a Wicked Conquest

by Valerie Saxon

  The mud began to revolve, slowly at first, then faster, picking up speed until it was whirling, nudging her with a violence that was vastly disturbing. It surged and rotated and Rowena was caught in a downward spiral, quite unable to extricate herself from her predicament. Bright colours played on her eyelids as her body swirled and spun. The thick gunge sucked at her, its slimy fingers ensnaring her, surging into her most private places, and Rowena’s terror was indescribable.

  She was helpless, incapacitated. The bog was violating her, sapping her strength as it took complete control. Her vulva was forced open and the gunge rushed into her vagina, stretching it to capacity. Before she had time to come to terms with this it slid back out, only to repeat the assault time and time again. It was as though a huge staff was thrust deep inside her and it hurt even more than the first time with Sigurd.

  Her breasts were being pummelled to distraction. Even her bottom hole was not sacred, and if she were able to scream she would, as the mud surged into that most private and sacred of places only to retreat and return again and again, just as it did in her vagina. Her whole body was under attack, her head the only part of her visible. Tears rolled silently down her face, for she was unable to open her mouth for fear the filth would enter and choke her.

  She began to despair, there was no way out of her predicament, and she was stuck fast. But despair gave way to pleasure as her perverse nature took over and her body began to enjoy what was being inflicted upon it. The pain was a potent aphrodisiac, its dynamic aggression a tempest that brought strange satisfaction.

  She wasn’t allowed her smugness for long. The pummelling grew worse, the mud became more demanding and she cried out, ‘Release me! Please take pity on me and let me loose!’

  Just as she thought herself incapable of withstanding any more pain, the mud changed its motion. It spun faster still, but the touch was much lighter, much softer. It caressed that which it had tortured and she let out a sigh of relief.

  It was as though she had a thousand lovers. A thousand tongues licked her skin; a thousand lips kissed and sucked her flesh that had never been so sensitive as it was now. She was flung into a thousand pieces and made one again all in the blink of an eye. And yet it was an eternity.

  The mud spun even faster and Rowena was caught in its momentum, caught in its soft yet powerful embrace. As it swirled it seeped into all her delicate folds, caressing her vulva, stimulating her clitoris as it had never been stimulated before. Her breasts peaked with pleasure as they were caressed and massaged, tweaked and explored.

  The mud was in her, around her. It was taking her body for its own, mastering her as forcefully as any man ever could. She cried out as it made her come over and over again, her love juices mixing with the mire. Her body and mind in a frenzy of desire, of fulfilment – and agony! It was too much to bear. She sobbed, asking to be spared, begging and pleading, but the Spirit of the Earth was her master and it didn’t choose to deliver her from its strong arms.

  Somewhere in the depths of the forest a bird sang. Rowena awoke and stretched out her arms with a loud yawn. Dawn was breaking above the leafy boughs, pink and orange splashed colour across the sky. She was stiff and cold, muddy and – naked! She looked down at her filthy, mud-caked skin in confusion and horror. What was she doing sleeping in the forest without any clothes?

  Hugging herself for warmth she looked around and found her garments. They were on the banks of the mud pool. Memories rushed back to haunt her and her body tingled and burned. Shivering, she picked up her clothes and nervously skirted the mud. She had to find somewhere to wash some of the filth away. It would not be prudent to return to the burh in such a state.

  She had not walked far when there was the sound of running water, and over the next rise she found a brook. Her heart lightened and she immediately rinsed her hands and, cupping them, slaked her thirst. The water was icy as it danced over its stony bed, but she had little choice but to step in and try to scrub the mud from her skin and matted hair.

  When she was done she dried herself in her mantle and quickly shrugged into her clothes. The brook had brought her fully awake and her body pulsed and burned as memories of the previous night assuaged her. Her nipples began to bloom and became like small nuts beneath her bodice. She covered them with her hands, flicking gently at the little points with her thumbs.

  Her belly was on fire and one hand sneaked down to feel the fever that was on her. It stole lower to where her clitoris burned and throbbed with desire. She sank to the ground, and opening her thighs rubbed the nub, stimulating her love juices. As she got wetter and wetter she remembered her spirit lover of the bog, who had taken her over and over again, plunging into her vagina like a mighty staff until she begged for mercy. At her memory her fingers moved faster until she lay spent and exhausted beneath the mighty oak.

  It was easier to find her way through the forest in daylight, fingers of brightness darted through the branches, leading her away from her adventure. It was all so clear, frighteningly so, from her first tentative steps to her complete possession. If she closed her eyes she was still able to feel the mortifying yet intoxicating vibrations.

  Cwendritha had known what was ahead of her, had warned her in her own way. It shocked her that the old hag had been right all along. The old ways were still pertinent. They were all beings of the earth that would eventually reclaim them. Their souls, with the help of Father Edwin, would travel elsewhere.

  Her thoughts turned to Sigurd. Would Cwendritha’s potion work? She must hurry back to the burh and find out. She ran through the forest, wondering if her husband would recognise her now with her tangled hair and creased clothes. No doubt even her mother would disown her in her present state.

  Cwendritha was waiting for her when she arrived back. ‘I’ve been worried,’ she admitted, scanning the young woman’s face anxiously. ‘Thankfully it appears my concern was wasted. You must have pleased the spirit to be here now.’

  Her words were sobering, but Rowena refused to dwell on what might have happened. ‘Have you heard how Sigurd is?’

  ‘The news is not good. He is still very sick. You must take the potion and persuade him to drink it or he will not last the day.’

  She took the remedy from the old woman. ‘Pray to whatever gods you worship, Cwendritha, or we are all doomed. A cold hand of fear clutched at her heart and, without pausing to groom herself, she made her way to the guest hut.

  Sigurd was well guarded, but she made herself known and after a few moments a grave Rig came to the door. She gave him a brief nod, ignoring his surprise at her dishevelled state. ‘Rig, I have something to cure your chieftain,’ she said, holding up the jug that held the potion.’

  Rig shook his head firmly, his demeanour telling of his resentment, his distrust for his lord’s new bride. ‘Take it away,’ he said gruffly.

  She begged but he remained stubbornly barring the door to her. ‘You cannot forbid me from visiting my husband on his sickbed. It is my right,’ she averred hotly.

  Sigurd’s general gave a sardonic laugh. ‘You have no rights. Now go.’

  Upset and weary she went in search of her father. Surely he would help; it was not in his interest to see Sigurd die. She found him in the great hall with her eldest brother, Ethelwulf, and explained her abortive errand. ‘The potion is our last hope, father.’

  ‘The northmen believe him to be poisoned.’ He banged his fist down on the board. ‘If he dies we will all perish!’

  Rowena’s hand went involuntarily to her mouth. ‘I did not realise the consequences when I mixed herbs with Sigurd’s ale.’ Her green eyes darkened with guilt and Athelwine’s mouth slackened with shock.

  ‘You mean to tell me he was poisoned? And by your hand?’

  Both Ethelwulf and her father glared at her, and Rowena haltingly retold what had happened and why. ‘I did not mean to harm him,’ she added wretchedly. ‘I merely need
ed time to get used to being his wife, before… before…’ She could not bring herself to say the words.

  Athelwine struck her viciously; the force of the blow knocking her to the floor, where she lay stunned. Ethelwulf took a step forward but Athelwine’s withering glance forestalled him.

  ‘You have been a burden to me since the day of your birth,’ he spat angrily. ‘But even you have excelled yourself this time.’ He slammed his fist down once more and Rowena trembled.

  She held her hand up to her throbbing cheek. ‘I am sorry, father,’ she said miserably.

  ‘Sorry?’ he thundered. ‘Sorry? You are an imbecile if you think your contrition will relieve us of this tribulation.’

  As Rowena struggled, head bowed, to contain her shame and tears, Grainne arrived on the scene. She pushed her way through the spectators to Rowena’s misery and demanded an explanation for her daughter’s upset.

  Athelwine lost no time in expounding Rowena’s crime. ‘So, wife, you now see the bitch you gave me to rear in her true colours,’ he finished bitterly.

  Grainne tenderly helped her daughter to her feet. ‘She has done wrong, husband, but she realises the folly of her ways and only wishes to make amends.’

  Rowena closed her eyes dazedly, she had lost count of the times her softly spoken mother had tried to protect her from her father’s rages. She was usually innocent of the crimes he attributed to her, but this time she was wholly guilty and her entire being longed to undo the deed.

  ‘Please, father,’ she interrupted, when he began another tirade at her expense. ‘I am guilty as charged. But time is of the essence. Sigurd desperately needs the potion if he is to live.’

  She glanced meaningfully at the jug she’d thankfully placed on the board before being punished. ‘Can you not try to see him and administer it?’

  Athelwine did his best, but all his pleadings went the same way Rowena’s had, so she had no recourse but to try once again. As before Rig refused, so she took a deep breath. ‘Rig, if you bar my way you and I both know he will die.’

  ‘He should have never come to this place, never made you his bride,’ Rig snarled venomously.

  Rowena sighed, and lifting the jug to her lips, swallowed some of the contents. ‘You see it is quite safe. Let me in to see Sigurd,’ she asked once more.

  ‘If anything happens to him it will be on your head.’ With a snort he grabbed the jug and went to his lord.

  Rowena chewed her lip. There was nothing else she could do. With dragging steps she made her way to her bower, where nausea overtook her and she lost the contents of her stomach. As she wiped her face her handmaiden was surprised at Rowena’s smile.

  ‘Mistress?’

  ‘It does work, Mildred. The remedy does work, there is hope.’

  The air was charged with fear when Rowena set forth to the church the following morning. She found no peace in her prayers as she usually did, even though she confessed all to Father Edwin and received absolution. Outside again the sun was strong and its rays smote her, as though it too was out to punish her for her misdeed.

  She had visited the guest hut earlier, and to her utter dismay Rig’s news was not encouraging. Shading her eyes from the fierce sun she decided to search out her mother; her soft voice would be a panacea for her troubles.

  As she approached Grainne’s bower her Aunt Elfrida’s voice carried clearly to her through the unshuttered window. ‘You must tell her, sister. Rowena will better understand Athelwine’s attitude if you do.’

  Grainne’s tone was tortured. ‘I cannot, Elfrida. Rowena must never know about Godmund the Red. I have kept the secret this long, do not ask me to tell her now, it would destroy her.’

  The pain in her mother’s voice disturbed Rowena. What did she mean? But she had little time to concentrate on anything else when all their lives rested on Sigurd’s fate.

  ‘Rowena.’ She turned to see her brother Athelstan coming towards her. ‘Father wants to see you,’ he announced gravely.

  Fear clutched at her heart. ‘Has Sigurd’s condition worsened?’

  Athelstan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I only know father is in a fine temper.’

  ‘What’s new?’

  She hurried to the hall, a great foreboding riding over her like a dark cloud. ‘You wanted to see me, father.’

  Athelwine was striding up and down before the hearth, his expression grim. As soon as he saw Rowena he let out an enormous roar. ‘You have brought destruction on us all!’

  She was too stunned to reply. So the worst had happened; Sigurd had succumbed to the poison she had unwittingly administered. Her shoulders drooped. Her father continued to rant, but she was oblivious to anything but the thought of the danger she had brought to them all.

  ‘Dimwit! Are you deaf?’ The veins stood out in Athelwine’s neck.

  Rowena looked at him with confusion. ‘Sorry, father.’

  ‘I was telling you what happened when I tried to go hunting this morning. Your husband’s men had the audacity to turn me back.’ He glared at her. ‘A prisoner in my own home!’

  She bit back a smile. Athelwine did not relish being thwarted. ‘I am sure it will end soon. Sigurd has Cwendritha’s potion and with the Lord’s help all will be well.’ She tried to inject a lightness she did not feel into her words.

  Athelwine grunted. ‘Pah! That is how this ungodly business began. I swear to you, girl, if the Norse do not punish you for your part in this I shall.’

  As he pounded his fist into his palm Rowena recoiled. If he had his way each blow would be rained on her; and who could blame him? The Norse were ready to revolt at any moment. ‘A little patience is all that is needed in order for the herb to work,’ she insisted.

  ‘Patience!’ Athelwine laughed sarcastically. ‘Would you care to be the one to tell the fine warriors of the north that they must have patience?’

  Rowena hung her head. She knew what he was implying; it would be like putting your hand in the fire and hoping the flesh would not be singed. ‘No, father.’

  Her quiet words served to aggravate him all the more, and picking up a switch he raised it over his head. ‘Mayhap I have been far too lenient with you. Justice should be seen to be done.’

  Rowena closed her eyes and waited for the switch to bite into her back, but a familiar voice she had thought not to hear again caused her to snap them open. Sigurd was coolly snatching the switch from her father’s hands, his blue eyes impaling her.

  ‘I do not think that will be necessary,’ he grated. ‘If anyone chastises my wife it shall be me.’

  Chapter Four

  The whole hall was hushed into silence upon sight of the chieftain. Rowena fought to keep her composure. ‘You are well?’ she asked shakily.

  ‘Aye. No thanks to you, wife.’ His tone told of his anger and she cowered before him.

  Athelwine pumped him on the back. ‘‘Tis wonderful to see you back on your feet. We were worried.’

  ‘With good cause,’ Sigurd grunted. ‘Your daughter is a witch who tried to take my life.’

  Athelwine poured him some mead from a jug on the board. ‘Be seated, my friend. Help yourself to bread and cheese,’ he gushed, pushing the platter towards him.

  ‘How do I know I’ll not be poisoned again?’

  Rowena swallowed and Athelwine fidgeted awkwardly, worried by the fierce demeanour of Sigurd’s general, who hovered nearby. He sliced some bread and cheese and chewed on it. ‘See, it is good. I would do you no harm.’ Sigurd remained standing and Athelwine said nervously, ‘My daughter is a worthless chit and I will punish her in any way you see fit, my lord.’

  Sigurd viewed Rowena through narrowed eyes. ‘What say you, wench? Shall I leave your discipline to your father? Or will I use the switch on you myself?’

  Rowena faced him fearfully; she had forgotten just how large her husband was. ‘I am glad to
see you recovered,’ she replied meekly. ‘I had not meant to do you harm. The herbs were stronger than I bargained for.’

  ‘So I heard tell.’

  There was much muttering from the benches. The reeve who had come to speak to her father, and had always made her uncomfortable with his lingering looks, seemed overly excited. Athelwine put up a hand for silence. ‘You have not answered your husband, wretch. Do so, or I shall whip you till your flesh parts company with your bones.’

  ‘Aye, and take much pleasure in doing so,’ she retorted, knowing her mistake as soon as the words were uttered.

  Athelwine’s face went red with rage and he barely held himself back from striking her. ‘You are a feckless bitch and I would not blame your husband if he flayed you to death.’

  Rowena blinked back her tears.

  Sigurd watched grimly. ‘Get to your feet, wife. I would speak with you in private.’

  Without a word to anyone he marched out, the switch still clutched in his hand. Rowena was left to lever herself from the floor, disgraced and demeaned in the eyes of everyone, and tread after him with great reluctance. Although she was glad to see him recover it was not from love. If the safety of her people were not at stake she would gladly poison him again.

  Breathless from trying to keep up with his long strides, she followed him to the forest, wondering why he would pick such a place in which to chastise her. Her clothes and hair were snagged on bushes and low branches and the putrid smell of leaf mould made her nostrils twitch with distaste. Her temper was rising by the minute.

  When he finally came to rest in a dark and densely populated part she sighed with relief. ‘If you wish to punish me, lord, let it be soon. I can’t walk much further.’

  Sigurd’s lips rose in a delighted smirk. ‘You are much bedraggled, wife. Though still as beautiful as ever.’