Thorolf

by Vanessa Brooks

  She didn’t understand what had just happened. Not even Shadow was nearby; the wolf had vanished along with the strange, golden-haired Viking.

  Shaken to the core, she took a moment to listen, becoming conscious of the sounds of the forest around her, a woodpecker drumming a hollow tune upon the bark of a tree. Leaves rustled, shifting in the breeze. She wondered if she’d imagined the whole encounter.

  The sounds from the village had long since subsided, though a child’s distant wail still echoed in the distance. As she entered the village, she knew she must find out what had happened.

  Only then, did she realise the Viking had stolen her bow.

  2

  Thorolf was determined to obey his jarl; there was no question of dissent.

  Never before had he felt so uneasy about one of Brandr’s decisions. He’d been alerted to danger as soon as the woman had called her warning in the forest, but no one had appeared.

  Thorolf had drifted away from his fellow warriors to scout the area alone.

  He’d found a wolf—one of his own kind, no less. He’d long ago accepted that his god, Thor, regarded him as a wolf. After all, his very name meant Thor’s wolf.

  The wolf he’d come across today had been protecting a beautiful huldra. Like a spirit woman of the forest, she’d enchanted him; he’d had no will to resist.

  Others might have been wary of the huge, grey beast glowering from her side, but the creature’s presence had reassured him—as if the wolf had been sent from Thor to guide him, convincing Thorolf to trust his jarl’s judgement.

  As a child, he’d enjoyed his own companion wolf, Ulfr, who’d died in his sleep from old age. Thorolf’s father had bred dogs from a tamed she-wolf, and there had once been a pure-bred wolf litter. Thorolf had raised one and his sister another. His encounter with the huldra was surely a sign from Thor, that he could trust the woman. He believed her wolf to be a message sent from his god to guide his future. The Viking creed, destiny is all, rang loud in his head.

  He’d kissed the beautiful girl, with her abundance of long, glossy hair, so pleasing to his eye. Although slight in stature, she’d been warm and solid in his arms. Her moss-coloured gaze had mesmerised him. Perhaps he should beware; she may have cast a spell? Was she perhaps a Pictish witch?

  “Thorolf, why the frown? Are you not pleased our jarl has negotiated a treaty which benefits us all, giving each warrior a woman to warm his bed and land to call his own?”

  Alarik had approached without Thorolf noticing. Was his guard slipping? Normally, his keen senses would have alerted him to another’s presence.

  Thorolf returned Alarik’s grin.

  “Be assured, my hordund is up for the challenge, Alarik. You need have no fear on that account.”

  The man threw back his head and laughed. Making a crude gesture with his fist, he strode away, shaking his head, still chuckling.

  Thorolf glanced about. Where was his jarl? There had been trouble, he knew, but of what nature he was unsure. If it had been serious, then Alarik would surely have informed him, but Thorolf wished to find Brandr, to satisfy his own mind.

  “This woman, Rhiannon, should at least be whipped! How can you overlook such treachery and not punish her immediately? Her life should have been forfeit the moment she took up arms against your brother. It is pure chance that Bjorn still lives!” Thorolf shook with rage.

  “Calm down, my friend, remember to whom you speak.” Brandr placed a firm hand on Thorolf’s shoulder.

  Thorolf sucked in an angry breath, bowing his head respectfully. “I apologise, my lofoungr, but our laws are clear.”

  Taking his role as protector and warrior seriously, since he was one of the jarl’s chosen guards; he was astounded by his leader’s leniency in such a grave matter.

  “I know the law, Thorolf, but I need you to trust me. My brother will decide the girl’s fate should he live—not you, nor I. In the meantime, I have set Alarik to guard her. I suggest you prepare for the marriage ceremonies tomorrow.”

  The Pictish woman, Eithne, interrupted, ignoring Thorolf’s glare. Brandr cast the woman a tender look—an expression Thorolf had not seen on his jarl’s face in a long time.

  “I have selected six women to marry your men, Brandr. This man may not simply select any woman he chooses from the tribe.”

  Thorolf glowered at her. “I met a young woman in the forest. She is the one I want.”

  Eithne cocked her head, as if considering his words.

  “Hmm, that is most likely to have been either Ytha or Ailsa. I have asked them to be part of the group who will wed.”

  She turned to Brandr. “Shall I call them, so your warrior may see if his chosen one is among the women?”

  Thorolf shifted his feet, he felt Eithne’s manner to be too bold, but he could not reprimand the woman, it seemed that she was his lofoungr‘s choice. He waited for the women to arrive. If neither woman was his enchantress, what then?

  Apparently sensing his discomfort, Eithne offered him refreshment, passing drinking horns to Thorolf and Brandr.

  “’Tis only mead,” she said as Thorolf stared suspiciously at the amber liquid she expected him to drink.

  He took a sip. It tasted surprisingly good—honeyed, just as mead should be.

  Thorolf became aware of females chattering, which lowered to a whisper as the women approached. In the light from the fire, two women emerged, both strikingly similar—with the same mossy-green eyes.

  Despite their resemblance, he recognised her immediately and crossed to his forest huldra. Offering her the mead, he met her gaze, after a moment’s hesitation, she took the horn, watching him over the rim of the drinking vessel as she sipped. Thorolf’s heart swelled with pride at her beauty and biddable response to him.

  “This woman is mine.” It was important there should be no misunderstanding among the other men.

  Eithne ignored his statement and turned to the pretty huldra, speaking in her own tongue. The woman replied to Eithne’s questions softly, but not once did her gaze leave his.

  “Ailsa hesitates in agreeing to become your wife. Her first husband, Irb, failed to return from battle a year ago, during a skirmish with the Nechtain tribe. She is convinced Irb still lives, though I believe this to be unlikely.”

  A knife twisted in Thorolf’s gut. He would not, could not share her. “No! If she weds me, then she must understand she becomes wholly mine. If she cannot agree to my terms, then none of us shall take her to wife.”

  Thorolf had spoken in anger. Looking across at Brandr, he quickly added, “Is that not so, my Jarl?” He wished to show no disrespect to his leader.

  Fortunately, Brandr only winked. “Thorolf speaks true. The woman needs to know she will belong solely to him after the ceremony.”

  Eithne spoke once again with the woman Thorolf already thought of as his own, drawing her away from the others. Their discussion protracted. Thorolf feared the beautiful creature would be withheld from him. However, his huldra came to stand before him.

  He waited, not knowing what to expect.

  She took his right hand and lifted it to her lips, placing a kiss upon his knuckle. A stirring shifted in Thorolf’s chest, an overwhelming tenderness at her gesture. How long it had been since he’d experienced such emotion.

  “Gud! It is settled,” he stated brusquely. He nodded at Brandr, hastening away, fearing that if he stayed a moment longer, his feelings might become obvious to one and all.

  Thorolf dared not argue with his jarl, but he could not leave his bride selection to chance. Each man was told to place his dagger in the earth, the women choosing randomly, but thanks to Thor, Thorolf’s own knife’s handle bore a carved wolf’s head. His bride, his Ailsa, would know which blade to choose.

  He dared not dwell upon what he might do should she choose another warrior’s dagger.

  He realised he need not have feared, for her hand went unerringly to the knife embellished with the wolf.

  The wedding ceremony took p
lace on Friday, as all good Norse weddings should, in order to honour the Goddess Freya. The ritual was preceded by the men undertaking a customary bath. Thorolf wondered if the women of this strange isle followed the same practice.

  In making this recent journey across the sea, he’d never considered taking a wife, but now he hoped with Thor’s blessing, that he had gained a rare woman.

  He would have a night to enjoy her, at least, before they embarked on their mission. Brandr had called for an attack against the Nechtain tribe—a show of force to teach the barbarians that Achnaryrie was now under Viking protection. The plan was to set out at early dawn, burning the village and killing the men who would not surrender to their superior strength, maiming the bow fingers of the rest. They had no intention of harming women or children. It would serve as warning that none could take from the Achnaryrie without punishment.

  His wedding passed as a blur to Thorolf—a strange ceremony spoken in Latin, full of the Christian beliefs from this land, conducted by a sorry-excuse-for-a-man named Father Godfrey. The soft-bellied creature had cowered before their Viking strength throughout the ceremony.

  Making his way to the celebration afterwards, Thorolf encountered his friend Garth. He realised the man was now family, since marrying Ytha, Ailsa’s sister. He slapped Thorolf’s back, congratulating him on the beauty of both their women.

  At the feast, mead toasts to the new unions were drunk. Thorolf noticed the Christian priest stumble to the ground, obviously inebriated. He decided to leave and led his bride away from the revels, following Ailsa to her dwelling. He was pleased to find a sturdy home of circular stone walls, although the inside dim, lit only by a central fire pit, its smoke curling through the opening in the reed-covered roof. Nooks for storage and sleeping filled the outer edge, and one larger room contained a raised bed dressed with woven blankets, furs, and goose-down pillows. Someone had strewn the bedding with wild flowers and sweet smelling herbs. A table and a crude bench stood on one side of the fire; he saw a loom had been tucked away in one corner.

  Thorolf stretched to his full, impressive height and rammed Ásgæirr, his mighty sword, into the rafters of the sjot.

  Gud, it sank deep. A good omen for the marriage!

  Crossing to the bed, he placed his Mjölnir - hammer amulet upon the pallet as a symbol of Thor’s bone. Thorolf nodded to himself, it would bless his fruitfulness with his new bride. His gaze shifted over to his wife who stood near the table. Reaching for her chin, he angled her face to meet his kiss, but she turned away. Was she refusing him?

  Again, he lowered his mouth to hers. A whimper escaped her.

  He drew back with a frown. “Are…hurt…you?” he asked haltingly, searching for the correct words in her language.

  Ailsa shook her head, appearing agitated. Moving away, she poked the fire, adding wood to the blaze.

  He would give her time to gather herself and do what he could to make her feel at ease. Fetching her bow from where he’d hidden it amongst his things, he held it out to her as a peace offering.

  Hesitating, before stepping forward to take it, she returned his kindness with a nervous, half-smile. She was clearly afraid; he noticed her smile didn’t touch her beautiful eyes.

  Thorolf gestured to where her quiver rested against the wall, indicating she should place her bow there. When she returned, he took her hand, placing it upon his chest, over his thudding heart. He let her feel how fast it beat for her. Standing quiet, her palm flat, she hesitantly moved a finger across his chest, her fingernail circled one copper nipple. He caught her hand and drew it to his mouth, lightly nipping her inner wrist; she gasped. Drawing her closer, he once again lowered his lips to hers. This time, she clung to him, meeting his tongue with her own bold and lusty thrusts.

  Slowly, he moved her backward to the bed. She no longer seemed hesitant, breaking their kiss; she lay down and parted her legs for him.

  Thorolf was shocked by her sudden willingness. Surely she didn’t expect them to fornicate immediately, without sharing the delights of foreplay? He stretched out beside her on the bed and started to remove her clothing, but she sat upright, quickly taking over the task of undressing herself. Frustrated, he stood to unlace his leather trousers, once naked, he faced her.

  Her eyes widened as her gaze settled upon his manhood. Thorolf was proud of the size of his hordund, which twitched with pride at her startled gasp. Hesitantly, she reached for him. He smiled giving her encouragement. As she touched him, gripping his engorged shaft, he groaned.

  Placing his palms on her shoulders, he eased her back on the bed, the fragrance from the crushed flower petals and herbs teased his nostrils. She gazed up at him, her legs still parted in invitation. Capturing her lips in a searing kiss, his tongue swept over hers, delving deeper inside her mouth. His hands moved over her silken flesh, caressingly. He enjoyed her tremors as she arched against him, moaning his name while he plucked her taut nipples. Gud! He wanted to hear her sweet cries of passion. The knowledge that he brought her pleasure would stoke his own desire. His shaft hardened to a rod of iron, he was more than ready to satisfy her hunger.

  His mouth followed where his hands played, and soon her moans grew louder. Thorolf moved to kneel between her thighs, she grabbed his hair, attempting to pull him away, but he gripped her wrists and lifted them above her head.

  He reprimanded her with a low growl of discontent.

  As she quivered beneath him, the musky scent of her arousal filled him with excitement. He was eager to taste her, to feel the heat of her core. Gently, he ran his tongue along her flesh until he reached her bud of pleasure. Her nectar flooded his tongue—warm as honey. Shifting her hips she gave a sweet mewl of entreaty as she churned her hips beneath him, enflamed by his licks and caresses.

  Thorolf did not cease his ministrations until he was certain she had crested, coming sweetly on his tongue. Satisfied, by her cries, he slid upward, over her body, nestling between her thighs; his aching hordund sought the heat of her wet channel.

  Glazed eyes met his and, smiling nervously, she encircled his shoulders, embracing him.

  Sliding his hands beneath her buttocks, he raised her to meet his thrusting shaft. Her head fell back, exposing her vulnerable throat. He took this as an invitation to nip her pale, tender flesh, soothing the love bite with his tongue.

  Thorolf claimed what was his. She belonged to him now and no other. Their bodies spoke in ways where language failed.

  Thanking Thor for giving him the gift of this uniquely beautiful woman, he knew his god had rewarded his loyalty with a wife.

  His balls tightened in response to Ailsa’s pleasure-filled moan. He lowered his mouth to hers again, pleased to have brought her to the point of ecstasy yet again. Her sultry cry triggered his own release, flooding her with his seed.

  They made love many times that night; he was unable to keep his hands off her. Like the lithe cat he thought she resembled, Ailsa purred for him.

  Afterward, he cradled her in his arms, an undeniable tenderness developed between them as she nestled against his shoulder. For the first time, he feared losing in battle. Not because of cowardice, but at the thought of being parted from this bewitching woman.

  He woke before dawn to find her entwined about him. The temptation to take her again nearly overwhelmed him. He pictured her with her legs wrapped about his waist, welcoming him inside her, but the jarl had made his summons clear.

  It was time to rise, he had to leave soon.

  She sighed, her body sought his even while half asleep, but he pushed her away.

  “Neinn!” he muttered, brushing his lips over her forehead to soften his rejection as he detached her from the embrace. “I go.”

  She rubbed her eyes.

  “Return soon, husband.”

  He pondered a moment. Perhaps better to tell her where he was going rather than simply disappear. She would hear about the raid soon enough. “We raid Nechtain…”

  To his amazement, she demanded an explan
ation. “Why put yourself in the path of danger; ’tis foolish to risk your life unnecessarily. You should stay here with me!” Her voice rose shrill in complaint.

  He tried placing a calming hand upon her shoulder, but she shrugged him off.

  Thorolf shook his head and shifted to the edge of the bed. She would have to remain angry, for he had no time for this; he needed to join the other warriors.

  He stood; feeling for his clothing on the end of the bed, but Ailsa got up and tugged on his arm, berating him further. Her words flowed too fast for him to understand her tirade.

  Gently, he guided her to sit down, but she leapt to her feet again, slapping him hard across the face.

  Thorolf sucked in his breath. What disrespect was this? He felt strongly that a woman should yield to her husband. It was the way his father had raised him. A wife should never strike her husband, except in self-defence. It was a defiant action, one he could not overlook, despite his need to be gone. If he didn’t punish her, she might never understand the enormity of her mistake at the lack of respect she’d shown him.

  Taking up the tallow candle, he lit it, holding it aloft, he allowed her to see the displeasure in his face. She stared back, eyes wide, her hand covered her mouth. Her expression told him she recognised the fact she’d acted as no wife should.

  Placing the candle aside, he sat back upon the pallet.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m afraid that…”

  “Here!” he interrupted firmly, pointing to his lap.

  She hesitated only briefly, obediently placing herself face down across his thighs.

  Thorolf nodded in satisfaction. It was good to know she would obey him.