Magnus

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  I want her.

  Desire struck him forcefully. He knew only that he must kiss her.

  With her head captured suddenly between his hands, she whimpered. She made as if to push him away, but he brought his lips to hers, and she yielded to his possession, opening to the sudden, crushing need of his mouth and the exploration of his tongue.

  He cradled her head, drawing her closer. He dropped his other hand low, fitting it into the slender curve of her back. She held her arms between them, as if part of her would still resist, though the rest of her body was languid.

  Deepening his kiss, he stroked her tongue, then pulled back, teasing with his teeth before crushing her to him again. Having begun, he could not cease. She was melting for him, moaning under his lips, so very willing.

  In one sweep, he lifted her, his arm beneath her knees, the cascading water wetting his tunic and trousers. She was dazed as he carried her, as if entranced, submitting to his wishes.

  He laid her upon her pallet, and her bruised lips parted once more, inviting his kiss.

  Her body was everything he wanted—pale against the dark sheepskins, rounded and firm, her legs slender, and her sex waiting for him.

  He would not deny himself.

  Quickly, he shed his clothes and pressed his nakedness to her—chill beneath his warmth. Her arms curled about his neck, pulling him into her own hungry kiss—pulling his heat into herself, so that her breasts brushed the hair of his chest.

  He had no desire to wait, but nor did he wish to hurt her. Having stroked through the soft curls of her mound, he entered her with his finger.

  While her skin was cool, she was hot inside, and she quivered, arching and lifting.

  She mewed weakly when he withdrew, and held still as he moved over her. He desired to give her the full thrust of his cock but made himself go slowly, nudging forward. She stretched around him, her hands clasped around his back.

  By the gods! So tight!

  He feared he’d spill immediately.

  Hot and wet, and soft!

  He gritted his teeth, having not yet given her even half his length, but she shifted beneath, angling so that he slid deeper.

  By Thor and Odin, I am undone!

  He growled, pushing the final distance, and Modwen gasped as his hilt finally came to rest against her fur.

  Panting, he held still, feeling the rise and fall of her breasts and the slickness of her cream trickling over his bollocks. If he moved again, it would be over.

  A man’s prowess resided in many things, not least of which was his potency with a woman and a worthy ride upon his manhood, but there was naught Magnus could think of to steer him to a longer journey.

  Breathing softly, Modwen lowered her hand, tracing the curve of his buttock, coming to rest where the muscle met his thigh. Her fingertips brushed lightly, and her eyes were twin points of light, fixed upon his own.

  “Don’t!” he groaned, and then, “I must!”

  Quickly, he withdrew and thrust, his outpouring already upon him. He managed but one more plunging into her sheath before he tensed, burying his face in her neck.

  She uttered a cry as he surged, finishing deep, placing his full weight upon her.

  Too late, he realised he’d failed to curb himself—taking his pleasure abruptly, without due consideration for hers. More than that, his penetration of her body had brought a strange stirring of emotion.

  How she gazed at me!

  Rolling away, he gave a deep sigh. The pleasure had been intense—more than he’d known for so long—but a disturbing prickle began behind his eyes, and the old, tight feeling in his chest returned. He remembered why he’d wanted to avoid this. There were too many memories.

  Sitting up, he reached for his clothes.

  Don’t look at her.

  He stood, keeping his back to Modwen. If he turned, who knew what flood of feelings would overwhelm him—desperate, dark, terrible feelings. A parching dryness rose in his throat, a searing, choking edge.

  Not now. Keep it locked away.

  “Magnus?” She spoke his name softly. One word, filled with yearning.

  He knew what she wanted from him, but he couldn’t give her that. Better for her to realise now and temper her expectations. Kinder to leave and pretend this hadn’t happened. Closing the door, he ignored her muffled sob.

  11

  Turning her face into the pelts, Modwen spent her tears in ragged sobs, the ache of loneliness washing over her.

  At last, with swollen eyes, she stayed her heaving breaths. The children would soon return. Eithne had taken them, how many hours ago? They mustn’t see her like this.

  And what was ‘this’, other than self-pity?

  She rose, donning her clothes, and went to splash her face. The water in the tub was still warm. It would do for Alpia and Taran.

  A stab of pain threatened her again, but she pushed it aside.

  What had gone wrong?

  She’d understood the way he’d looked at her when she’d stood in her shift, his gaze devouring her through the flimsy material. She’d known he desired her, and been glad, yearning for the connection that would bond them as man and wife.

  Deeper regard—love—would come later; not just for him but for them both. But the first step of the journey would be taken through the tempest of passion. They would cling together, and he’d feel the shelter of her arms.

  At first, baring herself to him, she’d worried that he’d hurt her. He was sizeable in all things—not just his hammer arm—and she’d given no other man her favour since Galan’s death.

  In fact, Magnus’s touch had quickly aroused her, ensuring the slickness needed to ease their union. Her gasps had been not of fright nor pain, but of pleasure, and she’d readily raised her hips to take him deeper. What she might have offered through duty alone, she gave gladly.

  She surmised that it had been long since he’d enjoyed a woman, for the coupling was no sooner begun than ended. How many thrusts had he managed? Three, mayhap four?

  A disappointment, yes, but such things happened.

  It was his manner afterwards that had torn her asunder—as if he were ashamed and regretful. Barely had he taken his release before he’d risen from her side. Not a single endearment had he whispered. No matter whether she understood, the tone of his voice would have told her what she needed to know.

  There had been no tender caress. He’d simply rolled away, without a word, without looking back.

  This much she meant to him—a body to be taken at his convenience, then disregarded.

  If this Norseman had a heart, it beat behind cold walls of stone.

  12

  Modwen bid the children sit and ladled out their porridge. Dagmal, Magnus called it. He’d already collected his portion, taking it to eat in the forge. He didn’t seem inclined to share her table, nor anything more intimate.

  Bearing his rejection was humiliating but, in other ways, she couldn’t fault him. Their trenchers were always full, since Magnus’s skills were bartered for meat and fish. Taran and Alpia still scavenged the shoreline for limpets and crab, and the seaweed that was good in stew, but more from habit than necessity.

  Thanks to the Norsemen, Achnaryrie’s grain stores had been replenished—with rye and barley purchased from other settlements along the coastline in exchange for luxuries on their boats. There was even talk of buying beehives, for honeycomb and to make candles—though Modwen could see nothing wrong with using fish oil for their lamps, as they’d always done.

  With their herds of livestock now thriving, Olav was directing the men to build a byre for the cows alongside pens for sheep and goats. She’d given her share of labour, as they all had, collecting larger stones and pebbles from the beach, filling buckets for hauling up the cliffs on rope.

  Taran spent most of his time in the forge. Training, he’d said proudly. No meal gathering went by without him sharing what he’d learned.

  Whatever the Norseman’s feelings for her, he seemed
to harbour no ill-will towards her children.

  “Magnus says he’s going to help me make my own short-handled sword and show me how to wield it,” Taran said, speaking between mouthfuls of creamy oats. “A scabbard, too.”

  Alpia pouted. “I could do that, couldn’t I, Mother? I’m almost as big as Taran.” She sucked thoughtfully on her spoon. “Although, mayhap I could make something small, that doesn’t need so much of the hammer.” Her face lit. “A brooch!”

  Modwen smoothed her daughter’s hair. It was hardly for her to say, but Magnus had been patient with Alpia, letting her watch as he worked. “When he’s less busy, you might ask,” she allowed.

  Taran eyed his sister. “I don’t suppose you even know what’s inside a scabbard.”

  “I do! It’s made from leather.”

  “Only on the outside.” Taran scraped the last of the oats from his bowl. “You put fleece next to the blade, to keep it from rusting, wrapped round in wood. See how much I know, and you don’t!”

  Alpia bit her lip and said nothing, but looked as if she might cry.

  “Of course, I’m learning the Norse, as well,” Taran said. “I’ve got to know the words, Magnus says.”

  “We’re all learning, aren’t we,” Modwen chided.

  “Yes.” Alpia brightened. “Alarik says I pronounce the words just like a Norske girl.”

  Taran shrugged and stood. “Magnus and I are going into the forest today, to find wood for axe handles.” He looked expectantly at Modwen. “We need grease to put on them afterwards—flot, it’s called.” He gave Alpia a sidelong glance, to make sure she’d heard him using the Norse. “You can get some, can’t you, Mother? Magnus says goose fat is best, or from a pig.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Modwen smiled indulgently. It made her happy to see Taran so excited. Whatever fear she’d had that he’d resent this Norseman, it had proven unfounded. She only wished Alpia might not feel left out.

  “Take your sister with you.” She gave Taran her most serious expression. “There’s no reason why she can’t help find the right wood and help you in carrying it.”

  Taran grimaced, but Alpia leapt up with a grin.

  “Just make sure you’re no trouble, and do everything Magnus tells you.”

  She managed to give them both a squeeze around the shoulders before they sped off, still bickering.

  Modwen set the bowls aside. Despite their squabbles, the children were content. She wished she could say the same for herself.

  Near a sennight had passed since Magnus had bedded her. Now, he was civil but kept her at arm’s length.

  Each night, upon her pallet, she touched where he had touched, imagining his hands upon her body—his manhood stretching her, sliding into her warmth.

  How could he not want this as she did?

  Something had brought him to her before, and she wished she could recapture it.

  At least Fecir had not bothered her again. Eithne had told the jarl of his assault, and Brandr had bade him stay away. What punishment there would be if he did not, she couldn’t say, but Fecir had kept his distance. She was satisfied to leave it at that.

  Now, goose fat!

  Modwen wracked her memory. Myrna would have some. Hadn’t she given a salve of birch bark oil mixed with goose fat this past winter, when the children had taken unwell? Modwen had smeared it on their chests, and it had done much to relieve the coughing.

  She knew where Myrna might be. As their most experienced healer, she changed the jarl’s wound dressing every morning, and that of his brother.

  Modwen looked about her for the narrow strips of cloth she’d woven with Alpia, showing her trickier formations on the little handloom before letting her try on the large frame. They’d make attractive bands to wear around the head, or to sew onto the yoke of a tunic. She’d take some for Myrna.

  Outside, the weather was fine again. Another good day for the men to fish and hunt, or to continue their planting of the meadows.

  As Modwen passed the forge, she couldn’t resist peeking in. Magnus had left one of the double doors open wide. There was no need to lock anything away, since no thievery would go undetected. Besides which, these Norsemen seemed to have a strict code of honour. Whatever she thought of their marauding ways, she couldn’t deny the strength of their brotherhood. Even Magnus, who chose his own company above that of others, was greeted heartily by his fellow Vikings.

  Modwen had avoided the forge, yet it was the place where her husband slept and ate and spent all his time.

  A compulsion came over her to enter.

  Just for a few moments, and I shan’t touch anything.

  Inside, it was warm, the furnace embers still glowing.

  It was evident he’d been busy. Smooth arrowheads lay piled on the earthen shelves, and a selection of farming tools besides. Some were in designs she’d not seen before—forks with thick prongs and shovelling blades of deep curvature. It gave her some pride, knowing they were his handiwork.

  In the far corner was a straw-stuffed mattress, topped with the blanket he’d asked of her. There was also a pillow, which was not of her giving. Kneeling, she set aside her resolution and brought it to her nose.

  It was feather-filled and smelt of him—leather and perspiration.

  She placed her cheek where his had been and wondered who’d given it to him. She might have done so herself but had been reluctant to make his sleeping arrangements more comfortable than the alternative—her own bed.

  Has he found another woman already, and she’s given him this?

  Heat flashed through her at the thought. She’d share her husband with nobody! She tossed the pillow down, almost hoping it might burst a little and let some feathers flutter out.

  When it didn’t, she made everything neat again and gave a deep sigh.

  Whatever trouble kept him from her bed, she didn’t think it came in female form.

  Still, a twinge of jealousy remained, for someone had given him what it was her duty to provide.

  Enough.

  She rose to her feet.

  I shouldn’t be here.

  The door banged, and it grew suddenly darker. The wind must have swung it shut. Light filtered in from a hole in the turfed roof, through which the furnace smoke rose, and the embers cast their own glow, but the farther reaches of the room were shadowy. The forge had no windows.

  Moving forward, Modwen hit her toe on the large, upturned log upon which the anvil sat.

  Damnation!

  She rubbed her foot and resolved to stand still a few moments to let her eyes adjust. Patience was a virtue, as Father Godfrey liked to remind them.

  It didn’t take long. Soon, she was able to make out Magnus’s tools, laid out nearby. Tracing the edge of the workbench, she groped towards the centre of the room but paused halfway.

  What was that?

  She strained to listen.

  A mouse?

  There had been a shuffling sound.

  She squinted, trying to see through the various shades of grey. It was quiet again, but something had moved, she was certain.

  A hard pounding began in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Through the thickness of the dark, there was a sour smell—of unwashed sweat and old herring.

  “Who’s there?” Her voice was eaten, and no answer came.

  From above, there was a sudden scuttering and flapping—a bird or a bat, caught under the timbers. With a start, Modwen rushed forward, no longer caring whether she bumped into anything, just wanting to get outside.

  She cursed again as her hip banged an unseen corner, then yelped, running into another obstacle. Its face was pale, and its teeth yellow. Two arms came tight around her.

  13

  Before Modwen could scream, he clamped his fingers over her mouth. She struggled, and he pressed harder, pushing her head so violently that she feared her neck would snap.

  She wanted to yell, but her throat was drawn back so tightly she could barely breathe.

&nb
sp; As dim as the room had been, it was growing dimmer.

  “No Norse bastard to save you now.” The voice was sneering. “No one here at all.” He bent her back farther. “You won’t be so high and mighty when I’ve finished with you.”

  Again, she tried to twist away, but the side of his hand crushed her nose.

  If he doesn’t stop, I won’t be able to…

  She went limp.

  Flailing one arm, she prayed that she’d alight on something—anything! All those tools, but she couldn’t reach them.

  Instead, she pushed at him, but he was unyielding. Whatever strength he had was concentrated in this moment.

  I’m going to…

  Something inside her slipped.

  She was having trouble thinking, and there was a horrible taste in her mouth. One of his fingers had worked between her lips. Herring, most definitely, and something else—pungent.

  Her teeth grazed his skin.

  Bite him!

  She didn’t know if she could remember how, or make it happen.

  It’s a carrot, she thought, and then wanted to laugh.

  As she brought her jaws down hard, he shrieked.

  A hard, stinging blow hit her across the cheek, sending her to her knees. Gasping for air, she didn’t understand why she was on the floor.

  And then he kicked her—hard, in the ribs.

  “Vicious bitch!” He aimed his foot again and caught her on the shoulder.

  Crawl away, where he won’t find me.

  Was it darker down here than it had been when she’d been standing? He must have been able to see her, for he landed another boot, this time to her thigh, and she yelped.

  I won’t let him.

  I won’t!

  She kept crawling, but he was behind her.

  “I’ll kick out your teeth.” His voice was a snarl.

  She was going to be sick, or stop breathing. Terror and nausea fought inside her.

  And then she found the edge of something with her hands. She was back almost where she’d begun, next to the anvil.