a Wicked Conquest

by Valerie Saxon

  If only he knew, she thought helplessly. For even as he mistreated her so a great fire burned in her belly and her private place longed for him to touch her there. She brushed away a tear of shame; how was it possible for her body to betray her so? She hated the man with a vengeance! Besides, she knew not what to expect in the marriage bed. Apart from the rutting of animals, and a few bawdy comments from some of the older women, she had been left to sit and wonder about the complexities that surrounded the mating of a man and a woman.

  A great weariness descended on her. She rubbed her sore hand, found a clump of hair in the dirt that the Viking had torn from her head, and blinked back her tears. At least no one noticed her shame, for everyone was far too drunk to care what had gone on at the back of the hall.

  The men drank far into the night. Rowena went to bed with their talk ringing in her ears and the memory of Sigurd’s taunting gaze locked fast on hers as she left the hall, promising everything he had threatened earlier. Her feet dragged along the floor and she slept little that night.

  The following morning Mildred, Rowena’s handmaiden, began to help her dress as usual. ‘Your father bade me tell you to dress with care, my lady. Then he would talk with you.’

  Rowena seethed, there was but one reason her father would demand such a thing – to impress Sigurd. She shook her head defiantly. She would wear her everyday clothes. ‘I will not wear any finery for the dog of the north!’

  Mildred looked uncomfortable; she knew it was not wise to thwart Athelwine. She opened Rowena’s wooden chest and brought out her best kirtle and tunic. ‘Think how annoyed your father will be if you defy him.’

  Rowena absently felt the fine thread of her new kirtle before throwing it aside angrily. ‘I shall not wear it.’

  Mildred could not hide her fear. ‘What will become of you, my lady? ‘Tis the worst day ever.’ She sought for words that would cheer. ‘‘Tis said Sigurd is a fine warrior. I swear all the women secretly envy you your prize.’

  ‘They are welcome to him,’ Rowena seethed. ‘Besides, I do not believe my father has really sold me to the northern pig. He has something up his sleeve, I’m sure.’

  ‘In that case would it not be judicious to do as he asks?’

  Rowena thought about this, and giggled. ‘Mayhap you are right. I shall strive to be alluring and when my father tells Sigurd Thorkelsson the truth he will mourn his pithy attitude.’

  Encouraged by her mistress’s lighter mood Mildred smiled, and shaking out Rowena’s smock and kirtle, helped her dress. ‘You must admit he’s all man. If he were not from across the seas I would be panting for him myself.’

  Rowena bit her lip. She had known Mildred for as long as she could remember and they shared many a secret. ‘What would you be panting for, Mildred?’ she asked hesitantly.

  The woman stared at the floor in front of her, then at her mistress. ‘I have lain with a few lusty lads, none as handsome as your betrothed, mind you. And I can tell you that they cannot live without the bounty that lies in the sacred place between your legs. Men have murdered for it. When you touch yourself there it is soft and warm, it is this softness they crave. When they pierce your maidenhead it leads them into your virginal passageway. This is where they spend their seed, where paradise is opened up to them.’

  Rowena blushed. ‘I… I see. Thank you, Mildred. I don’t think I need fret. My father will soon clear up this unfortunate business.’

  Mildred nodded. ‘I pray that you are right.’

  Rowena straightened the gold circlet in her hair, as Mildred tied the girdle on her elaborately embroidered kirtle of her favourite blue from the woad plant. She awaited him patiently, and when he came he sat down beside her, his usually stern face expressionless. It was strange to see him in her bower. His attention was reserved for his sons who were far more use to him than a mere daughter.

  ‘You look well, Rowena,’ he said, gazing at the sweet face, ignoring the dark smudges beneath her eyes from lack of sleep.

  ‘Thank you, father,’ she murmured, feeling relieved that he had come.

  Mildred was dismissed and Athelwine cast his eyes around the bower, admiring the furs his sons had hunted that covered the walls. A weak sun slanted through the round window. After a few moments he turned his attention back to Rowena.

  ‘We went in search of our enemies with high hopes. But we soon found we were outnumbered and outclassed. They caught our spears in mid-flight and returned them without pause.’

  His words held repressed anger. She knew how difficult it was for him to admit defeat. She was flooded with pity. ‘If King Edward’s favourite and most prized warrior could not conquer Sigurd Thorkelsson, then he cannot be conquered without a larger army,’ she said with conviction.

  He did not appear to be listening; his eyes were on the pelts that furnished the floor. He shook his head as if in confusion. ‘I expected a small band of northern pirates, but Sigurd’s army is vast.’

  A sharp breeze blew through the room, dimming the flame in the bright pottery lamp in a niche in the wall. Rowena recalled the chieftain’s corded muscles, his fearless but cruel eyes, and a strange tremor ran down her spine. ‘Aye, I can imagine he would be an intimidating adversary.’

  ‘He strikes when you least expect him. He’s cunning and deadly and stronger than most. His men call him the Eagle, a fitting name for such a man.’

  ‘The Eagle,’ she repeated slowly, thinking how apt it sounded.

  ‘Not wanting to risk lives I had to stand the militia down.’

  ‘How were you able to dissuade him from killing and pillaging, father?’

  ‘You know how,’ he said coldly. ‘Your hand, along with a large dowry.’ He smirked. ‘He is wise enough to realise that I do not keep my silver in a chest for all and sundry to find.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, the cold hand of fear clutching her. ‘Why would you bargain with me?’

  ‘Out of necessity.’

  ‘But… but marriage to a heathen,’ she stammered.

  ‘It was a sensible decision. You are of marriageable age and of little use otherwise.’

  She could hardly believe her ears. She was aware he had little regard for her, but Athelwine had always hated the northern vermin; why would he see her wed to one? Her lips trembled. ‘You are joshing, father. You have sent for reinforcements, have you not? It is a ploy, to hold him here until the rest of the militia return to rid us of the cur.’

  Athelwine viewed her sourly. ‘You talk foolishly. There is no ploy.’

  Rowena reeled with shock. ‘No, you cannot be serious.’ The colour drained from her face. How could her father possibly consider handing her over to a barbarian? Her mouth was dry; she ran her tongue over her lips. ‘I cannot, father. I cannot do it.’

  Athelwine’s lips pursed impatiently. ‘There is no question of you refusing.’

  Rowena got to her feet and trod angrily around the room. ‘Do not ask this of me, please.’ Her face crumpled as she begged his mercy, but he remained hardened to her pleas.

  ‘I will not listen to this whining! Sigurd has agreed to a Christian ceremony to please your mother. It will take place later this day.’

  She swiped distractedly at her tears. ‘So soon?’ She shook her head. ‘Christian or pagan, it makes no difference. I will not be bride to the Eagle or any of his ilk!’

  Athelwine’s jaw tightened. ‘You have no more say in this, Rowena,’ he roared. ‘The matter is settled.’

  ‘What of mother? Surely she does not approve.’ She wanted to scream, to throw herself at his feet, but she knew nothing would sway him. She had always tried to please him, but he was asking far too much of her.

  Athelwine got to his feet, his face stony. ‘Do not look to your mother for help; she will abide by my wishes. You will remain in your quarters until you are sent for.’ He glanced disdainfully at her tearstained face. ‘
Compose yourself in readiness; otherwise you will be responsible for many lives. Think on what I have said.’ He paused meaningfully. ‘And if that does not sway you perhaps a hearty beating will set you right.’

  Rowena spent the time of her incarceration deep in thought. While she was thus tortured the memory of the icy blue orbs came to haunt her. So that was what his look had promised, she thought numbly, ownership. In one simple ceremony he would own her body and soul.

  To her shame the thought brought the ache alive deep inside her. She lifted her kirtle and slipped her fingers into the damp warmth of her secret place. When she slid a finger over the small nub the most wonderful sensation swept through her. She delved deeper, for here lay the entrance to the valley that all men, according to Mildred, strove to cultivate. She stroked it gently, imagining her future husband with his hands on her. Suddenly a feeling of complete abandonment overwhelmed her.

  She continued to rub the swollen flesh, slumping weakly on her bed, thinking of the handsome Norse pirate touching her so. It was such a turn on every nerve in her body seemed to tingle. Her mouth opened and her breath whispered through her teeth, as with one last rub the tension within her exploded, causing her to shudder with the force of her climax. She gazed dazedly at her finger. If only she had known what bounties lay in her own body she would have explored them before.

  Then bad thoughts spoilt the good and she turned onto her stomach, wondering what would become of her, trying to wipe the pictures of the proud Norwegian from her mind. She no longer wanted to dwell on the overpowering male she was being forced to wed. A beating did not frighten her. She had suffered many at Athelwine’s hand for the slightest misdemeanour in the past. It was the fate of the people that must concern her now. If an alliance would save them she would do her duty.

  Chapter Two

  When Athelwine came she was ready for him. She took the arm he offered. ‘Then you are determined to see me thrown to the rabble, father,’ she said bitterly. ‘So be it. Lead on.’

  She held her head high. The heathen, Sigurd, would not see her downed this day. None would know of the writhing emotions that burned so close to the surface.

  When Sigurd followed Rowena to his place at the high table after their wedding he was accosted by Rig, his general. Rig gave him a wry smile. ‘Me thinks you have met your match, dear friend.’

  As the feasting began and everyone made merry, the chieftain switched his gaze from Rig to Rowena’s stiff-backed person. ‘Someone else thought so too, Rig,’ he said darkly, fingering the scar on his cheek. ‘And he is soon to learn how wrong he was. My Saxon wife does not know how important this alliance is to me.’

  Rig’s brow furrowed. ‘But she is such a beauty I thought mayhap you would have changed your mind.’

  ‘It will be a pleasure to deflower the little virgin. To teach her how much a man likes to use her sweet mouth to fuck in. But you do not know me as well as you think, Rig, if you believe I am to be swayed from my task by a pretty face.’

  ‘Would it not be foolish to throw away such perfection in search of revenge?’

  Sigurd laughed bitterly. ‘You forget the advice Odin gave Loddfafnir, Rig,’ he said, referring to one of the stories that are told around their fire to while way the winter evenings.’ Did he not say, “Never succumb to a witch’s sweet words and soft snaring embraces”?’

  Rig nodded. ‘But your bride does not look like a witch to me, Sigurd. Is there no other way you can gain retribution?’

  ‘You are growing soft in your old age, Rig. What better way to ensnare a beast than to use its young?’

  Rig shook his head, despairingly this time. ‘Loddfafnir was also told not to despise the grey-haired singer, for the old are often wise. And this old man advises you to reconsider your plan. Rowena is young and sweet. You cannot think of using her so.’

  Sigurd viewed his bride with narrowed eyes. ‘A wolf is young and sweet as a cub, but it soon grows sharp teeth. Save your voice, Rig. The first phase of my mission is complete. I cannot be halted now.’

  ‘I hope you do not live to regret it.’ Rig quaffed his ale sorrowfully.

  Sigurd smiled. ‘Never. The Serpent rests quietly in his hole. Let him have his respite for it will soon be at an end.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’ Rig sighed and moved on.

  Rowena saw the smile and her already pale skin blanched milk-white, her hair a red-gold mist falling to her shoulders. She was numb, she spoke, she moved, but nothing seemed real except for the man she had just wed. He was real enough – too real.

  The wassail cup was handed round and Saxons and Norwegians alike toasted the couple. Shortly after Gilda sidled up to her, her face flushed with excitement. ‘How lucky you are, Rowena. I would give all I own to wed such a man. I vow this hall has never seen the like. He is by far the handsomest man here.’

  Rowena stiffened. ‘Would it not trouble you that he is a northern barbarian?’

  Gilda giggled. ‘No, cousin, I would think only of the strong arms that would reach for me in the night. I swear no Saxon would pound into you with as much ferocity as Sigurd. Look at your husband, Rowena. He is huge. Just imagine how large his manhood will be. I swear your little cunny will be stretched to its limit to accommodate him.’ Gilda rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, what bliss!’ She made a face at her disgruntled cousin. ‘If you are not willing to take a tumble with him I will act as substitute any time you like.’

  Gilda’s fertile mind envisioned herself in Rowena’s place, with her plump thighs wrapped tightly around the Norseman. Her private parts throbbed so much at the vision in her head she pressed her legs together. She would have to seek out a quiet place and relieve her longing with her own clever fingers, if she were unable to find herself a willing young buck to ease her discomfort. She hid a sly smile. There was soft hay in the barn and she often liaised there with one of the fine lads in the burh. There was a time she had two take a turn on her. It was heavenly. Rowena would not understand; she was like her pure Irish mother. Neither of them knew how to have fun.

  Rowena coloured, her heart palpitating at the picture Gilda had placed in her brain. Would Sigurd’s tool be too large for her? She glanced at him from beneath her lashes. He was the largest man she had ever seen, so it was possible. A mixture of terror and anticipation burned within her, one warring against the other. Whatever happened she would have to submit to him eventually, but first of all she would put up a good fight.

  She longed to wipe Gilda’s stupid grin from her face. The girl knew nothing. She had no more sense than the geese that honked outside in the yard. ‘So you would wish to change places with me, cousin?’ she whispered in her ear, lest her husband hear her and think her fearful. ‘And would it not bother you to be taken from your family and friends? Would it not bother you to sail to a foreign land where you would be stranger to all and sundry except the man who has sworn to beat you into submission?’

  Gilda smoothed her kirtle with an unsteady hand. ‘I must admit I had not thought of it.’ She patted Rowena’s arm. ‘I’m sorry, cousin, I have been foolish. I was carried away with your husband’s strength and good looks. And now that I dwell on it, it’s true; I don’t envy you your lot.’

  Rowena gave her a watery smile. ‘Nor I, but I have little choice in the matter.’

  While her silly cousin continued to dream about Sigurd, she gazed around the great hall. Soon she would be taken far away from all she knew and loved. She had helped her mother embroider the tapestries that adorned the walls, frolicked with her brothers in the sunshine. Her whole life had revolved around the burh. She could not bring herself to think of those she would be leaving behind, for the tears would fall and she had promised herself that Sigurd would not see her cry.

  Sigurd laughed at something her father whispered in his ear, and Rowena glared at him with hate in her heart. He was a great warrior, tall and far too strong for her to resist for long. But
she would make him sorry he had ever taken her in marriage. Her eyes misted and to hide her feelings she left her seat and went to feed Ede some titbits.

  Ede was lying contentedly enough, her pup’s nibbling greedily on her teats. It was such a beautiful scene she became even more emotional.

  ‘Wife.’

  He was towering over her, looking every bit the bird of prey he was named after. ‘Sigurd,’ she said, a sour taste in her mouth, quite unable to call him husband.

  ‘I feel like some air and would like my wife to accompany me.’

  Although the words were simple enough, the threat with which he spoke them made her tremble. ‘I slept little last night,’ she replied, ‘and wish to stay in the comfort of the hall.’

  ‘It’s an order, wife,’ he said, loud enough for some guests to hear and turn their heads in surprise.

  One woman giggled, wishing it was her being ordered around by the imposing warrior, for her mate was stick thin, and his tool small and ineffectual. Judging by the gleam in the Norse chieftain’s eyes it was obvious he was unable to resist their thane’s daughter any longer. Her cunny heated and she found her skinny husband’s hand and thrust it beneath her kirtle, knowing the trestle would hide them.

  Rowena doubled her fists at her sides, smiling sweetly at their guests; she did not relish her mother being aware of her misery. ‘Wife I might be, but I will never take orders from you,’ she hissed. ‘I hate you with all my being.’

  ‘Then ours will indeed be a tempestuous mating.’ He curled his top lip to reveal his white teeth. ‘I find that appealing. There is nothing more tiresome than a weak and willing maid. A warrior becomes used to battle and I like my women feisty.’

  Rowena’s shoulders drooped. She was inflaming him all the more. But she was unable to go to him with a song in her heart and a smile on her lips. She wished she were taller and stronger, able to face him eye to eye on the battlefield, wipe the smile from his arrogant face. ‘Would that I was a warrior,’ she snarled. ‘I would grind you and your ilk to a pulp.’