by Speer, Flora
“You and I live here now. Where I am, there you live, until I sell you or give you away. But I do not think that will be very soon.”
Seeing the look in his eyes, the same expression she had noticed earlier, she backed away from him. She felt again the sensation of successive waves of heat and cold passing over her body. She did not understand what was happening to her. She wanted to run away and hide from those green eyes that held her in a magical spell. And yet – and yet, she did not really want to leave him at all.
“Take this off,” he said softly, touching the shoulder of her dress.
She hesitated a moment, then obeyed with shaking fingers. She felt his hands helping her, lifting the tattered woolen gown over her head and casting it aside. Her torn linen undergarment barely covered her.
Never taking his eyes from her, he removed his sword belt and then his tunic. His body was as tanned as his face. The heavy gold chain at his throat gleamed against his dusky skin. Silky, dark hair grew on his arms and chest, and there was a narrow scar running up and down his left shoulder. He moved nearer, muscles rippling as he put his arms around her.
Lenora stood rigid in his embrace. His mouth hovered above hers, before it lightly, briefly, touched her trembling lips. His arms tightened, pulling her hard against his tough, warm body. She shuddered at the feel of his bare skin on hers. They stood locked together for a long moment before his lips returned to hers, more firmly this time, as he claimed his new possession.
His mouth was sweet, caressing her lips in a way that sent little ripples of heat washing along her body, throbbing into her limbs. Lenora, lost in unexpected pleasure, was unaware that her arms had encircled his waist.
Gently Erik’s long hands caressed her throat and shoulders, moved lower to push aside the remnants of her shift and cup her breasts. His thumb flicked across one rosy tip. She caught her breath and tried to move away, but he pulled her back to him, bending his head to apply mouth and tongue where his thumb had been.
She moaned, fighting against the strange melting she felt deep within herself as his tongue played across her flesh. His hands slid along the smooth curves of her hips in an intimate, sensuous gesture. Sweet fire laced through her. She could feel her treacherous body molding itself to his, urging him on. His hands traced quivering sensations along her loins.
Suddenly she remembered this was a Viking, and fear surged into her mind, erasing sensual delight. Vikings were wicked, brutish louts. Vikings had destroyed her family.
“No. No.” She pushed frantically against his chest.
Ignoring her protests, Erik bore her down onto the rough bed, tearing off her shift. She lay completely naked before him, a sacrifice to Viking lust. She could not control the terror that was consuming her. Her voice rose to an hysterical shriek.
“Don’t touch me. Let me go. I’ll kill you, I swear I will. Murderer! You are all murderers. Filthy Norse—”
On and on she raved, scarcely noticing when Erik moved away from her and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. He waited patiently until her outburst ended in a flood of tears, finally tapering off into infrequent, weary sobs.
“Lenora,” he said at last, “tell me exactly what Snorri did.”
“I’m so tired. I only want to sleep. Please leave me alone.”
“Tell me. I must know.”
And so she recounted as much as she could remember of the raid on Wilfred’s tun, and in addition all that Maud had told her.
“What did Snorri do to you?” he asked when she had finished.
“I just told you. He killed my family.” Lenora gulped, trying not to cry again.
“I mean you. Did he rape you?”
The sharp question brought a flood of crimson to her face and throat. She had been too shocked and confused to wonder what had happened after Hrolf had hit her.
“I – I don’t know. I was unconscious most of the time.”
“Of course he did. He is Snorri.” The scornful curve of Erik’s lips sent a cold chill to her heart.
She nodded in mute agreement, unable to speak, feeling totally, irreparably shamed by his words. She watched in silent anguish as he pulled on his tunic again and threw her discarded gown over her.
“Stay here,” he commanded.” Do not move until I come back. Do you understand?”
Yes,” she whispered miserably. She lay on the straw mattress, wondering if he would bring Snorri, back with him, if he would turn her over to his brutal brother as unwanted, damaged goods.
Erik was gone only a short time. He returned alone, carrying a wooden bucket of water and a cloth.
“Get up and wash yourself,” he said.
“What?” She thought she had misunderstood him.
“Snorri has touched you, therefore you are dirty. I won’t allow you to lie in my bed with his seed staining your flesh. Wash yourself.”
The water was cold. His eyes never left her as she scrubbed at the dirt on face and arms and torso, on her legs and feet, and finally on her inner thighs. There was no blood to be seen there, but she knew enough to realize its absence did not necessarily mean that Snorri had not violated her. She was too worn out to be embarrassed by Erik’s steady gaze.
“Now get into bed,” he ordered when she was finished.
She crawled back onto the straw mattress and he covered her with a woolen blanket, then lay down beside her, wrapped in a fur. She huddled against the wall, as far away from him as she could get.
“You need not fear me,” he told her over his shoulder. “The thought of wallowing in Snorri’s leavings like a hungry pig at a trough fills me with revulsion. I will not touch you in that way again.”
It was not a flattering comparison, yet his distaste offered her a grain of comfort. This Viking, at least, would not rape her. But he had piqued her ever-ready curiosity.
“Why do you hate your brother so much?” she asked. The idea of disliking her own brother was so foreign to her that she could not comprehend it. Dear Wilfred, warm and funny and so protective of his two sisters, even of the competent Matilda. She dug her teeth hard into her lower lip to stop the tears that threatened at the mere thought of her lost family. In her concentration on controlling her feelings she almost missed Erik’s next words, which issued forth in a low, hissed whisper of contempt.
“It must be a special delight to Snorri to know that out of deference to our father I have been forced to accept what he has used first. He must think it is a great joke. When you have to deal with him, Lenora, keep your wits about you, and never depend on his word. Now go to sleep.”
In spite of her weariness she could not do as he ordered, for she saw herself ensnared between contending brothers. She was terrified that when morning came Erik would give her back to Snorri as the next move in the dangerous game they were playing.
Her thoughts ran round and round, giving her no peace. Maud, who might have told her if Erik’s accusation of rape against Snorri was true, had left Thorkellshavn with her new master. Lenora had seen them go. She knew Edwina could give her no information; Edwina barely remembered what had happened to herself. Lenora had ascertained that much before they reached Thorkell’s hall, and had been grateful for the forgetfulness that eased Edwina’s unbearable loss. She could not trust any answer Snorri might give on the matter, and certainly Erik would not believe his brother, either.
Erik stirred in his sleep and flung one arm over her. The warmth of his body was oddly comforting. He was clean, with a fresh, masculine body odor that was not repulsive at all. In that, as in other things, he was quite different from Snorri and his men.
She realized how foolish she had been to fight him. She ought to have controlled her fear and encouraged him to take her, so he would keep her safe from Snorri. Much as she hated the idea of any Norseman touching her, she decided she ought to try to overcome Erik’s distaste, to make him want her so he would not give her away or sell her. If he ever approached her again, she would force herself to accept his advances and try to plea
se him.
Her taut muscles began to relax at last as she drifted into sleep. Her last conscious sensation was of Erik’s arm across her shoulders, holding her close.
Chapter 6
Erik was gone when Lenora wakened. The room was dim, brightened only by the daylight showing at the bottom of the wooden door and through the hole in the roof over the firepit. Lenora swung her feet to the floor and groped about until she located her gown. She had just picked it up when the door flew open, letting in a blaze of sunlight. She blinked and clutched her bedraggled garment against her nakedness.
Erik entered, followed by the blond woman who had sat across from them at last night’s banquet. As her eyes adjusted to the sudden bright light, Lenora looked again. Yes, it was the same woman who had gazed so often at Halfdan. Her dark blue eyes regarded Lenora beneath raised brows. The woman carried a bundle of folded clothes in her arms.
“So, you are awake at last,” Erik said. “It is past midday. I let you sleep because I knew you were tired.”
“Thank you,” Lenora whispered, embarrassed to have Erik and the blond woman watching her so closely when she was undressed.
“This is my sister Freydis,” Erik went on. “She will explain your duties. You are to obey her in everything.”
“Are you -” Lenora’s voice squeaked in fright. She swallowed hard and tried again. “Are you giving me to her?”
“No,” he replied. “I require a woman to attend me. One of Thorkell’s women has been serving me. Now you will do that.”
“Will I continue to sleep here?”
“You will. But I will not touch you, so have no fear of me.” His expression clearly showed his disgust at the thought of taking what had once been Snorri’s. “I warn you on pain of death not to tell anyone. I cannot insult my father by rejecting his gift to me, so no one must know we do not lie together. No one, not even Thorkell’s slave who was your friend. Let people think what they will.”
“Very well, if you promise not to give me away. I do not want to be given back to Snorri.”
He frowned at her. “You are my thrall,” he reminded her. “I need not promise a slave anything. But I tell you that if I give you away or sell you, it will not be to Snorri. I will give him nothing.”
Freydis had been listening to this conversation, which was conducted in a mixture of English and Latin, with a puzzled expression. Now she spoke sharply to Erik. He nodded.
“One thing more,” he said to Lenora. “You must learn to speak our tongue. I will not always be with you to translate for you.”
“I will try.” She would have promised almost anything out of sheer gratitude at not being returned to Snorri.
“Now you must bathe.”
“I washed last night.”
Erik grinned at her. The smile lit up his face and made him look like a young boy. His sea-green eyes sparkled with humor, dazzling her.
“I do not like dirty women. Bathing often is a custom I learned in Miklagard, although it is not unknown here, especially in summer. We Danes are cleaner than you Saxons.”
“That’s not true.”
“No?” His eyebrows went up, and she realized he was teasing her.
“I won’t bathe,” she declared. “It’s unhealthy.”
“Since you were given to me,” he replied, “you have said little else to me but no. If you say no one more time, I will beat you. I will not live with a dirty woman.”
Lenora’s chin went up defiantly. She started to speak, but the look in his eye silenced her. He took the gown from her and gave her the rough woolen blanket under which she had slept.
“Wrap yourself in this and follow Freydis,” he said. “And from this moment, you will speak only Norse.”
There was nothing to do but follow his orders. Lenora covered her nakedness as best she could and left the cottage.
The mist and rain of the previous day were gone and the sun was warm on her head and shoulders. Lenora looked upon a landscape surprisingly like the one she had known all her life. Undulating green fields surrounded Thorkellshavn. Lenora, accustomed to living in a farming community, surveyed the fields with a practiced eye, recognizing a large strip of barley, another of rye, and noticing a herd of cattle grazing contentedly in the distance. The flat countryside beyond the farmlands was heavily forested. Looking in the opposite direction from the farm, she saw Snorri’s longship drawn up onto a narrow ledge of sand at the river’s edge. Beyond, along the far western horizon, she could glimpse between the sand dunes the blue shimmer of the North Sea. Over that sea lay her home, or what had been her home.
“Come,” Freydis called over her shoulder. “You are too slow.”
Lenora took a deep breath and straightened her back and shoulders in a gesture that was becoming habitual with her. Then she followed Freydis.
Some distance past the great hall and its surrounding buildings a clear, cold stream ran through a thick stand of trees before joining its waters to the river. Here, at a bend in the stream, a natural pool had formed. The trees, thick with their summer burden of leaves, provided complete privacy. Freydis indicated by a few words and gestures that Lenora should get into the pool.
With the tall, forbidding woman watching her, Lenora did as she was told. Freydis gave her a soapstone bowl filled with a fatty substance, which Lenora used to wash herself, even scrubbing her hair.
When she climbed out Freydis handed her a rough cloth with which to dry herself, and then helped her to dress. From the pile of garments she had carried to the stream, Freydis unfolded an undyed, pleated linen shift, long-sleeved and ankle-length that could be tied at its round neck. Over this was draped a woolen, apron-like garment consisting of a straight panel in front and back. Wide shoulder straps connected these two panels, which were fastened over each collarbone with large oval brooches. Lenora handled the bronze jewelry with sensitive fingers, admiring the sinuous, interlaced curves of its design, which was composed of the stretched-out and contorted bodies of two animals.
“They’re beautiful,” she exclaimed.
Freydis looked pleased.
“Was mine,” she said. “Erik bought for you.”
“These were yours? Don’t you want them?”
“Speak Norse tongue,” Freydis told her sternly. She shrugged her wide shoulders. “I have many more.”
In fact, Freydis was wearing twin brooches of spectacularly complicated design. Between them hung a necklace of glass beads patterned in brilliant colors and a second string of amber beads. From the right brooch hung several keys on silver chains, and a small iron knife with a carved bone handle.
“Erik bought? For me?” Lenora repeated carefully, still examining her own brooches.
“For you. You please him.”
Lenora was not sure she had understood this last sentence.
The brooches were designed for Freydis’ large frame, and so were too large for Lenora. It took her a while to arrange them properly. When at last she had them adjusted and had donned soft leather shoes that wrapped around her ankles, Freydis helped her to comb her hair with a carved horn comb. Then they tried to arrange it.
Freydis’ straight, silver-blond hair was smoothly pulled back and twisted, the long, loose ends hanging almost to her waist like a well-cared-for horse’s mane. Lenora’s unruly curls would not go into a smooth knot. Her hair caught and snarled and had to be combed again. Finally she gave up. She took a strip of cloth and tied her hair back with that, fastening it at the nape of her neck. Curly tendrils escaped, framing her face in a damp chestnut cloud. Freydis nodded.
“Is good,” she said. “Now come. You must work if you wish to eat.”
Lenora had always hated the domestic chores that were so much a part of even a noblewoman’s life, and had shirked them whenever possible. Now, under Freydis’ strict but fair supervision, she controlled her dislike and dutifully applied herself to her work.
She learned that as Erik’s personal slave she did not have to do heavy manual labor. There
were other slaves to do such chores and to help the free serving women who also worked in Thorkell’s household. Lenora was required to help with the cooking, which was done in a separate room at one end of the great hall, and with the serving at each night’s feast. She must also keep Erik’s tiny cabin clean, and tend the fire in his firepit, for even in warm summer, the place was often damp and chilly, and Erik’s injured leg ached when it was cold.
And always there was the spinning. Every woman of Thorkell’s household had her own spindle and whorls, and whenever her hands were not occupied in some other task, she used them to spin wool or flax into thread.
Lenora had never disliked spinning as some women did. She was good at it, her nimble fingers pulling out the tufts of wool, sending the whorl toward the ground as she twisted the fibers into a smooth, even thread. She could spin and think of other things. She could spin and watch what was going on around her, learn new words of the Norse language, ask questions of the other women, and discover the relationships among various members of Thorkell’s household.
It was weaving she disliked. She was too impatient, too eager to move about. She hated staying in one place at the upright loom that leaned against the wall. The stones weighing the warp threads were like weights on her own feet. She constantly got the threads tangled as she wove. Her cloth was uneven, too loosely woven in some places, too tight in others. She sat in the weaving room that opened off Thorkell’s great hall and fought the loom.
Freydis was angry, her thin lips pressed into a sour expression. “This is not good,” she told Lenora.
“I know. I have never been able to weave.”
“Then who will make Erik’s clothes?”
“I’ll try again.” And she did, but with no more success than before. Freydis watched for a while, then shook her head and turned away. “Freydis, don’t go. Please tell me, where is my friend, Edwina? It has been four days now since I have seen her.”
Freydis frowned, concentrating on Lenora’s strange mixture of English and Norse words. Lenora tried to speak the Danes’ language, she worked hard, and she did not weep or complain as some of the other slaves did. But she constantly asked about the thin, pale girl who had been given to Freydis’ father.
