A Flame Put Out (5 page)

His aunt peered down at the child, lips pursed. “I honestly don’t know how you would tell.”

He glanced over at Selia. “Are you sure you want this? Once it is done it cannot be undone.”

She felt Hrefna’s eyes on her but kept her gaze averted. “I am sure,” she affirmed.

Alrik shrugged and mumbled something to himself. He knelt to gather the child from the floor. “Bring me some water,” he called to one of the thralls. The woman hurried to do so, keeping her gaze lowered as she held a bowl out to him. He dipped his fingers in it and sprinkled droplets of water over the babe.

The child let out a howl of rage. “Maybe he is mine after all,” Alrik said with a laugh. In more formal voice, he continued. “I own this child for my son. He shall be called Geirr.” He made the sign of Thorr’s hammer over the child. “My gift to him shall be the sword of his namesake, Geirr Jorulfson. A better man has never lived.”

Selia was surprised at the emotion she heard in her husband’s voice as he spoke of his grandfather. As if in reply, the babe grunted, then let loose a stream of urine that shot straight up in the air and arced down onto Alrik’s shirt. Scowling, he held the child up, facing outward, as Geirr continued to relieve himself all over the floor. “Take him, Hrefna,” he commanded, and the woman swaddled the babe in the blanket.

The slave Hallveig entered, a blond, sturdy-looking woman with a generous bosom. She stood a respectful distance from the family group with her head lowered.

Hrefna walked to her and looked her over. “You are still nursing your child?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” the woman replied.

Hrefna nodded as she handed over the wrapped bundle. “You will wean your child immediately and be nurse to this one,” she stated. “He is Geirr Alrikson, a freeborn child. His life is in your hands, Hallveig. If he dies Alrik will hold you responsible.”

The slave woman swallowed, and her gaze met Hrefna’s momentarily before lowering back down to the babe in her arms. She looked terrified. “I understand, Mistress,” she whispered.

As though deeming the thrall sufficiently frightened, Hrefna’s face relaxed. “Bathe him then, Hallveig. And you will sleep here in the main house. It would not be fitting for the child to sleep in the slave quarters.”

Hallveig hesitated. “Mistress,” she said tentatively. “My own child . . . where will he sleep?”

“In the slave quarters. I will not have him competing with Geirr for your attention. The other thralls can look after him.”

The slave’s lip trembled. “Yes, Mistress.” Her voice tightened with emotion.

Hrefna regarded Hallveig for a long, thoughtful moment. She glanced over at Selia calculatingly.

Oh, no.
Selia didn’t like Hrefna’s expression one bit.

“On second thought, Selia will look after Geirr when you’re at your chores. You will be able to see your own child then. But do not feed him,” Hrefna warned sternly. “Your milk is only for the babe.”

Hallveig nodded as her tears spilled over. “Thank you, Mistress,” she whispered, hurrying into the kitchen to prepare the child’s bath.

Alrik raised an eyebrow at his aunt. “You’re getting soft in your old age, woman.”

Hrefna turned to him. “Your wife needs to practice caring for a babe since you’ve gotten her with child.” Ice coated her voice.

Alrik slapped his hands on his hips and loomed over his aunt. “You’re still angry at me for sowing my seed in my own wife,” he demanded.

“Yes.” Hrefna scowled. “I think you are the biggest fool to ever walk the earth, Alrik Ragnarson.” She headed for the door. “Now excuse me while I have the thralls bury the girl who just died birthing your child,” she hissed over her shoulder, slamming the door behind her.

In the bedchamber at last, Selia stripped off her bloody clothing, then took a quick bath with a basin of cold water and a rag. The water was tinged pink by the time she finished, and she turned away from it with a shudder. She pulled on a fresh shift.

Selia climbed into bed. She lay on Alrik’s pillow, breathing in the scent of his hair. It seemed as if she could still smell Muirin’s blood.

Alrik strode in, rummaging in one of the chests for a clean shirt, but stopped short as he saw her in the bed. “What’s wrong?” he asked. It was still early in the evening and they hadn’t eaten supper yet. “Are you not feeling well?”

She met his regard. “Were Ingrid and your other girls much bigger than Geirr when they were born?”

His face changed as though he realized what she was worried about. “No,” he hedged, “not much bigger.”

“You are lying,” she accused, and rolled away from him.

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her back to face him. “Selia. You are the strongest woman I have ever known. You have survived things that would have killed grown men. If anyone can birth my child, you can.”

She blinked back tears. “You did not see it, Alrik. It was horrible. The child tore Muirin apart. He was stuck, and Hrefna had to pull him out.”
And that sound, that dreadful
ripping
sound . . . could she ever get that sound out of her head?

He grasped her shoulder. “You will be fine, little one. Odin chose you for me because you will not die. I destroy everything I touch, but not you.”

Selia considered this. His fixation on such an idea sounded much too similar to the story she had heard from both Ulfrik and Hrefna about Ragnarr’s delusional beliefs regarding his concubine, Treasa. But what if there was a grain of truth to Alrik’s assertion, after all? What if fate had truly brought them together for a reason?

Though she was small, she did seem to possess a surprising resiliency. She had survived a blow to the head and a fall from a cliff, not to mention the volatile temperament of her Finngall husband.

She chewed on her lip. “You think I can do it?”

“Yes,” he asserted. “I do. I told Hrefna so.”

“She was very angry.”

“That woman is always harping about something,” he scoffed.

“Is she angry a thrall’s child will be Hersir?”

“No. But I’m sure she would have rather been consulted first. You know how she is.”

Alrik moved his hand down from her shoulder to her belly. His hand was so large it covered her from pubic bone to sternum. It gave her an inexplicable feeling of security, as though he actually could protect her and the child from the ravages of childbirth.

“If this one is a boy, I hope you won’t come to regret he won’t be Hersir,” he mused. “You might think differently when he’s grown.”

“No,” she said, “I will not. Geirr will be Hersir, and this one will just be a Finngall.”

“‘
Finngall
,’” Alrik repeated, looking amused. “You’ve never told me what that means. Surely it can’t be too bad if you’re willing to call your own child that.”

“It means ‘white foreigner.’” She reached up to finger a lock of her husband’s blond hair.

“Well. I suppose that’s better than
bastard
.” He used the Irish word, chuckling, then leaned over to kiss her, his mouth warm and persistent. Selia relaxed into his embrace, allowing desire to push aside her fear of the future.

At least for the moment.

Chapter 5

Time seemed to pass in a miserable blur. Selia missed Alrik with a deep ache that made it difficult to think about anything else. Her haze of depression was intensified by dealing with Geirr, who already seemed to be a child very particular about who met his needs. He liked Hallveig. He liked Hrefna. He even seemed to like Ingrid when she could be coaxed into holding him. But whenever Selia held him, he screamed.

Geirr grew plump and sturdy on the thrall’s milk. He was a beautiful babe, with creamy skin and a head as bald as Olaf’s. Except for the cat eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to both Alrik and Ulfrik. She would probably never know who had actually fathered him, and the uncertainty was maddening.

Often she resented Geirr’s very existence—what had she been thinking, choosing to raise the child of a slave? But sometimes she held the sleeping babe to her breast and imagined what it would be like once her own child was born.

Ingrid lay on her bench most of the time, nearly mute with grief since her plan of running off with Ainnileas had been thwarted. She refused to bathe or change her clothes, and the smell that emanated from her would set off Selia’s gag reflex whenever she got wind of the girl. Not only was her nose still acutely sensitive due to the child she carried, she had grown accustomed to the meticulous grooming habits of the Finngalls. She found her stepdaughter’s filthy state revolting.

Other than a few idle threats to drag Ingrid out to the bathhouse by the hair, Hrefna didn’t do much about her. Surprised at the older woman’s indifference, Selia finally asked, “Why doesn’t anyone take the girl to task?”

Hrefna had shrugged. “It’s not the first time Ingrid has fallen into a state of melancholy. And it won’t be the last. She’ll come out of it on her own as she always does, and until then I am enjoying the peace and quiet.”

Quiet was relative, however, with Geirr around. At least Hallveig slept with him, so Selia didn’t have to rise at all throughout the night to take care of him. But when Hallveig was at her work, the brunt of the child care duties fell on her shoulders. If Geirr wasn’t wet, he was dirty, and if he wasn’t screaming in hunger he was spitting up all over himself. She would take him to Hallveig to nurse, then carry him back to the house where she would inevitably end up either changing his nappy or his gown, or both. Geirr would proceed to scream at the top of his lungs until Hrefna finally took him with exasperation. The woman would have him back to sleep quickly. All of this, combined with Selia’s lingering sickness, made her thankful she would not be having more children after this one.

One particular morning, when she had changed Geirr’s gown three times already, and had done her best to placate the sweating, red-faced, screaming child, he grew suddenly quiet. She looked down at him, wincing for what would inevitably come next. With his face a mask of deep concentration, the child loosed his bowels, an explosive mess that ran out the sides of his nappy and down the front of Selia’s favorite gown.

She held him at arms’ length, trying not to breathe in too deeply. What to do now? Hrefna had gone to the dairy as soon as Geirr had begun to cry, and had not returned yet. Probably on purpose.

“Ingrid,” Selia shouted at the lump on the bench, “Help me!”

Ingrid had a pillow over her head to muffle Geirr’s cries. She didn’t move. The babe’s face turned redder, and with a powerful grunt he released another mushy stream of excrement which oozed down his leg and landed at Selia’s feet.

“Oh!” she cried. “Ingrid, I know you can hear me, you horrible girl!”

Ingrid took the pillow off her head and rolled over with a slow, infuriating stare. The corners of her mouth twitched as she took in the sight of Selia holding the babe out in front of her. “He can shit all over you for all I care,” she drawled.

“
Please
, Ingrid. He is your brother,” she implored.

“If you think that child is my brother, you’re stupider than you look.” With a snort, Ingrid rolled back to face the wall.

The movement unfortunately caused her ripe aroma to waft aloft. Selia gagged, desperate to cover her nose but unable to do so while holding on to Geirr. She sprinted outside and fell to her knees, trying not to drop the babe.

And broke into sobs. This, all this, was too much to ask of her. She knew nothing about caring for babies. And Hrefna refused to let her hand Geirr over to one of the thralls. The woman said it was to give her practice, but Selia felt completely inept.

Hrefna approached and took the child from her arms. Geirr’s fussing stopped almost immediately, and Selia glared at him as he chewed on his chubby fist. Traitorous babe. If it wasn’t for Hrefna, Geirr would be living in the slave quarters.

“I cannot do this,” she moaned. “Geirr hates me!”

Alrik’s aunt raised her eyebrows but didn’t disagree. “He senses your ambivalence, I think.”

Selia made a face. “I do not know that word.”

“It means you are unsure. You don’t know your own mind.”

She stood, sniffling. Yes, she was ambivalent, but not about becoming a mother as Hrefna thought. Instead, she refused to allow a bond with Geirr. Because letting herself care for the babe, and in return to have his love for her, seemed unfair to her own unborn child. She had traded her child’s birthright for Muirin’s freedom. Now poor Muirin was dead, and Selia was left to raise a thrall’s child as Hersir. Had she made a terrible choice?

“I must change my clothes,” she mumbled, trudging toward the house.

The weather shifted with a vengeance, turning the pleasant autumn conditions cold and damp almost overnight. The storms that occasionally swept in from the water were shockingly violent. The wind blew so hard, the roof rafters groaned above them like a restless ghost. Although the family stayed warm and dry in the solidly-built longhouse, Selia couldn’t help but fear for Alrik on his dragonship. Visions of the ship being tossed to splinters arose in her mind, intensifying her guilt about encouraging her husband to delay his fall trip. Her reasons, wanting him with her for as long as possible in her confinement, now seemed so selfish.

On just such an evening, as the wind whipped outside and the rain pelted sideways, there came a sharp rap at the door. Selia and Hrefna exchanged a startled glance. Ingrid had left for Bjorn’s, stating she could take Geirr’s incessant crying no longer. Obviously she would not knock at the door of her own house, but Selia knew Hrefna was concerned about the girl’s emotional state.

Whoever was outside might bear troubling news.

Hrefna rushed to the door and pulled it open, with Selia two steps behind, carrying Geirr. The babe had just gone to sleep, but she knew from experience that if she laid him down too soon he would wake up immediately, screaming in fury. It was easier to simply hold him, even if it did spoil him as Hrefna insisted it would.

The woman cried out as she threw her arms around the large figure outside. For a brief second Selia thought the war band had returned, and her heart leapt. But the timbre of the man’s voice told her it was Ulfrik.

Ulfrik, here
?

Selia stood frozen as he bent his head to clear the doorway and stepped inside. He stared down at her, his face expressionless.

“Hello, Selia,” he said softly. His gaze traveled over the babe in her arms.

She could neither force her feet to move nor her mouth to form words. Why was he here? What could he possibly want? Ulfrik was no fool, but the idea of him showing up at Alrik’s house now was completely mad. Unless, of course, he knew his brother had left for Ireland on a raid. What better time would there be to come and carry Selia off?

Ulfrik was soaking wet, and he pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes as he turned back to Hrefna. “There are forty men out there in the rain. Could they come in until the storm blows over?”

“Gunnar One-Eye’s crew?”

He hesitated but a moment. “Yes.”

“Alrik wouldn’t like that.” Hrefna frowned.

With a nod, Ulfrik stepped back. “I understand. We will sail to my house to wait out the storm. I would ask to see Muirin though, before I leave.” He turned back to Selia, his gaze again resting on Geirr. “Is that the child?”

Hrefna looked up at him with a sigh. “Ulfrik. Muirin is dead, my boy.”

His face blanched, and for a brief second Selia felt sorry for him. Hrefna laid her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. Then squared her shoulders as if making up her mind about something.

“Have the men come inside. They are welcome to stay the night and fill their bellies. What Alrik doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

The nightmare began in earnest as forty wet Finngalls took over the longhouse. Gunnar One-Eye was introduced to Selia as Gunnar Klaufason. The man was surprisingly young, about the same age as Alrik and Ulfrik. He was built like a bull, square and solid with muscle, and his hair was nearly black, uncommon among the Finngalls. His face, which might have at one time been handsome, was marred by a thick scar that began on his forehead and ended just above his beard. His left eye socket was sunken and the eyelid appeared to have been sewn shut. His other eye, however, was strangely beautiful; a pale violet-blue, surrounded by a bristle of thick black eyelashes.

The contrast of the perfect eye with the mangled one unnerved Selia, who found herself reluctant to look at him directly.

Gunnar’s right hand man, tall and blond Einarr Drengsson, possessed the distinctive sharp bone structure shared by Alrik and Ulfrik. Selia was not surprised to learn that his father and Ragnarr had been cousins. Gunnar was married to Einarr’s sister. It seemed to Selia nearly every Finngall in Norway was related by either blood or marriage. Sometimes even both, although uncommon. It was not unheard of for cousins to marry if necessity dictated, but her head spun trying to keep the various connections straight.

All of the men, but Gunnar and Einarr in particular, stared at Selia in open curiosity. This too was unnerving. Since marrying Alrik, she had become accustomed to men not looking at her directly. If any did meet her gaze, their faces filled with fear, not desire. Their apprehension about Alrik’s jealousy squelched whatever interest they may have felt under other circumstances.

These men, however, were not operating under that same concern, and she was taken aback at the blatant desire she saw in many of their faces.

Hrefna, on her way to the kitchen to oversee the assembly of a supper for forty unexpected guests, whispered to Selia. “Stoke up the fire quickly and then join me in the kitchen. And don’t go to the privy alone tonight. Ulfrik or I can walk with you if necessary.”

Selia stifled a cynical laugh at the thought of asking Ulfrik to accompany her to the privy to protect her from the advances of Gunnar’s men. But she nodded to Hrefna, understanding the danger all too well.

Holding the babe in one arm, she stirred the coals of the fire to warm the men. They stripped down to their breeches, laying their wet shirts and cloaks on the floor to dry, and the air was soon filled with steam from the damp wool.

Not at all comfortable at being surrounded by nearly naked men with lust in their eyes, she hurried toward the kitchen to help Hrefna. She stumbled slightly as she stepped over the wet clothing, and a big hand went around her arm to steady her. She’d been in no danger of falling, yet the hand remained on her arm.

Selia looked up into the eerily familiar face of Einarr Drengsson. Although he had the strong build that seemed to be a given in Ragnarr’s bloodline, Einarr was not quite as tall as Alrik and somewhat thinner. And younger than he appeared from a distance—only a few summers older than Selia. He had the same intense blue eyes as his cousins, as well as the same wide, sensual mouth.

Einarr leaned closer, looking directly into her eyes, and smiled Alrik’s smile. It made her skin crawl.

“Selia. What a rare beauty you are. But then, Alrik Ragnarson has always had good taste in women. If I had known about you I would have visited long before now. To partake of my cousin’s hospitality.” His fingers pressed into her flesh in a slow, deliberate massage.

She narrowed her eyes at him. Cousin or no, Alrik would never have stood for this man’s insolence. She gave a pointed look toward his hand on her arm, then glared up at him. “You do not know Alrik very well, I am afraid. You would lose that hand if he were here.”

Einarr’s eyebrows went up as his smile deepened. He released her arm. “I see you are not faint of heart,” he said. “Even better. I should have known Alrik would have chosen a feisty one.”

As he stood upright again, Selia noticed the tattoo on his chest. It was in the same location as Alrik’s and appeared to be the same design. Was it some sort of family symbol?

Einarr saw what she was looking at and puffed his chest out a bit. “Ahh, you like berserkers, little Irish cousin? They do say once a woman lies with a berserker, a normal man will never do again.” He gave her a knowing wink and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I would be happy to oblige you if you find your bed is cold tonight.”

Selia would have slapped his face if she wasn’t holding the babe. “No. But I will be sure to tell my husband of your offer when he returns,” she hissed.

Ulfrik’s voice came from behind her. “Einarr,” he warned, “I would advise you to mind how you speak to Selia. A man could find himself in a shallow grave for disrespecting the wife of Alrik Ragnarson.” His voice was deceptively calm, but the threat was clear.

Einarr grunted, eying his cousin over Selia’s head for a long moment. He finally stepped back. Ulfrik took her by the elbow to steer her toward a quieter corner of the room.

“Let go of me,” she demanded when they were out of earshot of Einarr. Just being in the same room with Ulfrik made her uneasy. She shook her arm free.

“I mean you no harm, Selia. I just want to talk to you,” he said in Irish.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she snapped.

He sighed. “Give me my child, then. I haven’t even had a chance to see it. Is it a boy or a girl?”

She hesitated, torn between a desire to inflict pain on him the way he had hurt her, and acting with kindness. She looked down at the beautiful babe sleeping in her arms, biting her lip in indecision. Why should she care about Ulfrik’s feelings? He was a liar. He deserved to feel pain. “He is a boy,” she told him. “His name is Geirr . . . Geirr Alrikson.”