Malice Striker

by Jianne Carlo

  She knew Sumbarten Abbey inside out, the grounds, the gardens, the church, the infirmary, the herbarium. Being blind had not been a hardship surrounded as she was by certainty. Ten steps from her small chamber to the garderobe. Five and ten steps to the stairs; nine and ten stairs to the kitchens.

  Why had this Viking, this Lord Brökk, chosen her for his wife? Nay, he had said the King of the Danes had chosen her for him. Had her father, King Kenneth, decided on this alliance? She knew naught of kings and courts, wanted naught to do with them or with men. She had been well content at the abbey. Skatha bit the insides of her cheeks, welcoming the pain, hoping the sting would clear the horror building in her veins.

  “’Tis square. Five ells from end to end.” Elspeth twined their fingers together. “Your hands are icy, Skatha. Dagrún, is there wood and tinder enough to build a fire?”

  “Aye, Lady Elspeth. I will see to it.”

  Dagrún’s deep voice held the strain of worry, and Skatha knew her old nurse feared for her wellbeing. She longed to reassure Dagrún, but shock and dread stilled her tongue.

  “Continue.” Skatha squeezed Elspeth’s palm.

  “In the center of the room is a bed on a dais. There are four posts and velvet drapes, though the fabric is worn in places. Garments are strewn throughout the chamber, but Muíríne is gathering them into a heap. The stench comes from trays of stale food.”

  “Half of it bloody and raw and not fit for the dogs. But there is evidence of riches. Wooden bowls and plates, goblets, jeweled eating knives. Here, Skatha, feel the workmanship of this bowl and trencher.” Muíríne, a countess whose lineage traced to the Duke of Gascony, had been raised with fine glass, silks, and emeralds and pearls.

  The slap of Muíríne’s slippers on the floor grew louder, and Skatha held out her hands to accept the dishes from her friend. She traced the rim of the bowl and fingered the carvings on the edge of the plate. “Aye. Fine indeed. ’Tis puzzling. Such possessions are not come by with ease. Was not the hall clean and ordered? I smelled no stench there.”

  “Aye. The walls were whitewashed, the tables and benches free of grease.” Elspeth curled her arm around Skatha’s waist. “Shall we count the steps? We have little time before the sun sets.”

  “Aye.”

  They took three strides together, and Skatha halted when Elspeth did.

  “Feel the wall. There is a torch sconce to the right.”

  “I can scent the tallow and feel the slight warmth. How many in the room?”

  “Three on each wall, but only the middle torches are lit.”

  They walked from one end of the room to the other. “Fifteen steps.”

  Skatha refused to contemplate what would occur when the sun set. She concentrated on learning the chamber and familiarizing herself with its contents. One table by the fire, an enormous chair, one small stool, a metal chest, an earthen pitcher filled with icy water, a chamber pot under the massive bed.

  Time hurried onward. By unspoken agreement, Lady Gráinne, Muíríne, and Dagrún worked to make the room habitable, comfortable even, and none spoke of the coming consummation. The fire blazed, and the air in the chamber warmed to the heat of a midsummer’s day. When the servants arrived to scour the walls and floors, Muíríne led Skatha to the bed and helped her onto the mattress.

  “Lady Gráinne had them bring in a new mattress and the bed linens have been changed. Feel, Skatha, ’tis fine fabric, the smoothest weave I have e’er seen.”

  The material felt soft as cream. Skatha skimmed the bed’s surface. “The straw is well-packed. I cannot find any stray ticks.”

  “Aye. To be sure, the jarl is a man of wealth.” Muíríne touched a hand to Skatha’s shoulder. “The servants have brought apples, cheese, and boar slices.”

  “I am not hungry.” The notion of food made her stomach clench.

  “You must eat. We know not what this night holds for you, and you must keep up your strength.” Elspeth sat on the bed and hugged Skatha. “Every wife faces this eve, and every wife lives to see the sun rise on the morrow.”

  Skatha bit her bottom lip until she drew blood. “You speak wise words, but they do not ease the terror heating my insides.”

  “Here. Eat this apple.”

  Muíríne pressed the cool, round fruit into Skatha’s hand.

  “I fear every morsel will find its way back up my throat.”

  “One bite. Then another.”

  The tart apple did not clear the bitterness from Skatha’s mouth, and her throat contracted in protest on each swallow.

  “The sun is low on the horizon. We have but a piddling of time left. Elspeth, Muíríne, Dagrún, see you to finish cleaning the chamber.” Lady Gráinne clapped her hands. “Guards, take the servants back to the longhouse. Dagrún, bar the door. Skatha, ’tis time to prepare you for the consummation.”

  “We will all be praying for you. When ’tis time, close your eyes and give over to the Lord. Think peaceful thoughts. Take yourself elsewhere.” Muíríne gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and scrambled off the bed.

  “God be with you, my friend.” Elspeth squeezed her shoulder. “All will be well.”

  The straw dipped when Lady Gráinne climbed onto the mattress. Skatha heard the sound of the bed curtains being drawn. “We have no time for gentle explanations, child. Say me halt if you do not understand my words. Do not hide under maidenly shyness.”

  Skatha’s nape tingled, and ’twas as if a ghoul scraped ice and fire across her shoulder blades. “I wish only to be prepared, my lady.”

  “I will be blunt then, my child. He will join his body to yours. Men have between their legs a sword of penetration. ’Tis an instrument called by many names: cock, pecker, prick. ’Tis the source of a man’s seed and his manhood. He will penetrate you between your legs and issue his seed into your woman’s flesh.”

  A shudder racked her entire body. For a heartbeat she could not breathe. She frowned. “My lady? There?”

  “Aye. It may be unpleasant and painful. I had the servants bring me softened lard. Hold out your hands.”

  Confused, but trained to obey, Skatha did as she was told. Lady Gráinne placed a small, round bowl in her cupped palms. “Dip your finger in it.”

  She obeyed, inhaled, and tentatively licked the tip of her finger. “Pig lard.”

  “Aye. We will bathe you and dry you now. Then you will lie on this bed naked under the covers. You will take the grease and coat your woman parts. Inside and out. Use your fingers to push as much inside you as you can. Lord Brökk is a large man. His manhood will be of a proportion. The grease will ease his way and lessen your pain.”

  She flinched. Swallowed hard, once, twice, thrice. “How long will it last?”

  “Not long if you do precisely what I tell you.”

  What Lady Gráinne had to tell her next stupefied Skatha. She listened carefully and tried to memorize every detail.

  The women washed her hair and scrubbed her flesh. They wrapped her in a blanket, used drying cloths to wring the moisture from her curls, and untangled her locks with a bone comb they found in a trunk.

  All too soon, she heard the sounds of roaring male voices joined in ribald Gaelic and Norse song. Pecker, prick, the songs the warriors warbled resonated with these words she now recognized. All at once came the knowledge that the men sang of the act to come, the consummation, the penetration. Her head giddy, she fought to gulp in air as an unbearable weight compressed her chest.

  “Hurry. Shed the blanket, climb into the bed, and lie under the linens. Remember what I told you. Do not fight him.” Lady Gráinne gave her a slight push.

  Skatha nodded. Her mouth too dry to form words, she clambered into position. Her limbs froze, and her hands refused to obey the command to pick up the bowl with the lard.

  “I will ensure the bed curtains remain closed.” Lady Gráinne brushed a kiss on Skatha’s temple. “God be with you, my little dove.”

  ’Twas only when she heard his voice that the paralysi
s shattered. She shoved the linen down below her waist.

  He spoke Norse, assuring some warrior he would prick her well. The assembled men burst into a raucous limerick.

  She grabbed the bowl of grease and slathered the gooey paste all over her private parts.

  Push the grease inside as far as you can. Lady Gráinne’s instructions thundered in her mind. Skatha braced herself and thrust her finger into her sheath again and again and again.

  The men’s singing halted.

  She stuffed the bowl under a bed cushion.

  An icy draft blasted her bare shoulders.

  Skatha jerked the sheets to her chin and curled her fingers into a fist when she felt the mattress dip.

  He smelled of forest, leather, and ale.

  She couldn’t breathe, her whole body as stiff and unyielding as a cold slab of marble. Skatha squeezed her eyelids shut. Was he looking at her? She tried to relax her facial muscles, to attain the serene expression that had served her well with visitors to the abbey.

  The straw sighed under his weight.

  She slid sideways and grabbed the linens to remain in place.

  His hand, warm and rough, cradled one cheek. “Look to me, wife.”

  Touch him oft. Caress his sword of penetration and ’twill be over in a thrice. Had she the courage to follow Lady Gráinne’s astonishing advice? Aye. Naught would stop her. Too much had been stolen from her. ’Twas time to take back.

  She turned her head in the direction of his voice, opened her eyes, and laid her palm on his flesh. Hard. He was so hard. No give to his skin. And hot. ’Twas like touching a boulder that had been lying under a blazing sun.

  He stilled.

  She whisked away her hand feeling like she had been burned.

  “Nay.” He captured her wrist, pressed his mouth to the vein throbbing on the underside, and licked the spot.

  With his tongue.

  Too stunned to react at first, Skatha tried to wrest from his grasp when he nipped the heel of her palm.

  He kissed the top of her breast.

  She gasped.

  His mouth covered hers and his tongue plunged inside.

  What madness this?

  He stroked her teeth, touched the tip of her tongue with his, and then suckled.

  A heated, prickling sensation gripped her insides. Of their own accord, her toes curled, and her fingers dug into his arms. He moved to cover her completely and nudged her legs apart with first one knee, then the other.

  His breath came hard and harsh, the hot exhales swooshing over her ear and feathering her cheek. Skatha felt as if she had drunk too much mead; she was fevered, dizzy, and impatient. Though for what she knew not.

  He settled between her legs, and she stiffened when his sword pressed down on her belly. Long, rigid, and throbbing. He moved side to side and his manhood slipped easily in the lard she’d swabbed over her woman’s flesh.

  “Odin’s balls,” he muttered. “You are slick and ready.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him about the grease, but he rose off her slightly, clutched her haunches, and drove into her in one powerful plunge. The impalement staked her immobile. She daren’t move for fear of being ripped apart. Pain lanced her innards, his sword too large, too thick to contain. She hammered his chest with her fists. “Out.”

  “Hush.” He claimed her lips again, sliding his tongue in and out of her mouth, sipping the corners, tugging her lower lip between his teeth. The fervent, rapid caresses distracted and confused her. She dug her heels into the mattress, but that only sank him deeper inside. Surely she’d choke on him; he filled her to her throat.

  Then he drew back, and she heaved a relieved sigh. But just as his sword nigh cleared her sheath’s opening, he shoved back in. Skatha gritted her teeth. Did he mean to torture her with the promise of leaving? In and out, like a hammer driving a nail, save she was no nail, and her sore passage was on fire. He moved faster. She clung to his forearm, and his muscles bunched beneath her hands. He shuddered and roared.

  A cheer broke out.

  She had forgotten about the witnesses. Humiliation slathered heat across her face and throat. Had it not been for his weight upon her she would’ve pulled the linens up over her head. Would they tear back the bed curtains now? Display her naked form to all his warriors?

  He muttered something she couldn’t decipher and removed himself from within her. She couldn’t prevent a low groan of relief. ’Twas over and done with, thank the merciful lord.

  When he shifted to one side and then hauled her into his embrace, she tensed. Lady Gráinne had said ’twould only happen the once. He lumbered off the bed, and she cringed, listening and waiting. After a few moments, Skatha realized he was tearing the linens from the bed.

  He laid her down gently on the mattress. Cold air swept into the cozy warmth the bed curtains had cordoned within. “There is the evidence of my wife’s purity. Out. All of you. Out. Now!”

  Chapter Two

  Skatha awoke groggy and disoriented.

  Memories of the last sennight flooded her mind. Stolen from Sumbarten Abbey. Forced to wed a Viking. Forced to bed a Viking. She shuddered and then hugged herself under the linens. Had he not torn them off the bed last eve?

  She remembered little after the consummation. She’d been too confused and terrified to do aught but lay still, listen, and wait. Wait for Lady Gráinne to tell her what to do next. She had a vague memory of Elspeth helping her off the bed and telling her the witnesses had departed and that they too must also leave. Then Lady Gráinne had settled her back on the mattress and told her to rest.

  Skatha had believed slumber impossible, but she must have slept deeply, for birds chirped an early morning chorus and roosters crowed. She lifted her chin above the bed furs, wrinkled her nose at the chill in the air, and absorbed the disparate noises reaching her ears. Muffled sounds of metal clanging, pigs squealing, low mooing, and above those, women singing in Norse.

  A grin chased her lips. When God had taken her sight, he had gifted her with a talent for mimicking and learning new tongues with little or no effort. Many Norse traders visited Sumbarten, and she could converse with ease in the language, indeed in any language she had heard during the past nine summers. She knew naught what had prompted her to deceive the Viking and pretend she did not understand Norse. But it had felt a victory of sorts, and Lady Gráinne had bid her continue the deception.

  Lady Gráinne. The abbey. Her smile drooped.

  In the space of but a few days, the life she’d known had been destroyed. She had been raised at Sumbarten Abbey, soothed and cradled in the safety of ritualistic living, called to each regimented activity by the clang of bells. Only the events of Christ’s life changed their routine, with the celebration of his birth, death, and ascent into heaven dividing each year. But even in that there was a comforting pattern. Always she had known what to expect.

  No more.

  What if he was still in the chamber, watching her, waiting?

  Skatha had been so focused on discerning what was happening outside the lodge that she hadn’t considered he could still be in the room.

  She listened.

  Heard nothing but the slight whistle of air when she inhaled.

  Smelled only the smoky aroma of a dying fire.

  She swallowed, trying to get the sour taste of fear out of her mouth.

  Always she had been surrounded by those who loved and cared for her.

  No more.

  Long ago she’d learned to measure the passage of time by counting. It calmed her mind and gave her the control she lacked by being unable to see what was happening. It had been many summers since she’d wailed and cried and bemoaned fate for taking away the gift of sight. She had accepted her flaw many moons ago, yet this morning, this moment, she wanted to howl and hit and throw rocks and scream why? Why her? What had she done to make God angry? Why had he dimmed her vision?

  How she hated being a weak female. ’Twas horrible to listen to the priests a
nd bishops spout sermon after sermon on women’s inherent sins. To be born female, according to the learned monks, was a penance. That a woman was also cursed with blindness meant she was the spawn of the devil, or in her case, of an unholy union between the king and the jötunn goddess, Skaði.

  A gust preceded the sound of the door opening.

  “Skatha. Wake child.”

  Lady Gráinne.

  Skatha pushed up from the mattress. “He is gone?”

  “Aye. The men are hunting. A ship arrived this morn and the warriors hastened to the village and the harbor. There is to be a feast this eve to celebrate your vow saying. There is much to be done. This day you make your mark as mistress of this holding.”

  “A feast? This eve?” She scrambled off the bed. When the icy air hit her flesh she remembered her unclothed state. “Where is my habit?”

  “Your husband has made it plain you are never to wear your habit again. Pull the sheets around you, Skatha. The men are bringing the dowry provided by your husband’s brother, Lord Konáll.”

  She fumbled with the bed linens. “I fear I do not understand. Why would this lord provide me with a dowry?”

  “His reasons are of no import, Skatha. We have no time to question or quarrel with fate. You are wed. You are now mistress here. Yet, none will accept you unless you make them. This eve, you must establish your authority and fine garments will speak to all of your new station.”

  The words sat heavy and dank on her shoulders, snaked around her heart, and squeezed so hard her chest burned. She knew Lady Gráinne tried to prepare her, to make her accept this new life she had been thrust into. For years, the abbess had prepared the daughters of nobles she had raised for their marriage to barons and knights. Now, she sought to do the same for Skatha.

  A cool draft chilled her neck when Lady Gráinne opened the bed curtains. She sat on the mattress and gathered Skatha into a tight embrace. “’Tis a relief to hear you speaking with spirit. Let me look at you, child.”

  Skatha drew back.

  “No bruises. Nary a mark on your face. And elsewhere?”