His face darkened and she thought he would beat her again. But in the space of a heartbeat he changed his mind and took her arm. ‘I can see you will keep me amused, Rowena. Come, our guests are waiting.’
He guided her back to the table and his laughter boomed across the hall. Many turned to see the chieftain’s pleasure in his new bride. Rowena held her tongue as her goblet was refilled. She wanted to run from the burh, run from the tall man at her side and seek her freedom. But she dare not. Instead she smiled a smile that hid a deep well of resentment and frustration. All around her people were making merry; they had been saved from the dogs of war and she was the sacrifice.
Athelstan, her youngest brother, who was fourteen summers, seemed to be the only one to read her. She could see the sympathy in his eyes and her own signalled their gratitude.
Sigurd was talking again, acting as though nothing bad had happened between them, as though they were truly happy newly-weds He spoke of his morning ride with Athelwine, of the fine hawk he’d been given. She could only nod and feign interest until he changed the subject, capturing her full attention.
‘Let us drink to a fruitful union, Rowena.’
His large hand covered hers and it was as though she had been struck by lightning. She turned from him in anger, but he caught her wrist, forcing her to face him. Her hatred overflowed. ‘I will do no such thing,’ she snapped, her eyes flashing green fire. ‘For I will never go to you willingly.’
His grip became firmer, a fierce scowl marring the handsome face. ‘And who can say what a man will do when he is driven beyond his patience?’
Her wrist throbbed and she trembled at the threat in his tone. What else could he do to her? What was worse than being beaten and taken with force by a man you hated? When he freed her, to help himself to more pigeon pie, she rubbed the fresh marks on her skin, annoyed that his appetite had not been affected.
When would Cwendritha’s potion work? The thought of what was before her that night ran round her mind in vivid circles until her stomach was so cramped she wanted to scream. A minstrel played a romantic tune on his harp, singing of their wondrous match. It did nothing to relieve her tension and she was pleased when she spotted Cwendritha in a knot of people further down the hall.
Gilda chose that moment to attempt to flirt with Sigurd, but Rowena had the satisfaction to see that she approached him with much caution. She hid a bitter smile; her cousin was a man-eater. Apart from seeing her with Eadred, she had heard tales about her lying with the lads from the village, and wondered what Gilda would do if Sigurd decided to bed her too. It would suit her purpose if they did spend the night together; she would cross her fingers and wish her cousin good luck in seducing her new husband.
Gilda had drunk too much spiced ale and was rubbing her hand up and down Sigurd’s leg, her fingers pausing over the muscled thighs, wondering what he would do if she should dare to reach higher. She longed to feel the strength of his tool, to test him out before her cousin had the chance. After all, men liked her; she was not as stuck up and untouchable as Rowena.
‘What are you about, lady?’ Sigurd asked quietly. Unlike most of his guests, his speech was not slurred, his movements not slow and awkward.
Gilda hiccupped and giggled. ‘I think you know, my lord,’ she whispered in his ear, brushing the flaxen hair from his forehead. ‘Would that I was able to open my thighs for you this night I would make you a happy man.’
Sigurd smiled at her and her heart fluttered. ‘But I have a new bride, lady.’
‘Fie!’ she exclaimed, extending her tongue and playfully sticking it in his ear. ‘You will have a cold night with that one. Her cunny is so tight she walks cross-legged. As for me,’ she purred, caressing the soft lobe with her lips, ‘I am well schooled in the art of pleasing a man.’
Sigurd enjoyed the attention. Most of the assembled company was far from sober; a few were still upright, while others slept where they sat or had slid beneath the board, curled up on the hard-packed dirt floor.
‘So, tell me how you intend pleasing me, Gilda.’
Gilda rested her head on his broad shoulder. ‘Why, my lord, I would take your cock and lick its glands until it was sopping wet. I would place kisses on the tip and suck and massage it until your seed shot into my mouth. Then I would swallow it, enjoying every last drop.’
Sigurd was impressed. He glanced at his wife, who was conversing with one of the guests further down the board. ‘And what would you like me to do with you, fair lady?’
Gilda was in her element now. Let her stuffy cousin go hang, she would take her place in Sigurd’s bed this night. She slipped her shoe from her foot and, with her head on one side, in what she thought to be a coquettish pose, slid her bare foot up and down Sigurd’s thigh. ‘Why, lord, I would like you to eat my cunny, then to run your tongue over my nubbin until I came. After that I would like you to enter me and ride me until we both came again. Does that sound good?’
‘It sounds very tempting,’ he admitted. ‘Your words have me hard, lady.’ He took her hand and led it to the stiff tool in his breeches.
Gilda gave a sly grin and slid to the floor. Opening his breeches she almost swooned at the length and width of his cock. It pressed into her face impatiently and she licked the glans with her eager tongue, swirling and tonguing him until he was wet. Then she wrapped her fist around the fine male tool, not in the least surprised that she was unable to fit her fingers together. Her cousin spoke rubbish. Why, any woman would follow a man like this anywhere. Each night spent with him would be the biggest thrill she could imagine.
Her fist worked up and down the slippery shaft, massaging the wonderful length of him, and then she took him into her mouth and sucked until his seed flowed onto her tongue. She swallowed it with as much satisfaction as she’d promised.
‘Oh, lord,’ she sighed, resuming her seat beside him, creamy spunk running down her chin. ‘Did you enjoy that as much as I did?’
Sigurd viewed the woman with distaste. ‘You disgust me. But there is a place for you in my camp. You would be useful servicing my men, for you are nothing but a whore.’
Gilda was stunned. With her chin still coated by his emissions, she got to her feet and stumbled away from the great northern warrior she now hated with all her being.
Rowena was busy remonstrating with Cwendritha. ‘Nothing has happened. He is as strong as a bull. You promised me he would be rendered useless and you have failed. What shall I do?’
Cwendritha soothed her. ‘Do not panic, lady. I have read the runes well and they are on my side. Everyone in the village and burh come to me when they want something to ease their aches and pains, or when they require a love potion, or something to rid them of bad luck. They all go to church to pray for their souls, but no one thinks it amiss to ask for extra help in times of stress.’ She winked conspiratorially. ‘Have you ever known me let anyone down? Your own dear mother has great faith in me. When she has the megrims my door is the first place she comes, and she is never disappointed.’
Rowena sighed. ‘This is true. I do have faith in you, of course I do. But I also have fear in my heart that this man is mayhap too strong for your potions.’
Cwendritha mulled this over. ‘‘Tis true a lesser mortal would have already succumbed. But your lord is stronger than most and you must have patience, lady.’
Just then Rowena noticed Gilda making for the door, her face a strange shade of puce. She clicked her tongue, she had obviously failed to seduce Sigurd, and judging by her awkward gait had indulged in too much ale.
Athelwine, who had just picked his head up from the board, held his leather tankard up high and began to make a speech, completely oblivious to the fact that no one was listening. His voice rose higher and higher as it gained momentum, loudly proclaiming the excellence of their match, boasting about his part in bringing the couple together. Rowena felt nauseous, he had bartered h
er to a complete stranger to save his fortune and he was acting like a benevolent sire. What a hypocrite the thane was.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, as the headache that had started earlier threatened to overtake her. The noise of snoring and drunken laughter only accelerated the throbbing, and the smoke from the fire seemed to have wended its way down her throat. But most of all she feared the man favouring her with the look of possession.
When she joined him he took her hand. ‘Come, wife,’ he said with a covert smile, ‘‘tis time we left our wedding feast and made merry on our own.’
Her hand went to her sore buttocks and she almost disgraced herself by fainting clean away. Instead she gazed on him nervously. Cwendritha had failed; she was his to beat and abuse at will. Her mouth as dry as dust she nodded. ‘As you wish.’
His eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘So, you are to be an obedient wife after all.’
She held her tongue with great difficulty. Her fate was sealed.
Sigurd turned to take his leave of Athelwine, but before he could utter a sound his face paled and he sank back onto the bench, one hand grasping his middle. Rig was at his side immediately, calling his men to attention. The Norse, who she had thought to be drunk and incapable of anything but sleep, rallied swiftly and surrounded their chieftain, weapons appearing as if by magic.
The hall was filled with tension and Sigurd was helped out, his brow perspiring freely, his powerful body doubled with pain. Six strong Norse were left to guard the door, their demeanour threatening. One after the other guests were roused, for great danger had beset them. It was whispered that the great warrior chieftain had been poisoned, and if that were the case they would all perish before morning.
Chapter Three
Athelwine staggered to his feet, sorely shaken by events. His mind was still foggy from drink and he fought for composure.
There was much muttering and shaking of heads in the great hall, much fear to see the northmen carrying weapons and barring the door. Athelwine tried to appear in charge of the situation. Holding up his hands for quiet he spoke a few soothing words to the assembled company, ending with what Rowena thought to be a tasteless pun about some men being unable to take their ale. His statement only served to anger Sigurd’s men, who moved forward, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Too late Athelwine saw the error of his words, and as angry foreign voices rose, tried to make amends.
When he finally managed to appease the northmen he turned an anxious face to Rowena. ‘What ails him, wench?’
So filled with remorse was she, she could only shake her head. Athelwine sighed impatiently and with ashen features tried to march after his sick son-in-law. He was forcibly restrained, his chest puffing with anger and frustration. How was it this could happen in his own hall?
In the furore that followed Rowena was motivated to seek Cwendritha, who she’d seen sidle out through the side door. She caught up with her and demanded she accompany her to her bower. Once inside Rowena wrung her hands in agitation. ‘What was in the package, Cwendritha? What did I give Sigurd?’
Cwendritha shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. ‘‘Twas just a little something to help you out.’
‘But Sigurd is very ill,’ she averred angrily. The old woman tried to avoid her gaze, which immediately made Rowena suspicious. ‘You must tell me.’
A gleam of triumph lit Cwendritha’s eyes. ‘‘Tis of no consequence because it has served its purpose and you are free of him now.’
Fear gripped Rowena. She shook the woman. ‘What do you mean?’
She blinked her disapproval of Rowena’s tone. ‘I’m old and sometimes lose track of my ingredients. This happened not long since, so I despaired of what I was doing and fell asleep. When I awoke there was a dead rat on my hearth.’ She cackled. ‘It had eaten some of my mixture and soon learned to rue the day it stole from me. I kept the rest thinking I might find a use for it. I was right, was I not?’
Rowena cried out in horror. ‘Are you telling me we gave Sigurd some sort of poison?’
Cwendritha’s mouth turned down in discontent. ‘I thought only to please you.’
‘I’ve been such a fool! Oh, Cwendritha, what have we done?’ She dropped her head in her hands. ‘What if Sigurd dies? It will be all my fault.’
Cwendritha viewed her in confusion. ‘You do not want him to die?’
Rowena shook her head violently. ‘Of course not! If he dies we will all suffer. You have heard tell of the wrath of the northmen?’
The old woman nodded, suddenly understanding the problem. ‘Aye. I suppose I wasn’t thinking straight. Seeing what that cur did to you, revenge was my only concern.’
‘Is there something you can do for him, Cwendritha?’ she asked hopefully.
‘We can try.’
With a sinking heart Rowena followed her to her hut, grateful there was a bright moon to show their way. The campfires of Sigurd’s army glowed eerily against the night sky and she shuddered, knowing the earth would run with blood if she were unable to undo the wrong she had wrought.
When they reached Cwendritha’s hut the old woman lit a tallow, before taking some of the herbs that hung from the rafters and setting to work. First she put them into a pot of water, which she placed over the fire. When the water boiled she simmered it for a few minutes before removing it from the heat. ‘It must be left to infuse for a while,’ she explained.
After the fiasco in the hall Rowena was suspicious. ‘What is it?’
‘Rest easy, ‘tis just blood root and a few other harmless herbs.’
‘Are you sure it will work?’ she asked anxiously.
Cwendritha shrugged helplessly. ‘Nothing is certain. And there is a long way to go yet.’ She paused uncertainly. ‘There is a sacred place in the forest which I visit in order to cast spells. It leads to the centre of the earth and has much power. You must go there this night to align yourself to the Spirit of the Earth from whence you are come.’
‘Rowena gave a hysterical laugh. ‘You want me to go to the forest in the dark?’
‘Aye, there is no other way. It is your husband who is stricken, so it must be you who begs for his life.’ Her small eyes were grave. ‘Listen carefully, lady. There is a clearing with a mud pool, near the giant oak where we met just a day ago. ‘Tis this you must seek. Once there you must be brave, and take off all your garments. You must give yourself to the Spirit of the Earth. As you go to meet the great one you must say these words.’ She whispered them to Rowena. ‘If you please him he will grant your wish.’
An icy tingle shot down her spine. It was a dream. Or mayhap nightmare would explain it better. ‘How shall I find my way?’ she asked shakily.
‘The moon is high; it will guide you. Take care, lady, for it is a dangerous place you seek and I know not how the spirit will react.’
Trembling with fear and apprehension Rowena went to fetch her cloak, for the night was cold. She crept quietly from the burh and made her way to the forest, the fires of her husband’s army seeming more welcoming than her destination.
The forest path was stony and uneven. Tree roots made humps to trip her and bracken tore at her clothes and tender skin. Rotting vegetation warred with the scent of pine needles. Wild animals made strange noises in the undergrowth and the canopy of trees hid most of the moonlight. She was almost convinced to go back to the burh, but thought of the responsibility she carried forced her to do otherwise.
An owl hooted and her heart flipped in her breast. She was so small and insignificant in this mystic, leafy land, where Cwendritha seemed to be at her best. And although she had always been fascinated by the place, she also had a healthy fear and respect for the dangers that lay there.
When she came to a part of the forest that was even darker than the rest she lost her footing. She fell headlong to the mossy ground, wrenching her ankle and bruising an elbow. Tears were very ne
ar but she refused to cry. Her own stupidity had been the author of her fate, and when she was rested she must continue her journey.
There were dark, irregular shapes all around her, and she listened wide-eyed, lest something less than human was lying in wait. She had foolishly thought this woodland a silent area, but there were far too many alien sounds for her liking.
A loud snuffling at her back brought motivation to her limbs, and forgetting her injuries she limped onward. After a little while, and to her great relief, the trees thinned out and a silvery path stretched ahead of her. She smiled up at the moon and speeded her gait. It wasn’t long before she reached the old oak, hugging its girth with thanks.
Casting her eyes nervously around for the pool she saw a low mist and threaded her way towards it. Thin, wispy fingers seemed to beckon her, and she found herself beside a muddy bog. Bracken and small plants grew around its edges. The mist was suspended a few feet above and she shivered violently, knowing what she must do.
Casting her clothes aside she stood shivering, naked and vulnerable beside the filthy mire, realising that if she paused in her task she would be undone. Carefully stepping over the vegetation she dipped a toe into the murky depths and felt a tugging sensation. It was so strong; it sucked her foot right into the bog. This unbalanced her and she was soon completely immersed in the slime, her breath coming in short sharp gasps.
Convinced that she would be swallowed whole she began to struggle and thrash around, but then Cwendritha’s husky voice penetrated the fog of her mind and she became calmer, recalling what was expected of her. Slowly and succinctly she repeated the words the old woman had taught her. ‘Flame and flood, fire and ice, spirit of darkness, spirit of light, receive your lowly maid, relieve my sin that Sigurd may rise whole again.’
The mud began to quiver and Rowena struggled to extricate herself, but each time she tried it sucked her further in, surrounding her until her limbs were completely immobile. She tried to breathe slowly, to stay calm, but it was difficult with the mire sucking at her. She had heard of people being lost forever in these bogs and she prayed she would not meet the same fate.
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