Page 113 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3

February 2nd, 961AD

Iclutched Eirik’s hand, bracing against the rising swell of pain.

“Save your strength, my lady.” Ragerta passed a cold cloth over my forehead. “’Twill be some time yet.”

Thirka nodded as my features eased. “And the jarl, he might take some air.”

Eirik looked haggard but said, “I’ll not leave.”

Through the night, the two women wet my lips with water and murmured prayers over me, but my fortitude waned, until I could barely cry out against the spasms, my breathing growing shallow with the lamp’s dimming flicker.

It was near dawn when Ragerta shook my shoulder.

“’Tis time. You must bear down and push the child.”

“No more… Just sleep…” I wished to close my eyes again, but Eirik rubbed my hand between his own. He looked so pale.

“You must, Elswyth. Soon we shall have our child, and our lives will begin a new season. But you must fight!”

Moving to the top of the bed, he brought my shoulders to rest upon his chest.

“Together, we shall do this, wife. You have my strength and your own.”

I did as he asked, straining, grunting, forcing all my will into the child.

“The head!” Thirka shouted. “Again, Elswyth, and the babe is here!”

Eirik’s arms were firm about me. “My brave wife, you can do this!”

Again I strained, forcing the pain downward, and was repaid with the sensation of a great shifting—of a weight moving within me.

I gasped and fell back into Eirik’s embrace, his cheek pressed to mine.

Ragerta lifted the child for us to see, and there was a lusty cry. “’Tis perfect—a fine daughter!”

She laid the babe on my chest, and tears sprang to my eyes. Through all the sorrow of these seasons past, I was delivered of the child I’d longed for—the most precious treasure. She was the creation of my body, miraculous, and belonging to me as nothing else had ever done.

As she nuzzled to my breast, Eirik pressed his mouth to my ear, whispering, “I have everything.” He lifted her tiny hand, and I saw the pride in his face—that he felt it, too.

Her hair was pale, like my own. Like Eirik’s. If she was Gunnolf’s, there was nothing in her appearance yet to show it. Perhaps we’d never know. Perhaps it would never matter.

She was mine and Eirik’s—and I prayed she would know, always, what it was to be loved.

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