Viking Passion

by Speer, Flora

“What a busy little slave you are,” Hrolf sneered, paying no attention to her demand. “You wash his shirts during the day and warm his bed at night. How fortunate Erik is that Thorkell gave you to him. Not many younger sons are so favored.”

  Lenora tried to move around the two men, who she now realized were drunk, but one of them was always in her way.

  “Would you like to warm our beds instead?” Bjarni asked, leering at her. “Two full-bodied men instead of a cripple. That should please you.”

  “If either of you touches me,” Lenora warned them, “Erik will kill you both.”

  “That weak twig.” Hrolf laughed. “I could kill him by blowing on him.”

  “Your breath would destroy the strongest man. You have had too much ale,” she replied.

  “Erik the Far-traveler is too weak to protect you from us,” Bjarni told her. “He was once a fine warrior like Snorri, but those soft Greeks ruined him so he no longer drinks or wenches with us. He will not fight us over a slave woman.”

  “Come, pretty Lenora,” Hrolf coaxed. “Let us go into the summer fields and pleasure ourselves. We will make joyous sacrifice to Frey.”

  “Get away from me.”

  As the two men advanced on her, Lenora felt panic snuff out her indignation. She could not let them touch her; she would die if either of them laid a hand on her. She was terrified that she would faint and they would drag her away and do what they wanted to her.

  She backed away, knowing they could catch her easily. She moved one step back, another, a third, and then she felt an obstruction behind her as a sturdy arm was wrapped about her waist.

  “Oh,” she screamed, and looked up into Halfdan’s broad face. She nearly dropped her bundle of laundry, but Halfdan caught it in his free hand and gave it back to her. His left arm supported her as she sank limply against him, shaking with relief. She felt his strength and his firmness at her back.

  “Well met, Hrolf, Bjarni,” Halfdan said pleasantly.

  “What do you want?” Hrolf growled.

  “Snorri is working on his ship, down by the river,” Halfdan told them in the same friendly tone.

  “We know that. What of it?”

  “Did you know he is talking of making another voyage soon?”

  “He is?” Hrolf and Bjarni looked at each other in astonishment.

  “You didn’t know? I’m surprised he didn’t tell you first, since you two made his last trip so successful. I would think you would want to volunteer to go a-viking again before winter comes.”

  “How do you know this?” Bjarni regarded Halfdan suspiciously.

  “I heard him talking to Thorkell earlier. Don’t you think you should ask him about it before anyone else takes your places? He will be choosing his crew very soon now.”

  “Yes. There is always plunder on Snorri’s voyages. His luck is so good that many will want to go with him.” Hrolf was thoughtful. His small eyes glanced from Halfdan to Lenora and back again. “You can have the woman if you want her. We won’t tell Erik.”

  With sneering laughter, Hrolf and Bjarni went off to find Snorri. Halfdan released Lenora and stepped back.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “I would like to kill those two,” Halfdan said in a conversational tone. “But that would only make things worse between Snorri and Erik.”

  “Is Snorri really going away?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. I hope none of them ever comes back.”

  “That would make Erik’s life easier. But Snorri is cunning and lucky. He will be back.” Halfdan’s handsome face darkened. “And now he and Thorkell speak of his marriage to Gunhilde, who is the daughter of Thorkell’s old friend, Sven the Dark.”

  Lenora digested this information.

  “If that happens, will they live here?” When Halfdan nodded with a gloomy expression, Lenora added, “Then who will have charge of Thorkell’s household? Will it be Freydis or this Gunhilde?”

  “I do not know. I met Gunhilde once. She is a cold, proud woman. She will not bow easily to Thorkell’s unmarried daughter.”

  “Freydis should marry,” Lenora told him impulsively.

  “Freydis should not marry.”

  Halfdan’s face was etched in pain. Lenora moved closer to this Norse giant who she had begun to think of as her friend, and touched his arm.

  “Isn’t there some way,” she asked, “for Erik to make peace with Snorri? Then you could marry Freydis yourself. As a chieftain’s son, surely you would be acceptable to Thorkell.”

  “You do not understand our ways.” Halfdan took a deep breath before explaining. “Freydis’ mother killed Erik’s mother. Erik is my blood brother. His feuds are mine, but more than that, because he is my brother, his sister is my sister also. Brothers and sisters do not marry.”

  “But Halfdan—”

  “Do not speak of it again. And do not speak of this to Erik. I do not wish to cause him pain. I will find Erik and tell him what has happened with Hrolf and Bjarni. Stay in the house until Erik comes.” Halfdan set off toward Thorkell’s private chambers.

  Lenora tried to fit Erik’s shirts into one of the carved chests that sat on the floor of his house, but there was no room. A heavy fur cloak for winter and a lighter but still bulky woolen cloak filled all the space.

  A second chest held bolts of the strange silk fabric Erik had brought from Miklagard, and a hoard of gold and silver jewelry. She had seen the contents once when he had opened the chest, but it was locked now. It was too full to hold anything more, anyway.

  “Perhaps this one.” Lenora moved the oil lamp off the third chest. It was unlocked, but Erik had never opened it in her presence. The other two were Danish chests, carved in the convoluted designs Lenora had learned to recognize as distinctively Norse. Like almost all Viking carvings, they were painted in brilliant colors. The third chest had human figures carved in neat panels and was unpainted. Because it was so different from the other two chests, Lenora decided it must have come from Miklagard, wherever that mysterious place was.

  She lifted the lid and smiled. There was plenty of space here, on top of those flat blocks wrapped in linen. She laid the shirts carefully into the chest, then picked up one of the blocks and uncovered it. It was a book. Unfamiliar characters, hand-inscribed, covered the parchment pages. She laid it aside and picked up another block. It, too, was a book, this one in Latin.

  It had been a long time since she had read anything. It took her a while to decipher the letters, but finally she began to read, her finger tracing the line.

  “What are you doing?” Erik stood in the light from the open door. The white streak in his hair gleamed as he turned his head; his green eyes glittered in anger. “I said, what are you doing with my books?”

  “I – I found them when I was putting your shirts away,” Lenora stammered.

  “If you have damaged them, I will beat you.” He picked up the book from the ground and examined it critically.

  “I meant no harm. I only read a page or two.”

  “Read? You?”

  He clearly thought she was lying. She could tell from his expression that she had better convince him quickly or there would be trouble for her. She showed him the book she was still holding.

  “This one is in Latin. ‘In the beginning was the word,’ ” she read, pointing to each word with her finger. “That’s from the Holy Book, isn’t it? Are you a Christian, Erik?”

  “Only a provisional one. Do you really know how to read?”

  “I can read and write.”

  “You can write too?” He stared at her, his anger forgotten in his interest in her accomplishments. He sank down on the bed platform, still holding the first book Lenora had unwrapped. A smile began to spread across his face. “You may be of some use to me after all.”

  “I couldn’t read that one,” she informed him, indicating the book in his hands. “What kind of writing is it?”

  “Greek. I brought it from Miklagard.”

&nbs
p; Miklagard again. Lenora knelt on the earthen floor by the open chest and looked up into Erik’s dark, handsome face.

  “What is Miklagard?” she asked softly.

  “The greatest city in the world.”

  “Is it like Rome?”

  Lenora, raised in a small settlement in the midst of agricultural lands, was unable to picture a city, although she had heard of York, and Father Egbert had spoken of Rome.

  “It is the second Rome,” Erik told her, “and greater than the first, if you believe the people who live there.”

  “Greater than Rome?” she echoed. “How can that be? I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to understand.” He picked up the piece of linen and began to rewrap the Greek book.

  “But where is Miklagard? Is it near here? Can we go to see it?” Lenora’s curiosity flared, intrigued at the frequent repetition of that name since she had met Erik. “I would so much like to see a great city.”

  Erik laughed, amused by her enthusiasm.

  “It is many months’ journey by sea and land and riverboat,” he said. “To get there you must travel far east to Gardariki, where the Rus live, to the place the Slavs call Kiev. From Kiev you must sail down a dangerous river to the Euxine Sea, a great black sea far south of here. Across that sea lies Miklagard, in Grikkland. The Greeks call it Constantinople.”

  His eyes focused on something far away, remembering. He did not notice that Lenora had risen on her knees, and, leaning forward, had gripped his right forearm with both her hands. Her face was close to his as she listened to him. She forgot the damp, barren cabin in which they lived, forgot everything but Erik and his deep voice as he talked on, conjuring up wonders for her starved imagination.

  “It is a city of gold and silver, and huge buildings of stone and brick and marble.”

  Lenora did not know what marble was, but it sounded wonderful.

  “Buildings bigger than Thorkell’s hall?” she asked.

  Green eyes met gray ones with a smile. “Much bigger,” Erik said. “The Emperor of the Romans lives in an enormous golden palace set in beautiful gardens. There are parades every day, and great ships lay tied up at the wharves, laden with gold and silks and spices and jewels, and merchants make huge fortunes buying and selling goods from all over the world. In Miklagard the sun shines every day and the air is warm, and life is sweet for a man with a purse full of silver.”

  “Oh,” Lenora breathed, nearly overcome with wonder, “How I would like to see it. Will you go there again, Erik? Will you take me?”

  They gazed into each other’s eyes, so close Lenora seemed to see the same faraway vision filling Erik’s mind. She could almost believe that she, too, had walked the distant streets of Miklagard and breathed its foreign air. Then the vision faded and she was once more aware of Erik’s physical presence, of his tautly muscled body and his wide, smiling mouth so near her own. That mouth came nearer, almost touched hers, before he turned his head away.

  “No.” The light faded from his face. “I shall not see Miklagard again. And even if I were to go, I could not take you. The journey is too dangerous. You would die before you reached the Great City. I was nearly killed getting there, and almost died again returning home.”

  “Was that when your leg was injured?”

  The look in his eyes changed again. He stood up, shaking off her hands.

  “I have told you before, you ask too many questions,” he said harshly.

  He had finished wrapping the Greek book. He replaced it in the wooden chest and held out his hand for the second book. She pressed it against her bosom.

  “Let me keep it,” she begged. “I want to read it.”

  “Give it to me. Now.”

  “Please.” She was almost in tears. Why this one book meant so much to her she could not say, but she would not give it up easily.

  He moved so quickly, she did not see the motion. Iron-strong hands reached out to grip her upper arms, pulling her to her feet. There was an angry expression on his face, but as Lenora bravely met his eyes, challenging him for possession of the book, she saw a softening of his habitual sternness toward her. Suddenly she was held tightly against him, only the book separating them. One of his hands left her arm and caught the hair at the back of her head, pushing her face against his. For one breathless moment they stared at each other, and then his mouth ground upon hers as his other arm slid around her shoulders, crushing her.

  She was briefly aware of firm-sinewed thighs against her legs, and of one corner of the book she still held cutting painfully into her right breast, before she was swept into a sea of sudden desire. She had lost control of her own body. She felt herself pressing ever more closely against him, heard a low moan escaping from her own throat as her mouth opened and his tongue entered her, seeking, searching out the most sensitive places, lighting fires deep within her that excited and terrified her at the same time.

  The kiss deepened, becoming almost violent before he tore his mouth from hers to rain scalding-hot kisses on her cheeks and her eyelids, finally returning to her lips, his tongue thrusting fiercely into her. She welcomed his assault, adding to the fire with her own response.

  While one hand tangled into her hair, holding her head immobilized, his other hand and arm plastered her body to his in an unbreakable vise that grew ever tighter. Once more he left her lips, this time to set her throat aflame with his kisses. When his mouth met hers again, her surrender was complete. She leaned into him and gave freely of her own desire.

  Held against him as she was, she could have no doubts about his arousal. She could feel his manhood pressing against her thigh, hot and strong. The touch added fuel to the fire raging in her brain and her bosom and further inflamed the strange, urgent ache deep within her. Not consciously aware of what she was doing, acting on instinct alone, she moved her hips, crying out softly as he pushed himself at her. Freeing one arm, she slipped it around his waist and up under his jerkin, feeling the smooth, warm skin of his back.

  He recoiled from her touch. He let her go so suddenly she swayed and nearly fell until he caught her by the upper arms once more and flung her onto the bed platform. She lay there, skirts flaring up about her knees, her head against the wall, still clutching the book, waiting for his next move with mingled fear and anticipation.

  “Give me that.” His voice was drenched in barely controlled fury as he stretched out his hand for the book.

  “No,” she whispered. “Oh, Erik, please.”

  She was not certain whether she was begging him not to take the book from her or for him to take her. She lay watching him, her lips parted, her breasts still heaving with the unexpected emotions he had aroused in her.

  One long hand reached out to her slowly, as though fighting some invisible force that held it back. Slender fingers traced her cheek and skimmed along the curve of her mouth. One finger slid between her parted lips and rested there before probing deeper, until it met her moist, warm tongue. It lingered a moment, testing, while his green eyes watched her and his tense body bent ever nearer.

  Suddenly Erik snatched his hand away as though it had been burned in a fire. He grabbed the book from her nerveless fingers and turned his back on her.

  “Get up,” he said, “and go about your work.”

  When she made no response, he turned on her. “You were Snorri’s once,” he said. “I do not want you. As a slave you are worthless. You lie about all day. If you do not work I will sell you.”

  His cold words stifled all the warm passion that had been building in her.

  “I was not lying about until you threw me here,” Lenora replied, stung by the injustice of his complaint. “I was working. I was putting your shirts away.”

  “You have done that. Go to the kitchen and help with the cooking.”

  “I am afraid to go out. Halfdan told me to stay here. Hrolf and Bjarni—”

  “Yes,” he interrupted. “Halfdan told me. It seems you are entirely too alluring to men.”
/>   “I did not encourage them,” she declared, her anger matching his own. “I hate them. And Snorri. I hate them all.”

  “So you have repeatedly told me. What am I to do with you, Lenora? Shall I sell you to remove you from the vicinity of Snorri and his men? Would that please you?”

  “It would not. I don’t want to be sent away from -” She stopped, unable to complete the sentence.

  “From?” He frowned at her, his dark brows drawing together in a fierce line. “There is someone. Who don’t you want to be separated from, Lenora?”

  “Edwina,” she said quickly. “It is Edwina, of course.”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  “I worry about her, Erik.” Lenora dared not stop to wonder why she felt it necessary to explain at length a perfectly justified concern. “Edwina has not recovered from what Snorri did to us. Her thoughts are disordered, and she is unlike the Edwina I used to know. Her spirit is broken. I wish I could help her, but I don’t know how.”

  “Lenora.” His hand moved as if to stroke her hair, hesitated, and then, without touching her, withdrew. “There are some sicknesses only time will heal, and there are others that cannot be cured.”

  “Are you saying Edwina is mad?” She rose from the bed platform to face him. “How dare you suggest such a thing? If you had lived through the horrors she has known, lost what she has lost, you would be unhappy too.”

  “I have known my own horrors and you have lost the same things as Edwina, and neither of us is mad. The difference, my fierce, loyal little slave, is that you and I are strong, and Edwina is not. What a friend you are,” Erik went on, smiling at her with an odd tenderness. “I won’t sell you, Lenora. I could not send you away.”

  “You couldn’t?”

  “No. Never.”

  Green eyes lingered on her face, their strange, spellbinding light pulling her closer, ever closer to him. She sensed his arms reaching out to enfold her, felt her body bending toward him.

  “We Danes value friendship and loyalty too,” Erik told her, his matter-of-fact words breaking the spell that had held her. “I won’t separate you from Edwina. I have an idea. I’ll tell you about it soon.”