Edin's embrace

by Nadine Crenshaw

  She was thankful that these ladies never quite looked at her —and then felt worse because they didn't. She was nothing to these women who were free. The faint disapproval she sensed was no doubt because, as an abject slave, she was nothing but a strong temptation for such predatory men as were their Viking husbands and swains.

  Even the little children who ran through the crowd, swooping and laughing, were dressed in garments exquisitely ornamented with gold, silver, bright silk tassels, and lace. Edin loved children, and when one tiny staggerer came rocking into her path, stopped, and suddenly sat down with a plop and commenced to cry, she naturally picked him up and bounced him until his mother, like a young hen, raced scolding to his rescue. She yanked the child away as if Edin's very touch were objectionable. Edin briefly wondered if she'd broken some rule —or was there an undercurrent here she couldn't comprehend?

  The cacophony of greetings and conversations gradually filled the hall to the high log rafters. The men invariably came through the doors first, tall and fair, with their long Nordic heads, their long narrow jaws, and blue or grey eyes; their women, tall, stiff, dignified —also of Viking stuff —followed behind them. The jarl met each group and offered them refreshment. He smiled like a conqueror, betraying nothing of the man Edin was beginning to know.

  Earlier, he'd outfitted her for the occasion in a twofold gown that hung from loops caught by brooches at her shoulders. This twin garment was two separate lengths of light-blue wool wrapped around her body beneath her arms, the first from left to right, the second from right to left. He'd also provided a shawl of fine lavender wool, which a third brooch held pinned in place over her breastbone. She finally had shoes again, too, soft leather ankle boots, fur-lined. Besides the three brooches, she wore one other piece of jewelry—a silver-gilt torque, a wide choker engraved with the image of a Valkyrie offering a horn of mead to a Vikings warrior. The jarl explained while clasping it around her neck, "Valkyries are Odin's shield-maidens; they select the champions for Valholl and service their needs there."

  "Are they warriors then, or whores?"

  "Both."

  "I see."

  "And so do I see —that you're less than grateful for these gifts."

  She looked down at herself. She was dressed far above the standard of the average thrall, yet she said, "Gifts? By your own reasoning, you still own this gown and this . . . this slave collar. If everything of mine is yours to take — "

  His swift response swept her thoughts away before she could finish voicing them. Suddenly he was again the fire-breathing dragon, determined and ruthless. His hands on her waist lifted her to the edge of the bed. He threw her new skirts up, opened his trousers, and sank into her. She failed to

  hold in her moan. His voice seemed to come to her from a great distance: "You begin to understand. You are my plaything, my pleasure-thrall, whom I can take at will." Into her again! Again! Until he throbbed sensuously. When he withdrew from her and stepped back, her legs were dangling, her feet not touching the floor, the comb she'd been using dropped noiselessly from her limp hand to the sheepskin rug, and her face was flooded. She lay motionless, her loins still aflame — and curiously wanting. Their eyes met; something flashed between them, something of the unsettled sensations in her loins and a small frown of bafflement on his brow. Then, as with an effort, their eyes wrenched away from each other.

  Edin thrust that memory away, and with it the anguish, the shame —and the mysterious and harrowing half-pleasure she felt with his rough takings.

  The first order of business was the religious matter of which the Viking had spoken. As the local chieftain, it seemed he was also the community's religious head. To this end he donned a horned helmet that must have been used only for ritual purposes, for it would have been an encumbrance in battle. He also wore a hammer in his belt — Thor's sacred hammer, Edin was told. Freeborn and thralls alike followed him outdoors and up the slope away from the longhouse to where a flat-topped stone stood up out of the ground. The Stone of Thor. Edin could see old traces of blood on it. She located Dessa, who knew more Norse and so could help her understand what was taking place.

  The assembled Vikings made both an elegant and a daunting presence. The jarl seemed to wrap silence around him before he ritualistically put his sword to the throat of a sheep, a goat, and finally a bull —sacrifices to placate the myriad gods they worshipped. Edin stayed carefully on the outskirts of the crowd. She didn't like to be close to him when he had his sword drawn. She watched with deep interest, however. It seemed these people held a less deferential attitude toward their deities than the lowered knee and humility that Christians were taught. Having been forced to bend her knee too often, their uncowering worship intrigued Edin.

  A toast to Odin was drunk, for victory and for the jarl's health; then came a toast to Njord and Frey for fruitful harvests and— of all things!—peace. A "chief toast" was drunk to the late jarl, Kirkyn Atlason. A few men also drank "remembrance" toasts in recollection of certain of their kinsmen: "I drink to Ketil Ivarsson, who was awful in his might. . . ."

  Following this, the sacrificed animals were prepared for baking in an earth-covered oval pit lined with hot stones. The sacrifice was evidently convivial; the worshipers would collectively feast on the nourishment consecrated to the gods. A sensible notion, Edin thought. While the thralls worked at this cooking, the Viking women caught up on their visiting, and their men played chess on the green outside the hall. Edin had never seen so many dice and board games and beautifully made chess sets.

  The summer afternoon was long there at the northern rim of the world. The insects sang a drowsy verse as worn and comfortable as the knees of old breeches. Yet the weather began to bite with the coming of dusk. The gathering moved indoors, where the night's ritual feast and festivities filled the heated banquet hall.

  Inga herself took around the first course of the meal, a thick cream of barley soup which she ladled from a magnificent silver cauldron carried by two thrall-men. Once this prettified gesture of hostessing was accomplished, she took a place near the jarl and let the thralls continue the more arduous serving. Edin, her shawl removed so that her arms were bare, moved among the glittering guests with trenchers of roasted sacrificial bull, mutton, and goat meat; Juliana served wooden platters of all kinds of fish; Dessa served honey bread and rye bread, pale cheese and sweet butter; and Olga helped Juliana with the wooden platters of fish, and several baskets of nuts. They toured and toured the abundant tables. The Vikings and their ladies drank, laughed, and ate —they ate like wolves.

  Every time Edin raised her eyes, gold winked at her. She was nearly blinded by the beautifully worked gold brooches, the silver rings wound with sinuous Viking art, the arm rings and bracelets of gold, the strings of pearls and brilliant glass beads, the finely wrought silver chains, and the ornate belt buckles and pendants.

  "See the combs that young lady with red hair is wearing?" said Dessa. "Are those really jewels?"

  Edin glanced at a redheaded girl of about fourteen who was lacing into the food as eagerly as the rest.

  "Is she not beautiful?" Dessa sighed.

  "Yes," Edin said. She'd grown a little benumbed, what with the great fire burning, the noise of the feasting, and the clamor of the ale cups.

  And over and above any other concern was her constant awareness of the jarl. Tonight he didn't look the pirate he was, sitting in his dragon chair like a king. She'd never seen him outfitted in such fine clothes, his fair hair held by a gold-encrusted band about his forehead, his strong light beard combed and trimmed. He was square-shouldered, powerful-bodied, with rings on his fingers and an unusual openness in his face. Everything about him was undeniably grand, and beside him, other men paled to insignificance.

  Despite all that he'd done to her, all the excruciating intimacy they'd shared, she felt sure he wasn't even aware of her presence in this room, filled as it was with so many lovely women, free Viking women. But then a moment came that proved otherwise. A
small moment. She was doing nothing but serving, but suddenly she felt his gaze on her. Across the width of the room. Through the crowd. She felt the strength of his look, despite the distance. Her palms went wet. Her knees got weak. Before she could help herself, she turned in his direction.

  Then she could do nothing but stare back at him as blatantly as he was staring at her. She wondered what it meant, this strange response in her. It was like whirlwinds and flashes of lightning. The look in his eyes was approval mixed with a gauging uncertainty, as if in dressing her so gorgeously she now appeared more attractive than he'd ever intended or wished. That flicker of uncertainty in him made her feel instantly beautiful, as beautiful as any Viking woman present. Radiantly beautiful. She couldn't comprehend it. Mayhap she was only exhausted.

  A small reluctant smile appeared about his mouth. Reluctant because she was a mere Saxon captive? Too lovely for a thrall? Was that his thought? It was she who broke the look and turned away.

  Once the enormous feast was served and the prodigious appetites of the assemblage appeased, jollity took over. A group of clumsy, booted little girls danced for the crowd, grinning and holding wide their skirts. The Vikings cheered them effusively. They were growing merry with drink. The smith, Eric No-breeches, did a trick with a dagger. Already so drunk it seemed he was having trouble balancing himself on his two legs, he tipped his head back and tried to balance the deadly point of the dagger on his bearded chin. Somehow he managed that, but then, with a toss of his head, he flicked it up and opened his mouth beneath it. Edin gasped. But he caught the point neatly between his teeth. She watched him do it again, in fearful fascination until she realized she was being hailed by a man who wanted more of the wine she was now pouring.

  She kept her eyes down as she approached him, knowing he'd been leering at her for some time. She hated to be looked at like that. After she'd filled his goblet, he suddenly hooked her with one unreasonably large arm and toppled her onto his lap. He laughed, as did the other Vikings at the table —though the women didn't seem to find it so amusing. The one across from the man snapped him an icy blue glance of disapproval, then lowered her eyelids until her lashes, lighter than her skin, touched her cheeks.

  Edin only glimpsed this however, for her full attention was on him. He held her with such burly strength. His beard was bare in one place, marred by a large oblong welt that looked as if a patch of pink-colored clay had been fixed there haphazardly. He was gabbling at her in Norse as he held her against him with one hand, leaving the other free to rove. Slapping at him only seemed to make him bolder. He found the hem of her gown and rapidly skimmed his fingers up to her thighs.

  She'd dropped her pitcher when he first toppled her, and so reached now for the only weapon at hand —his full goblet on the table. She emptied it over his head.

  He stood, dumping her onto the rushes. She scrambled to her feet and ran unconscious fingers through her hair. He wiped his face with the fine fabric of his sleeves. His easy laughter was gone, replaced by a lurid glare with flame behind it. The hall began to quiet, and Edin knew she'd become a spectacle again. A slow flush crept up the Viking's scarred face. His right hand went to the hilt of the short, broad-bladed scramasax in his belt.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Edin saw Sweyn lolling at the end of his bench with a smile that showed his yellowish teeth through his beard. She was surrounded by Vikings.

  A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine! From the fury of the Northman save —

  The armed man made a lunge for her. Somehow she dodged back out of his reach, but how long could she keep that up? Where could she go? The jarl had earlier forbidden her to leave the hall without an escort, even to visit the privy.

  The jarl! No sooner did she think of him —the thought was of an immense and implacable power— no sooner did she picture his face in her mind, than she turned. The Viking behind her made another lunge. She felt his hands catch and yank out a few strands of her hair. She ran—to the jarl.

  She dared not step up on the dais of his chair, but took mindless shelter at his side. By now the hall was completely silent. Edin felt censure coming at her from all directions. The man came on.

  Casually, the jarl reached for her elbow and drew her up to the arm of his chair. The man stopped a few feet away. He spoke in Norse, with that undercurrent of hot fury, jabbing his finger in Edin's direction. When he was finished, the jarl spoke, in a calm, slaying voice.

  Not a man or a woman moved. All sat on their benches as if their limbs had turned to stone. Only their shadows swayed on the walls.

  The man seemed taken aback. Slowly, he found a smile, a carefully courteous smile. He inclined his head to his chieftain, then turned stiffly and marched back to his place. The jarl looked around at all the faces staring at him. It was a challenge, clear and simple. One by one, people picked up their cups, turned to their neighbors, and gradually the celebration grew noisy once more.

  He still held Edin's arm. He observed her now. His face was stony; she could feel his wrath.

  "He took liberties," she said in her own defense. "Mayhap I should not have spilt the wine on him, but-"

  "But you did. And just as well, since if his hand had traveled an inch higher up your skirts I would have had to kill him."

  "Kill-! What did he say?"

  He frowned. "When are you going to learn your new language? He said he found you desirable."

  That explained nothing, and she waited for more.

  He gave her a vexed look and began a surprisingly glib fabrication: "Aye, and so I said, 'Asmund Wartooth, this woman is truly a rounded morsel made for a man's fondling, but she is mine and I am a jealous owner.' 'Pardon me,' he answered, 'but I seem to have a serpent in my breeches that rears up most peculiarly whenever she passes. It is very hard to control.' So I asked him to try a little harder.

  "Now come sit at my feet, Saxon; no one will tease you there, or find the serpents in their trousers rearing up."

  Not for a moment did she believe this report. She was still thinking to understand what had really happened when his fingers tightened around her arm. "Do as I tell you."

  She had no choice. She was as good as chained by his strength, and there was no one to free her from him. She was a captive, without defense or refuge. She sat as he wanted, on the dais between his feet, so that she felt his right leg up the length of her back and his inner thigh touched her shoulder. Mostly he seemed to ignore her, though now and then, as he drank and chatted, he toyed with her hair. No one chided him for it, for he was her master. And whatever he'd said to Asmund Wartooth had made clear his claim to the others. She was his and completely at his disposal.

  Her sense of humiliation grew until she pulled away from his touch a little —and discovered that she had more of his attention than she'd thought. Putting one large hand on her bare shoulder, he said, most gently, "Be still."

  Not long after, her eyes roamed past Inga —and something made them return. For a long moment she was held by a steady, icy look.

  The evening went on, oblivious to her sufferings. At the tables, the guests conversed and cleaned their teeth with toothpicks. The noise was terrific. After a while the red-haired girl Dessa had admired earlier approached the jarl's chair. She bowed her head before him, then asked a question in Norse. Edin looked up to see him nod perfunctorily. The girl came forward and offered Edin her hand. "Come," she said in Saxon, "soon the skald will tell his tales. They say you still can't speak much Norse; I'll translate for you."

  Edin cast the jarl a questioning look. Only his fingers moved on the wide arm of his chair, gesturing his permission.

  The girl's place was one of the less desirable ones toward the end of a bench, which Edin found puzzling, for she'd arrived with a wealthy-looking family and seemed very sure of herself. She was called Red Jennie of Odinlund Steading. She was pretty, as Dessa said, with agreeable features and a tiny double chin.

  "Why don't you sit with you family?" Edin asked.

  The g
irl gave her coquettish, coy smile. "My master treats me well, but I am only a thrall like you." She spoke glowingly of her protector, pointing him out for Edin: "There — Ottar Magnusson's father, Magnus Fair-hair. Isn't he handsome? Oh, I love him so!"

  Edin looked again at the middle-aged man, who was tearing at a great hunk of meat at that moment.

  "Everyone is talking about you," the girl said. "The jarl has never taken a thrall to his bed before. I would be afraid —doesn't he seem mysterious and frightening to you? And so big!" She giggled.

  Edin tried to change the subject. "How long ago were you captured?"

  "Three winters past. I was but a child. That probably made it easier for me than it must be for you."

  "It is hard" Edin agreed.

  "But now you have the jarl's interest." She said it with a sigh and a wave of her hand.

  Her hand was not particularly delicate, Edin observed fleetingly, not so refined and well cared for as the hands of ladies she'd known. It was too broad with stumpy fingers, and seemed a bit primitive and childish.

  The girl went on. "No matter how frightening, I could never think a man anything but wonderful if he was a jarl."

  "He is a Viking."

  "Mayhap, but he desires you, and you can use that to gentle him —domesticate him—" she giggled —"and then make him love you."

  "I don't want him to love me."

  "Why not? Why shouldn't you sweeten your life as his is sweetened? He uses his weapons on you"—she winked—"why shouldn't you use your weapons on him?"

  "I don't-"

  "The difficulty will be the way his father died. . . ." Jennie went on, thinking aloud to herself. "Since Kirkyn was murdered in his bed by his own Saxon pleasure-thrall —oh, you didn't know that? Oh, aye, it's told all over —though mayhap not here on Thorynsteading." She giggled again, then looked all around to be sure they weren't being listened to. "They say that Inga's love for the old jarl was obsessive, almost an insanity. Then Kirkyn captured Margaret in a raid and fell madly in love with her. One night, no one knows why, Margaret suddenly stabbed him with a kitchen knife —one so sharp you need only touch the edge and it would slice" —she made a gesture —"like cutting butter. She killed herself afterward. Inga claims Kirkyn had spoken to her about selling Margaret away —but who knows? A lovers' quarrel mayhap. Anyway, he was murdered, and Inga turned all that strange love onto her son."