The Temperate Warrior (2 page)

The thought of that endearing term coming from Æsa’s supple lips warmed him, though he was anything but temperate. He hadn’t hidden his terrible past from her or the wicked things he’d done in avenging his father’s murder. By the time they’d parted ways, she knew everything and still she touched his cheek with delicate hands, whispering her sweet promises in his ear before he’d left.

I will wait for you, my temperate warrior
.
No matter how long you are absent from my arms, I will wait.

Gustaf took a deep breath of the crisp sea air, trying to push aside his longing for the woman he so direly missed. He glanced one last time at the islands behind him and made a silent vow that he would return.

Affirming his grip on the steerboard, he looked ahead, dutifully staying the course. The wind had picked up on the open sea and the need for rowing had diminished. Several of his men had resorted to keeping themselves busy within the hull of the ship. A few were sharpening daggers, a couple more were quietly discussing the simple pleasures they missed and which ones they planned to treat themselves with first. But Jørgen, his closest friend, looked as if he were fighting boredom. He had been eyeing Gustaf ever since they’d hoisted the heavy pine mast into its chink hole and rigged the single woolen sail against it.

Jørgen finally arose from his rowing bench and approached Gustaf at the stern. “Permission to speak, my lord.”

The corner of Gustaf’s mouth slightly raised in a smile. “Your service to me ended the moment Gunnar Havlocksen took his last breath. There is no need to address me as your master. You are free to speak your heart’s content, my friend.”

An air of haughtiness overtook Jørgen. “Noting your request, I demand you turn this
langskip
around.”

Gustaf cocked his head, regarding his friend’s terse statement. “And why would I do that?”

“I am not a fool. I have seen the magnitude of yearning for the woman you are leaving behind as you navigate us toward home. If not for this burden, you would have already burst through her door.”

“If not for you, I would not have a woman to come home to.”

“Indeed,” Jørgen admitted. “But ‘tis not fair to put your men before yourself. You have been more than generous to us. Not only with payment for our services but for the sacrifices you have made on our behalf.”

“My sacrifices pale in comparison to the ones you and the others have made for me. I will not ask any of you to offer more so that I may selfishly gratify my desires. You have been kept from your families far longer than I care to admit and I will not coerce you to wait longer.”

“What you say is true. We have been without the comfort of our families, the embraces of our children while they were small, and the warmth of our women in our beds. Through the years it has felt as if forever has passed since we’ve taken in those simple joys. We have withstood eternity. What is one more day?”

Gustaf felt his resolve slip a notch. The sound of Jørgen’s offer weighed heavily on his right hand, the temptation to steer the ship southward encumbering his sense of duty. He shook his head in adamancy. “One more day is one more too long. If I could steal control of the wind from the gods, I would have already dragged keel in Skíringssalr by now and we would not be having this discussion.”

“If you could steal any power from the gods, my lord, I doubt it would be something as frivolous as the wind. I would imagine you would have robbed Thor of his hammer and taken out your father’s murderers single-handedly with one swift blow and none of us would be slave to this bloody ship.”

Gustaf scoffed, pondering that image. “There is a thought.”

Jørgen glanced over his shoulder at the eager men who grew intent with the conversation at hand. Speaking for them, he turned back around and looked Gustaf in the eye. “Through the many years we have spent together, are we not your brothers?”

“Of course.”

“Then as your brother, I cannot bear the thought of saying our farewells in haste.”

Gustaf saw a trace of emotion welling in Jørgen’s eyes.

“I know I speak selfishly, but I am not willing to part ways with you, my lord. It would not feel right in my heart to step off this vessel and let you leave us behind like cargo of little importance…to watch you sail away without…” His voice broke under the strain of his emotions. “Reuniting with my family would not be the same if you were not there to share in my joy. I am only asking for you to spend a few days with us before you set sail for Inis Mór. Please, I beg you. Turn this
langskip
around and bring Æsa with us. At first light, tomorrow morn, we can sail for Skíringssalr together.”

Gustaf clasped Jørgen’s other shoulder, feeling his friend’s pain. “Speak no more, my brother,” he offered with a sympathetic smile. “I had not given thought to parting with you and what it would mean to sail without your company.” Gustaf extended his hand, gesturing toward his entire crew. “Without all of you at my side. My mind had wandered somewhere else, buried in a woman’s embrace, it seems. I am a man. Can you blame me?”

Hardy chuckles collected within the hull and it felt good to hear his men laugh.

“Does this mean you will accept my offer?” Jørgen asked, his face frozen with anticipation.

Gustaf’s heart skipped a beat as he thought of seeing his Æsa this day. “Lower the mast. We sail for Skúvoy.”

Chapter Two

Æsa stepped into the brisk afternoon air, the cool breeze meeting her face. She breathed in the fresh sea salt coming off the North Atlantic. Autumn had come and she knew winter would soon nip at its heels. With each passing day, she worried over the safety of her warrior lover, Gustaf, gazing out over the ocean for signs of his return.

Counting the days by the cycle of the moon, she determined he had been gone for over a month. It had been the longest stretch of time without his secure presence and, from the moment he had left to save his family and bring vengeance on Gunnar Havlocksen, she’d been lost without him.

She recalled the short weeks that she’d spent with Gustaf, after he rescued her from the callous hands of Ragnar. He’d known the disgraceful life she’d lived, warming countless men’s beds in exchange for food or shelter. It was a life she’d not chosen willingly. She had been forced to that lowly position at the tender age of ten and four, when her family had been slaughtered by Harold ‘the Fairhair’s’ command. Ripped from her homeland in Norway, she had been thrust into the slave market and bought because of her beauty and what she could provide with her early blossoming body.

Gustaf had known all this, but still he took her in and showed her nothing but kindness. He’d treated her as an equal, asserting she’d never be a slave to any man again, including himself. Choosing of her own free will, she stayed with Gustaf and found more happiness than she’d ever dreamed. She’d found a haven in his arms.

Beneath his tender touch, Æsa had felt like a virgin. His hands, though callused and scarred, caressed her as if she were fragile enough to break. She quickly learned that it was possible for a woman to enjoy the pleasures of lovemaking. To not fear the approach of a man’s naked body and glorify in its raw beauty.

By Gustaf’s noble actions and kind words, Æsa had learned what a real man was and that chivalry actually existed in this dark and dreary age. He had showed her a love she never knew existed. He had instilled in her a sense of worth, a virtue no man had ever dared to offer, and he’d cared enough to see to her needs without expecting anything in return. Those simple deeds helped her to realize that not all men were vile vermin, spawn of
Loki
. When Gustaf spoke, she knew he meant every word. He had promised to return for her and she held his vow close to her heart. She’d wait forever.

Only a few fortnights into forever, she couldn’t get used to Gustaf’s absence. One would think that a woman who’d been forced to lie with innumerable, fiendish men from her miserable past would welcome the emptiness of a bed. To be grateful for the reprieve of a man’s inexorable sexual desires before she closed her eyes to sleep. But since the first night she’d spent with Gustaf, she became accustomed to the delights of a man’s feral appetite. His craving for flesh upon flesh had grown to be hers, and every night that had passed without his embrace left her feeling desolate and lonely.

She’d never felt these emotions before. Most times, as she’d lain listening to the irksome snores of her ruthless fornicators who found a deep sleep following their release, she dared to slit their throats with their own daggers. She’d never had the fortitude to stoop to such a level for she was not the kind of woman to bring despair to their families. She had known what it was like to be without one, to be a young impressionable girl and have her father taken from her by the cold edge of a blade. Many of the men who’d commissioned her to her knees had been fathers and husbands. If she’d relented to taking their lives, she’d be no better than the brutal beasts who had slain her own loved ones.

Since Gustaf came into her life, she’d felt more foreign emotions than she cared to admit. Passion, joy, and a longing that swelled beyond comprehension. Every fiber of her being yearned for his touch, his voice, his embrace. It was the only thing that kept her alive these few weeks.

In her past, she’d come close to starving to death many times. Going weeks without food had been nothing compared to waiting for Gustaf. In her times of need, she had prayed to both
Thor
and the All-father,
Odin
, to aid in his return, hoping that one morning she’d discover his
langskip
coming ashore on the distant banks of the Faroes.

From her viewpoint, atop the lush green hill that sat below the mountain of Knúkur, she could see the grassy rooftops of the many houses below. Like her, the inhabitants of the isle had escaped the torments of Harold ‘the Fairhair’ and lived here in relative peace. No one bothered her as she dwelled in solitude, lest they face the wrath of Gustaf Ræliksen. She had come to learn that his reputation as a deadly swordsman was known far and wide, and any man would be a fool to try his hand at besting Gustaf’s skills.

The only man who dared to venture up the hillock was a rickety old warrior by the name of
Diðrik
. She had been reassured by Gustaf that he was a trustworthy friend for many years and he would check on her weekly. Though Diðrik bore the likeness of a shady character with his warily shifting eyes and scrubby bearded face, she had come to enjoy his visits. Along with the pleasant conversation about his late wife and their two adventure-seeking sons, he often brought fresh cow’s milk and
skerpikjøt
. Though the chewy meat was unlike anything she’d ever eaten, it was certainly a treat for her empty belly.

As Æsa gathered her cloak tighter beneath her chin, she picked up a wooden pail near the entrance of the meager longhouse to gather water from a nearby stream. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a group of men hiking up the hill. Knowing Diðrik was not due for another couple of days, she watched them. They had bypassed the cluster of homes below, without being hindered or questioned from those around the harbor, and seemed to be heading straight up the steep incline. Their steps resembled the trepidation of raiding Northmen set on plunder.

Her heart sank and the bucket in her grasp dropped to the ground. Stark, cold fear pierced through her body like shards of ice. She had witnessed the carnage left behind from these kinds of raids a thousand times over, and if not for her silver-tongued bargaining and persuasive feminine attributes, she wouldn’t have been able to survive. It was because of this cruelty that her days as a whore had begun, and now that she’d finally been freed from that lowly submissive life, she wasn’t about to go back. She’d die before she’d let another man force himself upon her.

Æsa turned on her heels and darted back inside, her only thoughts were of Gustaf and making sure not one man made it atop the hill alive.

Chapter Three

Gustaf cocked his head, confused by the sound of the distant slamming door. He’d thought that upon seeing Æsa, she would have run like mad toward him. Instead, she turned her back. He stopped in his tracks and his men did the same. He felt the weight of their stares almost as much as he bore the disappointment of Æsa’s reaction to his return.

“My lord?” Jørgen murmured.

Gustaf gazed at his friend for a moment and then back toward the house on the hill, uncertain of her intentions. “Perhaps she wishes not to see me. Was I foolish to believe the promise of a woman?”

“In my experience, the solidity of a woman’s oath is often stronger than that of a man’s.” Jørgen followed the direction of his chieftain’s eyes. “Forgive me for prying, but did you leave her in a state of anger?”

Gustaf shook his head. “On the contrary. We had parted with a kiss. She vowed she’d wait for me.” Gustaf recalled the softness of Æsa’s touch upon his face and the sincerity of her words. He knew she had plenty of practice at wooing men, but he assumed she’d not crouch to that level with him. Mayhap he’d been a fool, like all the rest.

“Then I am certain she waits for you,” Jørgen tried to reason. “Albeit… behind the wood of the door.”

Gustaf gave him a sideways glance, unimpressed with his friend’s sardonic analysis. He swallowed the hard lump of humiliation and tried to exhaust the heat of his embarrassment through a forceful sigh. “Those of you who’ve taken a wife, step forward.”