Ragnar & the Slave Girls (Ragnar the Dane)

by Byrne, Lily

  Two women loitered outside the hall, hair loose about their shoulders despite the chilly air.

  “Good evening, Bjarni,” they chorused, one twirling a strand of hair in her fingers, the other fiddling with the neck of her tunic.

  “Ladies.” He bowed his head a little towards them and ushered them into the hall in front of him.

  *

  “So, we must talk about babies,” said Ragnar at supper.

  Aelfwyn bit her lip.

  “The midwife told me you shouldn’t have any more,” he continued.

  “I went to see her and she gave me a list of things to stop babies coming.” She sobbed. “It’s not fair! I so wanted to have a big family.”

  He squeezed her hand. “But at least you’ve had Alvi. I just don’t want you to die because of me.” Tears pricked his eyes.

  “It must be the will of God,” she mumbled.

  He knew immortals decided life for people, whether they still believed in the old gods as he did, or turned to the new Christianity, like Aelfwyn. But even so …

  “I don’t think it’s the will of God for you to die, though, or the midwife wouldn’t have told us how to prevent it.”

  “She said we have to mix up things to make a paste.”

  “What?”

  “We need dates, acacia bark and honey.”

  “Sounds more like cooking.” He suppressed a smile.

  “Well, it isn’t.”

  “As long as I don’t have to put them on my cock.”

  She slapped his arm. “No, they go inside me, fool. We’ll have to go to Gippeswick to buy such things.”

  “Or I could go on my own.” He liked the idea of a journey; life in Hallby had been a struggle lately. “It would be easier than all three of us going.”

  “Yes. You’re right. Very well, you can go alone.”

  She wondered what the paste would feel like inside her. Would it feel slimy? Or cold? But surely it couldn’t be worse than giving birth, or having her monthlies. She smiled to herself, thinking how particular she’d been when still a virgin. Now she was used to mess everywhere: blood, semen, milk from her breasts, Alvi’s vomit. Far less of a fussy girl.

  And what about fiddling around making up the mixture before sex? They hadn’t made love since before Alvi was born. Would they be able to wait long enough to prepare it? Would they have time before the baby needed attention again?

  She bit her lip. They would just have to try.

  *

  Later that night, the blond man and his accomplice slunk through the forest of newly budding trees, heading for their target, weapons ready. Not all the villagers lived within the walls. Many lived outside, due to temperament or occupation.

  The men approached without being seen as the lack of light or noise from the cottage showed the inhabitants slept. One of the prowlers kicked down the door.

  “Who’s that? How dare you break into our home?” shouted Baegstan, the charcoal burner, hair tousled from his bed, beard uncombed, axe in one hand, candle in the other. His wife and two daughters on the verge of womanhood appeared behind him.

  One of the intruders dispatched Baegstan with a slice of his sword. The women screamed, but the other man grabbed the mother and held a knife to her neck.

  “Come with me or I kill her,” he growled to the girls, who nodded in terror. If only their brothers were still unmarried and at home to defend them.

  He hustled the woman out of the door and dragged her off, followed by her daughters. His companion left the final, shameful mark of the sword on Baegstan, then followed the others, snarling at the girls if they dared make any noise.

  “Where are you taking us?” quavered one.

  “Somewhere you’ll never see any of your friends again.”

  They cried even more.

  “But you’ll like it,” said the other man. “So many pleasures you don’t yet know.”

  The thugs laughed together as the women wept and struggled.

  *

  Saehild straddled Ljotr in his secret shelter in the woods, kept warm by the small fire in the centre of the floor. She slid up and down until his cock almost fell out of her. Like pleasure to the point of pain, she grunted with effort and desire, mesmerized.

  “That’s - it - oh - that’s it!” he groaned. “You’re dripping all over me.”

  “I can’t - keep – going,” she gasped. “Please fuck me, please.”

  “You can.” He put his finger inside her at the same time, finding the little bud-like peak and massaging it until she cried out and shuddered, her world trembling, and slumped on top of him.

  “Isn’t it better after drinking wine?” he asked, one hand round his now released cock.

  She murmured with satisfaction.

  “Why won’t you get on top and fuck me?” she muttered.

  He paused for so long she thought he hadn’t heard. “It’s not time. I will do so when the time is right.”

  “What about you? You didn’t come.”

  “It’s alright. As long as you did.” He gave his usual fierce grin, teeth glinting like knives in his dark beard. “Let’s have some more wine before we leave.”

  The now familiar wine, full of grape and berry flavours, and something she couldn’t identify, slid down into her stomach, its heat building from the first sip, warming her, exciting her, relaxing her.

  “Where do you get this?”

  “My friends make it. You’ll have to meet them.”

  “Are they brewers?”

  He paused. “Something like that.”

  “What are they, then?” Lightheaded and giggly, she played with his hair.

  “They don’t like the way life is. They want to change it.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “The way people are trapped in their life paths. The Jarls have all the power, while the Karls and thralls have none. People like you and me have nothing. We have to do as we’re told, every day.”

  “Especially women.” She sat up, wine coursing through her veins. “Our lives are so boring. I hate it.”

  “You can be my queen one day, I promise.”

  “How?” She laughed.

  “You’ll see.” He pulled her into his arms and they cuddled up.

  *

  News of Baegstan’s death and the disappearance of his womenfolk spread through the village.

  “As with the last one, they killed the poor man in the Danish style, the sword up his arse,” whispered someone.

  “His wife and grown daughters have disappeared, like Mildrith,” said another.

  “They stole all his food and clothing. Greedy savages, that’s what they are.”

  Steinar called an urgent meeting.

  “It seems the English are vulnerable at the moment,” he barked, striding up and down in front of the crowd, the spring wind making his cloak flap. “We Danes should take precautions too, especially at night. Barricade your doors and don’t go out after dark. We Huskarls will patrol more often.”

  Ragnar and Bjarni exchanged glances.

  “It seems the murderers kill the men and abduct the women,” continued Steinar. “We do not know if the women are still alive, or if they are murdered elsewhere. Anyone who hears anything please tell me immediately. The Jarl will be back soon to take charge.”

  “Is it murderers from Wessex or Mercia?” enquired a voice.

  “We don’t know yet. We’d have to catch one of them to find out. As they are targeting the English, it is more likely to be Danes. Or those with a grudge against Byrnham folk.”

  Ragnar had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind. The last murder of an Englishman had been committed by a particular Dane in the same manner. A Dane who also had a grudge against Byrnham.

  *

  In the centre of a large, lighted cavern, away from the sleeping and eating areas of those who dwelled there, two teenage girls lay naked on bearskins on the floor. Their legs were tied apart, their hands stretched and bound above their heads. Their
rounded young breasts quivered with fear, nipples hard. Shaking with cold, the girls stared round at their audience. A group of shabbily dressed men in wolf masks and a few half-dressed women watched. The men’s eyes could not be seen but the women’s were blank and dead.

  Two naked men, also in wolf masks, stood in front of the tied women with the sorceress between them. She muttered words in a foreign tongue, touching each of the men on the forehead, and they nodded to her, their already roused cocks bobbing up. Drums started in the background, and the sorceress turned to the nearby fire. She threw a handful of something upon it, and it burned blood red.

  The men knelt. The drumming increased and the audience began to chant along with it. The faint smell of unwashed, sweaty bodies pervaded the air.

  “Help me!” cried the blonde, imploring her fellow women, hoping. But none answered. They just stared at the naked performers in front of them.

  The kneeling men forced themselves on the women, painfully. As the blonde cried out, the brunette bit her lip, determined not to show how much she hurt. It didn’t take long. Both men shuddered and growled to a halt, the whimpering women trembling with pain and fear.

  The audience held its breath, watching the panting men. Silence. Even the drums stopped.

  The sorceress approached and drew a dagger. She plunged it into the taller man’s hand and he gasped.

  “You bleed,” she snapped, and turned away to stare into the fire, which had turned back to orange. “Why does this not work? Master?” Her voice becoming deeper and stronger, she cried out to the flames. “Why do you not come?”

  Silence.

  “Take them away.” She gestured to the tied, shaking and crying women. Two men untied them, slung them over their shoulders and pushed through the audience.

  “Where are you taking us?” questioned the weeping blonde girl, to no avail.

  *

  On the day the Jarl returned, Bjarni set off to his hall at a jaunty pace. News of the slaves and goods had been sent ahead so he wanted to be the first to profit, and the gentle drizzle did not dampen his optimism.

  “Ah, Bjarni,” said Jarl Thorvald, clapping the handsome warrior on the shoulder. “Good to see you again. Steinar tells me you want a slave for your household. They’ll be ready in a minute. Follow me.”

  Bjarni walked into the main hall. The painstakingly constructed building reflected the importance of the Jarl, with carvings on the pillars, abundant fur rugs and a shiny new cooking pot on a metal spit. One day, Bjarni thought, he would live like this.

  Other villagers gathered for the slave sale, mainly householders, and no other Huskarls.

  “What are you here for?” asked one of the young village men who’d fought alongside him against the Norwegians last year.

  Bjarni explained and they fell into conversation as the young man wanted to choose a slave for his mother.

  A disturbance at one of the doors interrupted them and Bjarni held his breath, imagining a statuesque blond, or even a dark-haired, sultry beauty from the south with long legs and full breasts.

  A serving woman led in the slaves, who had their heads down and ankles shackled. Taller than the English but not as tall as the Danes, they were thin and dark skinned with short, fuzzy black hair. Bjarni couldn’t tell if they were all men, women, or an assortment, and stared at them in disappointment.

  “First choice goes to you, as you are the most senior of the buyers,” said the Jarl’s manservant to him.

  All eyes turned to the Huskarl and he stroked his beard thoughtfully, shifting from foot to foot. The slaves didn’t look strong so he now faced a decision. Insult the Jarl and go back to Saehild empty handed, ensuring another argument, or pick the best of this unpromising bunch. So much for choosing a beautiful woman to live with him.

  He didn’t want the aggravation of falling out with both his wife and his leader, so he strolled along the line. Saehild wanted a female slave for housework, so he peered at the individuals, trying to discern their sex.

  “The five on the left are female, the others male,” said the manservant.

  “I’ll - er - have this one.” Bjarni pointed at the female who appeared the strongest, and the servant unfastened her shackles.

  She shivered, looking down at the floor. Her thin cotton shift dress, dampened by the light spring rain, clung to her thin body. Her breasts, smaller than apples, were pointed and empty.

  “Come along then,” he said, putting his hand on her arm to usher her along. She cowered, so he shrugged and strode ahead, assuming she would follow.

  *

  When they reached his home, Saehild was absent as usual, so he showed the slave where to find everything.

  “Where am I to sleep?”

  He paused, not having thought of that.

  “Er - you could have your own corner.”

  He picked up some bearskin covers from the marital bed and threw them down on the floor. She hurried to arrange them, her movements quick but hesitant, like a frightened deer. He watched her for a while, wishing Saehild would come back to instruct her.

  “What would you like me to do first, master?” Her brown eyes flicked to his and away.

  “Er - just tidy up a bit. My wife will be back soon, she’ll - er - be pleased to see it’s done.”

  He didn’t want to put her off her work so he took the opportunity to clean his weapons. He carried them outside, keeping an eye on the door in case she decided to run off with the household valuables. But he’d forgotten something, so he hurried back into the house.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ifeyinwa, master.”

  “What?”

  “Ifeyinwa.”

  “Right.” He’d never remember that, he’d have to shorten it.

  *

  Ragnar hitched a lift on a cart to Gippeswick, the nearest town. Highly sceptical about buying all these substances to mix into a paste, he’d nonetheless eagerly taken the chance to escape from home. Life lacked excitement at the moment. He rarely slept due to Alvi crying every night. Aelfwyn always felt too tired and sore to make love. He was fed up with being confronted with Bjarni and Saehild’s problems, so a break from all of it would be a relief. The sun shone weakly, a welcome respite from the rain of the last few weeks.

  The other occupants of the cart eyed the auburn-haired Dane with interest.

  “Are you a Huskarl?” asked a boy of about six. Ragnar nodded, thinking Alvi would be like him one day.

  “What’s it like? Do you kill lots of people every day?”

  “Sh! Don’t bother him,” said his mother.

  Ragnar smiled. “No, I only kill people in battle.”

  He wished he could shut his eyes but as he didn’t know the area, he couldn’t let his guard down. A few hours at Gippeswick, then back home, would be as good as a rest. He’d be back long before dark.

  Alighting from the cart at the market, he scanned the stalls for the foreign traders with their exotic wares. Not seeing any, he strolled around, examining various items for sale: beads, shoes, combs. No one bothered him. His tall figure and imposing bearing told onlookers he could kill anyone silly enough to annoy him, and his unfriendly expression from weeks of broken nights only exaggerated this.

  People filled the market, some rushing here and there, some taking their time idling along. Smells of cooking meat, herbs, wood smoke pervaded the air, making Ragnar cough after the clean freshness of Hallby.

  *

  With her husband away on his errand, Aelfwyn felt lost and a bit jealous. She would love to go on an adventure rather than carrying on with the daily routine. Saehild enjoyed such an easy life with no children, but at least she was someone to talk to, so she set off to visit her with Alvi wrapped cosily against her breast.

  She knocked at her sister’s door and waited in vain, but desperate for some company, she pushed it open.

  “Saehild?”

  “My mistress is not here.” The thin brown slave hesitated in the doorway, vegetable kn
ife in hand.

  “Oh. Er - I was looking forward to talking to my sister.” Aelfwyn swallowed her sudden tears. How silly to let her emotions take control like that.

  “You can come in and rest,” said the slave. “Your baby is well grown and heavy.”

  “He is. Very.” She flopped down on the offered chair, glad to rest her feet. “I’ll just sit for a few moments.”

  “Would you like ale?”

  The slave fetched the drink and carried on preparing the meal. It took such a long time to make supper.

  “Do you have children?” asked Aelfwyn.

  “No. I have avoided them.”

  “Oh yes? How?” That particular subject preoccupied her mind much of the time.

  “Salt. In my country -” She bit her lip.

  “Go on. I need to know it.”

  She paused, so Aelfwyn explained her situation, feeling strangely reassured by this quiet, dark woman.

  “Ah, I see. I have heard of such problems. In my case, I do not want my children to suffer the life I have. So I use salt all the time. Inside me, you know?”

  Aelfwyn nodded, thinking how lucky she was to be born the daughter of a thane, rather than a slave.

  “Perhaps I should try salt.”

  “It has worked for me so far, although please do not blame me if it does not work for you.”

  “I won’t. What’s your name?”

  “Ifeyinwa, madam. My mistress and master call me Ifay.”

  “I am Aelfwyn. My husband is the red haired one, Ragnar.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  They sat in comfortable silence after that, especially as Alvi wanted milk again, so Aelfwyn fed him, feeling relaxed and safe.

  *

  After two hours in town, Ragnar still hadn’t found the necessary supplies. Wanting refreshment, he made his way to an alehouse with a green bush up on a pole outside. This showed the brew was ready. Licking his dry lips in anticipation, he walked in, but as he did so, conversation stopped. Even with the absence of his red Huskarl cloak, the alehouse occupants recognised his status.

  The alewife approached him with a cup of ale. “It’s free, sir,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He sniffed the brew.

  “It’s fine, sir.” She took a gulp of the liquid and smiled. “See, I haven’t dropped dead.”