Eirik: A Time Travel Romance (Mists of Albion Book 1)

by Joanna Bell

  I leave out the part about my parents not beating me or whipping me with tree branches because where I come from, that isn't a normal thing to do.

  "I can tell!" Hildy chuckles. "You walk around here with that constantly surprised look on your face, girl, like you're seeing everything for the first time. That's why some of the others think you're dull. If you're not dull, you'll see what an opportunity you've got with the Jarl. He likes you, you know. He likes you quite a bit. I've never seen him take to one of the captives this quickly – he had you bathed the other night! And I hear he killed a man who meant to rape you. Is it true?"

  Ah, gossip. Hildy is pumping me for info. I didn't mind, anything is better than being beaten and screamed at. "Yes," I tell her as we go back to the stream and get to work filling the pile of empty buckets, handing them off to various other servants who come to carry them back to the cooking pits. "He did."

  "Be smart then, girl. Make him happy, give him what he wants. The Jarl's bed slaves have easy lives compared to the rest of –"

  "His bed slaves?" I ask, figuring I might as well do some digging of my own, and in spite of the fact that the term itself gives me a fairly good idea as to what Hildy is talking about.

  "This is what I speak of," Hildy says, eying me for a second before getting back to the bucket-filling. "The way you act like you've never heard of a thing like a bed slave before! Now I know the Angles do things differently but you never heard of a powerful man taking a woman into his bed? A woman who is not his wife? Your King doesn't do that? His men don't do that?"

  I have no idea what the King's sexual habits are, nor those of his men, so I shake my head.

  "So a Jarl keeps his bed slaves?" I ask. "After he gets married? Is Eir – the Jarl – married?"

  I don't manage to stop myself from uttering his name in time and Hildy's head jerks up, her eyes wide and staring right at me. "Girl!" She hisses. "Don't you ever, ever –"

  "He told me!" I whisper back, desperate not to be smacked again. "He told me his name!"

  At that, Hildy puts down the bucket she's about to fill and sits back on her haunches, studying me the way you study someone you're pretty sure is lying. "He told you?" She asks. "The Jarl told you his name? Did he ask you to use it?"

  I pretend that I'm struggling to remember. "I don't know," I say vaguely, "I'm not sure if –"

  "Because," Hildy cuts me off, "if he did tell you his name then you are in a better position than I thought."

  "What do you mean?" I ask and she scowls at me.

  "What do I mean? What do I mean? Girl, is there a problem with your hearing? Is that it? Because no matter how far away it is you come from, I presume that the men there are men and the women are women?"

  I nod. "Yes."

  "And the men where you come from want the same things that men everywhere want from women? And the women from the men?"

  I nod again and Hildy throws up her arms. "There's not enough time to lead you by the hand, girl. I already told you he likes you. And no, he's a young man yet so he's not seen fit to take himself a wife. When he does, rest assured she'll be one of his own – so don't go getting any ideas about that. But to be a bed slave, especially a favored bed slave, now that is a nice development for any young lady from one of the villages we've taken. I advise you to be smart about it. None of this arguing, no more silly questions, do what he wants you to do. A Jarl has a great responsibility on his shoulders, and he values any that can lighten his burden. A pretty girl like yourself can surely figure out what I speak of when I say that."

  Hildy stops speaking and it takes me a few seconds to realize she's waiting for confirmation. "Oh!" I say. "Yes! I know what you speak of."

  I do know what Hildy speaks of, theoretically. I even know, now, what it is to want that theoretical thing, in a way I did not know before the Jarl brought me into his roundhouse and looked at me the way he looked at me last night, and spoke to me the way he spoke to me. But her pep talk hasn't worked – if anything it's made me even more nervous, more anxious not to screw up.

  I don't want to ruin my chance, and not just because an exotic, alien flower bloomed warm and deep in my belly when I was with the Jarl. I don't want to ruin my chance because the way Hildy is talking it sounds like the 'bed slaves' have a better life than the others. It sounds like they might have better food, and more of it. Better clothes, maybe? Warm blankets at night? And I need to keep my strength up. Above all else, I need to prevent myself from weakening, the way I had always seen Willa and Eadgar as weakened. If I'm to make it down the coast to Caistley again, it won't be with my ribs showing through my skin, or my limbs stiff and creaky from sleeping curled up tight in a ball during the cold winter nights.

  "So it's true."

  I look up, taken out of my thoughts by Hildy's voice.

  "What?"

  "So it's true," she repeats. "You're a maid. One of the women mentioned it this morning, but I didn't believe her. Now I see from the way you are that it's true."

  What does that mean? She can tell from the 'way I am?' But it's Hildy so I don't ask, because that risks annoying her.

  She's being kinder to me now than she's ever been, though. And she seems interested in advising me.

  "Yes," I reply. "I've never been with a man. I'm scared."

  It's true that I'm scared, but I tack that phrase onto the end of my response not to be truthful but hopefully to encourage Hildy to keep talking to me. It hasn't been long but I think I can see that she is one of those people who is much better at being kind to those she perceives as lesser than herself somehow, more pitiable. I've already noticed that she tends to hit the other servants not necessarily for screwing up, but for talking back, for defiance.

  It works. Hildy's expression softens instantly. "Oh, girl," she says, actually reaching out and patting my knee – a touch that it takes all of my self-control not to flinch away from. "You'll know what to do. Our bodies know, even if our minds don't. A woman is born knowing how to please a man, but she doesn't always realize it."

  "Oh," I nod seriously, giving no sign that the lack of detail is unhelpful and wholly annoying. I'll just know what to do? Great, thanks for that.

  Chapter 13

  9th Century

  The Jarl and his men haven't returned by late afternoon and then by nighttime. There is a feeling in the air of the camp, an anxious waiting. Everyone from the lowliest servants to the guards and the older, married Viking women is lifting their heads often and looking east, towards the sea, from where the warriors will return.

  Dawn comes, after a night that has stayed mercifully above freezing, and then afternoon and still the Viking men are nowhere to be seen. I'm in one of the smaller wooden buildings close to the cooking pits, grinding whole dried grains between two rocks – by hand – with a few other women when a sound of shouting comes from outside. It's one person at first, and too far away to make out words. Then it's a few more people, and the sound of footsteps as people run past outside. The women and girls I'm working with put the stones in their hands down and stand up, looking around at each other questioningly? Are the men back? Are they victorious?

  The men are back. I slip out of the grain-house and find a spot where I have a good view to the east of camp, holding back to watch as everyone else surges forward. It's only momentarily confusing to watch the servants, too, rushing forward with their hands raised above their heads. The triumph of their captors is their – our, I suppose – triumph, too. When they eat, we eat. When they prosper, we prosper. Still, I can't bring myself to join in. These people took me, and now they're keeping me, all against my will. How can I cheer for them?

  The shouting and cheering gets louder and more frenzied when the Vikings appear, their limbs and faces bloodied, a few of them being carried by their fellow warriors. Behind them trail their captives, wrists bound behind them like mine were, and more Vikings carrying resources they have stolen from their vanquished foes. Crates of grain, pigs, tools, huge clay pots of anim
al tallow.

  At the head of this entire crowd of goods and human beings – and human beings who are goods – is Eirik. He's smiling broadly, accepting kisses and little handpicked bouquets of wildflowers from the women. When he enters the camp itself he turns to one of his men and is handed something. A sword, which he raises above his head as the crowd noise reaches a crescendo. I shield my eyes as the sun glints off the sword's blade. I am happy to see the Jarl. I am relieved that the blood smeared across his chest and face appears to be someone else's. And even as I feel relief, even as the joy of the crowd infects me, part of me is still withheld, still troubled by what I'm happy about.

  As the triumphant arrival turns to work, and the people – Vikings and slaves – busy themselves bringing the goods up from the beach and storing them in their appropriate places, Eirik and his men mingle with the crowd, accepting more kisses, speaking of their adventures. I stay where I am, watching.

  The Jarl looks up as a woman hangs off his neck, squealing her delight at his return into his ear, and looks right at me. I'm surprised, I thought I was far enough away to avoid notice.

  "Paige!" He shouts my name, holding one arm – still clutching his sword – aloft and then pointing its tip at me.

  I give a nervous little wave as some of the people around the Jarl also look up to see what he's pointing at. Does he want me to come to him? Am I supposed to say something?

  "Come here, girl!"

  I walk down the path to where Eirik stands amongst his men and his people, and he looks down at me for a second, seeming to want something.

  "You're back!" I say, stating the obvious, and he leans his head back and roars with laughter. People around us join in. I join in, even though I don't understand the joke – or if there even is one.

  Up close, the warriors smell. Not bad, not of rot or filth. It takes a few moments for it to occur to me but it soon does – they smell of victory. Of blood, metallic and dark, and earth and the ocean winds that carried them home. Eirik reaches down with one arm and scoops me up as I were a feather, twirling me through the air before leaning his head in to kiss me.

  It happens suddenly, and as it was before in the roundhouse, the Jarl's presence leaves me no mental room for anything except him. His mouth is firm on mine, his chin and face rough with stubble, which surprises me with its sharpness. My hand, clutching his shoulder, comes away slippery with another man's blood. My senses are gorged on raw masculinity, the animal smell of Eirik's neck, the insistent hunger I taste in his kiss, the feeling of his strong arm around my waist, holding me tight against his body, so different from my own. I can't speak. All I can do is react, bury my face in his shoulder so no one can see the startled look in my eyes.

  "Look at you," Eirik says, whispering in my ear so only I can hear. "I could take you right here, Paige. Right here on the grass, before the feast, with everyone watching and the pigs nibbling our toes."

  He pulls away, laughing, to see my reaction. It's a joke, I can glean that much, but there's something dark in his eyes, the same thing I saw when I was with him a few nights ago. When he puts me down he grabs my wrist suddenly and presses my hand against – well, against his erection. "See?" He says. "Look what you've done."

  He's not hiding it, nor is he speaking quietly anymore. The people around us see the bulge in his leather wrap as well as I do, and they hear him telling me I caused it. My cheeks are instantly hot, prickling with embarrassment. But then I look around, and I see that the warriors are all over the women – the Viking women, the slaves, their wives – who can tell? All around me the sound of sloppy kisses fills the air, male grunts, more cheering. What is happening?

  The Jarl looks down at me, still making no effort to hide his obvious desire. "Don't look so frightened girl, it's part of the raid. We'll feast, first, and then after my men have filled themselves, they'll fill the women. It is always this way."

  I don't know where to look so I look at the ground. There's no sense of shame in the air, the only red cheeks in the crowd are my own. These people are not embarrassed about their lust.

  The crowd begins to move further into the village and I move with it, losing sight of the Jarl as his people demand a piece of him. A hand on my wrist is recognizable before I even see the face. Hildy.

  "Come with me, girl, quickly now!"

  I assume we're going to the cooking pits to knead dough or chop up pork ribs, but Hildy is leading me in another direction.

  "Where are we –"

  Hildy doesn't respond and soon she doesn't need to because I recognize the bathing room. Gudry and Anja are waiting for me, arranging little wooden vials and bottles on a table and talking quietly over a selection of what look like tunics, although fancier than I'm used to, with beads and colored threads woven into them.

  "You'll be seated with the Jarl tonight," Hildy tells me, in the midst of pulling my clothes off over my head. He won't want you smelling of grain and pigshit, so Anja and Gudry here will bathe you again, and dress you in something appropriate.

  "But I sat with the Jarl last time," I begin, before Hildy breaks in.

  "No you didn't, girl. You sat on his lap last time, you didn't have your own place at the table. This is a rare thing, a privilege, and I pray to Freja that you don't do something stupid and embarrass yourself." She turns to Gudry and Anja and addresses them directly. "You heard me, she has a seat – a seat next to the Jarl himself! Braid her hair with flowers, anoint her with your oils, choose the finest dress you have – if the Jarl is unhappy I promise it won't be me who pays!"

  With that, Hildy sweeps out into the evening, off to bully the cooks and the serving girls and boys. My stomach rumbles as Gudry helps me into the bathing tub again, apologizing when I flinch at the coolness of the water.

  "We didn't have time to heat the water, lady – Hildy said it needs to be done right away."

  ***

  An hour or so later I am standing just outside the feasting longhouse, in a room built just off of one end. A fire crackles in a fire-pit, keeping me and Gudry and Anja warm. My hair has been braided and the braids have been woven into each other and decorated with the small white and yellow flowers that are still growing in the field outside the camp. Some kind of thick unguent, scented with the floral oil, has been rubbed into every inch of my skin. Even my feet, which are already growing hard and thick on the soles after only a short while without shoes, are soft and tender tonight.

  There are no mirrors in the Viking camp but I feel beautiful. I feel clean and soft and, perhaps most of all, attended to. It's not something I'm used to, being fussed over. But Gudry and Anja take their tasks seriously and not a single inch of my body has been left untended to. My tunic is made of different fabric to what I'm used to – it might even be silk. It's light and smooth against my skin, slipping coolly over my curves whenever I move.

  "I'm so hungry," Gudry whispers as we wait and Anja smacks her – gently – on the arm and tells her to shut up. They will not be attending the feast, of course, and I make a plan to steal some bread, maybe some apples, to give to them tomorrow.

  People – men – stare when I am led into the feast. Not all the men, and their gazes are not lascivious this time, as they were before. Now, they feel almost respectful. Curious, too – and I know why. They want to get a better look at the girl who has captured their Jarl's attention. They want to know more about me, to determine if I am worth it or not.

  I avoid their glances and take my seat next to Eirik who leans in close and breathes in the scent of my neck.

  "How will I get through the feast?" He shouts, addressing his men more than me. "With this temptress next to me?"

  The Vikings bang their horn flagons on the tables, spilling ale everywhere and roaring with approval. I have never been in a situation that reeked so much of battle and testosterone. I'm not afraid, there is just a very strong sense that I am in a foreign space, somewhere that, without the Jarl's explicit invitation, I would be neither welcome nor necessary. Next to
me, he stands and a hush falls over the room.

  "Brothers!" He starts. "A second feast during the same moon – the Gods surely watch over us."

  Around me, the men repeat the last phrase, leaving out one word. "The Gods watch over us."

  "Three of our lot have been chosen for Valhalla today," Eirik continues. His voice is steady, somber. Davyn, Asrod and Gilby. Neither their wives nor their children will ever go hungry or unprotected. And tomorrow we will send them on their way."

  The Vikings nod and touch their foreheads with the tips of their fingers, an unfamiliar gesture but clearly one of respect. The Jarl goes on to recall the raid in great detail, right down to the number of pigs and how many slaves were captured. His men whoop and cheer at each pronouncement but all I can do is smell the food that is waiting to be brought in.

  "And finally," Eirik announces as his speech draws to a close. "As you can see, I do not want for company this evening. The taken women will be brought in, but tonight I give them to my bravest warriors. Victory always makes a man run hot, but I have a feeling this one –" he looks down at me as he says this, grinning, and God help me I cannot help the way my blood rushes quick in my veins – "will be enough to settle the flames."

  Chapter 14

  21st Century

  After a lifetime of social exclusion I was used to the solitary nature of my existence. It didn't bother me, because it was just how things were. Maybe it bothered me a little. I tried not to get my hopes up about college, constantly repeating to myself that I was there to get my degree and nothing else.

  And then one day I packed a small suitcase, bid my father – and our house – farewell and took a three hour bus trip to Grand Northeastern University with a stomach that was sour with nerves and a fervent hope that I was doing the right thing for myself.

  Within days, I had a friend. Her name was Emma, she was British and loud and she was my roommate in the shabby little apartment we were sharing with two other students just off campus. She was the only person there when I arrived, yanking open the door after she heard me dragging my suitcase up the three flights of stairs and grinning widely at me.