“Thank you,” Svagnar’s touched his shoulder, careful not to disrupt the healer’s hand. He hesitated, then asked: “Has Ylva returned?”
Eirik smiled: “Yes. Your princess is in her bedchamber, resting.”
Svagnar narrowed his eyes and said pointedly: “Thank you, cousin. I will go see Ylva now.”
But it was straight to the princess’s chamber he strode. He had not seen her since they had arrived in Arkavik, and though he felt a lot more clear-headed from being away from her, a part of him missed her. She was like a tormenting pain that, once vanished, might leave an aching emptiness behind. That was how he missed the princess; he missed the stress and ire she brought upon him.
When he reached her door, he paused. Would she even want to see him? Probably not. It would be a miracle if she was in fact still in her chamber. Knowing the troublesome hellhound, she was probably halfway through climbing a makeshift rope dangling from her window in another madcap attempt at escape. Frowning and already annoyed in anticipation, Svagnar knocked upon her door firmly.
“Come in!” responded Ylva’s voice.
Svagnar pushed the door open. The room Mikkel had prepared for the princess was pleasant, a generous fire burning in the hearth. Ylva lay idly on the bed, her golden hair dangling off the side, staring towards the windowsill where the princess sat, her head on her bent knees, her arms wrapped around her legs.
Svagnar stopped, staring at the young woman, realising he had never seen her in a dress before. She wore a shift of soft grey wool and a blue apron dress, her slim waist tucked into a fine leather belt, her dark brown hair in its damned plait thrown over one shoulder. She wore no adornment, no kohl around her eyes, and yet her clean skin itself was like an ornament: clear and flawless and pale as fresh-fallen snow, her large eyes framed by dark eyelashes, a little rosy flush upon her cheeks.
When he entered, she looked up at him with her customary thoughtful frown. In truth, Svagnar quite liked the way she seemed so solemn at all times. It was an expression she wore even when she slept. It leant her an air of gravity that oddly pleased him.
The weight of Ylva crashed against his chest, interrupting his thoughts.
“Svagnar!” she was saying, squeezing his neck and filling his vision with the gold of her hair. “How I’ve missed you! I’ve seen to Adrienna just as you asked. How are you? How was Veritier? The princess has been telling me much of this land - I've a feeling you must have hated it!”
“Aye, it was the muddiest place I’ve ever seen,” Svagnar said, kissing the top of Ylva’s head.
She looked up at him, peering at his face, reading imaginary things there. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the princess and said archly: “Tell me about it later, Svagnar. I'll leave you to speak to your bride.”
She hurried towards the door. Before closing it, she peeked her head back through to add: “Do not- do not be a lout!”
And then the door slammed shut, and she was gone. She could not have left a heavier atmosphere of awkwardness if she had tried, this sister of his, with her implications. Svagnar had no intention of being a lout, as his sister had so eloquently put it, no matter how radiant the princess appeared, in her soft dress with her dark hair on her shoulder.
Before he could open his mouth to speak, the princess slid down from the window’s ledge, and stood very straight, her hands clasped: “I would like to express my deepest apologies for the ki- for my father’s attack upon Arkavik yesterday.”
Too surprised to speak, he gaped at her as she continued: “Not just yesterday’s attacks. All the attacks. I cannot justify them. They are aberrant, and I’m sorry that Veritier has never attempted to stop them.”
Her face was so earnest it brought a strange, aching pain in his heart. Her eyes were wide and glittering, her hands clenched each other so tightly he could see her knuckles turn white. This had been troubling her; it was clear to see.
“I am under no illusion that this war is in any way your fault, princess,” he hurried to say. “Do not apologise for your father. I will not lay the responsibility of his actions at your feet. I have no… I have not brought you here to punish you for your father’s crimes,” he added, unsure of how to express what he needed to tell her. “When I took you from your land, it was not out of hate for your father or yourself. I took you because it was the only way I could devise to save Arkavik without spilling more blood.”
She nodded, dropping her gaze to the floor, a touch of colour spreading across her cheeks: “I know, I understand... your people have suffered much, and you are doing what you must, but…”
She suddenly looked up, her mouth open in the shape of words, yet silent. Her eyes were huge, bluer than twilight upon a glacier, bluer than a fistful of sapphires. Moisture glimmered there like crystals, but she did not cry. She seemed to brace herself to say something but lost her courage in the depths of his gaze, and her shoulders slumped. She closed her mouth, saying nothing.
Svagnar could not fathom the source of her despair, but he could guess. He raised his hand and spoke swiftly: “This marriage will not be a prison to you… Adrienna. You will have every freedom you desire here in Arkavik. You shall come and go as you please, so long as the peace between our countries continues. I have no intention of forcing you to my bed or compelling you to give me something you would not.”
Her cheeks were now crimson, and she refused to meet his gaze. Yet even as he spoke, the thought of forcing her to his bed made Svagnar’s breath catch in his throat. He could see the shape of her small breasts pushing against her dress as she breathed hard; he could not help but wonder at the softness of her skin. He had felt the need to comfort her on the matter of their marital relations - and in the process had only managed to embarrass her and trouble himself.
She said nothing more, her eyes fixed stubbornly upon the furs beneath their feet. Svagnar suddenly became aware that they both stood near her bed, and that awareness sent flames coursing through him. He wanted the princess to look at him, to speak, to tell him what ailed her. Above all, he wanted her to tell him he would not need to force her to his bed, that she would come to it willingly. But this was only his frustration voicing itself. So Svagnar took a step back and said: “If you should wish to speak to me, or if you should need anything, you will find me in the hall, or in my chamber. For now, I will take my leave.”
She nodded, still avoiding his gaze. He left. For a while, he stood on the other side of the door. Something was troubling her, but he could not fathom what. He had been courteous and kind towards her, and she had made no complaints about anything. Her apologies to him sounded sincere, and he was certain that she meant the sympathy she had expressed. Whatever was bothering her was too painful for her to express, and in the meantime, here he was, the Beast of Fjersfell, unable to stop himself thinking about her in his bed.
Shaking his head, he stomped back towards the main hall. A generous supper was being served there as it always was straight after dusk, and the hall smelled of roasted meat, warm stew, fresh-baked bread, smoke and wine. Gunnar, Eirik and Kylan sat drinking and eating heartily in their usual corner, and Svagnar joined them, already knowing that they would only make his mood worse.
“Did you find her?” Eirik asked immediately when he sat down.
“Oh, aye, I found Ylva,” Svagnar growled in response, cutting himself slices of meat and piling them high upon his plate.
“And your bride?” prompted Eirik.
“She is in fine health,” Svagnar snapped.
“And so whence this wrath, cousin?” asked Gunnar. “Your countenance could petrify the gods themselves! What ails you?”
Svagnar sighed and against his better judgement, told the truth: “There’s something bothering the princess. She won’t tell me what.”
Gunnar frowned: “Might it not be the fact that we have stolen her from her rightful husband, her own land and her people?”
“Aye, or that she will soon be forced into a marriage she never wanted?” K
ylan asked bluntly through a mouthful of cheese.
“Or that you are always scowling so fearfully?” Eirik added placidly. “She probably thinks you hate her - you’re evermore storming around and calling her a hellhound.”
“I’ve been most courteous towards her!” Svagnar protested. “I’ve told her I bear her no hate. I’ve even assured her I would not force her to my bed!”
“Oh?” Gunnar leaned forward. “Did you give her the impression that you would do such a thing?”
“No, but-”
“Answer this, Svagnar,” Gunnar pointed an accusatory handful of meat towards Svagnar. “Do you want her in your bed?”
Svagnar thought hard. Of course, he did. How could he not? She was strong and stubborn and beautiful, and she had that serious countenance he longed to melt into ecstasy. But he had already established this was merely the feverish thoughts of a lust-addled mind.
“I just need a woman in my bed,” he said. “Travelling with her has confused my loins and my mind. I could take any woman to bed and soon forget about her.”
Gunnar seemed disappointed but shrugged and said: “Well, you’ve always had your pick, Svagnar. Merry hunting to you, you lecherous dog.”
Svagnar ignored him and ate in thoughtful silence, staring about the hall. Some servant girls were beautiful and buxom, curvaceous girls such as he normally preferred, with flaxen hair and bold smiles. He glanced away from them - they were not what he sought. He cast his look next towards the three shieldmaidens who helped protect the castle. They were women he admired and respected, and they were strong and slim, to be sure. One of them was of the right age and colour, but her hair was pale as hay, her eyes green as glass. She was pretty, but her countenance was open and mirthful, and Svagnar felt no stirring in his loins when he looked upon her.
He eventually left the hall in a worse mood than when he had arrived. That night, he lay in bed tossing and turning, wondering what the princess was doing. Was she struggling to sleep as he was? She had always seemed to possess the uncanny ability to fall asleep swiftly and easily, but Svagnar imagined what else she might be doing. Perhaps she was undoing her dress, pulling free the laces and dropping the fabric at her feet. Perhaps she was sliding into a hot bath, her pale skin submerged in perfumed water, her pretty head resting against the edge of the tub.
Svagnar felt himself grow immediately and painfully hard at the thought. He pictured himself returning to the princess’s bedchamber, lifting her from her bath, laying her wet and hot upon the furs by her hearth. Stroking his cock, he imagined sliding his hands over her flat belly, over those small, firm breasts, he imagined her little gasp as he brushed his calloused fingers over her delicate nipples. He imagined catching that gasp into his mouth, kissing her long and slow even as he rolled her beneath him, settling his hips between her legs as he had done in the abandoned barn. He imagined driving himself into her, the torment of her tight, hot sex engulfing him, penetrating her with his tongue as he did with his cock. He imagined her cries of ecstasy, the way she would arch against him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her sapphire eyes wide with the shock of her climax.
The image sent a spasm of pleasure so hard through Svagnar that he came with a deep groan, spilling his seed over his fist. He lay, panting and alone in his bed, both satisfied and furious. What had this infernal hellhound driven him to, stroking himself like an adolescent boy?
One thing was certain: sex with another woman would resolve nothing. Only one thing could solve his problem: bedding the Veritian woman once and for all. Then, he would finally put these absurd, lecherous fantasies to rest. Then, Svagnar assured himself, he would be back to normal. And he would never need to think of her naked again.
Chapter IX
Aster the Fearless
Life at Fjersfell was not as Aster had imagined it would be. She had expected the dislike and disdain of the Arkaviki, but in fact, they were a hardy, calm people, prone to optimism and laughter. The shieldmaidens and vikingr were well-trained and hardworking. Not disciplined and dutiful like the Veritian soldiers in the barracks had been, but finding genuine joy and pride in their training. It reminded Aster of her elation when she had begun training alongside the guards in Hawksmoor.
She missed her own Princessguard sorely. As the days passed, Aster took to sitting at a window, watching the vikingr spar in the small courtyard. She missed the thrill of training and wondered if she might one day persuade the shieldmaidens to let her train with them. After all, Svagnar would discover the truth eventually, so she might as well be sharp when the moment came to fight for her life.
As days passed in Fjersfell, Aster struggled to remind herself that these people were dangerous to her. She knew that the moment they learned of her deception, they would turn on her. And yet… she could not help but accept the hands of friendship they extended to her.
Above all, Ylva’s affection was the most lovely and most damning. The young woman had taken an obvious liking to Aster, and she ensured that Aster never felt alone or bored. She took her through the city, bought her some books for the long winter evenings, tried to teach her how to play the lyre. She regaled Aster with tales of myths and legends and taught her about the gods and goddess. They spent most evenings in their habitual positions: Ylva on Aster’s bed and Aster perched on the windowsill with her arms wrapped around her legs.
Sometimes, Ylva would be busy with other things and then Aster would sit with the shieldmaidens in the great hall, quizzing them about their training, their lives, Arkavik.
Aster greatly admired the shieldmaidens: in Veritier, training to fight was considered unwomanly and vulgar, so most female guards and soldiers were low-born and poor. It was difficult for women to become knights or aspire to a higher ranking in Owayn’s army. But in Arkavik, the shieldmaidens were a rank all of their own, respected and beloved. The shieldmaidens of Fjersfell were stout, friendly women, and Aster quickly grew to like and respect them.
Most troublesome of all was Svagnar: every night in the great hall Aster sat near the shieldmaidens, surreptitiously observing the jarl. His guards loved him fiercely, Aster could see it in their faces, in the way their eyes lit up when he sat amongst them. He treated them like his friends and brothers, not inferiors as Owayn treated his Kingsguard.
Svagnar was not only close to his Jarlsguard. He was respectful to all those he addressed: his sister, the shieldmaidens, his warriors, his servants, the citizens of Arkavik. Aster could not miss the way they looked at him, the adoration and admiration in their eyes when he spoke to them. He seemed to have no formal throne-room and made no use of ambassadors or emissaries. Anybody that wished to speak to him could do so freely. Most in Fjersfell and the city seemed to have known him for a long time, and he spoke to them all as though they were friends or kin.
She loved above all watching him speak with Ylva. She was more serious than her brother, but he never failed to make her laugh. He spoke to her with respect and affection, and he lavished her with unashamed tenderness, always greeting her with a kiss upon the forehead. Svagnar disliked Ylva going out without guards, and yet he never berated, never criticised her. Anything she asked from him, he would give or grant without hesitation.
As time went on, Aster could not help but compare him more and more to King Owayn. Where Owayn was cold and distant, Svagnar was friendly and familiar. He visited the wounded vikingr himself, he oft oversaw the training of his Jarlsguard, he listened to any Arkaviki that travelled to Fjersfell. If his warriors were going out to hunt, he would accept any invitation to accompany them. If Ylva wanted to ride on the beach without guards, he would go with her.
Owayn had always ensured that he went everywhere with great decorum and ostentation, but Svagnar would go with a few of his guards - if any. He wore no crown, no jewel, no cape. He wore only his plain dark wool and leather, his cloak of furs, his long hair shaved at the sides and scraped back into a braid or a knot. Wherever he went, the only sign of his rank was the respect and devotio
n his people treated him with.
He was a busy man, and he had not visited Aster’s bedchamber since the night she had almost told him the truth. After he had left, she had spent long hours berating herself for being a coward.
She had decided that ultimately, telling him the truth would help neither of them. She needed to find another solution. Not a day went by that she did not ponder what to do. Her salvation seemed to lie in the only thing Ylva had asked her not to do: running away.
But how could she possibly achieve this? She was in a foreign land, easily recognisable by her Veritian accent, and even if she escaped Fjersfell, she would need to cross the sea to return to Veritier. And even if she managed, by some miracle, to steal a longship, she knew not the first thing about sailing or navigation. She could try to run away inland, hide in the Arkaviki wilderness. But winter was fast approaching, and winter in Arkavik promised to be dark and deadly.
For now, she would need to bide her time. Her main concern was ensuring she could defend herself if the truth were discovered. Nobody seemed to keep much track of what she did or where she went, but everybody in Fjersfell knew who she was. She would need to await an opportunity to find and steal a weapon for herself.
One morning, Aster sat on a step in a corner of the courtyard. The air was growing ever colder, and she held her fur-lined mantle tightly around her shoulders. Her hood was pulled over her head, protecting her face from the icy wind as she watched the shieldmaidens spar with shield and axe. They were beautiful, powerful women, these shieldmaidens, hardworking and well-trained. They sparred ferociously, slamming each other into the snow that blanketed the ground, exchanging curses and praise in equal measure.
“Do you hunt, hellhound?”
Aster jumped at the sound of Svagnar’s voice. She turned to see that he stood behind her, pulling on leather gloves and smiling slightly. His beard was freshly trimmed, making him appear more youthful, and his scar was viciously red as it crossed every one of his handsome features. When he gazed at her his eyes were as grey as the snow-bearing clouds that gathered over the mountains, and Aster frowned, annoyed at how flustered she suddenly felt to find him so near.
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