The Temperate Warrior Read online

  “Man your oar, boy,” Snorri commanded from his post. “And I am not talking about the one between your legs. Count your blessings that Halldora is unaware of your rising interest in her granddaughter.”

  Øyven settled himself at the only empty chest and gripped the oar with both hands. “So, it comes back to this, aye? Cutting me down to size for your gain?”

  “You should know better than to bring your feelings with you, Øyven.”

  “Odin’s teeth, here we go again,” Jørgen sighed, casting an apologetic look toward Æsa. “I fear ’twill be a long journey for you, m’lady.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Gustaf who stood fixed at the steerboard behind her. “Is this what you had to listen to all these years?”

  “Every bit of it, love.”

  Æsa cradled her stomach and rubbed the somersaulting child within. “My word, Gustaf. ’Tis a wonder you had any temperance left.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Æsa doubled over, groaning and panting through the onset of labor as the longship tossed about on the waves. Her contractions began to occur at regular intervals, spurring Gustaf into a frantic mess. Between ordering his men to row harder and recurrently surrendering his post at the stern to talk her through the agony, he assumed many tasks to get the mother of his child safely to land before she gave birth on the open sea.

  Gustaf scanned the horizon and spotted the much-desired island of Inis Mór. “Heave men! I will not have this child out of wedlock!”

  Æsa groaned simultaneously. “I will not have this child on a bloody ship!” Wracked with utter pain, she slipped off the chest and reclined on the hardened planks of the hull. “Gustaf…”

  He deserted the steerboard and fell to his knees beside her, taking her hand. He watched as she bent her legs in a birthing position, her thighs spread apart. In haste, he blocked his men’s view with his own body and pulled her skirts down over her calves.

  “You cannot have this baby now, Æsa.”

  She glowered at him, her eyes as blazing as the hair upon her head. “I do not think I have a choice in the matter,” she gritted behind clenched teeth. Another moan escaped her and Gustaf’s chest tightened.

  Without thinking, he cupped her mound and pressed his palm against her. Again her eyes glared at him like heated embers. “You think you can hold him in?”

  The idiocy of his actions hit him as sharply as Æsa’s sarcastic remark. He knew no matter what he tried, his son would soon be born on this earth, with or without his consent. “Tell me what to do?”

  “Turn your men around! I will not have them staring at me while this baby emerges from my—” Her words were cut off by another excruciating contraction. The shrill of her cry sliced through the wooden hull of the crowded longship and echoed on the Atlantic.

  Gustaf sat frozen, helpless, staring at her dilated private parts. This cannot be happening!

  Æsa sat up in a flash and grabbed his cloak, jerking his face toward hers. “Turn. Your men. Around!”

  Gustaf shook himself out of his incapacitating stupor and swiveled his head on his shoulders, meeting the wide-eyed stares of his rowing men. “You heard the woman. Turn around! Assume a raid-retreat position and heave for all you are worth!”

  “But, m’lord,” Snorri said, still dazed. “’Twill be more difficult—”

  “Snorri!” Æsa screamed, yanking Gustaf’s dagger from his belt and bearing its shiny blade. “’Twill be more difficult for you to row without your bollocks!”

  As most men cherished their testicles like gold, all seven warriors spun on their benches and propelled the very capable streamlined ship forward. By pushing the oars away from their bodies, they strove to skate the vessel headlong toward the rocky isle. No one dared test the authority of the hostile woman in labor, lest she just might act upon her threat.

  “Easy now, Æsa,” Gustaf soothed, carefully confiscating the knife from her trembling hand. “Settle yourself.”

  Æsa’s face puckered with a hatred he’d never seen before. “Settle myself?”

  Gustaf stammered, realizing he’d said the wrong thing. “I—I mean—”

  “I am about to push your volatile tempered, whale-sized son out of an opening the size of my nostril and you want me to settle myself?”

  Gustaf glanced down between her legs. “If you could see what I see, you would not exactly regard it as a small orifice.”

  Not amused, she sat up and grabbed his crotch in her fist. “If you do not get me off this ship, I swear I will geld you myself.”

  He tried peeling each finger from his balls and nodded his comply. “I will get you to land. Just, for the love of Odin, release me.”

  Fortunately for him, she fell victim to another contraction and her hands clutched her tightening stomach. Gustaf dropped backward and supported his throbbing genitals in his palm. He didn’t dare complain about the dull ache or the fact that he thought he might vomit his bollocks at her feet. Only a foolish man would mention his misery when his woman was writhing in childbirth.

  When he fell in love with Æsa for her feisty spirit and quick temper, this wasn’t exactly the kind of vivaciousness he had in mind. Never in all his years did he think he’d be enchanted by a feminine hellhound who looked like a goddess and screamed like a wailing banshee. Nonetheless, he loved her with all his heart and reminded himself that his lovely betrothed would return to him as soon as she delivered the baby.

  Breathing through his nausea, he righted himself on his haunches and commanded his men through a strained voice. “Row like you have never rowed before, men. Trust me when I tell you, your life depends on it.”

  When he looked back at Æsa, he saw that tears streamed from her eyes as she lay on her back, staring at the gray sky above. Pity overtook him and he crawled to her side, wiping the trail of wetness from her temples. “We are almost there, Æsa. Hold on, love.” He took hold of her hand and held it tightly. “I will not leave your side.”

  “It hurts…”

  “I know,” Gustaf crooned, squeezing her hand as she rested. “But ’twill soon be over. And we will have a son. Cry not, my dearest Æsa.”

  “What if I fail you?” she sobbed. “What if we are not wed in time…”

  “Shh…we still have time. Do not lose hope. He is not a bastard yet.” Gustaf looked ahead, checking the distance of the approaching Erin isle. “Row!”

  ****

  The longship dragged keel upon the rocky shoreline of Inis Mór and Gustaf jumped to his feet. The rough surf pelted the drakkar and tossed it about as if it were mere driftwood. As he suspected, Tait, his late brother’s best friend, and Nevan, the Irish king of the isle, ran down to assist them.

  He called out their names, bracing himself across the gunwales to shelter Æsa while his men leapt from the sides to drag the boat inland.

  “Gustaf!” Tait exclaimed with joy. “You have returned.”

  “Quick! Æsa is in labor!”

  Tait and Nevan joined the men in lugging the ship to safety, their eyes falling over the sprawled woman in the hull. “Dear, Lord,” Nevan muttered as Æsa howled.

  Tait grabbed the king’s arm. “Fetch Mara and Lillemor. Hurry!”

  Gustaf bent and picked her up in his arms, jumping into the shallow water of the pebbled beach. “Where do I take her?” he shouted over the surf, holding Tait’s stare.

  Tait thought frantically as they rushed toward the settlement of longhouses. “Mara’s. This way.”

  Upon hearing the commotion, Breandán, the man Mara took as her husband seven years after his brother’s passing, emerged from the doorway. As he recognized Dægan’s eldest brother, he, too, came to help. “Good to see you again, Gustaf. Who might this be?”

  “This is Æsa,” Tait introduced. “Gustaf’s wife. She is in labor.”

  Gustaf corrected Tait. “She is not my wife!”

  Tait drew his face back. “So be it. Is this really the time to split hairs?”

  Gustaf shook his hea
d in frustration. “Nay, I mean, she is not my wife yet and she must be before she has this child. I cannot let my son be born a bastard. Get the priest down here and have him marry us!”

  Tait glanced between Gustaf and Breandán. “You realize he is a Christian man. Of the cloth. It goes against his religion to marry you under your Norse gods. He will not do it.”

  “Then marry us under Christ, or whatever name by which He is known. I care not.”

  “‘Tis not that simple, Gustaf,” Tait stated as they burst through Mara’s door.

  Gustaf laid Æsa on the nearest boxbed and grabbed Tait around his tunic in desperation. “It is that simple, Tait. Make it happen. I beg you!”

  “Gustaf,” Mara said in surprise, Nevan and Lillemor behind her as she skirted passed the many people who’d filled her spacious longhouse.

  Relieved, Gustaf rushed to Mara and pleaded with her, hoping his brother’s widow would take pity on him. “Mara, I need you to convince the Irish priest that he is to marry Æsa and me. Under your God. Please.”

  “At this moment?” she asked, noting the vulnerable condition Æsa was in as she lay there sweating, panting, and moaning. “But Æsa is—”

  “I know she is a bit preoccupied,” Gustaf growled. “But we cannot have this baby out of wedlock.” He grabbed her arms and squeezed, despair engulfing his entire being. “Please, Mara. You know how much this would mean to me. How much ’twould mean to Dægan.” He didn’t mean to throw his deceased brother in her face, but he found himself resorting to desperate measures. He dropped to his knees. “Please. Please help me.”

  Mara took one look at the mighty warrior at her feet and closed her eyes to hide her emotion. “Tait, go quickly.”

  Tait sprinted from the longhouse without question and soon everyone was doing as they were bid. As the daughter of the king, no one hesitated to meet her demands.

  Gustaf threw his arms around her waist and hugged her, wiping his tears on his arm before standing. “I thank you, my lady.”

  “‘Tis not done yet,” she murmured, leaving Gustaf to join Æsa at her bedside. “How are you doing?”

  Æsa answered with a pitiful nod and a feigned smile.

  Mara brushed back her hair and talked reassuringly to the spent woman. “I need to see how close you are. All right?”

  Æsa complied and tried to relax as Gustaf came to her and grasped her hand.

  Mara regarded the ridiculous amount of men gathered like nosey hens around her hearth. “Everyone out. You, too, Gustaf.”

  “I am not leaving her.”

  “This is no place for a man.”

  Gustaf leaned in for emphasis, capturing her gaze. “Try to throw me out, princess. I dare you.”

  Mara sighed in exasperation. “You, Rælik sons, are a stubborn lot. Fine, you can stay. But you will do as I say. Æsa will need you to be strong. Can you do that?”

  “I am not afraid of the sight of blood, if that is what you mean.”

  “‘Tis one thing to see the spilled blood of your enemies, Gustaf. ’Tis quite another to see it spill from the woman you love.” Without another word on the matter, she directed Lillemor to boil water at the hearth and bring a stash of clean linens. When that was done, she instructed her to stand watch at the door for the monk.

  “Gustaf, your task is to make certain Æsa is comfortable. Whatever she needs.”

  “I can do that,” he said with confidence.

  “And what do I do?” Æsa asked meekly.

  Mara smiled and got into position between her bent knees. “For now, you just rest. In time, you are going to need all your strength to push this child out.” She reached inside Æsa and felt the baby’s head in the birth canal.

  Gustaf stared, his mind in a whirlwind.

  The door opened and in walked Tait. His eyes widened as he witnessed something he wasn’t supposed to. Immediately, he turned around. “My apologies, Mara. Æsa.” He cringed. “Gustaf.”

  “What is it?” Gustaf asked.

  “May I have a word with you—outside?”

  “What now?”

  Tait fidgeted. “Seriously, Gustaf. Outside.

  Gustaf grumbled and sped after Tait who had already left. As he stepped beyond the door, a sea of anxious eyes gawked at him. It appeared as if the entire isle, Celt and Northmen alike, came to await the birth of his son at the threshold of Mara’s longhouse.

  Tait ushered him forward, speaking low as they walked through the mass of people. “He wants to meet you first.”

  Gustaf caught sight of the holy man dressed in orthodox brown wool, a string of large wooden beads hanging around his forearm. He rushed up to him and ignored the introduction Tait tried to provide.

  “You will marry us, aye?”

  Nervously, the docile monk withstood the intimidating stance of the large warrior before him, having to lift his chin in order to look Gustaf in the eyes. “Is it your wish to forsake your pagan gods and follow the one true God, your Creator and Father?”

  “If ’twill get your arse in there quicker, then, aye.”

  “This should not be a hasty decision on your part, my son. To follow God means to know Him and feel Him in your heart.”

  Gustaf ripped his dagger from his belt and shoved the point of the blade beneath the priest’s chin. “Do you feel that, holy man?”

  Tait and Nevan surrounded Gustaf on each side, taking hold of his arms. “Gustaf, this is not the way to get what you want.”

  “Sure ‘tis. Look at him. He knows his life hangs in the balance.”

  The monk swallowed tentatively, careful not to make a move. “’Tis all right, Tait. He speaks the truth and I am not a foolish man. There is passion in his words and strangely enough, the good Lord suffered the same at Gethsemane.”

  Gustaf pulled the priest closer by his clothes. “Is that an aye?”

  Tait and Nevan reaffirmed their hold on his arms; though they did little to inhibit his ability to run the priest through should it come to that.

  The holy man cleared his throat and, with his free hand, gently pushed Gustaf’s weapon away from his neck. “As I told your brother, Dægan, once…when he insisted upon using force to enter the house of God…humility and kindness go a lot further than hostility and aggression when one is in need.”

  Gustaf shrugged Tait and Nevan from his arms and sheathed his knife. “I was told my brother died a Christian man.”

  “Aye, he accepted God into his heart,” the monk said, checking for blood on his neck. “Of his own free will, I might add.”

  “Then like my brother, I shall do the same. I humbly ask you to grant me this one request.” Gustaf bowed his head and caught sight of the silver amulet swinging from his belt. Proving his sincerity to forsake his heathen ways, he tore Thor’s hammer from his hip, brandished his fist for all to see, and launched the sentimental trinket into the distant lapping ocean. “There. I renounce my gods. Is that good enough?”

  Everyone waited with bated breath for the monk to speak, but he stood his ground, adamant in making Gustaf shed his haughty disposition.

  A cry from inside Mara’s home erupted through the silence and Gustaf could barely contain himself. He fell to one knee and bowed his head before speaking. “For the love of all things holy and just, what must I do to convince you?” He thumped his chest with his fist. “I swear I sever all ties with my war god. May Thor strike me dead for professing such things right now, but please, I beg you. Do not let my child come into this world a bastard. I cannot do that to him. I owe him the honor of my name. As a father, ’tis my duty—”

  “Enough. On your feet. I will do as you ask for God welcomes all—even the wolves that pasture with the sheep. But,” the monk warned, pointing at Tait. “I leave the responsibility of properly converting this Northman in your hands.”

  Tait nodded reluctantly.

  “Shall we?” the monk gestured.

  Gustaf ran ahead of him and blocked the door, exchanging like-minded looks with Tait. “You may wa
nt to cover your eyes before you enter.”

  Tait patted the priest’s shoulder. “Trust me, you will be grateful you did.”

  Confused, the monk brought his hands up to his face and covered his eyes. With Gustaf’s guidance, he was led into the longhouse, the shriek of a woman in labor piercing his ears.

  Gustaf led the man around the hearth and quickly knelt down beside her. “I am here, Æsa,” he said, wiping her brow with a cool cloth.

  “We have not much time, Gustaf,” Mara remarked. Her concern extended from the thin crease of her lips to the seriousness of her eyes. “Once the baby descends, Æsa has to push.”

  Gustaf grabbed the priest by the arm, jerking him from his stupor. “You heard the princess. Proceed.”

  The distraught monk cleared his throat and commenced the unconventional ceremony with the conventional Latin gibberish. “In nominee Patris, et Fillii, et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”

  From then on, Gustaf was oblivious to the man behind him, who recited words of unknown purpose. He was attentive only to his suffering Æsa, making certain he did all that Mara asked of him.

  He may have failed to protect her from Ásmundr but he would not fail her now. She needed him and he needed her. Like he’d told her before, she was the only woman he wanted. There was no other who could alight his lips with a smile, fill his heart with joy, and gratify his soul with pride. Nothing made him prouder than watching his Æsa endure the pains of childbirth so she could gift him with a son.

  With all her might, she sat curled up over her stomach and pushed. Gustaf braced his arm across her back and coached her to keep pushing, his heart in his chest as he awaited this miraculous moment. Each push, brought the baby closer to delivery and Gustaf couldn’t help but encourage the priest to speed it up.

  As the last words fell from the monk’s lips, an infant’s tiny cry broke through the commotion of the room. Æsa dropped to her back in exhaustion and Gustaf stared as Mara lifted the bloody little one for him to see.