Ragnar & the Slave Girls (Ragnar the Dane)

by Byrne, Lily

  Ragnar smiled in return, and raised the cup to the other drinkers in salutation. They raised theirs, and conversation began again.

  “Can you tell me where the foreign traders’ stalls are?” he asked the lady. “I need some supplies for my wife, to help with our baby.” He knew this would reassure her.

  “Oh, of course.” She smiled with relief and gave him directions, after which he went to sit by the window.

  Everyone gasped and he looked up to see them watching him again.

  “You - you can’t sit there, sir,” quavered an old man.

  “Why not?”

  “The white fiend sits there. It’s his spot.”

  “The fiend? I’m not afraid of a spirit.”

  “It isn’t a spirit, sir, it’s a man.”

  Before Ragnar could find out any more, the alehouse door crashed open and a man strode in.

  His face pale and grimy, he squinted out of tired, reddened eyes. He wore a whole wolf pelt round his shoulders over a dark tunic, trousers and scuffed leather boots.

  But his hair and beard were recognisably white-blond, although streaked with dirt and tied in a scruffy braid hanging down his back. Ragnar’s jaw dropped. Kjartan.

  His eyes widened when he saw Ragnar, then after hesitating for a moment, he left.

  The other drinkers gazed at the remaining Dane.

  “Oh, God bless you, sir, you have driven him out,” observed the old man. “He usually beats anyone who gets in his way. Or worse.”

  Ragnar found his voice. “I know him. Or knew him. Where is his woman?”

  “Woman? They say she ran away. They say she couldn’t stand his rages and violence. They say she found another man, they say -”

  Ragnar held up his hand for silence. He finished his drink, then set out for the foreign traders, his thoughts whirling. Hallby and Gippeswick weren’t so far apart, after all.

  *

  At night a young man went to a cave far away from the village.

  “Are you at home, mother?” he called at the entrance.

  “Yes. Come in.”

  A broad woman in a fur cloak and thick woollen dress sat in a chair carved out of the rock, the opposite side to her bearskin bed and magical talismans. Torches flamed on the walls, fixed into crevices.

  “What news?” she asked.

  “It is going well. She is so nearly ready and her husband suspects nothing, the fool. When do you want to see her?”

  “Oh, very soon.”

  She pulled him towards her and kissed him on the lips.

  “You are doing so well. Without you we would still be lost in the wild wood.” She smiled. “Do you want a measure?”

  He nodded and she handed him a leather pouch which he hid in his tunic.

  “Can I do it properly yet?”

  “After I’ve seen her. Bring her here to my cave in three days’ time.”

  He frowned, turning away to hide it from her. But she’d expected his annoyance and smiled.

  She suddenly put her hand between his legs, making him catch his breath.

  “Not long now,” she murmured, squeezing him. “You can re-join us. You’ve done so very well.”

  She let go, and dismissed him.

  “H–have I really done well?” He hesitated. “The potion works on everyone. They all think I’m one of them.”

  “Yes, my son, of course. Now go and finish it.”

  He tiptoed out.

  *

  Bjarni’s face flamed as Saehild stormed out of the house. The scar on his arm throbbed, adding to his annoyance as her words rang in his ears.

  “You’re so dull! And weak! Just the same as all the other men round here!”

  How dare she criticise him? He’d only ever tried to make her happy, and give her everything she wanted and be a good husband. But yet again she rejected him sexually - the worst possible way.

  When she’d come home that evening, he’d hoped they could at least talk, but as usual she’d been abrupt, distant, critical. What happened to the adoring girl he married?

  But where did she go when not with him? Whenever he thought about it, the wound on his arm ached and he had to attend to it. By the time he soothed the pain, he’d forgotten what he was thinking of. It was just easier not to wonder.

  But his wife’s defiance still angered him, so he concentrated on that, his hands balling into fists.

  Ifay stood peeling turnips for the meal, her thin, dark body in complete contrast to Saehild’s. He stepped across to her in one stride and took the knife and vegetables out of her hands.

  “I want sex. Now,” he ordered, ignoring her gasp. “It’s your duty.”

  He grabbed her wrist and took her to the bed. A slave woman in the marital bed would be a great insult to Saehild.

  Ifay lay down gracefully, lifting her dress, positioning herself with legs apart, a blank expression on her face. He didn’t bother taking off his trousers, just undid them and climbed on top of her. She made a small sound as he entered her, gritting her teeth and clutching the covers.

  It didn’t take long. Relieved to find a woman who couldn’t refuse, after so many of Saehild’s taunts, he finished after a few thrusts. He relaxed on top of Ifay’s slender, brown frame, the days of frustration gone, his mind clear.

  Wriggling out of her, he glanced at her face. Biting her lip, but not in pleasure, her eyes tight shut, a tear trickling down one cheek. His stomach churned. He’d never made a woman cry with lovemaking before; they usually enjoyed it, begged for more. But slaves shouldn’t matter. He stood, fastening his trousers, unable to tear his glance from her set, tense face.

  “I’ve finished with you.” He cleared his dry throat. “You can get up now.”

  Ifay opened her eyes but they didn’t meet his.

  “Why are you men all the same?” she muttered. “You must have your way. Never mind how the woman feels.” She pulled down her dress and, keeping her head down, crept to her corner of the hut.

  Bjarni slumped onto the bed. Here was another woman thinking he was just the same as all the others, nothing special, dull. But he should be proud of himself. He’d asserted his manhood and place in the household, so why did he feel sick? Slaves usually had sex with their masters, so she must be used to it by now. He shouldn’t care. Gritting his teeth, he straightened his clothes, smoothed down his hair and beard, then strode out.

  *

  Ifay sat alone, so it didn’t matter if she allowed herself to cry. Her shoulders shook and tears poured silently down her cheeks.

  But someone knocked on the door. Couldn’t she even have a few minutes to herself?

  The dark haired woman - what was her name? Ale something? - stood on the doorstep again with her baby.

  “My master and mistress are not here.” She avoided the woman’s eyes.

  “Oh. Can I come in anyway?” asked Aelfwyn. “I’d like a few minutes’ rest. Can I have a drink?” She sat down on a chair.

  Ifay fetched a cup of ale without saying anything and carried on preparing the meal.

  “Do you like working here? My sister and her husband are kind people.”

  Ifay made a face to herself.

  “Do they treat you well?”

  “They are just the same as my other owners. Better than some, worse than others.”

  “Oh.”

  Why couldn’t this woman just be quiet and go away? She continued with her work, turning her back as much as possible. When she sneaked a glance, the baby suckled at his mother, who gazed at him.

  Tears pricked Ifay’s eyes. She was the same age. Why couldn’t she have met a man to make her happy and give her a normal life? She chopped fiercely at a carrot.

  “What’s wrong?” called Aelfwyn.

  “Nothing, madam.”

  “Why are you crying? Do you miss your home?”

  That made her cry even more, quietly so as not to disturb her visitor.

  “Does my sister mistreat you? She can be unkind.”

  “I h
ardly see her. It’s the master who …” Ifay bit her lip. How weak she had become.

  “Bjarni? He’s always been the kindest brother to me.”

  “He is not kind to me, though. Sorry, please forget I said that.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. He is just - just - the same as all other men.”

  Aelfwyn paused. “Sit down with me for a minute and take a rest from your duties. I won’t tell anyone.” She could think of a few things Bjarni might have done.

  *

  In Ljotr’s secret shelter in the woods, Saehild could feel the cloth against her eyes, the soft fur of the bearskin covers, the scratchy heather beneath her naked body. She could hear him moving around in the dark silence nearby and trembled to imagine what he was doing.

  Wetness enveloped her nipple - his mouth? She felt the prickling of a beard, then teeth nibbled at it and traced their way down her ribcage, her stomach, her thighs, where his tongue wriggled in the hair between her legs.

  She twitched and reached out for him, finding his shoulder and digging her nails in. His tongue moved slowly down between her legs, inside her just a little bit, and she moaned, tortured.

  But then nothing. She reached out but couldn’t touch him. She was just about to speak when something wet trickled on her breasts, running down between them and under her back.

  “What’s that?”

  No answer. Just the wetness pouring up her neck and into her mouth. Wine. She tasted its familiar strength and ripeness; she drank so much of it every time she met him. They both drank it, so much better than the boring ale served in the village.

  Then his body weight crushed her, his warm naked skin damp against hers, his erect cock hard at her thigh. She gasped, pressing herself against him, trying to move and draw him inside, but he resisted and kept pushing at her thigh, so tantalisingly close to where she wanted him.

  After a few minutes of this, something cold and smooth slid inside her and she jumped.

  “What’s that? It’s not you, is it?”

  “It’s my knife handle.”

  She gasped and wriggled.

  “If you move too much, the blade will go in too and cut you.”

  She froze, breathing hard and concentrating on the smoothness, pushing in and out. The edge of danger. She didn’t dare move, or touch him, just in case the blade caught her, but what if she did? Holding her breath, she waited to see what would happen.

  He slid the knife handle out of her with a squelch, and they both drew ragged breaths.

  “Fuck me, please,” she gasped.

  “No.”

  She hit out, catching him on the head and he chuckled. She ripped off the blindfold and glared at him as he lay next to her, one hand on his cock. The light of the candles irritated her eyes after they’d been in darkness for so long.

  “Do something to me then,” he whispered, “if you’re so angry.”

  “I will.” She pushed him onto his back and tied his hands together above his head with the blindfold. She pulled it tight but he just made a mocking face at her.

  Grabbing one of the candles, she held it over his chest. The flame burnt into the wax immediately, and it spilled out, falling onto his chest hair and he twitched.

  “Candle wax cools very quickly,” he observed, “if you were trying to hurt me.”

  She held the candle lower and lower over his chest, until the flame caught his skin.

  “Ow!”

  She grabbed his cock and pushed it inside her, making him grunt with surprise.

  “What we’re going to do is roll over and you can fuck me.” Her words came out in a rush, then she moved up and down on him.

  “What if I don’t agree?” he taunted.

  “Then I’ll set fire to your hair.” She moved the candle over his chest. “This bit maybe, or this bit?”

  “Go on, then.”

  She tried to carry out her threat, but the hair wouldn’t catch.

  “You can’t do it. You’re too scared.”

  She waved the candle back and forth in front of his eyes, wondering if she could hypnotise him, then pushed up and down against his cock, faster and faster until he couldn’t help himself groaning.

  “Changed your mind?”

  “Yes - oh - alright.”

  She blew out a candle, leaving just one burning, and climbed off him, rolling underneath.

  “Can you do it with your hands tied?”

  “Yes.”

  He pushed inside her and started thrusting, propping himself up on his elbows, breathing harder. The new experience of him on top excited her and she clawed at his back, tangling her fingers in his hair. He had more hair than any other man she’d seen bathing.

  He thrust faster and faster, harder and harder, he seemed bigger on top than when beneath. Knocking her breath out, pushing her to the edge of pain, he covered her, his gasps becoming growls as he continued.

  Fear pricked at her, but arousal took over, her own groans becoming louder and louder. After a particularly hard thrust, he gave a growl and she opened her legs wider, putting them up around his back and clasping him to her. She didn’t want him to stop as his gasp-growls rose in tone, then as he came he howled, making her shiver in a mixture of fear and excitement.

  Both panting, they fell apart.

  “See? I told you it would be better with you on top.”

  He laughed gruffly.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine.” His voice sounded harsh and he coughed. “We can do that sometimes, if you like.”

  “What about you? Don’t you like being on top of me?”

  “You talk too much. Go to sleep.”

  After a few seconds, rasping snores filled the air, the first time she’d heard him snore.

  Her heart beat faster; she’d made him do what she wanted for a change. It gave her a warm feeling inside which was better than the actual fucking.

  She’d won.

  *

  Ifay chopped yet more vegetables for the meal. How could she escape this life? She remembered her home, the hot, dry country and that awful day.

  She’d been playing with her younger brothers and sisters, chasing each other round the prickly bushes, when two men had jumped out on them all and tied their hands together. Her brothers and sisters had screamed and screamed, but no one came to save them. Where were their parents?

  To stop the screaming, the men gagged them, but one of her brothers fought back so violently that a man cut his throat and the blood spurted out, splattering the dry sandy earth.

  After that everyone stopped making noise, lying limply in the men’s arms, knowing it was pointless to resist.

  They’d been taken to a cart, thrown in and jerked across the dusty landscape, away from home to unfamiliar country. Then to the sea.

  Ifay had never seen the sea before, but its blue, lapping beauty belied its roughness. She and her fellow captives spent weeks of tossing on the ocean, vomiting helplessly for hours, surrounded by stinking fellow prisoners, taunted by the shouts of their lucky captors outside in the fresh air.

  Then they arrived in a mysterious land where white stuff poured from the sky. Cold like nothing she had ever experienced before made her shiver painfully. Yet more of her comrades died, freezing to death before their abductors realised they needed to be wrapped up warmer and they weren’t just animals.

  Back on dry land at last, Ifay almost kissed the ground, but was pulled upright by one of the blond-haired, bearded men, shouting in an incomprehensible tongue.

  “Where are my sisters? My brothers?” she replied to his questions.

  He shrugged and pointed round at the other dark people of her homeland. Carefully checking each face, she couldn’t see a single one of her siblings.

  “Where are they?” She flung herself at the man, beating on his chest with her emaciated arms.

  He flung her off and she fell onto the icy ground, feeling the cold seep into her bones despite the fur clothing. The
others stared down with blank eyes. She was alone in a foreign land with no salvation.

  But even that hadn’t been the worst. Masters had abused her and it became a routine to be treated that way. Some had been kind but most not. She was a fool thinking her current one was any different, just because he’d been generous at first. He’d still had sex with her against her wishes. What had she done to deserve this life?

  *

  “So, this stuff goes inside you?” Ragnar failed to keep a straight face while dipping his finger into the dates, acacia bark and honey mixture.

  “Yes.” Aelfwyn slapped him on the arm. “Be sensible!”

  “I’ll do it then.” He put his finger, covered in the sticky paste, inside her and she squirmed.

  “That feels really strange.”

  He put more into her, rolling his eyes and sticking his tongue out in exaggerated lust, and she giggled. He couldn’t help pushing his finger in and out to see the effect on her.

  “So, is this meant to stop you having babies or make us want more sex?”

  “The second one, it seems.”

  He carried on compulsively, while she waited.

  “Come on then. Before Alvi wakes up again.”

  “Oh! Right. Sorry.”

  He moved on top of her.

  “It feels funny to me too. Like fucking dough.”

  “How do you know what dough feels like?”

  “I know everything.”

  They suppressed their giggles and tried not to make too much noise, fearful of the sudden cry of their baby. Which, of course, made it more difficult to keep quiet.

  He knew her body intimately, every crease and fold of skin, every secret inlet which made her shiver with pleasure. As she knew his. She loved the way his curly red chest hair tickled her face as he tickled her in other places. They had to make love quickly and not take the hours they used to before Alvi was born, but the sudden speed could be more exciting.

  Afterwards, they snuggled down.

  “Hope that stuff worked,” said Ragnar, “and you’re not -”

  “Stop worrying, I’ll be alright. I expect the traders at Gippeswick sold you their best stuff.”

  “They knew if they didn’t, I’d be back to kill them,” he laughed. “Oh! I -”

  “What?”

  “I just remembered who I met today in Gippeswick. Sorry.”