Heart's Ease (The Northwomen Sagas Book 2) (29 page)

She did. Again, at last, she had faith in him. And here was a test of that, she knew.

Still afraid, she nodded.

He smiled and jumped into the boat again. Turning back to her, he raised his arms, and she leaned forward and let him lift her and swing her into the boat.

The
ship
, that was.

It was time to go home.

~oOo~

The voyage took two days, as Leif had promised—a bit less, even. Olga took two more to recover from her sick stomach. The seas had been excellent, according to the men, but they had traveled with a strong tailwind, and the pitch of the ship through the water, coupled with the anxiety with which she’d struggled, had kept her at the side of the ship, heaving, most of the way.

Leif had been attentive and concerned, rarely leaving her side, and she’d spent the time she wasn’t leaning over the side lying with her head in his lap.

And then she’d lain in his giant bed regaining her strength and composure, attended to by strangers while Leif reclaimed leadership of his jarldom and caught up with what he’d missed.

Still, he never seemed to be farther from her than the next room. The hall here, while much larger and more luxurious than the one in Karlsa, was built in a similar fashion: long, wide and low, the greater portion of it given over to the hall itself, a meeting space for the entire large town, in toil and leisure both, and a place for Leif to do the work of the jarl. The kitchen was a behind the hall, connected by an enclosed passageway. The back portion of the hall was the jarl’s quarters. Three rooms: a large space that was the sleeping, living, and private meeting space; an open nook filled with looms and other materials of woman’s work; and a room for bathing and dressing.

In Karlsa, the jarl’s quarters had been partitioned with only woven wool sheets, and only the bathing room had its own door. Here in Geitland, a door with an iron bar separated the jarl’s space from the meeting hall.

That was as much of Geitland as she’d yet seen—the hall, her home, and the short walk to it from the ship—as she stood in the middle of the quarters she shared with her husband and let two serving girls help her with her wedding dress, the same one she’d worn a week before.

The girls were servants but not slaves. Leif had freed his slaves when he’d returned from his first visit to Karlsa. The rest of Geitland still held slaves, as it had been in Karlsa before the plague. After that, with the town so gutted, and so many in thrall dead, Vali had brought the matter to his people again, and Karlsa had freed those slaves who’d survived.

When she was dressed, with another wreath, this one of dried wheat, on her head, Vali came to collect her, and they walked through the hall. As in Karlsa, this wedding ritual would occur outdoors, this time in the woods at the edge of town. They walked the path together, and people of the town stopped and watched as they went.

Olga hadn’t needed her wolf pelt today. Geitland was notably warmer than Karlsa; the snow had gone its way, and already new greens had begun to sprout from the earth. Yet she missed the warm weight of Vali’s gift. She was disoriented and still anxious here in this new place, and every touch of what she knew and loved gave her strength. She was more glad than she could say that Vali had sailed with them and walked with her now.

Leif, too, wore the same clothes he’d worn when they’d been bound in Karlsa, and he wore the same serious expression he’d worn then, too. He took her hand and brought her close, hooking his arm over her shoulders, and she was glad the pelt was back in their quarters. She could feel the warmth and heft of his strong arm.

A holy woman presided over this ritual. A goat was sacrificed, and the holy woman flicked a rod dipped in its blood over Leif and Olga and the people gathered around them. Olga had now seen this oddity in a few weddings, so she was not surprised, but she did mourn her beautiful dress—and was glad again not to have the wolf pelt.

As in their first ritual, there were words and vows, these directed to the gods. After nearly two years in this world, Olga had begun to wonder about the gods here and found herself thinking about them as real, as beings paying attention, or not, but as living beings. She didn’t know if she believed in all their exploits and their power, but living among people who very much did and who structured their lives around the desire to please such beings, she discovered that they had made their way into her thinking, become part of her knowing.

So she felt a pull when she said words asking for the goodwill of Freya and Thor. She hoped they were listening.

Then it was time for the fuss about swords. The contrast between their two rituals—hers gentle, about binding and sharing, and his martial, with blood and sword—was stark and dizzying for Olga. It spoke of the difference in their ways of knowing. Olga didn’t understand this ritual well, but she did understand that it was extremely important to Leif and the reason they had done two separate rituals, so she waited solemnly while he took both of her hands in his.

“In our way,” he began, his voice low but clear, “I would give you my father’s sword, so that you and our children might keep safe behind its legacy and pass it on to our firstborn son when he became a man. But that sword was lost in Estland, when Einar was killed. Its legacy was not so strong as I hoped. I have no other ancestral sword to give you.”

He released her hands and reached over his shoulder. Fisting the grip of the longsword he’d carried all the time she’d known him, he unsheathed it. The blade sang as it slipped from the scabbard and glinted in the sunlight as he brought it forward.

“The sword I offer is this. I have carried it as long as I have carried a blade, and I stand here before you because it has kept me well. I have defended my home, my people, and my honor with this blade. I have protected what I love with this blade. I have sacrificed with this blade. Like me, it is not without its failings and its scars, but every cut we have ever made was meant good and true. I have never named it, but in offering it to you, to keep safe our family and to hold as our child’s legacy, I name it now: Sinnesfrid.”

Sinnesfrid. Olga knew the word and what it meant: heart’s ease.

Leif laid it on his two hands and held it out to her. Olga studied his face, his eyes, and ignored the sword he offered.

That blade—everything he’d said in his pretty speech was true. But he’d wielded that blade in Estland. It had been that blade she’d seen slice through Toke’s belly and spill his insides onto the cold ground. That blade, and his axe, had hurt, had killed, people who’d trusted him.

She gazed deeply into his eyes, searching, and saw that he had not forgotten those hard truths, either. He claimed them in the sword’s history, its legacy, and she found his meaning in the way he stared back at her. What had happened in Estland was part of his sacrifice. He had made difficult choices with that blade. He had done what was right at great cost. His commitment was unshakable.

That devotion was what he was offering her on his outstretched hands. That peace of mind. Heart’s ease.

Sinnesfrid.

“Olga,” he murmured, and she saw worry darken his eyes.

“It is a good name. And a good blade.” She held out her hands, and he carefully laid the sword on them. It was heavy—far heavier than she’d expected—but he’d laid it so the balance on her hands was perfect.

“I…I’m sorry, but I don’t have a sword to give you in return.”

“But you do,” Vali said. Standing near Leif, he grinned at Olga and, stretching his arm toward the gathered people, made a beckoning gesture with his hand. A young, fair-haired boy, about Kalju’s age—though Kalju would have been older now—trotted up, carrying a sheathed sword.

“Young Dag here made you the blade you will carry now, yes?”

Leif nodded, one brow cocked high. “He did. That is not it.”

“No,” Vali chuckled. “This is something he made on his own. It seems he disagreed with a point you made to him that a jarl has no use for a very fine sword.” Vali went to Olga and took Sinnesfrid from her. Then he waved the boy forward. “Come on, boy. Olga requires a sword.”

The boy—Dag—came shyly toward her. When he wrapped his hand around the woven leather grip of the sheathed blade, though, a light of confidence shone from his eyes, and he smiled as he pulled the sword free. In the same way that Leif had handed her Sinnesfrid, Dag handed her this new one.

Olga didn’t know much about swords, but this one was beautiful. The part above the grip and just below it was deep, gleaming black. A pattern had been carved into the dark wood. The leather of the grip was black as well, and woven in an elaborate design. The narrow valley down the center of the blade was also etched with shapes—the same shape that adorned the shields of his people. A flared cross. Small versions of it repeated down the length of the sword.

It was, it seemed, a very fine sword. She smiled at the boy and turned to Leif, offering it to him on her hands.

With a broad smile, Leif took it from her. He hefted it and balanced it on one of his hands, then on a single finger. “Excellent work, boy. It seems I was wrong to discourage you.”

Dag blushed and dipped his head. He handed Leif the scabbard and then faded back into the small crowd.

The disruption over, the holy woman instructed them to exchange rings. Leif did so by placing Olga’s ring on the point of his new sword, and he guided her to do the same with his ring.

Together, they held the sword, spoke their vows, and exchanged rings, and then the holy woman said, “Now you are wed.”

The people around them cheered, and Leif pulled her to him, his new sword still his hand, and kissed her soundly.

Olga understood then that their rituals, in their vast difference, were perfect complements to each other. Gentle and fierce. Silk and iron. Protection of the heart and of the body.

Balance.

“This is beautiful.” Olga let go of Leif’s hand and walked to the bluff, closer to the edge than he liked. She was growing quite round and was not always steady, and if she plunged to her death on the rocks below, taking their child with her, he would simply follow her right over.

“Olga, take heed,” he scolded lightly and took her hand again and tugged until she stepped back to a place he deemed safe.

Summer was upon them, still new but in full flower. The air hung thick with the scents of warm, wet earth and fresh green life. One of his wife’s favorite pastimes was to walk in the woods and dig in the earth, but as the babe grew, she was no longer able to get down to the earth easily or comfortably. She still wanted to walk, however, and insisted it was good for her and their child. So walk they did, every day.

This was the first time he had taken her in this direction, onto the bluffs. The terrain was not as smooth in these woods, and the climb was steeper, and he would never have let her go on alone in her condition. But today he had a motive of his own for this short trek.

The view of sea and sky from this point went on forever, so far that the horizon seemed to curve. On a clear day like this, one might think that Asgard itself was on view. Olga looked out over all of that, a sweet smile rounding her cheeks.

Leif, on the other hand, was more interested in the view below. He looked down at the vista of his town, which was a hive of activity. The raiders were to depart soon. Both new skeids, glorious beasts of longships, were moored on the water. They’d had to rebuild the piers to accommodate the size of the new ships. Now they rested there, gleaming like gold in the warm sun, and Leif’s heart burned with pride and with longing. He ached to sail, and it gnawed at him that he would not lead the skeids’ first raid. Vali would, and Astrid, and he trusted them completely. But he had envisioned an inaugural raid side by side with Vali, sailing four of these beasts to a new land.

And yet he would not trade, for any amount of pride or treasure, the chance to be with Olga when she gave him their child.

The skeids would sail south this year. He had been south. He would raid west next year. He and Vali and their fleet of sleek beasts, conquering a new world.

“Your thoughts are far off today,” Olga said. “Are you sorry to be staying in Geitland?”

She was always with him, wherever he was. Even in his head. He smiled and drew her close. “I was thinking that I will miss the new ships’ first voyage, and it made me a bit melancholy. But I would be nowhere but with you when our child comes into the world. Nothing is more important.” He laid his hand over her belly, and she laid both of her hands over his.

“I love you,” she whispered, looking down at their child.

Leif held her close and kissed the crown of her head, lingering there to take in her scent and the soft caress of her hair. Standing on this bluff, looking down at his home, his people, their accomplishments and ambitions, Leif knew real peace.

He thought of the last prophesy the seer had given Åke: that Geitland was entering a time of great prosperity. Åke had interpreted it to mean that he would be prosperous, but he had been killed as a coward shortly after hearing it.

Leif knew that he was not Geitland. He was merely its shepherd. The power and promise of this land was in all of its people, and they should all prosper in rich times, just as they all struggled in lean times.

And if he ever forgot it, he would come up to this bluff and look down and see just how insignificant any one man was, and just how much many could accomplish together.

“Come.” He stepped back and took his wife’s hand. “There is much to be done before the raiders go.”

~oOo~

Olga retired early the night that the ships left, while the hall was yet crowded with those who’d stayed behind, making many toasts to the safety and success of the raid. Leif stayed longer, until most of the hall was a nest of unconscious or nearly-so revelers. Then he went back to the private quarters.

He stripped and slid into bed beside his sleeping wife, who had burrowed deep into the furs. Pulling them back, he kissed her bare shoulder. She had stopped sleeping in a gown when her belly had gotten large enough that all clothes seemed to vex her. He couldn’t say he minded her naked body beside his every night, but he often came to bed after she was asleep, and he thus often struggled alone with the need her nakedness made in him.

Just as he was finally settling in for rest, there was a thump at the door. Checking that Olga hadn’t been disturbed, he stood and grabbed his shortsword, pulling it from its scabbard as he walked across the room.

It was Sigrid, a former shieldmaiden who now served as a hall guard because she was a widow with three young children. She paid no heed to his nakedness, and he hadn’t expected her to.

“Trouble?”

She shook her head. “No longer. Odd knocked over a lantern outside the stable, but the fire was out before it could do more than burn his cart.”

“Odd is well?”

With a laugh, Sigrid answered, “He yet sleeps, not four strides away. He’s in for a nasty surprise in the morning, but he is well.”

“Why didn’t you raise an alarm?”

“No need. As I said, it didn’t spread.”

“Well enough. Thank you.”

Sigrid gave him a sharp nod, and Leif closed the door. When he turned, Olga was sitting up in bed, holding the furs to her chest. Her hair flowed over one shoulder. She was a glorious vision, like a goddess. An angry goddess—she scowled at him, and there was a fire in her eyes far more dangerous than what had burned Odd’s cart.

Thinking he should get sharp implements out of the way, he crossed the room and sheathed his shortsword before he asked, “Is there something wrong?”

“That was Sigrid.”

“Yes. There was some small trouble. It’s resolved.”

“She’s a woman.”

“Yes, true.”

Her scowl shifted dramatically and became incredulity so broad is was almost parody. “Leif, you are bare. Completely.”

Surprised, he laughed. She was jealous? He laughed harder as the thought took hold—and that was a serious mistake. Olga threw the furs back and worked her way to the side of the bed. She was nearing her time, and moving from one position to another was difficult. She had also become cross and easily offended.

All of which he understood to be the toll of her carrying. But the thought that she would be jealous of anyone, let alone Sigrid—even now, he found it funny and had to bite his lip not to laugh again.

“Olga—Olga.” He went to her and stopped her from leaving the bed. “It matters not. I didn’t know if there was trouble, so I didn’t take the time to dress. Sigrid didn’t even notice.” He picked up his soft sex and wiggled it at her. “And I didn’t notice, either. You are all I want or need. Forever.”

She was staring at his sex. “You don’t notice me, either?”

“Usch,” he muttered, trying again not to laugh. Now she was hurt because he
wasn’t
hard? The things carrying a child did to a woman. It wasn’t easy to keep up. “I notice you, my love. I always notice you. Perhaps I’m soft because there was a moment just now when this part of me might have been in some danger.” He took her hand and curled it around him, and he began to swell at once. He groaned softly. “See? I notice you.”

She smiled a little, though she tried to hide it, and wrapped her other hand around him, too, working him expertly until he was hard as rock and grunting with need. When she leaned forward, as much as she could, and licked him as if he were a sweet, his need became painful and immediate. He wanted to be sheathed inside her. Anything else, no matter how delightful, was a shadow of that joining.

Each time, though, as the babe grew, true joining had become more difficult. She could tolerate less penetration, and the babe between them made even her riding him sometimes challenging. He had ideas for new ways, but they were not ways Olga had ever been willing to consider. And he understood why. He knew her story, by now he knew all of it, and he understood her reticence. She had been taken forcibly many times from behind, and she feared the memories should he come into her that way.

But they were writing a new story now. Forging a new way. And never would she know pain and abasement like that again.

He put his hands in her hair and stopped her. “Olga. I want to try something.”

She looked up at him, her eyes trusting but curious. “What?”

“Do you trust me? Trust me completely?”

He didn’t miss the hard swallow before she said, “I do.”

Offering her a reassuring smile, he slid his arms under her and turned her over and around so that she was kneeling on the bed with her back to him. He felt her body stiffen when she understood.

“Leif…”

“Shh.” He came close and kissed her shoulder. “This is us. Things are different with us. I won’t hurt you. Not in body or spirit. Trust me.”

“I can’t see you.” Her voice shook, and with it so did his resolve. But he took a deep breath, leading her to do the same.

“You can feel me. You can hear me. I’m with you.” Gently, slowly, he eased her to lean back on his chest. In that position, he smoothed his hands lightly over her arms and legs, over her belly, her sides, doing nothing more until he felt her relax.

Then he took her breasts in his hands, massaging and plumping, avoiding the spectacularly sensitive points of her nipples until he heard a tiny purr in her throat.

While he excited her nipples, he whispered at her ear, “You like when I hold you up like this and use my hand. What I mean to do is little different. This is us, my love. Only us.”

Gods, he might die of his own need and of the heady power he felt in her trust. He was taking her, body and soul, to a place she had always shied from, and she was letting him.

That purr had become an undulating moan, rising in pitch each time his fingers closed on her nipples and pulled. When her breath began to stutter, he eased her forward, encouraging her to rest on her hands.

She was wet and already throbbing. Leif licked his hand to wet himself and ensure that his entrance was gentle. Then he eased—very slowly—into her. At first, she tensed, so hard she stopped his passage. He leaned over and rubbed her back and shoulders, her bottom and thighs, pressing kisses down her spine. “It’s me, my love. Only me,” he whispered, until she took a shaky breath and loosened for him.

When he finally was sheathed, more of him in this position than she could take in any other, he held still, gentling her, whispering sweet words to keep her with him and away from memory. He reached around and caressed her belly, then eased his fingers through the dark wisps over her mound. When he was ready to move—only gentle pulses, no long strokes—he caressed the nub of her greatest pleasure. For an eternal stretch of time, they remained like that. Olga was on her elbows and knees, the furs clutched in her fists, her head down. Leif stood at the side of the bed, his legs spread wide, curled over her back, rubbing lightly in her folds and rocking his hips ever so gently to move inside her.