The Warlord's Wife (20 page)

The man drank his ale and thought for a moment. “She a girl in market. She is bright like sun.” He took another long drink. “She is . . . free. She is good.”

“Were you present when my wife was sent away from Lylasku?”

Otso’s eyes cast down. “No one stop Helika beat her. Lylasku not home to me that day. My mother died. My brothers are men. I take Lida to Turku. I make new life. West of Turku, I have wife and son.”

“I swear you will be returned to them.”

Otso nodded. “Last winter, I hear fighting in north bad. We stop boat. I speak with my brother. He come away to my village. Lylasku . . . not Lylasku, people, slaves, beaten for many things. Children no run by shore. No food in belly to run.”

“I have witnessed the changes. I know of what you speak,” Magnus said.

Otso pointed to his head. “I know why Helika beat Lida. If Urho’s babe be son, then he would be next chief, not Helika’s son. Helika second wife. Katia not safe in Lylasku.” Otso stared at Magnus with resolute eyes. “What I see is Chief Rein sick. Valto soon be chief.”

Magnus knew he needed to tell Katia the truth about her family, for her own protection. Every person has the right to know the truth of where they are from. But for now, she would be sheltered and reared to be a woman with her mother’s heart of compassion and courage. Magnus had come to accept that his wife knew more than him on a variety of topics, though he would never admit that aloud to a living soul.

“My wife spoke well of you. You will be rewarded for your loyalty. I will return you to your village with steel and furs that you may trade and sell. Mayhap you would wish to work with Tero as an agent in trade. You can speak with him and make your own decision. For tonight, I invite you to take your meals at my table as my honored guest.” The man stood to accept Magnus’s outstretched hand. “With one condition.”

Otso clenched his jaw.

Magnus pulled him in, speaking into his ear. “She was a good wife to your friend and mourns him still. I will not have remembrances that would bring her more pain. Your warning is well received. From this day, Katia Magnusdotter is of the house of Tronscar.”

Otso pointed at him. “Lida is good queen for iron castle.”

“She is indeed.” Magnus raised his tankard of ale and toasted his new Finnish ally.

Late in the spring, Lida learned that Ylva’s babe had emerged blue, the cord wrapped around the infant’s throat. Brita, her tenderhearted maid, had come into her chamber with red, swollen eyes, and a running nose, prompting Lida to question her. Since it was so close to her time, Magnus had instructed the servants to not speak of the tragedy. He was treating Lida as if she were made of glass.

Lida clutched the sides of her stomach. “I am glad you told me, Brita. Ylva is a good woman who has been treated most cruelly by this world. Tell Tero I would like to speak with him. I will place Ylva under my protection. She will need time to grieve. Poor dear.” Tears stung her eyes, but she pushed them away. Lida would cry for Ylva’s babe another day. For now, she needed to stay calm, ensuring the health of the two precious lives that she was responsible for protecting.

After spending some time freshening up her bedchamber and relating other small household news, Brita added, “This may lighten your spirit. Your daughter asked me to braid her hair this morning. Not tight, she said, but she asked me for two braids.”

Lida put her embroidery down. “Truly! That is news.”

“She took them out after she was finished with her practice. Her hair gets in the way of seeing her target,” Brita added casually.

“Target! What target?”

“You know”—Brita shrugged—“when she is sparring with your husband.”

“Sparring. What!” Lida flung off her bedsheet and waddled through the door and down the corridor. Sparring with her child—teaching her daughter the sword without even speaking with her? She would not have it. “Brita, come take my hand on the stairs, and please bring my slippers and robe.”

“Magnus!” she called at the bottom of the stairs. He sat at the head table, taking his midday meal with her daughter next to him.

“Is it time?” He rushed straight for her.

“What is this I hear of you teaching my daughter the sword? Are you mad? She could be hurt. She is just a child, a little girl. She should be learning about . . . other things.” She waved her hands, trying to be more specific. “Not learning to make war. So typical of a Swedish lout to teach of violent . . . where are you taking me?” Her husband had grabbed her arm, leading her out under the archway to the kitchens.

“The rain has stopped and the sun is out. Since you’re here, you shall take some air.” He ignored her ranting and smiled at her, a big, toothy smile.

“Magnus, you must listen to me. I will not have her . . . oh, it has indeed turned into a lovely day.” The sun warmed her face, and her nose filled with the smells of spring. The yard held mounds of melting snow, puddles of mud warming in the sun. Off in the distance, birds sang, busy in the trees. Trickling water ran off the roofs, taking her mind back to her farm in Turku. She closed her eyes and let the smells and sounds of spring awaken her senses.

Her husband laid his black wool cape over her shoulders, directing her to sit on a carved stone bench. “She is a little girl,” he said. “A very bright little girl who will grow into as beautiful a woman as her mother. She will learn the sword while she holds the interest. Next season, she will want to learn the things that other girls learn. Did you see her braids? She finally made use of the ribbons.” Her husband placed his arm around her and closed his eyes, smugly lifting his face to warm in the sun.

Lida tried to hold on to her anger but it had melted away with the snow. “You should have spoken to me about it.”

“Nay, I should not have. It got you all upset, causing you to plow down the stairs recklessly.”

“Plow! I do not plow.”

“Aye, you do a bit.”

“Magnus!” She flicked her eyes up to meet his, ready to give him a piece of her mind. His eyes were bright with restrained laughter. He was teasing her, and she did not know what to make of it. “I am just being an obedient wife. You said you wanted me to get larger, so here you have me.”

He bent down, ran his hand over her stomach and kissed it. “That is big enough, my sons. Time to come out and meet your sire.” He turned his attention back to her and smiled. It was a different kind of smile, and his jaw was clenched, his eyes blazing with a fire she had not seen in months. Oh, how she had missed this look.

“I never agreed to give you two sons,” Lida said. “I still think a daughter might scare you straight. Wait until your girl holds a sword and then we will have this conversation again.”

“My daughters will hold swords, and a bow, and learn to throw a blade. My daughters will be unmatched and have no need of a man to defend them.”

“Your daughters, as in more than one?”

He shrugged. “I had no idea of the usefulness of daughters before I spent time with Katia.”

“Usefulness?”

“Aye, they are beautiful, they smell good, they are soft, they bring you joy, they teach you new tongues, they organize your quills in interesting new ways, they warm your knee, they are funny, they make your steward seem less dull, they are beautiful . . .”

“You said that one already.” There was a painful lump in her throat and Lida wanted to cry, but she forced herself to smile instead. “Did Katia tell you all those reasons herself?”

“A few, but a few are of my own. More like her would be good, wife. After you birth these two, I will be glad for more.” He kissed her, cupping her cheek, holding her firmly in place, then kissing her more deeply. His muffled growl caused her to squirm. He wanted her . . . and she needed him to want her.

“I want to go back upstairs, Magnus,” she panted.

“I better send Tero to take you up. I will tear that gown off you if I go with you.”

She giggled, “Why must you tear it? I like this one.” She stood before him, offering him her hand, and offering him more with her eyes.

Magnus followed at Lida’s snail’s pace back up to her chamber. He helped her into bed, and she pulled his arm around her as he settled in behind her.

“I think they are both sons some days and then both daughters the next. I cannot wait to meet them,” she mumbled, the pull of sleep taking her under.

His lips pressing against her neck, he whispered, “Neither can I, Lida.”

***

For a brother that hid himself away for years at a time, Hök was proving most reliable as of late. The old Sami tribeswoman that he had brought to Lida was small with narrow black eyes and a rope of white hair.

His brother translated as the woman moved her hand over his wife’s stomach.

“She says that the babes are in a good position.”

“Hök, tell her my wishes, if things go wrong,” Lida said. “Tell her what I want her to do.” She smiled meekly to reassure the two men.

“She knows, Lida,” Hök answered softly.

“Tell her anyway. I want to see her face when you say it,” she said, her words stronger now.

“Wife,” Magnus said, “the woman is wise. Leave her to her duty.”

“Magnus, you can wait outside. Please see to Katia’s lessons; I am busy in here.” She turned away from him, back to his brother. “Tell her, Hök.”

As his brother spoke Lida’s instructions, the old woman looked directly into his wife’s eyes. She never changed her expression, but slowly moved across the chamber to her rolled bundle of sealskin. She returned to his wife and raised a thin blade with a whalebone handle.

“She has done this before. On women and horses,” his brother said quietly.

His wife closed her eyes, nodding, and repeated the words “thank you” in Sami.

Magnus turned away, working to control the murderous rage building inside him at the thought of his wife being gutted.

Lida’s back pain abruptly grew worse and she moaned softly. She rose and began to limp around her chamber, holding his arm. Unannounced, water gushed out of her and onto the floor.

“Kiss me, Magnus,” she said calmly. He did. “Now leave. I do not wish to see your angry face every time I clench in pain. Go, and keep Katia occupied. Ask her to write a list of all the names she knows. We will need two.”

“Katia will not be naming my sons.”

“Of course she won’t. I will be. But it will give you both something to do. This will take a long while.” She arched her back. “You can go too, Hök. Seija and I will be fine.”

Dismissed like an ineffective boor in his own house! Magnus was about to tell her nay, he was staying, but his brother wrapped an arm around his shoulder and said, “Arguing with her will do you more harm than good, brother. I must say, being here to see you put in line by a woman was worth the long hike.” Hök laughed, dragging Magnus away down the corridor.

***

Taking deep breaths, Magnus walked the perimeter of his battlement. The early summer rainstorm had picked up strength, brightening the fields with a crisp emerald green.

He returned inside the fortress to find three dejected souls sitting at the head table—four, if you counted Lika.

“Layla, Beau, Bell, Hanna, Sissi, Rose, and Flora.” Katia beamed with pride.

Magnus shook his head and groaned.

“Kukka and Mia.” Hök beamed with equal pride.

“I will have daughters next year. Start again,” he ordered, and the table groaned in unison.

Magnus paced before the head table. Katia had given up on boy names. She said they were not fun or pretty-sounding, so she drew instead.

After the evening meal, Magnus could no longer be satisfied with reports from Brita. He stole into his wife’s chamber, where he found the window coverings removed, offering the scent of fresh rain. The Sami woman stroked his wife’s temple with a cloth while humming a hypnotic tune and Brita and Rakel watched over the proceedings protectively. Lida lay on her side, her eyes closed as the midwife rubbed circles on her back. His wife was taking deep, long breaths, almost appearing to be in some sort of trance.

The midwife nodded to him and moved from her position. She took Magnus’s hand and placed it on Lida’s lower back. He began to rub in small circles.

Not opening her eyes, Lida said, “What big hands you have, Seija.”

Terrified to the core, Magnus asked, “Are you—”

“Shhh, stay. Do not speak, Magnus. My pain is great. I must center.” Her face crunched and seized in agony, a sharp hissing sound coming through her clenched teeth. She blew out slowly and said, “Your hand feels good—press harder.”

Three more hissed breaths from his wife and the midwife apparently decided it was time. She raised the white nightgown, spread his wife’s legs, and placed her hand to Lida’s contracting stomach. His wife made very little noise, moaning and breathing hard. Five muted, grunting pushes later, she cried out a guttural scream.

“What is it? Let me have him.” Lida’s hands reached between her legs for the wet, slippery form. The midwife wiped the babe’s face, and placed him, slimy cord and all, on his wife’s chest. Bloody ooze smeared across her white gown.

“Magnus, he is perfect.” The babe cried but quieted quickly, staring up at his wife. “Oh, he is beautiful. Is he not just the most perfect babe ever born?” She cooed and kissed the blood-smeared little head, rambling on and on about how beautiful the squished-up, purple complexion of their son was. “Rot it . . .” His wife’s head tossed back. “Do not just tower over me. Do something!” she shouted at him. Why was she talking to him? She should speak to the midwife.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Take your son, you bleeding idiot. Sack of . . . Ohhhh, why is it so soon? Get me some water to drink, Magnus. I can barely . . . you rotten, foul-breathed—” His wife was seemingly possessed with the spirit of three different people all at the same time.

In his hands there was suddenly a slime-covered, squawking babe. Magnus held him out in front of him, not wanting the bloody mess to get on his clothes.

“Brita!” his wife screamed. “Get a blanket for my son before my good-for-nothing husband drops him on the floor. I swear, Magnus, if you drop my child I will drop you—Oh, why is the pain worse already, Seiji? Magnus, next time I will have a midwife that speaks my tongue—Apologies, Seiji. I did not mean that—‘tis just so frustrating.” The old woman smiled and nodded. “Again, so soon, but I . . . we are not having more children. This is it. Two is enough. Greedy bastard.” She clamped her mouth shut and bore down. The soft humming noises from before were replaced with an angrier snarl.

The midwife smiled her toothless grin and held up a blood-covered, purple mass. Magnus held back the vomit that rose. “What is that?”

“Jarl, that is the afterbirth. ’Tis normal,” said Rakel calmly. Magnus had almost forgotten that the maids were in the room.

“Oh,” he said, relieved.

“Oh! What did you think it was?” his wife said, panting.

“This is my first birth, wife. How am I too know?”

“You have been out to the stable when a colt is birthed, or a litter of pups, surely.” She flopped back onto the pillows as Brita mopped her brow. “May I see him?” she asked, smiling at the maid.

“He is very large, Lida,” Rakel said. “As large as Ragna’s last birth, or larger.”

His wife went quiet and closed her eyes. She breathed strangely and went back into her hypnotic trance once more. The old woman continued to massage his wife’s stomach and side, humming and chanting a tribal tune.

Long stretches of time passed, the only sounds his wife’s muffled moans.

“Why is it taking so long?” She rocked her head back and forth. “What is wrong, Seija? What are you not telling me?” she cried. The midwife nodded, appearing relaxed.

If the old woman was not worried, Magnus breathed and decided he would not be.

“Fear not. All will be well,” he said to his wife.

“Fear! You think I am afraid? Why, you weasel, I am not afraid. I am being ripped in half . . . Oh, for the love of all that is holy and good, get this child out of me. Now!”

The old woman continued to nod like she was watching an evening dance performed in perfect time.

“You trollop-loving, blockhead of a two-faced mule. ’Tis all your fault.” Lida let out her held breath, quickly refilling her lungs and pushing again. “All will be well. Ha! Does this look well to you?” She took in another breath and pushed.

“Is that a foot?” Magnus asked. This was not good. Panic consumed him and he swayed. He knew enough to know that this was the wrong way for a babe to come out. He knew that babes sometimes died inside the mother and could be removed so that the woman could live. He had his one living, healthy, screaming son. If she continued to insist on saving the unborn child and sacrificing her life, could he stand by and allow that to happen?