It should have been some consolation but of what consequence was it? I could summon neither anger with Sylvi nor any joy for myself.
“You were gone so long,” I said, at last.
“Eirik’s horse threw him as we were entering Bjorgyn. The injury wasn’t severe but I insisted travel was impossible. I kept him there far longer than was necessary.”
“But, why?” This I couldn’t understand.
“Selfish reasons.” Helka’s cheek reddened. “Leif… I needed to discover if there could be more between us… more than desire. I needed time, Elswyth, to know him, and for him to know me. Love comes by strange paths. I feel that he’s been waiting for me, all this time. I still grieve for Vigrid but my heart has opened again.”
“The man who sat beside you?”
This was something, at least. For Helka, I could be glad.
“You saw?” Helka shook away her confusion. “So, it was you he ran after? Gunnolf leapt from the table, shouted that he saw a face outside.”
Perhaps it had been me; perhaps another.
Helka’s voice was firm. “You must know, Elswyth, that Eirik was eager to return. The men of Bjorgyn have not his prowess; he might have bedded a dozen women but none interested him.” She leaned closer. “I made him stay, and he could hardly refuse since my choice would give him freedom.”
Nothing made sense to me. “But, Freydís?”
“Ha! What of her?” Helka stifled her laughter. “She’s pretty enough but hardly a match for Eirik. Even had he wanted her, her father would never have permitted it. He believes a man must demonstrate horsemanship above all; to fall from his mount before we’d even been presented to Jarl Ósvífur hardly boded well, and I made such a fuss of the injury! The Jarl declared that no groom with the prospect of a limp would be worthy of his daughter, no matter the strength of his sword arm!”
“Then the marriage…”
“Is mine, of course!” Helka squeezed my hand again. “To Leif! Freydís is young but she has a stubborn streak. She begged to accompany us, to see the lands with which Bjorgyn was allying. Her father saw no reason to keep her from the adventure. The weather has been clement and she carries herself well on horseback, as they all do.”
“And, Eirik?”
The curtain separating the box bed from the rest of the great hall pushed aside and he was suddenly standing over me, broad and strong, filling the space with his masculinity.
Helka retreated as Eirik wrapped me tightly in his embrace, holding me close, my cheek pressed to the warmth of his chest and his own resting upon my head. My body remembered him and my heart ached with the knowledge of my loss.
“My Elswyth,” he murmured. When he released me, it was to draw my mouth upwards, in a kiss so deep that I forgot all but my love for him.
“I thought you were lost to me,” he said, at last. “All those weeks I was away from you, I came to know my mistake. My thoughts were with you, every day; my heart was yours, always.”
I wished to speak but no words would come.
He pushed back the strands of my hair that had come loose. “What must you have thought and endured! And all because I was too foolish to see what was before me. If I’d been here, I would never have allowed them to accuse you.” His brows knitted in anger. “By the gods! How you are alive, I know not, but I thank Odin for it!”
He held my face between his hands, his voice fevered. “When they told me how they’d treated you, I wished to strike down Gunnolf where he stood! Only Helka’s insistence stayed my sword.”
I placed my hand over his, searching his gaze as he continued. “I looked for you… I couldn’t bring myself to sit at his table. I was in the stable while they ate.”
There was so much I wished to say. Above all, I needed to tell Eirik of my errors and ask his forgiveness. I was not blameless. He had wronged me while following his sense of duty while I had chosen my path wholly in anger. My resentment and wounded pride had led me only into further pain.
He tightened his hold, as if never to let me go, embracing me with his body and the ardour of his love. His voice broke with emotion, husky with longing and all that lay unspoken between us.
“Elswyth, I must have you: for my bed, for my pleasure and your own, to bear my children as my wife, for all the time given to us by the gods. Whatever is past, we must forget. From this day forward, we shall promise to love one another and this will be all that matters.”
In answer, I raised my face and took another kiss. For what the gods decreed would be, and I knew that I would always be safe in the arms of the man who loved me above all others.
Epilogue
It was a summer of marriages, not only mine to Eirik, and Helka’s to Leif. Ylva was among them; she gave her hand not to the young man who’d spurned her but to Halbert, the blacksmith’s son. I was glad of it, and for all the happiness that ripened, along with Svolvaen’s crops. We were healing, in many ways.
I sometimes thought of Gunnolf, and Faline, free, at last, of ambitions and fears, jealousies and resentments. I hoped they were at peace, and Asta, too.
Svolvaen gained a new jarl, and Eirik’s shoulders bore the honour well, though he mourned the loss of his brother. No matter the many grievances between them, they had been blood-bound.
It shamed me to admit my many follies to Eirik. I’d lost all sense of myself in trying to destroy the last ruins of my love and had been half mad with remorse over Asta’s death. Gunnolf and I, both, had allowed the worst part of ourselves to reign in those dreadful weeks.
Eirik sat in silence as I spoke. I feared he’d be unable to forgive but he blamed himself more than I.
The cause of the sores was never known, but we’d found our cure. It would take time, as I’d foreseen, for me to earn respect, to counter mistrust. None called me ‘witch’ or ‘murderess’; not to my face, at least. I told my story, as best I could, but not all of what had occurred could be explained. The workings of the gods and those places beyond our earthly realm are not ours to fathom.
Each night, Eirik stroked my hair until I fell asleep. In his arms, I believed there would be no bad dreams for, whatever the future held, we would face it together.
Glossary
to go ‘a-viking’ – to go raiding/marauding
dagmal – morning meal
draug – the returning dead, restless due to some injury suffered in life
draumskrok – a nonsensical dream
hörgr – altar stone
huldra – a seductive female forest spirit luring men to become her slave or lover, or to bring their death
jarl – the chieftain of the community
Jörmungandr – the serpent which encircles the Earth and, on releasing its tail, will begin the events of Ragnarök
Jul – the New Year festival
karl – a free man within the community, serving the jarl as his leader
nattmal – late afternoon/early evening meal
Ragnarök – the great battle between the gods and the final destruction of the world, leading to rebirth
Ostara – the spring festival
skald – a travelling storyteller/bard
thrall – a slave (often captured during raids)
If you enjoyed ‘Viking Wolf’, Emmanuelle would love to receive your review via Amazon.
click here to leave a few words
A review is the very best way to send an author a ‘hug’ and encourage them to keep writing.
Meanwhile, if you were intrigued by this story, don’t forget to check out the prequel, ‘Viking Thunder’, and look out for ‘Viking Beast’, being released in 2019
Years of ruthless savagery have earnt him the name of 'Beast'
Jarl Eldberg of Skálavík is the fiercest of warriors, revelling in bloodshed and conquest, but there is nothing the mighty warrior will not do to protect his family. When Skálavík wakes to find its homes on fire, Eldberg believes he knows who is behind the attack. Svolvaen has broken the treaty! Losing his
young wife and unborn child to the flames, he vows revenge. Svolvaen's new jarl must take responsibility, and the Beast will make him pay.
Elswyth is Eirik's weakness—one his enemies will use against him
Newly wedded to Eirik, now Jarl of all Svolvaen, Elswyth carries the baby they both long for. However, just as their happiness seems to be complete, she is kidnapped by Svolvaen's fiercest enemy.
Endeavouring to save not only herself but Svolvaen from destruction, Elswyth persuades her brutish captor to face Eirik in hand to hand combat. The Beast agrees, but on one condition: Elswyth will become his thrall, submitting to his every command, and will only gain her freedom if Eirik is victorious.
With the tribes of Svolvaen and Skálavík on the brink of war, can Elswyth forge peace, and at what cost to her own heart?
'Viking Beast' is a novel of love, betrayal, secrets and redemption.
Viking Thunder
The sizzling prequel to ‘Viking Wolf’ - available on Kindle and as an audio-book, via Amazon
Unafraid to bloody his axe, Eirik plunders the western lands, taking its treasures, and its women. He never expects to meet a maiden who first scorns his seduction and then responds with greater passion than he has ever known.
Unable to fight her arousal, Elswyth submits all too willingly to Eirik’s fierce lovemaking, but is she fearless enough to forge a new path across the vast, dark sea, placing her happiness in the hands of her Viking captor?
About the Author
Emmanuelle de Maupassant lives with her husband (maker of tea and fruit cake) and her hairy pudding terrier (connoisseur of squeaky toys and bacon treats).
She likes sushi, and marzipan, and the Scottish Highlands.
You can find her on Twitter and Facebook
Send her a hello. Tag her in a review.
Give her a wave, and she’ll wave back.
Join Emmanuelle’s reader group: news of sales, plus gossip and giveaways, delivered to your inbox.
(click here)
For behind the scenes chat, you may like to join Emmanuelle’s Boudoir, on Facebook.
www.emmanuelledemaupassant.com
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Adrea is a Melbourne-based freelance writer, editor and former stage director. She holds a BA (Hons) in theatre studies. Through her fiction and non-fiction writing, she engages with themes of the feminine, often focusing her lens on the rich diversity of feminine sexuality.
She is also deeply interested in myth and fairy tale re-tellings. After many years interpreting play-texts as a theatre director, Adrea is now applying those skills in deepening the “theatre on the page”, enhancing the writer’s voice through developmental editing.
Adrea’s erotic short stories and poetry appear in various anthologies, including The Big Book of Submission 2 (2017), For the Men (2016), Coming Together: In Verse (2015) and Licked (House of Erotica 2015), The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 13, and A Storytelling of Ravens (Little Raven 2014). Her provocative flash fiction and short stories feature on many online sites.
In another guise, she has published a feminist creative essay in Etchings literary journal (2013), and her short memoir story was published in an Australian anthology the same year. Adrea is working on acollection of themed erotic short stories Watching You Watching Me and her first novella, a mythical re-telling.
To discover more, visit her at:
https://koredesires.wordpress.com/about/
https://www.facebook.com/adrea.kore
https://twitter.com/adrea_kore
Bonus Material
Read on, for the opening chapters of ‘The Gentlemen’s Club’, the first volume in the ‘Noire’ series - set in Victorian London.
She has vowed never to belong to any man. He has promised never to let a woman rule his heart.
Confirmed bachelor and rake Lord McCaulay holds women in disdain: empty-headed, simpering debutantes and gossiping matrons alike... until he meets the woman who will change everything.
His hunger for her is insatiable, his recklessness without limits.
Recommended by Stylist magazine as ‘a mind-blowing’ read.
As London sits damp under autumn drizzle and all respectable gentlefolk are either before their fires or in their beds, Lord McCaulay, handsome in full evening dress, is leaving his fashionable residence on Eaton Square, Belgravia, for the five-minute carriage journey to his club. He has endured a dull few hours in the company of the great and the good, including his uncle, the Duke of Mornemouth. McCaulay enjoys a good income and his responsibilities are few, but humouring his relatives remains a duty he must endure.
The only conversation worth his breath was with a fellow member of the British Ornithological Union, discussing the good work of the ladies of the Society for the Protection of Birds, who are rightly intent on discouraging the wearing of plumage in hats.
Lord McCaulay does not encourage women to voice an opinion on any matter. However, his own love of birds, to which he devotes many hours of study, moves him to hold the Society’s dedication in high regard. He accedes that their efforts in deterring the destruction of almost a million birds annually, merely to provide plumage for the headdresses of the feather-brained, are more worthwhile than those of the uncouth suffragists.
It is now time to indulge his pleasures. Replete with the usual dinner conversation denouncing the moral decline of the working classes, Lord McCaulay is ready to fulfil his own hunger for vice.
The luxurious salon on the second floor of the club, furnished in plush velvets and damasks, the floor spread with Persian rugs, is lit by a chandelier of black glass and by the dim glimmer of lamplight. A dozen men are seated in a semi-circle of armchairs; despite their half-moon masks, he recognizes them all.
Lord McCaulay orders a large whisky and settles himself comfortably. The Master of Ceremonies enters and bows, bidding those gathered welcome and assuring them that tonight will be particularly memorable. They are honoured to present Mademoiselle Noire, who will be gracing the club over coming weeks, orchestrating a variety of entertainments for their amusement.
The lady in question enters, walking the outer circumference of the room, where the shadows cling thickest, so that her visage is not immediately apparent. Her skirts brush the back of chairs and she pauses behind each, as if to stroke the nape of a neck with her gloved hand; yet, she does not. Her scent trails behind: heavy with wood and musk, and bergamot.
An unusual choice for a woman, muses McCaulay.
Her circuit complete, she steps forward, and McCaulay sees that her costume is modest: a black taffeta gown, revealing shoulders and a little décolletagé. Her waist is cinched tightly, as is the fashion, and her skirts are abundant. Black evening gloves cover most of her arm, and, in one hand, she carries a riding crop. The swell of her form beneath the silk indicates a full figure.
Her skin is luminous in the lamplight. Auburn hair is pinned high, every lock precisely placed. Her eyes, framed within guipure lace, glitter darkly.
A clap of her hands brings forward a statuesque African from behind the drapes, clad only in a leather hood. His muscular body is naked and oiled. He is the epitome of physical accomplishment. Every hair has been removed from his body, so that the muscles in his chest stand boldly and his generous member is proudly unveiled. Its full length and girth are visible. It hangs heavily between his thighs.
Read on… via Amazon
More from Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Dorchadas House
Drawn to the wild landscape of the remote Scottish island of Eirig, Iris takes employment at the dilapidated manor of Dorchadas House. However, there are strange cries in the night, and Iris begins to have disturbing dreams about the maze, planted centuries ago in the manor grounds. Iris increasingly feels the brooding presence of Neas and Eachinn, the two brutish farmhands who seem as much a part of Dorchadas House as the old maze.
As autumn wanes and Samhain Eve approaches, the island folk prepare to honour the dead and the Godde
ss Nicneven, as they have done for generations past.
Has something more than chance drawn Iris to Eirig?
Also by Emmanuelle:
Cautionary Tales
inspired by Eastern European superstitions and folklore
Highland Pursuits and Highland Christmas
a 1920s mystery-romance series
The Gentlemen’s Club and Italian Sonata
the ‘Noire’ series of darkly erotic romance
Baby Love
a romantic comedy, set in Cornwall
Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2) Page 14