Rig shook his head miserably. ‘But none of this is the girl’s fault. Leave the past where it should be left – in the past. Start afresh.’
Sigurd clenched his jaw stubbornly. ‘We’ve had this conversation before. I want revenge, and she is his seed.’
‘But her mother…’
‘The Irish woman was his greatest love,’ Sigurd interrupted. ‘Her daughter is my pawn.’
‘The Serpent’s rage will be awesome.’
Sigurd flexed his muscles, a smile on his lips. ‘And when he comes looking for revenge, I shall be ready.’
Rowena dried her face on the hem of her kirtle, wishing she had not overheard the conversation. It made her uneasy. She was still trying to understand the implications involved when her husband sat beside her.
‘You are enjoying the air, Rowena?’ His gaze swept over the stream that trickled over the emerald hillside, wild flowers growing in luxuriant splendour along on its banks. She nodded. He noted her untidy appearance, the hair that strayed from its restraining plait, the sleepy beauty of her green eyes. Her breasts swelled against the red material of her kirtle and his cock thickened in his breeches.
‘I’m sorry to be so lax, Sigurd,’ she replied. ‘I was so tired I just fell asleep.’
‘You’ve worked hard this day,’ he said, reaching into his breeches and bringing out his cock. ‘Now let’s see how hard you can work on this.’
‘You want me to do that now?’ Rowena sighed her reluctance.
‘Do not question my motives, woman,’ he spat, dragged her head down to his burgeoning stem and forced her to take it in her mouth.
She was tired and she had a lesson with Gunnhild before supervising the evening meal, but knowing she would be beaten sorely if she dared refuse, she took the full length of him into her mouth and pleasured him. He gasped as she worked on the rim of his penis, her head bobbing in his lap, her hair bright in the sunshine. Her tongue lapped like waves against the shore and her mouth was like a velvet purse, and soon his seed spilled into her mouth and throat.
She swallowed the creamy emissions, wiping the excess from her lips and chin. ‘Who is Godmund the Red?’ she asked without preamble.
He jerked back as though she had physically attacked him. ‘What do you know of him?’ he growled.
‘I overheard you mention the name to Rig, that’s all. It’s just that I’m sure I’ve heard it somewhere before.’
He looked visibly relieved. ‘Can you recall where?’
Rowena shook her head. ‘No, but I will try.’
He gave her a tight smile. ‘If it should come to you, I would be interested to hear about it.’
‘Aye, but you still haven’t answered my question,’ she persisted. ‘Who is he?’
‘No one of consequence.’ He got to his feet, ignoring her frown.
She studied his face; it gave nothing away. She had not mentioned her language lessons with Gunnhild, and something prevented her from revealing any more. She dropped her lashes to shield herself from the Eagle’s gaze.
‘You will tell me as soon as you are with child, won’t you?’
The blood rushed to her face and she fanned herself, hoping he would merely think she was hot from pleasuring him. ‘Of course.’
He marched off and she lifted her hands to her burning cheeks. She had almost laughed in his face. If he knew what she did after their mating he would no doubt kill her.
As he made his way to the shieling, Sigurd thought of Rig’s earlier analysis of his wife, his eyes tender as he watched her sleep.
‘She is the daughter of an Irish princess with all the charm and beauty of her breeding, but she has the heart of a Norse warrior.’
His general’s words irked him. His wife had wormed her way into his household and was far too comfortable there; he would have to teach her a lesson.
No matter how she tried, Rowena was unable to forget the conversation she had overheard between Rig and her husband. She mulled it over and over in her head. ‘She is his seed,’ he’d said. He must mean the Serpent’s daughter, and the Serpent must be Godmund the Red. Rig had mentioned that the daughter’s mother was Irish, but there were lots of Irish thralls in the shieling, it could be any of them. She would like to broach the subject with Sigurd, but he had made it obvious he did not wish her to be privy to anything. She muttered an oath under her breath and Gunnhild scolded her for not paying attention.
After her lesson, which they held sitting on a rock on a hill overlooking the homestead, in order to take advantage of the clement weather, she returned to the shieling. When she neared the storeroom a voice called out to her and she opened the door and went inside. A figure was bent over the ice packed gunnel. ‘Did you call me?’
He got to his full height and threw off the cloth that encompassed his head and shoulders. ‘Aye, wife,’ he sneered. ‘I thought we should have some fun together this day.’
‘Sigurd!’ Rowena’s stomach sank; her husband had the mad look on him again. ‘I can’t imagine what you mean,’ she said meekly.
‘Oh, but I think you can, bitch,’ he snapped. ‘Such a sweet-faced bitch, too. But I know differently.’
She didn’t know what she was supposed to have done, but she turned to run from him all the same. But he was far too quick for her and caught her by her hair.
‘Do not think to escape me, Rowena,’ he snarled, snapping metal bands on her wrists and clipping them to chains that hung from huge hooks in the wall. She was hauled up high, her legs dangling and kicking out in vain as she fought for purchase, her arms almost pulled from their sockets.
Her eyes pleaded with him. ‘Please, Sigurd, release me. You cannot be happy to see me so.’
‘Oh, but I am,’ he laughed. Taking a whip from another hook set in the wall, he snapped it in the air and she cringed as it made a wide arc before cracking down in the small of her back. Though she wore a smock and kirtle the whip cut right through them to her skin and she screamed. But he was not satisfied with that and delivered another blow.
Sigurd glared at the beautiful woman he had married, he hated her with such a vengeance he could barely control himself. That he loved her in a strange way, also, he would admit to no one, least of all himself. He was only annoyed that no one else could see the evil in her; no one else could see that she was the Serpent’s seed, but soon they would all know and he would have his victory. The whip rose again and found its mark.
‘Enough, please husband desist,’ she cried as the pain seemed to reach right through her.
‘I cannot, wife,’ he replied, ‘for you are a whore and need to be reminded of who is master here.’
‘You are, Sigurd,’ she sobbed, ‘you are. Now please let me down.’
‘But that’s impossible. I need to see the dew on your sex lips first.’ He shoved a hand between her thighs and inserted his fingers into her sex. The heel of his thumb dug into her clitoris and Rowena sighed as her libido sparked into life. Her body was singing with pleasure, even the pain in her arms and bottom seemed to add to that hedonistic surge.
Sigurd grinned. ‘Your cunny’s sopping, Rowena. Do you have anything you wish to say to me?’ She viewed him blankly. ‘Go on,’ he urged, ‘tell me again who your master is and always will be until I choose differently.’
‘You are my master, husband,’ she said as his fingers played in her sex. ‘And you always will be.’
The following day she worked harder than ever, feeling guilty at having to slip away from the shieling in order to meet Freyjr. She was sorry she had agreed to, for there was so much to be done. The fodder for the coming winter depended upon the success of haymaking, so every pair of hands was needed. Not only were the homefield and the walled meadows mown, but much of the open countryside too. The grass was scythed and raked into swathes, tossed and turned at intervals in order to dry, and dragged to the farm on carts and sledges. As much
as was possible was stored in barns, and the rest was built into haystacks.
She saddled Syn herself and made her way along the bridle path through the wood. When she had ridden a little way she spotted some wild flowers and couldn’t resist sliding from Syn’s back and picking some. There was so little opportunity for enjoyment in her life; this time away from Sigurd was precious. She slipped some flowers into her hair and some she knotted into Syn’s mane.
She wondered how many more beatings she would have to suffer, and how much longer she could rely on Algitha’s douches. More to the point, how much longer would Sigurd wait for an heir before realising she was preventing nature from taking its course?
She mounted Syn once more, talking softly to her as she rode. Syn seemed to prick up her ears and listen and Rowena told her what good company she was. The buttery sun seemed to play with them as they passed through the wood, now in shade, now in bright light. The leaves on the trees made patterns on her clothing and the air was heavy with the scent of crowberry and bearberry.
It was so lovely she didn’t want to go back, but she knew she would have to cut short her picnic with Freyjr in order to return to her work. It was a steep climb up to the meeting place, and she heard the loud roar of water long before she reached the crown of the hill that overlooked the fall. It was her first visit, but Gunnhild had often spoken of the waterfall and its whereabouts, though nothing could have prepared her for the breathless reality.
She reined in Syn and slid from her back. Beneath her was a wide ribbon of sparkling water that thundered down into the river in the valley below. The valley itself was alive with green vegetation, and in the distance were the peaks of the glaciers. She closed her eyes for a split second, it was a mirage, nothing could be so beautiful, but when she opened them again the panoramic view was still set out in front of her.
Now she knew why Freyjr had insisted upon the spot, it was heavenly. When the spell of the falls was broken she glanced around her, there was no sight of Freyjr and she could not wait long. Dragging her rein, Syn nibbled on the succulent grass, flicking her tail over her back.
Rowena waited and waited, then knowing she would be in trouble if she didn’t return, she remounted and made her way back down the steep, stony path. As she did a flash of light, like the flash of a mirror, blinded her, frightening Syn. Rowena cried out as she reared, sending her flying through the air to land in a motionless heap on the ground.
She was unconscious for only seconds, and when she came to her head ached. She sat up unsteadily and felt wetness seep down her sleeve, and touching it with her fingers she saw it was blood. Her hair was matted with blood too, and her leg and hip hurt and would, she knew, be badly bruised, if not worse. But she tentatively tested her limbs and was relieved to find she had nothing too seriously wrong with her.
Syn was nibbling calmly at some grass nearby, and she slowly managed to get to her feet and walk over to the horse to check her over. She sighed her relief; Syn didn’t have any outward signs of being hurt and she said a silent prayer. They had both been saved. But she would give all she had to find out the identity of the fiend who shone a mirror in their eyes causing their accident.
She found it difficult to climb onto Syn’s back again, every part of her throbbed and ached and her return journey was far from comfortable. When she arrived back at the shieling it was to find a worried Gunnhild preparing to send out a search party.
‘What happened?’ she gasped, when the bruised and bloodied young woman rode into the shieling.
Two of the men helped her down from Syn’s back and she was helped into the fire-hall. When she was tended to she explained to Gunnhild about Freyjr and the picnic, the woman’s failure to show and her own subsequent fall. She didn’t mention the mirror, for she didn’t think she would be believed. Even to her own ears it sounded far-fetched, though she was fast coming to the conclusion that Freyjr had lured her to that place in order to cause the accident. She had wanted to kill her, but the Lord had been with her and although the hill was steep and dangerous she had survived.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Gunnhild said, flapping her hands, obviously upset by the accident, ‘one of Svein Asleifsson’s thralls came by with a message for you, to say Freyjr was unable to meet you after all and sends her apologies.’
‘I see.’ Rowena bit her bottom lip, trying not to show how troubled she was. How clever of Freyjr to cover herself!
‘You had us worried half to death, Rowena. Next time you decide to go riding let someone know,’ Gunnhild scolded gently.
Rowena bowed her head. She was ashamed to have caused so much trouble, especially when they were so busy with haymaking. When she apologised Gunnhild patted her arm. ‘You’ve come back safely, that’s all that matters.’ She gave a little wink. ‘Sigurd’s still out in the fields, so we’ll keep this little matter to ourselves.’
Rowena smiled her thanks, and she and Gunnhild put their heads together to come up with a mythical accident in the pastures to explain her injuries. Rowena breathed a little easier, for if Sigurd knew of the trouble she had put everyone to she would surely be treated to another beating.
She retired early that night. Safely back in the shieling she persuaded herself that she had imagined the incident with the mirror. Perhaps the bright sunlight had momentarily blinded them and caused the accident. She smiled to herself; that was the answer. She was far too ready to jump to the wrong conclusion these days.
Rowena awoke in a tangle of bedclothes, gasping for air. Her skin was wet with perspiration and her throat felt as though it was clogged. An awful foreboding stole over her. The acrid smell of smoke filled her lungs and she thought she would surely choke. Freeing herself from the clothes she shivered, slightly disorientated. At first she assumed the smoke from the fire in the hall was drifting into the bedchamber, but then she realised it was not the case at all. The smoke was coming from the foot of the opposite wall! The shieling was on fire!
A solitary candle burned low beside her, but there was enough light to see the curling spirals of smoke seep in through the wall. She scrambled from the bed, catching her foot in the sheet before tripping over her shoes. Regaining her balance she reached the door and tried to pull it open, but it would not budge. She couldn’t understand it; it was not locked from the inside and should open easily. She tried again without success. It was as though something was jammed on the other side preventing it from opening.
Her throat burned, the smoke was swiftly filling the room, curling in the air like grey snakes. Her eyes smarted, tears streaming down her cheeks. She cried out and banged on the door with her fists. Small croaks were all she managed before the smoke started her coughing again. A cold fear engulfed her; was this planned? Had the same person who caused her fall from Syn set the fire and barricaded the door of the bedchamber so she would be asphyxiated or burnt to death?
She became angry; she wouldn’t give in without a fight! Besides, if the fire took hold it would soon burn through to the hall, the thought of her friends in danger motivated her, and she fought her way through the bedchamber, with great difficulty, as sooty fumes found their way into her lungs.
Wiping at her eyes, battling to keep them open, she finally found what she was looking for, the large candlestick by her bed. The candle had burnt lower still, but it still allowed her some light. With a silent prayer on her lips she found her way once more to the door, swung the candlestick and hammered on the wood. The heavy object made more noise than her fists and she knew someone was bound to hear. Though she didn’t know if they would be in time to save her, for she could hear the fire eating through the wall, could see the flames licking at the floor.
Just as the candlestick fell from her hands the door burst open and Rig caught her in his arms. He carried her out into the air and urged her to breathe deeply. The cold air on her face revived her, and she inhaled gratefully, coughing as the black smoke cleared from her lungs. W
hen Rig was satisfied she was all right he wrapped her in his own mantle and relinquished her into Gunnhild’s tender care, before going off to help fight the fire.
She heard Sigurd shouting orders, and thankfully it was under control in a surprisingly short time. She was taken back inside and given a drink to ease her parched throat. Then she bedded down in the fire-hall, and when her husband appeared later, followed by some of his warriors, he viewed her worriedly, his eyes weary from the long night. ‘Are you all right, Rowena?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thanks to Rig,’ she said, smiling gratefully at Gunnhild’s husband. ‘What happened?’
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he explained as he was served some ale. ‘I went riding and spotted the fire from the hill.’
‘The door,’ she croaked. ‘It wouldn’t open.’
‘There was a heavy trunk blocking it.’ Sigurd’s mouth was set in a thin line.
‘I think someone’s trying to kill me,’ she whispered a little desperately, telling him what had happened when she fell off Syn.
‘And you didn’t have the sense to tell me?’ he said coldly.
‘I didn’t think you would believe me,’ she reasoned. ‘Then I began to doubt myself.’
He sighed impatiently. ‘Your lack of faith could have been the end of you.’
Rig saw the little shiver that ran through her and put his body between her and his chieftain. ‘Easy, Sigurd,’ he warned. ‘Your wife has been through a nasty ordeal this night.
‘Who do you think it is?’ she asked, peering anxiously around.
‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘But someone set a fire, using the chickweed that grows outside for kindling. And they made sure you wouldn’t be able to get out of the bedchamber by barricading the door. We scoured the countryside, but could find no one skulking around.’
Rowena couldn’t bear to think what would have happened if Sigurd hadn’t seen the fire from the hillside and rescued her. She had a bad feeling, and it frightened her to know someone out there planned her death.
a Wicked Conquest Page 17
