Thorolf

by Vanessa Brooks

He moved her securely against his waist, which added pressure against his loins. Blood surged into his cock; so much for early rising, he mused, his lip quirking.

  Dawn was almost here, it came early at this time of year. Thorolf knew he needed to dispatch her punishment quickly or risk being late joining the other men.

  Smoothing his palm over her rounded rump, he wondered briefly if she were as aroused as he. His hand drifted down to her cleft, exploring her womanhood, he found her wet and warm.

  By the gods, she was certainly aroused, despite knowing there was punishment to come.

  Thorolf raised his arm to land a hefty smack across her arse, her yell assuring him she was aware this was chastisement and not play.

  Were he to give her due punishment, he might have found an implement to spank her with properly, but for now his hand must suffice. Delivering several swats, he was satisfied to hear her cry. Her stuttered apologies soon replaced by soft whimpers of remorse. He stared with satisfaction at the rosy hue blooming across her buttocks.

  From outside, voices from other warriors filtered in, but his cock was as hard as iron and would not be denied. His nostrils flared at the scent of her arousal. He dipped his finger inside her. Instantly she stilled; her breathing erratic. His wife was slick and ready. Odin’s balls, he could wait no longer.

  Carrying her across the small space, Thorolf bent her over the table. The dim light from the candle illuminated her perfect backside, flushed pink from her spanking. He positioned himself behind her, entering her in one swift thrust.

  She sighed in pleasure, pressing her punished rear back against him, welcoming him, urging him to rut. He relished her gasps as he thrust, pounding her with frenzied passion, his balls aching. Giving no thought to her pleasure—only his own, he was surprised and gratified to hear her keening culmination. With a growl of intense relief, he spilled inside her warmth. His comrades were waiting, time to be gone.

  3

  Cocooned within the bedding, Ailsa’s thoughts drifted back over the previous night. An involuntary smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She rolled onto her back, wincing at the tingling prickle from her backside.

  Thorolf was surely a Norse God brought to Earth—this man she called husband, who made her heart and blood sing. What spell had he cast over her, that she so craved his touch? In all her years of bedding Irb, she’d never known such pleasure. Having grown accustomed to her first husband’s rutting, it astonished her that Thorolf wanted to caress and pleasure her.

  How many ways had he taken her? And the spanking he’d delivered! Ailsa wriggled again, gasping as the residual warmth from her spanked bottom fanned her arousal. Irb had never spanked her. His displeasure with her had manifested itself with the use of his fists.

  Despite the pleasure of the memory from the night, she could not forget that she might never see Thorolf alive again. She had gone too far when she’d slapped him but had possibly already lost one husband to the fierce Nechtain tribe. She certainly had no wish to lose another, especially not after the blissful night they had just spent together. The thought prompted a solitary tear to track down her cheek, hastily she dashed it away.

  Enough sad thoughts. It would do no good to torture herself. Better to believe he’d return from the raid on the Nechtain tribe and ignore the whisper of doubt.

  But then again, what if he didn’t come back?

  He’d clearly thought her spiteful for ranting at him. She feared him finding Irb. Ailsa drew her hand across her face. Her feelings were confused now that Thorolf had come into her life.

  Remembering Irb brought to mind a myriad of conflicting thoughts. Her first husband had become cruel toward her. Thorolf was a Viking warrior, an enemy. How long would he maintain this desire for her, and when his lust died what then? She chewed her bottom lip in consternation. Perhaps these Vikings planned to lull them into a false sense of security and turn against them?

  Instead of lying under the furs fretting about circumstances she could not change, she decided to go and find her sister. She dressed quickly and left her hut.

  Crossing the village, deep in thought, she started when someone called her name.

  “Ailsa, what deep thoughts would cause you to pass your sister without greeting?” asked a familiar voice.

  Looking up, she smiled.

  “Ytha, it’s good to see you. I was coming to find you.” Ailsa reached out to embrace her, and Ytha haltingly returned the gesture.

  Ytha had been raised without tenderness, and expressing physical affection did not yet come naturally.

  “Sister, is all well with you?” she asked.

  “I’d thought to ask you the same question.”

  “My new husband behaves like a boy in a man’s body, with his silly sulks and suspicions. Bah!” Ytha said.

  Ailsa frowned. “These Norse are very different to our Pictish men. I’m not sure what to make of them. Do you trust them?”

  Having the gift of sight, did Ytha know whether these Vikings could be trusted?

  Ytha squeezed her sister’s hand. “Do not fear your husband.”

  Ailsa sighed in relief. “You’ve seen that all will be well?”

  “No, I meant I trust Eithne’s judgement and–”

  “But how do we know they will not attack us in our sleep?” Ailsa interrupted her.

  “Did your wedding night not go well?”

  “It was surprisingly good.” Ailsa’s cheeks heated.

  “Do not worry, sister.” Ytha grinned. “Would you like me to try and teach you Norse? It might help if you could communicate properly with your husband.”

  Ailsa shook her head. “Thorolf wishes us to learn together…at least, I believe that is what he wants.”

  “So, you fear for Thorolf in the coming raid?” Her eyes narrowed like a cat sensing prey.

  Ailsa knew better than to lie to her sister, a gifted seer. Ailsa, too, had premonitions, but they were more like strong feelings, unlike the visions Ytha had—a blessing or curse, depending on how one thought of it. The church condemned those with second sight as witches, so both sisters tended to avoid Father Godfrey and his kind.

  “I’m worried for my husband, and for the others, too. Tell me what you’ve seen.”

  Ytha didn’t like to share her visions, for most folk did not understand. Ailsa was the only one she could confide in.

  “I saw a warrior struck down, severely wounded, but I couldn’t see his face. Eithne was running, her face stricken. I woke from the trance. There is nothing more.”

  Ailsa sighed. A wound was dangerous, and many died from the fever that often followed.

  “Perhaps it’s Brandr, since you saw Eithne?”

  Ytha nodded. “I can’t be certain, but I’m sure it isn’t Garth.”

  Ailsa tried to shake off her worry. “Will you join me?” she asked. “I need to keep busy today. We could forage for mushrooms, and then go to the falls to bathe.”

  They walked in companionable silence, Ailsa bending now and then to peer beneath the bushes, emerging with handfuls of wild garlic and thyme for her basket.

  “We can make the soup together, enough for both our brave warriors,” Ailsa suggested.

  Reaching the meadows, the two gathered a number of savoury mushrooms. Ytha lifted each one to her nose, turning them to look beneath their skirts. While her knowledge of the healing power of herbs and plants was extensive, Ailsa’s was limited.

  “Smell,” said Ytha, holding out a fungus that Ailsa had placed into the basket.

  A slightly unpleasant odour rose from where she pressed on the pale, fleshy cap. She removed her finger and a yellow stain remained. “This one is poisonous.” She threw it to the ground. “The rest are good. I think we have enough for our husbands’ natmal.”

  “Come, I’ll race you up to the waterfall,” Ailsa challenged.

  The women stumbled laughing as they ran, panting as they reached the final ridge of rock, where the smaller of two waterfalls gushed into a wide pool of water
which flowed down another crag, cascading into the river below.

  In the cool, damp shade of the rock, Ailsa set down the basket. She stripped off her tunic, wincing at the ache on her backside, but she would soon be in the water, its coolness bringing relief.

  Glancing up, she saw Ytha staring at her bottom. She faltered, hardly knowing what to say, but her sister silenced her with a shake of her head, then removed her own clothing. Once naked, she tilted her hip, flaunting her rear-end. Ailsa saw that her sister’s rump was flushed dark pink. The pair looked at one another and burst into helpless giggles.

  Ailsa turned and ran, leaping into the water, with Ytha close behind. They splashed and played like children. Ailsa was aware there had been little light-heartedness in Ytha’s dark past. They had been parted far too young, her sister left to die in the forest because their parents thought she was a changeling.

  Found and raised by the woman, Nessa, a seer and outcast, Ytha had made her way back to the village once she was old enough, only to find that her father had died fighting a group of Norse invaders. Sadly, her mother had followed him in death a year later. Ailsa told Ytha that she was convinced that her mother had wasted away with grief.

  Both of them had suffered, being left alone, and both had grown up sensing that something was missing in their lives. Only after they’d been reunited as sisters had they understood.

  They’d met in the forest while Ailsa hunted, and they’d recognised their familial connection immediately. Domnall had later confirmed it for her, explaining their past and what had happened to Ytha.

  There was no question in Ailsa’s mind. They were siblings, and Ytha would live with her, until some other dwelling became available. After the death of their mother’s brother and son—killed during a raid—Ytha had moved into the empty cottage. Her foster mother, Nessa, often joined her through the long winter months.

  Wringing the water from her hair, Ailsa noticed that Ytha stood still, her eyes unfocused, in a trance-like state. Her hand opened, and the garment she clutched fell from her fingers.

  Ailsa moved to her side, waiting anxiously, knowing that Ytha would soon return to herself. After only a moment or two, her green gaze, like Ailsa’s own, met hers.

  “I saw a vision of Garth and Thorolf. I think they might soon return. We should hurry.”

  Ailsa reached for her tunic on the ground, but Ytha caught her wrist. Ailsa looked up to see her sister’s eyes brimming with tears.

  “Thorolf?” Ailsa whispered, fearful of the pity in her sister’s gaze.

  “No, no, our husbands are safe. However, there is much suffering in your future. I saw pain and sadness which you alone must bear. I’m sorry I cannot tell you more.”

  She shook her head, full of sorrow, but Ailsa hugged her fiercely. The gift only showed part of what would come.

  Dressing quickly, Ailsa gathered up the basket, and they ran deftly from rock to rock, descending from the high cliffs, hurrying back across the meadows, running toward the village.

  Entering the village, the sisters discovered the settlement remained quiet. As it was they waited many hours before there was any sign of the warriors return. Ytha’s visions were not always accurate. Uneasy thoughts invaded Ailsa’s mind as once again she pondered on the Norsemen’s motives. Late in the evening word spread that they were here. Many of the villagers gathered outside Eithne and Brandr’s dwelling, torches held aloft. Ailsa immediately spotted Thorolf amongst the throng. He caught her to him, lifting her from the ground to press his forehead to hers, his hand at the back of her head, tangling in her hair. For a moment, he stared into her eyes, and Ailsa saw the similarity to her wolf, Shadow.

  Gripped by a sudden sense of doom, she drew him close. He met her mouth, she kissed him fiercely, possessively—a kiss he returned. Taking control, he plunged his tongue deep inside her mouth. Passion ignited between them so that when he finally released her, she stumbled, unsteady on her feet. Regaining her poise, she stepped back to study him. Dried blood covered his skin and clothing.

  “Are you hurt?” She asked anxiously as she ran her hands over his chest, looking for cuts that would explain the blood.

  “Nay… Brandr.” His voice trailed off.

  That’s when Ailsa understood how seriously the jarl had been wounded. Her face desperate, Eithne signalled to Myrna, beckoning her to come and help.

  The villagers were rarely understanding of her sister, but Ailsa had hoped they would trust Ytha to help with the healing on this occasion.

  For the time being, Ailsa had a husband to attend. Practicality banished her previous misgivings.

  Urging Thorolf away from the crowd, she tugged his arm, “Come. Let me tend to your wounds. You can tell me what happened while I make broth, and then you should rest.”

  He seemed to understand, nodding his agreement to follow Ailsa to the privacy of their dwelling.

  As she bathed his scratches, he mimed the attack. In truth, she had no wish to know the violent details and was glad he lacked sufficient knowledge of her tongue. Tending to a wound on his upper arm, she noticed the thick, leather and metal cuff that circled from his wrist to elbow, had sustained a circular cut.

  Dread crept through her.

  She knew the weapon that created such a neat curve.

  “Huldra?” he asked, using his strange name for her.

  “Did you see the man who made this mark?” she asked urgently.

  Thorolf frowned. “I fought.” He acted out the attack made on him with a curved blade.

  Ailsa’s mind raced… Could it possibly be?

  “Huldra, speak!”

  She looked at him, afraid.

  If Irb lived, was Thorolf her rightful husband?

  She must overcome her dislike of Father Godfrey in order to ask him.

  If only she knew for certain that Irb was dead.

  “Ailsa!” So, he did know her name. She was tired of huldra, whatever that meant.

  She wrung the washcloth between her hands. “I fear the man you fought with could be Irb, my first husband.” She attempted to steady her voice. “If that is so, then you are not my husband, and I have sinned.”

  She couldn’t tell if he understood, but he seemed just as agitated as her.

  Ailsa hastened to describe the man with whom she’d spent so many years—medium height with hair the colour of winter bracken.

  If he lived still, had he chosen to leave her and sire a child with another woman? Ailsa had conceived twice, but each time she’d lost the babe.

  “It might not be him,” she said, but Thorolf only nodded.

  Then she noticed Thorolf’s sword was missing.

  “Where is Ásgæirr?”

  “Gone.” He looked unsettled at the mention of the weapon.

  Ailsa made a sympathetic sound, but her mind was still fixed upon her first husband. While Thorolf rested on the bed, she turned back to preparing supper—not just for them, but for her sister and her husband too, for how could Ytha make soup when Ailsa had possession of the mushrooms they had collected?

  It seemed there was no end to the burdens, for now both Bjorn and Brandr were gravely wounded. Would the remaining men fight to become jarl? They needed to stay united to help defend Achnaryrie. What if the other Norsemen chose to return to their homeland? A strong leader was essential to their survival.

  “Come, mun, my hordund munuth giljarthar!” Thorolf’s husky voice demanded.

  Setting aside the mushrooms, Ailsa couldn’t help but smile. The cut upon his arm had done nothing to cool her husband’s ardour. She’d learned enough of his language to recognise his crude bed talk, his request for her to give his manhood her attention.

  “Your cock will have to wait, husband. Your stomach is my responsibility right now. I shall see to your other needs after you’ve eaten. Would you like some bread to stave off your hunger while you wait?”

  He gave a gruff sigh, accepting the piece of bread she tore from the loaf for him, sliding his palm up her thigh ev
en as he thanked her, his eyes glittering.

  “Gud kona, Ailsa.”

  She continued to clean mushrooms and cut herbs, adding them to the water simmering in the cauldron over the fire, but it wasn’t long before a large hand gripped her upper arm.

  “Come,” he commanded again.

  This time, Ailsa allowed him to lead her to the pallet.

  4

  Thorolf took her to bed and worshipped her body, intent on giving her pleasure. As he slipped his hands over her silken skin, he marvelled once again at how he felt about his new wife. Her accomplishments appeared to be endless. She was certainly a skilled home keeper. It seemed she also had a sense of humour, and a welcoming nature—all traits he admired greatly in a woman.

  Her panting gasps of passion spurred him on. She felt deliciously slick as he rotated his hips to give her as much joy as he could. Finally, her throaty cries ignited his own pleasure, and he filled her with his essence, growling with satisfaction.

  Afterwards, he slept, only to wake and find Ailsa gone. He rose and pulled on his loose woollen trousers. The broth smelled good. He was hungry and helped himself to more bread. Ailsa soon returned, explaining that she had taken a portion of the soup over to Ytha, but no one had responded to her knock.

  Ytha, it seemed, had returned to her dwelling with her husband. Thorolf thought Ailsa was explaining that she would take the soup across again in the morn, but not understanding much of his wife’s conversation, he allowed his thoughts to wander. He pondered the issue of succession, should the jarl and his brother not survive. It was a discomforting thought. He prayed for Brandr, including the Christian God in his prayers. Now all he could do was watch and wait. His leader’s fate rested in the hands of all the Gods.

  The next morning, he woke to his little cat’s caresses. It was the best start any man could have to the day.

  He ate a sparse breakfast then set off to find Alarik and the other warriors. It was important to keep their men busy to avoid unrest in the ranks. It was decided that Thorolf should take a contingent of men to cut trees which were needed for building additional houses. Alarik ordered an inspection and repair of all armaments and weaponry. Meanwhile, Garth split the rest of the men into fishing and hunting parties. They were grim-faced and tense while they set about their respective tasks. Each of them felt the strain, and he was sure every man prayed for the brothers, especially their leader.