a Wicked Conquest

by Valerie Saxon

  ‘Your fine Saxon warriors were unable to get close enough to tickle my beard, wife,’ he smirked. ‘Had there been one brave enough to do so we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

  ‘How dare you even speak of the militia so? They are the finest in the country.’ He hooted loudly and Rowena snapped. Her fists whipped out and beat at his chest. ‘I despise you… you cur! Would that you had died at the hand of a brave Saxon!’

  A dull roar rumbled from his throat and he lunged for her. Rowena tried to back away but she lost her footing and landed on her rump on the floor. She sprawled before him, her dignity in ashes. Ede whimpered and Rowena fought back her tears. She would never best him, but she would never stop trying.

  His face was thunderous, his mouth a thin line. Reaching forward from his great height he swooped and, grabbing her bright curls, began to drag her from the hall, caring nothing for her feelings or her delicate flesh. While her husband sought his revenge the noisy revellers in the hall ate and drank their fill, completely unaware of her plight.

  The filth outside stuck to her clothing, scratched her tender skin, and slipped into her mouth when she tried to protest at his treatment. Her hair, she was certain, was being pulled out from the roots.

  ‘You… you heathen, unhand me!’ she shrieked.

  Sigurd took no notice of her distress. When he had dragged her halfway across the yard he swooped again and bundled her under one stout arm, carrying her as though she weighed no more than a feather. While she kicked and spluttered, spitting out bits of straw and mud, he threw her to the ground in the mire near the pigsty. He laughed down at the sorry plight she made, lying in animal excrement, her wedding finery ruined. ‘You will learn to respect your husband, bitch. Now get to your feet.’

  The sound of merriment rose from the great hall. Her friends and family were celebrating her wedding, while her new husband strove to demean her. She struggled to her feet, slipping and sliding before she was able to gain purchase. Sigurd’s enjoyment at her plight only served to harden her heart even more.

  ‘Come, wife,’ he commanded, ‘‘tis time I claimed my dues.’

  Rowena lifted her muddied kirtle and made to run. ‘I would rather die.’

  His answer was to catch her by her red-gold curls. ‘Do not tempt me,’ he spat.

  To her chagrin he lifted her from her feet and deposited her once more beneath a muscular arm. With the other he lifted her kirtle, bearing her creamy cheeks to the elements. Rowena’s tears flowed down her face, wet his mantle, but Sigurd’s ire was up. Holding her firmly he brought a huge hand down on her buttocks, the first slap soon followed by many more.

  A white-hot fire surged through her bottom, and each time he slapped her it got worse as the delicate flesh became more tender. She screamed with pain. ‘Unhand me! Unhand me, I beg of you!’

  Another slap, even harder this time, made her gasp, but her husband neither noticed, or if he did, cared less. His laugh was a deep rumble in his throat. ‘‘Tis too late for begging, wife. I’ve reached the pinnacle of my patience and will stand no more.’

  ‘You are nothing more than a beast!’ she railed; her bottom stained with red from his slaps, her misery complete.

  As before his reply was to slap her naked cheeks. ‘Then it is well past time you tasted my animal passions.’

  She was carried screaming to the nearest barn and thrown carelessly onto the hay. Her body was racked with pitiful sobs, her bottom raw from his beating. The smell of excrement smote her clothes and she wanted to die. ‘Take me if you must,’ she told the enormous Norse, ‘but I will never submit my heart.’

  Her girdle had been lost in the midden and Sigurd ripped the muddied kirtle from around her legs, exposing the red-gold hair that hid her sex. ‘I have not asked for it,’ he spat back, pausing only to rip the rest of her kirtle and her smock away from her trembling form. She was left with no covering, save for the caress of his eyes as they drank in the twin beauty of her breasts.

  ‘Although your tongue spits poison you are pleasing on the eye. My luck is not all bad. Your face could have been covered in warts, your body twisted and repulsive.’

  Despite her pain Rowena wondered at his words. If she had been such a sight he would have refused to marry her, wouldn’t he? Instead he would insist on all his payment being in silver and her father would have had no option but to pay him. ‘I am glad one of us has a bargain,’ she whispered, defiance still burning brightly in her breast. ‘For I find nothing attractive to delight me in your features or physique.’

  He eyed her with evil intent. ‘Your opinion is of no interest to me. Now, silence your mouth and open your legs, bitch. I will take my pleasure of you.’

  She was completely at his mercy. Her heart pounding like a drum, she opened her thighs and Sigurd flung off his mantle. She watched fearfully as he stepped out of his breeches. Even in the gloom of the barn she was able to see his strong thighs, his huge member. Letting out a terrified wail she tried to dig herself into the hay, ignoring the pain in her buttocks, wanting nothing more than to run from this place, from the heathen who sought to enter her. There was no way his enormous tool would fit inside her body.

  ‘Does the sight of a man’s cock frighten you, virgin bitch?’ he asked, obviously delighting in her fear. ‘Or is your cunny throbbing with excitement?’

  She was hard pressed to form words through her parched lips. Cowering away from him, her courage momentarily deserting her, she choked back her sobs. ‘I find you as exciting as a duck’s behind!’

  ‘We will see.’ He bore down on her, his teeth gleaming in the shadowy barn, the length of his tool forcing itself between her slim thighs.

  There was no thought for her or her virgin state as he roughly found her entrance and ploughed his way inside. Rowena thought she would be torn in two and her screams were muffled in the shoulder of her husband. But as is the way of nature, her vagina stretched, though be it agonising, to accommodate the man. When she was filled with hard, throbbing flesh, her insides were raw with pain, her sobs pitiful.

  ‘Be still,’ he grumbled as she wriggled beneath him, and without any preamble began to drive into her.

  Her cries became louder as fresh torment racked her frail body. He ground deeper and deeper, faster and faster and as her virgin blood soaked the hay, Rowena was certain she would die. But to her disgust her traitorous body began to react strangely to his onslaught. Her sex vibrated with pleasure, sent out such wonderful signals of delight she wanted to scream with exultation. The pain in her bottom seemed to add strangely to the enjoyment of her flesh and, though she hated herself, she was incapable of doing anything but following the dictates of her libido.

  He rode her hard and fast and she matched his every stroke, crying out loudly. When he squeezed her breasts she tingled and her nipples peaked shamefully to meet his questing fingers. But she cared not, for she was in a fever of desire, such a burning desire that had not been on her before. She strove with him to reach the pinnacle, to reach the very peak of human enjoyment. And when he shot his load into her she shuddered with passion. She lay in the barn a willing victim to whatever he would do to her.

  Sigurd got to his feet and adjusted his attire. ‘‘Tis a shame you hate me so much, wife,’ he said sarcastically.

  Still exposed to his gaze, her shapely form bruised from his ministrations, her red-gold curls tangled and damp from her exertions, she blushed deeply. Shamefully she tried to pull the remnants of her clothing over her nakedness, her head down, tears of fury sliding down her cheeks. How was she to know the pain he wrought would release another woman inside her, a woman who was so in tune to Sigurd’s body even now she longed for him to take her again.

  ‘Lost your tongue, wife?’ His derogatory tone did nothing to ease her shame. ‘For a genteel lady you have the appetite of a whore.’

  ‘And you are too good to be dragged through the mi
dden,’ she spat, her desire turning quickly to disgust, to hate. ‘Animals do not treat one another with the disrespect you show me.’

  He cocked his head to one side. ‘You have to earn respect, little witch.’

  With those words he strode out of the barn, leaving her bleeding and broken.

  Rowena, praying she would not be seen, made her way to her bower. Mildred, who was busy sorting her clean linen, stared with disbelief. ‘Mistress, what has happened to you?’ The servant’s fingers lifted to her face in distress upon sight of the fair Rowena, tattered and muddied as she was. ‘Lord in heaven, you are such a mess.’

  Rowena was still trembling. ‘My husband, the devil,’ she whispered, and falling into Mildred’s arms was received with tender care.

  ‘If your poor mother could see you now,’ she said, clicking her tongue in disgust, easing the filthy tattered clothes from her lady, weeping herself when she saw the cruel bruises on Rowena’s bottom. ‘Someone should whip the heathen; give him a dose of his own medicine!’

  When she was bathed and clothed, the handmaiden held some mead to her lips. ‘Drink, lady,’ she urged. ‘Purge your mind of your distress. Your mother has been looking for you and will be worried if I cannot pinch some roses back into your cheeks.’

  Rowena clutched at Mildred. ‘Fetch Cwendritha, for I shall not be able to sit in the hall lest she can heal the pain in my buttocks. And she will know how to disguise my swollen eyes.’

  When Mildred hurried the old woman into the bower she took one look at the wan face and muttered a spell. ‘Death to the Norseman!’ she railed. ‘Were my predictions not correct?’ she demanded. ‘Had I been left in peace in the forest mayhap you would not be in such a muddle now.’

  Rowena moved uneasily on the bed. Her buttocks were still stinging from her beating, and she had a dreadful headache. ‘Do not preach, Cwendritha. I need your help.’

  ‘I am not here to congratulate you on your good fortune. Mildred has informed me of your malaise. Turn over and I shall rub in some potion.’ When Rowena wearily lay on her front Mildred gently raised her kirtle, and Cwendritha swore roundly when she saw the cruel marks from Sigurd’s hands.

  ‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ she sniffed. ‘And this man who does the devil’s work must taste a little of Cwendritha’s power before night falls.’

  The old hag grinned, and Rowena turned her head away from the putrefaction of her breath. ‘Would that you were able to equal such a power as he has over me.’

  Cwendritha’s grin widened. ‘The old ways are often the best and so sorely misunderstood by the young. But I am here to help you through the rest of your ordeal. I have something for you to drink.’

  Rowena rubbed her swollen eyes. ‘You have? What is it?’

  Cwendritha held out a goblet. ‘An infusion of balm, lavender and lime blossom. It will calm you and make the spasms in your insides go away. It will elevate your mood and ease the dread in your heart.’

  Rowena smiled gratefully. Cwendritha was a great favourite with her mother. ‘Then it will be very welcome, dear friend.’

  The old woman was eyeing her covertly, and Rowena arched a brow. ‘You have something more?’

  Cwendritha nodded, and reaching into a large bag tied around her waist, she brought out a small linen bag, which she quickly pressed into her hand. ‘Slip this into your lord’s ale and I can guarantee he will give up all thoughts of being a lusty buck this night.’

  Rowena clenched her present tightly. One night’s respite would be better than nothing. ‘Would that it would last forever,’ she sighed, easing herself from bed and smoothing out her kirtle.

  Cwendritha cackled. ‘Just make sure and add it to the chieftain’s ale when he is not looking. But first of all let me bathe your swollen eyes.’

  Rowena was shaking when she took her seat at the board beside Sigurd. She could barely face him after what had gone on in the barn. He was busy sharing a joke with her father and she knew she had to do the deed now or lose her nerve completely. Secreting the linen bag in her palm, she pulled down the full sleeve of her tunic and, giving a small yawn, stretched her arms over the board. When her one hand rested over Sigurd’s leather tankard she quickly tipped the contents of the package into his drink.

  Sigurd was swift to acknowledge her presence and she blanched when his keen eyes assessed her. ‘The excitement of the day has exhausted you, wife,’ he averred, a sarcastic smile lighting the saturnine face.

  A guilty flush rose in Rowena’s cheeks and she let the empty package slip from her hand to the dirt floor at her feet. How dare he refer to the act he forced on her that day! ‘Very amusing,’ she remarked with as much derision as her spouse, and kicked the object from her to lie undetected beneath the table.

  ‘You will seek your bed eagerly this night, if your earlier performance is anything to go by.’

  His eyes twinkled and her colour deepened. ‘You are insufferable!’

  ‘And you have not yet learned your lesson. Happen I will need to paddle your backside until you are more dutiful.’

  His words sent a chill right through her. Thank the Lord for Cwendritha and her potions!

  No one seemed to notice that she wore a different tunic and kirtle, they were obviously too merry to notice anything much. Her mother had laid on a feast fit for a king, indeed the last time she had seen such a sight was when the king paid them a visit. The trestles groaned with venison, wood pigeon, larks in a delicious sauce, eels, salmon, apple and blackberry tartlets, nettle soup and succulent roast pig. But none of it held any appeal for her.

  It sickened her to see her father cosying up to the cur he had forced her to marry, to see him stuff his belly, his face glowing ruddier with every sip of mead. It had been within his power to pay the heathen off, but he would sooner keep his riches than lose a daughter he had never loved. She sat stony-faced as the two men cracked jokes and drank their fill, caring not that her life had been turned upside down.

  Apart from a little mead, nothing had passed her lips all day. She was too full of misery to eat. The hall was stuffy and she slipped outside to breathe some air. The low rectangular buildings of the bowers, guesthouses and food-stores clustered around the hall and she wrung her hands soulfully. In outward appearance nothing had changed.

  ‘Rowena.’

  ‘Mother.’

  She looked up into the anxious face of the woman who had borne her, and for the first time noticed the fine lines that etched her skin. Her beautiful mother appeared suddenly old and vulnerable.

  ‘Your husband told me you had a headache and had gone to your bower. Are you feeling better?’

  Rowena nodded, forcing a smile to her lips. ‘It was just the excitement of the day and the stuffy hall, that’s all.’

  Grainne missed nothing and, although she did not remark on it, her Irish eyes noted immediately that her daughter had changed clothing. ‘Are you happy, child? Your father tells me you are taken with Sigurd.’ A worried sigh escaped her lips. ‘I would like to hear it with my own ears.’

  Rowena was dumbstruck. Why had her father lied? But when she saw Grainne’s tortured expression she knew the answer. She also knew she must lie too. Her mother did not need to suffer any more.

  ‘‘Tis the truth,’ she replied. ‘Sigurd is everything I could ever want in a husband.’

  Grainne expelled her breath gratefully, and immediately looked younger as her features relaxed. ‘It does my heart good to hear it, my daughter. Sometimes people are thrown together in strange ways, under awkward circumstances, just like your father and I. It was fated that we should meet just as you and Sigurd are fated to be together.’

  Rowena shuddered inwardly. ‘Yes, mother.’

  ‘His customs are strange to us, it is true, but he is a good man for all that. Your brother, Athelstan, tells me he was at Sigurd’s mercy during the battle, but he pushed him as
ide, declaring he did not kill children. It has shown me that not all his race is bad.’

  She frowned in puzzlement. So her husband did have some good qualities. She squeezed Grainne’s fingers reassuringly. ‘You have seen how strong and handsome my husband is,’ she said, recalling Gilda’s words. ‘How could I not help but love him? I am the envy of every maiden in the hall.’

  There were tears of joy on Grainne’s cheeks. She recalled how strong her own feelings had been for the red-bearded Norse chieftain who had taken her from her land. His gentleness and tender loving quickly won her heart. The thought made her blush but she soon came back to the matter at hand. God willing her own daughter had found such a man. A man who would refrain from going a-Viking and settle down now that he had a beautiful wife to build a home with. She smiled. ‘Then mayhap you should join him in your wedding celebrations.’

  ‘I will follow in a moment.’ Rowena struggled with her conscience, but not for long. It was bad enough that one of them suffered. Grainne must be protected at all costs. Her mother left her, and she jumped just moments later as Sigurd’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  ‘I was not aware you thought so well of me, wife.’

  She gasped in dismay, he stood grinning down at her, his blue eyes challenging. ‘Do not believe everything you hear, husband,’ she spat, hating every self-assured inch of him. ‘I love my mother and wanted to put her mind at rest, nothing more.’

  ‘Don’t be coy,’ he urged. ‘You may admit your passion for your new mate.’ He seemed amused while she spluttered and fought for composure. ‘Mayhap the beating did you good after all. That and the time you spent beneath me in the hay.’

  ‘I would as soon sleep in a hornet’s nest as with you, Norse dog.’