Gunnolf rose and, for a moment, I imagined him lifting me to the ceiling, breaking my back in a single twist. I’d no doubt he had the strength to do so.
It was with some relief that I saw him stretch and pull back the goatskins, lowering himself between them. His taunting demeanour was gone, the lines about his mouth set hard. I saw something I recognized: a certain heaviness of heart from the burdens he was obliged to bear. It wasn’t my place to speak, but the words escaped my lips before I thought to rein them in.
“Have you suffered long with these troubling dreams?”
His eyes narrowed.
It was impertinent of me to address him without him first speaking to me. I was no more than a thrall in his eyes, to be commanded or mocked. I felt sure it was only Eirik’s claim upon me that had, so far, deterred Gunnolf from treating me as he did the other women serving in his household.
“What a presumptuous wench you are. My dreams are no concern of yours.”
He seemed to consider raising his hand to me, but the moment passed, and he rolled his head wearily upon the pillow.
“Go fuck my brother,” he said curtly. “And leave me to my rest.”
Eirik would sleep as soon as his eyes closed, but he’d kept himself awake, waiting. A lamp burned on the shelf within his boxed chamber, the flame revealing his bare chest, in shadow and light, and the ridges of his abdomen, lightly coated in sweat.
He watched as I let drop my belt and unfastened the brooches at my shoulders. I stepped from each garment until I stood as naked as he, taking pleasure in his gaze upon my breasts and the roundness of my hips, down to the blonde hair of my sex.
Smiling lazily, Eirik pulled back the furs, revealing more of his body to me. His voice was low. “I need you, Elswyth.”
He drew me to him as I entered the bed, finding the small of my back, bringing me close. I curved to him, my belly to his. Hardness pressed to softness, his mouth met mine. His palms cupped beneath the flesh of my buttocks and I moaned as he reached lower, his fingers brushing my cunt from behind, coaxing me to open to him. I gave a whimper of desire as his cock nudged between my legs. It required only the smallest shift of my thigh for him to push and enter.
Slowly, he began, clasping me firmly as he thrusted, one hand creeping between my cheeks, encouraging me to open further, to allow him deeper passage.
I surrendered to his lovemaking, wishing to make him part of my own body. In this act, he was my master in strength but we were equals in our hunger for one another.
“Elswyth,” he murmured, trailing kisses down my neck. “My own sweet love.”
Already, my breath was quickening. I arched against his steady rhythm, my fingers curling into his hair, guiding him to take my breast, wanting him to suckle hard. As he pulled me onto his hot stream of seed, I tumbled into my own chasm of pleasure. When he kissed me again, it was with tenderness.
“Was Thor watching us?” I teased.
“He’s always watching. We give him something worth looking at.”
Easing his cock from me, he rolled away, but I’d no intention of letting him sleep. Warmed by what he’d given me, I wanted more.
Straddling him, I rested my sex upon the root of his fading erection. I knew he liked to see me so, with my hair falling wanton and my breasts above him, my skin glistening with perspiration. He rested his hands on my waist, appraising through half-closed eyes. I rocked lightly and saw his lips part, wetted by his tongue.
Impossible that Eirik would desire another with this burning passion. He would never forsake me for a marriage of convenience. I wouldn’t believe it. And yet, I recalled Helka’s warning to me. I wished to hear some promise of Eirik’s love, some proof of his depth of feeling.
I stroked the hair upon his chest, caressed his nipples.
“You wish to stir me again, my Valkyrie.”
I licked where I’d touched, letting my breasts brush him lightly. Between my legs, I felt the base of his shaft thicken.
“We shall always be like this, Eirik?” Kissing his abdomen, I moved downwards, tasting the sweat of our coupling. “You would never send me from your bed?”
I took my tongue lower and closed my lips over his cock-head. Though not yet fully erect, he was reawakening. “Of course not,” he murmured. “You please me better than any woman.”
I enclosed him with my hand, squeezing, moving his skin back and forth, teasing the bulging helmet of his erection, sucking at the tender spot beneath its head.
“You’ll protect me, always; love me, always?”
“Aye, I will.”
I opened my mouth wide, taking Eirik deep, past my teeth, to the back of my jaw, humming against his growing hardness then drawing back, letting my tongue work the length of him.
“Odin’s Valhalla!” Eirik gasped, opening his legs and grasping my hair. “Don’t stop!”
I sucked upon him again, drawing forth his brine. He was watching my mouth moving on him, my tongue licking at the fluid that trickled from his tip, my hand cupping beneath.
“I want the taste of you, Eirik.”
He groaned as I took his balls into my mouth, humming again so that he’d feel the vibration, letting him know how delicious he was.
At full arousal, it was more difficult to take him wholly in my mouth, but I returned to suck his length until I felt his tremor begin to rise. Swiftly, I diverted him into the warmth of my cunt; only just in time, for he cried out and pulsed inside me.
When I blew out the lamp, I lay my head upon his chest. “You love me, Eirik?” I ran my fingertips over the raised scar down his side, a wound from long ago.
“Aye, I love thee.”
He wrapped his arm about my shoulders and I felt safe. He was mine and I was his.
“Forever?” I whispered.
In answer, there was only the soft, regular breathing of a man who had succumbed to sleep.
An old dream returned. I was alone with a wolf who’d long ago prowled my sleep. Circled by the beast, I didn’t scream or run, but lay down and offered my neck. I bared my breast to its claws, watching as they peeled back the skin to reveal my beating heart. It lowered its shaggy head, licking the pulsing blood from my body.
It was still dark when I woke. I trembled — but not only from fear.
7
Late next morning, Lady Asta gave me my leave and I walked down to visit Astrid. I half-expected Bodil to be waiting, to block my path and lay vengeful hands upon me, so far had my imagination built upon my previous meeting with her. Though I passed several of my new kinsmen, I was relieved to see that she was not among them.
In truth, Svolvaen seemed extraordinarily quiet. The weather was turning cooler, the sky overcast, but fine enough yet to work outside and make the most of the good daylight. However, the street lacked its usual bustle.
Eirik had been pleased to close the doors on the barn, knowing the winter fodder was safely stored. He’d gone out with the fishermen soon after dawn, eager for the smell of the sea. The fields had claimed too much of his time.
The stacking of the hay had brought the harvest to its close and some of the older men sat in leisure, taking a pipe and a horn of ale. They paused in their conversation as I passed, nodding their recognition, which I returned in kind.
It was a simple gesture but it warmed me, and I was emboldened to address a woman seated nearby. She’d been following my progress down the hill, I was certain, but glanced away as I approached, to the embroidery in her lap.
“Good morrow.” I said, wracking my memory for the right words with which to praise her needlework. Her fingers were nimble with the thread: a vivid red against white cloth.
“It’s very fine,” I settled upon, at last. “Your hands are clever.”
She raised her head at that and thanked me.
“You’ve come to see Astrid?” she asked. “I saw her looking from her door, watching for you, perhaps.”
Her face was kindly, but I only nodded. It wasn’t for me to reveal why As
trid might be expecting me. I’d keep her confidences.
“You’re a good girl,” said the woman, turning back to her work. “Pay no heed to anyone who says differently; they’re only wishing they were in your place.”
I thought, wryly, that none really knew what it was like to be ‘in my place’ but her kind words touched me, since I’d had few enough from the women of Svolvaen.
Further down the street, two women were talking but stopped abruptly as I drew near, looking at me with ill-concealed distaste. I waved my hand in greeting but they turned away, retreating into the house without a backward glance. The door banged behind them.
It will take time, I reminded myself.
The kindly woman had been right about Astrid waiting for me. She appeared at my first knock.
“Thank the gods you’ve come.” She shifted the baby to her hip as she drew me in. She’d been weeping, her eyes ringed red.
“What is it, Astrid?”
Ylva was sitting with her back to us, carding wool, her younger brother playing at her feet.
“It’s been only two days. It’s no worse, surely? You’ve been using the salve I gave you?”
Astrid’s eyes beseeched me. “You’d best look.”
As soon as Ylva turned, I understood Astrid’s fear. What had been no more than a rising welt upon her daughter’s cheek had begun to blister.
“Show your shoulder,” Astrid directed her.
Ylva peeled back cloth stained yellow. The wound beneath oozed wet, the smell unwholesome.
“And those on your neck?”
“There’s a throbbing in them.” Ylva’s lip trembled.
She was a beautiful young woman, her eyes the same delicate grey as her mother’s, large and pleading, her hair long and flaxen.
“I’d hoped for improvement,” I admitted. “But I’ve brought something stronger, today.” I threw the old strip of bandage into the fire. “Don’t try to wash this. Better to use new cloth each time. If you run out, at the very least, boil the old ones in the hottest water, then hang them to dry.”
I took a pot from my apron pocket and spread a thick layer of green unguent onto the sore. “It’s elm bark and yarrow, mixed with sage. It should bring down the swelling and draw out the poison.”
“Thank you,” whispered Ylva, her eyes welling wet.
I smiled but kept my voice firm. “Wash your hands before you change your dressing, and afterwards.”
“I’ll have water warming all through the day,” promised Astrid.
As I removed the dressings, one by one, Ylva winced, the soiled cloth pulling at her tender skin.
“We’ll soon have you better,” I promised, doing my best not to grimace.
Astrid, too, was attempting to be cheerful, watching me closely and asking about the making of the balm. Despite her valiant efforts, I could see her distress. When all was done, I squeezed Ylva’s hand and bid her be brave.
“Have you heard from the women who came to you before?” I asked Astrid. “Ylva can’t be the only one suffering with this.”
It occurred to me that it might be a reason for the relative hush of the street. How many families were harbouring a secret?
“I can’t say,” said Astrid. “If they share our troubles, they haven’t told me, but I feel sure you’re right. If they return to unburden their hearts, I’ll tell them of your treatment. They’ll need your help.”
“And I’ll be happy to give it.”
I set the new pot of salve upon the table. “Twice a day, remember, and I’ll come back soon, to see how Ylva heals.”
Astrid placed the baby in his crib and walked me to the door, indicating for us to go outside a moment. She closed the door behind her and drew me close, speaking in hushed tones.
“I did have visitors but not the sort you’re thinking of.” She worried at her lip. “Ylva was betrothed to be married but the parents of the boy have broken the contract.”
“They know?” It was a redundant question. Of course, they knew.
“Yesterday, when Ylva was shutting in the chickens. I’d told her to keep her face well-hidden, but the boy came to her. She tried to stop him, but you know how young men are. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Astrid gave a shuddering sigh. “He pulled off her scarf to kiss her and saw the soiled bandages at her neck, the blister on her cheek.”
I imagined the whole of Svolvaen would know by now.
Astrid pushed aside a falling tear. “I can hardly blame them, but I fear for Ylva. What future is there for her? Even if we cure her of this, people have long memories.”
My heart ached for the girl. No doubt, she thought herself in love. The breaking of her betrothal must seem the end of all that mattered.
I put my arms around Astrid’s shoulders as she stifled a sob.
If I failed to heal her daughter it would be the end of more than Ylva’s hopes for marriage.
8
The harvest was among the best Svolvaen had ever seen, a mild spring having encouraged orchard blossoms, followed by warm summer ripening the barley. This was safely stacked in the barn, with hay in another; no matter how deep the snow, the cattle would have their fodder. We’d laid down pears and apples for the winter, between straw, and conserved plums in their own syrup, packed tightly in jars. Every house had its provision of smoked herring, root vegetables and honey, its own store of mead and of ale. No matter what storms came, Svolvaen wouldn’t starve.
When all had been gathered in, Jarl Gunnolf invited Svolvaen to join in a day of festivity, commencing with one to one combat, to be followed by falconry and then carousing, long into the night.
The clouds were thick overhead and the wind blew hard but the rain held off. The men outnumbered their womenfolk; perhaps the sport was not to their taste or they had other duties to attend to.
As I joined Helka, I looked among the crowd, for those who wore a cowl to cover their neck, my imagination thinking always of the affliction I believed was travelling among them. Astrid waved to me, with her toddling son lifted in her arms, that he might better see. The baby, I supposed, she’d left with Ylva, at home.
The Jarl sat upon a raised dais, wearing his customary black, including a cloak of dark brocade, trimmed thickly in silver fur. Beside him, Lady Asta was radiant in a gown of palest white, embroidered in gold and yellow, smiling at her people, applauding each man who stepped forward to indicate his participation.
She rested her hands upon the growing babe within her, the swell of her belly visible. Gunnolf, too, appeared well content in showing off his Lady’s fertile condition.
“The Jarl will preside over pairs of men, in successive bouts,” Helka explained, “Until only one remains.”
Eirik waited until all others had presented before showing his own willingness. Stripped to the waist, with his hair braided into a top knot, he stood taller than the rest. I’d seen him wield his sword and axe, and had tended to him on return from battle, streaked with other men’s blood, but had never witnessed him wrestle skin on skin.
“Odin and Thor and all the gods are among us!” Gunnolf announced, slitting the throat of a sturdy hog. “Just as this life-force soaks the soil, so doth ours, shed in combat. May our deeds always be brave and glorious, so that all may know of the greatness of Svolvaen.”
There was a mighty cheer at the squealing of the pig, and the gush of crimson that flooded at Gunnolf’s feet. The animal would spend the rest of the day roasting, in readiness for the evening feast.
As the tournament began, I saw that agility counted for as much as strength. Each took up the great horn of honeyed mead, drinking deeply before they commenced, grappling within a designated square, no more than five steps wide; the first to pin their rival to the ground for the count of ten took the bout.
The shouts were deafening, roaring approval of each triumph. The outcome of some pairings was decided almost immediately; others left their opponents breathless, staggering from exertion, sweat glistening upon their hard-muscled bod
ies, sinews straining in pursuit of conquest.
Eirik seemed to win his matches with little effort, having not only skill in the various holds but the might to lift another man from his feet. Seeing him wide-legged in victory, the taut lines of his abdomen visible, I thrilled at the power of him, both as my lover and a warrior.
None seemed to mind his ascendancy. He allowed each a fair chance to demonstrate his prowess before asserting his own. Eirik helped them to stand tall, clasping his combatants about the shoulders in congratulation on a match well fought.
It was clear that he delighted in conquest as much as any man but valued fellowship above all, and these were his men, whom he had led across the seas, to return with riches and renown.
If Gunnolf was piqued to see his younger brother cast all before him, he dissembled well, giving his own bellows of approval.
When the final bout was declared, Eirik faced his old friend, Olaf, both men muddied from the many matches they’d already claimed. What Olaf lacked in stature, he made up for in lightness of foot, twisting repeatedly from Eirik’s grasp, to the mirth of those watching. Eirik could have taken Olaf to the ground at any time but chose, instead, to revel in festive merriment, indulging Olaf’s antics to avoid him.
Gunnolf followed closely, his eyes alight. Had Eirik been, at last, beaten, he would have had trouble concealing his satisfaction, I thought. There was another too, whose eyes were all for Eirik; Bodil had pushed her way to the front, carrying the fair child. She stood, neither cheering nor clapping but watching the vigorous performance of her former lover with quiet intensity. Was she recalling, I wondered, the sweat of their own bed-wrestling, her fingers pressed to the flesh of his buttocks, her body submitting beneath the brawn of his?
My temper flared at the imagining, for Eirik was mine, and the jealousy in my belly burned.
At last, with an indomitable cry, Eirik gripped Olaf by ankle and wrist, obliging him to bend in acrobatic fashion, curled upwards from the ground. As the count neared ten, Eirik gave his rival a playful tweak of the nose and pulled him to his feet.
Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2) Page 4
