attention with the grandest of ease. His stories had brought some to tears and some to euphoric laughter, but it was in his authoritative poetic style of painting a scene with poignant words and phrases that made his fireside tales memorable.

  In reminiscing upon his brother’s talent, Gustaf realized he would never get the privilege of hearing Dægan’s commanding voice again. He was gone, just like the rest of his family.

  The thought brought him great sadness and he pushed it out of his head. He didn’t like to harp on the demoralizing fact, for it left him in such a dark place. Life in this tumultuous world was too short to dwell on what he couldn’t change or fix. More important things needed his attention.

  He’d been cruel to Æsa and he hated himself for it. The entire time he spent hunting, he hashed over his childish reactions and the spiteful words he’d said in haste. It was good that he’d left to hunt, for he could vent his frustrations and expunge his pent-up anger through an adrenaline-pumping activity, clearing his mind of needless disdain and overbearing arrogance. Now that those things had been obliterated, he could speak sensibly and hopefully find the words to apologize.

  Searching the faces of the villagers who began to emerge from the mead hall and gather around them, he didn’t find Æsa among them. He certainly didn’t blame her for not being one of the many to welcome him back from the hunt, but it felt strange not to be greeted by her in some way. At this point, he would’ve accepted a covert glance from a distance or even a blatant scowl.

  He dismounted from his horse and noticed a small boy congregating amongst the fuss. His eyes lit up in awe as he gawked at the bear lying in a huge heap of fur, claws, and teeth.

  “Did you slay the bear, m’lord?” the lad asked, obviously impressed with the feat of taking down such a large animal.

  Gustaf squatted to his level. “We all did. And one day, you will too.”

  The boy smiled at the prospect of joining the hunt in his later years. He reminded Gustaf of his nephews on Inis Mór; eager to please their elders, ready to pounce on an adventure, and so full of mischief. He tousled the lad’s hair and stood as he glanced again over the collected villagers.

  “Are you looking for the pretty redhead?”

  He smiled at the boy’s description of his Æsa. “Indeed, I am. Do you know where I might find her?”

  “She is in the field with the birdman,” he said, pointing to the meadow.

  Øyven, Gustaf assumed as he tried to ward off his sudden jealous thoughts. He didn’t mean to be envious of his own man, a warrior he trusted with his life, but nonetheless he was. “Thank you, son.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself with Øyven.” An old woman’s voice resonated behind him. “He is not a threat to you, unlike your own mulish pride.”

  Gustaf recognized the familiar voice before he laid eyes on its owner. “Halldora,” he greeted, slightly bowing in respect. “In my head again, I see.”

  “As of late, ‘tis not a nice to place to be.” Halldora took him by the arm and led him away from the others, his horse trailing behind them. “But then again, you were never good with minding your temper, were you?”

  “I never claimed to,” he said, patting the frail hand at his elbow.

  “Ah, but you did profess to love Æsa no matter what she said or did, yet you hold her words against her.”

  Gustaf was glad Halldora pulled him away from the group before chastising him for the mistakes he already knew he’d made. What he didn’t like was being browbeat by an elderly woman one-third his size.

  Still, he tolerated Halldora’s contempt despite the emasculating assault on his all but nonexistent dignity. He owed her that much after all the years she’d spent protecting his men’s families.

  “I assume you have acquainted yourself with Æsa.”

  “She is a lovely lass,” Halldora replied, her smile brightening her face. “She is a good match for you. Loyal to a fault.”

  Each time Halldora spoke, she seemed to feel the need to remind him of his former mistakes. “You enjoy cutting me down to size.”

  Halldora chuckled innocently. “‘Tis an easy task with one so haughty.”

  “I am not haughty, Halldora.”

  “Then why is the burly bear slayer green with envy as he looks upon his own man. Øyven does naught wrong, yet every fiber of your being wants to rip Æsa away from his attention.”

  Gustaf gazed at Æsa and Øyven, who were occupying their time training the falcon. Øyven was about twenty paces from Æsa in the open field, the bird flying between the two and landing on the hand of the person with bait. Another girl, whom Gustaf didn’t recognize, stood beside Øyven, her laughter lighting his hirdman’s face.

  “As you can see, my granddaughter holds Øyven’s fancy. Not your Æsa.”

  He squinted through the evening sun. “It cannot be. That is Helga? My, she has grown.”

  “Indeed, she has.” Halldora slipped her arm from the crook of Gustaf’s and circled in front of him. “But I summoned you not to discuss my next of kin. There will be time for that later. If you want to make amends with Æsa, leave your rid
iculous jealousy behind—and roll not your eyes at me. The only thing they have in common is their ages. She loves you and Øyven looks to you as a son would his father.”

  “I know.”

  “Then if you know so much, why did you push her away with your bitter words in the first place?”

  Gustaf sighed. “I was upset and had good reason.”

  “Perhaps. But you have come back from your hunt a new man, ready to abolish the burdens you have placed on Æsa’s weary heart. You will find that all your worries will pass should you avoid the needless hostility lingering in yours.”

  He gave her a stern look and crossed his arms. “You speak as though you know something I do not.”

  “What I know is not my place to say.”

  Gustaf shook his head and scoffed, slapping the reins absently against his palm. “You and your riddles. I should have known better than to think you would be forthcoming where other’s private thoughts are concerned.”

  “Trust me, son. You will be glad of what you hear and that it came from Æsa’s lips. Not mine.”

  He looked askance at the old woman. He respected her to no end, but it drove him crazy that she knew every person’s innermost thoughts. She was like a priest from the new Christian religion who swore to keep all confessions confidential. What set her apart from the sworn holy men trying to convert the known world was that she had no qualms about boasting her mystic powers of telepathy to the common man.

  Halldora reached up and patted Gustaf’s cheeks with both hands. The gentle gesture eased the tension from his jaw just as if his own caring mother had done it. He pulled her hands away and tenderly cupped them in his. “I know you mean well, Halldora, but I grow tired of talking in circles with you. Now, if you will pardon me, I aim to strike up a real conversation with a woman who knows not my every word before it falls from my lips.” He regarded her carefully as he pat her bony knuckles. “I thank you for keeping watch over Æsa, even if ‘twas only to meddle.”

  “The pleasure was all mine, oh great son of Rælik.”

  Gustaf had to laugh as he turned and mounted his horse. He pointed at her and waved his finger. “Stay out of my head, seið-kona.”