His hand went down to her flat belly, feeling her thinness, her still prominent pelvic bones, but not caring, for she was alive and that was all that mattered. His hand went lower until he was touching her woman’s flesh lightly with his fingertips, and to his immense delight, she shuddered. She wanted him, he knew it, and she trusted him, at least in this, the giving of her body to him.
His hand trembled. He looked at her soft flesh, knew he wanted to taste her, but also realized in that moment that it would probably shock her, and the last thing he wanted to do now was make her retreat from him. He couldn’t have borne that.
He closed his eyes, refusing to look at that thin body that was quivering for him, just for him. His mouth closed over her nipple and she lurched up, giving him more of herself, and her hands were wild on his back, his shoulders, his buttocks. She was encouraging him, not really knowing how to, and her ignorance was more exciting than any woman of more experience he’d ever enjoyed. His mouth was on her belly, then lower, and he didn’t care if she was shocked, or frightened, he had to taste her, explore her, feel all of her with his fingers, with his mouth.
He pulled her legs wide apart, settling himself between them. He didn’t want to look at her, but he had to, drawing her apart with his fingers, and then he caressed her with his fingers, his mouth.
She was stiff and still. Then, suddenly, she screamed with the power of it.
Quickly, he slammed his hand over her mouth, still fondling her as he did so, and she was twisting her head, nearly beside herself now, and he knew he couldn’t wait another instant, another minute, for he would spill his seed on her belly, and by all the gods, he wanted to be deep inside her, have her holding him within her when he reached his release.
He shoved hard into her. He felt the tearing pain, for it was difficult to get into her, she was small, her flesh loosening and dampening, but it wasn’t enough, and he’d known she wasn’t completely ready for him, but he didn’t stop, just kept pushing harder and harder still, until finally, with a deep groan, he burst through her maidenhead. He lowered his mouth over her just in time to catch her cry of pain, for he knew that if Erik heard her cry of pain he would know it had all been a pretense, at least until this night, until this moment. Merrik filled her with himself, touching her womb, pausing just a moment, because the power of it was making him shake and moan. He wanted to pull back, to caress her again with his mouth, but he knew he couldn’t. He moaned, tensing, lurching more deeply into her. He pulled back, then drove forward, then once again. It took no more than that, just one final time and he felt his seed hot against her womb.
His heart was pounding madly, and he wondered if he was going to die with the impact of the release he’d just had. He thought to pull out of her, for he knew he was still causing her pain, but her arms closed tightly around his back and she held him tightly against her. He pulled her onto her side, facing him, still inside her, though not so deep now, but it didn’t matter, he could feel the beating of her heart, the heat of her. He kissed her slack mouth, stroked her eyebrows, and smoothed her hair from her forehead. “I’m sorry for your pain,” he said against her mouth. “It was your maidenhead. I had to get through it.”
“You did,” she said. “You did.”
He’d not given her much pleasure, he thought, but there’d been some, before he’d come so urgently and deeply into her, and lost his reason. “Now, you have had me, Laren, but you didn’t find the pleasure in our coupling that I did, and I am sorry for it. If there is to be no more between us after this night, then I must take you again, after you’ve rested, and show you what it is like between a man and a woman.”
She said nothing. She was held tightly against him, and he wasn’t inside her now, but he was so close, the scent of his warm flesh against her mouth, and she said, “I would like that except I hurt very badly, Merrik. And I’m bleeding. Will it all stop soon?”
He said nothing, merely pulled away from her, rose from the bed, and left the chamber, uncaring that he was naked.
It didn’t matter in any case, for only a soft haze of smoke lit the outer room and no one was awake. He fetched an oil lamp and brought it back into the sleeping chamber.
He cursed as he held the lamp close to look at her, then said, “Hold still. I will see how badly I hurt you.”
He looked up into her face then and saw not only her pain there, but confusion as well. Her blue-gray eyes looking nearly black in the light. There was a light sheen of sweat on her forehead. He said more sharply than he liked, “Don’t look so lost. You will be all right, mating doesn’t kill a woman, Laren, and it certainly won’t hurt you the next time.”
“This is something I wanted so very much, a mystery I wanted more than anything to solve with you—aye, and I solved it—but the solution to it is not what I expected. I know all this bleeding doesn’t mean I will die, for you wouldn’t slake your passion if you knew it could kill me. But it does hurt a lot more than I would like, and that is a surprise and a disappointment.”
That was straight speaking, he thought, silent for the moment. The blood was trickling down her thighs, the flow slowed now, but she couldn’t know that, and it was pooling on the blanket beneath her. He looked down at himself for just an instant, and saw her blood there, her blood and his seed. He drew a deep breath, and said, “It isn’t bad. Now, hold still.” She felt the wet of a soft cloth against her, cleaning her. Then he pressed the cloth firmly against her.
She looked away from him, from the intent look on his face as he tended to her. She had no idea what he was thinking, what he was feeling. She said, “I felt such strange things when you looked at me, when you touched me. When you kissed me, when I felt your tongue in my mouth, and on my body, I felt as if a small part of the world would be mine and everything would be well and good.” Suddenly she gasped and tried to pull away from him. He flattened his palm on her belly, holding her still.
“Don’t move,” he said, and wrapped the wet cloth more securely around his finger and eased it again into her to see if he’d rent her. “No, keep still, don’t tighten your body so. Try to let yourself ease. I’ll be through soon.”
She was silent, stiff, and he knew he was hurting her, but he tried, by all the gods, he tried to be gentle. He wished his damned finger were smaller, but it wasn’t.
He eased his finger out of her, relieved that the flow of blood was nearly stopped, then rinsed out the cloth. He sat beside her on the bed, folded the cloth, then pressed it against her and held it there. He looked up at her face. She was pale, her eyes swollen from crying, her hair tangled about her face.
She’d wanted him; she’d offered herself to him.
And he’d done his best, surely he had, but still, he’d come into her before he’d brought her to a woman’s pleasure. He remembered her scream when he’d closed his mouth over her. By all the gods, to make a woman feel like this. He shuddered with the power that memory brought him. He said, “You will be all right. I do not think I would come inside you again this night. But again, Laren, perhaps tomorrow or the next day when you’re healed again.”
She opened her eyes, and looked at him, never once letting her eyes fall below his face.
He said again, “I’m sorry.”
“Why would you be sorry? I was the one who demanded that you do those things to me. You have been naught but honorable and kind to me. You did nothing that any other man does not do. It is my fault. I have nothing to cover me and I feel ashamed, for I am ugly and bony and I know it and I don’t wish to have you staring at me. Could you cover me, Merrik?”
He covered her and his hand as well, for he still kept the cloth pressed firmly against her.
“You’re not ugly,” he said. “Stop saying that you are.”
She smiled at him. She raised her hand to touch his face, then dropped it.
He wished she had touched him, was still touching him. “There,” he said, looking away, “the bleeding has stopped. Do you still hurt?”
Sh
e nodded, not looking at him.
“You will be fine tomorrow,” he said and rose. He stretched, then tossed the blood-dampened cloth into the soapstone bowl of water. When he came into the bed again, he said nothing more, merely drew her to him, and pressed her face down upon his shoulder. “No,” he said, “don’t move. I like you there.”
“I do too,” she said, unable at that moment not to speak the truth. His arm tightened around her back, then immediately loosened and she knew he was thinking about her back and the still tender welts. She wanted to tell him that she would rather have him hold her tightly, regardless of any pain, but she didn’t. She burrowed her face against his chest, drawing in the scent of him, feeling his hair against her cheek, her nose, wanting to taste him.
She knew in that moment that her life had changed irrevocably. To have him inside her body, to have him hold her against him, had changed everything. What she’d been destined for meant nothing now. Only he was important now.
And Taby. What of her little brother? She had to try to set things aright for him. She closed her eyes, willing blankness to come but she couldn’t close out the enormity of what lay just beyond the sleeping chamber. Her fingers clenched, and he grunted when she pulled the hair on his chest.
Forty silver pieces and two silver armlets. By all the gods, she’d much rather know that she could trust him. With her. With Taby.
The night was chill, the stars brilliant overhead. There was a half moon. Laren slowly turned back to the longhouse. She’d felt a very strong urge to simply walk through those palisade gates and keep walking, forever, for there were no solutions for her here, none.
She winced, remembering how Erik had stopped her early that afternoon, in plain sight of his wife and many of his men. He’d forced her face upward, cupping her chin in his palm, his touch hard, hurting her. He’d said, “Megot told me there was blood on the blanket in Merrik’s sleeping chamber. And blood on a cloth and coloring the water in a bowl. So you didn’t lie to me. It is your monthly flow and yet he took you anyway, my fastidious brother.” He’d released her, and said over his shoulder, “You’re still as skinny as a hen at winter solstice, so Merrik should tire of you soon. Then you will come to me. Then I will have you.”
She shivered, not from the chill breeze blowing up from the fjord, but from his words. She was afraid of him, very afraid. And angry as well. Sarla knew what he did, and he didn’t care.
He was very different from Merrik. At least Merrik would never raise his hand to her or to any one of his people. She didn’t doubt that he could be violent and ruthless, that he could kill swiftly with no remorse, that an enemy would know no mercy at his hands, but he wouldn’t inflict pain on someone weaker than he, someone in his care.
She walked slowly back to the longhouse. The huge doors were open and she saw all the men, women, and children inside, heard at least ten different conversations, the laughter, the arguments, saw two men fighting. But she didn’t see Merrik. And she looked for him, she always looked for him, not feeling right until she’d found him. She’d seen little of him the entire day. He’d worked in the fields until it was nearly dark, then gone into the bathing hut with several of his men, laughing, jesting, punching each other. He’d seemed entirely untouched to her eyes, and it hurt her. The previous night had meant nothing to him. What had she expected? She was the one responsible for her own feelings, her own actions, not he.
She hadn’t offered to cook the meal and Sarla hadn’t asked her to. She’d sensed that something was wrong, but she’d said nothing, merely patted Laren’s arm. With all the people here, Laren did help serve the dinner and she worked hard until it was done. Then she’d left the longhouse. Now here she was dithering about, and she hated herself for it. She squared her shoulders and walked inside. No one noticed her, even Taby who was howling with laughter as Kenna taught him some wrestling tricks. Now, she helped herself to some venison, and some cabbage stewed with peas and apples. It was a strange combination, but tasty.
She’d eaten only a few bites when Erik called out, “Come here, girl, for all of us wish another tale.”
Another story. She looked around at all the eager faces. The men seemed as eager as the women, and the children were already beginning to crowd around her, Taby standing beside her, holding her skirt in one of his small fists.
She’d thought of this on and off all day long. Aye, she had a story and she prayed it would show her what to do. She looked at the Thoragassons, and they, too, looked eager, all except for Letta, who looked sullen. Letta was also staring at Merrik, who had called Taby to him and was now lifting him on his legs, tickling him and smiling when he squirmed and giggled. There was deep, very deep anger in Letta’s eyes.
Laren smiled at all of them in turn, including Letta.
13
SHE’D SURVIVED ON her wits for two long years. Aye, her wits, and great doses of sheer luck, and that luck had almost run out by the time she’d met Merrik. She wouldn’t fail now, she couldn’t, it was simply too important. Everything hung in the balance now. She thought of her forty silver pieces, her two armlets, and knew they would make no difference to anything. She motioned the children to sit around her in a circle. She wanted to speak quickly, to get it over with, but she knew it was wise to begin slowly, for it gained everyone’s attention and held them whilst she built her story, like a house. “I will tell you about Rolf the Viking who lived a long time ago here in Norway. He was proud and strong and fearless, a warrior of rare mettle, as are most of the men in Norway. Rolf was young, a man in his prime, and as handsome of mien as he was powerful of body.
“He had two brothers, both strong, both handsome, both ambitious. They were all in their prime, all as handsome of mien as they were powerful of body. Rolf was the eldest and he went araiding for the sheer joy of battle and he added to his wealth as the summers went by. Radnor, the second son, was a trader and he voyaged far and wide with his goods. He was wily and more quick-witted than an Arab in a bazaar. He became quickly as rich as Rolf. The youngest son was Ingor, a farmer. His farmstead prospered, for he had a magic way with crops and he, too, grew richer with each passing season.
“Rolf came home from raiding along the mighty Seine River. He brought with him twelve slaves, six men and six women, all of them captured from the three small villages having the misfortune to sit too close to the river.
“One of the male slaves was a man as proud and strong as were the Viking warriors who had managed to capture him. He’d been unlucky and the warriors knew it. He’d been ill and still he’d fought them until he’d collapsed with the wounds and the illness within his body. He was dressed more finely than the others captured, and all the warriors knew that as well. But whoever he was, what his real name was, none knew and he wouldn’t say anything. He was also a man with talent—in short, he was a runemaster—but more than that, he was a scion of a proud family that had much wealth and power in that region of France. He’d just chanced to be in the village that fateful day because he was visiting an artisan from whom he wished to learn new methods to perfect his skill.
“But now he was a slave, just like the others. Rolf knew value when he saw it and kept him close. He made the man his runemaster and was astonished with the beautiful carvings the man accomplished along with his fashioning of magnificent writ. Visitors heard of the runemaster and visited Rolf from far and wide. Radnor, the second brother, tried to buy the slave from his brother, but Rolf refused.
“Ah, but the silver the slave gained from the visitors who came to Rolf’s longhouse. He carved them magnificent chair posts, intricate designs on jewelry and on jewel boxes. He became renowned. Soon, he had as much silver as he thought he needed to buy himself from Rolf and thus regain his freedom.
“He offered all his silver to Rolf, but Rolf refused. He allowed the slave to keep all his silver, but he said he wouldn’t sell him. He told the slave he admired him, he wanted him to be content in his new home, in his new land.
“He didn’
t abuse the slave. Some of his men wondered if it was friendship he felt toward the slave or whether he was afraid the slave would gullet him, for he was, as you know already, a valiant fighter and now he was back to his full strength.
“The slave held his peace until finally he could bear it no longer. Rolf assured him that whatever he wished to tell him he would keep in confidence; he vowed it on his honor. The slave wasn’t stupid, but when Rolf told him if the truth meant he might lose him, then so be it. He was to trust him. The slave was still uncertain, but he leapt at the chance of going home. So he told Rolf who he was, told him that his family was powerful and wealthy and he was the heir and he asked Rolf to stand as his friend, as he’d just professed himself to be, and help him regain his proper station in life.
“Rolf clasped the slave to him and told him to trust him, that aye, he was indeed his friend. He told him he would most assuredly assist him to return to his home. Now, the question is, what did Rolf do?”
Laren paused, then looked at Olaf Thoragasson. “My lord,” she said, bowing toward him, “what would you have done were you Rolf?”
Olaf Thoragasson leaned forward in his chair. He looked at his men, at the group of slaves who were clustered near the doors of the longhouse. He said loudly, “I would flay the flesh from the man’s back for such insolence! It means nothing to make a vow to a slave, less than nothing, despite his claims, despite his skills. Aye, Rolf should chain the beggar and let him starve until he declares his allegiance is to Rolf and to no one else!”
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