by Jianne Carlo
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Slayer
Jianne Carlo
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Published By:
Etopia Press
P.O. Box 66
Medford, OR 97501
http://www.etopiapress.com
The Dragon Slayer
Copyright © 2011 by Jianne Carlo
ISBN: 978-1-936751-26-6
Edited by Georgia Woods
Cover by Mina Carter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: April 2011
http://www.etopia-press.net
Chapter One
Dunsmuir Castle, Scottish and Northumbrian Border AD 1029
“Treachery brews.” Ruard kept his voice low, though the din of the villagers, castle workers, and local nobles assembled to witness his marriage to Catriona the Pure drowned his words to any would be eavesdroppers. “’Tis said in the village the Picts are gathering forces.”
The interminable wait for his bride’s arrival had soured Ruard’s mood. His new lands were not the prize he expected for having served King Cnut for nigh on four winters. He welcomed the notion of a pitched battle. ’Twould release the restless energy stewing in his bones. And appease the lust building in his loins.
“Aye. Mayhap we can relieve them of coin. For you will surely need many to set this castle to rights.” His brother Njal grimaced and spat the wine in his mouth into a brass goblet. “Did not Cnut the Great speak of the riches of Dunsmuir Castle? I have seen naught but filth, and tasted naught but food, ale, and mead fit for the pigsty since we arrived.”
“Aye, but the soil is black and rich. And the farms are vast.” Ruard and Njal had not wasted their days and nights, but ridden the breadth and depth of the lands to be his once he wed Catriona the Pure. Ruard eyed the two wenches thumping brass mugs onto the tables. “Why are there but two maids serving the castle’s needs?”
“Methinks they serve the men’s needs.” Njal unsheathed his eating knife and dug a patch of dried gravy off the table’s surface. “’Tis been nigh on two moons with no swiving. Last eve I near took the fleshier one to my pallet.”
Ruard spewed the ale in his mouth over the table. Squinting at his contribution to the encrusted grime, he swiped a hand across his wet lips. “Nay! Not once have I seen you swive a wench other men share.”
“My prick has felt naught but mine own hands for two moons. ’Tis like a fever in my head, the thought of a hot, tight puss. A woman’s soft skin.” Njal scratched his groin. “A bountiful bosom.” Groaning as his cock hardened in response to the image Njal’s words conjured, Ruard snapped,
“Cease. Or my resolve will shatter.” Njal chortled, slapped a hand on the table, and scowled when sticky ale coated his fingers. He rubbed his hand back and forth over his tunic.
“None shall believe that Ruard the Randy’s cock sat unattended for one eve, far less two moons. That you not take a castle female I understand, but one of the village wenches?”
Ruard shrugged. “I would have my lady respected by her people.”
Njal waved at the dirt-streaked faces of the men and women lurching and stumbling between the rows of tables in the hall. “You desire the respect of these?”
Ruard scanned the chamber and he blew out a long breath. When the king had deeded him Castle Dunsmuir, he had pictured a holding not unlike that of his older brother’s—clean, orderly, smelling of fresh herb rushes, and filled with well-garbed workers and tradesmen. Not a filthencrusted, smoke-filled hall with air so foul he avoided taking meals at the high table as oft as possible. Not louts who did naught but gorge on ale and wallow in their own waste.
“Neither the castle nor these people have seen a scouring brush in nine sennights, I wager. I envy you not, brother.” Njal scuffed the sodden rushes on the floor. Fleas peppered the air above the rotting shrubs. “’Twere I speaking marriage vows, I’d prefer Catriona the Housekeeper to Catriona the Pure to wife.”
A muck-caked lad no higher than a holly bush dumped a tray bearing two trenchers covered by a mass of gooey, grayish matter on the table. Ruard shuddered as the odor of the food attacked his nostrils.
“I vow if she’s as rancid as this meat I will not consummate the marriage this eve.” Ruard’s lips thinned. “Assign more men to work on the bathhouses, for I would have them completed on the morrow.”
“And will you force your people to the soap?”
“Aye.” He recalled the lavender-scented women at Cnut’s court. The fresh meadow fragrance of Norse women. The spicy aroma of harem women.
He’d sniffed naught but rankness at Castle Dunsmuir.
The doors to the hall banged open, and the resounding crack dulled the clamor in the chamber.
“Your bride is here.”
“Am I to rejoice she has deigned to arrive?” Ruard gritted his teeth, but the anger he’d suppressed surged, his hands fisted, and every neck tendon strained. He had battled long and hard for Dunsmuir Castle and the two score farms and villages adjoining the fortress. By Odin, his bride and people would know their place before winter set in.
The few meager oil lamps on either side of the castle’s entrance did little to lift the shadows darkening the smoke-hazed hall. A fierce, icy gust sent the rushes concealing the filth of the uneven stone floors into a flurry, a mangy dog snuffling a peasant’s footsteps lifted his jaw and howled, and a crackle of white split the midnight sky. Thunder boomed as the long-promised storm ruptured overhead.
All eyes turned to the new arrivals.
Ruard trained his gaze on the party, searching for a glimpse of the woman he would take to wife.
His mouth dropped open when he glimpsed the lone female in the center of a group of armed warriors.
“Never have I seen a woman so dissimilar from her name.” Njal drained his goblet. “’Twere me naming her, she would be Catriona the Siren not Catriona the Pure.”
Ruard barely registered Njal’s words. He had hoped for a biddable wife who had all her teeth, did not drool, and performed her wifely duties without complaint. A plain, humble woman.
He had no use for a luscious goddess who drew every man’s attention. For every male in the hall, every serving boy, every wizened elder, every warrior gaped at the beauty as she glided across the hall.
Ruard had no use for a flame-haired nymph with breasts as ripe as melons and ruby lips begging for kisses. Nor for a wench whose supple hips b
eckoned a man’s hands. Nor for a maiden with a stubborn chin tilted just so in rebellion. Nor for a woman whose flashing eyes and narrowed gaze spoke of naught but trouble.
He squeezed his randy, aching cock, willing it to subside, and waited until his bride stood in front of the high table, her hands folded at her waist, before he acknowledged her presence. Her lips flattened and he knew she understood his displeasure.
“You are late.” Rurad stood and slammed his hands onto the table. He stabbed his arousal against the wood’s edge and a sharp lance of pain did the deed. His prick went flaccid only to rise like a battering ram when she threw back her head, firelight danced across her wavy tresses, and her nostrils flared. Twining her fingers so tightly together the skin at her knuckles went white, she spoke, her voice soft and musical, “Forgive my tardiness, my lord.”
’Twas plain from her mocking tone she cared not a whistling wind for his forgiveness. Before Ruard could utter a reply, a man dressed in the garb of a monk stepped forward. “Storms delayed us, my lord.”
No male less resembled a man of God than the one who stood before Ruard. Broad, tall, fleshy, he wore a brown robe made for a man half his girth and height, and the hem of his tunic barely scraped knees as thick as oak trunks. The man behind the priest stepped forward and tugged his helm off.
Ruard stifled a hiss when he recognized the knight. He fingered the cold steel of Heiðir Slayer, the sword named Dragon Slayer by both his Christian and Norse enemies. He clenched his jaw before inclining his head. “Ulfric, what brings you to Dunsmuir?”
He had no liking for the Lord Ulfric, third son of the Earl of Tees. Though he called King Cnut liege lord, Ulfric had been late to raise his sword to aid Ruard and his brothers when they had fought border battles against King Máel Coluim of Scotland. Ruard’s marriage to Máel Coluim’s niece, Catriona, had been arranged to formalize the tentative truce between the two sovereigns as Castle Dunsmuir’s lands rode the border betwixt the two kingdoms.
“Cloak your anger,” Njal murmured, his hand brushing his beard, his voice too low to reach Ulfric’s ears. “Play the welcoming lord.” Ruard gave his brother an imperceptible nod without budging his focus from the unwelcome lord.
He folded his arms.
“I am to witness your vows to the Lady Catriona.” Ulfric bared his teeth, but no laughter lit his clear blue eyes.
“I will not delay you on your journey. The vows will be said this night. Njal, send a boy to fetch the priest.”
“The king sent his own holy man.” Ulfric angled his head at the monk.
“I would have the local priest as well as the king’s man preside over the ceremony.” None would gainsay the vows he and Catriona the Pure said on this day.
Ulfric shrugged. “As you wish.”
Ruard ordered the castle steward to fetch food and drink. He assisted his intended bride onto the dais, careful to keep a loose hold on her delicate fingers, and reluctantly released her hand before taking a seat on the bench.
His manhood surged when her hips brushed his thigh. He willed his cock limp and shot his intended wife a sidelong glance. She had the pinched look of one who had suffered through a poor harvest season. Yet she was Máel Coluim’s niece, albeit through a brother’s handfast wife. By royal rights she should be plump and spoiled.
According to the villagers, the Lady Catriona had never graced Dunsmuir’s threshold, though she had inherited the castle and lands that stretched to the east coast of Northumbria. Lands that became his once the marriage was consummated.
After pouring wine into a goblet, Ruard offered Catriona the vessel.
“Must we marry this eve, my lord?” A smattering of freckles dusted Catriona’s arrogant nose, and her small hands curled tightly as she hissed the question.
Too surprised by her boldness to formulate an answer, his gaze swept to her lap, the proud tilt of her chin as she stared straight ahead, and returned to a wrist bared when the sleeve of her cyrtel slipped to the side. Faint marks the color of heather blooms ringed the flesh at the base of her palm.
Ruard frowned.
“Must we, my lord?”
Irritation slashed heat across his brow, and he took a deep breath hoping to still his rising temper.
And regretted the action immediately.
Catriona smelled of spring, fresh and green, and she radiated the heat of a dozen meadows warmed by a blinding summer sun. Her head grazed his upper arm, and when she rearranged her skirts, her hair slid a silken caress over his forearm. Ruard’s prick thickened.
Her lips moved and he was so bewitched by the sight of even pearly teeth he heard not a word she said. ’Twas only when Ulfric straddled the bench on his right Ruard registered the fury in her voice and the question she’d asked.
“Aye.” He would have her to wife this night.
“We marry this eve.”
“’Tis custom to say the banns thrice.” Ruard caught Catriona’s chin and tipped her head back so she had to meet his gaze. “We marry when the priest arrives in this hall.” Anger lit the rich brown depths of her eyes. A rosy hue dusted her cheeks. Ruard would’ve sworn flames licked his fingertips, but ’twas the hot air from her snort that singed his flesh.
His cock wept with greed and his sac hardened.
The look she gave him shouted defiance. He would not tolerate a disobedient wife. The thought of taming her, seeing her flaming curls draped on his bed as he thrust into her tight virgin channel, had his prick straining his breeches.
The ale-sotted castle priest chose that moment to announce his presence.
“My lord?”
Ruard had Catriona trapped by his gaze, and the smell of her this close, all sweetness and delight, the feel of her soft flesh, the nervous lick of her pink tongue to the corner of her lips, sent any vision but that of her, glorious and naked, out of his head. “Marry us priest. Now.”
“Brother—” Njal, always the mediator, stepped forward.
“Nay. Not a word,” Ruard growled.
Catriona did not sway from his gaze though her lips flattened. “What of the banns, my lord?”
“Lady, I have waited a sennight for your arrival. We will wed forthwith. Read the banns thrice first priest.”
Her bottom lip quivered, but she wrenched her chin out of his grasp, and squinted at the priest.
“’Tis customary to say a mass.”
“’Tis the custom.” The priest stumbled forward.
Ruard’s neck hairs bristled. “Wed us at once.
Mass will wait for the morrow.”
“Mayhap you needs see the marriage contract.” Catriona glared at Ulfric, who pulled a scroll from his pouch and set the wax-sealed and tied vellum on the table. Ruard untied the ribbon binding the frail paper. All had gone quiet in the hall and he knew every pair of eyes focused on him.
He scanned the words penned. A muscle in his cheek twitched. Rage coursed through his veins.
Njal elbowed his side and whispered,
“Restraint. Recall the lands coming to you.” He reached across, took the scroll, glanced at the writing, and muttered a curse. “King Máel Coluim demands all witnesses to the vow present in your chamber during the consummation.”
“’Tis an insult. All are to witness the consummation? A bloody sheet will not suffice?” Ruard’s mind raced.
* * *
Catriona had hoped for a cruel warrior with foul breath who stank.
A man ’twould be easy to kill.
A dull lout with a vicious temper.
A man ’twould be easy to poison.
Not a man with golden hair, sky blue eyes, whose shoulders dwarfed any she had ever seen. At first sight, she thought him the Norse god her cousins and sister spoke of constantly, Thor, the God of Thunder. Truly he must be the thunder god, for her heart had not stopped pounding since she laid eyes on him.
Her chin still stung from his touch, her flesh so afire she had the urge to set the cool goblet to her face and neck. She swallowed hard, studying
the slop-splattered table.
Dunsmuir was not as her papa had described.
’Twas no prize bounty. The stench from the castle had reached them before they breached the far gate. Why did Ulfric covet this land?
The aroma of meat long spoiled wafting from the cold trencher on the table made her throat close. ’Twould be easy to slip the pouch of poison tied to her skirts into the Lord Ruard’s food, he would never taste the bitterness. Catriona flinched when the lord grasped her hand. She looked to their joined flesh, his skin browned to a deep almond hue, hers pale as the snow that would soon surround Castle Dunsmuir like a siege army. His hold was strong, and where their palms met, his pulse throbbed, warming her bruised flesh.
How am I to kill him? I can feel his heart beating. I can hear him breathing.
The memory of her sister’s thin body shackled to Carden Tower’s dungeons walls welled nausea up her throat. His life for hers. ’Twould be done.
Catriona didn’t resist when the lord pulled her to stand beside him on the dais. She stood mute and unseeing as the priest spoke the vows.
The crowded hall blurred when she uttered the oath. All went silent when the lord declared the words that bound them together. She marveled as his voice rang out, the sound richer and stronger than the roar of the sea battering Carden Tower’s thick curtain wall. The curtain wall that guarded the dungeons where Ulfric’s men held her sister Gæierla prisoner.
“My lady.”
Catriona blinked when the lord tugged her to face him.
“’Tis a Norse custom to exchange rings as a symbol of our union.” He looked to his brother who took one long stride forward and dropped two gold bands into the lord’s cupped palm.
He slipped the cold metal on her finger, the gold shackle glistening in the hazy light of the castle’s two fires, and Catriona felt as if weights had been laid on her shoulders. The lord turned her hand over, their eyes met, and the fierce expression on his face swelled her throat shut. His lips brushed her palm before he laid the other ring on her flesh.
Flames licked from her palms warming her insides, pooling liquid heat low in her belly, and she yearned to crawl into his arms, to tell him all, plead him to champion her and Gæierla.
