To Love Again - Bertrice Small [180]
To her credit, he thought, she was not afraid of his anger. She knew herself safe as she was growing big with his child. He did not believe in beating a woman who was with child, though the gods knew this particular woman tried him sorely. His two Saxon wives were strong women as well, but they had a sweetness to them. Antonia was bitterly hard of heart, her only softness being that which she showed toward her son. The boy, Ragnar thought, was a cowardly little weasel, always hiding behind his mother’s skirts.
“What would you have of me, then?” he demanded irritably. “Why should I war with Wulf Ironfist over his lands, when the lands to the south are as rich, and easier pickings? Perhaps, Antonia, you hope that Wulf Ironfist will vanquish me and you will regain control of these lands for your son. Put such thoughts from your head, wife. Soon my brother and his family will join us. If I die an unnatural death, Gunnar will be here to avenge me, and to hold these lands for himself and our sons.”
She was astounded. This was the first she had heard of his brother, but used to deceit, Antonia covered her surprise with a sweet smile. “You did not tell me that you had a brother, Ragnar, or that he would be coming to join us. Has he wives and children? When is he to arrive? We must prepare a proper welcome for our family.”
Ragnar’s booming laughter filled their bed space. “By Woden, Antonia, you are clever, but I see through you! You were not expecting that I had additional family, but we Saxons are good breeders, as your belly attests to,” he told her, patting the place where his child grew within her. “You had some scheme in mind, and now, I have not a doubt, you will form another crafty plot to replace it. Very well, if it amuses you to do so. Breeding women are given to such vagaries, and it is harmless enough, I think.” He lowered his dark blond head and kissed her plump shoulder. His shoulder-length hair brushed her breasts.
Reaching up, Antonia thoughtfully stroked his beard. She hated him, but he was the most virile man she had ever known. “Do not be a fool, Ragnar,” she finally told him. “Take the lands to the south, for Wulf Ironfist has given you good advice. Even I will admit to that. Lull our enemy into a false sense of security, and when he least expects it, seize his lands as well! Why settle for being a minor lordling when you could be a king?”
At her words, the child within her kicked mightily, and Ragnar Strongspear felt the movement beneath his resting hand. “It is an omen,” he said, almost fearfully. “Why else would the child grow so restive in your womb, Antonia? Surely it is a sign of some sort.”
“Our son knows that I speak the truth, my husband,” she told him. “Or perhaps it is the gods who speak to you through the babe.” What a fool he is, she thought to herself. If the gods existed, and frankly Antonia was no longer certain that they did, why would they bother to concern themselves with one as foolish and superstitious as this great bull of a man who lay by her side contemplating the future?
“My brother and his family should be here in a few days’ time,” he told her finally. “He has just a single wife, as he has never been able to afford more, but now, of course, that will change. He is younger than I am by several years, but he fathered his first child on his wife when he was but fourteen. There are eight living children. Six sons.”
“What a fine family,” Antonia said dryly, thinking that this horrid hall he had built to replace her beautiful villa—the villa he had destroyed—was already badly overcrowded. The addition of ten more people would but add to the noise and the filth. The gods! She missed her bath with its lovely rejuvenating steam and its delicious hot water. How Ragnar’s other wives mocked her when she insisted on washing herself in a little oaken tub filled with warm water. But she didn’t care. She would wager that Cailin Drusus had better bathing accommodations, the bitch!