Magnus

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

He rested his hand on Magnus’s arm. “There’s opportunity for a new life here. Eleven years is a long time.”

  Magnus didn’t trust himself to speak but kept his step even with his jarl. Brandr, at least, had some notion of his grief, having lost Sigrunn. It was not the same, of course.

  Not like what had happened to Solveig.

  Nothing compared to that.

  Three other women had been killed that day, by the savages who’d swept into Skalanes, intent on plunder. But they had all been elderly, and widows. They’d left sons and daughters to wail their sorrow, but not husbands.

  “A man can become too lost in remorse, unable to look past what might have been.”

  Magnus raised his eyes to meet those of Brandr.

  “I believe in our future here, kinsman. ’Tis long past the day when we should bury ourselves in regret.” Brandr gave Magnus a pensive smile. “To see you regain some measure of good cheer will fill my heart, as I know my happiness shall lift yours.”

  Magnus’s throat grew tight, and he merely nodded.

  They’d entered the shelter of the pines once more, the dappled shade turning the air cooler.

  Brandr paused, his face intent.

  “Hear you that, friend?” He looked through the trees. “A snapping of twigs, as of some creature’s tread. A stag, mayhap.” He reached for his bow, slung upon his back, and raised his hand to still the chatter of the men behind them.

  Magnus strained his ear but heard nothing, save for his own breath and the distant call of some roosting bird.

  Brandr fitted his arrow and took several steps into the ferns, until he reached a broad oak. There, he stopped, peering through the gloom.

  The next moment, he gave a mournful cry. There was a flash of movement from behind the tree—a figure running, pushing through the dense growth—and the jarl let fly his arrow, striking his target clean through the neck.

  Brandr turned and staggered. His eyes were disbelieving. Falling to the ground, he clutched at the dagger’s hilt protruding from his ribs, buried deep.

  Magnus leapt to his jarl’s side. He knew not what to do. The dagger must stay or he’d bleed to death before they got him back home.

  “One of Eanfrith’s men.” Brandr gasped, his hand clasped to his wound. “Hiding.” He winced, biting his lip against the pain, then groaned and coughed, the spittle on his lip dark with blood.

  “Don’t speak, my jarl,” said Garth, quickly joining Magnus. “You slayed him. Now, breathe shallow and try not to move.”

  Ragnar and Thorolf, having set off in pursuit, soon returned.

  “The cur must have been emptying his bowels when he heard our attack,” Ragnar growled. “We’d never have known he was there if Brandr hadn’t struck upon him. By Odin, ’tis the worst of luck!”

  “So it is,” Jerrik answered, “but the gods shall not fail us. There is still light enough to see, and this path’s well-trodden.”

  Making haste, they bore up their jarl, six men taking his weight, moving as swiftly as they could without disturbing Brandr’s comfort, taking turns in their burden, to maintain their pace.

  Will he die? Magnus sickened at the thought. First Bjorn and now Brandr. Both injured unto death. If the dagger had pierced Brandr’s lung, his life would hang in the balance.

  Magnus shifted his friend’s weight upon his shoulder. He would carry him the whole way without complaint, though, suddenly, his fatigue was bone-deep.

  Were the gods punishing him? If so, for what? A surfeit of pride, or not enough? For wasting his life, or having revelled in too much joy, in the arms of his Solveig?

  For more than ten years, he’d let them raid without him. Some men had to remain, he’d argued, to protect Skalanes. Only Brandr’s insistence had made him come—and look what had happened.

  I am cursed, bringing death to those I care for. They should have left me behind.

  5

  Modwen paced the forge, lighting the wick of her dish of oil and testing the temperature of the water in the wooden tub. Though it was still warm, she’d fetch another pail from the pot heating over the fire.

  For some hours, she’d remained alert for the Norsemen’s return. The moon had risen bright, but might they have become lost on the forest path? She didn’t wish to dwell on other causes of delay.

  Most of the residents of Achnaryrie sat around the fire, waiting, but Modwen had put the children to bed and walked to the edge of the forest. She stared intently down the path, willing to see some sign of their approach—as if her presence would be enough to summon them. To summon him. Magnus.

  Strangely, Graeme had been lingering, whittling something from a piece of wood. He’d scowled on seeing her, making it clear he sought no company.

  Perhaps mine isn’t the only marriage yet to be consummated, Modwen thought wryly.

  His new wife was the jarl’s sister, she recalled—and fearsome. Another like their own Rhiannon, with warrior blood in her veins. Graeme would have his hands full there.

  Everyone has their worries. Modwen sighed. She’d do best to concentrate on her own.

  Tipping in the extra water, she wondered if her preparation would find favour with her husband. Perhaps, he wouldn’t send her away this time. She had a jug of ale ready for him, some cold pork, and a bannock.

  I shall make a good wife.

  And then we’ll see what kind of husband he can be…

  Once more, she went to the doors of the forge. From far off, she thought she heard something. A whistle? And then a shout?

  Yes. Voices.

  Then, she saw them. The men.

  They’d been carrying someone but had laid him down, two of their number helping him to stand, supporting him on either side.

  Who was it? Modwen’s stomach clenched.

  Let it not be him.

  Others had heard them, too. Rinda ran past, and Eithne.

  From among the crowd, one stepped forward, staggering a little. As he came closer, the distinctive scar through his left eyebrow became clear.

  “Dear God!” Modwen’s hands flew to her mouth.

  He was crimson-spattered, his face streaked with blood.

  He met her eye briefly, then pushed open the forge doors. With sagging shoulders, he unclasped his belt, letting drop the weapons he was carrying.

  The ale he took greedily, downing the cup in a single, gulping draft, then twisted to remove his leather cuff, stained dark. His jaw tightened; Modwen motioned to aid him, and he nodded.

  Her fingers shook, unfastening the buckles. Scanning his body, she fought a wave of dizziness. How much of the blood was his own?

  She crouched upon the floor to unlace the leather thongs securing the skins about his feet and lower legs. His trousers he saw to himself, groaning as he bent forward.

  Her breath caught to look at him.

  Solidly muscled, his stomach was smooth and firm. His legs were thick as tree trunks, and what lay between matched the rest of him, girthed as boldly as her wrist.

  He lurched forward with a grunt, and she swallowed hard.

  Did he intend to take her now, smeared in blood and sweat?

  Then, she saw that he meant to climb into the wooden tub she’d readied. Lowering himself, he exhaled, easing back to dunk his head, letting the water flow over his hair and face. He rubbed to wipe away the grime before emerging again to shake his long, dark mane, leaving tendrils hanging damp. He smoothed back his hair and, with eyes closed, rested his nape upon the rim.

  His chest, so wide it filled the breadth of the tub, bore a purple welt. Though the skin seemed unbroken, a dark smear remained on his collarbone—blood, and thicker matter. She shuddered.

  She didn’t wish to think on it, but she did wish to bathe him.

  It was a wife’s duty to care for her husband—to feed his belly, provide clean clothes to warm him, and see to his physical ease.

  Wearied and bruised, he needed her comfort. He’d risked his life, hadn’t he, for the sake of Achnaryrie? To bring th
em peace and the chance of a future.

  His future, too, of course, and that of his fellow Norsemen.

  She dipped a square of cloth into the water and drew it gently down his arm, taking the linen across his palm before pressing between his fingers.

  Thankfully, he appeared unhurt, but for his bruises. Nevertheless, he lay still, giving no indication of pleasure at her touch.

  Wetting the cloth again, she laid it upon his chest. He flinched slightly, half opening his eyes. She passed the linen over his damp curls, feeling for the hard rim of each nipple.

  In response, he drew back his lips from his teeth, as if he wished for her to leave him be, though he said nothing.

  I won’t go, she thought vehemently.

  Surveying his abdomen, she perused the wheel of forks. Did all these Norsemen have the same? She drew downwards, her hands slick upon his wet skin, wishing to touch the strange design.

  He moaned, and she drew back. His whole body seemed to tense. Mayhap, there was some injury beneath the skin. Even his hands were clenched as he turned his head, his jaw set.

  If her touch caused pain, she would cease, but she wished to ease the memories of the day, which surely troubled him.

  Of course, there was one thing that would relax him as nothing else, if he would but allow her.

  His knees, resting to either side, afforded her a view of what she’d admired before, now standing proud from his dark thatch.

  Modwen moved lower, tracing the line of hair that led to his manhood. She glanced up, and found his gaze fixed now upon her, his eyes bright in the dimly lit room.

  A strange flutter travelled through her stomach as he brought his hand over hers.

  Firmly, he guided her to his thickness, closing his fist around her fingers so that she wrapped his shaft.

  How strange it was, to be touching him. Not the man she’d married all those years ago, and to whom she’d borne children, but a stranger. A new husband, whose body she must learn.

  Guiding her, he began a steady rhythm, back and forth. Raising his hips slightly, he squeezed on the upward stroke, relaxing his pressure on the down. The movement brought forth his slickness.

  Placing her dark plait over one shoulder, she leant forward. Despite his bath, he smelt of sweat and earth—and arousal.

  Modwen licked her lips.

  She wished to taste him.

  The trembling that had begun in her belly moved lower, forming a heated ache between her legs.

  She belonged to him, but in this act, he would be hers.

  She extended her tongue to the glossy bead, sampling his brine, then opened fully, giving him the warmth of her mouth.

  He inhaled sharply as she devoured him and swelled further within her hand. She drew downwards, slowly, relishing his length, caressing his engorgement.

  She took him deeper, and he groaned and cursed.

  Her balance was precarious, and the position not one of comfort, but the desire to possess this part of him pushed all other thoughts from her mind.

  The pressure of his hand lifted, and she plunged her own beneath the water, reaching under to seize the source of his seed. Humming against his hardness, she worked him with her mouth until he held her head, making her still.

  With a deep-throated growl, he jerked and pulsed, sending his offering into her throat.

  Her heart leapt.

  He will be mine.

  6

  Magnus drew the whetstone across his weapon’s edge and tested the blade with his thumb. Sharp enough to slice the skin if he applied but a little more pressure.

  He moved farther into the light, holding the sword straight to view its length. With the small marks of battle polished out, it shone brightly again.

  His Slayer. Double-edged and inlaid with gold, it was a testament to its maker’s skill. His grandfather had beaten the precious metal into chiselled grooves before welding in the heat of the fire. The runes read: No man shall escape Banamaðr.

  The other side bore the Valknut—three interlocking triangles to represent the nine worlds, and Odin’s power of life over death. The pommel and hilt, perfectly weighted to balance the blade, were the finest steel.

  Magnus had learnt his trade as men in his family had done for generations. He’d taught his own sons, and they’d made him proud, crafting weapons sought by the finest warriors.

  Back in the forge, in Skalanes, were they thinking of him, Hagen and Gulbrand?

  Probably not. Both had taken wives not long ago. There was one child born, and another on the way. Their lives were just beginning, and their work was busy.

  Would he see them again?

  His throat grew tight.

  Perhaps.

  He lowered Banamaðr and sheathed it.

  The metal and the heat were all he needed.

  Achnaryrie’s forge was almost as well-appointed as his own. The fire pit was substantial and the space large enough to move about easily. The light was good, too, one side of the building facing south and able to open entirely, thanks to two sets of heavy doors.

  Brandr had made himself clear: ‘Achnaryrie needs a forge.’

  He promised prosperity for all who stayed.

  Good luck to them, Magnus had thought.

  It was an opportunity most had seized eagerly, land being in short supply back in Skalanes—and each man had the right to choose his own path.

  Except that Brandr hadn’t given Magnus a choice.

  He hadn’t intended to stay, and he’d certainly had no desire to take another wife, but reviving the forge meant commitment to the old smith’s widow and his children.

  Modwen.

  He rubbed at his beard and frowned.

  He’d intended to keep his distance, sleeping and eating in the forge.

  After he’d lost Solveig all those years ago, everyone had urged him to marry again, saying it would heal his grief.

  The thought had been abhorrent. Instead, he’d purchased thralls to keep the house, watch over his sons, and meet his other needs.

  But he’d found no real satisfaction in having sex with a woman for whom he felt nothing—a woman he merely owned, and who’d been owned by another before him.

  It had given him some relief, but he’d been unable to stop thinking of Solveig. Of her lips on his abdomen and her gentle fingers. Her voice murmuring his name as he’d pleasured her pliant body.

  Bedding both thralls at the same time had made the act easier. He hadn’t then compared it with what he’d shared with Solveig. It was just fucking. But even that had left him with a deep-seated wretchedness, and it had been years since he’d had the appetite to bring a woman to his bed.

  What had he been thinking on the night they’d returned from the attack upon Eanfrith’s bastards, and those other wretches?

  When Modwen had bathed him, he’d tried to pay no mind, but the wench’s touch was too much for him to ignore.

  He’d forgotten how good it could feel—a woman’s hand, and a woman’s mouth. His cock stirred at the remembrance, but it made no difference.

  Allowing himself that intimacy had been a mistake, and one he didn’t plan to repeat.

  Modwen was not unappealing. Far from it, with her lustrous hair and the curves a woman gained after bearing children. And her eyes—dark green like churning, stormy seas. Eyes to drown a man, if he were of another mind, but that part of his life was in the past.

  Solveig had been all the wife he’d ever wanted, and no other would take her place.

  He would provide for Modwen and the children, as was his duty.

  No more.

  7

  Modwen stood at her bench, cutting vegetables to add to yesterday’s broth. Turning over a turnip, she sighed and plunged to its centre.

  So much had changed.

  Achnaryrie had regained its stolen livestock, and more besides. An ox now pulled the plough, and the separate plots for each family were gone, replaced by shared land for farming. Alpia and Taran viewed it all as a game, takin
g their turns to plant and weed, or bringing victuals to the working men.

  With four of Achnaryrie’s fishing boats repaired, the Norsemen had been landing a good catch. Taran had gone out with them, though only to the edge of the bay. Brigid’s boy, Bram, had almost drowned not long ago and, though Taran was a strong swimmer, Modwen was anxious at the thought of him falling overboard. However, all had been well, and their methods of netting fish had certainly proven effective. The smokehouse hung full of mackerel and trout.

  The Norsemen’s leader, Brandr, seemed likely to live, and with his brother also recovering, perhaps they’d return Rhiannon her freedom.

  Modwen had been watching the other women closely, Brigid, Ailsa, Ytha, Myrna, and Eithne. All seemed content, even Gladys!

  It hadn’t escaped Modwen’s notice how often doors were closed in the middle of the day, wives escorted inside, to appear later with flushed cheeks.

  She’d joined the others in learning the language of the Norse, tutored each morning by Alarik. He had a wife waiting for him, she’d heard. A lucky woman, for he was of lively humour and had more gentleness in him than most.

  The changes appeared all for the good, and Modwen knew she should be happy. Why then did she wake each morning with a strange ache in her heart?

  She could not be wholly loathsome to this new husband of hers, yet almost a week had passed since the night on which she’d shown him her willingness to please, and he’d since indicated no desire to lie with her.

  Several times, as she’d worked outside, showing Alpia more complicated patterns on the loom, she’d noticed him watching her, looking out from the open doorway of the forge.

  He spent day and night there, melting down the spoils their party had gathered from Eanfrith’s men.

  And hammering!

  Evidently, a bandit’s iron wasn’t good enough for a Norseman to wield. All was being made anew.

  Will it be different when I speak his language and we can know one another better?

  With all her heart, she hoped so.

  Despite their curious circumstances, he’d done much to help her, mending the treadle on her spinning wheel and bringing her several baskets of new-shorn wool. She planned to gather heather and iris leaf, dyeing the fibres dark green. The colour would suit him, as it did her. She might make something for them both, weaving the cloth light and fine for the summer.