“I’ve not yet thanked you for saving my life,” he said, drawing closer.
“You owe me no thanks. It was merely an accident,” she rejoined icily. “A terrible mistake,” she added pointedly when his grin failed to vanish.
He pointed at her leg: an arrow had grazed her there, slitting the wool of her under-trousers, and he could see blood staining the edges of the fabric.
“A costly mistake, it would seem.”
She shrugged.
“It’s only a scratch,” she said.
He reached for her leg but she moved back.
“It’s a cut, you stubborn creature. Let me see to it.”
“Keep your hands off me. It’s a scratch; it will heal. The edge of an arrow will not be enough to slay me.”
Svagnar’s eyes narrowed as he searched her face. She seemed genuinely unperturbed by the injury. He could see another injury on her arm, where another arrow must have grazed her, and he remembered the bruise he had seen smeared on her leg. Perhaps the princess believed in her witch's prophecy enough to ignore her injuries. And yet her serenity in the face of danger was unnerving.
Had Owayn trained his daughter in combat? Or had she been subjected to some form of abuse, that she should be so indifferent to the sight of blood, to her own pain? She reminded him of the Veritian soldiers he had fought so many times over the years: joyless yet proud, disciplined and uncomplaining. They found no elation on the battlefield, the way the vikingr did, but there was a cool calculation to their every action. The same cool calculation Svagnar often saw in the princess’s eyes.
“Very well,” Svagnar conceded. This was not a battle worth fighting, not when he still had to bring her back to Fjersfell and compel her into marriage. The gods themselves knew he had plenty of battles yet to fight against the belligerent princess. “Let me cut your ropes, at least.”
She handed him her bound wrists without protest, and he scraped the blade of his axe against the ropes. They fell at her feet and she immediately rubbed the skin, which was raw and red from the rope.
Svagnar felt a pinching pain in his heart. He had not intended to tie the ropes too tightly, but he’d been forced to be hasty and firm when she had struggled against him so vigorously. The princess had not once commented on the ropes or complained of any pain. Even now, her eyes did not focus on the sore skin, but she looked absently out to the sea as she rubbed her wrists.
Svagnar thought to apologise but stayed himself. What was the point in apology? It would not take away her injuries. It would not banish the melancholy frown from her face. If he apologised for the ropes, ought he not also apologise for the arrows that had cut her? For her fever and her injured feet? For stealing her from her own country?
No, there was no point in apology. He had bound her for the same reason he had taken her: to save his country. The suffering of one meant nothing in the face of an entire country’s suffering, generations slain on his own shores as they only sought to defend what was rightfully theirs. This is what he must remember above all things.
Svagnar abandoned the princess to her silence and her thoughts, and instead joined Gunnar and Eirik where they sat, elbows resting on the railing of the ship, talking quietly. The wound on Eirik’s head had been clumsily stitched, and though he had attempted to wash the blood from his face, he was still a frightful vision.
Both men looked up when Svagnar sat next to them with a weary sigh, and Gunnar’s eyes were already full of mirth:
“What a tender scene to witness,” he said. “Between a man and his bride.”
“Don’t start, you old whoreson,” Svagnar said, rubbing his face. He had not realised how very exhausted he was until this very moment - he had no energy to face his cousin’s mockery.
But Gunnar, with the intrepidity of a bear, stayed the course: “Aye, my jarl, but Eirik and I were just discussing what a beautiful union this ought to be. She is a beautiful girl, after all.”
“She’s a rampaging hellhound,” Svagnar corrected.
“A hellhound and a wolf, what better match?”
“Match for what? Bloodshed and mutual destruction?”
Eirik smiled through his bruises: “Didn’t look much like mutual destruction when you were holding her under your furs, Svagnar.”
“Aye, Svagnar, what was happening under there? Some husbandly affection, no doubt.”
Svagnar reached over and cuffed the back of Gunnar’s head, drawing a bellowing laugh from the grizzled warrior.
“I, for one, like her,” Eirik declared, shrugging.
“And I,” said Gunnar. “She’s a spirited one. So what if she spits and curses and yells like a mad beast? I like a woman with some fire in her.”
Svagnar stared at his cousins, incredulous. Had they lost their minds? Were they, like him, forgetting the purpose of this marriage? They were both casting approving glances at the Veritian woman where she sat rigidly, no doubt wishing litanies of plagues and poxes upon Svagnar and his ancestors.
“You forget yourselves, brothers,” he said. “We are doing this for Arkavik - for the peace and prosperity of our land.”
“Aye, but it doesn’t hurt liking the woman you marry, my jarl,” Gunnar said, patting Svagnar’s knee reasonably. “You’ll want to beget sons on her eventually.”
“You are getting ahead of yourself, Gunnar. Come, stop spinning wild tales of love and let us finally get some rest.”
He let them fetch their own furs, but before settling into his, he brought several pelts over to the princess. He could tell she was tired: shadows gathered underneath her eyes and her skin was drawn and ashen. She had already lost some weight, no doubt from her fever, and he felt the same pinch of guilt in his heart as before. She took the furs from him, thanking him courteously, and a surge of sudden tenderness overwhelmed Svagnar.
“Rest well, my-” he stopped himself. “Rest well tonight. Everybody works on the longship, so tomorrow we will expect you to help.”
To his surprise, she made no protest, but merely nodded, settling the furs against her. He knew the hard wood of the ship would not be comfortable, but she settled herself as best she could, propping her head on her arms and pulling the furs over her shoulders. Not knowing what else to say, Svagnar bid her goodnight and retreated, climbing into his furs next to Gunnar and Eirik and the other men whose turn it was to rest.
Although exhaustion crushed him, Svagnar found it difficult to fall asleep. He fought hard and long to resist the temptation to open his eyes and check on the princess. He struggled most to resist the urge to go over to her, to cushion her in his arms and on his chest, to hold her close as he had when she was in the grips of her fever. A part of him missed the warmth of her skin, the feeling of her slim waist under his arm, her dark hair tickling his cheek.
Svagnar wordlessly cursed his cousins. It was them who had fed him foolish ideas he must now fight to ignore. He had mocked Gunnar earlier, but in truth, the thought of putting sons in the proud princess made Svagnar stiffen with pleasure.
Again, visions of bedding her filled his mind: he imagined how he would lay back in his furs, how she would straddle him because she was too arrogant to be rutted into the ground. He imagined holding her small breasts, touching the hard nipples, feeling himself grow impossibly hard as he thrust into her hot, tight sheath.
He imagined how wet she would be for him, how she would moan and gasp and frown in that way she did, her dark brows knitted, her stare defiant. Oh, how he would enjoy slamming her down on him, watching her lose her composure, rolling her over and pinning her to the ground, making her squirm and writhe against him.
Svagnar’s eyes flew open. Ice-white stars filled the night sky, and he wondered whether the gods mocked him: the jarl with the hard cock he could do nothing about, the jarl with the stolen bride he was struggling not to desire. The gods were cruel indeed, to have made this woman so desirable when Svagnar wanted nothing more from her than her title and the protection it would bring his land.
Forcing himself to think of Arkavik, of its frost-touched shores unmolested by war and bloodshed, Svagnar finally felt calm enough to sleep. But it wasn’t before he had cast one last glance over at the princess, who slept curled up in her furs like a wild cat. Comforted, Svagnar finally fell asleep.
The next morning, he awoke to a bright blue sky and the cold rays of a pale sun. Cotton-white clouds drifted low over the horizon, but the wind was swift and brisk - a good day for a sea-voyage. Svagnar emerged from his furs, stretching in the cold wind, feeling rested and contented. He splashed his face with water and broke his fast with some bread and salted fish.
When he strode across the ship to awaken the princess, he was surprised to find that she was no longer asleep. In fact, she was far from asleep: she sat amongst the rowers, her hair in its customary braid draped over one shoulder, her cheeks smeared pink from exertion as she rowed, striving to keep up with the men.
Svagnar stood in shock, watching her earnest face and focused eyes, the way sweat plastered strands of her hair to her forehead. She was not as fast as his vikingr, nor as strong, but she was working with quiet, sturdy determination.
One of his men, Magnar, passed him and stopped, concerned.
“What ails you, jarl?”
Svagnar pointed at the princess: “What is she doing?”
Magnar looked back with a frown.
“She told us you said she was to be put to work like everybody else. We had no other chores for her, jarl, so we put her with the rowers. The wind does not favour us today.”
“She’s rowing?”
“Yes, jarl… she’s rowing. Is that not as you wished?”
“No… no, no, Magnar, you’ve done well. My thanks,” Svagnar patted the man’s shoulder and trudged over to where Gunnar was sharpening the axes near the mast.
“Ah, there he is, the Beast of Fjersfell, the Monster of Arkavik!” Gunnar greeted him, shaking his head. “The man who sleeps whilst his bride works the oars on his longship!”
“Perhaps it is a thrall you need, not a wife, cousin,” Eirik added placidly.
“May you both be dragged into the depths by the great Kraken himself,” Svagnar snarled at them.
He glanced back to the princess. She had stopped briefly to catch her breath. She leaned on her oar and pushed the hair from her face, then took a deep breath and resumed her rowing.
“How long has she been rowing?”
Gunnar laughed: “Since dawn, you tyrant.”
“Well…” Svagnar hesitated, watching her. She seemed tired, but she kept going still. And the look of melancholy had faded from her face, replaced with steely resolve. “Well, she can rest with the rest of the rowers at noon.”
“No wonder you’ve had to steal yourself a bride, if that’s how you treat your women, Svagnar,” sneered Gunnar.
Svagnar punched his shoulder and walked away. He would need to get to work too, lest the princess shame him by working harder than him. He had already drawn Gunnar’s mockery, he would not have his vikingr look upon him as a tyrant to his own bride too. Relieving the oldest of the rowers, Svagnar grabbed the oar and began pushing, trying his best not to cast sly glances back at the young woman who was slowly driving him to madness.
The day passed in a blur of hard work, but dusk brought a kinder wind, allowing the rowers to stop and rest. As night fell, the men lit torches and brought out food. Svagnar rolled out the barrel of honey mead he had saved to celebrate the success of their mission. His men deserved some rest and a feast: they had come far from their home, they had waited on the ship for long days for his return. His plan had been folly, and yet they had been steadfast, never betraying doubt or remorse.
Now they were drawing closer to Arkavik, and the gods had sent them a wind to guide their ship, they would finally celebrate the success of their foolhardy quest. Soon, Svagnar sat amongst his men, laughing, eating and drinking merrily. Eirik ambled over to the princess to bring her some food, and she ate it with her usual lack of grace, observing the men from where she sat by the dragonhead. She seemed unwilling to join the merriment, and Svagnar could not blame her. They were celebrating her abduction, after all.
Once the mead was coursing through their veins, Svagnar and his men became far too merry to let the princess’s glares trouble them. Young Finnr played his lyre, and Gunnar began an old song about a bold hero’s victory on the battlefield. The men picked up the song, their voices deep and thundering across the silence of the open sea.
Svagnar’s heart warmed: there was so much joy in his men’s voices. They saw now the end of the brutal war that had plagued their lives, and the hope that filled them flooded him with pride. Yes, he had done something cruel by taking the princess from her country and her loved ones, but he would do it all over again just to see his men look this joyous and hopeful.
“After all!” he shouted at Eirik as though Eirik represented the voice of his conscience. “She would have married a stranger anyhow! What’s the difference?”
Eirik gave him a confused look, but glanced at the princess and understanding lifted his brow: “Oh, aye, Svagnar!” he said with a laconic shrug. “Wedding a tyrant of Arkavik or wedding a tyrant of Karscha - what's the difference?”
“A tyrant - Eirik, and how am I a tyrant?” Svagnar gestured towards the stubborn woman with his cup, mead sloshing all over his hand. “How am I a tyrant when I - when I cared for her when she was ailing? When I kept her warm and - and-”
He stopped, thinking hard of the ways in which he had shown kindness to the princess. Had he not been patient and kind towards her? True, he had tied her up and called her a hellhound, but he had certainly not been a tyrant. He had not shouted at her after she’d escaped, nor punished her for her threats and insults. Had he not shown mercy and forgiveness when he could have flipped her over his lap and given her pretty little arse a mighty hiding?
“Don’t look so angry, cousin,” Eirik laughed, patting his arm. “Come, I spoke only in jest. If truth be told, I foresee a pleasant future for you two.”
“A pleasant future?” Svagnar barked a sceptical laugh. “I think not, Eirik! All she does is make my head hurt and my cock hard!”
He drank his ale, hoping it would soothe his anger. He had a mind to get up and shout the princess down, make her understand that he was no tyrant, but Gunnar had already swooped down at his side, mirth distorting her face. He had been drawn by Svagnar’s words like a fly to shit, the fool.
“What’s that, Svagnar? You’ve not ravished your princess, have you?” he asked, feigning shock.
“I am Svagnar Vaengrvarg!” Svagnar said, standing and slamming his hand to his chest. “I’m not a man to ravish a woman. If the princess wants to be bedded then let her beg for it.”
He glared over to the princess: she’d eaten her food and gone to curl up against the dragonhead, her arm wrapped around its wooden neck, her head propped against its head. She gazed out at the sea, probably dreaming of home, maybe dreaming of that noble knight she had blabbered about in her fever. What a wretched creature she was. Always so serious and angry.
“I’ve a feeling you’ll be the one doing the begging, by the sound of things.” Gunnar was guffawing, elbowing Eirik. Both men cackled like mad crones, and Svagnar threw his cup at them.
“Have some respect for your jarl!” he commanded furiously.
“I’ve nothing but love and respect for you, jarl,” Magnar said, sitting beside them. He had been watching the conversation unfold with a curious look. “I know not why your cousins speak so. She is hardworking and handsome, why should you not desire her?”
Svagnar turned to Magnar, fixing him with a gawp of disbelief. Magnar was a weathered vikingr, a good family man with much common sense - not a fool like his cousins. How he should spew such nonsense, Svagnar could not fathom.
“Magnar, you-” Svagnar stopped. He had meant to say something about Magnar’s outrageous accusation, but his mind was sluggish, addled by the mead, which must have been stronger tha
n usual. “I do - I desire her only for her…”
Svagnar thought hard.
“I would bed her only to shut her up,” he concluded darkly, satisfied that he had defended himself appropriately.
“She does not strike me as the kind of woman to be bedded in silence,” Eirik said thoughtfully.
“No, indeed. I have a feeling she’ll be the one commanding you in your own bed, Svagnar,” Gunnar said with a satisfied laugh, rubbing his hands in amusement and anticipation.
Svagnar stood.
“I’ll not hear any more of this nonsense.”
“Admit only that you like her then, cousin,” Eirik entreated. “You’ll feel much better for it.”
“When did my own Jarlsguard transform into a circle of gossiping aunts? By the gods, I’ll not have it!” Svagnar stood, wavering for a moment before finding his balance. “I’ll not have it!”
He stormed off towards the stern, to sit alone and brood in silence. He needed to clear his head. His men’s mockeries were distracting him, further muddling his drunken brain.
He did not desire her, not in the way they spoke of. They made him sound like a lovelorn puppy when he had nothing more for her than grudging respect. There was nothing wrong with the grudging respect he had grown to feel for her, and his lust - well, his lust for her was another matter altogether.
He’d not lain with a woman since long before he’d left for Veritier; he’d been far too busy organising the defence of Arkavik in his absence, training his followers, sparring with his guards. There had been no time to see to his own needs. So it was no wonder that travelling with that damned princess would confuse his manhood. He would have been hard for any woman at this point.
It was clear what he needed to do. As soon as they finally reached Arkavik, he would be back within his own power. In Arkavik, he was jarl, leader of a strong people, and all respected him, and any woman would consider herself lucky to be favoured by him. He would take a woman to his bed - perhaps a shieldmaiden. A woman with pale skin and a slim waist and serious eyes, perhaps blue eyes.
Sapphire and Steel Page 6
