by Julia Knight
She began to talk again, but he couldn’t understand her. Her hand pulled at his arm, but he ignored it, refused to meet her gaze. It wasn’t him she wanted. She wanted his help, that was what the kiss was for. And he couldn’t give it, so he wouldn’t take her kiss, or anything else she offered, wouldn’t take advantage of her need. Wouldn’t dishonour Sigdir’s future bride, no thrall at all he saw now, the collar gone from her neck, but still he could see it on her soul. He wouldn’t be like his brothers. If nothing else, he would not do that. He opened the door for her but couldn’t look her in the eye.
Wilda stared at Einar’s back. And he was Einar, not Toki, not a simpleton, not mute. It was in the way he looked at her, a shadow behind his eyes. Einar was still in there, waiting to come out.
She wasn’t sure what had possessed her to kiss him. Maybe because she saw the same things in those shadows as were in her own heart. Because who she appeared to be was not her. Something had snapped inside, so hard she would have sworn she heard it. She didn’t want to be Lady Wilda anymore, she never had. She had done everything she’d been asked, had walked with grace, had spun and sewn and woven when she would have rather been running, out on the beach, down among the orchards. She had let them hem her in, had wanted to be hemmed in maybe. She had let herself die, let herself be blown along with a cold heart, and now, now something about him was bringing her back to life.
Just in time for her to be married off to a brute. This was a fool’s errand, a false hope, that a man who refused to speak, who was treated as badly as any thrall, could help, and yet it had been her only hope, one now cruelly dashed. He couldn’t help her, she’d known that from the way his face clouded when she asked, the way he looked away as though ashamed.
That was what had made her snap—that it was hopeless, useless, that all the lessons she’d been taught in how to be a lady were for nought because she had to marry a heathen, a barbarian, had to bear his children and let him take Bayen’s lands and could do nothing to prevent it. That, and how Einar denied even his own name in favour of being called simpleton.
She didn’t know what had happened to him to make it so, only that she couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear that the man who’d saved her life, who’d shown her kindness in a land of barbarians, whose every action seemed to her one of quiet courage, taking what everyone threw at him, was reduced to this. She didn’t even think of him as heathen anymore, he was only Einar. And she knew it was a sin, against her faith in God, but she didn’t care. If kissing him was a sin, she didn’t want to be virtuous. If no one could help her, and she knew now that no one could, then by God, she was going to make sure she had one night first.
Soon she’d be married to Sigdir, in a heathen’s bed. If she was going to bed one, she didn’t want him to be the first, because she’d found a good, kind man and she wanted him to know it. She wanted to throw away every last shackle, every last restraint, just for once, for one night. The lady they’d made her hadn’t helped, so she was going to be herself instead. Damn “practical” and “reliable.”
Snow and icy air swirled in through the doorway, and she shut the door with a bang.
“Einar, look at me.”
Still he wouldn’t, seemed only able to stare at the floor. Her hand found his again, the roughened skin prickling on her fingers like fire. The tingle of it travelled up her arm, through her chest. She knew now why she’d kissed him, not for any of those reasons. Because she wanted to, because of the way he looked at her, the thought behind his eyes, the way his touch caused such a thrill in her belly. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him again, let herself linger in it as she never had before, kissed him as she’d never kissed anyone before. Because she wanted to, because it made her heart thud and her ears ring.
He pulled away again, and her lips ached to kiss his, to kiss around the strong cheekbones, over his wide dark eyes with their shadow behind. To kiss down and round, discover the strength of him under his shirt, make his brilliant smile light up his face like sunrise on snow. Now she’d let it out, she couldn’t put it back in. But the way he stood, hunched against the blows of his life, burned her, made her want to cry bitter tears for him.
His eyes found hers, and he looked at her at last, but she didn’t see what she expected. Men lusted, she knew that, and that’s what she’d expected to see, lust or passion or something like it, not this hesitancy or the deep flush creeping up his neck as though he was embarrassed.
How long had he lived here alone? In the meanest hut, far on the edge of the village. How long had they been calling him simpleton or worse, cutting him apart from them? How long had it been since he’d been with a woman, if he’d been with one at all? That was when all was laid bare for her to see, when she remembered her wedding night and her nerves.
He seemed to gather himself then, stood up straighter and took a deep breath before he leaned down and planted a kiss of his own. It was slow at first, just a touch of lips but when she didn’t pull away, the kiss grew. His hands took hers and drew her into him, into his warmth and strength, and stars spun in her head, making her drunk with feeling. Now she knew what it was the bards sang about, why Tristan and Isolde had done what they had, why men wrote poems and sagas and women swooned over them. The bards had not lied.
He pulled her closer still until she could feel his heart beat near hers, until there was nothing left in the world but him and his kiss. Until she could take it no more. She had to go, and soon, back to Sigdir, back to the spectre of his bed, but he would not be first. Einar had saved her once before and he could again, could give her a memory of how it should be to last her through forever.
She stepped away from him, from his suddenly unsure eyes. She smiled to reassure him and undid the brooches that pinned her apron dress, taking the time to savour his amulet in her hand for a moment. All the protection he could give her, leaving him none for himself, and he’d done it without hesitation. A different kind of courage. She dropped the apron and started on the kirtle. He stepped forward with a shake of his head, but she pushed his hand away when he would stop her. Nothing would stop her.
Tonight she was going to be the woman she always wanted to be. Her boots landed carelessly behind her. The kirtle came off over her head, and she was naked before him, and she didn’t care if she was wrong, or if she’d be damned to hell. It would be worth it, because she knew now that she loved him, had known when she’d first taken his hand and felt her heart race, or before that, when a man who never spoke warned her to run, gave her the only protection he had, risked all he held dear for her. One night might be all she would ever get, and she was going to take it.
Einar stood with his back to the fire, his hands twitching by his sides. He licked his lips. “Wilda, no.”
“Wilda, yes,” she said in his tongue, one of the few words she could manage, and took a step forward. He said nothing when her hands slid under his rough homespun shirt, but she felt the way he shivered at her touch and she smiled. Soon the shirt was in a heap on top of her dress. She ran her hands over him, tangled her fingers in his hair, trailed them over warm lips, across shoulders broad enough to shelter her from anything, make her safe from anyone. Over muscles taut and strong from hard work, over the scar on his back where he’d taken a sword meant for her. Felt the quiet and gentle strength of him. Who could ever think such a man a coward?
The hesitant touch of his hands made gooseflesh prickle all over her, made her quiver as his fingers sent thrills up her back, down round into her belly and below. One hand came back to stroke at her cheek, to turn her face up to his, gentle against the bruising. She pressed into him when he kissed her, let his skin warm hers, warmer than she’d ever been, she was on fire with it. Her heart, so cold for so long, broke free of its ice.
She kissed him back, harder, hungrier, and all hesitancy fled from him and his touch. His hands were swift on her, drawing shivers and thrills behind them, over her back, along the curve of her throat and down, over her collarbone. His mouth followed,
now soft butterfly kisses, now hungry, and the shivers turned to heat, down over her breasts, over a nipple where his warmth and his tongue stroked it to standing.
She pulled his head to her, pushed herself into his mouth. It had never been like this, never had she been so full of want, full of heat and need. Bayen had never kissed her so, as though he wanted to be part of her, never stroked her as though each touch could convey a depth of his heart.
They couldn’t talk, not so the other would understand, but words didn’t matter where actions did, where the softness of a touch, the hunger of a mouth, the gasp of a breath told her everything, and she hoped told him everything too.
He raised his head, but didn’t kiss her again, not yet. The back of one knuckle drifted over her cheek and she leaned into it, like a cat. His sudden, brilliant smile pierced her heart. With a tug on his hand, she pulled him to the bench, drew off his breeches and soon they joined the rest of the clothes on the floor.
She wanted to take all night, all month, all year kissing him, receiving his kiss and touch, but they had no time, and even if they had, she didn’t want to wait. She pushed him down on the bench and sat astride him, feeling wanton and abandoned. Again, his mouth was on her throat, kissing around the curve of her jaw, lips soft and tantalising. He pulled her closer, till she could feel the heat of him along her belly.
When he ran a hand along her stomach, light as feathers, when she kissed his neck and face, smoothed her hands over his strong back, when his hand delved between her legs, slid across and in, making her shudder with a want she’d never known…she wanted to savour every moment, and she wanted him to be with her, in her, now. She wanted the heat in between her legs to never stop, and she wanted it to blow away against him. She raised herself up and leaned forward, her mouth by his ear but no words to say, even if he’d have understood them.
He pressed against her thigh and she pressed back, wanting, needing, now, and nothing else existed. Only him, and her and the furs and the fire. She wasn’t a lady-become-thrall, not a Saxon, he wasn’t a heathen, or a ragged man on the edge of existence. When she slid down, when he grasped her hips and moved in return, the heat of him pierced her and they were two as one, needing and desperate. She moved against him, a long slow slide that made her moan aloud, pulling against him, helpless to the heat within, a slave to that too.
His mouth found hers, urgent, hard, and hers was frantic in return. Their rhythm picked up, in time to her racing heart, until she couldn’t tell one beat from another. He whispered against her neck, words she couldn’t know, not halting now but a fluent river, a flood of words. It wasn’t the words that entranced her, but how he said them—soft but raw, whispered but full of fervour. A last thrust and she was lost to it, to the tremor of her limbs, the heat between her thighs, the words on her throat. Lost to him.
Oh my Lord…
She cried out, unable to move, to do anything but cling to him, her face buried in his neck, pressing against him as though she could make an imprint and keep him within her forever.
Chapter Eleven
If thou fain wouldst win a woman’s love,
And gladness get from her,
Fair be thy promise and well fulfilled.
Havamal: 130
Einar pulled Wilda’s trembling body toward him, laid her head on his chest and looked down at her, at the length of her body against his. Warm, inviting, and not his to keep, not his at all. Just a gift she’d given him in return for what he couldn’t give her. He almost wished she’d not come here, not shown him this, not asked for help this way. Almost. Her eyelids fluttered and she moved closer, her arm around him, her breath on his neck, soft and not yet steady. Her heartbeat was a flutter against his chest.
He couldn’t help her, had no way, and yet he couldn’t let her go back to that, to Sigdir. Not to be married to him. There must be something, some way. He only had to gather the courage to try, and maybe now he could. Maybe he could find it, if it was for Wilda, could risk everything, even his life.
She’d saved him once before with a well-placed knife, and now she had again. A different sort of knife, a blade that pierced his heart, one that had given him back what he’d forgotten he’d lost. He’d return the favour even if he could never leave, not while Bausi still had the rune-curse on him. He would do it, for her, the best gift he could give her, let her go and find the man who deserved her, who could give her all she could wish for.
Yet for now she had to go, back to Sigdir’s. If they found her missing in the morning, here would be the first place they’d look. If Sigdir hadn’t harmed her yet, there was a hope he’d not touch her till the wedding, not dishonour his own future wife. Einar had time to find a way. He had to have time, and to use that time well.
She stirred and the feel of her skin sliding against his sent a shiver along him. He didn’t want her to go. If she had to, first he wanted to know her again, to join her and suck the soul from her, so all Sigdir would have of her was skin and bone. He kissed her back to full wakefulness, a sated look to her, a softness he’d not seen there before that pulled at him. He took a heartbeat to study it, to burn it into his mind, a memory to bring out on dark nights when he needed it, when he was alone and silent again, and he would be. This would not happen again, it could not.
Her mouth twisted down and her glance flicked to the door. “Sigdir.” She said some other words he didn’t know, but he knew her meaning. She had to get back.
She made to sit up, but his hand stopped her.
“Wilda, Toki will help you run.” A wild promise, and one he didn’t know how to keep. A bad thing he did, against what the gods taught—never promise what you can’t keep, and when you give your word, keep it like iron. He no longer cared. She’d given him too much not to give her something in return, even if it was only hope. He’d laid his worth in inaction, in silence all this time. Now was the time to show his courage in action.
“Run?”
He was decided now. He didn’t know how, but he was going to find a way, one that meant they all lived. He nodded briefly and mimed a sunrise, over the mountains to the east. It took a few attempts, but he was well-practised at signing and soon she caught his meaning. He held up two fingers. Two days. Within two days, he would find a way. They could run up the mountain, try the pass. Yet he needed time to prepare, because otherwise they would die on the path.
“Toki will help you run. Far and far.” Einar could get her to the lip of this valley, no farther, but he could get her away enough so she could run. To Harald Gulskeg King, maybe. He was old and wise, and said to be a good man. He would see, he would help. He would have skalds and netweavers and magic to call on, to help them both. Maybe, if all men weren’t become like Bausi in these last years.
Einar could save her, and that would be enough. Another small thing to say before Odin.
Her smile was fragile, as though she knew he was only trying to comfort her, but her fingers stroked through his hair, a softness that he stored with the look, for the remembrance of what a kind touch was. “Einar. No Toki. Einar.”
No, no matter what he did, he’d never be that boy again, never Einar. Never face such things with a blithe braveness, with little thought to the courage he’d once known. That she thought of him that way was a warm twist in his heart.
She dressed with swift, elegant movements, her face sharp with the beginnings of dread at what she was returning to. He couldn’t let her go, he couldn’t, but he had to. Sigdir would kill him else, maybe kill them both. He still might. Einar’s own death might be a mercy, but not hers. She had to live. But he couldn’t let her go alone.
“No.” He stood and grabbed up his knife, the heavy scramasax, closest he had to a sword. “Not to Sigdir. Stay. I’ll help you run. Now. Stay.”
Her eyebrows curved down as she tried to work out what he said.
“No Sigdir,” he tried, and at the name, at the bruise on her face, his grip tightened on the haft of the knife. He didn’t care what it took. Sigd
ir hadn’t been a brother for long years, and he was losing Gudrun too. He couldn’t lose Wilda, not now he’d found her. Not if he had to brave a dragon at his den.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to do, but it wasn’t the quick, soft step to reach him, the gentle hand on his cheek that traced down his neck and left five lines of fire behind it, the almost invisible shake of her head.
“Myldrith.”
The word was meaningless. He took her hand and engulfed it in his own. “No Sigdir.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. They hung there like a late icicle, wet but not ready to fall. She pulled away and mimed, as he had, two sunrises. She meant to go back though he couldn’t think why, what reason she’d have to go back into the den when he’d help her, would do anything now to help her. She smiled, a soft, sad thing, at his confusion. “Myldrith,” she said again, “Myldrith and Wilda and Einar, run.”
She pulled on her boots. Determined to return. Myldrith run…hadn’t Sigdir brought another girl back with her? Agnar had mentioned a new thrall, possibly in Sigdir’s bed. Of course, Wilda would want to help her too. But it was Wilda who was in the biggest danger…
She turned away, a frown marring her face. If she stayed, then Sigdir would come. Here would be the first place he’d look, and then everything would collapse into Niflheim. He had to let her go, for now, so he could save her later, but it still felt like cowardice and he was sick of that in him.
Finally she was ready to brave the snow and wind, to brave Sigdir’s house. He wished he had the same courage. Yet she thought he did, and that was enough to give him some. Enough to do this, enough to not feel as ashamed.
