Widow Page 7

  Her aunt wrapped her arms about her shoulders, leaning her head to hers. “I do, too,” she whispered back. “She would wish you happy.”

  A long reverberating ring echoed through the room. The bell tower signaled evening prayers. Matilda placed a soft kiss on her cheek before getting up to leave. “I pray you follow your heart, my dear.”

  Rayne sat with the black fabric of the nun’s habit in her lap. The loud ringing fell silent, and she stared into the dark room when a different noise met her ears. It was softer than the bell—more distant, too. She stood up to peer from the small window above her bed.

  Howling cries wound across the countryside up to her window. She held her breath to hear it clearly, convinced she’d imagined it. The sun had set. Moonlight bathed the fields in a silvery glow, and a dark shadow moved in the night. It was her hound.

  A laugh broke from her lips, then turned to a sob. She fled from the window to run through the dark corridors without knowing how she found her way from the bowels of the abbey and into the night. Her breath caught in her throat while she scanned the fields, searching for him. The soft cries had ceased, and she feared she’d only wished or dreamt them.

  Rayne stopped to look back at the abbey, now only a dark shadowy form in the distance. She took a deep breath and could not find it in herself to call out, for what if she found no answer?

  “Rayne.”

  She turned about and found him standing there without a stitch of clothing. Dark locks hung down above his bare shoulders, and his eyes focused on her. Proof that she hadn’t imagined his calls or simply wished him to be howling on the dale. She reached her hand out to him, needing to feel him in the flesh to be certain.

  He closed the distance between them, standing closer than they’d ever been. Her fingers settled upon his chest. His flesh felt warm and smooth against her palm. She moved to pull back, but he placed his hand over hers, holding her to him. Rayne’s breath caught in her throat, and she averted her eyes.

  “Am I too late?” His breath touched her cheek.

  She didn’t know how to answer. “I—”

  “From the moment I saw you in the wood, something changed in me. Your determination following me across the vale to Hundby, and your touch against my skin—” He shuddered, and she felt his goose bumps beneath her fingertips. He seemed troubled but determined. She’d never known him to be like this, so she dared not interrupt, curious to know his mind.

  He caught her eye and continued, “I did not wish to grow attached to you when you were destined for the church. Your passion for writing is so like my mother’s. It could not be a sign from beyond the grave, I told myself. You would not wish to remain with me—but that night on our travels when I watched over you as a hound, you spoke uncertainly of your fate. It gave me hope. It was all I thought of. It was my distraction when I did not notice the disguised wolfpit, which could have been the end of me, but you appeared like an angel. And when you gave me your writing things—your lovely prose—I could not leave you without being certain. Certain that your heart is mine.”

  Rayne took a shaky breath. Her mind swirled. She had not known him long, and at the start she’d thought him a cranky nobleman with no attachment to her. It was the hound she’d grown close to, sensing its need to keep her safe. In that form he’d allowed his feelings for her to be known. But there had been other signs: Willelm allowing her into his private chambers to write upon his mother’s desk—no small token from such a gentleman. The only other to ever praise her skills had died at the hand of a thief. Her own father scoffed at her creative arts. To find a lord who would compliment her for it—her heart could not take it.

  “I chose this path for a reason,” she whispered. Emotion overflowed as tears, spilling from her eyes. “I did not wish to remarry for land and stature like my father urged. I desired to do the one thing that brought me happiness. I found myself delivered to the place I thought I would find contentment, but I could not find joy—not until I heard your calls from the dale.”

  Rayne looked up at Willelm. Her heart stopped at the expression in his eyes. She had never known such tenderness or adoration before, and at first could not recognize it. He rested his forehead on hers, taking her cheek into his palm. “I would be honored to take thee to be my wife forever more.”

  “I have never known such an honorable and chivalrous man,” she answered with a grin and a laugh. “I would take thee as my husband until my last breath.”

  His mouth was upon hers without hesitation. A kiss like none she had ever witnessed or experienced jolted her body with such passion, her eyes slid shut in pleasure. His hungry lips moved across her jaw and down her neck while his hands moved to lift her gown.

  Rayne had lain with her late husband very few times, but enough to know there was little enjoyment in it for the lady. It was a chore required to further the generations. Although the more Willelm caressed her skin and kissed the nape of her neck, the more her body reacted in ways it never had before.

  They may not have posted notice upon the church door, or received blessings from a priest. That would come soon enough. They had taken vows, promising themselves to each other, which was all that was needed to be husband and wife.

  Rayne gazed up into her husband’s eyes while he lowered her onto the grass, wanting to remember that evening forever: the way he gazed at her, his words of adoration and the moment he became one with her.

  Tears of joy spilled from her eyes when his weight was upon her. Pleasure she had never experienced traced from her point of bliss throughout her body. She wished his motion would never stop. Rayne clung to his shoulders and wrapped her legs about him before lifting herself up so they could become even closer. He sat back into his haunches with her on his lap. Moans broke from his lips as she lifted her torso in a quick rhythm until her back arched at the pinnacle of satisfaction. Every pore tingled, and she gasped for air.

  When their joining was complete, Willelm wrapped his arms about her, nuzzling his face to her breast. “I adore thee.”

  Rayne hooked a finger under his chin so that she could gaze into his eyes. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.

  Willelm kissed her nose and said, “I have a request.”

  She raised an eyebrow in question, and he smirked. “I believe your tale is not yet done.”

  “Nay?” she asked.

  “I do not like to think of the man’s soul trapped in the hound, cursed to haunt the hills alone forever more. Cannot the maiden rescue him from his cruel fate?”

  “I believe,” Rayne whispered, “she already has.”

  * * *

  The End

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  Chapter 1 from Scars

  Salty air whistled up the grassy valley from the west. With it came soft calls from nesting birds. Ásta drank in the ocean breeze as it whipped her long golden locks against her cheeks in a fury. The four gleaming lines of scar tissue marking her youthful skin from her nose to her ear were numb to sensation, unlike her left cheek which tingled and stung after being exposed to her lashing hair.

  She didn’t allow herself more than a moment of enjoyment before pushing ahead, following the property barrier across the grassy countryside. Young shoots of green hay grew on the opposite side of the wall and throughout the majority of Ásta’s land. Enough food had to be stored for the livestock if they were to be expected to make it through the hard winter. Snæland, the land of snow, didn’t get its name from being a place of never-ending summer.

  When the far side of the hay field was finally in sight, Ásta’s eyes swept past it to the barley crop. Rows of shoulder-height green stalks lined the earth. Some had reached their full size, and their spiked heads w
ere emerging. Everything appeared to be growing on schedule with no sign of disease or drought.

  Ásta continued to follow the wall past the barley and caught sight of Rolf and Bjorn. Her farmhands were walking the property border holding long wooden tools. As she drew closer to them, she noticed their strained expressions.

  Rolf ’s silvery brows furrowed and his mustache lifted as he hollered, “More wall knocked down.”

  Ásta’s eyes swept over her property and its barrier. Stones lined its base, although the remaining height was built from turf. She looked ahead and saw the damage. Sections longer than her father’s rowboat were thrown over as if a giant had forged through it. She hurried to his side and asked, “Just like the other sections?”

  Rolf’s broad shoulders and round cheeks reminded her of her father, but that’s where the comparison ended. Rolf often made jokes and told stories that never seemed to end, which drove Bjorn to the hills to work alone.

  “Looks to be.” Rolf folded his arms and stared at the long stretch of caved-in earthen wall. The winter had been hard on the man-made boundary. Some sections had eroded away. That was to be expected. But the newfound damage wasn’t. This wasn’t the first time this had occurred since her father and brother had fallen from the cliffs and died last summer.

  Bjorn joined them. He was tall, lean and embarrassingly short on facial hair, which was why he kept his face shaved. He looked to be half of Rolf’s forty years, like Ásta, but he was nearer to thirty. Bjorn frowned and said, “The largest four-legged beast about is the fox. I would not want to meet the fox that did this.”

  Ásta looked closer at the damage. Chills traced down her spine when she saw the marks clawed into the dirt. She grimaced. “It is not from Fenrir either, no matter what anyone says. He has not come to claim me. I will be wife to no beast.”

  Her body shook as she glared at the wall, knowing exactly what the others likely thought of it. She’d heard the whispers behind her back over the last four years since she was sixteen and her puckered wounds were still healing. She wanted to be as confident as her father had been about her not being the focus of the frightful king of wolves. The son of the god Loki would have far more important things to do than to bother with a maiden, he’d assured her. The only problem was, she could still feel the heat from the beast’s breath on her face and its claws slashing at her flesh. Her pulse quickened, and fear made her veins run cold.

  “Could be ice bears,” Rolf suggested. He rubbed his silvery beard and said, “My cousin from the north told me stories ’bout that. He saw some come ashore on an ice drift from the west. Said they are larger than even the greatest man.”

  All Ásta could do was nod, hoping he was right. She didn’t want them to see her panic. She was the head of household, and she needed to show strength. No one was stronger, she reminded herself. She would have to be tough if she didn’t want the memories of her mother, father and brother dishonored. Her grandparents had sailed to this faraway place for glory and had claimed this land. No one from the southern quarter made a better mead than she, using a recipe that had been passed down by the women in her family. Most could not afford the bees or honey, but the farm had always seemed to supply them with the silver they needed, until now.

  “It must be repaired,” she said, standing tall.

  Bjorn frowned and leaned on the wooden handle of his turf shovel. “We will do our best, Ásta, but we are only two men. With your father and brother gone to the halls of Valhalla, we do not have as many hands to rebuild the walls. We will need more than the three months before the fall harvest to repair this damage. After, the snows will not be far off.”

  He didn’t need to tell her. She already knew that wall repair often took more time than expected and was backbreaking work. Walls required many strong men to maintain them. Once the sheep were herded back to the farm at the end of summer, they would need to be contained on the property so they wouldn’t wander off to die. If she couldn’t follow the law and take care of her land, she would lose it to someone who could, and that wasn’t an option.

  Ásta took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The Althing is in only a week’s time. I will go and seek more men for hire there. I must sell the mead stores so I can afford more farmhands.”

  Rolf scoffed. “But what of your beehives? Is there enough for you to make your mead at harvest so that you may have the wealth to repay your debt to Bárthur? I know it must be done, but you will have little silver left so that you might get more honey or hives. Think of your father. Would he have borrowed from a man like that?”

  His pride would have likely never allowed him to accept silver from a man like Bárthur. But he’d never been in a position to need it. There’d always been enough strong hands on the property to manage everything, until he’d passed away. “I am thinking of my ancestors. Is he your master still, or is it me? He is gone, leaving me to tend his place, and that is what I will do. If we are to survive, we must have more men to help about the farm.”

  Ásta rolled up the sleeves of her dress and stared at the toppled wall. If she had a husband to share the responsibility of such a demanding land, things would be only slightly easier, which was just as well, for she had already grown used to the idea that no man would have her. She was marked by the creature that according to legend would one day destroy the king of the gods, Odin. Bad luck had seemed to follow her as far back as she could remember.

  She turned around and started toward home. The sound of the men fell away the farther she went. All she could think about was making enough silver to hire more hands around the farm. The walls were her most immediate problem, but the issue was even larger than some toppled turf.

  She picked up the pace, hurrying back. The farm came into view. Various buildings, covered and built with sod, looked like growths on the grassy landscape. Ásta ran along the turf wall to the gated entrance of the farm.

  Across from her was a long building with a peaked grassy roof. She entered through its wood-framed doorway. The small room was barely lit, but it only took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the low light. She walked between two large wooden beams and into the main hall of the longhouse.

  A narrow stream of light from the hole in the ceiling touched the black charcoal in the hearth at the center of the room. A woman sat on the workbench with wool combs in her hands. A pile of carefully rolled wool tufts sat beside her. When she looked up, Ásta announced, “More walls are down, Elfa. I must count the barrels of mead—they are to be sold at the Althing.”

  Elfa’s head was tied with a simple kerchief. Long golden braids rested over each shoulder. Tight curls broke free at her temple, and her beige apron skirt was dirty, as it often was. She continued to work, although she frowned in response to the news. “So that you might pay your debt to that frightening man?”

  “Neinn, for more freemen to hire. The walls must get repaired. I cannot let this stop me from taking care of the farm.”

  “But will you have enough to keep him away at harvest? I do not like when he visits,” Elfa whispered.

  Ásta walked past her farmhand’s wife to the entrance of the food storage. “Já. I will have enough honey by the end of the summer to make enough mead to repay the debt and have extra left over.”

  Her answer was swallowed up by the cool, dark room. Basins held cultured milk and skyr, a watery cheese, which filled her nose with a sour scent. Beef that had been cooked and preserved with whey hung from the rafters. Small barrels held ale for daily drinking, and in the far corner were the casks of mead that Ásta had made last fall with help from her large colony of bees.

  She counted the barrels. If she could sell them all, she would make enough silver to hire a few more men. As long as her bees produced honey over the summer, she would make more mead by the harvest so that she could repay her debt and the cost of the hives, as well as have enough left over to hold onto for next season. If her luck turned around, that is.

  Ásta walked through the longhouse, lost i
n thought. She hunched down to pass through the threshold and closed the door behind her. She ran past the animal shed, drying hut and water basin before slowing down. One of the milking cows called out as it was startled by her fast movement. Along the outer wall of the farm, wildflowers grew in the field beyond, tiny spots of color on the horizon. There, beside the stacked turf, nestled in some brush and protected from the wind, were a series of domed baskets. The skeps held her most prized possessions, the queen bees and their hives. The soft hum from the bees met her ears and she smiled at the sound of it. They were alive and happy buzzing around their homes for now.

  She walked across the yard to the smithy shed. Beside the cold stone hearth, she found the practice sword and picked it up. It was heavy in her hand, but its edges and tip were dull. If swung hard enough, it would leave a mark and a bruise. She squeezed the grip tight and clenched her jaw. Leaning up against the outside of the small building was a large woolen sack filled with dried grass. Ásta unfastened her cloak and let it fall to the ground.

  She held the tip of the sword in front of her and quickly skirted aside, whipping the blade sideways into the sack. She withdrew and thought of the enemy. Her pulse quickened as she pictured it. Pointed ears with a toothy grin, an enormous creature unlike anything she’d ever seen. Sagas from their homeland to the east spoke of such animals: wolves. But the creature that haunted her land was far larger than legend. Nearly as tall as her shoulders, with eyes so human they made her shiver.

  She swung again, feeling the muscles in her arm tighten from the effort. The thought of it lunging at her, viciously growling, was hard to shake off. If anyone knew she’d seen it since last harvest, walking the cliffs, its eyes fixed upon her, the stories would never fall silent. All would be certain that Fenrir, the king of the wolves, had come to claim her and would suspect that the god Odin had turned his back on their family. She would be labeled unlucky.