Sapphire and Steel

by Violet Froste

  But she was too warm and soft to be a dream, and she felt real enough when she stretched her lithe body against his. She rolled away from him and sat up, her hair tangled around her face, her limbs deliciously bare.

  He admired the smallness of her breasts, how firm they were, how delicately pink her nipples were. He admired the silhouette of muscles he could glimpse in her arms and stomach, how athletic she looked.

  Propping his head on his fist, Svagnar said: “I did not imagine you would be this way.”

  “Hmm?” she looked down at him through fallen strands of dark brown hair. “What way?”

  She slid back into the bed at his side and faced him, watching him those clever, calculating eyes of hers. He had never noticed before how thick and dark her eyelashes were, surprisingly feminine when the rest of her was so cool and hard and marmoreal.

  “Like this,” he murmured, brushing his hand over her arm, her slim waist, her hard stomach. “Dauntless. Strong. Like a warrior or a shieldmaiden, not like a pampered noblewoman.”

  She sighed and looked up at the red canopy of the bed. The frown had returned on her face.

  “That’s because you stole yourself a wife you knew nothing about,” she said finally.

  Something strange lurked in her voice, the same sadness that haunted her face so often, and something else too. Rue. Remorse. Guilt.

  “Aye, I did. And in doing so, I stole a treasure beyond my imagining.”

  As he said this, he pulled her to him, and pressed a kiss to her cheek, hoping to banish the melancholy that harrowed her. The wife of Svagnar should never look this sad in their marriage bed. He vowed to himself he would do anything in his power to banish whatever dread weighed upon her. He would fight any danger she feared, destroy anything that would assail her happiness.

  To his surprise, she returned his chaste kiss with a sensuous embrace, rolling on top of him and wrapping her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed to his chest. Her mouth slid against his with a fervour that made his groin tighten. His hands followed the curve of her body down her waist, her hips and around. His fingers gripped her buttocks and pulled her up so her thighs parted around his hips. His breath caught as his hard cock pressed against the hot, wet softness of her entrance.

  A knock on the door interrupted them, followed by a voice calling: “Jarl! We await your orders for preparing the defences.”

  The words doused the flames of the moment as surely as a bucket of icy water. Svagnar sighed in frustration as his wife slid off him. Sitting up, she hugged herself, staring apprehensively at the door.

  “You should go,” she said. “This is important.”

  “I’ll be in the meeting room in a moment!” he shouted towards the door, climbing reluctantly out of the velvety warmth of the bed.

  Reaching for the clothes he had hastily thrown aside the night before, he pulled on the pale tunic and plain trousers and stood up, buckling his belt. He would bathe and change later when there was time. The princess looked up at him, her face pale and worried.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.

  He leaned forward, taking her face in his hands, and pressed kisses against her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose, her lips.

  “No, my sweet hellhound. Bathe, eat, hunt, train with the shieldmaidens if it should please you. You need do nothing. This is only a matter of precaution. If all goes well, your father will relent when he sees that we are wedded, and I will have prepared my warriors for nothing.”

  She nodded, looking down, and he paused in the doorway.

  “One day, I’ll find out what makes you so sad and I’ll destroy it. I will fight the gods themselves if that’s what it takes to banish your sadness, Adrienna.”

  A look of excruciating hurt crossed her face and disappeared just as quickly, replaced by a tiny smile.

  “You’re a good husband, Svagnar Odliefsen.”

  “And you’re a sublime wife. Farewell for now. When I see you next, I’ll finish what you just started.”

  He left, closing the door behind him. He could not help the ominous feeling that something was wrong - that there was something he was missing. The princess had instigated every act of intimacy between them, and he knew that she had been sincere when she had told him she needed him. And yet he could not help but feel as though something was crucially, horribly wrong.

  Perhaps he was incapable of accepting true happiness. Never had he allowed himself to put his own needs first. There had always been raids, or campaigns, or the war on the shores of Arkavik. There had always been his mother to care for or his people to protect. Worrying about himself and his own heart had never been something at the forefront of Svagnar’s concerns. Perhaps now that he was allowing himself selfish emotions he could not control or fathom them.

  In any case, there was no time to worry. His meeting room was full when he reached it, crowded with his best vikingr, armourers and blacksmiths, advisors and carpenters. He had barely the time to grab an apple and a cup of water before he was arranging battlements and scouts, sending out messages, deploying groups of vikingr at strategic locations along Arkavik’s shores.

  He gave orders to his carpenters and blacksmiths to remain on standby in their forges and workshops, in case they should be needed for reinforcements, paying them handsomely for their continued service.

  Once he was confident that everybody knew their roles and duties, he went to find his Jarlsguard. They were already going through their training drills in the smaller courtyard, most of them bare-chested even in the merciless cold, their sweat turning to steam in the brisk, icy air.

  Gunnar was leading the drills, which meant the men were working especially hard. Svagnar spotted logs stacked at the back of the courtyard and smiled: Gunnar always started by making the men lift and carry the logs. Then they would have sparred in short, violent sessions.

  Svagnar could see that Lief had a cut on his forehead and Gunnar had a slight limp - though both had retained their good cheer. Now the men were picking up their plain wooden shields and lining up, and Svagnar hurried to strip his shirt and grab a shield, joining the line opposite Gunnar, who grinned:

  “By the gods, Jarl Svagnar lives!”

  “Watch your arse, Gunnar. Jarl Svagnar will not rest until it is on the ground.”

  Gunnar squared his shoulder, propping his shield against his shoulder and bracing his legs.

  “Do your best, cousin. I’ll wager becoming a husband has made you soft.”

  Gunnar roared a signal and dropped his arm, and Svagnar slammed into him, their shields colliding with a loud thud. Both lines of men met in the middle, their shields braced, their shoulders shoving into the wood. The lines moved back and forth as each man strove to push the other off his feet through their shields. Svagnar grunted, his face set in concentration. Gunnar was tall and his balance was weaker than Svagnar’s, but the man was thick with muscles and stubborn as a mule.

  Gathering his strength, Svagnar held fast under Gunnar’s crushing pressure. The old man usually overexerted himself early by seeking a quick victory - his pride demanded it. But Svagnar waited, letting the grizzled warrior strive against him. He held, his arms and legs trembling under Gunnar’s weight. His moment would come.

  For a split second, Gunnar breathed in, readying himself to push harder. It was all the time Svagnar needed. In one swift thrust, Svagnar slammed upwards, knocking both shields into Gunnar’s chest. Gunnar took a step backwards, losing ground. Now, Svagnar pressed his advantage, pushing with steady, relentless strength, forcing Gunnar to take another backstep, then another.

  Gunnar did not fall, but his back hit one of the courtyard pillars and he called a halt. The men dropped their shields and stepped apart from each other, panting. Svagnar felt the sweat dripping from his forehead as he grinned at Gunnar.

  “The gods favour you today, it seems,” Gunnar admitted.

  “Aye, and you,” Svagnar said. “For I had a mind to
throw you on your arse. You almost cost me my wedding night, you brute.”

  Gunnar laughed unrepentantly and Eirik appeared at his side, wiping the sweat from his eyes.

  “What happened to the Svagnar who swore this wedding would only be a political manoeuvre?” Eirik asked placidly, raising an eyebrow at Svagnar. “What happened to your cool-headed talk of moving a pawn across a chessboard?”

  Svagnar narrowed his eyes: “And what of it, by the gods? Have I not wed Veritier’s daughter to save Arkavik?”

  “Aye, and did you bed her to save Arkavik too?” Gunnar said, readying himself for the next round of sparring.

  “A simple matter of consummation,” Svagnar said, keeping his voice humble when he wished to beam with satisfaction.

  “A simple matter of keeping up half the castle with the sound of grunting and screaming,” Bjern said, now standing beside Eirik. “It sounded like a wolf slaughtering a lamb in your bedchamber.”

  “I blame myself,” Kylan admitted, shaking his head. The mead from the night before had impacted him greatly, for the skin beneath his eyes was so dark it seemed bruised. “I should never have told your wife you have a big cock.”

  Gunnar roared with laughter and cuffed Kylan on the back of the head.

  “If they do not name their first son after you, Kylan, the gods will weep,” he said. “Now grab your axes. Let us see if the jarl’s still got some strength in him after his exploits in the marital bed.”

  The sparring was arduous, for the guards did not hold back. But Svagnar felt sharper than ever - he had not been entirely wrong when he’d thought lying with a woman would make him feel himself again. He had simply not realised it was lying with the princess that would return him to his former glory.

  Now, he seemed to fight with the strength of ten men, his muscles rolling and straining as he smashed his shoulders and axe into shields. He leapt back from swift attacks, each movement sharp and decisive. He threw his friends to the ground as though they weighed nothing, roaring in triumph, his blood pumping.

  After he had reassured his men that he had not lost his strength in the marital bed, they ended their sparring and went to the great hall in search of food and drink. Svagnar’s eyes immediately searched the wide chamber for his new wife, but she was nowhere to be seen. Instead, he saw his sister sitting amongst the shieldmaidens, who breathed hard as though they, too, had just been training.

  Letting his men find seats and help themselves to food, Svagnar strode to Ylva, who greeted him with a cold look:

  “Good afternoon, my brother,” said she gravely.

  Svagnar frowned.

  “Good afternoon, my sister. What ails you that you should be so formal?”

  “Did you fight with Adrienna last night?”

  Svagnar could not help the half-smile that danced on his lips when he replied: “Fight? No, far from it.”

  “Are you quite sure? She has been in a melancholy mood all day. You did not… you’ve not been loutish, have you?” Ylva was now piercing Svagnar with a searching, suspicious glare.

  “Are you asking me if I ravished my own wife on our wedding night? No - no, I did not, Ylva. Trust me when I tell you she was quite satisfied.”

  “Oh,” Ylva said, looking both relieved and unsettled. “I wonder what ails her, then.”

  “I wonder that too. Perhaps she is homesick…” Svagnar pondered. “Where is she now?”

  “We are going hunting tomorrow. She said she wanted to inspect the horses so she might choose the best one to take.”

  Svagnar frowned. It seemed odd to do that alone, but perhaps the princess had merely wished for some solitude and felt it too impolite to say so. After dropping a kiss on his sister’s forehead, he rejoined his Jarlsguard and ate with them, sinking into a thoughtful silence.

  Perhaps the princess was not homesick - perhaps it was her father’s arrival that tormented her so. Would she feel ashamed that she had been taken, stolen and wed without his permission?

  Svagnar had not thought much of the young woman’s relationship with her father - the man had shipped her off to Karscha like traded goods, after all. He had never imagined that any warmth or connection might exist between them.

  But perhaps Adrienna missed her father. Or perhaps she dreaded seeing him. Dwelling on these matters was an exercise in futility and frustration. The truth was that he would not know his wife’s thoughts unless she made them clear to him.

  That evening, after he had made final inspections of the fortifications, Svagnar returned to his marriage chamber. He opened the door and strode in with determination, intent on confronting the princess on the source of her worries.

  But entering the room, he found a hearty fire burning in the hearth, warm light flooding the chamber, and his new wife standing in a pale grey gown, drinking a goblet of sweet wine as she stared out the window.

  Seeing her immediately flooded Svagnar’s mind with memories of what had passed between them the previous night. She turned when she heard the door close behind him, and his eyes hungrily travelled the length of her. The ash-grey of her gown brought out the snowy pallor of her skin and the azure of her eyes, and her dark hair was in its customary braid over her shoulder. He had not realised how much he loved it when she wore that plain, severe braid.

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  She put her goblet down and approached him, her steps slow but fearless, her eyes meeting his unflinchingly. Though her lips were pale and her straight brows in their perpetual frown, she did not seem sad, this time. She seemed determined, steely, resolved.

  It made Svagnar’s resolve falter and his cock stiffen.

  She stopped once she stood in front of him, and he picked up her braid, sliding his hand down the silken length of it.

  “Why do you always wear your hair thus?” he asked, for no reason that he wanted to know. In truth, he wanted to know everything about her; his fascination was like a disease, consuming him.

  “It is the most practical way to wear my hair,” she answered simply. Reaching up, she touched the wild, loose strands of his hair. “Yours looks like a mane. I wonder it does not drive you mad.”

  “I have not cut it for as long as the war has lasted,” he explained, taking her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. “Once peace is assured, I will cut it clean off.”

  She nodded and said, very seriously: “Then you might come to be known as Svagnar the Bald.”

  “Only by those who wish to die.”

  “Svagnar the Shaved Wolf,” she said, peering up at him from beneath the dark fan of her eyelashes.

  Svagnar swept her into his arms, pinning her against him and kissing her in an attempt to shut her mouth. But she was lewd, and sweetly passionate, this wife of his. Her mouth slid open against his, warm and luscious, her tongue teasing his. He groaned thickly against her mouth as he felt her hands seek the hem of his shirt, pulling it up.

  She broke from him and dragged the shirt over his chest. When he cocked an eyebrow at her, she said: “I told you next time you should be unclothed.”

  “Next time, wife?” he said, his voice thick with lust. He pulled the shirt over his head and threw it aside. “This soon?”

  She looked up at him, and her cheeks were smeared pink with a blush, and her lips were wet and pink from his lascivious kisses. Her hands reached for his belt, unbuckling it.

  “This soon,” she murmured urgently. "Sooner. Now.”

  “The gods truly favour me. They’ve given me a lustful wife,” Svagnar said. “I shall sacrifice to their altars at every solstice until I die.”

  He all but tore his trousers off, kicking his boots aside so that he stood fully naked. He could tell that his body pleased the princess, for her blue eyes travelled his flesh with unhidden hunger. She ran her palm over his broad shoulders, tracing the blue tattoos that decorated his arms and chest. She outlined the raised flesh of his scars. She touched the hard muscles of his belly, following the golden line of hair that led from his navel
to his groin. Biting her lip, she brushed her fingertips gingerly over the hard, straining flesh of his manhood. The delicate touch made him twitch, moisture gathering on the tip of his cock in response.

  She closed her hand on the hard length of him and he groaned deep in his throat. The feral noise made her look up. She gazed up at him with that slight frown of hers, and he feared he would spill his seed right there and then on her hand.

  Plucking her up into his arms, he carried her to the bed, lying back beneath her so she straddled him. He watched her, half-drunk with desire, as she gathered her skirts up and balanced herself on top of him, her hand guiding his cock towards her entrance. He felt himself harden at the sensation of her hot, wet sex closing around the head of his cock. A low growl rumbled from his chest and he curled his fingers into her hips.

  She began slowly lowering herself on his cock, her hands bracing against his chest, her head thrown back. Her eyes were closed and her mouth gaped open in a half-strangled gasp as she adjusted herself to his girth. When she finally took the full length of him, her buttocks resting on his thighs, the low whine of an injured beast escaped her lips. Svagnar allowed a cruel grin to curl his lips.

  “Open your eyes, wife,” he commanded. “Look at me.”

  She did, with the same frown he had fantasised about so many nights. He twitched inside her and stifled a grunt.

  “Unlace your gown,” he said. “I want to see your pretty tits while I fuck you.”

  She did as he bid her, and he felt her tighten around him as she stopped balancing on his chest. She pulled the laces at her throat and pulled her bodice aside. He saw that she was not wearing a chemise, and that the leather string bearing his ring lay against her chest, matching the makeshift ring on his own finger.

  “Gods, what are you doing to me?” he said huskily, staring at the exquisite shape of her exposed breasts

  He brushed his palms over the pink peaks of her nipples, drawing a whimper from her. Closing his fingers over her breasts, he squeezed the soft, firm flesh in his hands. He was so hard he felt he would explode, and he suddenly grabbed her waist, prompting her to move. She obeyed eagerly and began raising and lowering herself on him, her hips grinding against his every time she sank down on him.