Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2)

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  “Never.”

  I fought to contain my tears. “But how can it be? I cannot watch as another woman takes what I desire; marries, where I have no hope. And what of her, this Freydís? How can you expect to keep us under the same roof?”

  “If I take her for my wife, she’ll do as I ask.”

  “But you don’t wish it, Eirik?” I’d never begged, but I could hold back no longer. “You want me to have your children? You want me to be with you, always?”

  “Yes, my love, yes.” His soft mouth found mine and his fingers stroked my hair. I felt the caress through all my body, felt myself opening to him, seeking the reassurance of his physical love, wishing to believe that our lovemaking would conquer all that I feared.

  Man and woman joined, we sated our need. I surrendered as I always did. There was unfathomable pleasure in his touch, breaking me apart until the world was tumbling and I was lost.

  “You’ll marry her.” I whispered, afterwards.

  “When the time comes for me to act, I’ll know what I must do. You, too, Elswyth. You’ll know.”

  “And why must we obey your brother? Can we not leave? There are other lands, surely. A place we might go.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.” His reply was resolute. “We must do what’s best for Svolvaen — you and I both.”

  He placed his fingers on my lips, bidding me listen.

  “When my mother told us to hide, Gunnolf carried me,” Eirik began. “We went to the forest, crouching among the trees. I didn’t want to hear or see, but Gunnolf made me look, and Helka, too. We hid until there were no more flames. My uncle, Jarl Hallgerd, beat the Skálavík raiders into retreat, but my father fell, fighting.” His voice caught in his throat. “They took several of our women, my mother among them. Svolvaen emptied its stores and coffers for their release, and the pact was signed.”

  He said nothing for some moments and I ached for him. I’d caused pain, making him remember.

  “When she returned to us, she was changed. Grief for my father, I thought; perhaps something else I was too young to understand. A few months later, they found her in the fjord.” His breath left him in a long sigh. “My uncle and aunt had no children so we became theirs and, on Hallgerd’s death, Gunnolf received the Jarl’s mantle.”

  I kissed Eirik’s fingers and moved them over my heart. “You serve him because it’s what your uncle wished.”

  “And what my father would have thought right. It’s my duty to serve Svolvaen and my Jarl, even when I don’t agree with his strategy.”

  “No matter that he wishes to lead Svolvaen into war against an enemy you may not be able to defeat?”

  Eirik pulled me closer. “If it’s my destiny to fight, I will.”

  “What if it’s your destiny to die, Eirik?” Tears overtook me. There was so much I might say but I knew no argument would change how Eirik felt, nor the outcome. His bravery had won my heart, and the physical power of him. How could I change any part of what I loved?

  His sense of duty was as real as the inked patterns upon his body — those markings that defined who he was, and where he’d come from. It was my history too; yet, half of me did not belong here, and I was not his wife. I was no better than his slave, albeit a willing one.

  My voice trembled. “I can’t lose you.”

  “Don’t cry.” He brushed my hair from my face. “I’ll return, and we shall have many nights, my Elswyth.”

  He kissed me, murmuring his promises, but the words fell hollow, for what substance had they? I must take what was granted, having no power to demand more, but I feared an end to my happiness.

  15

  Weeks passed and the thaw came, until there was no more cause for delay. The evening before their departure, we sat about the fire as we’d done many nights before. The flames leapt, and the shadows with them. We were subdued in our conversation, each consumed by our own thoughts.

  Eirik gave me an amulet to wear, engraved with the hammer of power. “Like Mjolnir, Thor’s magical weapon, I shall return.” He fastened the leather thong about my neck. “Gunnolf will watch over you.” I smiled weakly at that, for I’d no doubt that the Jarl’s eyes would be upon me.

  I’d been angry with Helka for a long time, unable to put aside my belief that it would be Eirik who returned with a bride, rather than she with a groom. But she was my friend, nonetheless, and I parted from her with a kiss.

  The next morning, I watched them ride away. I wrapped my cloak about me to ward off the early morning chill, then went to rake the remnants of the fire. Nothing remained but blackened ash.

  There had been other deaths over the frosted months, each accompanied by the same disfiguring blisters, but none spoke openly of the strange outbreak, which affected some and not others. The old and weak seemed to suffer most, and the very young. There was a rumour of dark magic, Astrid told me — of a curse upon Svolvaen — though such whispers bided behind closed doors. The confinement of winter had likely curtailed the spread of the disease but spring was on our heels, with all hands needed in the fields. There could be no more hiding.

  “Show them your healing,” Gunnolf demanded, telling me visit every household. “Take whatever you need; do what must be done.”

  I gave my promise and hoped with all my heart to find a cure. With it would surely come the respect I sought. I might yet earn my place among these people.

  With the Jarl’s authority at my back, Svolvaen’s doors opened to me and I took my remedies to all who needed them. I prevented sores from festering and eased the sting of open wounds. Some regarded me with suspicion and were reluctant to accept my touch; others were grateful for my care. I gave my time to all, whether they wished me there or not, for the blight was no longer a private matter. What strength would Svolvaen have if half its people were lost to the disease?

  I refused to give up hope. The blooms were flowering afresh in the meadows and plants’ leaves unfurled in new growth. The answer, I felt sure, lay close to hand.

  Despite this shadow hanging over Svolvaen, life continued. The fields needed ploughing, ready for their seed, and Gunnolf commanded that the fortifications of our settlement be strengthened. Men were charged with cutting branches for sharpening, and a second row of outward-facing spikes were added to our perimeter.

  It was around this time that I realized I no longer had the dried mushroom I’d picked so long ago, in my own forest, over the sea. I’d kept it in a leather pouch, convincing myself that I’d never need to use it. It seemed an age ago that I’d been tempted to put its poison to evil use, on the first night on which the Viking raiders had feasted in our hall, drinking my dead husband’s ale.

  It had been a foolish whim to bring it with me, and to keep it, secreted in my pocket. With the bright sun returning, it seemed best that it had dropped and fallen somewhere, without me having noticed. I imagined the pouch lay somewhere in the forest, long since covered by leaves and moss.

  Meanwhile, I thought often of Eirik and Helka, making their way through the hills, to the lands beyond. Each day that passed took Eirik further away, but the needs of those about me called on my strength and were a distraction from the disappointment eating at my heart.

  Both Gunnolf and Asta had need of my skill, for we were a house of troubled dreamers. My Lady woke often with a mournful cry, though she shook her head when I asked her to unburden her fears. Whatever darkness filled her thoughts, she wished no longer to tell me of it. I was wary of giving her too much of my sleeping draught, lest it robbed her of the growing babe. Gunnolf, meanwhile, urged no restraint, drinking down whatever I gave him to chase away his own vile visions.

  My own nights were filled with the faces I saw through the day. In those sleeping hours, I roamed the forest, searching for the plant that would bring our cure. The wolf of old still prowled the shadows of my slumbered world, its gaze upon me, though it did not approach. One night, Asta walked with me in my forest reverie, not by my side but following behind, her footsteps in
mine. When I turned, she gave not her usual smile. Her face ashen, she looked with pained expression, clutching the roundness of her stomach, her eyes beseeching, though I could not discern what she wished from me.

  I woke with beating heart and hurried to her chamber, fearing she suffered some further malady.

  The Jarl had risen early, it seemed, for she was alone. Though pale, indeed, she was still her own sweet self, refusing to grumble at any discomfort from the growing babe. I helped her in her toilette, then bid her rest.

  “You’re near your time, my Lady.” I unhooked the goatskin from the small window, placed where the roof met the low stone of the wall to let in the sunlight and the pleasant-scented air.

  She nodded her assent, easing back upon the pillows.

  “I’ll bring porridge with extra honey, for you need your strength.”

  “How attentive you are, my Elswyth.” She smiled her thanks. “I know not where Faline gets to…” She let the thought trail away and I did not take it up.

  “It’s good to hear the birds and feel the warmth of the new season.” Asta rested her hand upon her belly and closed her eyes again. I wondered if there were not one babe but two within, so large was she. It worried me, for she was small of frame and such births were rarely easy.

  “A fitting time for new life to enter the world,” I said, pushing aside such thinking.

  “Time to redden the hörgr with sacrifices for Freya,” she replied. “’Twas my own hand that did so at the last Ostara, dedicating them upon the forest’s sacred stone.”

  “My Lady?”

  “The sacrament of dying to be reborn,” she murmured. “A time to give up old illusions and habits; to recognize the changes in the world before us.”

  “And to welcome the spring?” I asked.

  “Of course.” She yawned, and I saw that she would soon be asleep again.

  “I’ll bring your dagmal,” I said. “Remember that you must eat, my Lady.”

  I watched with interest as Svolvaen prepared for its festival. Unlike Jul, I sensed it would be a sombre affair; no one was willing to explain it to me, as if it were only to be experienced and not retold.

  I made my daily round, bringing more of my salve to Astrid. Torhilde had returned home, at last, her husband finding he had need of her, after all. He’d become resigned to the marks upon her skin, having developed sores on his own body. Hers had responded well, as Ylva’s had done: not healed, but not the unsightly blister they had first presented.

  I looked to Ylva, who played with the baby upon the bed. The child was growing well, evidently of strong constitution. It had contracted not a single mark. The blight remained arbitrary in choosing its victims.

  “Gunnolf has said that only those who are well are to attend the festival,” Astrid told me.

  “Do you mind?” I asked Ylva, but she blushed and turned away, leaving her mother to answer.

  “I’m relieved, in truth,” Astrid whispered. “Ostara is a night of mystery, when the gods bend close and whisper in our ear.” Looking back at Ylva, she drew me to the door, then led me outside. “Its rituals take us back to the earth we came from, to the animal part of ourselves; it’s not for children, or for girls who’ve never lain before with a man. There are no rules on Ostara night. No husbands and no wives; only men and women.”

  I guessed her meaning and was taken aback. Eirik had said nothing to me of Ostara, had given me no warning. I thought of the Jul festival and the many kisses he’d received. I’d refused to indulge my jealousy, but they held different significance now. I couldn’t help but wonder if there were any women in Svolvaen who hadn’t enjoyed the attentions of my warrior lover.

  “It’s up to you, of course,” added Astrid. “The men won’t touch you unless you invite them, but beware when you do, for the lust of the gods is in them and you’ll feel it in your own blood, too.”

  “And you, Astrid? Will you go?”

  She gave a small smile. “I will, indeed; Ostara brings power to the soil and to our own body, too. My husband isn’t coming back and my bed is lonely. Who knows what Ostara will bring me…”

  “Be still, my love,” said Gunnolf, as he placed the dagger’s edge to her ear. “You cannot attend but I’ll burn your hair on the sacred altar, and Freya will accept our offering.” He drew the blade carefully through her silken tresses, placing the cut strands in his pouch.

  “Of course, husband.” Asta accepted his kiss upon her brow.

  “And I shall remain with you, my Lady,” I asserted. “You’re too close to your time to be left alone.”

  As I knelt, Gunnolf’s hand came to rest on my shoulder. Its heaviness prevented me from rising and stilled my voice against argument.

  “I think not.” The Jarl pressed more firmly as he spoke. “The ceremony awakens us to the pulse of all that lives. It invigorates us with the vital energy of Freya and all the gods. How can Elswyth heal others if she doesn’t allow that energy to awaken in herself?”

  I kept my eyes upon the hem of Asta’s gown.

  “Faline shall stay and tend to your needs, wife.” Gunnolf’s thumb extended beneath my hair and found the bare skin at the back of my neck. “Under my eye, Elswyth will come to better understand our ways.”

  16

  Gunnolf lead us into the forest as the sun climbed, the horse’s reins loose in his hand. I walked behind, watching the swish of its tail. It was a path Helka had never shown me, light dappling through the canopy, patches of warmth alternating with the shade until the trees grew sparser. Entering the open glade, where the full heat of the spring sun reached us, I felt the impatience of those about me, eyes glancing one to the next, alight with unspoken excitement.

  From branches cut and sharpened and driven into the soil, we set our make-shift frames, draping them with skins, above pine needles dry and deep. My gaze was drawn to the hörgr. The huge altar stone emitted power, flattened along its upper edge, bathed in the brilliant light of our unclouded sky.

  The men lit a fire, stoked with debris from the forest floor and ringed with stones, to contain the flames. We’d brought food for feasting but none touched it. “For afterwards,” said Astrid, giving me a sly wink. “That’s when you’ll be hungry.”

  She untied the laces of her boots, to leave her feet bare. “Take off yours, and stay close,” she directed, passing me a wooden bowl. “No harm will come if you’re with me.”

  “Kneel, women of Svolvaen.” The Jarl bid us approach the hörgr, while the men stood behind.

  The smoky aroma was sweet, as if from the burning of rosemary and heather, but with a bitter undertone. It enticed me to breathe deep, drawing the seductive smoke inside my body, leaving my head and body light. As the moments passed, the trees seemed to grow taller and the sunlight brighter.

  “Give yourselves to Freya, on this day of Ostara,” the Jarl continued. “Revel in her blessings, so that your bodies may ripen under her favour.”

  From his pouch, he took out the long strands of Asta’s hair, throwing them into the flames, where they disappeared, as if they’d never been. “This symbol of womanhood I burn, asking Freya to accept our blót.”

  At his nod, the men led the horse forward. “This animal I slaughter, that Freya may bring prosperity to our crops, our livestock and our people.”

  The animal seemed to sense what was to come, its eyes rolling in fear, skittering away from the altar, obliging a tighter hold upon its rope. As Gunnolf raised his two-handed axe, I shrank back, wishing not to witness the fatal blow, turning my head.

  “You must see,” hissed Astrid, clutching my arm with surprising firmness, her eyes wide and bright. “Draw on our goddess Freya’s strength.”

  I made myself look. Another of the men stepped forward, stunning the stallion just below its brow with a single stroke of his cudgel. Before the beast had time to fall, Gunnolf swung his blade to connect with its neck. The crimson spurt seemed almost to hang in the air, in that moment between life and death. Staggering, the hors
e let forth a rasping sigh and collapsed, the blood foaming to its mouth.

  The slow arc of the Jarl’s second blow sliced through the thick air, meeting the neck once more and severing the head completely. I swayed, bumping against Astrid, who reached around my waist to support me.

  “Life for life, we offer this blood to nourish the soil,” declared the Jarl.

  “Do as I do.” Astrid stepped forward, lowering her bowl to the tangled gore, catching the oozing scarlet. By the time I’d done the same, the pooled warmth upon the ground had stained my feet, sticky between my toes.

  While we, women, assembled behind the altar, the men of Svolvaen ranged upon the other side. I’d never seen them so still in body, so intent in concentration, following all that we did — as if in their own trance.

  “These women dedicate themselves to you, at this time of Ostara, great Freya.” Gunnolf raised his arms skyward. “As your willing handmaidens, fill them with the desire that drives all creatures of our world and, in their pleasure, make them fruitful.”

  He came to us in turn, dipping his thumb to the viscous liquid we carried, daubing each forehead. Reaching me, he placed his hands over my own and held me within the steady gaze of his pale eyes. I trembled as he lowered his thumb into the dark crimson, as on that day of falconry, when he’d marked me with the blood of the hare.

  I dropped my eyes at the remembrance, waiting for his thumb to catch my lip, for his hand to raise my chin, that he might better see me. I waited for the press of his mouth to mine. When he moved on, I was left with the disturbing knowledge that I’d sought more of his touch.

  The last of us was Bodil, and her eyes did not lower. Gunnolf brought her bowl to his lips and drank, leaving a smear upon them, a gash of red across his cheek. He placed his hands either side of her head and drew her into a kiss deep and long. I could almost taste the blood upon his lips, as if he were caressing my mouth, rather than hers.