The Enchantment

by Betina Krahn

  “See what you’ve started, Daughter of Mischief?” Jorund snarled at Aaren, flinging an arm toward the angry faces aligned in factions behind the two of them. The noise and confusion of the flying insults only heightened their conflict. “Are you so thirsty for the dew of wounds? Will nothing less than blood-letting satisfy you?”

  “It is not blood I seek, it is honor . . . another thing you know nothing about!” She stalked closer to him, reading in his face his struggle to contain his mounting fury. “You with your shameless word-spinnings and slaverings and pawings—you tried to dishonor me, Woman-heart. You defamed my enchantment and my blade-skill, you abased me before my fellow warriors . . . then slunk about in secret to coax and cozen me with your pleasure-skill. No more, Woman-heart. Fight me! Fulfill your vow this night, or your people will know—as I do—that you never intend to fulfill it!”

  “Nej—nej!” A ball of patched brown woolen came hurtling from the edge of the crowd. Brother Godfrey scrambled to a halt between Aaren and Jorund, his rotund form twisting frantically between them. “Nej—do not do this—I pray you! You must not fight!” He clasped his hands in desperate supplication to Aaren, then to Jorund. “It is not for men to fight with women—and the letting of blood in rage is wrong! It is a grave sin!”

  “Who let him in here?” Borger bellowed, smashing his ale horn on the floor and lurching down from his high seat. “Out of the way, Christ-lover!” he roared, bashing a fist through the air. He’d never seen his son so wrought up—so perfectly and terrifyingly furious! And he wasn’t about to let that cursed little Christian interfere with his pleasure. “Get out of my hall—out of my sight!”

  But Godfrey defied Borger’s wrath to seize Jorund’s arm. The priest felt the tremors in Jorund’s flexed and bulging muscles and stared up at his molten blue eyes. He flew into full panic; Jorund was fast slipping past the realm of self-control. “My friend, I beg you! Remember what our Lord says—seventy times seven you must forgive—”

  Aaren had never seen Jorund so roused, so angry—like a terrifying storm about to break. Her legs went strangely weak. The tumult in her—anger, regret, anticipation, and dread—wadded itself into her throat as she watched the priest trying to reason with Jorund, to dissuade him. Jorund tore his gaze from her to look at Brother Godfrey with his jaw clenched and his chest heaving. And she knew that unless she did something—gave him one last push—he might yet slip away from her.

  “Wolf-tamer!” she called to him, measuring the distance to her blade as she strode to the side of the hearth. Her fists clenched and her face burned. The noise in the hall dropped precipitously as her voice claimed everyone’s attention, even Jorund’s. The rage in his eyes took her breath away. She braced defiantly and raised her chin.

  “They say you pulled the she-wolf’s fangs.” She planted her fists at her waist and sneered: “Well, I say this little priest and his White Christ have pulled yours! They’ve turned you into a cursed Christian cheek-turner!”

  He was so near the edge, his control so precarious—of all the insults she might have dealt him, that particular one hit dead-on, in the center of his heart. His control snapped.

  Shock exploded through the hall like a lightning strike as he bashed Godfrey aside and launched himself at her. She saw him coming but only had time to take a step or two before he slammed into her, engulfing and carrying her to the hard-packed floor with him. Their fall sent some women and warriors scrambling out of the way, some straining closer.

  She was knocked breathless for a moment, but as she felt Jorund’s weight bearing down on her, she began to struggle. She writhed and grappled beneath him, but he quickly snagged her wrists and pinned them to the floor by her head. Then he trapped her dangerous legs with his and managed to contain their powerful lashing. He lay on top of her, his great muscles straining as he struggled with her. His face loomed over hers, looking savage and foreign, burning with both hunger and retribution.

  “You’ll pay for this, Woman-heart—”

  “Silence, Witch!” he snarled. “I pleasure you with my tongue, and you flay me with yours! Well, no more! It is time to end this madness.”

  “Yea,” she panted, twisting and jerking beneath him, “finish it! Take up your blade and fight me!”

  “There’s but one blade I’ll ever take to you, She-wolf.” He ground his pelvis hard against hers. “And I’ll do it here and now—and disprove your cursed enchantment once and for all!”

  The weight of his body, the heat of his breath on her face—harsh parodies of tenderer pleasures—sent pain through her heart even as his words sent panic through her mind.

  “Yea, Woman-heart,” she choked out with the last bit of defiance she could muster. “Wield your flesh-blade against me if you dare—for in truth it is the only blade you know how to wield!”

  His mouth came down on hers, crushing, commanding, and no matter how she arched her back and jerked her head she could not dislodge it, or dispel the bitter taste of panic rising up her throat. She had pushed too hard, too far . . . it was going all wrong!

  “Nej, Jorund!” Godfrey rushed to them and began to pull at Jorund’s tunic, then at his arm, which held Aaren’s wrist in a punishing grip. “For the Almighty’s sake,” the little priest choked out, “do not do this thing—I pray you! Do not disgrace her or yourself with this sin born of anger! Please, Jorund—no!”

  “Get him!” Borger bellowed. “Get that sniveling holy-worm away from my son!” When there was a stunned pause, he charged in to pull Godfrey from Jorund’s shoulder himself. The violent motion thawed some of his frozen warriors and they rushed to his aid. But it took Borger and three of his battle-seasoned men to pry away the tenacious priest. And when they did break Godfrey free, he struggled with the strength of four ordinary men, grappling and shouting to Jorund as they dragged him away.

  “Haul his holy arse out of my hall—lock him in the storehouse!” Borger ordered, spitting in disgust, then turning in lusty expectation to the heaving, tussling pair at his feet.

  But the damage had already been done. Godfrey’s frenzied pleas had somehow penetrated the pounding of blood in Jorund’s head. The force of his mouth on hers, the harsh pressure of his body against hers, the churning, violent heat in his stomach and limbs felt foreign, unnatural to him. And as soon as that feeling lodged securely, the full impact of what he intended finally righted itself in his mind. He was set to take her—there—on the spot! Deeply shaken, he dragged his mouth from hers and stared down into her face . . . as if awakening in a strange place . . . in a stranger’s body.

  Beneath him, Aaren’s eyes were defiant yet oddly luminous, haunting. In their depths he caught a glimpse of deep emotion—regret, perhaps, or sorrow, or even a twinge of fear. It was so fleeting he could not capture or name it, but it did its work on him all the same. As the harsh dominance of his body over hers eased, her resistance eased as well, and her straining slowed, then ceased.

  They lay together in that taut, volatile pose, panting, painfully aware of the heat and passion coiled between them. For a long moment they searched each other, both realizing how close they had come. But only Jorund understood how far they had yet to go. And he knew instinctively that they would never close the distance between them here, while Borger and the rest of the village looked on.

  When he levered up onto his arms above her, there were gasps—which turned to groans of disappointment and disgust as he shoved to his feet. Somewhere in the distance he heard Old Borger’s wail of disappointment: “What’s wrong with you, boy? Get back down there and finish it!” A hue and cry went up as he stood astride her, his chest heaving, his eyes narrowed with determination. But the howls of protest changed abruptly to puzzled muttering as he bent and hauled her up with him.

  While she scrambled for both dignity and footing, he snatched up her heavy braid and pulled it over his shoulder, shoving his way through the parting crowd toward the door. Outraged, she squealed and struggled and stumbled at his back. But reeling alon
g behind him, being dangled and dragged by her own hair, allowed her no chance to plant her feet or strike a blow at him, much less free herself.

  He hauled her by the hair of her head through the hall and outside into the cold night air, bellowing: “Rope—I need rope—and plenty of it!”

  The stunned villagers joined their jarl in charging out the doors after Jorund and Aaren, and in a flash, Garth and Brun were running for the smithy and lengths of rope stored there. The rest of the crowd gathered close to watch, some shocked, some titillated, others bewildered by the twists and turns of events.

  “And horses!” Jorund bellowed above her furious screeches. Several young warriors went running toward the stable. “And food—provisions to last a month or more—quickly!” Helga led a knot of women scurrying to the jarl’s small hearth and storehouse. Borger seized the sense of his son’s orders and wheeled on Hrolf the Elder, who stood closest to him.

  “And swords—fetch both his and hers from the hall—quickly!” he bellowed.

  When the rope appeared, Jorund swung Aaren around by her braid, catching her feet with his and toppling her. She fell smack on her rear, and he was astride her in a flash, corralling her wrists and binding them while she writhed and bucked and called down every foul and hideous fate she could imagine onto his head.

  “Curse your eyes—you’ll regret this, Woman-heart!” she ground out, knifing her legs up beneath him.

  “No doubt I will!” he agreed, dodging one of her lethal knees, then dropping his full weight on her legs to flatten them while he coiled the rope around her shoulders and bound her arms securely to her sides.

  “I’ll have your blood on my blade by morning—I swear it!” she shouted, trying desperately to kick as he slid back on her legs and slipped a second rope beneath her knees.

  “Take a lesson from my fate, Serricksdotter,” he muttered, panting as he subdued her thrashing feet. “What you vow in haste . . . you always rue at leisure.”

  The villagers’ gasps and murmurs turned to snickers and bemused laughter at the battle-maid’s predicament. By sheer overpowering might of muscle, Jorund had managed to bind her arms and legs securely, and when the horses were brought, he hoisted her and dropped her facedown across one saddle, securing her with a rope and delivering a smack on her buttocks. “Owww!” Her angry wail trailed off into threats and growls of protest that made the horse dance skittishly and show white around its eyes. Jorund climbed on his own massive mount and donned his fleece-lined jerkin as the women tied the bags of provisions and rolled blankets on behind him. His mount pranced nervously as he reined it in and cast a determined glare at Aaren, then at his people.

  “I am taking her to my shieling . . . up in the mountains,” he declared over Aaren’s frantic gasps and growls. “And I swear by Godfrey’s Heaven that neither of us will be seen in this village again . . . until I have tamed and mated Odin’s She-wolf!”

  A cheer went up as he gave his mount the heel and rode off into the woods with Aaren jostling along behind. Borger whooped and bellowed with pride at the promising display of raw male power he had just witnessed in his offspring. “Did you see that, Forkbeard?” he demanded, all but felling the old warrior with a forceful clap on the back. “He’ll have her defeated and on her back before the month is out—mark my word!”

  He was so busy crowing about his cleverness that at first he didn’t notice the ring of men gathering around Miri and Marta. With the battle-maiden out of the way, his warriors were anxious to get on with the disposition of her toothsome sisters.

  “I’ve had a loin-ache since the night I first laid eyes on the pair of them,” the Freeholder announced, leering hotly at Miri and sending her shrinking back against Marta.

  “Hold, Freeholder—that maid is mine!” Garth jolted forward, his chin jutting and his fists drawn back. Shoving and grappling ensued until the fracas finally drew Borger’s attention.

  “What is this?” Borger bashed his way through the crowd to insert himself into the fray. His burly strength sent both Garth and the Freeholder hurtling back into the hands of their fellows.

  “Freeholder thinks to take himself a bride, now that the battle-maid is gone!” Garth snarled, lunging against Brun’s and Erik’s restraint.

  It was all Borger needed to hear. He cast a nasty glare around the circle of his sons and warriors, reading in their dusky faces the lingering blood-heat roused by the flyting and by Jorund’s near taking of the Valkyr’s daughter before their very eyes.

  “Hear me well, you slavering pack of hounds!” He swaggered toward Miri and Marta, then pivoted and spread himself between them and his men. “There will be no more talk of brides or marriage, or even of sharing furs with these maids until Jorund or the battle-maid—or the pair of them—returns. Then and only then can I be sure the enchantment is well broken and that the gods will not take vengeance on me for defying them! And if I catch any man touching them before that day—I’ll geld him with my own two hands! I swear it!”

  The men lowered their eyes resentfully and grumbled, but none challenged the old jarl’s will. After a long, tense moment, they began to disperse, heading back into the hall to drown themselves in ale. The women withdrew as well, dragging their shawls and mantles closer about them as they hurried off to their solitary pallets.

  Soon only Miri and Marta and Garth and Brun Cinder-hand remained in the cold moonlight. Brun looked to Marta with a hungry-calf sort of look on his broad, square features, but she lowered her eyes, squeezed her sister’s hand, and turned away toward the women’s house. Brun let out a heavy breath, then turned back toward the hall, leaving Garth and Miri alone on the broad, frosty plain.

  “I . . . I would know, little Miri . . .” Garth shifted feet and swallowed against the tightening in his throat. “Would you . . . do you mind that I . . . claim you?”

  Miri’s heart fluttered and her eyes warmed, becoming like balmy summer sky. “It is bold of you to speak so, Garth Borgerson. And I admire boldness.” The relief in his face was short-lived. “But I do not know whether I would like sharing furs with a man I have never touched.”

  He stiffened, searching her sweet face with mounting turmoil. Then she reached through the stillness, extended her hand, and he quickly enveloped it with his bigger, warmer one. At the contact, the tension in her shoulders melted and a smile of wonder crept over her countenance. He felt reassuringly solid and smooth and warm . . . so very warm in the chilled night air. A powerful new longing rose within her.

  “How bold are you, Garth Borgerson?” she whispered. “Bold enough to hold me with more than a hand?” Heat flared in his eyes at her unexpected challenge and he pulled her to him . . . wrapping her with his strong arms, folding her to his hardened warrior’s frame.

  It was like sinking into a mountain hot spring . . . feeling his presence lapping around her, his warmth invading her garments, and his strength claiming her. She melted against him, nuzzling her cheek against the coarse woolen of his tunic and the smooth leather of his jerkin, and sliding her arms around his waist. It was wonderful, having Garth’s body pressed tautly to hers . . . all she had hoped . . . and so much more.

  They stood embracing, silent. Then Miri raised her face to his in helpless wonder, and ran her tongue along the groove of her lips, staring at his. The sight galvanized Garth and for the first time in his manly life, he was seized with the desire to merge his mouth with a woman’s. He held his breath and lowered his mouth onto hers.

  It was soft and moist and sweet—so incredibly sweet. It was like honey-cakes . . . like sips of Frankish wine. The pleasure-shock radiated along his nerves and rattled his very sinews. By the time he raised his head, he could scarcely see. He was drunk with the taste and feel of her. It took a full minute to realize she was slipping from his arms. He staggered, then planted his feet and focused on her.

  Her eyes were shining and she had caught her reddened lower lip between her teeth. When he made a move toward her, she jerked back a step and whirled—run
ning for the women’s house. He stood, roused and wanting, in the cold night. But after that first blast of disappointment faded, he began to grin. She wanted him. He drew a deep breath and turned back to the hall, fingering his newly sensitive lips, his heart soaring like a nighthawk on the wind. On the wings of his thoughts, he sent Jorund all the help the gods of Asgard might be willing to spare. Halfway to the hall, he paused and cast a glance up at the night sky.

  “And you, White Christ—wherever you are. Your friend Jorund could use your help, too.”

  MUCH LATER, DEEP into the night, Marta crept from her pallet in the darkened women’s house and donned her thick woolen cloak. Slipping out the door, she hurried toward the long hall, pausing in the moon-shadows to search the commons and the buildings around her for signs of others who might be abroad at such a late hour. The quiet extended, unbroken, and she hurried on to tug open the massive door of the hall and dart inside. The great iron hinge creaked and she froze, scarcely breathing as she lowered her hood and glanced about at the limp and snoring forms of the warriors and villagers that littered the benches and floor.

  Most of the torches had sputtered out, but there was still enough light to see Leif Gunnarson propped against the wall on his mat of straw, beneath the ragged fleece she had found for him. His shaggy head was leaned back against the wall and his eyes were closed, but as she stole closer, his eyes opened and fixed on her as if he had heard and tracked her movements from the moment she entered the hall. He did not move a muscle.

  “What are you doing here?” he said quietly.

  “I . . . I don’t . . .” Her throat tightened as she looked into those clear gray eyes that seemed to see into her very heart. She didn’t know why she had come . . . except that there was an ache in her heart and she felt a compelling urge to be near him and to have him look at her the way he was now.

  “Go away, little Marta,” he said with an odd huskiness to his voice.