“What is wrong?” Einar asked.
“Nothing,” she assured him. “It will pass.” But the boy gripped her hand even more tightly as they made their way towards the door of the hall. As they passed the hearth, Aoife looked down at where a thrall was finishing skinning a rabbit, ready to put it in the soapstone bowl to cook on the fire. It was a sight she had seen many times and the smell of the blood and fur a familiar one, and yet today it had her clasping at her stomach and hurrying past.She pushed open the door to their room and stepped inside, then quickly pulled it closed as soon as the boy had followed her.
She sat on the bed, then took huge, gasping breaths of the fresher air in an attempt to stave off the nausea.
The boy watched her from near the door, his eyes large and frightened. “Are you going to die, too?” he whispered.
“No,” Aoife replied. She shook her head, but that proved to be the final straw. She grabbed at an empty bowl on the table and was violently sick. Her stomach continued to rebel for the next few minutes and somehow she was not surprised when she felt a cooling cloth placed on her forehead and the bowl removed from her and an empty one put in its place. She sat mumbling, concentrating on breathing in and out, in and out. A mug of water was held to her lips. She sipped.
“Thank you,” she managed to croak at Ragna, who smiled grimly at her. The older woman passed the bowl to a thrall who left with it.
A small hand touched her own. She jumped at first and Einar pulled back, but she smiled at him and reached for his hand.
“My mamma died,” he said. Aoife didn’t understand the next bit, but assumed it was a question.
Ragna answered hurriedly, then shooed the boy out. Aoife tried to protest, but wasn’t up to it. Ragna smiled at her. “Rest, Aoife. You will feel better soon. I will bring you something to drink that will help.”
She frowned at the older woman. “I am sure I will be fine tomorrow.”
“I think it may be a few weeks or more until you are yourself again,” Ragna said. “Your husband said he did not want a child so soon, but he should have known better than to try to control that.”
“A child? Tormod said there would be no—”
Ragna laughed. “Aye, men often do.” She closed the door behind her.
Aoife closed her eyes but her mind was racing so fast she thought she would never sleep, but she must have because she awoke a while later. The room was empty, but she had the sense someone had just left. Perhaps that was what had woken her. Gingerly, she sat up and put her feet on the floor. She still felt a little lightheaded, but the nausea had passed. A steaming herbal drink sat beside her bed. Ragna must have brought it for her.
Outside she could hear the noise of everyday life, but it seemed as if there was more joy in it today after the arrival of the newcomers.
As the jarl’s wife, she should have welcomed the new arrivals earlier, but she had been too bound up in Tormod’s poor treatment of his son.
She ran her hand over her stomach. Could she be with child? Tormod had seemed so sure he could avoid a child for now, although on the night of the battle he had made a mistake. She tried to work out when her monthly courses had last come and realised it had been weeks now.
The door opened and her husband stepped in. Guiltily, she let her hand drop to her side. They regarded one another, Aoife wondering what to say.
Eventually she asked, “Where is Einar?”
She knew it was the wrong thing to have said when Tormod’s face clouded over. “Ragna has found a bed for him in the hall.”
“That is good news,” Aoife said.
“You are feeling better?” His expression was wary.
“Yes, Ragna has brought me a drink.”
Tormod inclined his head, then crossed to the other side of the room and pulled his shirt off. As he looked for a clean one, Aoife indicated her sewing basket. “There is a new one I made for you,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said, holding it up and admiring it.
“Are the new arrivals settled in?”
“Almost. I am going to the bathhouse. Will you join me?”
“Is that allowed?”
“Of course. You are my wife. Unless of course there is someone else you would prefer to be looking after.”
“There is only you, Tormod. Although I thought you would wish me to make your son welcome.”
