by Merry Farmer
“No, it’s not that. You’re right, I’ve never been with a man, but no, the idea doesn’t frighten me.”
“What then?” He faces me, squaring up. “I repeat my question. I'm sure you like me. I'm sure that the liking could grow to be love. And I think that you believe that too. So why will you not marry me?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Even harder if you don’t try.”
“I don't want to be property again.”
“What?” Bjorn’s forehead creases. “You said something like that before. You’re a free woman now. Becoming my wife wouldn’t change that.”
“But it would. They… your father… set me free for something I did. Something I am proud of and which he respected. And so did everyone else. They respected it enough that they… gave me back to myself…”
I can’t look at his face and find my gaze dropping to the darting fish once more. “If I become just a wife, I lose that. I would always be Bjorn's wife, not Gunhildr. I know you would provide… wealth, food, land, a home. But it would always be yours. I’d just be…” … I gesture out to where the sunlight splits and shimmers, sundered by the rippling water… “… no more than the reflected sun on the waters.”
One fist on a hip, Bjorn scratches at his scalp, then his face clears. “That’s why you want to join the raids… So you have wealth in your own right. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I thought it was what I wanted; to fight, to be a warrior. Now I realise it’s not enough…”
Realisation dawns over his face… and understanding. “What you really wanted was to be strong and free. Able to defend yourself. To have your own choices.”
He paces, circles, then aims a finger at me. “If I talk to my uncle, get his consent for you to join the raids, to make your own name, your own wealth, your own glory, will you marry me then? Will you be my wife?”
My throat tightens. My voice is barely a whisper. “Yes, if you do that, I will marry you.”
He stands, stares, then strides.
Two strides, three, then he seizes me, drawing me close and opening his mouth over mine. His arms fold around me, and now, I want him…
His hold is fierce and gentle at once; one arm angling down to my waist, the other hand cupped to the back of my head, holding my face to his as we kiss.
The heat in my face spreads; a glow over cheeks and neck, sliding down to my breasts. At my loins, I grow warm and fluid. All unknowing, I find my own arms around him in a tight embrace, drawing him to me.
His voice is rough. “Gunhildr… I swear I will do this for you. I never understood and I should have. When the ship sails, you will be with us. But will you marry me now, so we can be together?”
Chapter 9
BRIDE
My husband. My wedding day.
The day, as is right and proper, is Frigga’s day and I rose early. Attended by Ísleif and her ladies, Ingunn and Frika, I make my way to the bathhouse. The sun has risen high into the morning before I emerge, steamed and cleansed, my face streaming until I plunge into the waters of the river. Clean but chilly, my teeth chatter as my attendants help me dress.
My gown is of fine linen, beautifully embroidered with threads of gold and blue and the expensive deep red which Bjorn bought the thread from a trader. I tried to protest but, as he said himself while he argued me down, a man is entitled to gift his wife, even if she is a warrior in her own right. Ísleif, with her skills, sewed the gown for me.
At my waist, a girdle of soft, fine leather, also embroidered, with silver and gold dragons which wind and coil about me. Deep enough to support my breasts, it replaces the linen bands I normally wear when I train, tight around my chest.
Ingunn dresses my hair, stroking it through until it shines, using a comb made of some scented wood which leaves its fragrance with me. Accustomed to having my hair braided, pinned and kept well out of the way, it feels luxuriant and feminine to let it sway at my waist.
Her bridal gift to me, Ísleif gives me a crown, set with crystals and woven through with the flowers of Spring, brilliant as sunshine, bright as a blackbird’s beak, which twine through strands of silver. She smiles as she sets it on my head. “It looks well on you.”
“Ísleif, it’s beautiful… It’s too much…”
But she presses a finger to my lips. “It was mine when I wedded Úlfar. One day, you will give it to your own daughter for her wedding.”
I have never dreamed of owning so beautiful or costly a thing.
Úlfar has provided the animals for sacrifice, to bring the blessing of the gods. Outside, a goat and a sow are penned, awaiting their fate. The goat bleats uneasily, but the sow merely snuffles into her bucket of rinds.
As we stand together to speak the vows in the sight of Freyja and the other gods, Bjorn's eyes hold mine; crinkling at the corners, white lines radiating against his deeply tanned face. He offers me his ring, dangling golden on the tip of his sword, glinting in the sunlight. And I exchange it with my own, again given to me by Ísleif.
At the feast afterwards, my cup is never empty. Úlfar fills it with strong mead. Bjorn’s too. I’m still unaccustomed to such strong drink and my head is spinning. Úlfar places a hammer on my lap, grinning broadly, flashing his eyebrows at me, jerking his chin at Bjorn who settles back on his seat returning the grin with an air of ‘waiting’.
Úlfar is still grinning as, with Ísleif, Ingunn and Frika, and their menfolk and families, Bjorn and I are accompanied, almost herded, to the hut set aside for our wedding night. As they hustle us in, there is joking and ribaldry.
Milling around the room, some arrange the bed, shaking out the furs. Magni places a jug of the mead on the table. Frika has brought honeyed cakes and choice cuts from the roasts.
Will they ever leave us alone?
Bjorn’s smile is wearing thin. His gaze flicks to mine, then, “I’d like my wife to myself now.”
Magni elbows him in the ribs, waggling his eyebrows. “Got your spear ready for your shieldmaiden?”
Bjorn gives him a long look. “Alright, that's enough. She's nervous enough already. Out… The lot of you. Go drink ale. Get drunk. We'll see you in the morning.” And the crowd spill out of the chamber, their laughter still loud.
Bjorn closes the door firmly behind the revellers then leans back against it, his head tilted, gaze slanting back as he waits for the sounds of footsteps and merriment to die away.
Then, mouth curving, his eyes shift to mine. And finally…
Finally…
… we are alone…
Bjorn.
My husband.
The husband I could never have dreamed I would have. A warrior. Brave. Handsome. And he even loves me.
He could have taken his pick.
And he chose me…
My friend. My supporter. And now my husband. The man who has promised me everything I want.
A brazier gleams in the corner of the room; lamps too, flickering with a warm golden light that sets shimmering shadows over his face and amber highlights in his copper-red hair. In the glimmer-light, his blue eyes are bronze, flecked with sea-green, the pupils huge.
And the thought returns to me.
He is so beautiful.
My mouth is dry and somehow, there’s not enough air. I shiver but my body is warm. And Bjorn’s eyes are soft… so soft… as he approaches me.
He lays palms on my shoulders, stooping just a little to rest his forehead on mine. “I’ve waited so long for this.”
“And me…” I try to speak, but the words won’t come out. I suck at my cheeks, trying to work up some moisture in my mouth.
Then I try again. “It’s the same for me. I always wanted you. Right from the first time I saw you. I never dared hope you could be my husband.”
He kisses my forehead, so gently, then he stands back, his fingertips still resting on my shoulders. “You’re trembling. You’re not afraid of me, are you? Or of what happens next?”
“No… Not afraid�
� exactly… More… excited… But…”
He slides arms around me, pulling me close. “Shhh… It’s alright. A bride on her wedding night should be excited. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
He runs fingers through my hair. “So dark. So beautiful. Like a river at night. All shadows and highlights.” He coils a strand around his fingers, kisses it.
“I was never sure if you liked it, being… foreign…”
He flashes brows, grins. “It’s different, yes. But not so different. And it’s not as though we don’t have others of your folk here. Both the Saxons and the old people.” He fingers the lock on his hand. “You are darker than most Saxons. Perhaps you carry some of the old blood too. Drawn from two peoples.”
“You are my people. I am Norse now.”
“Of course you are.” He presses a finger to my lips. “Enough talking now.” Stepping back from me, his eyes never leaving mine, he unravels his belt, draping it over a stool. “Time for us to see each other I think.”
He pauses. “I hope you like it.” Then tugging at the hem of his shirt, he lifts it up and over his head.
I have so wanted this. To call this man my own. To see his body, to caress him …
And to have the right to do so…
All without thinking, I find my hand outstretched, fingers reaching. Then, confused, I hesitate and retreat.
He smiles. “It’s alright. You are my wife now. I am your husband. It is a proper thing that you should want to touch me.”
My confidence returning, I move closer, tracing fingertips over hard flesh, sculpted muscles and smooth skin.
And so close, the scent of him floods over me; warm, musky, male…
Delicious.
My pulse races. My chest heaves. Inside me, something moves and liquifies. Something glorious. Something pure.
Bjorn’s face sheens, his breathing growing heavier. His chest rises and falls more rapidly. And… I cannot fail to notice, he bulges to the front.
My mouth dries out again.
His lips quirk. “Would it help, wife, if I simply told you what to do?” But the smile dances around his eyes; shades of grey and blue and sea and sky around great black centres.
Blinking, I nod and drop my gaze. But now I find it, inexorably, drawn to the tightness at his groin.
He draws close again, his chest against my breasts, his loins against mine. By my cheek, he murmurs, “My wife should be naked now.”
The heat in my face is matched by the heat inside me, a growing, fluttering glow.
That smile still haunts the corners of his eyes, flutters over his lips, as he palms my cheek and softly, so softly, he presses his lips to mine, tracing the line of my mouth with his tongue-tip.
Bjorn tastes a little of the ale we drank, smells a little of the honeyed cakes we ate, and his smile is as sweet as Spring and as warm as Summer.
His gaze flashes to mine briefly, a blue-glinted spark, before he tugs at the ribbons which tie in my girdle. Carefully, slowly, he works them loose before releasing the soft leather. My breasts, freed of restraint, swing into his hands and he stoops, kissing them through my dress.
Then, his movements deliberate, he unravels the laces of the gown and the linen garment slips open. Hooking fingers inside, he slips it from my shoulders and the fabric slides down to puddle at my ankles. Picking it up, he folds it carefully, setting it to one side. Then standing back, his eyes soft, my husband regards my nakedness.
I don’t mean to, but I cross my arms over my breasts. Very gently, he uncrosses them again, pressing them to my sides.
My breasts are heavy as he cups them in warm palms, rubbing at a nipple with his thumb before bending to take it in his mouth. His tongue swirls over the nub, leaving the skin cool and dewy as he breaks free. The nipple hardens further.
He takes my hands, draws them to his belt. Then waits.
My hands shake, and fumble-fingered, I struggle with what should be a simple task, unfastening a simple buckle. But something presses against my touch, tightening the belt. As my fingers work, it jumps and twitches against me until, after long moments, the belt freed, Bjorn slides his trousers down and steps out of them.
I don't know where to look. I have seen my husband naked before. Of course I have. When he bathed in the pool. At times when he exited the bathhouse, dripping and steaming, to plunge into the sea. But it wasn't the same.
He releases air; a long, slow exhalation. “I really am your first, aren't I?”
Dumbly, I nod.
“I did wonder. You're so beautiful. I'd thought... Perhaps when you were still a slave, there might be something... something you wouldn't have wanted to speak of. Or someone, perhaps.”
“No, there was no-one. Only that day with the boar. And Hjalli didn’t… didn’t… There wasn’t time to…”
He breaks into my thoughts. “I'll be careful. Come, Gunhildr, lie with me.” He scoops me up, carries me to the bed and places me on the furs.
We lie, side by side. I'm still trembling, telling myself it's the coolth of the night air. But inside, I'm warm and growing warmer.
Bjorn strokes my face, his fingers slipping to my shoulder, my breast and something…
… something…
… which I am coming to recognise as desire, spears through my womanhood. My breath catches and he pulls me to himself, one hand around my waist, the other slipping to my loins, seeking my secret places.
He seems to like what he finds, his lips curving. “Lie back,” he whispers. “Open your legs. Don't be afraid. Your body is ready for me. I'll take care of you.”
I roll onto my back, and moving easily, supporting himself on his arms, he raises himself above me. Kneeling up between my parted thighs, his long red locks swinging over his shoulders, “You’re just as beautiful as I believed you would be.”
And so is he. Broad shoulders taper to a tight waist. Thighs, long and lean, hard-muscled, vee to meet his...
... his manhood.
My eyes are drawn. Throbbing upright, it nests in gold-red curls, twitching against his stomach.
Bjorn follows my gaze, mouth quirking. “It's for you, Gunhildr. Don't be frightened. Perhaps there will be a little pain, but it will be quickly over and then we will be able to enjoy each other as a man and wife should.” His head inclines. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
He lays palms to the flat of my belly, sweeping up and over my breasts then, moving onto all fours over me, he covers me with his body.
Resting on his elbows, he takes his own weight, but he presses against me, positioning himself, his shaft against my sex.
He is so close; still supporting himself above me, but his chest rests against mine, his belly against mine, the heat of his body against mine…
But it is the heat from inside me that glows, curling up and out. I'm sweating. And there is the scent of something... It is unfamiliar, this strange perfume, but heady and intoxicating. And as Bjorn slowly pierces me, as he takes my maidenhead, something exquisite stabs through my core.
His gaze fixed on my face, he enters me easily, then withdraws and once more enters. I stiffen, waiting for the pain they say should come, but there is none. At length, deep inside me, he pauses. “Am I hurting you?”
I’m breathy. Something pulses inside my ears. “No. I'm fine. It's alright.”
He kisses my neck. “That's good.” Then he lowers himself fully to me, takes me in his arms, and slowly, carefully, he moves within me.
It is... extraordinary. This sensation of another inside me. Of being penetrated. Of being filled.
Bjorn’s heart hammers against his chest, shuddering into mine. Rocked by the double drumbeat of his heart and my own, and the long slow thrusting of his body into mine, I gasp and pant. My breathing grows harder, faster.
He murmurs, close by me. “Gunhildr?”
“It’s wonderful.”
He rumbles, somewhere deep inside. And now, my confidence growing, I want to move with him. Arching my spine, raisi
ng my hips, I contour myself, matching myself to him.
I think Bjorn senses it, reads me, because his hands slide to my hips, reeling me in, angling and raising me. And now, I understand, swinging my legs up to wrap around his waist. He kisses into the crook of my neck and shoulder once more, then moving more strongly, his strokes grow harder, longer; reaching the depths inside me.
My panting grows to moaning. My skin is slick against his, our bodies sliding then colliding together. My moans become cries, then wails. Inside me, something wants to burst free.
And with a howl, my flesh shatters around his, pulsing and pounding. The world goes dark and I’m lost in the ecstasy gifted to me by this man.
Somewhere, far off, Bjorn’s arms are tightening around me. In my rapture, I am only semi-aware that he is groaning, his hips jolting, his body shivering and bucking.
After a brief-eternal time, it passes and euphorically, I drift back. Bjorn still lies atop me, his lungs pounding like bellows. And, entirely content to simply lie in my blissful haze, I wait for him to return to me.
His breathing slows and he shifts above me, lifting himself. His hair is slick to his scalp. Sweat beads his forehead. His skin is flushed.
But his eyes are dark and soft. “Thank you, wife.”
“Thank you, husband.”
Chapter 10
RAIDER
Our ship, ‘Water Skimmer’; she is beautiful, graceful; but in the way of a wolf, or an eagle or a great cat; sleek and dangerous. I have seen her before of course, many times. Indeed, she brought me to this land. But it is different now. I am no longer an observer. A victim. A prisoner. This time, I join the crew to raid.
Shieldmaiden…
Water Skimmer lies close by the shore of the inlet, bobbing on the sea where the sun casts nets of light to the pebbled bottom. The waves sparkle and dance around her, full of the promise of what lies ahead. Her lines are clean and contoured; smooth curves from bow to stern which kiss the waters. She rocks a little as the men board, a score of them, or perhaps a few more. The sails, not hoisted yet, are brilliant in red and white, new since the last season, the weave tight, and the leather reinforcements supple and well-oiled. At the prow, dragon eyes scan the route before us; glittering gold and blood-red and sea-green.
