The Temperate Warrior (30 page)

“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 head 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 want 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.

“A boy,” Mara said, tears filling her eyes. “My nephew. You did it, Æsa. You birthed a son.”

Gustaf swiveled his head toward the priest. “Did you marry us?”

The monk smiled. “You are husband and wife in God’s eyes. What God has joined, let no man tear asunder—and God help them if they do.”

Gustaf wrapped his arms around Æsa’s spent body and buried his face in her neck. “I love you, wife. I love you. Do you hear me?”

Æsa mumbled, but had no energy to say more.

“Do you want to hold your son, Gustaf?” Mara asked, wrapping the wailing child in clean linens.

He looked up from his haven in Æsa’s nape and glanced at the infant with apprehension. “Hold him?”

Mara carried the child to him and helped fold Gustaf’s arms in a cradle. She transferred the bundle into his embrace, praising him as he gentled the newborn in a slow rock. The babe settled down and snuggled into place.

“See,” Mara commended. “He knows who his father is already.”

“You think so?”

“He feels safe enough to sleep.” Mara ran her fingertips over his delicate forehead and returned to her place between Æsa’s legs to tend the afterbirth. “You can leave now, Father.”

“Bless you, child.” The priest scurried out the door, desperate to forget the indecent position in which he’d seen Æsa.

Gustaf made the mistake of looking over at Mara. The copious amount of blood, flesh, and membranes she extracted from his wife unsettled his stomach. The vivid red stain of blood on the linens and Æsa’s thighs pulled on his heartstrings.