“Rake through the ashes in the morning and save the largest pieces,” Asta told me. “We’ll hang them up to bring good fortune for the coming year.”
Before closing the great doors, they rolled out a giant wheel, carved from wood kept dry in the barn. Gunnolf set it aflame, and Olaf and Eirik pushed it off, to whirl down the hill — a burning symbol of the sun, cutting through the darkness, its journey ending somewhere in the meadow.
It wasn’t long before the drinking games began, the men competing against the women, while the Jarl and his Lady sat in judgment, deciding which rhymes and insults were most filled with wit. It was no surprise that Helka shone in weaving puns and riddles, easily gaining the better of the men who challenged her. Eirik soon held up his hands and surrendered before his sister, lifting her onto his shoulders as he’d done when they’d hung the mistletoe, parading her about the room as the victor in their battle.
It was good to see her laughing, and Astrid, too. In that atmosphere of merrymaking, the women linked me into their arms, united in sharing their drollery at the expense of their menfolk. My heart swelled with a new feeling of acceptance and, more than ever, I was glad to have made my journey to join Eirik, to begin this new life.
A tug of war followed, wives pitted against husbands, with the children watching wide-eyed as their mothers planted their feet and pulled with all their might. The women of Svolvaen were strong of arm, for the contest was a close one, though it ended with skirts flying, as they were brought to the ground by the superior brawn of their men.
“Come now, mothers, sisters and daughters,” declared Asta. “In gracious forfeit, refill their cups and embrace these men beloved. Rejoice that their strength in sport is also the strength that protects us in times of war.”
Eirik was the recipient of more kisses than seemed his due but I was content to let him revel in them, for it was a night of festivity and I’d no wish to be churlish. It was well into the night before the revellers nodded to sleep upon the benches ranged each side of the great hall, sleeping off the mead they’d enjoyed.
The dawn was thin and grey but I smiled to see it. If Odin’s terrible hunt had passed over our roof, I’d heard nothing. Through the second day of feasting, we sat again around the fire and listened to tales of man-eating trolls, giants and the gods: their cleverness and trickery, jealousies and deceits. I laughed at how Odin dressed as a bride to retrieve his powerful hammer and shivered to hear Helka tell the full story of sweet Baldur’s sojourn in the hidden world of the dead. There was much drinking and eating, the women sharing their gossip as they prepared the table.
Later, Gunnolf encouraged the men in games of chance and threw down a challenge. “Your hand, brother,” he proclaimed, resting his elbow upon the table, “And we shall test your prowess.” Filled already to the brim with ale, he slurred his words.
Eirik was no better, and the result was part comical, as each vowed to prove the superiority of their arm. Yet, there was an edge to the Jarl’s sport. With sleeves pushed to their elbows, laying bare their corded arms, it was clear that the contest was in earnest, as least on Gunnolf’s part. His teeth clenched in grim determination as they pushed back and forth. Bringing Eirik’s fist to the wood, Gunnolf gave a shout of triumph and there was a wildness in his eyes.
While his men cheered his conquest, I thought their hails lacked the fervour of those Eirik had received during the harvest wrestling tournament.
Asta kissed her husband’s forehead then excused herself, pleading her condition.
“Brother, you have the better of me,” conceded Eirik, gracious as he always was.
“Come, Faline,” Gunnolf called. He indicated the jug she carried. “Our horns require attention, and you have the means to satisfy us.”
His bawdiness inspired snorts of laughter but I took no pleasure in his lewdness, worrying that Asta may have heard her husband’s remark as she made her retreat.
I knew Faline enjoyed attention and she seemed willing enough to claim Asta’s place at the Jarl’s side, even if it were to play the whore rather than the wife. However, it was I Gunnolf looked at as he slapped her rump and drained his cup dry, drawing her to him as she filled it once more. My face must have shown my distaste but he gave no rebuke, surveying me with lazy eyes.
With the drinking of more ale, a round of ribald jokes began and I felt inclined to take my own leave, but Eirik bid me stay and sit on his knee. This I did, though I soon regretted it. He’d drunk more than usual and became lustful before his men, bouncing me harshly upon his lap and reaching beneath my skirts.
He acted towards me almost as he had in the days of our first meeting, in the demeaning fashion of a master commanding his thrall. “Come, wench, you’ll not deny me. You like me well enough in our bed.”
“And in the fields, too,” chimed one of the men, to the guffaws of his neighbours.
Eirik pulled aside the fine linen of my bodice, taking my breast in his hand, for all to see.
“Nay, Eirik,” I declared, endeavouring to release myself. However, even in his cups, he was too strong, grasping me all the tighter as I struggled, taking my nipple in his mouth and laughing at my annoyance.
Seeing the leering grins of those about me, my anger broke. I slapped Eirik’s cheek to make my escape, pulling my clothes to cover myself.
“I’m to bed and you may join me if you wish. If you prefer to sleep on a bench with your ale then stay as you are.”
Helka had sat aside, never being one to interfere in the jests of men, but she rose to my side, adding her voice in berating his lack of care.
Gunnolf howled with mirth, slapping Eirik upon the back, a wicked gleam in his eye. “Best do as you’re bid, little brother, since these women are your masters.” He waggled his little finger. “Perhaps you’ve lost your cock already and had better put on an apron.”
At that, Eirik lurched to his feet and, within three steps, had grasped his axe. Helka reached to detain him but he shrugged her away, eyes suddenly blazing. In undermining Eirik’s masculinity, Gunnolf’s insult was the fiercest any man might suffer.
“What say you?” Eirik roared. “I am man enough for any woman, and none the master of me.”
Gunnolf rose to his feet at that.
“None but I,” he snarled. “Remember well that I am master of all Svolvaen and your allegiance is to me.”
The hall fell silent as the words were cast.
“Unless you go to chop wood, you’d best set aside your axe.” Gunnolf’s voice was filled with its own steel.
Eirik lowered his arm. I’d never seen him so, seeming not to know where to look nor what to say. He knelt upon the floor, bowing his head.
“Forgive me, my Jarl. In my haste, I did not see the joke. The ale unbridled my temper but my allegiance is yours, as ever.”
Gunnolf reached down and took the axe from Eirik.
“Beware, brother.” He scanned the faces of his men, as if addressing not just Eirik but them all. “Do not allow that temper to be your undoing.”
He ran his thumb across the sharp edge of the weapon.
“To do so will be to find the blade upon your own neck.”
13
In the days that followed, Gunnolf made no further mention of his brother’s rash outburst. Eirik resumed his usual graciousness before his Jarl but the merriment had been soured by the conflict between them. Perhaps some were afraid of incurring Gunnolf’s wrath, of being humiliated as Eirik had been; others, I believed, disliked seeing Eirik goaded and empathized with his ire.
My anger at Eirik’s crude treatment of me soon abated, for I knew it had been the ale that had stirred his old ways. He took care not to repeat the indulgence and gave me naught to complain of. I didn’t forget, however.
As Jul ended, Asta’s appetite was poor and she seemed still troubled.
“You must eat, my Lady,” I would urge her, placing the most delicate morsels on her plate. She thanked me but consumed little.
Faline, m
eanwhile, seemed content, oft smiling as if she knew some pleasing secret and hugged it to herself, close guarded.
Svolvaen, too, had its secrets.
As the new year began, the blacksmith came to our door, stumbling in from the cold. “I must report to the Jarl.”
“Speak,” commanded Gunnolf, from his place by the fire. “And take some hot mead to warm you.”
The blacksmith, Anders by name, accepted gladly and drank it down. “I’ve two deaths to report.” He wiped away the froth from his mouth. “My brother’s youngest child and his wife’s elderly mother; they’ve suffered an illness these past weeks and kept abed. They died in the night.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Gunnolf, taking a draught from his own horn. “And what malady was this?”
Ander shifted foot to foot. “I know not what, my Jarl, but that it made some unsightly rash upon the skin.”
My heart lurched at that.
Gunnolf’s eyes narrowed and he cast a glance at me. “’Tis well that the weather has kept them indoors and away from others, lest it spread.”
The blacksmith nodded his assent. “None other in the family seems affected but I’ll keep my watch upon them.”
He bowed to take his leave but Gunnolf bid him stay. “The bodies?”
“We’ve buried them in the snow, my Jarl, for the great burning when the weather abates.”
“Better not to wait.” Gunnolf stroked his beard. “Today, if you can. Take wood from the store for the pyre.”
“I’ll come,” said Eirik, rising to don his cloak. “You and I may do it, Anders, with your oldest son’s help. We’ll save your brother the burden, stoking the fire high, to carry them onwards swiftly.”
The snow whirled into the room as they departed, bringing a gust that near extinguished the flames of our hearth. I rose to rake them over, placing fresh pine branches on the embers, as would easily catch.
I knew what had killed the child and the grandmother. Left untreated, the poison had festered.
Gunnolf, Helka and Eirik were talking late around the fire, as they often did. Asta retired soon after the nattmal, though she’d barely touched her smoked herring nor the buttermilk.
I drew the brush slowly through her hair, until its white silk shone.
“Lie down beside me, Elswyth,” she bade. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Blowing out the lamp, I nestled to her back and slept, until I woke with cold in my bones. I’d lain upon the furs rather than under them and the night frost was hard.
Lowered voices muttered in the great hall, punctuated at times by the rising of one above the others.
Taking Asta’s cloak, I crept forward to look through the shadows at the three backs hunched around the glow of the fire.
“With the first thaw, we must act.” It was Gunnolf who spoke. “I wish revenge on Skálavík.”
“What of Hallgerd’s pact with their old jarl?” answered Eirik. “They’ve kept their word. Near thirty years have passed with peace between us.”
“Time doesn’t weaken a blood feud,” snarled Gunnolf. “Our uncle Hallgerd lacked the stomach to bring battle to their door but we must avenge our mother.”
The savagery in Gunnolf’s tone chilled me. I’d never heard him speak so violently and wondered what had brought this depth of feeling. Eirik had told me that his mother had died when he was barely three years old but I didn’t know the circumstances.
“We might join our blood with that of Skálavík.” I heard Eirik say. “It would end the feud. Jarl Eldberg might accept Helka for his bride.”
“Marry Eldberg!” she protested. “I’d rather lie with the hog in the sty.”
“Nay,” snapped Gunnolf. “Hallgerd is two years dead and I’ve waited long to overthrow the pact. I am Jarl, now, and will have my revenge. I’ll let the dogs feast on those Eldberg loves, then crush him beneath my foot.” Gunnolf laughed but there was no mirth in it. “Besides which, the little birds I pay to tell me of our enemies have sent notice that Eldberg has some new wife in his bed. So, that alliance is no longer possible, brother.”
I imagined Helka’s relief at this news, as I watched her shoulders relax.
Gunnolf took another swig of ale. “He’ll pay for the actions of his father, as will all Skálavík.”
The silence hung heavy before Eirik nodded. “Aye, brother. I understand your wish.” He took a long draught from his cup. “However, I’ve no desire to lead us to empty defeat. Jarl Eldberg’s warriors outnumber ours fourfold.”
“Asta’s clan have pledged their help,” added Helka.
“They have,” conceded Eirik, “But the match was made by our uncle with an eye to her dowry. I don’t trust her menfolk to fight to Valhalla’s gates. They prosper only because they live upon an island easily defended.”
“I’m ahead of you, brother, with an alliance strong enough to bring victory to our cause. Before the snows came, I sent a petition to Jarl Ósvífur of Bjorgyn, offering Helka’s hand to his son, Leif. You’ll travel as soon as the way is clear.”
Helka’s voice was edged sharp. “And I have no say in the matter.”
Gunnolf growled in displeasure and I wondered, not for the first time, at Helka’s boldness.
She would comply with nothing against her will but Eirik attempted to sway her, nonetheless. “Set aside your grief for Vigrid. Your unwed state is an insult to Freya and all the gods, who made women for the pleasure they bring to men and for the bearing of children.”
I flinched to hear him say so for, if the bearing of children were a woman’s duty, had I not also failed?
I couldn’t see her face but I imagined her eyes blazing. “I’ll never marry again, unless to a man of my own choosing.”
“Enough!” Gunnolf’s voice rose in a curse. He grasped her arm. “You’ll have the man I put before you.”
“The decision is wise, Helka,” Eirik urged. “Leif Ósvífursson is renowned as a warrior and will become Jarl in due course. It will be a good match.”
Helka answered most coolly. “I might direct you to the same path, brother. I hear that young Freydís Ósvífursdóttir is in need of a husband. Why not an alliance forged from your marriage? She’s newly reached her womanhood, I believe, and comely. You should take an honest wife. You’ve spent too many years casting your seed in random fields. If you won’t marry for love then do so for our people.”
I choked back an impulse to step forward and rage at Helka. My blood turned to ice at the thought of Eirik laying this Freydís in the bed we shared, touching her hair, her skin. I held my breath, waiting to hear how he’d answer.
He seemed about to speak but the words did not leave his lips.
Helka tossed her head in frustration. “I see that I must decide for us, brother. Your bravery only runs to violence, and not to matters of the heart.” She jabbed at the fire, but there were no more flames. The embers had lost their heat. “I make no promise of compliance but, as soon as the weather allows, we’ll travel to Bjorgyn. One way or another, we’ll return with an alliance.”
Gunnolf lifted the jug and poured from it. “Here’s to new allies, dear sister, dear brother,” he toasted. “May you find them to your liking… If not, I suggest you do not return at all.”
14
Helka donned her cloak and departed. Gunnolf too, rose, taking some steps towards the boxed room he shared with Asta before changing his mind. Turning away, he removed himself, instead, to the bench where Faline slept.
No doubt she’d heard all that had passed, as well as I. How gleeful she’d be. Not one word had Eirik offered to protest his love. Helka, too, had betrayed me. She’d rightly warned me against believing Eirik ready to wed, but I’d not expected her to urge his marriage to another. I’d thought her to take my part, to wish my happiness as much as I wished hers.
I could foresee how it would go. Once in Bjorgyn, Helka would persuade Eirik to seal an alliance of marriage, that she might be spared the contract herself. If Helka convinced hi
m of her abhorrence, Eirik’s sense of duty would force his choice.
He didn’t shift from the fire, continuing to stare into the embers. I watched him with neither the will to move nor speak. What could I say that would be worth the breath?
I’d struck a bargain and Eirik had kept his part. I wanted for nothing. He might have taken me against my will, making me his thrall. Instead, it had been my choice to accept whatever terms I found under his roof; not as his wife but as his consort. I’d made my choice willingly, to leave my homeland and travel to Svolvaen. I’d been eager to learn of my heritage from the father I’d never known: the Viking who’d raped my mother and conceived my birth. I’d embraced this path, eager to learn about all that shaped my nature, but I was not ready to learn that the man I loved thought so little of me.
Had I been born from my father’s marriage bed, would I have been valuable enough to have my hand sought by Eirik? There was little enough chance of that, now, when he had the pleasure of my body and no obligation beyond my keep.
As it was, I’d found only another place where I was tolerated more than accepted. Were Eirik to grow tired of me, my position would be lost. I burned with the injustice of it.
It could do no good to dwell on my discontent, yet I couldn’t set aside my heart’s true yearning.
I walked to where he sat. When he looked up, I saw an anguish I’d not expected, though I couldn’t tell if he was simply pained that I’d overheard or anguished at Gunnolf’s insistence at an allied marriage.
Leading him to our chamber, I undressed him and myself, until our bare skin touched and my breasts brushed the hair of his chest. He guided my hand to where he wished it but I was not ready to lose myself in lovemaking. Instead, I lay him down and curled my body to his.
“If you take a wife, what will become of me?”
“You’ll stay with me.” Eirik’s voice was firm. “You’re mine.”
“You won’t send me away? Marry me to another man?”
Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2) Page 7