a Wicked Conquest

by Valerie Saxon

  Sigurd smiled cynically. ‘A grave misconception on your part, Gunnar.’

  ‘Then you are a snake, Sigurd Thorkelsson, and I demand satisfaction!’

  Chapter Nine

  Sigurd’s men and Gunnar’s men eyed one another warily, and some of Sigurd’s men stepped forward in order to protect their chieftain.

  Rowena, annoyed at her husband’s perfidy that heaped more embarrassment on her, and longing to see her sweetheart, peered anxiously at the warriors in the fire-hall. Where was Leif?

  Sigurd sighed and, taking a frothing horn of ale from a thrall, quenched his thirst. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, his expression bored, he nodded. ‘As you wish. Name the time and place.’

  ‘What better time than the present? I have need to settle the matter before I can rest another night in my bed.’

  Sigurd nodded his agreement. ‘So be it. But we have journeyed far and need to freshen ourselves beforehand.’

  ‘This is true,’ said Gunner solemnly, and at Rowena’s beckoning thralls brought water and towels.

  Rowena was insulted. Her husband should be fighting over her, not another woman, but if only Leif was there she would not mind so much.

  Sigurd threw some water over his face and neck before scrubbing himself dry again. A little way away Gunnar was doing the same. The tension in the hall was fearful, but Sigurd seemed completely unaware of it.

  Rowena went up to him. ‘Is this wise, husband?’

  He smirked. ‘What troubles you, wife? Don’t tell me you’re bleating in fear over me.’

  ‘I don’t like bloodshed,’ she averred swiftly, not wanting him to think she cared what he did. ‘Especially when it is over a trollop who should have known better.’

  ‘‘Tis not her fault. After all, am I not irresistible?’

  ‘Some might think so,’ she said tartly, about to walk away when he grabbed her hand. He dragged her close and she was able to feel his erection through his breeches, as strong and upright as an oak. Her sex throbbed. She loved Leif, but her husband was mighty hard to resist sometimes.

  She decided to encourage him for once. She had to put him in a good mood in order to find out Leif’s whereabouts, so smiling into his eyes, she said, ‘You tempt me, Sigurd.’ He looked pleased and she patted his damp beard with a towel, hoping to seem wifely and caring.

  He made a growling sound in his throat. ‘Carry on like that and I’ll pierce your cunny right here in front of everyone.’

  Rowena hastily withdrew. ‘What of Leif?’ she asked, as casually as she could. ‘I have not seen him since you arrived.’

  He quaffed his ale thirstily. ‘He’s been called home. His father is very ill.’

  Rowena felt as though she’d been struck; Leif was the only good thing that had happened to her since her marriage, and even he had been taken from her.

  She took a quick sip of mead, fighting to regain her equilibrium. Freyjr continued to glower at her and she longed to tell her she was more than welcome to her husband, she was not the only one who thought she had prior claim to him. However, the situation was dire and did not need any encouragement.

  The hall began to empty as people gathered outside, and soon the principals of the drama followed. Rowena saw that a cloak with loops at the corners was being laid down on the ground, and she wondered at its purpose.

  ‘There are specific rules laid down for duelling,’ said Gunnhild over her shoulder, Maeve having been sucked into the crowd. ‘The cloak has to be five ells square, and as you can see, the men are now fastening it with pegs through the loops. The law says that three borders, or furrows, each a foot in breadth, must surround the cloak, and at the edge they will soon hammer four poles of hazel wood.

  ‘Will thy fight to the death?’ Rowena’s eyes wandered fearfully to the sharp blades the men would use.

  Gunnhild shrugged her shoulders. ‘Who can say? There’s nothing usual about this duel. They almost always take place on an islet in the River Oxara. But as you saw, Gunnar is eager for blood.’

  ‘What do you think will happen?’

  Gunnhild took a deep, sobering breath. ‘Satisfaction is usually gained by the drawing of first blood, but I fear tempers are running high.’

  ‘Sigurd doesn’t look upset.’

  ‘He rarely shows his feelings. He’s a brave and proud man.’

  It seemed to be a common fault among the Norse, for although Gunnhild tried to act calm for Rowena’s sake, the tremor in her voice gave her away.

  Each contestant chose a second. Rig was Sigurd’s, and just before he entered the four poles Sigurd gave her a cheeky wink, and she marvelled at his composure.

  The fight commenced, and Rowena wondered what would become of her if her husband were killed. Would she be allowed to return to her family? The thought of being reunited with her mother brought tears to her eyes.

  The fight was more interesting to her now, and Gunnhild began to explain the rest of the rules to her. ‘See, each contestant has three shields,’ she said, pointing. ‘If these are destroyed the man must defend himself with his sword alone. Sigurd was the one challenged so he had first blow.’

  Rowena was only half-listening; Sigurd’s bravery was a great aphrodisiac and she was ashamed when her baser instincts began to intervene. ‘If one is wounded will they stop the fight?’ she muttered.

  ‘If one is wounded, so that blood pours onto the cloak, the fight should be stopped. But who knows what the outcome will be?’

  Rowena wrapped her arms around her waist, wishing for once that they were Sigurd’s arms. She craved him at that moment, and wondered at the complexity of her nature that had brought this about.

  The fighting was fierce and demanding. Their shields parried each blow and Rowena considered how tiring it must be to wield such heavy weapons. She surmised the men to be of similar age, but it was obvious that Sigurd was far more agile despite his size. The crowd gasped as Gunnar aimed a blow to Sigurd’s legs, but they need not have feared for Sigurd leapt back and the sword swiped harmlessly at the air.

  ‘He’s a fine swordsman.’ Algitha had sidled up to Rowena. ‘You can see why he’s much sought after by the women of Iceland.’ She giggled softly. ‘Your eyes are fair eating him up. Is your cunny pounding as fast as your husband’s feet? And look, Gunnar is beginning to tire.’

  Rowena nodded. ‘I’m a disgrace, but I can’t help it.’

  Algitha’s eyes slanted knowingly. ‘Most of these so-called ladies, watching Sigurd, are thinking along similar lines. They’re dreaming of him whipping their pussies with that gleaming sword. And when they are wet enough they imagine him plunging into their feminine folds with his own thick weapon.’

  Rowena’s hands flew to her private place, crushing her kirtle beneath her fingers. ‘Hush, Algitha, you are making me wet myself with desire.’

  Sigurd snapped Gunnar’s shield with a mighty blow from his sword, and Freyjr screamed. Gunnar was given another and the battle commenced.

  Rowena was battling within herself; if Sigurd lost she would be free, but memories of his muscular body, his masterful lust, made her tremble with wanting him.

  When it looked as though Sigurd would easily be the victor his own shield was knocked from his hand, and the ladies of the shieling cried out in horror when he refused another. Instead he wiped the sweat from his brow and took his sword in both hands, a sly grin on his face.

  Rowena was full of admiration. ‘He’s taking a chance.’

  Gunnhild threw a worried glance at Rig, who had stationed himself opposite, but he was watching his chieftain so closely she failed to get any reassurance from that quarter. She patted Rowena’s arm. ‘He knows what he’s about, never fear. Without his shield he can deal heavier blows. Sometimes it’s just an encumbrance.’

  The crowd was more excited now, but Rowena was still undecided about the outcome of the bat
tle. At least Gunnar had the protection of his shield, if Sigurd should become a little sluggish in his actions Gunnar could well deal him a deathblow. She happened to glance at Rig and, judging by the tightness of his jaw, she guessed that their thoughts were running along the same lines.

  The crowd gasped when Gunnar’s sword sliced into Sigurd’s mail coat, but they let out a cry of relief to see he was unharmed. Gunnar had only managed to get near enough to nick his mail. Sigurd attacked swiftly. Gunnar was slow to react and Sigurd’s sword sliced into his arm.

  For a moment Rowena felt faint, thinking the arm to be severed. Then with great relief she saw it was not. Gunnar was on his knees holding his badly injured arm and Sigurd stood over him, his face grim. The crowd was hushed and his voice rose clearly above it.

  ‘You gave me a good fight, Gunnar. But be sure if there is a next time I will not pull back. It will be a fight to the death.’

  His men, who Rowena knew would tend to his wound, surrounded Gunnar. Sigurd stalked out of the area and made for the fire-hall, and Rowena was actually full of admiration for the brave warrior she’d been forced to wed, and was about to follow in his wake when Freyjr confronted her.

  ‘Do not think this the end of the matter, Saxon,’ she spat in a heavily accented voice. ‘We Norse have long memories.’ Then turning, and not bothering to go to her brother’s aid, she marched off in the direction of the stables.

  There was much rejoicing in the fire-hall, but when Rowena sat next to her husband he viewed her with scepticism. ‘Are you disappointed, wife? Did you think to see me carried off the cloak like dead meat?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  He laughed mirthlessly. ‘You are very predictable, Rowena.’

  She changed the subject. ‘How was your journey?’

  He waved airily at the varied pile of goods his men had placed in the fire-hall. ‘As you can see, I traded well with visiting ships. There are good wines from Norway, and from Russia fine furs, wax and honey. You are unused to our winters and will be grateful for the furs come the cold spell.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall.’ She nodded her thanks, aware that he would have traded woollens, seal oil, ivory and fats in return.

  Much praise came his way on all sides, but in his own inimitable way he was quite unmoved by any of it. He nibbled on some oatcakes and drank from his horn as if it was any other day in the shieling.

  Rowena wondered if she should not give Maeve and Freyjr a run for their money, after all, if she flattered him instead of showing her hatred she might receive a little kindness in return, which would make her life easier until Leif returned for her, which she prayed he would.

  Tentatively she put a hand on his thigh, trembling at the muscles that played beneath the skin. ‘You’re the object of every woman’s fantasy this day.’

  His eyes slanted playfully. ‘I take it you include yourself in that scenario.’

  She nodded slyly. ‘Aye, husband. You are a fine figure of a man. I must admit my heart beat fast when I watched you fight Gunnar.’

  For a moment she thought she spied a touch of something akin to tenderness in his eyes, but almost as soon as it came, it vanished. ‘Your heart is of no interest to me,’ he said with a nasty smirk. ‘I am more interested in what lies between your legs.’

  She longed to slap his haughty face, but she would not give in so easily. Her hand wandered up his thigh to the hard proof of his words. ‘I have been dying with want of you, husband.’

  His warrior’s hand slid beneath her skirts and into her cleft. ‘Have you missed me, Rowena?’

  He began to part her labia and to delve into the warm core of her. She caught her breath and massaged his erection through his breeches. ‘Aye, sire,’ she said, realising that she had indeed missed the calloused pressure of his hands on her skin, the pleasure of his perverse lovemaking.

  ‘Then you will be ready to do my bidding, will you not?’

  Thinking it was what he wanted, she reached inside his breeches and took out his hard weapon, running her fingers down the strong length of it. ‘I am ready to do anything that will please you,’ she replied, closing her eyes as his thumb made whorls around her clitoris and two of his fingers made like a cock inside her vagina. She reached her crisis quickly and smiled to herself; she was right after all, the Eagle appeared to enjoy her flattery.

  But his next words sent any notions of taming him up in flames. ‘Enough of this foolish play. On your knees, bitch, where you belong.’

  Not caring who saw, he spread a hand on her head and forced her beneath the table and between his thighs. ‘Feed on that, wife. I have neglected you and wish to make amends.’

  His words echoed around the fire-hall and Rowena’s face flamed as she took him between her lips. Though she longed to stab him with the knife that lay on her trencher, she forced herself to nuzzle him gently, inhaling the mix of sweat and man. She eased her tongue against the tip of that salty shaft, pretending she was pleasuring Leif, knowing that if she were this would be better than any delicacy she had ever tasted before. She cupped his balls with both hands and scratched the taught skin of his scrotum. A sigh escaped his lips and she smiled triumphantly; so she did have a little power over him.

  She used her hands to slide up the slippery shaft, working the tip with her tongue. It grew even harder, so large and silky smooth; it was a joy on her palate. She sucked and caressed until he shot his seed into her mouth, and still in her fantasy she swallowed, enjoying the sensuality of the act.

  Sigurd grunted his satisfaction and she was able to slip back into her seat, embarrassed and ashamed at the way she had been treated in front of all and sundry. The only way she could reconcile herself to sit next to him was to begin another fantasy, one where she plunged her knife deep into his heart.

  He raised his horn and drank deeply. ‘Come, wench, I am inclined to give you a little present.’

  She eyed him cynically. ‘A present, husband? How kind you are.’

  He laughed loud and long and many turned to see what had amused their chieftain. ‘You enjoy discipline more than any other woman I have ever met. Admit it, Rowena. You enjoy being mastered, don’t you?’

  She looked up at him from beneath the red-gold of her lashes, her green eyes clear. ‘I enjoy nothing you have or ever will do to me.’

  Sigurd smiled. ‘One day you will admit that you are not happy until your bottom cheeks are as red as your hair.’

  Rowena snorted. ‘You have a long wait.’

  Nothing seemed to faze him after his defeat. He hauled her to her feet. ‘Deny it as much as you like. I know your cunny’s hot and ready for me any time I wish to take you. Now I must make up for the time we were separated.’

  Leaving the table he bid her follow, and it was an extremely nervous Rowena who traipsed behind the warrior and away from the turf-covered shieling, and the goats that grazed on the roof.

  He led her to a locked building just over the rise, guarded by one of the ferocious looking berserks. Taking a large key from his belt, Sigurd opened the door and went inside, and Rowena’s eyes took a little time to acclimatise to the strange contours of the room after the bright sunshine that bathed the fields.

  Many sweet smelling candles illuminated two dusky women, seated on some of the silk cushions that ran around the sides of the room, attending to their embroidery. Their reflections were thrown back at them from highly polished metal mirrors that decorated the walls at intervals, rather like shiny shields. They smiled their pleasure at Sigurd’s entry, and one found a drinking horn and filled it with mead.

  He took the horn readily, throwing a sly glance at Rowena. ‘These two wonderful species of womankind are another of my acquisitions from my journey to the coast. They were taken from a faraway country where women are taught how to please their men and each other. Jasmine, Usta, this is Rowena. I have brought her here to learn the art of Sapph
ic sex, so that I may take pleasure from the performance.’

  Rowena backed away from her husband. What she did with Algitha in the privacy of her bedchamber was one thing, having two strange women touch her with her husband watching was another – one she did not relish one little bit! She shook her head violently. ‘Do not make me do this thing, Sigurd.’

  He chuckled. ‘‘Tis too late, wife. My lust is up and I’ll not be disappointed. I bought these beauties for my men to enjoy. And their knowledge and wisdom of sensuality will help you understand and learn all they have to impart.’

  Rowena shrank back against the wall, horrified by his words. The woman called Jasmine got to her feet and Rowena gasped. The woman’s dark skin was so unusual to her she was unable to take her eyes away. She was tall and majestic in her dignity, her slim curves a foil for her companion’s riper ones. Raven hair waved all the way down to her tiny waist, and her body was clothed in a green gauzy fabric that fluttered around her naked curves as though she had nothing on.

  Sigurd fondled her body through the thin fabric and Rowena was both jealous and turned on at the same time. ‘Do you like what you see, wife?’

  ‘She is very beautiful.’

  The other woman rose from her cushion and Rowena took a swift breath, for she was every bit as lovely as her companion, though far more curvaceous. She was clad in bright red, and the translucent garment showed every generous inch of her, including her shaven mound. Her red-brown hair waved to her shoulders, cascaded over her breasts. Sigurd pushed the tresses from them so he was able to view her better. She leaned into him and he kissed her upraised lips and cupped a lovely breast.

  ‘See, Rowena, Jasmine has shaved her mound and so has Usta. Don’t you think their cunnies look pretty, their plump labia lips like ripe plums?’

  His teasing tone repelled her and she felt her face heat. She didn’t want to look at the gorgeous creatures; their nakedness embarrassed her. But she couldn’t help taking a peep. She had never seen anything like them before, and a jolt of desire churned her stomach.