by Betina Krahn
Proof? Aaren and Jorund stared at each other. Neither had given a moment’s thought to the possibility that some proof might be required. Aaren shot a narrow look at the lusty old boar who sat in judgment on their lives and realized there was but one proof . . . and that she must provide it. She strode forward, then she turned to face both Borger and the villagers, her eyes bright with indignation.
“You demand proof? You insulting pack of hounds. Jorund’s word is his bond . . . as sure as death and the jarl’s wretched taxes.” She raised a furious finger. “But once—this once—I will grant you proof.” Grabbing the neck of her tunic at the edge of the cut she had mended, she gave it a hard jerk, ripping the stitching apart. When her shoulder lay bare, she turned into the sunlight, proudly displaying the long, dull red line along her shoulder bone . . . pivoting slowly, so that all could see it. “There is the mark of the blow Jorund dealt me.”
Miri and Marta gasped, the women frowned or covered their drooping mouths, and the warriors all murmured and nodded excitedly. Borger’s eyes widened on what was obviously a fresh scar . . . a blade wound, there was no doubt. There was but one way the fierce fighting-wench could have received such a cut, all realized. Jorund had dealt it to her . . . and with a blade. And their collective shock deepened when she turned to face Jorund and burst into a beaming smile.
“By Thor’s Arse-thunder—he did it!” Borger roared, jubilant. “He took a blade to her and defeated her!”
When Jorund extended his arms and Aaren walked straight into them, the hall erupted in a wild commotion of voices and stomping feet and lusty wolf howls. Jorund Borgerson had indeed tamed Odin’s She-wolf! And if any further proof of that was needed, they provided it instantly . . . in a very lavish and very public kiss.
Good words and good wishes bombarded them from all sides as they stood together, faces flushed, eyes shining. After a few hectic moments of celebration, Borger raised his hands to speak.
“Well done, Firstborn!” he declared. Then he turned a crafty eye on Aaren. “And as for you, Serricksdotter . . . is it the taste of defeat you relish so, or the taste of the victor?”
Amidst laughter, she raised her chin and declared, “The victor, of course.”
Borger turned to Jorund in a boisterous, expansive mood. “What will you have, Firstborn, as your reward?” he demanded. “Name it . . . and it is yours.”
As Jorund contemplated Borger’s offer, his eyes flickered briefly to the high seat and back, then settled on Aaren’s glowing face. “I’ll have Aaren Serricksdotter to wife. This very night . . .” He paused and stared into her eyes as he finished it: “And in the Christian way.”
Aaren stood, stunned, and the crowd quieted abruptly, in equal shock. To take a wife in the Christian way meant Jorund was declaring himself a believer. As a Christian, he would have one wife and pleasure only one woman in days to come . . . the impact of which was momentarily lost on Aaren and appallingly clear to the other women of the village.
“W-what?” Borger sputtered.
“Y-you!” Aaren stammered. “You said nothing to me of marriage—much less of this Christian kind.” She thrust back out of his arms and glowered at him.
“Well, I’m saying something about it now,” he said with a grin, advancing on her.
“How dare you lay claim to me as if I were some battle-prize!” she declared hotly, stumbling back a step for each one he advanced.
“What man in this village would you have over me? Or what man in the whole rest of the world, for that matter?” He paused, insisting she answer. “Which man, Aaren?” When she would not, he answered for her. “None. And whose furs do you intend to share . . . whose children do you wish to bear?” His voice lowered as he answered for her again. “Mine.” He grabbed her wrists, overcoming her resistance, then captured her eyes, as well. “And who do you want to love and companion and pleasure you for the rest of your life?” A wickedly irresistible grin spread over his mouth. “Me.”
He hauled both of her hands up and laid a kiss on each of her tightly balled fists. “So, you want to be my wife . . . to share my property, to share my furs, to share my life. Now the only question you have left to answer, Long-legs, is whether you also wish to share me with other women. Do you?” The heat shimmering deep in his eyes ignited every feral and possessive urge in her nature.
“Nej!” She managed to answer that one for herself, and he smiled.
“Then quit being stubborn, She-wolf, and speak the Christian vows with me. Pledge yourself to me alone . . . as I pledge myself to you.” He released her wrists to wrap his iron-thewed arms around her and pull her against his body. “And then let us get on with the pleasuring and cradle-filling.”
And he covered her mouth with his. At first touch, she strained against him, but somehow could not quite bring herself to break that luscious liquid contact between them. And the longer that searing oral caress endured, the more her resistance melted. Soon she stilled in his arms, warmed and pliant, and her body slowly molded to his. When he finally lifted his head and looked down into her eyes, she could see nothing but his glowing, half-focused features. He had just tamed and claimed her publicly . . . and she didn’t even care.
“What say you, She-wolf?” he murmured. It was suddenly quiet enough in the hall to hear their hearts’ wild beating.
“I say . . . I’ll wed you, Wolf-tamer. Anyway you say.” And she brazenly pulled his mouth back down to hers to seal her acceptance with a blistering kiss.
A wild celebration erupted all around them: Borger bellowing for Helga to break out their richest mead and most costly Frankish wine, Miri and Marta hurrying to hug their sister, and Garth and Erik and a number of the other young warriors crowding around to congratulate Jorund.
The warriors pried Jorund away from Aaren and carried him off to the smithy for a horn of ale and a thorough inquisition on the details of the battle and its aftermath. Aaren suddenly found herself surrounded by women . . . Helga, Inga, Old Sith, and Bedria, and her little sisters. Helga ran a judgmental eye over Aaren’s ripped tunic, worn boots, and scuffed breastplate and shook her head.
“Well, we cannot let you marry Jorund,” she said with a mischievous twinkle—adding belatedly, “looking like that, Serricksdotter. You must bathe and clothe yourself as befits our next jarl’s wife.” She looked to the others, who voiced full agreement. “And I know exactly where to go for the goods to clothe her . . . Jorund’s trunk!” Her eyes lighted and the others chuckled. They bustled her along before them to the rear of the hall and Jorund’s sleeping closet.
Aaren hadn’t honestly given any thought to where Jorund had spent his nights, or what possessions he might own. His “closet” was actually a generous alcove, set off from the main hall by a heavy curtain. The floor was wooden logs, split and embedded into the dirt to make a warm, level flooring. Along one wall was a wide wooden platform and along the opposite wall were a fancifully carved wooden bench and a great iron-bound trunk. Lining the three wooden walls were colorful woven hangings that dazzled Aaren with their vivid colors and wondrous pictures of life in far realms. These were some of the things Jorund had spoken of, she realized . . . “tapestries.”
“That’s from Byzantium.” Helga came to stand by her. Then she opened a hinged lid on the sleeping platform and drew out several large rolls of furs. “Jorund went there as a young lad with Borger. And the others are Frankish. Those Franks—they surely know how to dye and weave.” She managed a tentative smile. “It is yours now, Serricksdotter. All this”—she waved a hand toward the massive trunk and the bright fabrics and garments the others were pulling from it—“and our Jorund, too.” Then she sobered and sought Aaren’s eyes. “Be good to our Jorund. He has . . . needed someone.” And she gave Aaren’s arm a small pat, then hurried over to join the others in pulling Jorund’s treasures from his trunk.
Bright woven silks, yellow as buttercups and red as sunset, blue like morning sky and purple like oncoming night, spilled forth . . . followed by
fabrics with rich, cut pile, and cloth from the eastway with real silver and gold woven into glittering patterns. Next they drew forth silver drinking bowls inlaid with beautiful stones, gold neck and arm rings, green glass and amber and silver beads, brooches as beautiful and delicate as hoarfrost. Then came clothing already stitched and ivory combs and silver needles and tiny silver bells for stitching to garments. It was all wondrous to behold.
They brought water and insisted on helping her bathe, chatting merrily about the goings-on in the village during Aaren’s and Jorund’s absence. Taking charge of the beautiful combs, they groomed her hair, recounting suggestive tales of their own weddings and various husbands. In between, they held up one length of fabric after another, remarking on the colors and how they complimented her skin or her eyes.
Aaren twitched and fidgeted and cast doleful looks at Miri and Marta when the others weren’t looking. But for all her discomfort, she realized it was important to have the goodwill of these women, among whom she would make her life as a woman. And she sensed that with their tentative smiles and touches they were doing their best to welcome her into their midst.
Old Sith held up a great swath of sky-blue silk and teased Miri: “Perhaps she’ll be lettin’ ye use it soon . . . fer yer own weddin’ to Garth.” Miri blushed furiously when Sith lowered her voice and leaned toward Aaren to advise: “Get her wedded quick. That boy’s been makin’ our lives a misery . . . makin’ us keep our eyes on her day an’ night.”
Bedria laughed and elbowed Marta. “And don’t forget little Marta and our Brun. Garth says that the jarl listens favorably to talk of a match. Brun has great forge-skill and Borger is anxious to find him a pleasing bride.”
Aaren watched Miri’s obvious pleasure and Marta’s ill-hidden discomfort, and meant to reassure them that they would have some say in their own marriage. But then, pale, timid Inga came to sit by Aaren on the bench and smiled up at her, saying, “It will be good to have a mistress in the hall again. Too long, Borger has let the hall run down . . . let his warriors wallow about and do and speak as they please.”
“That be truth,” Sith declared, jamming her thick, boney hands on her wide hips. “Time once was, there were linen cloths on the tables on feast days. There was minstrels and jugglers in the hall, as well as these contests of blade-throwing and wrestling. And many winters ago, we even danced . . . and the women sat in the hall with their spinning sometimes.”
“And children came, too,” Bedria put in. “You can see that we are welcome again, Serricksdotter. You can clean out the hall and plan good feasts and order the linen . . . and oversee the weaving . . . and speak for us before the jarl and in the assembly as the hall’s mistress is permitted to do.” The others nodded eager agreement.
“We make fine cloth and the best mead,” Inga continued, “and could trade prosperously, if someone besides Jarl Borger did the bargaining. The only things he values are sword-blades and spear and arrow-tips, and he bargains accordingly. He receives far too little for our wool and the sweet nectar of our bees.”
“I tried . . . when I was his wife,” Helga said softly. “But he is a hard man, and I was not strong enough to counter him.” She lowered her eyes. “Borger respects nothing more than a blade, Serricksdotter. Because you wield a mighty blade, he will heed you when you speak as a woman . . .”
Aaren listened to their importuning with widening eyes and a tightening throat. They were looking to her as the new mistress of the hall . . . for leadership and support for their concerns. But she was barely a woman herself—and knew virtually nothing of women’s matters!
She endured as much as she could and suddenly thrust to her feet and asked if she might be alone for a while. Then, seeing their distress at her request, she behaved in a perfectly womanly fashion without realizing it: She made a show of pressing her temples and vowed she had an ache in her head.
They exchanged relieved smiles, pronouncing her illness a result of the excitement. Helga promised to send her a bowl of wine and they bade her lie down to rest before the festivities started. Miri and Marta lingered after the others were gone to give her hugs and assure themselves she was well.
“Do you truly wish to wed Jorund?” Marta asked warily, searching her strained expression. Aaren’s tension melted visibly and she nodded.
“I wish to live with him, to share my days and nights with him,” she confessed. “I have come to love him, Marta. He is a good man and a strong man.”
“Then I will be happy for you.” Marta smiled bittersweetly and hugged her once more.
Miri admired Aaren’s new garb and her eyes shone. “His woman-magic must be powerful indeed . . . to have turned you from a warrior into a woman in so short a time.” She leaned close to release the question torturing her tongue. “What is it like . . . going to the furs with a man?”
“It is very pleasant indeed . . . with Jorund,” Aaren said distractedly, her thoughts refusing to travel further than Miri’s prior remark: “. . . turned you from a warrior into a woman . . .” She scowled, dropping her eyes and clasping her hands tightly together.
“You must be tired from your long journey. We’ll go and let you rest.” Marta smiled and squeezed her hands. “It is good to have you back, Aaren. We have missed you.” With that, she bundled Miri out the curtained opening to join Helga and the others in preparing the evening’s feast.
Jorund found her there some time later, standing in the middle of his sleeping closet, looking like a goddess he had seen in an abandoned temple in Byzantium years ago. She was clothed in a gold-trimmed tunic and draped in a rich kirtle of sunflower-gold silk that hung from two gold turtle brooches on her shoulders. The silk bared much of her sleek arms and caressed and emphasized her natural curves. Her long hair flowed around her shoulders like a dark, exotic river, and her skin glowed with warmth in the lowering daylight. But her eyes . . . they looked huge and luminous, and she regarded him as a rabbit caught in a snare regards the hunter.
“You look beautiful, Long-legs.” He smiled reassuringly and held out a drinking bowl. “Helga pressed this into my hands with orders to ferry it to you and see that you drink it all.” When she didn’t take it, he took her hand, drawing her onto the sleeping shelf, where piles of elegant stitched pelts had been unrolled. He sat down beside her and settled the bowl in her hands. Then he took her face in his hands and rubbed her flushed cheeks with his thumbs.
“It’s wine, Aaren. I recall promising you a taste. Go on . . . you’ll like it.” When she made no move to try it, he lifted her chin and peered into her downcast eyes. “What is wrong?”
She wanted to tell him; she believed he was the only one who would ever understand. But she felt a terrible knot twisting higher and tighter in her middle . . . so high and tight that it cut off her words. He sensed she needed help and tipped the bowl to her lips, directing her to drink. The liquid was sweet, with a tingling after-heat and lovely fruity vapors that lingered in her head. She could feel it spreading warmth through her frozen throat.
“Tell me what troubles you, Aaren.”
“The women were here.” When he scowled, she quickly assured him: “Oh, they were good to me . . . they helped me find these garments. They’re beautiful, Jorund. I’ve never seen such things.” She looked down and stroked the soft folds of the silk that flowed over her lap, delaying, sorting her words.
“And?” he prompted.
She looked up with her emotions working in her face and blurted out: “Jorund, I’m barely used to being a woman. I don’t know how to be a wife . . . much less the mistress of a hall. They asked about linens for the tables . . . and jugglers and dancing . . . and speaking before the jarl and the assembly. They expect me to set the hall in order . . . and help them sell their wool and mead and oversee their weaving-craft, Jorund, I don’t think—”
“That’s it—don’t think, Aaren. Drink first. Finish the wine.” He tilted it up and made sure she drained every drop. Then he set the bowl aside and pulled her into his ar
ms, enjoying the feel of her sleek body in his precious silks. “Do you know, I have had dreams of you wrapped in this very silk. My treasures . . . and my woman in them.”
“Jorund . . .” Anxiety simmered in her face. “I don’t know who I am just now. Everyone else—even Miri and Marta—seems to think I’m a woman. But I don’t feel like a woman. And yet, I don’t feel quite like a warrior anymore, either—at least not as I used to be. Then what am I? A woman still? A warrior?”
She was overwhelmed by it all, he realized, and he sought to reassure her.
“You are a flame, Aaren.” He wrapped her securely against him, lending her his certainty as a harbor against her fears. “A beautiful red-gold flame that warms me, and lights my days and nights . . . refines my heart-longings like precious metal . . . burns the dross from my soul. This village has never known anything like you before, and they never will again. You are Aaren, beautiful warrior and strong woman. Your strength is your strength, and it comes from the same well within you, whether you wield it as woman or as warrior. Be mistress of the hall, if you want . . . help where you see fit . . . share what you can of your strength and heart. All I ask is that you join your life to mine and stay beside me.”
He set her back and his beautiful blue eyes were smoky with desire as he slid his hands down her body, caressing her breasts, her waist, and the curves of her hips through that soft fabric. And he spun his last words around her senses like precious Persian silk.
“The woman and the warrior are both part of your flame. Burn brightly, my warrior’s heart . . . and warm me.”
Burn brightly. Jorund loved her. Beautiful warrior . . . strong woman. She would always be part woman and part warrior, different from the other women. And he wanted both. She felt as if a dark husk had suddenly slid from her heart, freeing her. Her blood quickened in her veins and she laughed and sprang up from the pallet, twirling around and around in eddies of pure joy. “It’s true . . . I am me . . . the same me!” She swayed and he lurched up to catch her. But she thrust him back an arm’s length with a teasing scowl. “I’ll wear breeches sometimes, I warn you!”
