Maidensong

by Mia Marlowe

  Rika slid over and leaned against the wall, tucking her legs under her. Whatever he had in mind, she was sure she wouldn’t like it.

  “I know.” His voice was a soft rumble that reminded her of a great cat’s purr. “You can tell me more about your travels with Magnus Silver-Throat.”

  “You wouldn’t believe me when I did try to tell you.”

  “I’m inclined to believe you now. I’ve never heard a more powerful skald than you, Rika.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to know any more about me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’d just use the knowledge for your own ends.”

  “You’re probably right about that.” He chuckled. “How about a story, then?”

  “Another story?” Her shoulders sagged with weariness.

  “Not as a skald, Rika. You’ve performed enough for one night.” Bjorn offered her the horn again, but this time she declined with a shake of her head, “Just a simple tale told between friends when one of them has had a bad dream.”

  She started to argue that they were not friends, but then she remembered that as her master, he could be demanding so much more of her at that moment. A story seemed a harmless enough request.

  “What kind of story?” She reached for the horn and took another small drink. “What’s the best cure for an evil dream? An epic battle? An adventure?”

  “No, nothing so grand. Something soothing, I think.” He moved over and leaned up against the wall beside her, stretching out his legs across the bed. “How about a maidensong, a love story? Surely you know one.”

  She knew several, in fact, but none that she wanted to tell to a man in his bed.

  “They are forbidden in some realms, you know,” she said. Magnus had warned her when he taught them to her that skalds had even been put to death for daring to compose love stories. A maidensong was powerful, as love was the most powerful force in the world. And sometimes, the most destructive. “Love stories hold as many dangers as pleasures.”

  “I’m inclined to risk it.”

  In the flickering lamplight, his smile was as intoxicating as the dark ale. She forced herself to look away.

  “Come, Rika. Give me a maidensong.”

  She ran through the stories in her head and finally hit upon the least erotic tale in her repertoire.

  “Very well, then,” she said. “You shall have the tale of Ragnar and Swanhilde, a pair of doomed lovers.”

  “Doomed lovers,” he repeated, pulling a long face. “Why does that not surprise me?” When she scowled at him, he waved his hand at her. “Please, go on.”

  “Ragnar fell in love with Swanhilde, a comely girl from the Hebrides, and she loved him in return. He asked for her and her father thought well of Ragnar, so the match was made. In due time, they married and he took her away to his home on a windswept crag overlooking the sea.”

  “He had land, then?” Bjorn tipped back the horn.

  “Ja, it was a bridal gift from Swanhilde’s father.” Rika yawned, fighting the urge to lean against his warm shoulder. “And Ragnar built a keep for her with a high tower, so she could watch the ships coming and going.”

  “What was the land like?” His voice was soft and thoughtful.

  “That’s not an important part of the story.”

  “Pretend it is, and describe it for me.” He closed his eyes and Rika suspected he was imagining his own land, had fate not made him a second son. She decided to send him a welcome image.

  “It was a goodly land, fair and rich. The sun and rain fell upon it in equal portions, as sorrow and joy should fall upon each life.”

  “Mmmm.” He sounded pleased. Then his eyes popped open and he turned to look at her. “No stones?”

  “No stones,” she assured him. “And every seed that fell to the earth returned a hundredfold.”

  He closed his eyes again, clearly satisfied. “It sounds a delightful place. They were happy, then?”

  “Oh, ja, all that first winter they drank deep from the horn of love and found delight in each other.” Since he’d closed his eyes, she felt safe to study his profile. Dark lashes rested against his high cheekbones. She was drawn to his full-lipped mouth and forced her gaze to move on. Straight nose, firm jaw, ja, all his features were pleasing. She had to give him that.

  His was a strong face, an honest face. He was fine to look upon, she decided. Her heart did a strange little flop in her chest and she wondered suddenly what might have become of them if she hadn’t met Bjorn over the body of her father.

  He opened his eyes.

  “Then came the spring.” Rika quickly picked up the thread of her story and resolved not to look at Bjorn by lamplight again if she could help it. “And it was time for Ragnar to join his brothers and go viking.”

  “After the spring planting, of course,” Bjorn said, a smile tugging at the comers of that dangerous mouth.

  “Ja, of course.” She smiled back, in spite of her best intentions. “But Swanhilde was desolate. ‘How shall I know how it goes with you?’ she cried. ‘You could be wounded or fall ill.’ Ragnar, being a clever man, devised a way for them to send messages at a distance. He made two white flags and two black flags and gave her one of each. ‘Watch for my dragonship in the channel, and if all is well with me, my white flag I’ll fly. If you fare well, drape you your white flag over the keep so that my heart may be eased also,’ said he.”

  Bjorn breathed deeply, tension draining from his body. It seemed the evil dream receded in his mind. “That sounds a good plan.”

  “It was, at first,” Rika said. “When weeks turned to months and Ragnar came not home, but only sailed by from time to time, Swanhilde’s heart grew hard toward him. For she reasoned, when men go viking, they leave their hearts behind and take their bodies with them. She wondered if Ragnar had forgotten her in the arms of an Anglish girl. So she decided to test him.”

  “Oh, this is never a good thing.” Bjorn shook his head.

  Rika pursed her lips in reproof and then continued. “When she saw his dragonship approaching, she draped the black flag over the keep and hurried to the water’s edge. There she laid herself down and told her maidservants to weep over her as if she were dead.”

  “Hmph!” Bjorn raised a dark brow at her. “Definitely not a good thing.”

  Rika ignored him. “Ragnar saw the black flag from afar and jumped into the sea, swimming with mighty strokes to beat the ship to shore. He staggered from the water and saw his love lying there, dead, as he supposed. A berserkr cry burst from his lips and he drew his dagger. Before anyone could stop him, Ragnar stabbed it into his own heart and fell down, dying.”

  “I knew testing the man was not a good idea,” Bjorn said with a small smile of vindication on his lips.

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Do you want to hear the end of the story or not?”

  “Ja, please.”

  “Swanhilde jumped up—”

  “Knowing she’d done wrong,” he said.

  “Ja, knowing she’d done wrong,” Rika mimicked, “but there was no help for it. Ragnar was already gone. She pulled the dagger from his chest, kissed his cold lips, and—”

  “His lips wouldn’t be cold yet,” Bjorn interrupted.

  “Would you like to tell the story?”

  “No, please go on.” He leaned back, obviously enjoying himself. “Sorry I interrupted you.”

  “She pulled the dagger from his chest, kissed his cold lips,” Rika repeated. “And plunged the knife into her own heart.”

  “Ah, nothing like a pair of dead lovers to cheer a body up.” He grimaced at the irony.

  “You’re the one who wanted a maidensong,” she reminded him.

  “So I was. Thank you, Rika. I think I can sleep now.” He offered her the ale one last time and when she shook her head, he drained the horn. “You know what Ragnar and Swanhilde’s problem really was, don’t you?”

  “I imagine you’ll tell me.”

  “Timing.”

  When Rika screwed u
p her face at him, he went on. “If Swanhilde had just opened her eyes a moment sooner, the tragedy would’ve been averted. Timing is everything. It changes the course of a battle. It determines whether a crop will fail or thrive. There is a proper time for everything under the sun. If a moment slips by for something to happen and it doesn’t, that moment will not come again.”

  He set the empty horn on the floor and then leaned toward her. “And I think the moment has come for me to kiss you.”

  She shrank back. “But what of your oath?”

  “Not to bed you till you begged me?” he asked, moving ever closer.

  “Ja, that’s the one.” She was sure the whites must show all the way around her green eyes.

  “It still stands,” he said softly. “I only want to kiss you, Rika. One kiss. It’s such a simple thing. Don’t make it difficult. Remember Ragnar and Swanhilde. If we let the moment pass, it may never come again.”

  “Just one kiss?” Her voice tremored a bit.

  “Say you won’t fight me. One kiss and I’ll blow out the lamp and trouble you no more,” he promised, shrugging his broad shoulders. “For tonight, at least.”

  “Very well.” Rika couldn’t believe the words coming out of her own mouth. Magnus had been right to warn her of the unusual power of a maidensong. “One kiss.”

  A smile blazed across his face.

  As if she was as delicate as Frankish glass, Bjorn cupped her cheeks in his hands. He closed the distance between their mouths, stopping just before their lips touched. His warm breath swirled over her, tinged with the rich scent of ale. One of his thumbs traced the soft outline of her mouth as his gaze swept over her face and settled on her eyes. She felt herself being pulled into his dark depths and squeezed her eyelids shut.

  His lips covered hers in a caress as soft as a whispered endearment. He moved his mouth, lightly probing, as though waiting for her answer, patient, but insistent. When her lips parted softly, his tongue slid into her with the same caution and thoroughness he’d use to sound an unknown harbor.

  Rika could scarcely breathe. Her mouth sent some kind of undecipherable signal to the rest of her body, both frightening and exciting at the same time. Her skin tingled in anticipation of his touch. Their kiss deepened and it was as though a spark had been struck. Fire danced through her limbs and settled to smolder in her belly. All rational thought faded in the oblivion of his kiss, and the only truth in the world was the dizzying sensation of his mouth on hers.

  Bjorn cradled her shorn head in his palm as his other hand slid down her neck. Her skin shivered beneath his fingers. His hand brushed lightly over the iron collar.

  The hateful ring of metal yanked her back to reality. What was she thinking? To this man, she was no more than a possession to be used, like his bloody sword or humble piss pot, and cherished far less than his dragonship.

  And to think she’d been enjoying his company, mooning at him with calf’s eyes, and worst of all, answering his kiss. How could she have forgotten Magnus? Her father’s blood was on Bjorn’s head. Guilt clawed at her. Rika put both palms on his chest and shoved with all her might.

  At least he had the wit to look surprised.

  “There,” she said. “You’ve had your kiss.” She turned her face to the wall and drew herself into a tight little ball.

  Bjorn was silent for a moment and then blew out the lamp. “Good night, Rika. May you sleep without dreams.”

  Of course she would. All her dreams were as dead as her father.

  Chapter 7

  When Rika woke again, Bjorn was gone. He’d lit the small lamp and left it burning on the wooden trunk for her. Without it, the windowless room was black as a moonless night. A trencher of bread and a salty wedge of cheese waited for her beside the lamp. She searched every corner, but her scratchy tunic was gone.

  Loki take the man! He knew very well she couldn’t venture out of his small cell in the short tunic she was wearing. He’d imprisoned her without so much as a bar on the door. She snorted in disgust, picked up the cheese, breaking off a small chunk with vehemence, and popped it into her mouth.

  Bjorn’s room was just a rectangle of space off the main hall of Gunnar’s longhouse, without a smoke hole or fire of its own. His bed was made of built-up earth on one side of the room, covered with a straw-tick, and then piled with furs and fine woven blankets.

  The one piece of furniture in the room was a heavy wooden trunk, which he used to store his clothing and personal possessions. A round, hardened leather shield leaned against the opposite wall. It was heavily scored with slashes from glancing blows Bjorn had taken in battle or raiding.

  Pity the shield caught them all, Rika thought.

  A long broadsword, safely tucked into its shoulder baldric, stood balanced next to the shield. She wrapped her fingers around the hilt and tried to lift the blade. It was too heavy for her to wield, and she soon gave up the effort with a disgusted grunt. She’d have to find some other way to make Bjorn the Black pay for Magnus.

  The room was tidy, clean-swept and, like its owner, spartan. The only item that seemed out of place in that masculine space was a small bone flute on the wooden chest. She wondered whether he could play it, or if it was a remembrance of some sort, a trophy of his conquest of some witless female perhaps.

  The fiend.

  The door swung open suddenly, and the fiend in question peered in.

  “You’re awake. Good.” Bjorn strode into the room with a bundle of clothes in his arms. He dropped them on the bed beside her. “Here. Put these on. Do you know how to ride a horse?”

  “Ja, I can ride,” she said as she sorted through the clothing he’d brought her. The tunic was a soft, creamy cloth the color of ripened wheat, with a kyrtle of deep forest green. She fingered the twin silver brooches sparkling up at her. They were every bit as fine as the ones Magnus had bought her. Thoughts of her father made her turn from them in disgust.

  “We usually sailed to the places Magnus performed, but he liked to ride back into the less-settled areas, too,” Rika said.

  “A skald as renowned as Magnus wouldn’t have to travel to out-of-the-way places.” Bjorn helped himself to some of her bread. “I’d heard from one of our traders that he was at the court of the Danes.”

  “We were for quite a while on and off, but Magnus could never bear court life—all that posturing and preening. So we’d head for the wilds.” She wiggled out of his short tunic while keeping herself covered with the blankets. If he thought she was planning to undress in front of him, he was sadly mistaken. “Besides, sometimes he collected a new tale in the hinterlands, so he always felt it worth the trip. And Magnus used to say that all people need a skald, not just the powerful. Our sagas and eddas make us who we are as a people and keep us strong.”

  “You put heart into Gunnar’s hall last night.” His dark eyes crinkled with admiration. “There hasn’t been that much laughter here since my father was jarl.” Bjorn’s voice trailed away as if following the wisp of memory.

  “Has he been gone long?” Her own loss still pierced like a blade, yet she recognized pain in his drooping shoulders.

  “A little over a year,” he said. “So much has changed since then, sometimes it seems even longer.”

  Rika would not allow herself to sympathize with the pain of the man who took her own father from her. She disappeared completely under the bedding and after several moments of tussling with the tunic and kyrtle, threw back the blankets fully clothed.

  Bjorn frowned at her. “It’s not as though I haven’t already seen you naked.”

  “I was unconscious at the time, so that hardly counts.” She ran a hand through her close-cropped hair. It was so short she didn’t even feel the lack of a comb. “I was not raised to be a bed-slave, so I’m not likely to conform to your lewd notions of how one should behave.”

  “Pity,” he said under his breath.

  Rika scowled at him, but she supposed she should be grateful. Little comments like that made it easier
for her to hate him as he deserved. Last night, when he’d awakened from his evil dream, disoriented and afraid, she’d been tempted to see him as just a man, not as the brute she knew him to be.

  In the light of day, she wondered whether he’d made up the whole incident, feigning a night terror just to weaken her resolve. Remembering his soft kiss made her lips tingle and her chest constrict strangely. She shook herself to ward off the unwanted sensations. It puzzled her that her body could react so independently from the wishes of her head. Her lips didn’t recognize Bjorn as the enemy. The kiss had been a mistake. Now that she knew how crafty he was, she’d be doubly wary.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. “I was hoping you would let me see how my brother fares today.”

  “Today we ride up the mountain,” Bjorn said. “And your brother is already on his way there. I’ll make sure you see him.”

  “Are you sure I’ll not be missed here?” Rika asked archly. “Perhaps you should confer with Lady Astryd. There may yet be a privy somewhere I haven’t scrubbed.”

  “I’ve already spoken to Astryd.” Bjorn popped a pinch of the cheese into his mouth. “You’ll be scrubbing no more privies. The skald of Sogna shouldn’t be wasted on drudge work. From now on, you’ll attend me, day and night.”

  “I might’ve preferred the privies,” she muttered as she fastened the buckle on her new leather boot.

  They crossed the jarl’s compound to the stables. There they mounted a matched pair of chestnut geldings and plodded out of the settlement, past the iron worker’s and tanner’s sheds, past the lush cultivated lands and up a narrow trail into a fragrant pine forest.

  The air was crisp, and Rika tugged at the brown woolen cloak Bjorn had draped over her shoulders.

  Several tree trunks they passed had been gnarled by wind and extreme age, shaping them into oddly human figures. With knotholes for eyes and gaping mouths unevenly bearded with moss, they were trolls in the wood, indeed. A light wind ruffled through the trees, setting them swaying in a macabre dance. Rika decided she’d rather not be in this wood by moonlight.