a Wicked Conquest

by Valerie Saxon

  ‘Come riding with me tomorrow,’ he pleaded.

  ‘I’ll try,’ she promised, and they parted on a kiss.

  Sigurd was no longer in the hall, but she found Algitha in her bedchamber, lighting candles and turning down the bed. She looked embarrassed, but Rowena smiled. ‘Don’t fret on my account. If Sigurd’s gone to his mistress this night I am pleased.’

  ‘Then I am pleased you feel so, for he is the sort to break a kind and loving heart.’

  Rowena wasn’t quite sure how to broach the subject, but it had to be done. ‘Sigurd wants a child,’ she said, quailing at the thought of bearing his infant.

  Algitha smiled knowingly. ‘And you don’t want to fall pregnant by your husband. Of course it would be different if it were to be a handsome fellow who has just come to the fire-hall.’

  Rowena stiffened. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I know you well enough to recognise the signs.’

  She wrung her hands. ‘I cannot risk getting pregnant by either one. What shall I do, Algitha?’

  ‘I can mix a douche for you to use whenever you make love. But don’t let your husband know or his wrath will be felt all over Iceland.’

  Algitha massaged her shoulders, allowing her fingers to graze her nipples. ‘Of course, I can love you,’ she said, finding the hot furrow between her legs that Leif had enjoyed earlier, ‘and you will have no worries.’ She felt some of the seed that seeped back out of Rowena’s vagina, and sighed. ‘But first it would be wise to give you a douche to use now. You have obviously been a naughty girl this evening.’ She chuckled. ‘I envy you.’

  Rowena sighed. ‘Tomorrow we go riding.’

  Algitha giggled. ‘And who knows what you might get up to on a horse with that one beside you?’

  The thought made Rowena cross her legs and smile. ‘What indeed.’

  Chapter Eight

  The following morning Rowena was aglow with the expectation of riding with Leif. But there was no sign of either him or Sigurd in the fire-hall. Algitha presented her with an assortment of keys. ‘What are these?’

  ‘Sigurd bade me give you the keys of the household, mistress.’

  Rowena attached them to her belt, muttering angrily beneath her breath; no doubt he thought them a fair exchange for her beatings. ‘Where are Sigurd and Rig?’ she asked Gunnhild when she appeared. ‘Are they out in the pastures?’

  Gunnhild raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Sigurd has taken some of the men and journeyed to the coast to trade with the merchant ships. He will also be bartering dairy products with the seaside farmers for dried fish for the winter. The packhorses were fair straining under the weight of their packs.’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘Didn’t he tell you? They left very early.’

  Rowena sighed heavily. ‘He didn’t think fit to inform me.’ Her heart sank. ‘And what of his cousin, Leif?’

  ‘Sigurd invited him and he was obliged to accept. Though I must admit he didn’t appear overly keen.’

  Rowena wanted to throw something – Sigurd always ruined everything! She cast her eyes around the hall. Had her husband taken Maeve with him? She was annoyed to see the woman was nowhere in sight.

  ‘Of course, Sigurd will be entertained in a nearby farm.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rowena replied dryly. And his mistress will be made most welcome, she thought miserably. It was one thing to flout their affair in the hall, but to actually go away with the woman was, in Rowena’s eyes, completely disrespectful to her.

  A passing Norsewoman caught Gunnhild’s attention, and when she turned back to her she gave Rowena an encouraging smile. ‘I can see Sigurd’s leave-taking has upset you. We must remedy that. What do you say to beginning our lessons today?’ Rowena stared at her blankly. ‘You wanted to learn our tongue,’ Gunnhild reminded her. ‘Just think how pleased your husband will be when he returns to find you’ve taken the trouble to learn some Norse.’

  She nodded half-heartedly, wanting nothing more than to hear the sound of Leif’s voice, the feel of his strong body lying next to hers. ‘How long will they be gone?’

  ‘A few days.’

  Rowena wanted to scream; she would die with waiting for her new love. But then it occurred to her that while Sigurd was away she would be free of his cruel beatings, so it wasn’t all bad.

  After the meal Rowena was taken on a tour of the shieling and its outbuildings, so she could correspond the keys in her possession with the locks they turned. She was fascinated by the bathhouse and promised herself a visit as soon as was possible.

  Gunnhild was as good as her word, and part of the day she instructed Rowena in Norse. She was pleased to find it much easier than she imagined, and she began to envisage her husband’s expression when he returned and realised she was able to understand a few words of his tongue.

  When they tired of this Gunnhild showed her how to spin wool. She taught her how to hold the distaff in the crook of the left arm while the spindle whorl was set spinning by the right hand and sank slowly to the floor, drawing the wool out to a thread. This thread would be wound up and the process repeated until a large ball of yarn had been produced.

  Rowena was awkward at first, but soon a rhythm developed and she let out an excited squeal. The Norse ladies, whom she had already learned to say good day to, smiled warmly at her efforts.

  ‘What are they saying?’ she wanted to know, when they bombarded her with a string of Norse.

  ‘The ladies are pleased that their chieftain’s Saxon wife should take such an interest in their simple spinning,’ Gunnhild informed her happily. ‘They say you have accomplished much in one day.’

  Rowena smiled. ‘Tell them they are very kind to say so.’

  While Gunnhild was thus employed, Rowena noticed that not all the women were eager to be friendly. A few of the younger ones regarded her slyly, and she was convinced they were the women who had taken part in the orgy in the fire-hall.

  Having thrown off her disappointment she was eager to learn all she could in her new home. ‘I wish to know more,’ she averred animatedly. ‘I have noticed that although you have many thralls everyone does their share.’

  ‘In the old country we would have left all manual labour to the thralls,’ Gunnhild replied. ‘But this is a new land and we have much pleasure in it, so we all do our bit. But you are Sigurd’s wife; I’m not sure, Rowena.’

  But Rowena was hard to refuse when she had her heart set on something and Gunnhild gave in graciously. ‘The weaving and the dairy can wait until tomorrow,’ she said, laughing at the younger woman’s energy. ‘The evening meal will be ready soon, and Sigurd will not thank me to find his wife has overtaxed her strength in his absence.’

  While Rowena learned the workings of his shieling Sigurd was being wined and dined by Gunnar Egilsson and his sister, Freyjr. The voluptuous, yellow-haired beauty stood beside him at the shore watching the boats unload their cargo. She was at her most desirable with jewelled combs in her flaxen hair, and a red kirtle that billowed out behind her in the sea breeze, showing her breasts off to perfection.

  ‘You don’t visit us often enough, Sigurd,’ she complained, tugging at the sleeve of his tunic.’

  ‘It sounds as though you miss me, Freyjr,’ he replied with a winning smile.

  Freyjr grazed her fingers along his bearded jaw. ‘If only you knew how much,’ she purred, pressing her breasts into his chest. ‘The farm is so boring sometimes I could scream.’

  ‘It sounds as though you need to find yourself a husband. He will keep you occupied.’

  She cast her eyes around the shore at the men who busied themselves at their task. ‘Not one of these compares with the great Sigurd Thorkelsson. How is a poor body to manage when the handsomest and bravest man of all lives elsewhere?’

  Sigurd grinned down at her; she was a fine wench, well padded in all the places that mattered. It looked
like his luck was in. ‘Your flattery will give me a big head.’

  She plucked excitedly at his chest and giggled girlishly. ‘Oh, I do hope so.’

  Sigurd’s eyebrows rose. ‘I had thought you an innocent, Freyjr.’

  ‘What man longs for an innocent in his bed?’ She gave him a smouldering look. ‘I am all woman, Sigurd, and anxious to prove it to you.’

  Sigurd’s cock surged. ‘Then who am I to stop you?’ he growled, pressing her buttocks to bring her closer, so she was able to feel his stiff shaft dig into her stomach.

  ‘Ooooh,’ she cried, ‘you are hard!’

  ‘I am always ready to oblige a lady,’ he boasted, grabbing a handful of breast, much to the amusement of some nearby sailors.

  Freyjr was completely unfazed by them – if anything it made her more excited. ‘Come with me behind the rocks, Sigurd,’ she suggested, nibbling his earlobe. ‘For I’m bursting with need.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ he replied, giving the seamen a sly wink.

  Freyjr giggled as waves lapped at her feet. She danced away from them, dragging Sigurd with her. It began to drizzle, but she was aware of nothing but the longing she felt for the famed warrior and the ache between her legs that she wanted him to ease.

  When they were hidden from sight she began to undress. ‘Hurry, Sigurd,’ she urged, slipping her kirtle and smock from her shoulders, licking her sensuous lips. She knelt on the wet sand in front of him, her body white and wanton against the lapping tide.

  He couldn’t believe the force of her desires; it was a distinct turn on to have a woman with such a healthy sexual appetite. Not that Maeve wasn’t keen, but sometimes her devotion bored him. Sigurd gazed on her dark-tipped breasts and shapely hips with pleasure, but the fair hair at the apex of her legs was his target, and he knelt in front of her, taking the nipple of one breast in his mouth and the other in his hand, foraging with eager fingers between the lips of her pleasure zone.

  She was as wet as the thundering ocean, and his fingers soon dripped with the salty tang of her. While he frigged her nubbin so she took his huge staff, a gasp on her lips at his size. They masturbated each other and she came with a loud scream that drowned out the sounds of the gulls.

  ‘Lay back, my love,’ she sighed. ‘Let me ride you.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Sigurd said, surprised; he was always the one in charge and this forward bitch was a revelation to him – though not an unpleasant one, as she sat on his cock and rode them both to satisfaction.

  Rowena’s fingers felt clumsy as she practiced weaving on an upright loom propped against the wall in the fire-hall. Sigurd and Leif had been gone for many days and she was trying to keep herself occupied to stop herself pining for her new love.

  ‘Very good.’ Gunnhild applauded her fervently. ‘Now let me just show you once more.’ Rowena moved over and Rig’s wife repeated the steps of weaving ‘See there are two sets of warp threads,’ she said patiently, pointing to the threads held taut by stones that hung off the ends.

  Rowena nodded her understanding; she picked things up quickly and it would be good to show off to Sigurd when he returned.

  ‘Horizontal rods control their positions as the woof is slipped through and beaten upwards with the wooden sword.’

  ‘I like the cloth best when it’s dyed,’ Rowena said, feeling the more valuable material that was tossed over a nearby trestle.

  Gunnhild’s forehead furrowed. ‘That reminds me; we need to dye up some more later. ‘I hope we’ve enough madder to make up the red dye. Violet’s my favourite,’ she said with a sly smile. ‘It was the colour I was wearing when Rig proposed. Violet and reddish-brown dyes come from certain lichens. I’ll show you when we have the time.’

  Gunnhild continued her instruction on the use of the loom, but a stocky man who had just walked in carrying a carved chest interrupted her in full flow. He laid it at Gunnhild’s feet, wheezing loudly at the effort. ‘I was contracted to make this chest by the chieftain,’ he managed, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his tunic.

  Although Rowena could not quite understand him, Gunnhild translated for her. She felt the patina of the wood excitedly. ‘How wonderful. The one in our bedchamber is rather shabby, but Sigurd never mentioned anything about a new one.’

  Gunnhild laughed. ‘Trust me, just be grateful. Men are so forgetful.’

  Rowena smiled at the carpenter. ‘Tell him it’s lovely.’

  He puffed out his chest with pride when Gunnhild told him what the pretty young woman had said, and happily followed her to the bedchamber where he installed the new chest. She paid him with some un-dyed twill that was often used as an alternative to silver, and he went away whistling a merry tune.

  True to her word, Gunnhild took her out onto the hillside later and showed her the lichens they used for dying the twill. ‘We get the black dye from bog-mud impregnated with iron.’

  Rowena was taken to see the smithy, who was a grumpy old man with a greying beard and a gouty leg. He showed them how he ground red and green tufa-stone to powder to make mineral dyes. ‘Anything else you want to know you come and see me,’ he told Rowena, showing his stumpy black teeth.

  Gunnhild giggled and led her outside. ‘He’s taken a shine to you.’ She scolded some rowdy children and chased some cattle and goats from the turf roof.

  Rowena hurried on before her. ‘I’d better see how Gerd is getting on with the meat.’

  They went indoors and Rowena walked over to the hearth. ‘Take a rest, Gerd,’ she told the cook, in the Norse Gunnhild had taught her. Gerd smiled and nodded her thanks.

  ‘Sigurd will be delighted to see his shieling so well run,’ Gunnhild remarked, watching Rowena turn the spit over the fire upon which roasted a succulent sheep.

  Rowena was unable to tell her friend that she couldn’t care less what Sigurd thought, though she supposed it would be nice to show her proficiency to the man of the house when he decided to return. By the end of the week her hands were as calloused as that of the thralls, who were looking at her with a new respect.

  The following morning she watched some of Sigurd’s men wrestling outside the shieling, testing their feats of strength. They all looked harmless enough, even the berserks. It was hard to imagine these seemingly even-tempered men acting like frenzied wolves in battle. Gunnhild had told her that they were devotees of the god Odin, from whom they derived their power.

  Her happiness was spoilt when one of the men blocked her path, his meaty fist holding a flashing spear he’d been using for target practice. ‘Need any help?’ he asked slyly. ‘I’m good with my hands and my cock. Take your pick.’

  Another man joined him, flexing his stout arms. ‘Take a look at my muscles, girly. But I’ve got a better muscle in my breeches. Do you want to feel it?’

  ‘Go away, you’re detestable,’ she grated, pushing past the two men, hiding her blushes as best she could.

  She made her way to the stables; she wouldn’t let those two morons upset her. And although she missed Leif, it was nice not to have anyone to answer to while Sigurd was away. Leif had reminded her how fond she was of riding. And as she hadn’t been out on a horse since her husband brought her to his land, she had the stable lad saddle up Syn for her. She took the bridle path through the wood, delighting in the freedom and beauty all around. Great oaks towered over her as she coaxed the gentle mare into a trot. She hadn’t felt so good since being taken from her homeland and she relaxed in the familiarity of a good leather saddle beneath her. She didn’t ride far, though, for she hadn’t told Gunnhild of her plans and she would be sure to worry that she was out riding alone.

  She spent the rest of the day in earnest labour, and after the evening meal she decided to take advantage of the bathhouse. It was set a little way away from the shieling with a stone flagged floor and a drain to carry away the water. In the centre was an open hearth over whic
h a pile of stones was heated in a peat fire.

  Rowena removed her clothes and threw water over the hot stones, as Gunnhild had shown her to do in order to fill the room with steam. Afterward she lay on a platform that was built around the wall as the steam swirled over her, and she thought it the most heavenly feeling in the world. If it wasn’t for her cruel husband she realised she could be quite happy in this place. The older ones in the shieling were beginning to show her more kindness; but she still had trouble with the younger ones who appeared indifferent to her overtures of friendship.

  ‘You seem very relaxed.’

  Rowena started in alarm at the strange voice that spoke her language in a heavy accent. The woman was dressed in a blue strapped cloak set with a myriad stones. On her head was a black lambskin hood, her face old and much wrinkled.

  ‘Rowena trembled and her hands moved to cover her nakedness. ‘What… what do you want?’ she asked fearfully.

  ‘You, Rowena, we want you,’ said the woman, her voice strong and deep despite her age.

  More people joined her, and from outside came the sound of chanting. The Norse were all gowned in black, with black hoods from which holes were cut for eyes and nose. They were as intimidating as before, and this time she did not have Leif to protect her. ‘I have done my penance,’ she replied shakily.

  ‘You have only received a small amount of punishment,’ the woman said gravely. ‘It is not considered sufficient.’

  Rowena refused to bow down before them. ‘Nonsense. Leave me now. I am the chieftain’s wife and command you to do so.’

  Her brave speech was ignored and one blue-sleeved arm caught her, holding her firmly. ‘Do not try and hide from us, Rowena. It will only make things harder for you. We are inclined to see every part of you. To use every part of you as we wish.’ A goblet was held to her lips and she was forced to drink from it. It tasted a little like mead, but there was a bitter aftertaste.