by Jianne Carlo
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The Peacemaker
Jianne Carlo
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Published By:
Etopia Press
P.O. Box 66
Medford, OR 97501
http://www.etopiapress.com
The Peacemaker
Copyright © 2011 by Jianne Carlo
ISBN: 978-1-936751-34-1
Edited by Georgia Woods
Cover by Mina Carter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: June 2011
http://www.etopia-press.net
Chapter One
“From whence came this cyrtel?” Bettina tugged at the low neckline of her dress to no avail. “You should have let me bind my breasts. They are overly large.” No matter how she arranged and rearranged her bosom, it refused to flatten. Indeed, the twin mounds seemed to have grown threefold since she last wore female garb.
“Trust me, dearest. There is no such thing as overly large or too plump breasts.” Mama fluffed the black lace lining the neckline and Bettina couldn’t hold back a giggle.
“That tickled.”
“’Tis a pity you were covered in boar’s blood the first time Lord Njal met you.”
Bettina shot a crooked half-smirk at Mama’s reflection in the looking glass. For some reason, the memory of her future husband’s horrified scowl when he discovered her identity pleased her.
“Boar’s blood, wearing the smith’s ratty breeches and stained tunic. Not to mention the muck from the pigsty on my boots.”
“Lord Njal will not recognize you this eve. You will have him and every man in the great hall salivating.”
“I do not recognize me.” Bettina wished she had Mama’s blue eyes and corn-silk hair, but she took after Papa and had his blue-black locks and dark eyes. “’Tis all for naught. Lord Njal cares only for his beloved treaty. I promise you he will not cast his eyes my way twice.” She fanned her face. “Pray open the shutters, Petalia, and let in some cool air.”
“You look beautiful, my lady.” Petalia climbed on the footstool to open the windows. “Like a princess.”
“The scarlet hue suits you, daughter.”
Mama settled a silver gyrdel at her waist.
Bettina toyed with the delicate metal links of the belt, fingering the carved dove clasp, and settled the hanging lengths so one hung lower than the other. She liked not symmetry and instead relished the wildness of disarray, preferring the beauty in the twists and knots of an ancient oak’s trunk to that of flowers carefully arranged in a pewter vase.
“’Tis exquisite.” Bettina rubbed a thumb over the rounded, clasped hands ending the chain girdle. “I have never seen this piece afore.”
“’Twas your father’s morning gift.”
“Mama, ’tis yours—”
“And my gift to you.” Mama squeezed her shoulder. “I wish you naught but joy in this union. Try to please Lord Njal this eve. Serve him from your trencher, laugh when he is witty, speak softly, and try not to flinch when he touches you. I have told you the all of it. ’Tis not easy to predict if a man will treat you gently or not. You cannot refuse him. And once the vows are said this eve, you are his.”
“Mama, you have told me that over and over.” She grasped her mother’s cold hands and rubbed them between hers. “I know you fear for me. I will not disgrace our name. I will not fight him. I will lie still and let him mount me.” It could not hurt more than being gored by a bull or an arrow in the shoulder.
“’Tis time. Forsooth, I would have this eve and this duty done with.” Bettina squared her shoulders and held her head high. “I am ready.”
There had been no time to do much to decorate the hall, but the cook’s son Luca, and all the keep’s children, had gathered pine and holly berries and made garlands for the high table. The innkeeper’s wife from three villages south had brought two barrels of ale. The boar she had caught the day before would feed the small crowd.
Bettina paused at the top of the staircase and stifled a groan when she spied a dozen neighbors gathered at tables on either side of the dais. She swept a glance around the wide hall, and the knitted muscles in her neck relaxed somewhat when she saw all appeared to be in order. Fresh rushes perfumed the chamber, blue and yellow plumes skipped low o’er the charred logs in the main hearth, and above the murmur of male and female voices she heard the melodious tune of the smith’s flute.
She must not let her mind wander this eve. Tonight she would bind her betrothed to her people.
Night had fallen and the dozens of lit candles and lamps scattered throughout the great hall did little to lift the gloom and flickering shadows. ’Twas indeed fortunate, as the dimness hid the odd stains on the aged bricks needing whitewashing and a coating of limestone. Mayhap none would notice the knife gouges in the tables, or the nicks and grooves in the worn benches. When Papa lived the keep had been prosperous, but once control ceded to her step-uncle Mordred, gradually all the brass goblets, the jewels, and even the tapestries vanished to pay off debts.
Lord Njal the Peacemaker. Pah! A warrior would be of more use to them. Gird your loins, Bettina. Do what you must.
As she slowly made her way down the stone steps, Bettina searched the faces for her husband-to-be. She soon found his brothers. One of the two, the giant Magnus, who stood head and shoulders above all others, she spied immediately. He lounged, one arm jammed against the wall near the fireplace, his gaze scanning the crowded chamber. Jarvik, the pretty one, had a cadre of maidens serving him ale and pasties, and he sat at a bench with three men she did not recognize.
“My lady.” One of the dairy maid’s daughters tugged at Bettina’s skirts. She held a posy of evergreen and holly tied with a length of silver ribbon. “For you, my lady.”
“My thanks.” Bettina smiled at the apple-cheeked girl who wore a freshly laundered gown made from one of her old dresses. All had done without for so long.
Bringing the posy to her nose, she inhaled the clean scent of winter’s pine. ’Tween listening to the village tavern wenches’ gossip and catching Petalia and the cobbler’s son rutting atop a haystack, Bettina had devised a scheme to win o’er Njal the Peacemaker. ’Twould not be difficult to foil a man who shunned battle and near emptied his stomach at the sight of boar blood.
She caught the steward, Darwent, ogling her bosom. Her nostrils flared hard and fast, and her fists itched to smash the stupid, lecherous grin off his pockmarked face. At least this eve none could dismiss her female parts, and none would decry her manners or her bloodline. For her great-grandsire had b
een half-brother to King Edmund.
And as Mama had pointed out, ’twas not a bad fate marrying Njal the Peacemaker, for he would only remain at Castle Arbroath long enough to sire his heir. As soon as he got her with child, he would leave for King Cnut’s court and matters would return to normal.
* * *
“See you your bride?” Jarvik’s wide grin sent Njal’s belly into a coil.
“Nay.” He faced his brother, not the crowded hall. But he’d heard the collective gasp, then a moment’s eerie quiet followed by a slew of heated murmurs and whispers, and guessed his bride had made her appearance. “She has finally deigned to grace us with her presence?”
“She is at the foot of the stairs.” Magnus sipped from his goblet. “Should you not greet her?”
“’Tis a hard enough task to steel myself to consummate this marriage to a lass who resembles a lad save for her long locks.” Njal rolled his eyes. “I only pray she has the manners of a lady at the high table. Loki the trickster must have muddled King Cnut’s mind to bind me to a female as coarse as Bettina. Never could I take a country lass as simple and unlearned as she to the courts. ’Tis not the alliance I had hoped for.”
“If you will not greet her, I will.” Jarvik straightened his tunic and finger-combed the golden hair brushing his broad shoulders. “You are a fool, brother. She is a beauty and I would give my left stone to have Bettina at my side.” Jarvik sent him a pitying contemptuous look. No one appreciated female beauty the way Jarvik did.
Njal turned around, his grasp on the goblet he held slackened, and all the blood in his body sank to his thickening cock. He could not disguise his shock or the lightning bolt of lust that struck him motionless at the transformation of Bettina the flat-chested, lanky lass into Bettina the voluptuous goddess.
“Even covered in blood her beauty shone, but in that dress…” Magnus whistled softly.
“And those tits are magnificent. Where did she hide them yester eve?” Jarvik adjusted the brooch at the neck of his tunic and took a step forward.
“Stand down.” Njal elbowed Jarvik aside and devoured the entire length of the great hall in six strides. When he stood in front of his bride-to-be, he near swallowed his tongue and could not take his gaze off her breasts.
Njal the eloquent, the man who charmed snakes and serpents alike, was so consumed by lust, so slack-jawed and half-witted, he had not a rational thought or word in his head. He did not want any other man gawking at her titties. “Have you no shawl?”
Bettina’s forehead creased. “I have no need of one. ’Tis overwarm as it is. Is aught amiss with my dress?” She glanced down and smoothed the black lace trimming the scooped neckline. “Mayhap ’tis not what the ladies of King Cnut’s courts wear. I fear Mama traded dearly for this cyrtel and she has had the women of the keep sewing nonstop to fit the bodice.”
Njal could not master control of a cockstand that threatened eruption if her tits jiggled once more. ’Twas as if his prick controlled his watering mouth and scrambled his thoughts. He stared at the scarlet silk covering her breasts, hoping for a peek at her nipples.
Pink?
Nay, cocoa, like the sweet drink he’d had in Jutland. And up-tipped, pearled, and pointing; he could almost taste the dulcet buds.
“Pah! I am babbling. I will not have you take me to task for my dress. ’Tis the best we can do and must be enough. Pray my lord have a care for our audience and greet my face, not my bosom.” She stamped her foot and half-winced.
’Twas her wince that finally brought together the cleave his prick had sliced through his brain. “Your ankle still smarts from your injury yester eve. I will carry you.”
Brilliant Njal: a scheme worthy of ten thousand coin, for if he had her in his arms, then he could shield her titties for his eyes only.
“Do not dare shame me so.” The posy in her hand dripped pine needles onto the rushes as her fingers tried to strangle the greenery.
“What shame in a warrior caring for his female?” Njal sent her the smile that had earned him the beds of princesses, countesses, baronesses, and maids galore.
Her eyes narrowed, her lips… Why had he not noticed how plump and tasty they looked before? So red and full they brought to mind other lips he’d like to plough, lick, and bury his nose between. Would she taste like honey? Nay, she would be spicy to taste, her musk intoxicating.
“My lord?”
She cleared her throat and he could’ve sworn she snorted. Vaguely he realized she awaited his response. What had she asked? Dazed, he watched her start a conversation with one of the guests.
“The priest is ready, Njal.” Magnus dug an elbow into his side.
Njal shook his head but that didn’t clear his lust-haze.
“Pick your jaw up from the rushes.” Another jab, this time to his ribs.
“Were I you, I would rearrange your sword and sheath to conceal your rabid cockstand.” Magnus gave the advice in a half-whisper.
“Aye. Drum some sense into him whilst I greet his bride to be.” Jarvik spun around. “Lady Bettina, ’tis wonders you have worked to prepare a feast on such short notice.”
Njal surreptitiously adjusted his sword and tunic while straining to eavesdrop on Jarvik’s conversation with Bettina.
“Dear sister, may I tell you how radiant you look tonight?” Njal hissed when Jarvik captured Bettina’s hands and brought first one to his lips, then the other. “Never have I seen such beauty, such grace. You took the stairs like a queen.”
“Aye, lady.” Magnus bowed. “I have not the pretty words of my brothers, but you look fine this eve.”
Color rose in her cheeks; she dipped a curtsey to both warriors, and showered them with a dazzling smile. “Many thanks, my lords.”
“We are your brothers now, Bettina. I am Jarvik to you.”
“And I, Magnus.”
“Cease your prattling.” Irritation laced Njal’s tone as he stared narrow-eyed at his brothers. If they so much as glanced to her breasts he would batter their faces. “Where is the priest? Let us have the vows.”
“May I find your mother for you, Bettina? I am cert you wish her at your side.”
“My thanks for your thoughtfulness, Magnus. I believe she went to give last-minute instructions to the cook.” A dimple appeared on her right cheek when she flashed Magnus a brilliant smile.
Njal choked back a snarl. His bride would soon learn to reserve such smiles for him and him alone.
“There is a small chapel on the right of the hall. We go there for the vows.” Bettina shifted and the gyrdel she wore tinkled.
What a narrow waist she had, and such supple hips, and long, long legs.
“My lord?” One brow arched. “Shall we proceed?”
The vows. Aye. Once they were said, she was his.
He extended an arm and she placed her hand on top of his. The crowds parted as they walked.
Years of negotiation and peacemaking, and working to gain first one goal, then another, refocused Njal’s thoughts and actions. “How is your ankle?”
“Much improved. I thank you for the advice. Though ’twas not pleasant applying icy cloths, the swelling receded. ’Tis a practice learned on the battlegrounds?”
“Nay. In the eastern lands. They have much knowledge in Constantinople of the body and healing.” Her hair smelled of rosewater and hazel, and the unbound waves fell below her high rump. “I learned much from the scribes and physiks in the great city. They believe in the power of touch to heal the bad humors lurking under skin and massage oils into the flesh to dissolve the humors.”
Twisting her head to him, she met his gaze, her features at once alert, her eyes wide. “Truly? Never have I heard of such. We have many elderly in the keep who are stiff and creaky. Mayhap this massage and oiling could ease their aches and pains. I would learn such skill from you, my lord, if you will teach me the way of it.”
He could barely walk, his sac hung so tight and full. With each stride, his prick abraded the fine wool of his b
reeches. His head filled with images of her naked, lying on her belly, of his hands massaging her legs, his lips exploring the sweet spot behind her knee. When she halted, he blinked rapidly to clear his brain. Gradually he grew aware of a wooden altar centered under an arch, and a priest dressed in robes the colors of Cnut’s court, deep crimson and gold.
The ceremony began after Magnus, Jarvik, and Bettina’s mother, Lady Gwen, took their places behind his bride and himself. Njal’s concentration strayed during the Christian vows he neither believed nor condemned, having come to the conclusion after spending time in eastern lands that belief in one God over another mattered only in negotiations.
Two of the local noblemen drew his attention, for both were dressed as if they frequented the courts, yet he had no recollection of either. One stood tall and lean and had seen battle and many summers, judging from the scars and lines formed at his mouth and eyes. The other seemed younger, mayhap by a score or more years, and he had the looks of a well-cared man, his skin smooth, his fingers ringed, his body stout but tightly muscled.
After the vows were said and they headed back to the great hall for the feast, Njal noticed that the two noblemen vied for Lady Gwen’s attention. He squeezed Bettina’s fingers as they walked to garner her attention from the many children dancing and throwing holly leaves at them. “Who are those two speaking with your mother?”
“The shorter one is Hal the Herald, Earl Mordred’s son. The taller one is our nearest neighbor and an ally and friend of my father, the earl of Bern Umbria, Leofric the Lion.”
Her tone went from edged to hopeful as she spoke. From that he inferred she disliked Hal but approved of the earl. Njal glanced at the two men as they sat at the high table with Lady Gwen nestled between them and decided to learn more about both.
The moment Njal and Bettina took their place of honor in the center of the high table, platters of food, borne by serving lads and lasses, issued from the kitchens. Pages stoked the three fireplaces, ale flowed freely, and a conversational hum punctuated by chortles, the odd belly laugh, childish screeches, and the occasional shouted but good-natured quarrel echoed off the hall’s wooden rafters.
