The Temperate Warrior (10 page)

Further out to sea, Gustaf gave the order to erect the mast and rig the sail. His men worked in unison, each man performing their task as if it’d been ingrained in them since birth. Within moments, the longship caught a strong, advantageous wind. The square woolen fabric billowed from the gust of ocean air, the ropes creaking and stretching under pressure. Gustaf’s longship skated through the water at about three knots.

For the first time since he’d departed the shores of Skúvoy, he breathed a little easier. The brisk salty air blew his hair in all directions and almost whipped his wolf-skin cloak off his shoulders, reminding him of his Æsa. She hadn’t much meat on her bones and the woolen cloak Diðrik had given her was more for disguise than warmth.

Gustaf walked across the planks where Æsa sat in silence, a few wild strands of hair escaping her hood. He tucked them back into place and pulled the cloak tighter at her chin, shielding her from the brunt of the breeze. Still concerned about her warmth, he removed his own wolf-skin cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders.

She barely acknowledged him and the abnormality of her silence was deafening. He turned her face in his direction, forcing her to look at him. “Are you all right?”

Tears welled up in her eyes and he could feel her body tremble, though he suspected it had nothing to do with the chill in the wind. “How did Ragnar’s ring…” She lost all gumption to finish her question, the pain of her past rearing like a volatile stallion.

It brought him great discomfort to imagine what she’d endured under Ragnar’s control. Like pine needles in his breeches, the thought caused him to fidget; the notion of that bastard hurting one hair on his Æsa’s head infuriated him.

“I know not how or why,” he muttered solemnly. If anyone knew Ragnar or those he kept company with, it was her. That very concept prompted a whole new range of emotions within him, from torrid jealousy to fuming rage.

He tamped them all down and unclenched the fists he realized he’d clamped together, and sat beside her. “You know Ragnar better than anyone.” The taste of that statement was bitter on his tongue, yet he continued. “Was there anyone close to him who would want to avenge him? A brother? A son?”

Æsa flinched and drew her eyes away from him as though he’d struck her. “He had a son…Ásmundr.” She tensed and bit her lip.

Though he loathed to know about the men from her past, he encouraged her to speak. “You can tell me. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you, Æsa. Please, let me help you.”

She closed her eyes and hugged herself, a tear skimming down her cheek. “He had a son, but they hated each other. Ásmundr admitted to me once that he wanted to kill his father. I doubt he would bother to avenge him. All he cared about was getting his hands on his father’s hoard of buried silver.”

“What silver?” Gustaf asked flippantly.

“The silver that—” Æsa stopped herself and gazed at him sympathetically.

“The silver paid to those who killed my father,” Gustaf finished for her.

“Aye.”

Gustaf filled his lungs with a deep breath and took hold of her hands. “Now Ásmundr can obtain what he wants with his father out of the way. I did the man a favor, I suppose.”

She stared at his thumb brushing along the top of her hand. “He is dead.”

“Ásmundr?”

She nodded, refusing to look at him. “Ragnar had him killed.”

Gustaf’s stomach grew nauseous with each twist and turn of this convoluted story, knowing his Æsa might have played some part in it. Truth be told, he would have rather her end the tale right now with Ásmundr dead and no real reason for how Ragnar’s ring came to be, putting them back to the beginning.

As trying as this was, he reminded himself that her past was precedent to their relationship, and anything that happened between her and another man would have to be overlooked. It was not easy to imagine another man in love with her, or not be envious. This time he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

…Until he looked up and saw Æsa crying, her silent sobs wracking her entire body. Moved with pity, he pulled her into his arms and held her close, trying to comfort her, though he didn’t know what for. Was she this deeply saddened by Ásmundr’s death? Had she once loved him?

As if she could read his mind, she confessed her feelings. “I hated Ásmundr. I hated what he did to me and how it pleased him to see his father walk in on us.”

Gustaf’s blood scorched through his veins, his arms tensing around her in a desperate need to protect her. “He forced himself on you?”

She buried her face in his neck and sobbed. “I fought him as best I could, but he was too strong. I pleaded with him to stop, but—”

He could bear no more. He shushed and rocked her, holding her sobbing body to his chest, glad she could not see his face. The fury he could feel flaming his neck and prickling his scalp was probably boiling out his pores. His teeth felt like they would crumble under the force of his clenched jaw and his fists itched to pommel something in the ground. Someone. Someone like a yellow-bellied snake named Ásmundr.

Odin’s teeth
, he wished the bastard was still alive so he could hunt him down, castrate him on the spot, and stuff his balls down his throat. No matter how good it would make him feel, the two men who’d brutally defiled his Æsa were already food for worms. And it didn’t explain who could possibly be after her now.

He raised his head to the heavens and let the strong winds blow through his hair, cooling his face, his temper. Gentling his hands, he took her head in his palms. “Do you know where the silver is buried?”

She trembled in his grasp. “I do, but I was not to know its whereabouts. I overheard Ragnar speak of it.”

Realization struck him like a battle-ax to the head. “Then someone else knew you eavesdropped, Æsa. Think.”

“Ásmundr was the only one who knew of my offense. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he told someone before his father had him killed.”

Gustaf held his irritation in check. “You are certain Ásmundr is dead?”

Æsa nodded emphatically. “The mercenary Ragnar paid to kill him returned a few moons later, claiming he’d slit his throat and burned the body. As proof, he brought back Ásmundr’s burnt head in a basket. I did not see his face, but Ragnar was…very pleased.”

By the look on Æsa’s face, Gustaf knew Ragnar had probably commemorated the death of his son with a celebratory—

He couldn’t finish that thought. It sickened him to the point of vomiting over the side of the boat.

“My lord,” Jørgen interrupted. “We have stragglers afloat.”

Gustaf stood and walked toward the rear of the ship, his curiosity rising like the pressure in his arteries. Could this day get any worse?

Trailing far behind, a single longship struggled to keep up. Æsa joined him, her eyes glued to the mysterious vessel following them. Weary and wind-blown, she grasped the stern. “Who are they?”

“I suspect the person whom Ásmundr shared your secret with before he died. Clearly, you are in search of the buried silver and they are hoping you will lead them to it.”

“But I am not,” she stated plainly.

“No harm in letting them think otherwise.” Gustaf felt the tides turn in his favor. For the nonce, he could revel in their foolishness. He almost enjoyed their idiotic plan to tag along the raging bear like newborn ducks—as if he wouldn’t notice.

“Where is the silver?” Snorri asked, prying into the conversation.

An awkward silence hushed across the hull of the ship, every man looking between him and Æsa. Gustaf didn’t want to know where the blood money was buried, nor did he want to even think about the price Harold ‘the Fairhair’ had issued for his father’s life. Gustaf’s pride for his father’s name and what he’d died for cut the discussion short.

“I care not where ‘tis hidden,” he said sternly. “Our only thoughts should be on how to lead them into an ambush.”

“You are going to kill them?” Æsa asked as if appalled by the thought.

“If these men are anything like Ragnar and Ásmundr…I can assure you they will not stop until they have what they want.”

He noted how pale and lifeless she looked, his words about the two men who’d inflicted pain on her for pleasure no doubt lingering in her mind. He reached for her and pulled her into his arms. Gazing into her eyes, he saw a glimpse of her hideous past. The fear, the agony, and the shame she felt all those years threatened to erupt before him and he’d be damned if he let them destroy the woman she’d become.

“As long as my heart beats, my dearest Æsa, they will not get to you.”

Chapter Twelve

Gustaf wasted no time leaping from his longship into the shallow waters of Skíringssalr’s shoreline, just west of the abandoned trading port along Oslofjord. Arms extended, he helped Æsa from the side, carrying her through the knee-high water to the dry land of its beach. Turning back, he assisted his men in unloading the few chests of belongings they brought with them until the entire ship was bare. Each man was now donned with their leather armor and conical helmets, and a round, colorful shield strapped to their back.

The precision and speed in which these men worked both impressed and frightened Æsa. They were undeniably practiced in the skill of raiding and evading, which caused her to wonder what terror they’d brought to others each time they ran ashore. By the time she’d tightened her cloak around her shoulders, they had every sack, bundle, and weapon secured on their person and ready to make their escape.

“We will need horses,” Gustaf said aloud. He handed Øyven a pouch, which jingled in the transfer of hands. “Find Bryniólfr and purchase eight. Jørgen, take Æsa and see that she prepares for the journey. I will meet you at the edge of the forest.”

“Where are you going, m’lord?” Jørgen asked.

Gustaf gestured with a nod of his head, indicating a group of men who’d taken interest in them distantly beyond the deserted harbor. “To pick a fight.”

“What?” Æsa snapped, her hand immediately grabbing Gustaf’s arm.

He smiled and motioned for Jørgen, who came to her aid. “He only means to create a diversion. Slow the men who are following us.”

“I will not be long,” Gustaf asserted. “Go with Jørgen. I will meet you in the lowlands. Go.”

Reluctant to adhere to his command, she did as she was told, her eyes drawn to watching her temperate warrior go his separate way.

Gustaf eyed the men gathering at the heart of the port. There were six of them, just enough to give the five at sea a fighting chance. Upon his approach, they stopped what they were doing and looked him up and down. They seemed to feign interest in him, one going so far as to spit on the ground, but he knew better. These kind of men got hard with the prospect of a skirmish and would no doubt jump at the chance to whet their swords on the flesh of a few worthless maggots.

“You men look like the arse-end of an inbred swine after a long rut in a whore’s swill.” It made no sense what he’d said, but these men were too daft to know the difference. His words were only meant to stir the hive. In concordance with the leader, they stiffened their backs under the insult and unsheathed their swords. Gustaf gave a sardonic smile. “Should I assume I have your attention?”

“Oh, you have it,” the ugliest one muttered. “Not certain how long I will let you hold it before I hack you to your knees.”

“I wish not to fight you,” Gustaf stated, undeterred by the threat. “But I would wager
they
would.” He turned and pointed to the lonely longship drifting into the estuary.

“And why would I care about the men on that ship when I have a man, more deserving of my sword, within reach?”

“Would this be enough to make you care?” Gustaf asked, tossing an overflowing pouch of persuasion at his feet.

The man glanced at the amount of silver that had burst from the sack and back at Gustaf. There was an adequate quantity there to last these scoundrels through an entire decade and he knew the big ugly one was sure to yield.

“What have they done to you?” the man asked curiously, as he admired the broad blade of his weapon.

It was not what they’d done to him, but the pain and anguish they’d caused his Æsa. No one brings his betrothed to tears and lives to brag about it. But Gustaf didn’t have the time or the patience to go into his story. “Just make certain they are unable to follow me. And you may use whatever means necessary.”

The biggest man gave the most harrowing grin, while Gustaf resumed his conditions. “I expect you and your men would not want to do this out in the open. Too much silver at risk should someone else happen upon you. The forest would be good cover.”

The supposed leader laughed. His enthusiasm for the task was a little unnerving, but Gustaf didn’t let it get under his skin. He swiped the pouch from the ground, handed it to the man and meandered through the labyrinth of his new venal warriors. With his hired band of mercenaries at his heels, he began his trek through the lowlands to where his men awaited him.

As he entered the forest, he was pleased to see the horses he’d asked for and his trustworthy men making final adjustments to their tack. Æsa’s eyes widened as she saw him draw near, but Jørgen nonchalantly halted her from running to meet him. He whispered something to her and went back to tethering his bundles to the rear of the saddle.