Golden Surrender

  Yes, she was glad, so glad, that she had come.

  And yet, coming home, she had experienced again a painful loss, a homesickness of new direction. For just as this was the place of her childhood, Dubhlain had become the home of the woman Erin. The great buildings rising of stone, the neat sidewalks of wood, the vast great hall where the meals began with the presence of the king and queen, the chamber at the top of the stairs, with its roaring warmth from the hearth … and her husband. How many nights had she lain there alone? And how many with him beside her, a strong comfort in the hours of the night, whether she railed against him or not? And even alone she had known that she lay in his bed, and that in itself had been comfort. Did he, she wondered, ever stretch his arms across the sheet where she should lie, and dream that he might hold her, or imagine with awakening thought that she might be there, beside him, length against length, her hair tangled about her shoulders?

  With her thoughts, Erin turned to the northeast, as if she might see past time and space to Dubhlain. She smiled, thinking of the messenger who had brought her word of Moira’s daughter. How she wished she might have seen the newborn infant! The messenger had been hesitant at first about divulging any more information about the birth, but at Erin’s jubilation he had been drawn into giving her every detail, bringing her to merry laughter as she heard how the giant Sigurd had wept tears of happiness and drunk himself into a stupor that first night.

  Erin’s smile faded as she recalled that the Norseman bearing the tidings had blushed unhappily when she asked if he carried no word to her from Olaf. No, there had been no word.…

  Erin spun about suddenly as she heard footsteps behind her. Quickly she brought a smile to her face again, for her father came toward her. She had lied to him with wide clear eyes from the beginning, laughing with delight upon her face and pain within her heart as she assured him that all was well, reminding him, “I am my father’s daughter, Ard-Righ. Always I will make my way and find my own strength.”

  Aed smiled in return before starting to chastise her. “The day is growing colder, daughter. Let me walk you to our house, that you may warm yourself by the fire. We want no harm coming to you or the babe.”

  Erin accepted her father’s arm with outward obedience and an inward grimace. Olaf could have sent her to no finer keepers than her parents. They watched her with more loyal fervor than a pair of winter hawks.

  “Your hands are chilled,” Aed scolded.

  Erin laughed. “Father, I’m fine. Not at all cold.”

  Despite her words, he slipped an arm around her and hugged her close. “Aye, Erin, you do look fine. You are like your mother in this. With each child she carried, she looked more lovely, and not a day did she spend feeling ill.”

  “Then I am heartily glad I am like mother,” Erin replied. “I feel most awkward, and oft sleepy, but never ill.”

  They walked in companionable silence for a spell, but as they neared the house of the Ard-Righ within the valley, Aed paused. He looked at Erin pensively, and she wondered suddenly how many assurances of her state of well-being he believed. “You looked toward Dubhlain, daughter,” he told her broodingly. “What were you thinking?”

  Erin forced a cheerful shrug. “Nothing much, Father. I was thinking of Moira, I suppose. I am anxious to see her babe.”

  “Not anxious to see your husband?”

  Again Erin shrugged. “He was scarce home when I left, Father. He had much work to do, and kin within the household. If he is able to attend the Fais, he will come within the next few weeks. But perhaps he may not be able to do so. War has kept him from the building that is his dream and goal.” She could not tell her father that she believed Olaf would not come because of her. She was heavy with child now; of little use for passions that demanded a lithe and comfortable body. Although his words had stirred her heart with hope, she was convinced that he still believed her to be the worst of traitors.

  Aed lowered his eyes. He paused for several moments before speaking. “He will come for you, Erin. He is a man who will want his child born in his household.” Again Aed paused, and suddenly his arms, so strong in battle, so tender now, were around her as he hugged her to his chest, his child again. “I am afraid for you, Erin. Mergwin whispers of danger he cannot touch. He cannot see.…”

  A chill whipped through Erin, but she forced herself to chuckle. “Father, what danger? I can get myself into no trouble, for I can no longer run, but must waddle when I walk! Be I here or there, I will be a new mother soon, busy with a child!”

  Her words seemed to relieve Aed somewhat. “Take care, Erin, take great care, my beloved daughter. Mergwin’s words so often hold wisdom.…” Aed released her suddenly, shrugging a bit sheepishly. “The old Druid was here, you know, waiting to see you.”

  Erin frowned. “He was? Why did he leave without doing so?”

  Aed looked at the ground, and for all his age, Erin thought that he looked a bit like an errant schoolboy. “We were like two old squirrels, bickering constantly. He went on his way, for with both of us worrying, we were crotchety old men indeed.”

  Erin tilted her head back and laughed, thinking of her father and Mergwin, old friends, battling it out with wit and wisdom.

  “I expect,” she told her father cheerfully, “that I will see Mergwin soon enough. I know him well, and know he will come to see the child—” She cut herself off suddenly, catching her breath and standing still as the baby gave her a ferocious kick.

  “Erin, what is it?” Aed demanded anxiously.

  Again she laughed, clutching her father’s hand. “Feel, Father! Your grandchild moves! Strong and hearty—and determined. That was very much so an Irish kick, don’t you think, Father?”

  Aed laughed with her. “Don’t forget the strength of his sire,” he warned her softly.

  Aed led Erin ahead of him into the hall, looking heavenward and praying silently as he did so. “Make the child a son, God, for I am too old to worry over the strengths of another female such as the mother.”

  Erin dutifully ate the broth her mother had prepared her and escaped to the privacy of her chamber. It was secure and warm, and she changed into a thin shift to sit before the hearth. She hugged her knees, trying to still the nagging fear that Olaf would never come. Wouldn’t she be better off? Raising her child as an Irishman within the most royal grounds of the isle? Surrounded by those who loved her, and already loved her child?

  That would never happen, she thought, paling slightly despite the warmth of the fire. Olaf wanted his child … if the child was all that he did want. No, he would come. Eventually.

  She settled her chin on her knees. How had he been entertaining himself? she wondered. No doubt there were times he was glad to be free of her. He could seek livelier, trimmer game, and she had left him alone, free to do so without reproach.

  She fought tears as she had done so many times. She loved him so much that the love was a part of her being, her mind, her soul, her heart, her every pore. But she could not give him that love. All she could offer was rigid dignity, for her pride and her self she could not barter with, lest she lose and, in losing, have naught, not even the determination and will that sustained her. Not unless her dream should come ture.

  Like a child, she could close her eyes and imagine Olaf, open and vulnerable at long last, his only weakness his love for her. Her image was of a misted green bank, with Olaf so nobly and yet humbly pleading for her heart.

  Erin sighed and blinked. Fantasies were for children. She couldn’t allow herself to pine for what would never be. All she could do was pray for the strength to live her life with the grace of the Ard-Righ’s daughter no matter what came her way.

  At least she would have her child. The instincts that grew within her surprised her, for with each tiny kick unleashed against her, she loved the life she carried more. Her child … his child.…

  She trembled suddenly as she remembered how they had parted. Flashes of that passion had come to her oft, leaving her feeling w
eak and wobbling in the middle of any act, be it sewing beside her mother or, absurdly, kneeling upon the hard floor of the chapel.

  But when they had parted, she thought mournfully, she had been so much smaller. She now felt as if she appeared as the tents that warriors set upon battlefields. No matter, she convinced herself with a toss of her head. She would greet him nobly, coolly, with great dignity, in her best robe, with its concealing mantle of wool edged with fox fur, her hair neatly and regally decked with jewels. She could hide her awkward bulk behind the wall of royal finery.

  Her eyes closed dreamily with that vision, and she tried to plan the words she would say. “Welcome to Tara, my lord of Dubhlain. Be assured your needs will be well fulfilled, for all within the realm of the Ard-Righ strive for excellence in service and craft.…”

  Her dreams were rudely interrupted and her eyes flew open as she heard a slight commotion in the hallway outside her door. Erin frowned, about to rise, but to her amazement, her door flew suddenly open.

  She blinked once, for surely it was impossible for him to be there. She had imagined him, and his ghost had appeared. But as her eyes widened once more in incredulity, she was forced to realize that Olaf did indeed stand before her.

  He filled her small doorway, his hands on his hips, his legs parted, his royal-blue mantle combatting the fierce Nordic blue of his eyes for supremacy. His beard and hair were neatly clipped, his features ever rugged granite as he sought her out quickly. The barest hint of a smile touched the fullness of his lips as his eyes saw her before the hearth.

  Erin trembled with the sudden, rejoicing warmth of his presence and with dismay. It was he garbed in royal splendor, he who needed no shield of dignity, and she must appear as a lost waif.…

  She did. A bit like a wood sprite, Olaf thought. Her feet were bare and tucked beneath her, her black hair like a splendid cape about her shoulders, and her wide, startled eyes were like the fresh beauty of a summer field. The thin white shift she wore revealed more to him than it hid, and a surge of emotion unlike any he had experienced touched him to the core. He wanted to run to her and lock her gently into his embrace, touch her belly with tenderness because of the child that grew within. But suddenly he could not. He froze within the doorway, thinking she would surely repel him with frost-cool anger and endure his touch with rigidity and disdain.

  His tongue seemed to be tied within his mouth. He had come this far, and suddenly, in annoying weakness, the Wolf could move no further.

  Erin hastily scrambled to her feet, blushing at her dishevelment. Her carefully planned speech departed like the wind and the words that came to her lips were tart. “My lord, you have entered a royal Irish household. The custom here is for one to knock on doors rather than barging in.”

  The tone of her voice gave him power for movement and he stepped within the door, closing it behind him as he raised an ever mocking golden brow. “Surely, even within royal Irish households, the door of the wife is that of the husband. But then, if not, you must forgive me, for the Norse habit is usually to enter directly. Most probably because we are so accustomed to invasion, we lack more genteel mannerisms. But then, the Irish Ard-Righ himself directed me here and bid me all entrances within his home.”

  Erin floundered silently for words, unable to speak as he walked slowly toward her, making no secret of his assessment. “I am most surprised to see you,” she taunted, her words halting as he circled her and she sought to keep her eyes locked to his. “The Fais does not begin as yet and business in Dubhlain must be most detaining.”

  He paused directly before her, and she prayed that he would not see how her eyes feasted on him, how her spirit surged at his scent and nearness. He touched her face, and the brush of his calloused hand was gentle, gentle still as he grazed it over her swollen breast and belly. He frowned slightly, and Erin caught her breath with nervousness, too compelled to break away from the touch she had longed to feel. “I fear that we must travel home before the Fais,” he said with a regret that she was astonished to recognize as real.

  “Why?” she whispered uneasily.

  “The babe—”

  “Is not due for another two months,” she protested too quickly.

  “It was a mistake for me to allow you to come,” he said quietly, his eyes falling from hers to the hand that rested on her belly. “You should not be traveling now, and therefore we must make haste.” His eyes raised back to hers and his voice suddenly rang harsh. “I will accept no argument, Erin. I will speak my piece with your father this night, and on the morrow we head home.”

  She lowered her eyes to his hand. She had no wish to argue. She was achingly glad he had come, and wherever he chose to be, she was glad to be told she must follow.

  The baby seemed to share her heart, for he chose that moment to firmly kick against his sire’s hand. Olaf’s gaze instantly returned to his hand, and Erin shivered with the pleasure of the startled look in his sharp blue eyes. Again the baby kicked, and the great Wolf of the North could not hide his fascination.

  “He is strong, our son,” Olaf murmured, his own pleasure showing in his slightly awed tone.

  “Perhaps a daughter,” Erin corrected.

  “Nay, wife, it will be a son,” Olaf said assuredly, making Erin purse her lips. He laughed as he saw her face again, and she was startled as he lightly ruffled her hair, momentarily twining his fingers within it and then releasing it. “Irish,” he said softly, “I believe you would wish to contradict me were I to say it was day when the sun was shining high above us.”

  You are wrong! Erin longed to cry out. But she couldn’t, no more than she could obey the impulse of her heart to throw herself into his arms with gladness. They stared at one another, the rigid distance between them growing. I’ve come to know him so well, Erin thought. She could recall the ridge and ripple of his each and every muscle, the tone of his flesh, the angle of bone beneath, and still they met anew each time as strangers, wary contestants.

  He stepped away from her. “I have much to discuss with your father,” he said crisply. “Prepare your things and then seek your rest, for we leave with the coming of the dawn.”

  He strode to the door, leaving her as abruptly as he had come to her, then he paused and turned back to her coldly. “Whether you like my form of entry, Irish, do not seek to bar a door against me, be this Tara, your father’s home. Wherever we are, you are my wife. And I would not be adverse to proving such a point to you by breaking down an Irish door.”

  Erin met his pointed stare mutely and continued to gaze after him long after he had closed the door. She realized suddenly that the pounding of her heart was rapid against her chest, and that fire seemed to riddle through her in liquid waves.

  As usual, he left her wishing she could throttle him, or at the very least douse him, in boiling oil—and shaking with pleasure because he would lie beside her, touch her.

  She turned from her dazed scrutiny of the closed door to hurry about her chamber, gathering the things she would take, and setting out her clothing for the journey home—her warmest robe and heaviest fur-lined mantle, thick stockings and high leather shoes.

  When all was ready, she gazed at her bed. How many times had she lain there laughing with her sisters, chatting about the lives they would lead, the dreams they would fulfill?

  Tonight he would sleep in that bed, and reality would overwhelm dreams with golden strength.

  She heard him in the hall this time before he entered, and settled quickly beneath the covers, her heart pounding once more. She had her back to him, but as she listened to the quiet sounds as he shed his clothing, she wished she had not chosen to feign sleep. She longed to turn and look at him, the magnificence of the warrior’s body she had so missed.

  Erin felt his weight as he lay beside her. She waited, her flesh alive with excitement, for his hands to come upon her. Seconds passed like hours in time, minutes like days, and still she waited. She felt only the adjustment of his body as he turned away from her, his em
brace for his pillow.

  She thought he slept, and she could not prevent a smothered sob from escaping her. It was only then that she felt him, instantly alert, his hand on her shoulder.

  “What is it Irish?” he murmured anxiously in the darkness.

  She could not whisper the truth so she softly lied. “The babe, my lord, he sometimes presses hard against me.”

  His arm came around her, pulling her back close against his naked chest. His massive hand moved with the most gentle tenderness in soothing circles over her belly. “Better, Irish?” he queried, his voice a caress against her hair and ear.

  Erin allowed herself to smile in the darkness. “Much better, my lord.”

  She slept soon and well, content to bask in the strong comfort and security he offered.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Olaf stroked his forefinger and thumb over his clipped beard, assessing the sight before him carefully, the sparkle in his eyes the only hint of his emotion. Rig watched his lord anxiously. The little Viking was proud of his craftsmanship learned during the long winters of his homeland when there had been little to do during the long nights except breed more Vikings and whittle with wood. His confidence fluttered somewhat as Olaf so thoroughly studied the carving he had commissioned. Finally Olaf turned his gaze from the cradle to Rig.

  “Rig, I tell you, no prince has ever been offered a finer bed. It is the finest piece of craftsmanship I have yet to see.”

  A broad grin broke out across Rig’s gnomelike features. His eyes watered slightly, and he returned his own gaze to the cradle created with his loyal, loving hands. At the head, carved in painstaking and elegant detail, was the emblem of the wolf, and at the foot, as Olaf had requested, were the crossed swords and maiden of justice—the emblem of the Ard-Righ. When touched the cradle would rock softly on firm supports. The wood had been polished until it shone with natural beauty.