by Betina Krahn
After the eating was done, Borger looked out over the gathering and called for wrestling. His warriors shouted out names of combatants they wished to see matched. The jarl squinted and stroked his beard, and finally selected two of those nominated for battle: Garth Borgerson and Harald White Leg.
Garth bounded up eagerly and stripped off his jerkin and tunic, while his opponent did the same. The other warriors formed a ring in front of the high seat, pushing back the villagers, then brought out a bucket of grease and proceeded to smear it over the wrestlers’ bare backs and chests. In the midst of being prepared for battle, Garth looked up to find Miri clutching her ale pitcher to her breast and staring at his neat, muscular body with adorably wide eyes. He inflated his chest and flexed his muscles for her and her mouth formed a helpless O that made him beam with brash male pride.
With the added incentive of the maid he had marked as his future bride looking on, Garth wrestled with the ferocity of a rogue bear, and soon gained a victory from the bigger, but slower, Harald. Borger proudly awarded him a new dagger and the warriors began to shout out other names. More matches were made and more bouts fought: some bitterly, some jovially, and some with a notable lack of emotion. Ale and wagers flowed freely and voices grew steadily louder and more heated. After half a dozen matches, someone shouted out the name Jorund Borgerson.
It was picked up and chanted by a number of voices until old Borger lowered his ale horn and lifted his hand to quiet them. He wiped his mouth thoughtfully, then scanned the tables, looking for his eldest son. He found Jorund seated not far away, at a table with a number of his younger sons . . . and the Valkyr’s daughter.
“What say you, Firstborn? Will you wrestle?”
Jorund leaned back against the table, propping his arms out like mighty branches along the tabletop. He appeared to consider it, then shook his head. “Nej. Not this night.”
Borger grunted and jerked about in his chair, clearly irritated by Jorund’s refusal. But the noise in the hall resumed as he turned his attention elsewhere for the next match.
Aaren looked at Jorund through lowered lashes, feeling a burning disappointment that he hadn’t agreed to wrestle. He was bigger and stronger than any man present . . . was he really so much of a coward . . . or a cheek-turner . . . that he couldn’t even engage in a manly bit of sport? Then it struck her: This was her chance to challenge him!
“Why will you not wrestle, Borgerson?” she said in a loud, clear voice.
Noise in the immediate area dropped precipitously, and heads turned and necks craned to see how he would respond. He turned toward her and gathered his great body; drawing his arms in, tightening his belly, sitting straighter. Garth and Erik abandoned their seats and pulled the others along with them, to clear the plank between Jorund and Aaren. Their sudden motion drew Borger’s attention, and when the jarl’s head snapped in their direction, many others did as well.
“Well, Serricksdotter . . .” Jorund looked her over appraisingly. “Perhaps I don’t wish to wrestle tonight.”
“Or perhaps you’re afraid to,” she countered, casually but with a taunting loudness. The quiet spread a bit wider around them.
“Or perhaps I don’t have a proper opponent,” he said, matching her tone and volume, acknowledging her provocative game and announcing that he intended to play as well. “I have always been particular about who I wrestle, Serricksdotter. Ask anyone.” He cast a wicked grin around him, drawing suggestive laughter from the men.
She straightened, sensing that he and the other men had more than one sort of grappling-sport in mind.
“You make excuses. Given a chance, a true warrior is always eager to fight and prove his strength. There are a number of worthy opponents here, Borgerson,” she declared firmly.
“Who?” he demanded. “You?” His body tautened, instantly primed and ready for action. “Are you challenging me to wrestle, Serricksdotter? Because if you are, I accept.” He leaned toward her like a falcon eyeing prey. His voice dropped to the bottom of its register.
“I would love nothing better than to wrestle with you, Long-legs.”
She was momentarily disarmed; she hadn’t expected him to offer to wrestle her. She met his threatening eagerness with a rigid spine and molten-amber eyes, frantically calculating her chances against him in a wrestling match.
“Of course, to be fair, the breastplate would have to go,” he said, fixing a stare on her armor that penetrated to the soft flesh behind it. Muffled snickers rolled through the men nearby and was relayed on a wave of whispers through the rest of the hall.
“We strip to the waist to wrestle, Serricksdotter,” he continued. “And we grease down.” He ran a hot, speculative gaze over her most prominent female attributes. “I would be willing to grease you myself, Battle-wench . . . if you would return the favor and . . . grease me.”
Lewd chuckles grew to desultory laughter around them. Her own blood betrayed her, rushing into her face, and her tongue turned traitor, too, refusing to move. He was both taunting and seducing her publicly . . . and she couldn’t utter a single word in her own defense!
“Think of it, Serricksdotter,” he went on, his voice sensual and hypnotic. “Naked to the waist . . . skin to skin . . . loins to loins . . . flexing and straining . . . hot and writhing . . .”
The laughter gradually damped and all breath was baited in expectation as the seduction in his tone deepened.
“I could teach you a few of my special holds, Long-legs. There is one where I wedge myself between my opponent’s thighs . . . hard and tight . . . and then slowly—”
“Nej!” she choked out, shooting to her feet. “Nej, I’ll not wrestle the likes of you. I do all my fighting with a blade. When you’re ready to use one like a man, come and see me, and perhaps I’ll teach you a few lessons!” She snatched up her drinking horn and strode off toward the ale barrels.
It was a reasonable recoup of dignity; what it lacked in originality, it made up for in vehemence. But she was still humiliated to the core at the way he’d turned her own challenge back on her again. And what was that disgusting excitement she had felt?
Miri and Marta came hurrying toward the ale barrels after her, their eyes full of questions that Aaren didn’t want to answer. She nodded to them to allay their fears and turned away, intending to leave the hall. But as she skirted the crowd, looking for a passage through to the doors, she heard the jarl’s voice booming . . . and felt his words striking like a spear, dead on center, in the middle of her back.
“Firstborn! How came you by that mark on your hand?” Borger demanded. He had watched as Aaren stalked away from Jorund and timed his question so that she would be directly opposite Jorund when it struck them both.
“Bitten,” Jorund declared, without stirring his big, relaxed body. “By a wolf.”
A murmur of excitement—“Wolves!”—snaked through the crowd and Aaren whirled, red-faced and caught between disbelief and outrage. So this was to be his revenge: tongue-lashing her in public.
“Wolves raiding my village?” Borger roared, sitting forward and glancing between Jorund and Aaren, his eyes alight. “How can that be? My herdsmen have said nothing to me of lamb-takings!”
“Ah, this was no ordinary wolf.” Jorund sat forward as well, leveling a knowing look on Aaren. “This was a special wolf . . . a she-wolf . . . an enchanted creature.” The warriors and folk around her caught his meaning and turned their drink-reddened grins on her.
She wheeled, determined to make her way through the crowd, but was confronted by a sea of half-drunken faces. Looking for another exit, she suddenly realized she was running, retreating from a mere word-battle before it had begun. She turned back to find Jorund watching her with a sly expression. She had to stand her ground!
“It was a big wolf . . . so sleek and shapely . . . tawny-eyed . . . and silky-moving . . .” he continued, drawing muffled snickers from the warriors seated around him, especially Garth and Erik Borgerson. “Wait!” He stuck his nose up a
nd sniffed the air. “I think I just caught her scent again. Ummm . . .” He made a show of closing his eyes and savoring her imaginary smell, leading a few of the more gullible thatch-heads to earnestly whiff in Aaren’s direction. “That’s her. I’d know her scent anywhere. Where is she . . . the she-wolf?” He scanned the crowd, deliberately overlooking her.
He slid from the bench into a crouch and sniffed again. He began to stalk this way and that, like a prowling beast, sniffing the air and nosing those people standing nearest the hearth and high seat. When he came to women, he sniffed and shook his head, and they giggled and batted him away. When he came to the men, he gasped and shuddered or waved his hand before his face and rolled his eyes as if overcome by foul fumes. But even the gruffest warriors among them laughed, no matter how red-eared and reluctant. Slowly, Jorund made his way back and forth across the hall, tracking her, closing in on her.
Aaren watched his mimicry in mingled horror and amazement. He was playing at being a wolf . . . making a perfect fool of himself. Yet the warriors’ and villagers’ laughter didn’t seem at all scornful or ridiculing. It was as if they shared the jest with him . . . enjoying the spectacle he was making of the conflict between him and her!
Every inch of her skin seemed to catch fire. She couldn’t just stand there, being stalked like some cursed animal. But she couldn’t exactly take a blade to him for a mere bit of foolery.
It struck her—too clearly and too late—that she didn’t know how to handle Jorund Borgerson at all! He wasn’t anything like a man was supposed to be. He didn’t do the things men were wont to do, and he didn’t seem to value or want the things men were supposed to want . . . like dignity, acclaim, honor, and power. She was totally unprepared to deal with the likes of him!
He stopped nearby and froze, sniffing in her direction. He stopped by her feet and went down on one knee.
“By Godfrey’s Heaven—I think I’ve found her!” he cried, running his nose up the side of her, inhaling. The crowd quieted to nervous chuckles and suggestive murmurings as he sniffed his way up the front of her thighs, pausing briefly at the top of her legs before moving up her belly. By the time he reached her breasts and raised his gaze to hers, his face was dusky and his eyes were glowing with dark, earnest fires. With her eyes captive in his, he dropped back onto one knee, threw back his shaggy blond head, and howled like a wolf.
“Aaooooooo—”
The hall erupted with laughter.
Aaren gasped as if she’d been smacked. Her whole being was in turmoil and she reacted out of sheer desperation, giving his shoulders a fierce shove that knocked him back on his rear. He sputtered in surprise, then melted into wicked laughter.
“There she is.” He waved his free hand at her. “My she-wolf.”
Aaren stood looking down at him, furious at his unstinting good humor, his blatantly sexual taunting . . . and at her own inability to stop his humiliating public use of her. She was shamed beyond all bearing to have been stalked and prowled and sniffed like a bitch in heat!
“Who is the one acting like a wolf, Borgerson? Not me!” she declared, bursting out of her paralyzing chagrin to stalk around his prone body with her fists at her waist and a disgusted look on her face. There were guffaws and hoots of laughter from the warriors nearby as she took up his wretched game.
“Look at him.” She gestured contemptuously to his sprawled body. It was gratifying to see the smile fading on his mischievous mouth. “He prowls like a wolf . . .” She continued her stroll around him, pausing to stoop above him, sniff, and make a sour face. “And he smells like a wolf.” She ambled on. “And he makes a noise like a wolf.
“Then he must be a wolf.” She paused, heartened by the way his face seemed a bit redder than before. “And from the way he stalks . . . I would say he’s hungry. Very hungry, indeed.” She tossed a vengeful smile at the warriors hovering close by. “You had better throw him a pork butt before you go to your pallets for the night . . . if you would sleep safely.”
The men’s laughter was like a warm tide, lapping at her back, as she turned and strode from the hall.
THE GREAT LAKE shimmered darkly under the waning moon as she ran along the shore, dispelling the heat in her. By the time she entered the deserted women’s house and sank onto a bench near the dull-glowing hearth, she had cooled enough to think. She sighed raggedly and rubbed her aching thighs, overcome by the memory of his handsome blond head poised so near . . .
She didn’t know how to deal with him. The more she tried to provoke and annoy him, the more he teased and charmed her. The more proud and combative she behaved, the more outrageous and seductive he became. And the most worrisome part was that tonight some wayward part of her had actually been relieved by his brazen pursuit.
He’d made it appallingly clear—to her and to everyone else in the village—that he still wanted her. And like almost everything else about him, why he still wanted her baffled her. Any other warrior in Borger’s band would have been angered enough to take a blade to her days ago. Yet, there he was, holding his temper and somehow ignoring or dismissing—or forgiving—the fact that she couldn’t hold hers.
To divert herself from such thoughts, she rose to her feet and paced, then laid a few more logs on the fire to warm the house for when Miri and Marta returned. As she watched the hungry yellow flames licking up the sides of the wood, she recalled that Brother Godfrey had said Jorund found it difficult to “turn the other cheek.” She recalled the struggle visible in his eyes when he mastered his anger at the bathing house . . . then again when she had bit him on the hand.
It must take a great deal of will-strength, both to resist the casual violence common among his fellow warriors and to subdue his own natural impulses. There was no lack of power or strength in Jorund Borgerson, she thought, her hard-set shoulders melting. Perhaps what he needed was something . . . or someone . . . to unleash it.
TEN
ACROSS THE commons, the celebration had continued with more contests, and finally with tales and beast epics recounted by the skald Snorri. After a while, the din of rowdy, drunken voices gave way to the sounds of shuffling feet as the villagers drifted back to their homes. The sounds of leave-taking slowly gave way to the growls of warriors competing for comfortable spots on the benches, then to vigorous snoring. Borger staggered off toward his furs, leaving a few of his sons and warriors still lifting horns around a table by the light of the dying fire.
Jorund stared blearily into his brew, feeling frustrated and annoyed. He had tried to drown the fire in his blood with ale, but all he got for his efforts was a thick pall of steam in his senses. For the balance of the night, after Aaren left the hall, he’d been the recipient of invitations ranging from flirtatious looks to sensual caresses, and despite the troublesome weight in his loins, he’d declined the lot of them, sending all away. His excuses were feeble and he knew it. But he could scarcely tell them the truth: that he somehow felt it was wrong to take them and their pleasures when it clearly wasn’t them he wanted.
A handful of the younger warriors came slamming back into the hall and steered straight for Jorund. Garth was at their head, looking hot-eyed and irritable as a bear roused in winter. He planted himself before Jorund with his arms flexing.
“Challenge the wench, Jorund,” he demanded, jabbing a finger at his elder brother. “Break this cursed enchantment once and for all.” Erik and the others at his back nodded.
Hrolf the Elder, seated across from Jorund, flicked a bleary look up at Garth, then laughed and glanced at Jorund. “He’s been with that little Serricksdotter, he has . . . and he’s got an ache in his flesh-bone.”
“By Hel’s gate—I’ve gotten no closer than an arm’s length to her. And I’ll get no further until he honors his word.” Garth clenched his jaw and smacked a fist onto the table in front of Jorund. “You vowed you’d defeat the battle-maid, Brother. Well, get on with it!”
“Yea, Jorund,” Erik growled at his elder half brother. “The battle-wench mak
es a fool of you . . . and shames all manhood in the bargain.”
“Yea—quit bein’ a cursed cheek-turner and take a fist to the wench!” another demanded.
“Nej—he has to use a blade,” spoke a clearer-reasoning head. The speaker turned and thrust the hilt of a sword at Jorund. “Use my blade, Firstborn, and shave a bit of fur from that she-wolf’s hide!”
“Or have you forgot how to swing a blade . . . Woman-heart?” This last came from Hakon Freeholder, who had just risen from a bench across the way and now sidled closer.
Jorund looked at the tight, irritable faces of the warriors collected around him and shoved to his feet. “You know what is wrong with you . . . you need a bit of fur-burn on your arse, the lot of you.” He raked them with a narrow look. “And you haven’t a chance in Godfrey’s Hell of getting it, because you don’t know the first thing about women . . . not how to make love to one . . . or how to defeat one.” Stepping over the bench, he strode back through the hall toward his sleeping closet.
“Listen to him,” Hakon snarled, jabbing a contemptuous finger at Jorund’s back. “Him and his talk of loving women. Even if he does pick up a blade, he’ll never defeat the Valkyr’s daughter.”
“Do not be too sure of that.”
The warriors squinted around them, searching for the owner of that unfamiliar voice. Brother Godfrey rose from the bench against the wall and stepped out of the shadows.
“What are you doing here, thrall man?” Hakon demanded. “If the jarl finds you in his hall—”
“He will drown me with his own bare hands. I know,” Godfrey supplied with an undaunted look at Hakon, who scowled at the little priest’s boldness. “Have you no eyes to see? Or is it that you have no wits to understand? Jorund is indeed fighting the battle-maiden . . . each time they meet.”
“He’s never taken a hand to her, much less a blade,” Garth declared.
