“Now!” He growled, his hands firmly on my waist, pulling me down so that he slid inside in one long stroke.
Burying his face in my breasts, he pulled a nipple into his mouth, tugging hungrily, grazing me with his teeth.
“Faster!” Eirik groaned, wrapping his arms tight across my lower back.
I was soon close to the edge, rolling my hips, grinding my need against the base of his cock, crying out as I rose and fell.
As my tumult crashed upon me, Eirik pressed his fingers between my cheeks, pushing me to take him deeper and with the rhythm he so badly wanted, lifting me bodily up and down upon his shaft.
Three more strokes and his head fell back – his eyes wide and glassy, mouth open in breathlessness. His cock leapt inside me, pulsing to his final thrust and groan, and my own terrible delight swept me into the dark chasm.
I lay in the curve of Eirik’s back, listening to the wind rise. I’d once told Helka that I was filled with longing for something I couldn’t name; that I felt I’d die for want of it. Had I found what I was looking for, or had my search only just begun?
3
The barley ripened in the heat, dipping in the lazy winds of late summer. Eirik was a warrior leader of his Viking raiders, but a farmer too, toiling alongside his men to harvest the crop. With their muscle-corded arms and broad shoulders, they were built like oxen: necks thick, and bodies used to labour.
As the afternoon sun retreated, I would walk out to find Eirik in the fields. Among the scent of hay, freshly bundled, stacked beneath a blue sky, I would taste his sweat and the brine of his cock, and give myself, in whichever way pleased him. His men grew accustomed to our habit, slapping him upon the back at my approach, sharing bawdy comments. They nodded to me, in friendly fashion, for I made Eirik happy, and he was well-loved among his men.
Svolvaen was a fertile place, rich in apple orchards, pears and cherries, growing vegetables in abundance, and with good pasture for its livestock. Its people seemed to work for the good of all, without the jealousies and disagreements of my former home.
Gunnolf’s methods of keeping law were both strict and fair. A man caught stealing a side of pork from the smokehouse was bidden to eat only from the trough for a week and to sleep with the pigs. It caused much merriment among the men, as well as having the desired effect upon the miscreant. He was duly humiliated: a punishment worse than any whip-lashing.
The Jarl had a quick tongue, and a temper to match, which he made no effort to curb, as if he wished others to cringe and cover before him. As for those who showed their fear, they received his scorn. Where our paths crossed, I held my head high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of dominating me. Whatever attraction I felt, I pushed it to one side, for I had no wish to tread where my feet should not step.
My nature did not bend easily to service, despite the submission I’d endured under the hand of Faline’s father. However, I found it no trial to wait upon Lady Asta, who was all gentleness. She was with child, but with many months ahead of her, she was able to attend herself in most matters. Faline and I did little more than heat the water for her bath and care for her wardrobe. Faline bristled under her diminished status, having been raised with servants of her own. Not being born to luxuries, I was more easily content, though my position had changed greatly since I’d sat at the left hand of my chieftain, with others to wait upon me.
Asta enjoyed our lively companionship, and we passed many hours in braiding her hair, sitting under the sun’s warmth, the Jarl’s wife patiently teaching us whatever of the language and customs she deemed most useful.
There was no need for me to dirty my hem in the sty or to labour in the skinning of game for our stew. I knew how to tend livestock, and to cook, but these were Guðrún and Sylvi’s duties. Nonetheless, I helped in small ways, for it seemed wrong to set myself above them.
With Asta’s leave, I found a homely comfort in milking the goats and cows, and in churning the butter. Eirik said the cheeses I made were the best he’d tasted. With Sylvi, I went down to the shore to harvest dulse; the seaweed brought a briny tang to the fish stew she was adept at making. I learnt to preserve meat in vats of sour whey to prevent it from spoiling, and hung herring in the smokehouse, or outdoors, to dry in the brisk, northern wind. I refilled the lamps each morning with fish oil, adding cottongrass long enough for the wick.
I took on the language of my new home, word by word, reading my neighbours not only by their expressions – which were mostly of curiosity, sometimes of pity, or scorn – but by the phrases I began to unravel. I wondered how many years it would take for them to accept me, to look into my eyes and not see a stranger. I had Viking blood, violently conceived during a raid by the Northmen more than twenty years ago, but I hadn’t been raised as one of them. Their rituals and habits were not yet mine but I wished to learn. For too long, I’d ached with the knowledge of not belonging; now, even within my diminished status, I yearned to be accepted.
The women of Svolvaen regarded Faline and I with envy, I could tell, for we enjoyed comparative leisure. They treated us with a certain reverence, too, for the Lady Asta was respected and loved, and she desired that others make us welcome.
“Her father was a jarl,” Helka told me, “And his before. The marriage ensured an alliance with a settlement further north. She came with a rich dowry, of golden-threaded gowns and cuffs and rings set with gemstones traded from the East.”
Even without her jewels and fine costume, she was a woman above all others: regal, self-possessed, and beautiful. It was my pleasure to serve her, and my fortune, for day by day, I came to love her.
Despite his wife’s condition or, perhaps, because of it, Gunnolf left Asta alone much of the day, though he was attentive on his visits, asking after her comfort, placing his palm upon her belly. There was no doubt that he desired the son he believed was to be born. He laughed in her company, as her sweet voice related some household tale, or sang gently. He was wont to lay his head upon her lap, his eyes closed as she stroked his hair. With her, he sought to be cherished, rather than feared.
However, he was as other men, with an eye that too often roamed to young women of good flesh and reasonable looks. He seemed well able to separate love from desire. Perhaps, it had always been that way, and Asta was able to accept his nature, without thinking any less of Gunnolf, or of herself. She spoke never a word against him.
He made little effort to conceal his gaze, oft watching as I carried out my modest duties. I’d no wish to fall prey to his lasciviousness. Though he spoke rarely to me and placed no hand upon my person, he reminded me of a lone wolf I’d encountered as a child, long ago, playing in the forest. I’d swiftly climbed a tree and it had appraised me from below, as if deciding whether I was worth the trouble of pouncing upon or if that pleasure might wait another day.
I found the Jarl regularly with Guðrún or Sylvi, taking one or the other as they stood, up against the wall, or outside, barely concealed, while his wife was elsewhere, growing his child in her belly.
I felt sure that Faline was playing a certain strategy with the master of the house, allowing herself to be taken, but upon her own terms. As she served his mead and meat, Faline brushed her breast against his arm and nudged him with her hip. She would dart away, to watch him coolly, from Asta’s side, wetting her lips as he surveyed her, twitching with suppressed desire.
If Asta knew, she did not betray it. Rather, she readily came to Faline’s defence. “Don’t be angry with her,” she admonished, hearing me rail against Faline’s absences and her laziness; of my worse suspicions, I said nothing. “Some things are best let go, lest our bitterness eat us from within.”
I had not her generosity of spirit, though I admired it. In the days that were to come, I thought often of Asta’s serenity, and tried to emulate it, in the face of what I was unable to change. Yet, I coveted the respect given to her, and yearned for the dignity it would accord me to be Eirik’s wife. I wished for all to know that I was more than a passing whim of his
bed; that his love for me was true, and that he valued me above any other woman. There had been many, of that I had no doubt.
Though I spoke nothing of these quiet resentments, I couldn’t resist asking Asta of the ceremonies that accompanied a man’s joining to a woman in marriage. She knew, I supposed, that I alluded to my own hopes, for she lowered her eyes, and gave only the briefest of descriptions, with none of the details I craved, in my wish to imagine my own wedding to the man I loved.
I took my leave to walk through the village one afternoon, watching the younger children in their play, those not yet made busy in helping their mothers. They were the same as those from my own village, the same as children everywhere. Some were afraid of me, others laughed to hear me speak. I wondered when I might have my own child, to play alongside these: a child for Eirik to carry upon his shoulders, and who would grow up to belong. But, my bleeding came as it always had, and my belly remained flat.
As I stood, a boy of no more than two toppled and scraped his knee, with a howl. He ran to his mother, seated nearby, a baby at her breast, and buried his face in her skirts. She moved the baby to one side as the older child raised his arms to request the comfort of her lap but there was no room for both and she was obliged to shake her head.
I stepped forward, offering my own arms, for the baby had finished its feed, but she drew back and chivvied her son to run along. Perhaps it was the rise of his wailing once again or that she saw the shadow of hurt crossing my face, but she beckoned me to sit beside her.
With a nod, she passed the dozing babe into the crook of my elbow, and lifted the boy into her own arms. How beautiful the baby was, pale lashes resting upon rounded cheeks. I held him tightly, eager for his warmth, wondering how it would feel for those lips, pursed in sleep, to suckle at my own breast. My heart ached with need, to hold my own child.
“I’m Astrid,” said the woman, shifting the weight of the boy, who had ceased his weeping and was now peering at me, though his arms remained wrapped behind his mother’s head.
I smiled in return and gave my name. I praised the health of her baby and her little boy, and we fell into halting conversation. She was more than ten years older than I, and her aspect was weary, but she remained an attractive woman. She had, but recently, become a widow, for her husband had been among those of Eirik’s raiding party who had not returned. The news pained me, for I remembered the day on which I’d tended the wounds of those men, and seen Eirik’s grief for his comrades lost. There were women of my former home, too, who’d lost their husbands, and at the hands of Eirik’s fearsome band. How fruitless it was, such violence, and for what purpose, I thought bitterly.
“Eirik has been good to us, giving us some of his own livestock.” Astrid sighed. “I would remarry, but there are few enough men for the women of this village.” She regarded me silently for a while before closing her eyes, rocking the toddler against her shoulder.
The baby had just begun to stir when a young girl appeared behind Astrid, letting her mother know that she’d go to the lower meadow to bring back their goats from grazing.
“You’re a good girl, Ylva.” Astrid stroked her daughter’s arm. “Keep on your shawl, remember, and hurry back.”
I couldn’t help but wonder at the linens Ylva had wrapped closely around her neck, for it was a fine day, and warm.
Astrid looked at me once more, and the infant I held, now balling its fists to its eyes and stretching in wakefulness. She slipped her boy to the ground, sending him to play, and reached to take the baby from me.
Her face was pale as she spoke. She was uneasy, but I sensed her desire to unburden herself, and speaking such things is sometimes easier with a stranger. There was no one near but she lowered her voice, nonetheless.
“My daughter suffers an affliction. She woke with an unsightly sore upon her shoulder several days ago, but now has two more, about her neck.”
I listened with concern. I’d seen my grandmother treat various skin ailments. I leaned forward, telling Astrid of my skill, and that I might be able to help. She appeared disbelieving though, doubtless, she would wish my claim to be true.
“I’ve given offerings to Eir, washed the pus with mead, and applied honey. It seems only to have grown worse.”
I commended her on her actions, but I was anxious, for I feared that the sore would spread its poison through her daughter’s body and that contact might spread the affliction to others in the family.
“Will Ylva let me see, tomorrow, if I return?” I had already begun to think of remedies I might try, and which combinations of plants would be most effective. “I’ll bring a salve, and we must hope for a cure. I’ll do all I can.”
Astrid smiled uncertainly. “She’ll do as I bid her.”
I rose to take my leave but had one more question to ask. Was anyone else in the village similarly stricken?
Astrid took my hands as she answered. The mothers of two other young women had come to her the night before, each under cover of darkness, having heard about Ylva’s ailment, and eager to know in what ways Astrid had attempted treatment. Neither had admitted to their children suffering but she had known, from their faces, that they carried the same burden.
My mind raced ahead, wondering how many might be keeping their condition hidden, even from those closest to them.
These were my people now, and I would do whatever I could to rid them of this anguish.
4
The next morning, I mixed a salve of equal parts hazel bark and comfrey leaves, smoothed to a paste with honey.
Astrid was waiting for me at her door and her distress was clear. She hurried me inside, leading me to where Ylva sat trembling in her under-tunic. Her eyes appeared huge in her pale face.
I saw at once the cause for Astrid’s fear; for a red welt was rising on Ylva’s cheek.
“She woke with it.” Astra wrung her hands. “And there’s another appearing on her back.”
The baby grumbled in the corner, but Astrid made no move to comfort it.
I helped in lifting off Ylva’s clothing to reveal the oldest sore: angry red on her shoulder, the skin broken at the edges, oozing yellow pus. The ones upon her neck were little better. I wasted no time in applying the remedy, smoothing it upon the broken skin with a wooden spatula.
“Twice a day, apply a small amount. Tie a strap of linen over the top to keep the poultice in place,” I explained. I’d brought several strips of cloth with me, which I laid on the side, beside the pot of salve.
I gave Ylva a smile. “We’ll have you better soon. Be brave.”
In truth, the rapid spread of the young girl’s sores made me anxious. The fields were abundant in plants and herbs with curative powers, and I’d also begun cultivating my own, on the sheltered side of the longhouse, but the virulence of her affliction persuaded me that she needed a stronger remedy. There were many plants with soothing properties for the skin and I usually found the most potent growing in the forest.
Secreted in a leather pouch, I still had the Death’s Cap mushroom I’d picked long ago and kept: its poison a talisman for my safety. I might have used it in those first days of the arrival of Eirik’s men, when they’d plundered our village: might have killed them all, had I wished to do so. Some sense of humanity had stayed my hand. My role was to heal, not to harm. Yet, I’d kept it.
I’d ask Asta if I might accompany Helka into the woodlands, it being her custom to go hunting. She’d guide me deeper than I’d be able to venture alone.
I bid Ylva farewell, and Astrid walked me outside. I was reluctant to leave, knowing the troubles she bore.
“Avoid touching them, and keep them covered,” I urged, kissing Astrid upon the cheek. “I’ll visit again soon.”
She nodded. I sensed there was much she wished to say, but there was no need. We understood each other.
“If anyone else needs me, I’ll be ready. Tell them to watch for me.”
I felt sure that Ylva was not alone. Behind closed doors, there woul
d be others who fretted and feared. If I could help them, I would.
I embraced Astrid once again. Looking over her shoulder, I saw the woman, standing no more than twenty steps away, watching with a ferocious expression. She carried a sturdy baby on her hip, fair-haired and with eyes of the lightest blue. The woman’s own hair, plaited to one side and falling to her waist, was a rich auburn-red. Even from a distance, I could tell the child was a boy, his features being pronounced in the way they rarely are among girl-children. He looked back at me earnestly, chewing upon something hard clutched in his fist.
“Who’s that?” I asked Astrid. “Has she come to find me? Do you think she suffers as Ylva does?”
She turned to look but spun back swiftly, moving her body to block the woman from my sight. Astrid’s eyes darted away, not wishing to meet mine, but I persisted.
“She means to talk to me, surely?”
It clearly pained Astrid to tell me, but my squeeze of her hand persuaded her to be frank.
“It’s Bodil, married to Haldor. Her oldest son was among Eirik’s men when they went a-viking; it was his first trip across the sea, his first raid.” Astrid hesitated, for it was a subject that grieved her. “Like my husband, he did not return.”
I felt a pang of sadness on Bodil’s behalf. No wonder she regarded me with such a damnable glare, for her son’s death had been at the hand of my former people.
I looked again at the child in whose face there was something familiar to me. Astrid had not told me all, I was convinced.
“And that little one?” I asked.
Astrid chewed at her lip. I was sorry for it. She’d suffered enough but I couldn’t let the matter rest.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “He’s a strong boy.” Her eyes skirted away again. “He might be Haldor’s… or he might not.”
I could see for sure now. Those eyes were unmistakable, as was the bold set of the chin.
Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2) Page 2