Viking Beast: Viking Warriors Series

by de Maupassant, Emmanuelle

  The main door was open wide, and sunlight entered also through the hole in the roof, directly above the fire pit.

  In the kitchen area, Thirka was pulling the skin from a hare.

  At the far end, fleeces were stacked high, reading for dyeing. Ragerta was spinning carded wool into yarn, while the woman who’d come to me stood at her loom.

  Fixing me with a glare, she jerked her head toward a wooden trough near the fire—a huge hearth bounded by stones reaching to my knees. Three iron pots simmered over its flames, one filled with water and the other two with stew—all suspended by chains, hooked high into the ceiling beams. A grid of iron bars covered one end, for the roasting of meat.

  “When you’ve finished mooning about, there’s bread to knead.”

  I knelt by the trough and began folding the edges of the dough. I’d never seen so much—enough to make fifty loaves or more. Soon, my arms and back were aching from bending over so long. I sat on my heels for a moment, straightening up and rolling my shoulders.

  “Lazy bitch! I didn’t say you could stop!” the mistress called out loud enough for all to hear. “Keep at it, or I’ll take the birch to you.”

  I’d met women like her before—the sort who liked to bully those unable to defend themselves.

  “Go and help her, Ragerta, or we’ll be waiting ‘till midnight.” She scowled.

  Scurrying to join me, Ragerta knelt alongside. “Here, I’ll take one end of the dough, and you the other. Lift as high as you can, fold inward, then push hard into the middle. It won’t take much for Sigrid to punish you, so don’t give her a reason.”

  It was much easier together, and we worked on in silence, aware of hard eyes watching us, until I couldn’t help myself.

  “Who is she?” I whispered.

  “Sigrid?” Ragerta rotated the dough, and we lifted it again. Keeping her head lowered, she spoke into the trough, “—the old jarl’s sister.”

  “Beornwold’s sister?” I glanced over. Part of the warp appeared to be wearing thin on the loom and she was intent on twisting new fibres into the upright thread. “And she’s mistress here?”

  “Always has been. She’s a shrew—never happy—but worse since Bretta died.”

  Bretta. Eldberg’s wife. Not for the first time, I wondered about her.

  “What was she like, this Bretta?”

  Ragerta paused in her kneading but didn’t answer.

  She passed over one of the long-handled paddles next to the trough. “Fist-sized pieces,” she directed. “Pull them off, and roll them in your palm. Sigrid likes them slightly flattened.”

  Demonstrating, she eased one onto the paddle. “When we’ve ten loaves on, we’ll slide it over the embers.”

  Again we worked.

  From outside came the sound of cattle lowing—passing in front of the longhouse, being led down to pasture.

  “Did he love her?”

  Ragerta’s eyebrows rose. “We all loved Bretta.”

  Like Asta, I thought. We’d all loved Jarl Gunnolf’s wife.

  “But what sort of marriage was it?”

  Ragerta stared at me, and I felt my cheeks redden. I didn’t know why I was asking.

  “Arranged of course. Beornwold had no sons and needed an heir. Eldberg joined him as a paid hand at first, on the jarl’s trips to raid the Western lands. When Beornwold saw his strength, he adopted him, then married him to Bretta. Their offspring would be sure to continue the line.”

  “Except that she died.”

  Ragerta frowned. “It was a terrible thing. Horrible.” She seemed to think for a moment, then shook away the image. “Sigrid was mother to her from the start. A bad birthing, you know—”

  I did know. I’d seen my share of babes and mothers die. Unconsciously, my hand went to my belly. What if that happened to me? Who would look after this child?

  I asked hurriedly, not wanting to lose my chance, “Is there someone you have feelings for, Ragerta? Someone you love?”

  “By Freya! What a thing to ask!” Ragerta looked flustered. “There are one or two I let take me outside, and a few I’ve had to lay with regardless of my choice. I’m not fool enough to think any of it matters. I’m naught to them, nor they to me.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It was a sad thing for any woman to admit—even such as Ragerta, who would spend her days a slave.

  “Now, ask Thirka, and you might hear a different answer.” Ragerta gave a sly smile. “Thoryn’s been sweet on her this half-year past, and he’s a better sort than most.”

  We’d almost reached the end of the dough, and the last of the cows had passed the doorway.

  “But naught will come of that,” I mused. “Not unless Eldberg frees her.”

  “True. No thrall can marry a free man, so here she’ll stay…” The loaves being all upon the embers, Ragerta made to rise. “For Eldberg has never freed any in his possession. Those who disappoint or anger him, he sells at the slave market—or gives a quicker end.”

  With that thought in my mind, the room suddenly grew gloomier, the sun falling dim. Looking up, I saw the jarl standing upon the threshold, his breadth and height silhouetted dark against the light.

  I was aware of the room falling silent—of Thirka having stopped her work, and Sigrid, too; Ragerta standing openmouthed.

  “Come.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated that I was to enter his chamber.

  He stripped away his own clothing, then mine. Throwing me upon the bed, he bound me as he had that first time, but far tighter, and he lay upon my back. I was pinned beneath, with his cock nestled between my cheeks, his own legs extended to touch the length of mine.

  He reached beneath to take my breasts in his hands, kneading them as I had the bread, squeezing their softness in his palms. He kissed my spine but was too impatient to spend further time in preparing me.

  “Tell me.” His arousal nudged where he’d attempted to claim me the night before.

  “I’m ready for you, my lord.”

  It was neither truth nor lie. My fear was potent, but as he’d tied the sashes about my ankles and wrists, a warm ache had begun in my belly, the snake unfurling once more, hissing its own desire.

  “And what am I to do with you?”

  “Enter me, my jarl.” I closed my eyes. Against my wish, I was his possession, and would submit to whatever I must.

  He brought one hand down my belly, then lower, to the swollen part of me. As I moaned for him, his voice, always so rasping, was husky with desire. “You please me, thrall.”

  Thrusting within me, his fingers pressed to my tenderness, lifting me to meet his rhythm.

  “Tell me,” he said again.

  “Please.” With my body jarred by the force of his, it was difficult to speak. “Please.” This was what he wanted—for me to beg.

  “More?”

  “Yes.” My voice was strangled, but I could not deny it. I was swollen and wet. “Your seed. Spill inside me, my lord.”

  Slippery, he drew back and with his next stroke, pushed into my tighter place.

  Dear gods! My instinct was to clench against the intrusion, but his fingers delved and caressed, and the snake inside me writhed in rippling waves, its tongue licking hot. As he entered, he lashed with the poison of pain and pleasure combined.

  “My lord,” I whispered. “My lord.”

  11

  Eldberg

  August 4th, 960AD

  Eldberg tore off the last strip of meat, greasy between his fingers, then brought his mouth to suck the juices from the bone.

  He was ravenous. Hungry enough to eat another whole trencher of food. Hungry for something else, too, though he’d been consuming that particular delicacy for the better part of the afternoon.

  He watched as she made her way to each guest, all seated at two long tables placed along the length of the hall, on either side of the central fire. To celebrate their success in burning Svolvaen, all were welcome. His men were never reluctant to share the abundance of their j
arl’s table. Several nights of revelry were planned.

  As Elswyth refilled cups with mead, the eyes of every man were upon her. She kept her own lowered, no doubt keen to go unnoticed. As if that were possible!

  Her gown’s slender bodice and low-cut yoke placed her well on display, letting all see her ripeness. Breasts to make even the goddess Freya envious! Silken to the touch, full, and heavy. Nipples of the palest pink, large, and soft like those of a young girl—until they hardened beneath his tongue, yearning to be suckled.

  He’d sated his cock well-enough, but he was hard again, thinking of her tightness and warmth, thinking of how it felt to move inside her. It had been satisfying to watch her struggle, to try to deny him, but he preferred seeing her pliant—submitting to acts she found shameful, yet unable to control her response.

  She glanced at him, and he saw her tremble.

  Good! He took a long draught, draining his cup then raising it. Let her come to him.

  Eldberg watched the sway of her hips as she walked—hips made for a man to hold onto. She was a fine piece of womanhood, though she behaved more like a virgin—as if she’d never been touched before, as if his fucking of her was a great surprise, and the ways he took her previously unknown. It hardly seemed likely to be true, but it aroused him—this blend of reluctance and passion.

  Only when she stood beside him did she look up, her lips parting as she gazed into his face. Those lips! A little plump. A little bruised.

  She hadn’t wanted to kiss him, but he’d refused to let her get away with that. A thrall obeyed her master. She’d no right to hold anything back.

  As she held out the jug to replenish his cup, he brought his hand around her waist and her scent lifted to him—honey and musk. She squirmed, almost pulling away, but he tugged her closer.

  The curve of her breast was before his face. How easy it would be to release that bounty and taste it again. By the gods, he was iron hard! He’d a mind to raise her skirts and haul her onto his lap right here.

  “Eldberg!” Sigrid’s voice, shrill beside him, intruded. “Did you hear what I said?”

  Distracted, he relaxed his hold on Elswyth’s waist, and she neatly slipped away.

  “What is it, Sigrid? Must you nag me even while I eat?” Eldberg scowled.

  No other dared speak to him as Sigrid did. Not for the first time, he berated himself for permitting it. Her shrewish ways made him want to wring her neck, but he owed her a debt. He was a man who never forgot an injury and never forgave an insult, but nor did he ignore the service of those who were loyal.

  All those years Beornwold had been without a wife, she’d been lady of this hall, running the household. Moreover, she’d raised his daughter, loving Bretta as any true mother. Only she, of anyone in Skálavík, knew the grief Eldberg had suffered. Without speaking of it, she understood.

  He’d not forgotten, either, that she’d tended him through his recovery. The healer had provided salves, but Sigrid had administered them and, through those first weeks, when sleep was impossible without the coming of nightmares, she’d sat beside him.

  She deserved a degree of respect and status, and he would not put her from the house, though she oft drove him to the edge of his temper.

  Sigrid lowered her voice, but her words were no less scathing. “Are you turning fool, nephew? Letting that trollop tame you? You’ve done little but moon after her since your return.”

  “If anything is to be tamed, I wish it were your tongue,” retorted Eldberg. “Beware, mistress, lest you stretch your neck too far toward my blade.”

  “Ha!” Sigrid took a swig from her cup. “That is more like the jarl we serve! A man ready to act when one beneath him oversteps the mark.” She placed her hand upon his arm. “Beware yourself, nephew, or you’ll have Skálavík laughing at your folly—a jarl who forsakes his duties in pursuit of a hussy!”

  Eldberg removed Sigrid’s hand and fixed her with a steely gaze. “If I require your advice, you shall know of it. Until then, better we sit in silence.”

  Sigrid tossed her head, ignoring the warning, though she lowered her voice. “You’ll see the truth when it stares you in the face. Until then, make your mistakes.”

  Gritting his teeth, Eldberg motioned over one of the other thralls, stabbing a piece of mutton from the platter.

  “And what is it, good aunt, that’s clear to everyone else except me!”

  Sigrid leaned in closer. “She’s a wanton. Good for nothing but opening her legs.”“Is that all the complaint you have of her?” Eldberg barked with laughter. “A man must spill his seed—what care you whose throat or cunt I use for that purpose? She’s my bed thrall—nothing more.”

  Sigrid shifted in her seat. “You agreed she’d help as the others do.”

  “That she may, when I’ve no immediate use for her beneath me. If she’s lacking, then teach her, but don’t grumble to me, Sigrid.”

  Picking an apple from the bowl, she quartered it with her knife. “As long as she pleases you, ’tis good enough reason for her to stay. I shall say no more about it.”

  “Odin be praised!” Eldberg went to drain his cup but found it dry. Where was Elswyth? He’d a mind to take a jug of mead, and her, to his chamber.

  “Only this…”

  Eldberg glared, then sighed. “Very well, Sigrid, speak and be done—but then no more.”

  “Watch her well, my jarl, for I fear she’s one to use her wiles to trap a man. There’s something of the witch in her. You must have noticed she looks like—” Her hand came again to his arm. “Perhaps ’tis I who am foolish, but it would be the way of a sorceress to make her appearance familiar to you and worm her way beneath your skin.” Sigrid’s voice quavered. “I wish not to quarrel—only to show my concern.”

  “Your words are riddles to me, Sigrid.” Eldberg rubbed his forehead. “But we’ll have no more dispute. Let this be an end to it.” Eldberg looked over at her—his little enchantress—standing at the far end of the hall, beside Sigrid’s chamber.

  She held her hand to her brow, looking weary. There was a resigned despondency to her.

  Perhaps he’d worked her too hard in his bed.

  I can do with her just as I like. She’s my captive. My thrall. My revenge.

  But she was something else, too. There was an element of truth in Sigrid’s warning, for wasn’t this a spell of sorts—when a man couldn’t take his eyes from a woman?

  She was bending to fill Sweyn’s cup, her long hair loose-plaited and golden, falling over her shoulder.

  Eldberg’s attention flickered to the commander of his battle-guard. He’d grasped the end of Elswyth’s plait and was drawing her downward, whispering in her ear. Some lewd comment, most likely, for she reddened and pulled away.

  The thralls of Eldberg’s household were there for the taking, if his sworn-men had lust to abate. He’d never denied them that privilege, though most had their own slaves, and a wife besides.

  But Elswyth was not like the others.

  She is mine.

  Others could look upon her, but she was for his bed alone.

  He’d have words with Sweyn. No one was to touch her. He would show his blade to any cur that disobeyed him. Eldberg strode forward. He’d make himself clear and wipe away that covetous leer.

  He’d taken but five steps when he heard Thoryn’s shout from the other side of the hall. “Thirka!”

  There was a scream and commotion as the thrall’s platter hit the table, showering food. Her skirts were alight. She screamed again, running back and forth, beating the flames with her hands.

  Eldberg leapt forward, sending her to the ground, rolling her back and forth. Yet the fire licked, and the woman shrieked.

  “Use this! Cover her!” Elswyth tossed a bundle of cloth at his feet.

  With the flames smothered, Thirka’s terrified cries subsided to sobs. Moaning, she looked up with wide eyes. Thoryn had bounded over the table. Kneeling at her side, he took Thirka’s hand, his face grey. “She steppe
d backward, coming too close to the embers.”

  “So tired.” Thirka was mumbling. “Just need to lie down.”

  “’Tis all right,” Thoryn whispered. “I’ll care for you.” He picked her up.

  “By your leave, jarl, I’ll take her to my hut.”

  How did I miss that? thought Eldberg. Thoryn was in love with the girl. Under his own nose, and he’d not realised.

  “I can make a salve for the burns.” Elswyth was beside them, lifting the hem of Thirka’s skirt. She winced at what she saw.

  “We have honey,” said Ragerta. She wrung her hands. “And there’s marigold in the herb garden.”

  “Gather them quickly, and comfrey if you have it.” She thought for a moment. “If you have valerian root, we’ll steep that for her to drink, and mash the others for a salve.”

  She turned to Thoryn. “You must spread it thickly on her feet and calves—on her hands, too. Lay Thirka down, and bare her legs. You’ll need some linens to wrap her, after you’ve applied the salve.”

  Eldberg beheld Elswyth in wonder. Gone were the downcast eyes and her forlorn look. A spark had lit within her, giving her new purpose.

  Thoryn swallowed. “Good lady, my thanks, but—”

  He looked at Eldberg. “I would have her help. I don’t know if I can—” Thoryn’s voice wavered.

  He touched his forehead to Thirka’s. “She is burnt.”

  Burnt.

  Eldberg knew what it was to be touched by fire. The healers had made his salves, with herbs not just from Skálavík but those traded from far lands. Aloe, wasn’t it, that they’d smeared over him. Cooling, soothing aloe. A small pot remained, which he yet used upon his eye.

  “Sigrid!”

  She hadn’t moved from her place at the high table.

  “The salve for my eye. Fetch it.”

  Cutting a segment from her apple, she took it between her teeth. “It’s costly, and there will be no more until the merchant returns. Are you sure, my jarl, that you wish to use it on this thrall?”

  Eldberg clenched his fists. “Fetch it, Sigrid.”