Magnus

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  She’d shown him her thanks with smiles and tried to touch his arm, but he’d shrunk away at that.

  Their food was plentiful, Magnus earning his share of fish and game in return for his work in the forge, but he was yet to take a meal with her and the children. He preferred to eat alone.

  Meanwhile, though the other women exchanged whispered stories of their men’s virility, she remained untouched in the way that mattered.

  His rejection pained her.

  It was as if she’d merely dreamt the taste of him on her tongue.

  She thought of that now. Thought of him.

  If I went to the forge at this very moment, would he bark at me to leave?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Putting down her knife, she untied her apron and smoothed her skirts. Whatever the outcome, she wouldn’t hide from her own husband!

  She stepped outside and blinked at the dazzle of bright sunlight, then found herself face to face with the last man she wished to see.

  Fecir smirked as Modwen bumped against him and, before she had the chance to dart away, he grasped both her wrists.

  “No need to hurry.” He grinned, showing his yellow teeth. “I’m paying a visit.” Fecir held her firm, grazing his knuckles over her breasts. “You’ve time to offer a cup of something to your dear old uncle?”

  Modwen attempted to wrestle free, but he drove her back through the doorway. Once they were inside, he let her go, appearing triumphant.

  Modwen rubbed her wrists and suppressed a scowl, reminding herself to be patient. Fecir had been defending Achnaryrie when he’d received an axe blow to his shoulder. The wound had healed well, and he’d regained modest use of the arm, though he often used it as an excuse to evade harder labour.

  “I’ll make you some warm chamomile,” she conceded, “but then I’ve things to do.” She stoked the fire beneath the pan of water she kept hanging above in the hearth, one eye warily on him. “And my husband to attend to—”

  Fecir spat on the floor—on the clean rushes she had spread out only the day before, with dried lavender and rosemary stalks intermixed. “I’m sure you have. Since those devils came, they’ve every woman sniffing about to please them.”

  Modwen had a few opinions of her own, thinking the Norsemen over fond of mead and ale, and too boisterousness in their cups, but Fecir’s attitude put her in a mind to defend them.

  “And have you noticed the work those ‘devils’ have done for us?” With her pestle, she crushed the chamomile more forcefully than was necessary, reducing the petals almost to dust. “You’ve eaten what they’ve provided eagerly enough.”

  “Decent women turned to whoring themselves for a bit of meat,” he sneered. “You couldn’t get them in your beds fast enough.” His lips curled. “Meat for your bellies and meat for your greedy cunts.”

  Modwen whirled upon him, smacking him in the chest, pushing him off balance. “You’ve no honour in you!”

  She’d always tried to ignore his taunts, but in this, he’d gone too far. “Magnus is my husband. You’ve no right to say such things.”

  Fecir’s face darkened.

  “I’ll speak to you how I like, whore. You were mine to take as wife, though you wriggled out of it to give your favours to these curs.” He made a grab for her, pinning her against the table’s edge with his body.

  She’d been a fool to let him in—to allow herself to be alone with him. The knife was behind her somewhere. If she could reach it, she’d show him that she wouldn’t stand for his insults.

  “Give me what I want, Modwen, and I’ll leave you alone.” His voice had a thick rasp to it, inflamed by her struggle.

  She turned away, but he leaned in, his breath touching her cheek. Frantically, she skimmed the wooden surface with her fingertips.

  “That’s it. Hold still while I have a taste of you.” He found her breast, squeezing through the cloth of her tunic, then pinching, his fumbling fingers seeking her nipple.

  The knife must be at the other end, she realised. His wet lips streaked her throat, moving to the neckline of her tunic. His fingers tugged at the yoke.

  “No!” She wanted to shout, but the word came out half-strangled, caught between shock and disbelief. She brought her arms round and tried to push him off, but she was trapped, unable to lever against him.

  “No!” She tried again. Better, but not enough.

  No one would hear, even though the door was ajar. Repeatedly, she pushed, but his nose pressed into her breast, snuffling at her softness, his tongue probing.

  Her third cry was louder, though it seemed to take all her strength to form the sound, leaving her boneless beneath him, choking with horror. He’d pushed his leg hard between hers while his weaker arm groped under layers of linen, ferreting for bare flesh.

  As he suckled fiercely, she took an instinctive gasp, drawing air deep into her lungs.

  At last, she screamed.

  8

  There was a roar, as of crashing storm-driven waves, or the rush of wind whirling upon the headland, and the pressing weight lifted from her chest.

  In a tangle of arms and legs, Fecir was slumped on the floor, his mouth gaping. A trickle of blood seeped from his nose.

  The man towering above Fecir growled as he drew him up, hoisting him to his feet by the front of his tunic. With limbs dangling, Fecir hung suspended, uttering faint whimpers, his eyes wide in his pale face.

  Magnus took three strides before hurling Fecir outside.

  Seeing the force with which Magnus threw the other man, one thought was clear in her mind. Modwen’s stomach twisted.

  She staggered forward, clutching at the doorframe. A crowd had gathered, though all kept their distance.

  Magnus loomed above Fecir, who hid his face in his arms, cowering, drawing up his legs to protect himself, waiting for the great Norseman’s fists to rain their blows.

  Magnus’s voice was harsh and guttural, as if he were chewing the gristle of Fecir’s bones. With a stout kick to Fecir’s back, he sent him sprawling in the dirt, then hauled him up again, rolling him over to place his foot on the other’s neck.

  “Don’t! You’ll kill him!” Modwen shrieked, her breaths coming in rasps.

  Magnus jerked up his head. Her tone was unmistakable, as his own had been—hers aghast with fear, while his spoke of violent intent.

  In his face was a fury disproportionate with any she could have imagined, his eyes alight, almost frenzied, filled with hate that surely could not be for Fecir alone.

  Magnus was her husband in little more than name, yet he’d heard her distress and come to her aid. Now, he seemed ready to beat Fecir bloody for having touched what was his.

  A wracking sob rose within Modwen’s chest.

  I can’t let him do it.

  Her knees trembled, but Ailsa was beside her, offering her shoulder, and Eithne, too.

  She spoke the words Modwen had only just begun to learn. Whatever she’d said, it took sudden effect.

  Magnus removed his weight from Fecir’s neck, though he gave one last kick to the creature at his feet, showing no remorse as Fecir spluttered and groaned.

  Eithne spoke again, the clipped, curt Norse that sounded strange, uttered with the delicate melody of their own Pict rhythms. Magnus fixed his stare hard upon Modwen before he turned his back.

  When he’d walked away, Eithne drew close, taking Modwen’s other arm. She and Ailsa led her back into the hut, making her sit on her bed.

  “What did you say?” Modwen asked.

  “Only what I needed to.” Eithne took up the cup of chamomile and, adding water from the steaming pot, placed it between Modwen’s hands.

  Eithne shook her head, then sighed deeply. “He vowed to kill him.”

  Modwen held the cup tightly. “We can’t let that happen.”

  “No, we can’t,” Eithne agreed. “There are few here who’d shed tears for Fecir”—she looked meaningfully at Modwen—“but we must have order and the same rules for
everyone.”

  Modwen struggled to swallow, her throat growing tight. It was true that Fecir had few allies. He’d been better accepted when Galan was alive—respected, even, when he’d helped in the forge. In recent times, tolerance had waned. He was not loved.

  Only her desire to honour Galan had driven Modwen to endure all she had.

  Still, she wished Fecir no lasting harm. His life surely hadn’t turned out the way he’d hoped it might. That was something with which Modwen could empathise.

  “Lie down,” said Ailsa. “You’ve had a shock.”

  Her gaze wandered to Modwen’s tunic, the front of which was torn.

  Modwen nodded, her cheeks growing warm. It was shaming for others to know—to see what Galan’s uncle was capable of.

  “Rest,” Eithne agreed. “I’ll find Alpia and Taran and keep them busy for some hours.”

  It was a relief to close her eyes, while Ailsa sat beside her, smoothing her hair.

  So much seemed to lay heavy on her, and she didn’t know where to begin. She’d thought marrying the Norseman would bring an end to her troubles—or some of them, at least.

  One thing must be true, she thought. He must care about me.

  He’d come when she’d needed him.

  No one else.

  But he had come.

  9

  Reaching the forest’s edge, Magnus laid his forehead to the cool bark of an oak.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  He concentrated on drawing air into his lungs, then exhaling slowly. His pulse was still racing in his ears, his chest heaving.

  A terrible fury had seized him like a man possessed. He’d almost killed that maggot, Fecir.

  He’d wanted to stamp his foot hard into the scum’s face, crushing his skull. His head pounded at the thought of it.

  Modwen’s scream had been like that in his nightmares—those gut-wrenching dreams of Solveig, struggling and screaming, from which he woke soaked in sweat. No matter how fast he ran, he could never reach her in time.

  The sight that had met him entering Modwen’s hut, had stirred him into a burning rage—a crimson haze of anger that only violence would satisfy.

  Not that the bastard didn’t deserve to die, but Magnus knew better than to serve up justice on the point of his temper. If he had issue with another man’s conduct towards his wife, he should have issued a challenge to the holmgang. It was senseless, of course, since the worm was no match for him. There would have been no honour in such a duel, though it was their tradition—their method of justice.

  Justice.

  The word had a hollow ring.

  There had been none for Solveig.

  The úlfhéðinn had left her broken like a child’s doll—swollen-faced, twisted on the saturated earth, the birds picking at her flesh.

  Wolf-skins, they called them, for the cloaks they wore, or berserks, for they lost all humanity in their trance-like rage. Animals, not men, they howled and bit the edge of their shields. With no fear of fire nor iron, it was said a berserk could blunt his opponent’s weapon by looking at it.

  Magnus swallowed bile, bitter in his mouth.

  Such men deserved no accolade, for what bravery was there in attacking a woman alone in the woods, or the elderly they’d slain that day, before running for the wooded mountainside above Skalanes.

  He’d begged Brandr to gather men and pursue them, to scour every possible hiding place until they’d bloodied their weapons. His old friend had shared his ire, but for all their skill and strength, the men of Skalanes lacked familiarity with the mountains. To enter those wild lands would be to encounter certain ambush.

  Magnus knew the wisdom of it, but the fact did naught to assuage his outrage and despair, fuelled by knowledge of his inaction.

  He’d not been there to protect her and could do nothing to bring her back. The poisoned barb lay buried deep and had festered. He found no comfort—not in his sons, nor in the comradeship of those he’d known all his life. Even sleep brought no respite, and the agony bit him anew on awakening.

  Only in the forge did he find some solace, beating his sorrow and unspoken fury into the metal. Training with the weapons he created, he fought recklessly, until no other would parry with him for fear of tasting the sharp edge of his blade.

  Brandr had drawn him aside, reminding him that his sons needed their father, for didn’t they also grieve? He knew it to be true, but looking at them only made him think of Solveig, and the pain was too great. Solveig’s mother had taken care of them in those early years.

  He’d failed his wife. She’d done nothing to deserve the horror of her death, so the blame must be his. In some way, he’d displeased the gods and been made to pay for his wrongdoing.

  Turning about, he rested his back against the trunk of the ancient tree. Somewhere above, a song thrush was offering up its melody. Towards the cliffs, the sky was a haze of blue. He’d been so intent on shutting himself away, he’d hardly bothered to survey the landscape of Achnaryrie.

  The forest smelt fragrant. Dropping to his haunches, he brushed his hand over the blooms of a delicate flower. Swathes of violet stretched out from beneath the oak, across the woodland.

  Skalanes’s woodlands had something similar, he was sure. Solveig had picked them at about this time of year.

  Had these tiny bells been here on the day their men had brought back Brandr wounded? It had been too dark to see much, but their scent was strong.

  Flowers! When did I ever notice flowers?

  Magnus passed his hand over his face. Nothing seemed to make sense. It hadn’t for a long time.

  Absentmindedly, he touched the hem of his tunic. It was the one he’d been wearing on the first day they’d arrived in Achnaryrie, and it had been torn. Now, neat stitches brought the ragged edges together.

  He’d paid no regard when he’d donned it that morning, had given no thought to the hands that had laid it out for him. In the forge, he usually just wore his leggings and a leather apron if he was working with molten metal—but he’d wanted to see Brandr. The injury was healing well, while Bjorn’s fever had at last abated.

  Magnus fingered the material again.

  The other women would be with her, wouldn’t they?

  Even so, he should go back. For some purpose, the gods had once more made him a husband.

  Perhaps something did matter.

  10

  In her sleep, her eyelids flickered, and she sighed. Smoothing back her hair, he touched her cheek, and she murmured. His name? It had sounded something like it.

  He wondered how to rouse her, or if he should, but the choice was taken from him as she turned her head into his calloused palm. Before he had the chance to withdraw, she opened her eyes.

  Finding him so close, she shrank back, her expression guarded, remembering—he supposed—the aggression he’d shown little more than an hour ago.

  A portion of the previous day’s broth remained. After some hesitation, she took the bowl he offered but continued to eye him warily.

  “Come,” he said when she’d eaten the last mouthful.

  He’d filled the wooden tub and set the soap out. She looked across the room, then back to him, but didn’t move.

  “Come,” he said again, drawing the fur from her shoulders. With the fire stoked high, the room was warm enough.

  With his help, she sat up, and, taking her hand, he led her to the centre of the room.

  He unclasped the belt from her waist, then bent to the hem of her long, outer dress. Obediently, she raised her arms so that the gown slipped easily over her head as he lifted it. By the flicker of the fire, her outline was visible beneath her thin-woven shift—the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hip and shapely leg.

  Magnus had intended nothing but to offer food and a bath, that she might know her comfort mattered.

  Yet, his desire stirred.

  Crossing her arms to either side, Modwen raised the remaining garment. As her nakedness was revealed, she loosened her
dark hair from its braid, and it unravelled in soft curls, tumbling over her shoulders.

  He’d been too long starved of such a sight. Standing before him, she did nothing to conceal herself, and he drank in her sensual beauty.

  When their eyes met, what passed between them he could not have described—something of pride, uncertainty, and its opposite.

  Modwen steadied herself upon his arm and stepped into the water. She eased under, lowering her shoulders, then her head beneath its warmth. Rising, she slicked back the dripping hair from her face.

  He drew up a stool to sit close and offered her the soap. She merely shook her head and closed her eyes.

  The room was quiet but for the crackle of flames.

  He watched the subtle rise and fall of her breaths, the water rippling where it met her ribs. She appeared to be made of some fine ceramic, so pale were her limbs, and so unblemished.

  Tendrils of her hair hung damply, curling upon her cheek, over her neck and collarbone. The firelight danced upon the slick sheen of her skin, casting a rosy glow over the lush curve of her breasts.

  A sudden flaming awareness clenched his stomach.

  She belonged to him.

  He was her husband and her master.

  He hadn’t wanted this, hadn’t wanted her, but impulse brought his palm to the fullness of her flesh. She drew sudden breath and half-opened her lids, looking at him through her lashes. Without moving, he held her, cupping the weight of her breast, beneath which her heartbeat fluttered.

  So smooth.

  He drew his thumb over one large, rosebud nipple—softly, back and forth. She leaned into his hand’s embrace, and her lips parted.

  Again, their eyes met. Hers had grown wider, darker. She seemed to beckon him with her eyes, but she was also trembling, waiting for him to show her what would happen next. Her breaths were shallow and rapid, as from a bird held in his fist, over which he held all power.