“There’s no need to explain. I can see why I’m needed.” I returned Astrid’s hug of welcome. “And Ylva?”
“She’s much the same; no worse.”
Ylva appeared from behind a curtain separating their latrine. Looking from her cheek to that of the woman by the fire, I saw how far my remedy had helped. Ylva’s beauty was marred but she suffered no fever; the sore was red but gave no discharge.
“The others: on your shoulder and neck, on your back?”
Ylva lowered her eyes, uncomfortable to speak of them. “They still trouble me but the salve is soothing; it helps — at least for a time.”
“This is Torhilde,” said Astrid, introducing me to the woman by the fire.
I nodded, giving her and the little ones a smile of encouragement. “You did the right thing, coming here; I’ll try to help.”
Her face was wan as she looked up. “My husband won’t have us under his roof.” She pulled the smallest child onto her lap and turned from me, looking into the flames. “Not like this.”
I placed my hand on her forehead and felt the fever there. The children, too, were listless, their skin clammy.
“They can stay here, of course,” said Astrid. “When they’re better, he’ll have them back.” She rested her hand upon the woman’s shoulder.
I bit back what I wanted to say: that no man who abandoned his wife and children in illness deserved to have them return. It was not for me to judge how others lived, and I had no marriage of my own to hold up as an example. Despite my doubts about her husband, I sought to reassure her.
“I’m sure he only fears contagion. If he too were to fall ill, how would he continue to provide for his family?”
I concentrated on the matter in hand. “Astrid, you remember what we did before, for Ylva?”
She nodded. “I’ve the hot water ready and put comfrey leaves in to steep.”
We set about cleaning each sore upon the children’s bodies, applying the salve I’d brought with me for Ylva. It pained me to see the ugly marks which tainted their young skin but I comforted myself that they’d soon have some ease. We undressed Torhilde last and I was horrified; seeing the extent of her suffering, it surprised me less that her husband had turned her from their home.
At last, all was done and I promised to soon return. Knowing Astrid couldn’t feed so many without depriving herself, I resolved to bring some jars from our own store. It seemed to me that the longhouse was provisioned to endure three winters; none would miss what I took. Eirik, in any case, wouldn’t refuse my request.
I took my leave and headed back, into the night, to those who awaited my return.
“Sing for us, my love.”
I entered to see Gunnolf placing Asta’s lute in her arms. He lifted her hair back from her shoulders, that her fingers might find the strings of the instrument more easily.
“What would you have me play?” she asked, her eyes lit by his touch. “I fear you know all by heart.”
“Whatever pleases you, wife.” Gunnolf dropped a kiss upon her forehead.
Despite these gestures of affection, his gaze strayed towards me as I joined them. He lay back on the goatskins about the firepit, taking up his horn of ale, and I felt him linger over the curve of my breast. I paid no heed, but Faline caught his look, her face drawn bitter. I hoped only that Asta did not notice such things.
We’d eaten well and the flames blazed. It was easier to bear the incessant moaning of the wind when we were comfortable inside. I closed my eyes and lay back my head upon Eirik’s chest. We were a small gathering that night, only Helka and Olaf being with us.
I’d thought Asta would choose a love ballad. Instead, her voice filled the great space of the longhouse with an ominous tale, of the long winter coming, when all would freeze and wither. Her haunting melody unwound the threads of the doom of the gods and the horror which would overwhelm the world. The great wolf Fenrir would break its bonds and its jaws would ravage, until even the sun was dragged into the beast’s belly. With the beast’s last howl, the land would sink beneath the sea, into perfect silence.
We neither moved nor spoke as Asta’s melancholy song rang out those dark prophecies of Ragnarök, but it seemed a shadow moved through the room, touching each one of us.
The last notes of the lute left us with the moan of the night wind beyond the safety of our walls, and we took our forebodings to our beds.
11
For so long, I’d slept against the warmth of Eirik’s body and woken to his heated passion. My need was as great as his and not just by night. Eirik sought me out in whatever task I was engaged, wrapping his arms about my waist; he melted me with his bearded kisses, his mouth hot upon my neck, before carrying me to his bed.
I watched and waited for my belly to grow, desiring motherhood as I never had with the husband I did not love, the husband Eirik’s men had slaughtered. I remembered creeping from my bed as he snored, washing him from me to avoid a baby coming.
Eirik seemed blind to Faline’s seductive glances, given as much to spite me as to gain him for herself. In this, and in his constant yearning for the comfort of my body, I saw love.
Helka ate with us most days, though she preferred her own company more often than not. She often retreated to the home she’d shared with her husband, Vigrid. Asta was sleeping a great deal and I’d just tucked the covers about her shoulders. Walking through the great hall, I passed Eirik, sharpening the steel of his double-bladed axe, sitting by the fire with Olaf and Gunnolf and several of the other men. I didn’t need to glance behind to know that his eyes followed, that he was already thinking of the ways in which he would take me.
Later that evening, as I undressed for bed, I listened to their voices: raised in laughter, fists thumping upon backs in brotherhood — these Northmen who fought at one another’s side. They were recalling some battle and their various braveries. It was the sort of talk Eirik loved, but he would soon come to me, I knew.
Lying naked upon the furs, my bare skin tantalized by their softness, I stroked between my legs. Dipping into the growing wet, I thought of Eirik’s battle-born vigour, the hardness of his body and his warrior strength.
Blood-hungry weapons filled the chamber: his iron-headed spear, a light crossbow, feathered arrows as long as my arm, the helmet of leather and steel that fitted smooth to Eirik’s head, and his chainmail tunic. His sword, wrought from twisted steel and iron, hammered into an unyielding edge, stood unsheathed. Even in the dim light it gleamed as if with its own vitality, remembering the many limbs it had severed and the crimson libations it had claimed. Heart of the Slain he called it, for its power over life and death.
When Eirik pulled back the curtain, he smiled to see me ready, my fingers starting what I wished him to continue.
“I shan’t take you quietly.” He unbuckled the belt upon which his dagger hung.
“My Lord,” I answered, teasing him with a view of what lay inside me.
Grasping my waist, he pulled me to the edge of the bed. “Full of sweetness,” he murmured, lowering his head to taste me, rubbing the flat of his tongue through my slit.
I shivered as he delved deeper, moaning at his upward caresses.
“I want them to hear you.” He pressed the soft point of his tongue where I most desired it, sucking me between his teeth, letting his beard rub rough against the tender skin of my inner thigh.
I cried out as he pulled me more firmly onto his mouth, devouring my softness, penetrating me with the full length of his tongue.
“Louder, my love,” he warned, “Or I’ll invite them in, to hear you properly.”
I squirmed beneath him, upon the very edge of my ecstasy. It was not the first time that others had been close during our lovemaking. There was little privacy, despite the wooden enclosure of our boxed chamber, and I was not ashamed of the noises I made. It excited me, even, to think of them listening, hearing the satisfaction of our bedding.
Dropping his woollen trousers, Eirik swiftly guided
his shaft and I gave a wail of want as I took the glistening head.
“Yes, my sweet one.” My body took the full length of his desire, delivered hard into my yielding flesh. I panted with the force of his thrusts, lifting my hips to meet him until my voice gave its final rising. Eirik groaned loudly and clenched, holding himself deep, pulsing his seed.
There was a cheer and laughter from the adjoining room, at which Eirik grinned, collapsing beside me.
“You wouldn’t bring them in here, would you?” I asked, though the idea did not horrify me as perhaps it should have done.
“Nay, I would not.” Eirik’s hand found my breast, squeezing the nipple. “For they would not wish to stop at looking. Any man watching you writhe beneath me would want his share, and I’ve no wish to do battle in my own bedchamber. You are my woman, Elswyth. No other shall have you.”
His answer pleased me and we made love again — slowly this time, rocking languorously until the end, and with Eirik’s kisses gentle on my lips.
We dozed, and it was fully dark when I woke. All was quiet, but something had stirred me, and Eirik, too.
“Did you hear it?” I asked. “Someone crying out?”
I placed my tunic over my head and looked through into the great space of the hall, where the embers were glowing still. There was a keening from the far end, where Asta slept.
As I hurried through, I saw Guðrún peeking from the alcove in which we prepared food, with Sylvi behind her.
Another curtain swept aside and Gunnolf appeared, bare-chested; Faline was beside him, her fingers curled about his arm.
He inclined his head to me — in recognition, I supposed, for my having risen to attend his wife. My returning nod was brief before I looked away.
The lamp’s wick was still lit on her bedside, though almost burnt to the quick, its illumination showing me the paleness of her face as she sat up in the bed, her eyes wild and dark. I wrapped her close, for she trembled.
“Did you hear him?” She clung to me, her cheek clammy against mine.
I thought she referred to Gunnolf and his wayward behaviour. It was a subject none mentioned in Asta’s presence.
“Nay, my Lady. I heard nothing. The house is quiet.” I rocked her gently upon my shoulder.
“I couldn’t find him, no matter how I looked.”
“Only a bad dream,” I soothed, encouraging her to lie back.
“Where do they go? The babies that die?” She licked her lips and I saw they’d grown cracked.
“Your child is well, my Lady, growing safe inside you.” I smoothed a tendril of hair from her forehead. “There’s nothing to fear.”
She cradled the curve of her belly, turning her face full to mine, her eyes pleading for reassurance.
“I couldn’t watch when they put him in the fire.” Her fingers fluttered, fretful. “The smoke carries them to the next world; that’s what they say, but I don’t know if I believe it.”
“We all have dark thoughts, my Lady, but no one will harm your baby. I’ll make sure of that.” Taking her hand in both of mine, I whispered softly, saying whatever I could to pacify her. “You’ll always be safe when I’m near. You’ve had a nightmare. It’s draumskrok: no more than dream-nonsense.”
In her fright, she looked more like a child than a grown woman and I was reminded that she was little more than my own age.
“I’ll mix a draught to make you sleep again; deep, so that the dreams won’t come.”
I attempted to rise, but she wouldn’t release my hand. “Gunnolf promised not to burn my body; he’ll bury me where we put the ashes.”
“Ashes?”
“From my first.” Asta lifted herself from the pillow, pulling me closer, crushing my fingers within hers. “He’s alone, under the frost, in the forest.”
In all the months I’d tended her, she’d never mentioned another birth. What pain there must be, to bind bones and flesh within one’s own body, to feel the heartbeat of another, only to see that creation brought to nothing. It was little wonder her mind strayed to this lost child, despite her carrying a new babe. Perhaps the pregnancy had caused her mind to wander, but it would do no good to dwell on what was gone.
“We can’t choose our time of death,” Asta asserted, her voice faint, yet resolved. “Only the Nornar may do that.”
I remembered Helka telling me of this legend: that the three women of destiny carved each life upon a stave of wood at the time of our entering the world. Nothing could change what happened. It was this that inspired the bravery of the Norsemen, Helka said, for what is there to lose when a man’s fate is predestined.
“It’s like The Song of Skirnir.” Asta sighed. “My destiny is fashioned down to the last half-day, and all my life is determined.”
“No more of that, my Lady. Think of the new baby coming, arriving with the spring. How happy you’ll be then.”
The tension seemed to leave her body and she released my fingers, lying back once more.
“I think I shall never see it.”
She spoke quietly but I heard every word, and an unsettling feeling overtook me, sitting there, wrapped in shadows. Looking at her face so pale, I saw the skull beneath her skin, and shuddered.
12
Winter continued, in snow-deep slumbering stillness. As the very darkest days approached and the festival of Jul drew near, some ventured forth with the full moon to gather mistletoe. The same scythes that had reaped maize and barley from the fields brought down the evergreen foliage, rich in white berries, dangling in great clusters from the trees.
I tied the bunches tight, passing them to Helka, who climbed on Eirik’s shoulders to hang them from the rafters. Steadying herself against the great beam of wood above her head, her fingers worked nimbly to secure the thread. “The god of light, Baldur, was slain by an arrow of mistletoe and was sent to reside in the cold and misty Underworld, in everlasting night. The goddess Hel kept him, though he was a reluctant consort.”
“And did he stay there for ever more?” I never tired of hearing these stories, though they didn’t always make sense to me.
“Nothing lasts forever. It’s said that he’ll return when Ragnarok ends and the cycle of life begins again. From death, he’ll be reborn. Until then, he must endure, as we do, through winter’s grip on the frozen Earth.”
“On the first night of Jul, when the daylight is shortest, we keep vigil until dawn,” said Eirik. “No matter how fast Sól drives her chariot, fleeing Fenrir, the devouring wolf of darkness, she’s doomed to be swallowed by his ravening jaws. We must wait and watch, to show our need for her to rise again.”
There had been a time, long ago, when I’d hidden up a tree to escape a wolf. I remembered the saliva upon its fangs and the steady gaze of its pale eyes. Wolves were beautiful creatures but unpredictable, and always hungry. They were not to be trusted.
Helka reached down as I passed along more mistletoe.
“It’s the night of Odin’s Wild Hunt,” went on Eirik, “When he leads the immortal souls of our ancestors, charging across the sky on Sleipnir, his eight-legged stallion.”
The thought filled me with awe. “Have you seen this, Eirik?”
“No wise man ever has.” Eirik moved a few steps so that his sister could reach further along the beam. “It would be too dangerous to meet the Ásgardr riders. The border between the worlds of living and dead is not always fast, especially when these winter days make the Earth resemble the dark and cold of Hel’s merciless Underworld.”
“We leave gifts of food and drink in the snow,” Helka added. “So that they pass on without danger.”
I’d been raised a Christian and knew my own people would be preparing to honour the day of the Saviour’s birth. However, we had older stories not unlike these — of winter’s darkness and the light that would come again. We decorated our homes with wreaths of green and mistletoe through the months of frost to remind ourselves of the waiting Spring. We had, too, our own rituals to deter the eye of mischievou
s spirits that roamed most freely when the Earth became a wild and inhospitable place for man.
Helka’s stories spoke to my blood, and I sensed the truth of them.
With her foot, she nudged Eirik’s shoulder to return her to the ground. He gave me a wink then made a purposeful wobble, pretending to drop his sister, for which she rewarded him with a clip to his ear.
“Have no fear, Elswyth.” Regaining her feet upon the ground, Helka looked up to admire her handiwork. “The forces of the restless dead have no reason to harangue you.”
“Indeed, not,” I answered, but I thought of my husband, whom I’d never mourned, having never loved him, and of my grandmother, left behind across the sea. Had she passed into the next world? I had no way of knowing.
The men dug through the snow to allow passage up the hill, and the longhouse was soon filled with ribald laughter and boisterous sports. There were some I’d not seen before and some faces I knew well. Torhilde was absent but Ylva came with her mother, though she kept to the corner of the room and wore her cowl close. The blight upon her cheek was hardly visible in the dim light but I knew she would be conscious of its marking.
Eirik brought me a new gown to wear, the fabric fine spun in a becoming shade of violet blue, its bodice embroidered with pansies.
“Wear your golden hair loose, today, as Asta does,” he said, placing a kiss upon my neck. His own tunic was of the same cloth, embroidered with sheaves of barley at the hem.
Gunnolf donned the skin and head of a goat, sacrificing four of the sturdy animals and a pig for the three-day banquet that was to begin. Several women helped Guðrún and Sylvi prepare the victuals. I understood, then, why our pantry had been stocked so full.
My mouth watered over the abundant pots of stew and the richly scented roasting meat. Eirik cut a slice from the pig’s shoulder and fed it to me, hot and running thick with juices.
A huge log of oak burned beneath the spit, with holly sprigs and fir branches thrown atop.
Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2) Page 6
