The Temperate Warrior Read online

  As he continued to gaze at her, they eventually locked eyes and an unspoken appreciation registered between them. Æsa blushed as her eyes fell over his bare chest, biting her lip to hide her fleeting thoughts. She turned abruptly, as if to ward them off, and set to filling a wooden stein for him.

  Immediately he stood, drawing the hide around his waist. With it secured in his fist, he walked toward her, disregarding the two men he had to sift through to get there. “You look lovely.”

  She smiled and handed him the cup. “As do you. ’Tis a pity you must get dressed.”

  He accepted the drink and held it up in a toast-like fashion. “’Tis a pity my men figured out how to fish.”

  Snorri cleared his throat behind them. “We would have returned sooner had it not been for Øyven bartering for the bird. Go on. Tell him what you traded for it, Øyven.”

  Gustaf tipped the cup to his lips and turned to Øyven. The look on the young man’s face spoke volumes on the significance of the price. “What did you trade?”

  Øyven glanced between him and Snorri, reluctant to say. Out of patience, Snorri spoke for him. “He gave away his sword—the one thing a warrior needs to survive in this godforsaken world. He might as well have cut off his cock.”

  Øyven’s jaw clenched and he finally found his tongue. “With all due respect, m’lord, I have brandished my sword for your father and for my own. ’Twas a worthy cause, and I would do it again. But I am through fighting. I have no need for my sword any longer. I want to live in peace.” He threw Snorri a stern look. “What is wrong with that?”

  “’Tis foolhardy and senseless, boy. Witty words are never enough where peace is concerned.” Snorri eyed Gustaf carefully, holding his gaze. “We all know how that sad story ends.”

  Gustaf narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying my father died in vain?”

  Snorri scoffed. “Harold ‘the Fairhair’—the man who issued your father’s death warrant so many years ago—has firmly seized the land you once called home, has gained more popularity than the late Alfred ‘the Great’, and continues to sit high on his noble thrown, feasting on the fruits from the very soil fertilized with your father’s spilled blood. You tell me, m’lord.”

  An awkward silence fell upon the group. Snorri had made his point well by invoking the one thing Gustaf was very passionate about. Harold ‘the Fairhair’ may not have held the dagger that killed his father, but his hands were just as bloody as the ten paid to do the deed. Gustaf had spent so many years of his life dedicated to finding those who were directly responsible for his father’s murder that taking on the king, who’d ultimately funded the task, seemed insignificant at the time. Now that Snorri had laid it out before him, in such an irrefutable and straightforward fashion, he had no idea what to say.

  In all honesty, he had no desire to go after the King of Norway. The man was more powerful than any army he could assemble, had more wealth than all the nobles of Wessex and Mercia combined, and had more authority than the Christian Pope of Rome. As far as Gustaf was concerned, Harold was untouchable.

  A tender caress on his forearm broke his reverie. “If I may?”

  Æsa’s fingertips on his heated skin calmed his beating heart and soothed his weary mind. If he’d not been holding the hide around his waist, he would have reached out and touched the gentle hand still laid upon his arm. He had no worldly idea what guidance she could offer on this complex issue, but he was certainly willing to hear it. He gestured with a deep nod of his head. “By all means.”

  Æsa scanned the seven faces now staring at her intently, her nervousness showing in the way she rocked back and forth. Gustaf couldn’t help but inwardly note how endearing she looked at this moment. He almost wanted to scoop her up in his arms and ravish the angst right out of her. It amazed him how easily Æsa could arouse him, even at inopportune moments such as these. He tightened his grip around the hide, privately battling his body as he waited for her to begin.

  “Like myself, many of you have lost family to Harold’s cruel reign. We all know what he is capable of and how far he is willing to go to secure a vast domain across Scandinavia. But may I remind you that your loved ones died so you might live. Someone once told me,” Æsa said, glancing back at Gustaf and smiling, “there is no greater love than when a man lays down his life for another.” She stiffed her back and raised her chin proudly, affixing her gaze back over his men. “Love is never in vain. I have seen many reasons why men draw their swords. Some for riches…or notoriety. Some over women…or even the last drop of mead. All are without honor, except for love.” She lowered her head in submission and bit her lip again, slowly raising her eyes to Gustaf’s. “And freedom, of course. So, nay, I say to you Snorri. Gustaf’s father died not in vain. ‘Twas for love that he gave his life.”

  Chapter Eight

  Gustaf closed the door behind him as he and Æsa stepped into the brisk, evening air. The golden sun began to set, highlighting her scarlet locks with streaks of glistening, honey-colored strands fashioned in a long braid down her back. Bejeweled and dressed in noble attire, she’d commanded the entire room with her poignant oration about love and what’s worth dying for. To him, she never looked more beautiful. If he had his way, he’d take her right now—clothes and all.

  “Why do you look at me like that?” she asked, turning away.

  He shook away his wandering thoughts and steered his mind toward the matter at hand. “I am proud of you and the stance you made on my father’s behalf.”

  He heard a tiny sound come from her chest, much like a grunt, only higher in pitch. He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. “I mean what I say. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  He gave her arms a gentle squeeze. “No one has ever been able to shut Snorri’s mouth as fast as you did. I believe you rendered him speechless.”

  Her lips pursed, hiding her smile. She brought her fingertips to her mouth and stroked her bottom lip in thought. “I suppose.”

  He tipped her chin up to face him. “You did.”

  Æsa’s smile widened, but as soon as it reached her eyes, it disappeared. “I should not have interfered.”

  “Why?”

  “Because ’twas not my place, m’lord.”

  “Your place is beside me.”

  “As your attentive, obedient wife,” she added. “Not as an outspoken whor—”

  “Careful,” Gustaf warned.

  He watched as her lips rounded, altering the sound of her initial word.

  “…woman…who meddles in her lord’s affairs.”

  Gustaf grinned his approval. “I commend you on your supplementary word choice, but I cannot agree with your reasoning. You did not meddle in my affairs, my dearest Æsa. You assisted me when I needed help.” He took her hand and cupped it between his, kissing the top of her wrist. “I was at a loss and you sensed it, thus saying what I could not.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “My words mirrored your thoughts? Surely you jest.”

  With a flick of his hand, he grasped her wrist and tugged her into his arms. Her sudden gasp kicked his heart up a notch and her sweet scent inflamed his senses. He breathed her in, his lungs expanding in time with his swelling groin. “Why is that so hard to believe? You and I having similar thoughts.”

  “Because we are so different.”

  Gustaf looked deep into her eyes. “What makes you think we are different?”

  “Well, there is the obvious.”

  To his surprise, Æsa gripped him with about as much strength as one would grasp a sword hilt. He flinched at first then chuckled at her game, pushing himself into her palm. “Aye, there is that. What else?”

  She looked up into nothingness as she pondered more of their variations. “You are a respected warrior and leader. When you talk, men listen. When you unsheathe your sword, men quake in their boots.”

  “Are you saying you wish to be a warrior?”

  “Hardly, m’lord.”

  “Dispute it all
you want, but you are already on that path. For as I recall, this respected warrior and leader had to make good use of his shield to protect himself from a certain woman with a bow.” Her eyes danced in her jovial laughter and it tickled him. “For a moment there, I thought it was the end. Arrows whizzing passed my head, inches from my skull. I prayed to Odin and offered myself to Thor, that if I must die, right here on the hillock of Skúvoy, at the feet of Æsa ‘the Wild’ ’twould be an honorable death.”

  She shook her head, smiling at his exaggerated tale. “Is that your way of praising me so that I will try again?”

  Gustaf nipped at her lips. “You enjoyed it too much not to.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Indeed.” He took a deep breath and ruminated over her possible emotions at the time of using the bow. “At first, you felt empowered, knowing you were single-handedly holding off a group of callous men—albeit their leader was roguishly handsome.”

  Æsa giggled at his prediction, wrapping her arms tighter around his back. “Go on.”

  “You even had thoughts of taking their leader prisoner and using his exquisite body for your own personal pleasure. Have I got it right so far?”

  “Hmm…perhaps. But I want to hear what I felt next.”

  Her devious grin spurred an assortment of lustful thoughts, his body craving to live out his fanciful tale. He gladly resumed with his story. “You continued to cast off a barrage of arrows, your thighs quivering at the thought of straddling said leader, until realization sunk in. You then felt an immense pang of sorrow and regret knowing you could have killed me.”

  “Are we still talking about the roguishly handsome leader or you?”

  Gustaf whipped her body around and pinned her against the outside wall of the longhouse. “See? We are not so different, you and I. We think the same and we want the same things. And right now, I want you.”

  A subtle throat clearing in the darkness interrupted their private moment. Gustaf’s head snapped to the right and he squinted beyond the longhouse. “Jørgen?”

  “Aye, m’lord.” The man rustled his footing. “My apologies.”

  Æsa quickly sidestepped Gustaf’s embrace, straightening her disheveled kirtle and tucking a lose strand of hair behind her ear. Embarrassment colored her already flushed face with a lovely shade of pink and he was hard pressed to ignore it. He pulled her back into his arms and popped a loud kiss on her lips.

  “This had better be important, Jørgen.”

  “I would not dare disturb you if ’twere not.”

  “Very well,” Gustaf said disappointingly. He kissed her once more, this time with purpose and tenderness. “Would you excuse us, my dearest Æsa?”

  “As you wish.”

  Gustaf watched her walk away, a glint of sadness overcoming him with her departure. She nodded respectfully at Jørgen upon opening the back door of the longhouse and turned briefly to glance at Gustaf. An innocent smile registered on her lips before she disappeared.

  Gustaf crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the wood face. “I am listening.”

  Jørgen took the necessary steps to get closer to Gustaf so that he might speak in hushed tones and handed him his sword and scabbard. “I believe we are being watched, m’lord.”

  Chapter Nine

  Gustaf took a much-needed long breath and blew it out in exasperation, gazing at the leather belt wrapped neatly around his scabbard. He had finally begun to enjoy himself as a man who had hung up the proverbial sword, treasuring the last days of his adult life as a common man whose only aim was to provide for his future wife and family. Living in secret and fighting with stealth were supposed to be a thing of the past. Now it all seemed short lived. Surely Jørgen was only being paranoid.

  “Are we being watched now?”

  Jørgen searched through the darkness briefly. “I already thought of that, m’lord. I sent Snorri to take first watch.”

  Gustaf looked at him skeptically. “And by whom are we being surveyed?”

  “Not sure,” Jørgen admitted solemnly, his voice growing quieter. “I first sensed it when we were fishing at the water’s edge. Whenever I looked around, the same four men were always eyeing us.”

  “Should I remind you we are on the Faroes? Half the people who inhabit this isle look suspicious of something.”

  “I am well aware of the unfavorable company this island keeps. But I assure you, ‘tis more than just a silly suspicion. They seemed to be measuring us, making certain of our numbers before plotting a strike against us.”

  “And for what?” Gustaf asked, cocking his head. “We have nothing of value here, except—” He could barely finish his sentence. The one thing that mattered most to him, which was more valuable than any gold or silver, was Æsa.

  “Exactly, m’lord,” Jørgen said, reading his mind. “Which is why I said not a word in front of her. I wanted not to worry her needlessly.”

  Incited by the thought of something terrible happening to his Æsa, someone plotting to take her from him, he strapped his sword and scabbard around his waist. Though he still had his doubts as to why someone else would find her prized enough to risk his life against him and his seven skilled warriors, he wanted to at least be prepared. “‘Twas wise of you to keep your silence. Are the others aware?”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  Gustaf clasped a solid hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Keep watch with Snorri. I shall pay a visit to Diðrik, the eyes and ears of this isle. He might know something about these men.”

  “And where do I tell Æsa you have gone?”

  He thought for a moment, his hands on his hips. “Tell her I went to see Diðrik to say my farewells. I will not be long.”

  ****

  Gustaf stood at the door of Diðrik’s home, smoke rising from the outlet hole of the roof. He hated to bother the man at such an hour, but knew it was necessary for his Æsa’s safety. Everything was worth her safety.

  He raised his hand to knock but the door flew open, an arrow marked for his chest. His eyes grew wide with surprise at seeing the old gray-bearded man with his bow stretched for the kill.

  “Gustaf!” Diðrik cheered, lowering his weapon.

  Gustaf breathed easier now, smiling at the man’s uncanny sense of hearing.

  “Come in, come in,” he offered merrily. “My apologies for taking aim at ye like that. But ye really should think twice ’bout sneaking up on an ol’ man lest ye favor yer heart on a spit.”

  Gustaf smiled as he entered the room. The man’s sense of humor was a godsend through the sullen mood in which he suddenly found himself. The aroma of herbs—the same ones Æsa used on the fish he ate that night—filled the space of the quaint longhouse, while the smell of peat and dried skerpikjøt permeated the rest.

  Looking at them hanging from the rafters and the bow that almost killed him, it seemed that his old friend had spent more time with Æsa than he realized. He shook his head. “So, ’twas you who taught my Æsa the bow.”

  The old man chuckled and found a seat by fire, gesturing for Gustaf to join him. “She was quick to learn as she gave ye and yer men quite a scare.”

  Gustaf rolled his eyes and sat beside him. “You saw that?”

  Diðrik handed him a beat-up wooden stein filled with mead. “I see everything on this isle, son.”

  He gladly accepted the cup, thankful to have something stronger than the water he and his men had been drinking since their return. He took two large gulps and handed it back. “My reason for visiting you at this hour, my old friend.”

  “Oh?”

  “Jørgen seems to think we are being watched by a few crooked men on this isle. Four stragglers down by the harbor.”

  Diðrik drank the rest of his mead and set it aside. “Five to be exact. The other one stays out of sight for most of the time while the four do his bidding. They sailed in a few days before ye did, their hungry eyes on one thing.”

  Gustaf didn’t need to hear what that one thing was. By the look Di
ðrik shot him, he knew it was Æsa. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up, heat prickling his scalp. He felt his stomach turn sour and his mouth went dry. “Why Æsa?”

  The old man scoffed. “Aside from the obvious?” he asked, giving Gustaf a sideways glance. “No offense.”

  Gustaf nodded, letting the man know he was not a fool. Æsa was a rare and beautiful find. She was different from the rest of the women. Her red hair was like silk, long and radiant down her back. Her breasts were firm, round, and voluptuous. And her luscious, full lips around her perfect little mouth would bring just about any man to his knees.

  “If they wanted her, why did they not strike when they had the chance? When there was no one to guard her?” The thought sickened him. His hand absently went to the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white in his grip.

  “Easy, my friend,” Diðrik soothed. “No one has struck out against anyone.”

  “So, why do they continue to ogle my men?”

  The old man waved off his speculation as if it were nothing. “My guess is they realized they’ve lost their opportunity.”

  “Have they?”

  “Ach, men are covetous beings, Gustaf. Ye of all men know that. And when an easy prospect has been thwarted, it takes a few days for the idea to leave their gluttonous minds and move on to something less demanding.”

  Gustaf pondered the old man’s words. He knew he spoke wisely and without the hindrance of personal feelings getting in his way. Gustaf was too involved to think levelheaded, his emotions toward Æsa running high.

  “That being said,” Diðrik added, pouring another cup of mead from the ewer at his feet. “I would not hang around long enough to find out.”

  Diðrik handed the filled stein to Gustaf and he drank heavily, letting the cool honeyed liquid soothe his hot, dry throat. He didn’t mean to be temperamental, especially since no one had yet to challenge him. But it was the notion that a few wayward men had potentially given it thought that burned his arse.