Chapter Seven

A sennight had passed and Bettina had taken charge of Castle Arbroath. She threw herself into restoring the keep to its former glory. Njal provided the coin for all the repairs necessary and a steady buzz of tradesmen and workers thronged the keep.

Carpenters came and went, taking worn and pitted benches and tables, and returning with spit-shined furniture having nary a gouge or a stain. Men and women scrubbed away the scent of the lye used to scour the soot from the stone floors. Each day a new portion of the great hall’s wall were plastered and whitewashed. The din of hammers provided a steady background drum, and soon the roof and rafters’ leaks vanished.

Njal left at morn and returned well after sunset in time to attend the evening meal. Bettina no longer hunted, but meat of all types—boar, venison, even the occasional barrow—arrived at regular intervals. Since winter’s approach loomed, the women went into a flurry of activities, salting meat, pickling late vegetables, and making jar after jar of jellies and compotes.

Bed sport filled their nights.

Oft they hadn’t stopped loving until dawn ruled the skies.

Of late, Njal seemed preoccupied and their tuppings lessened till ’twas only once an eve. True, the excess work in the castle did tire her more than normal, but Bettina knew part of her exhaustion was because she missed spending time in the forests, feeling the wind and sun on her face, and having the time to wander and muse on her own.

For Njal forbade her leaving the keep without a sizeable guard, and she preferred not to venture out than to have to deal with hovering warriors who flinched and jumped should she step near the coursing river or meander too close to a hill’s precipice. From their bed discussions, Bettina knew Njal worked from dawn to dusk to improve the farms, the village, and their defenses. She sensed more than a noble landholder’s duty in his actions, but refused to pepper him with questions sore tempted though she was. ’Twas time she accepted her lot in life as a woman, so each day passed with her frustrated waiting growing more acute.

And she missed Mama.

Some morns she went to the third floor and dressed in her breeches, tunic, and boots, and stood at the windows gazing in the direction of Bern Umbria’s holding. Temptation, her worst enemy, became a living, growing worm inside her head. ’Twould be but half a morn’s journey, if not less, to gallop to Bern Umbria, see Mama, and settle in her head all was well. If ’twas not for the fact Njal always left one of his brothers at the castle, she would’ve visited Mama on the first day.

Njal did visit Leofric at least once a week, returning with a missive from Mama. Bettina wrote too, dutifully giving the scrolls to her husband for delivery, but she chafed at the restrictions.

“I have good news, wife.” Njal turned to her at the high table as they broke their fast.

Bettina, chewing a mouthful of bread, arched her brows.

He chuckled. “To think, the night we wed I prayed you had the table manners of a peasant. Now I come to know your dainty eating habits could make Queen Emma seem barbaric. This morn Magnus and I ride to the coast. I have secured a herd of cattle, two score sheep, and we have traded with Valan, the Highlander chieftain, to procure a harras.”

“’Tis wonderful news, Njal.” Bettina reached for a goblet, her mind churning. “I have but heard of the stud horses of the Highlanders. That we will have two score here at Arbroath for breeding. ’Tis indeed a feat. Have you ridden such a beast? ’Tis said they are fleeter than deer and more nimble, yet can carry a knight in full armor as if he were a pint-sized urchin.”

“My warrior wife is reborn.” He grinned, winked, and tweaked her nose, near spilling the goblet in her hand. “A woman of less ilk would think of sweet butter freshly churned, or cream from cow’s milk, or mayhap of the garments to be woven from sheep fleece. Nay, not my wife. She thinks of the chase.”

Had the goblet been glass rather than brass, the stem would’ve shattered, for Bettina’s temper burst higher than a maelstrom. “Mayhap you should have taken a court wife then, my lord.”

“Bettina, sweet sister—”

She lurched to her feet. “Pray excuse me, Lord Jarvik, Lord Magnus, my lord husband, for this day I have many womanly duties to perform.”

Dumping the goblet on the table, uncaring of the ale spilling as it tilted and fell, Bettina swirled around and stalked to the kitchens. The maids, cooks, and kitchen boys gave her a wide berth when she worked her anger out on a grime-encrusted cast-iron pot. The thunder of hooves drowned her voice before she could complete the planning of the evening meal with the castle’s cook.

Bettina strayed outdoors, and surprised by the day’s spring warmth, lifted her face to the sun. She yearned to be astride a horse, cantering through the forest, listening to birdsong, wings beating, inhaling the green of the pine and the earth of the decaying leaves as she thundered through the trees.

Her meandering took her to the stables and she halted in the doorway, surprised. For though there were a goodly number of horses in the stalls, the three destriers belonging to Njal and his brothers were missing.

The ugly yet irresistible temptation reared. A quick visit to Mama? Who would know?

Shoving aside Njal’s interminable warnings about not leaving the keep, she flew to her room on the third floor. Minutes later, armed and dressed for riding, she sneaked to the stables, saddled her mount, and sped across the meadow to reach the cover of the forests.

’Twas a glorious day, the wind crisp, the sun’s warmth penetrating the ice in the air. She leaned forward and urged her mount into a gallop. In no time at all she arrived at the wide meadow boundary between Bern Umbria and Arbroath. Her heart kicked in extra beats, her excitement at seeing her mother nigh uncontainable, but she pulled on the reins and slowed, savoring the vista before her.

Meadow larks circled above a copse of lush emerald pines. Ripe wheat spears tipped the high grass bending and swaying as a cool breeze swept the field. In the distance, she spied the gnarled trunks of the line of the aged oaks demarking the boundary between the two holdings.

Is Mama happy with Leofric?

Bettina recalled what Mama had whispered in her ears the night of Mordred’s feast for the king. ’Tis my choice, child.

She must be.

The sun shone full and bright. Late harvest stalks glinted, sparkled, and bobbed a furious dance when a crosswind quarreled with the prevailing breeze. Bettina’s horse sidestepped, pranced, jerked his head, and whinnied a sharp protest of her momentary halt.

For a sennight she’d tried to be the wife Njal deserved, but her contrary nature would not let matters rest. Lost in thought, she never noticed a flock of sparrows taking flight and shooting from the trees’ shelter, nor the meadow larks sudden cawing.

“Well met, Bettina.”

Her stomach jumped into her throat. Bettina kneed her horse into a circle. Dread snaked up her spine, sending shivers across her shoulders when her gaze fell upon Hal the Herald wearing mail, hauberk, and armed with swords, daggers, and crossbow.

Why was Hal here?

She knew not whom she misliked more, her step-uncle Mordred or his son Hal.

Mindful of Njal’s advice to act the welcoming lady, she pasted a smile on her face. “Good morn, Lord Hal. What do you here?”

“Why, I do you, Bettina.”

Her hands itched to slap the smug expression off his face. Before she could form a polite yet scathing reply, the sound of thundering hooves captured her attention. Bettina twisted to see around Hal’s bulk, and her belly went hollow when she glimpsed a dozen or more armed men galloping in their direction. The leather reins bit into her palms.

“You were to be mine to break, Bettina.” Hal leered at her chest. “It should have been my cock piercing your maidenhead. You will regret cheating me of that pleasure.”

Her heartbeat roared louder and louder in her ears. Bettina scanned the meadow’s expanse. Her hand reached for the crossbow strapped to the saddle, but she had hesitated a moment too long.

The warriors formed a tight ring around her and Hal, their horses panting and snorting, hooves stamping as the steeds protested the sudden stop. She risked a swift, shuttered glance, but recognized not a single grimy countenance.

Mercenaries.

Naught else to do but attempt a false bravado. “Do you escort me to Lord Leofric’s holding? How charming and gallant a knight you are, my lord Hal.”

“Take her down, bind her, and throw her on the horse.” Hal bared his stained and chipped teeth in a sinister sneer. “Your peacemaker is no more. This day, my sire and I, and a legion of men from Moray, seize you and the Lady Gwen. Both widowed on one day. Both married the next.”

She had a knife in her boot and would rather sink the sharp blade into her heart than have Hal’s hands on her. Bettina kept her expression blank and did not struggle when the men dragged her from the horse.

Njal cannot be dead. She closed her eyes and begged the Lord above to take her instead.

* * *

“What do you mean you haven’t seen her?” Njal roared.

“’Tis you who said her temper would keep her in the castle.” Jarvik dragged a hand through his hair. “I was but gone for a moment. Wouldst you have me leave Luca?”

Njal shook his head, trying to clear his rising panic, and he mounted his destrier. “Nay. You had to free the lad from the water wheel. His leg?”

“Broken, but ’twill mend.” Jarvik sat astride his stallion, flicking the reins as he waited for Magnus to ready. “A stable boy saw her heading to the east forest. She journeys to Bern Umbria.”

“To the Lady Gwen. Aye. ’Tis no coincidence we could not find Hal the Herald at Laufsblað Fjǫllóttr.” Njal dug his heels into the horse’s flanks the moment Magnus fitted his boots into the stirrups. “He will die this day.”

“That Petalia should betray Bettina so will grieve your lady.” Magnus rode alongside Njal. “’Tis the way whether country or court. Maids deceived by young bucks into betraying their mistresses. Never will I understand how any female could be so foolish to think a lord would marry a maid. Men marry for land, and what maid owns land?”

“Desist, Magnus. I want my wife safe and well.” Njal didn’t add, naked and tied to a bed, never to venture without him again in her lifetime. Pray Odin she has not been raped, or hurt in any way. Hal the Herald will resemble Hal the plucked gander before he expelled his last breath. Njal clenched his jaw.

They reined in at the boundary meadow. ’Twas obvious Hal and his men had encountered Bettina here. A swift examination of the hoof prints, the trampled grass, and they had the kidnapper’s destination.

“They are headed to the coast. Think you he has a ship waiting?”

Njal glared at Jarvik. “They sought an alliance with Moray. Aye.”

With no further words necessary, the brothers turned east and kneed their steeds into a furious gallop. A dense blanket of angry, rumbling black clouds blocked the sun as they rode through shadowed forests.

The pine copse thinned to reveal a wide grassy field. Moments before the skies splintered, all went quiet. The storm exploded with a cacophony of lightning, thunder, and the roared pelting of rain so heavy and thick, the drops stung his skin.

Unable to keep the fast pace, they slowed to a brisk walk. The curtain of rain allowed vision for a mere horse’s length, and the drumming torrent of the deluge muffled all other sounds.

Unable to do aught but contemplate how Hal should meet his demise, Njal ne’er noticed when Magnus reined in his steed and threw a curse over one shoulder. ’Twas his brother’s shout that startled Njal from his grim deliberations. He looked up and scanned the horizon.

Jarvik edged his mount beside Njal’s and pointed left. “Be that a crofter’s cottage?”

“Aye. And a dozen and more hobbled horses tied under the lee.”

“We are but a mile from the village on the coast.” Magnus studied the blurred outline of the hut. “Were I Hal, I would’ve plowed on with Bettina. His men are mercenaries. They may have refused to continue. Mayhap we should split forces?”

“Magnus, know you one ship’s captain who would take to sea in this storm? No matter how heavy the coin offered?” Njal surveyed the hut’s thatched roof, the tree branches hanging above it. “She is here. They have lit a fire. I smell peat burning.”

“Aye. Njal has the right of it, brother. I can see the glow of the logs through the holes in the thatch.” Jarvik shaded his eyes from the steady downpour.

“They will be gathered around the fire, and if we are in luck, near sotted.” Njal gestured. “You two take a window and the door. I will take the roof. The door and window, they will anticipate, but not the roof.”

“Do we want any alive?” Jarvik fingered his sword.

“Nay. They are mercenaries and will know little.” Njal tugged on his reins and his stallion half-turned. “Hal is mine.”

Even through the steady downpour, Njal clearly saw both of his brothers rolling their eyes and shaking their heads. He looked forward to the day each one claimed a wife, for ’twas only then they would understand his need for revenge.

The ambush went as planned. All the men, save Hal, died with a single blow of the sword. Njal discovered a bruised, angry Bettina tied and gagged under a low bench. He ordered Magnus to free her and cover her warmly before prodding the wounded Hal through the door. Though he wanted to draw out the man’s death, once Hal confessed he had not yet procured a ship’s captain and that he had no other warriors in his following, Njal gutted him, and left him to die.

The only blanket available stunk, but ’twas dry and would keep the rain from his wife’s skin. He wrapped her in the moldy wool, settled her on his lap, and rode for Arbroath.

Njal had been well pleased when they completed the bathhouse three days past, and he and his brothers had spent each night since testing the heat and the flow, and making small alterations. Farmer Fordor had located the smooth heating stones required and Jarvik had traded at the coast for the scented oils used for both aroma and massage.

He took his wife there after requesting Jarvik send clothing for both of them and food and drink. Njal had no intention of leaving the stone structure, which was set upwind and a half-mile from Arbroath, until they had talked and tupped themselves dry.

“What is this?” Bettina threw off the sour-smelling blanket and looked around. “’Tis the bathhouse Jarvik spoke of.”

“Your nose is blue and you are shaking like a twig in a storm.” Njal unlaced her tunic.

“You are angry, I know, and rightly so.” She raised her arms so he could pull the tunic over her head. When he knelt to help her shuck her boots, she rested her palms on his shoulders.

“Nay. Not angry. Furious.” He tossed the shoes to a corner, stood, untied her breech rope, and caught her when she swayed, sweeping her off her feet. “Are you injured?”

“Nay. Njal.” She squeaked and stopped speaking when he walked into the steaming pool. “Oh. ’Tis so heavenly warm.”

When she pushed away from him, his arms automatically tightened, but she slipped out, and sank beneath the surface. He knew she swam like a pike, but he held his breath and did not move a muscle, did not let his stare waver, until she burst up, arms outstretched splashing water everywhere.

“I vow I will never use that poky tub again.” She threw her arms around his waist. “You must teach Leofric how to build this. I swear Mama will swoon with happiness.”

His warrior was back.

Bemused, he smiled, cert he looked foolish standing there garbed in armor and boots.

“Njal.” She swatted his shoulder. “Your hauberk will be ruined. We must get it off. I will play squire. But you are too tall.”

And she seemed so small and so precious.

“There.” She pointed to a low boulder whose surface rose above the water. “Sit.”

He obeyed her command and she knelt to unlace his boots.

“I have tried. Truly. More than a sennight has passed and I have not asked a single question. I have waited and waited. And waited more.”

Tugging the boot off, she glanced up at him. “I cannot be thus.” She threw the boot to the packed earth and began working on the other. “I may indeed be the country lass you cannot take to court. For I have no patience with wanting to know and not being able to ask.”

His mouth curved when she fair pelted the other boot and her lips flattened.

“I wish not to live in an abbey or convent.” She scooted between his thighs and worked on his hauberk. Her hair smelled of hazel mixed with must. “I want a babe, mayhap not a girl. A son or a few sons.”

He could stand it no longer, and hauled her into his lap and cupped her chin. “Will you always be contrary, wife? For I find I yearn for a female warrior babe. One who will make me tear my hair out, worry me to an early grave, and be as spirited and as smart and as fiercely loving as her mama.”

His belly clenched when the tears began to stream down her cheeks, cleaning streaks in the mud film dusting her flesh. “I believe I have loved you from the start. ’Tis not easy for me to say the words.”

“’Tis easier and easier with each saying. I love you, warrior wife, and I want you as you are. Pepper me with questions, bristle at me, defy me.” He kissed her nose. “Now, wife, I needs be inside you.” He attacked her clothing, she his, and in no time at all, they swam naked and clean in the small, heated pool.

“Come.” He crooked his finger and pointed at the rock where he had sat. “Sit.”

“But I have no garb to divest,” she protested yet clambered onto the rock.

“Ah, but I seek not to unclothe you but to satisfy my hunger.” He helped her to lie on the flat surface and nudged her thighs apart. He sucked in his breath when he caught her wearing the bold wench half-smile that spoke of wickedness and pleasure. Caressing her belly, skipping his fingertips over her soft, wet flesh, he watched for the change from restlessness to dreamy.

Then he sank to his knees and feasted his gaze on her folds, inhaled the spice of her sex, before toying with the hood covering her pleasure nub. She gasped and cried out his name when he fixed his mouth there. She tasted of honey and cream and spice, and found her pleasure the moment he thrust his tongue into her puss, locking her thighs around his head.

By Odin he couldn’t get enough of her puss, burying his nose in her folds, lapping at her juices, inhaling her woman’s musk, and growing sotted on her taste. She climaxed again and again, and began pleading with him. “Njal, please, I beg you. Fill me.”

Digging her hands into his hair, she tried to draw him up her body. When he resisted, she drummed her heels on his back and growled, “Put your cock inside me, husband.”

His control fractured, he lurched to his feet, cupped her bottom, and drove into her.

Her sheath gripped him like a vise, sucking at his flesh, clamping and releasing as she found her pleasure yet again. His seed gathered hot and wild, his balls banging her folds as he blasted into her, pulsing fire. Blood raced to his groin. His skin became too tight to contain the building explosion, and he roared her name when his climax erupted. His seed jetted and jetted into her, the hot surges continuing as her puss milked him, squeezing and fisting, keeping his prick as hard as sword steel.

He sank into the shallow water to the side of the rock, holding her so she straddled him, and they could both enjoy the persistent aftershocks. Never had Njal felt so content, so complete, savoring the way she surrounded him, unable to stop stroking her spine, kissing her shoulder, the tip of her ear, nibbling at her temple.

“Njal.” She trailed a finger over his bicep. “I love you.”

Every muscle in his body tensed.

“I love particularly your man part.”

“You said cock before.” His prick had flexed hearing her say the wicked word.

“’Tis not the word a lady uses.” Her fingers sank lower and his belly rippled when the tip of one rimmed his navel.

“’Tis one of the words a warrior wife should say oft.” He bit her shoulder, then licked away the hurt.

She pushed off his chest and met his gaze. “I do believe, peacemaker, that your cock is not yet satisfied. Pray tell me, does a warrior wife suckle her husband’s cock? It seems only fair return.”

’Twas dawn before they collapsed in exhaustion, skin too wrinkled to seek the water, but Njal had stacked blankets near the rocks. Cocooned in the warm fabric, Bettina lying on his belly, his cock half-hard inside her, he kissed her forehead and said, “Ask me why I was furious.”

“Because I disobeyed you?” She wrinkled her nose and glanced up at him. “’Tis obvious.”

“Nay. Because I demanded the impossible.” He felt her tense and stroked her spine until she relaxed. “’Twas natural for you to be anxious for your mother. I should have taken you to see her and appeased your concern. Instead of forbidding you to step out of Arbroath, I should have explained that until Mordred was contained, you were in danger. And most damning of me, I should never have allowed you not to ask questions.”

She rested her chin on his chest. “What say you, Njal?”

“I say I erred.” He traced her eyebrow. “I say naught is forbidden ’tween us. I say we speak plainly, and when we quarrel, we talk.”

“Had I known ’twould be so agreeable to marry a peacemaker, I would’ve spoken more oft.”

“You needs know all that has happened.” Njal told her of his agreement with King Máel Coluim.

“’Tis what you did yesterday.”

“Aye, but we had not anticipated Petalia warning Hal. ’Twill not be a mistake I repeat. You and I will each speak with all who live in the keep. If needs be, we will hold a formal oath swearing and a feast.”

“What happens to Mordred’s keep?”

“Methinks Máel Coluim has already decided to whom he will gift Laufsblað Fjǫllóttr.” He shrugged. “But he has ordered me to give him my recommendations.”

“What will you say?”