A broader figure stepped forward and she was sure it was a man. ‘You must listen to the volva, for she is wise,’ he ordered, and Rowena cowered when she saw the bunch of twigs he was holding menacingly. ‘You are right to look afraid,’ he averred snidely. ‘You have been a bad girl. Bad girls are always disciplined.’
His arm rose and the twigs were brought down hard on her bare legs. She cried out as her skin smarted and stung. ‘I am sorry for offending you! Please, no more.’
‘How can anyone resist a body like yours?’ he asked, caressing her ankle. His hand wandered insolently up to her knee, where he caressed the tender underside. ‘Is that good, Rowena? Do you like to be touched like this? As I recall, your body is that of a goddess but you have the morals of a whore.’
Rowena strove to block out the feel of the fingers that touched her with such sensual knowledge. She set her mouth determinedly and struggled against the woman who restrained her. ‘You’re wrong, for only a whore would accept such a loathsome touch,’ she snapped. ‘I’d rather be fed to the fish that swim around your shores than be mauled by such scum as you.’
The fingers that had been warming her skin were snatched away, and she whimpered as the bunch of twigs was once more poised threateningly over her head. ‘Do your worst,’ she challenged, her cringing body belying her feisty words. ‘I am much stronger than I look.’
The old woman forced her onto her back, and with a loud snort of anger the man brought the twigs down on her legs, arms and breasts. Gunnhild had informed her earlier that all the Norse used the twigs after luxuriating in the bathhouse because they were invigorating, but Rowena’s skin burned with pain. He beat her with enthusiasm and tears coursed down her face at the indignity and cruelty of the act.
‘Poor Rowena,’ wailed a darkly gowned and hooded woman from the group, who came nearer and began to dab her sore skin with a soothing solution the old woman gave her. ‘You must find pleasure in our bathhouse. Your beautiful body deserves to be pleasured as well as tortured. It’s good for your soul.’
While everyone watched the woman continued to apply the solution to the inflamed skin, cooing and fussing over her like a mother hen. Rowena’s nerve ends began to sing with desire and the woman massaged her with more vigour, paying special attention to her breasts, dipping into her furrow with persistent fingers that set every part of her buzzing.
‘Sweet, pretty, Rowena,’ she purred. ‘Let me heal you. Let me love you.’
Rowena was enjoying her ministrations, but all too soon the tender touch ceased and the woman stood aside allowing the man access. He forced her to lie on her front and began slapping her bottom with the twigs. He started with one rosy cheek, that bounced and glowed deep pink from the marks of the scourging. Then he slapped the other one, his eyes sparking with lust as he watched the plump globes jumping and staining with colour.
Rowena took a deep breath, trying not to cry out, unwilling for them to think she was unable to stand a little discipline. If she were able to sustain pain from the great Norse Chieftain, Sigurd Thorkelsson, they would not bring her down.
The man changed his tactics and the bundle of twigs was brought lower so that each time he wielded them they caught her sex lips. Pain sliced through her and tears slid silently down her cheeks.
But then she felt light-headed, suddenly tired and dizzy. The man stopped his assault and she let out a sigh of relief. She glanced up at him, and as before the eyes that stared out of the slits in the hood sent darts of fear through her. The man was studying her in return, and took his time, peering down at her insolently, dipping his bundle of cruelty into her wetness.
‘Rowena is ready for fucking,’ he said. ‘How does this feel, Rowena?’ he asked, slapping the twigs against her secret place with great aplomb.
Rowena blinked rapidly, her eyes blurred and she seemed to swim through the pain to the other side, where there was a pleasure that coursed through her veins. ‘Oh yes,’ she moaned. ‘Oh yes, that’s good.’
He nodded his satisfaction and cast the twigs aside. ‘She is almost ready for my purpose,’ he announced. ‘But first of all, she must be cleansed.’
A strange powder was thrown over the peat fire and a potent odour was expelled. Rowena’s head swam, but her dreamy state soon dissolved when she was lifted and hung over the fire. Her feet and arms were splayed wide and her skin felt the heat rising from the stones. ‘W-what are you doing?’
‘You must be bathed and purified.’ The group spoke as if with one voice, that seemed to echo around her like an evil spell.
Water was poured over the stones and steam billowed from them in a frightening whoosh of sound. She screamed and the old woman cackled. They held her high and the steam enveloped her, just as the swamp had in the forest in Wessex. It moved around her eerily, its damp tendrils creating beads of water and sweat on her pearly flesh.
‘Even through the steam your hair gleams and your skin dazzles,’ the man remarked, running his fingers through the long, damp, red-gold strands. ‘‘Tis a pity the beauty is so badly tarnished by the wickedness inside.’
‘Aye, ‘tis a great shame.’
The response was echoed all around her and she tried to tell them it was not so, but her body seemed to move slowly and her brain soon forgot what it wanted to remember.
‘We will strive to cleanse you, Rowena.’
‘We will strive to rid you of your evil.’
The voices came through the steam that veiled her eyes, that reached out its damp fingers to the cloaked and hooded figures, as if in supplication.
‘Aye, it is agreed by us all,’ they said in unison.
Her breasts were pinched, her clitoris was sucked and she felt a finger being inserted into her anus. Someone began to suck her toes as though they were the juiciest fruits, licking between each one with great relish. Someone else licked her legs right up to her sex. Her skin was feverish. She tossed her head, silently begging release, for she could stand no more.
She was turned over and the twigs tapped lightly over her body. It was a good feeling, and she was beginning to relax when the twigs were brought down harder and faster, lashing her. At the same time she was being fingered and stroked until she was on fire with longing.
Just then the old woman clapped her hands. ‘‘Tis time to give thanks.’
The group suddenly stopped their work and Rowena was bereft. There were strange mutterings around her and she realised they were praying to their gods. Thor was mentioned often and she was turned like a piece of meat on a spit, and then Odin was called upon. Their chanting rose and Rowena’s limbs felt as though they were being pulled from her body, and her head ached.
When she thought she could stand no more they began to call upon Frey, and Rowena quaked in fear, for Frey was the god of fertility and the last thing she wanted was to be impregnated. She longed to castigate them, tell them that these gods were not hers, but the pungent scent from the fire made her head swim and her mouth would not form the words.
Suddenly all was quiet and she was carried outside where the rest of the group waited. They placed her on a mound of the greenest grass she had ever seen. She wished her head would clear, but she was forced to drink more mead, which the volva doctored with some powder from the skin pouch at her waist.
‘Drink deeply, Rowena,’ she urged. ‘Drink deeply, let the volva’s magic sustain you throughout your ordeal.’
Rowena swallowed, pulling a face at the bitter taste of the potion. But the hallucinatory effect was far more potent this time. Everyone around her, except for the volva, removed their gowns and hoods and their skin seemed to glow with bright colours. She knew that if she could focus her eyes properly she would be able to see the identity of them, but everything wavered and danced in front of her vision, rendering it impossible.
Her legs were forced apart and a thousand butterflies seemed to be dancing on her body, thei
r luminescent colours rendering her breathless, their touch seeming to reach every fibre, every nerve-ending. They settled on her nipples, sucking her, and the lips of her sex were lightly bitten, tantalising her until she cried out with pleasure.
Then the butterflies turned into human shapes again that seemed to swirl around her, dazzling in their brightness. The dreamlike quality of her position intensified, and although she still felt the pain of her beating, it was through a pleasured haze that eased it.
‘Cease!’
The order was stern enough to calm them. The volva held a staff with a knob on the top that sparkled with stones. On her feet she wore calfskin shoes, her cloak belled out around her, the myriad gems gleaming magnificently. Moments passed when nothing was heard but the soughing of the breeze through the trees nearby. Then the volva struck the ground with her staff and began to chant.
A large hammer was held over Rowena, the symbol of the god Thor. The naked figures, still bright waves of colour, joined in the chanting, dancing around her. Then he was on her, his weight a surprise as a knee parted her thighs, his large member pushing its way inside her vaginal lips. Rowena gave an involuntary gasp as he filled her, grasping her shoulders firmly.
Prayers were uttered as he rode her hard and fast, pushing into her as though it was to be his last mating. Incense was waved over them, adding a mystical quality to the proceedings, and Rowena panted and gyrated beneath him as her body came to life in his arms. He tasted of ale and spices and, though he had disciplined her with severity, he took her now with much fervour.
It was another kind of discipline, one she was not averse to. Mayhap Sigurd was right when he said she was only happy when there was something hard between her thighs. It was as though something in her psyche longed for that creamy male seed to make her whole.
When he reached his climax and climbed off her she watched dazedly as the group dressed, their images still blurred. The volva held her staff over her, circling her head twice. ‘You have weathered your ordeal well. And you’re much respected for your hard work around the shieling. Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.’
Rowena waited until her head cleared before she was able to dress and make her way back to the shieling, grateful that she would suffer no more at their hands.
Algitha awaited her anxiously in her bedchamber. ‘Where have you been, mistress? I looked everywhere for you. Since you told me what happened in the fire-hall I’ve been worried about you.’
‘With good cause,’ Rowena replied weakly, and wearily related her tale.
Algitha rushed to fetch the douche. ‘Do not delay, for this is another night’s work that would have been best avoided!’
A few days later Rowena, with reservations, was persuaded by Gunnhild to accompany her to the bathhouse, where they lay on the platform built around the wall.
Gunnhild appraised her warmly. ‘Before you came the heart was draining out of Sigurd’s halls, Rowena. As you know Maeve was Sigurd’s mistress, and when their relationship began she made sure everyone knew of her new position.’ Gunnhild sighed. ‘But she was slothful and lazed around all day finding fault with everything and everyone. The thralls were being scolded for doing their work properly. Is it any wonder they lost heart and let things go?’
‘What of Sigurd?’ she asked with concern. ‘Did he not put things right?’
Gunnhild snorted. ‘What does a man know of these things? It’s woman’s work. Now that you’re here things will change for the better, I know. Your enthusiasm and caring nature has already won many over.’
She had never thought to hear those words and her heart lifted. She was going to fit in, after all.
Gunnhild began to lightly whip her body with some twigs and Rowena shuddered. She could not bring herself to join in, and when they tired of the steam and douched themselves with cold water, the shock made Rowena squeal.
Gunnhild laughed. ‘If you think that’s cold, just wait until the winter when people leave the bathhouse to roll in the snow.
‘I will never, ever do that,’ Rowena vowed with a shiver.
‘It can be a very pleasing experience, especially if you’ve been accompanied by a male companion who has indulged himself by making love to you.’ Gunnhild winked playfully, and Rowena blushed.
Little did she know that just a few days ago she had spent a goodly time in the bathhouse being spanked and pleasured by many hands. Just thinking about it made her excited.
‘What’s a volva?’ she asked curiously.
‘They are women of great wisdom who often go from farm to farm to undertake various magical and divinatory rites. I’ve seen one go into a trance in order to summon the spirits.’
‘What happened?’ Rowena hoped Gunnhild was unable to sense more than a natural curiosity on her part.
‘There was a lot of chanting while she worked her spells. Then she issued prophecies of good fortune and everyone was happy and celebrated.’
By the end of the first week everyone who lived in the shieling were used to the chieftain’s lady popping up anywhere and everywhere, ready and willing to turn her hand to any task. Rowena went to her bed at night too tired to fret about Sigurd and Maeve, and though she still missed Leif, her spirits had lifted. She had made many friends and learned the intricacies of life in the shieling the best way possible – by joining in. And if not quite proficient at everything, she knew she soon would be.
But Rowena’s joy was not to last, for at the end of the second week Sigurd returned, bringing guests. She was busy lifting oatcakes from the flat stone slab across the end of the open hearth in the kitchen when a breathless Algitha rushed in.
‘Mistress, the chieftain is come.’
Rowena dropped the oatcakes in her shock. ‘Where is he, Algitha? Have you seen Leif? How does he look?’
Algitha was taken aback by the flurry of questions. ‘I’ve not seen Leif as yet. But Sigurd is already in the fire-hall, and he has brought guests.’
Rowena instructed Algitha to remove the rest of the oatcakes from the hearth and, feeling unreasonably flustered, put her hand up to her dishevelled hair with a groan. Algitha had plaited it neatly for her that morning, but what with the heat of the kitchen much had escaped and was curling untidily over her neck and forehead. There was nothing to be done about it now, but she had wanted to be looking her best for Leif.
She took a deep breath and rubbed flour from her hands, then squaring her shoulders she went to the fire-hall.
Sigurd greeted her indifferently, and she smarted at Maeve’s triumphant smile as she passed her, no doubt to sneak off somewhere so she could sleep off her journey.
She went forward to welcome her visitors, a man and a woman. The woman was a voluptuous blonde beauty, who was far from friendly. Her pale eyes scanned Rowena with animosity, and Rowena sighed inwardly; was this another of Sigurd’s conquests? She was fast tiring of the game.
Sigurd introduced his guests as Gunnar Egilsson and his sister, Freyjr, and when he introduced Rowena, Gunnar, who was a large man like most of the Norse, with a ruddy face, gasped his horror.
‘You have a wife, Sigurd!’
Rowena stepped back a pace, shocked at the rage in his face. She had been conversing in mainly Norse since Sigurd’s absence, and although not fluent in the language, she understood far more than he knew. She looked at Sigurd for an explanation, but he merely gave her a sardonic smile. Algitha had quietly moved beside her, alerted by the noise in the hall, and she ordered her to translate that which she was unable to understand.
‘As you see, Gunnar, I do indeed have a wife. I had thought to keep her a surprise until you met.’
Gunnar looked from his sister, whose skin had turned waxen, back to Sigurd. ‘What folly is this?’ he asked angrily. ‘You court my sister and then dishonour her by wedding another?’
Sigurd raised an insolent eyebrow. ‘The woman was ripe an
d willing for a dalliance. Who am I to refuse such an offer?’
Gunnar’s countenance suffused with red and his mouth moved without words. The shock had rendered him momentarily incoherent. Freyjr rushed to his side, gazing up at him with concern, her face still waxy.
‘Are you well, brother?’
Gunnar was exasperated. He bent and spoke softly in her ear; too many people knew their business as it was. ‘Well? With a slut for a sister? What are you thinking of letting the man between your legs before you are wed?’
Freyjr scowled. ‘‘Tis your own fault. I got the taste for it when you went a-viking and left me with the boring women of the hall and a few guards for company.’
‘What are you talking about, woman?’
Freyjr batted her lashes; a few feminine wiles never went amiss. ‘Why brother, dear, I had to do something when you were not around, and so did the guards.’
Gunnar grabbed at his chest. ‘You mean…’ He couldn’t bring himself to say it.
‘They often found their way beneath my skirts,’ she said, her eyes guileless. ‘And I decided that as I liked it so much when they played with my pussy, it was pointless pretending otherwise.’
Gunnar seemed to be fighting for breath. ‘You mean there was more than one?’
Freyjr smiled. ‘Oh yes. My own brother had forsaken me, what else could I do? I needed to have a man inside me as often as I could. It was the only thing that kept me sane during the long lonely months.’
‘And Sigurd?’ he spluttered, wishing he had stayed at his farm and looked to his sister instead of leaving her so much.
‘He was so nice,’ she cooed. ‘I’m quite unable to resist him, especially when his cock is so big and so satisfying.
Gunnar glared from her to Sigurd, and then to Rowena. ‘Family honour is at stake here,’ he snarled.
‘No man dictates to me in my own house,’ Sigurd returned, his voice low and menacing.
‘I had thought you an honourable man,’ spat Gunnar, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
a Wicked Conquest Page 14
