by Jianne Carlo
A splash to the left alerted her of Brökk’s presence in the pool. Moments later strong arms embraced her from behind. “You are grinning from ear to ear, wife. Like you my surprise?”
“Aye, aye, and aye. I have never heard of such a pool. Why ’tis must surely be one of God’s miracles. And ’tis fresh too. Not salty. Yet you say we are close to the sea. How comes this about?”
He nuzzled her neck. “None know for cert. Some skalds’ tales say they are part of the creation of the world when the fire realm of Muspell met the frost realm of Niflheim afore the thaw produced the giant frost ogre, Ymir. Ne’er Muspell nor Niflheim could declare victory, so both ruled through the hot pools.”
Sumbarten had fostered many visitors during the nine summers she called the abbey home: monarchs, peasants, tradesmen, and the poets the Norse called skalds. Many a time Skatha had sat in a hidden alcove near the abbey’s hall listening to the skalds weaving their magikal stories of Asgard, the world of the gods, Yggdrasil, the tree that grew from heaven to hell, and Bifröst, the rainbow bridge that joined the two. But ne’er had she heard tell of these new worlds.
“Believe you this?”
He turned her to face him, sat on the pool’s sandy bottom, and arranged her legs so she straddled his erect sex. Distracted by the burning desire to touch the engorged, throbbing shaft between her legs, she kneaded his shoulders.
She shuddered when his mouth latched onto her nipple and his tongue licked fire over the tip. He drew hard, his teeth grazing the aching bud, and she clutched him to her when he gently bit down. She moaned his name o’er and o’er.
He switched to the other breast.
No longer could she resist the lure of his manhood. She dropped one hand to his stomach, traced a path lower, found his navel, and learned the shape of that sweet hollow before moving on to the ultimate treasure.
She purred when her fingers encountered a bulbous head and sketched the crown with care. At the apex she felt a slit, the length of a third of her thumb, and traced the opening.
He broke away from her and rested his forehead on hers, his breathing ragged. “Köttrynja. Know you what you do to me?”
“Nay. ’Tis pleasing?”
“Beyond Valhalla. Ride me.” He gripped her waist and lifted her high.
At first she did not understand, and then she did. Skatha firmed both hands around his pulsating cock, stroked the length up and down to gain his measure, and guided him to her aching sex. He drove upward, and she mewled as ecstasy took her to that magikal place she loved.
She rooted for his mouth and sighed into him when his tongue dueled with hers. His taste was all she needed, hot and spicy, sweet and salty, dangerous and thrilling. Skatha tangled her fingers in his wet hair, massaging his neck, his scalp, nibbling on his lips, inhaling his leather and forest smell, but ne’er could she get enough of him.
He hammered her sheath, the pummeling rode the edge of pain, the pleasure so acute she spasmed again. Her convulsions took her to a point where she saw blinding white light beneath her shuttered lids. He bent her back over his arm, his mouth closed over her breast, and he suckled hard, his teeth nibbling back and forth over her smoldering nipple. She came apart once more. The exquisite contractions nigh too much to bear, she collapsed onto his chest.
The warmth of his seed filling her spurred another explosion, another burst of painful light. She closed her eyes to block the strange flashes, and when he drew her head to his chest she melted into him.
She felt a peace ne’er known afore, akin to a safe harbor in the midst of a violent storm. ’Twas an interlude of tranquil bliss. The heated water lapped their joined bodies, seagulls cried overhead, and the invigorating gusts died to an occasional gentle draft. Brökk combed her tangled wet curls, separating the knots with a care so tender, she nigh wept.
For so long she had yearned to have the freedom of touch, but had been too proud to ask even Elspeth, the most affectionate of her friends, permission to learn her features with her fingers. The overpowering need to know her husband annihilated pride, fear, and hesitation, so she raised her head and kissed his breastbone. “I would ask another boon, my lord.”
“Brökk, Skatha. I am sheathed deep in your sweet puss. Joined thus we are one, and not bound by roles of jarl and wife. Speak to me.”
“I know not your form and would beg permission to learn you.” She tensed, not knowing what to expect.
He flexed within her and she gasped. “Permission not needed. When we are alone, we will both speak and act freely. No matter what is spoken or done, ’twill be no penalty, no repercussions. But know well, wife, I am jarl here, and any who break the laws of either the Thing or Bita Veðr will suffer the consequences.”
Skatha had already begun her journey of exploration. Her husband’s words scattered in the gentle wind as she traced the line of his jaw and toyed with the short, crisp hairs coating his chiseled chin.
* * *
Brökk glanced back at the glowing, golden ball hanging low over the horizon, repressed a sigh, and then turned his gaze forward. He studied his wife, who was seated comfortably on the bare back of the chestnut mare. Deny she might any goddess powers, but what ordinary woman could command a horse to kneel for her to mount? He shook his head, still astounded by what he had seen moments afore. ’Twas no wonder she galloped unafraid. The mare seemed to anticipate her slightest command and took care to pick out an even path.
He sighed. The bond forged in the hot pools would soon be tested. For she had disobeyed not her husband, but the jarl. She would pay the price for her defiance, and for that reason only he had allowed her to ride on her own. The mare’s obvious devotion to Skatha was not in question, but if a snake bit the horse and she bucked, his wife could be fatally injured. Too many similar scenarios peppered his mind for him to do aught but follow closely on the mare’s hooves and anticipate disaster.
The aroma of burnt wood swelled on an evening zephyr. He drew alongside Skatha to find her wrinkling her nose. “’Tis all gone, the cottage?”
“Aye. Not even the wall frames stand.”
“Are Lady Gráinne and my friends to use pallets in the hall this eve?”
“Nay. They will use Dráddør’s lodge.” He liked not having the women hostages so far away, but Raki and a troop of trusted warriors would stand guard this eve.
Skatha halted at the crest of the hill. “Do we go straight to the hall?”
“Aye. More ships have arrived, and we must greet the new visitors and offer them our hospitality. How know you we are at the fork ’tween my lodge and the hall?”
“The scent of manure and that of the kitchens’ fare are nigh equal at this point.” She twisted to face him. “My hair should be veiled. ’Tis not appropriate for me to sit at the dais with unbound hair.”
So proper with her appearance, his cat, and so wild in her bedsport. He smiled. “The ladies are in the kitchens. I will take you to the back entrance and you can sort your hair with them.”
“I am to have command of the kitchens then, my lord?”
“You are mistress here, Skatha, and the kitchens are part of your domain.” Her wide smile dazzled him, and he couldn’t resist tasting her lips once more.
When he would have broken away, she fisted her hands in his tunic and whispered, “My thanks, Brökk. I wouldst not bring shame to your name.”
“I only ask you do your duties with care. I would have my wife come to the high table with no scratches or burns.” He traced the line of her neck, pausing on the pulse beating in the center of her collarbone. Her impassioned confessions and pleas on the beach had banished any last trace of mistrust of his wife. She wanted only to be treated with esteem and to command the respect of her people, their people. Somehow, he had to find a way to ensure her safety without insulting her abilities.
“Nary a single one, upon my oath.” She grinned, shook her head, twined her hand with his, and leaned back on his chest.
His mind turned to the new arrivals.
To that end when they reached the path leading to the servants’ entrance, he helped Skatha dismount, tossed the reins to the waiting stable boys, and escorted her through the arches leading to the two chambers that composed the kitchens.
Once assured she was ensconced within the bower of her friends and mentor, he made his way to the great hall’s entrance. Warriors crowded the chamber, and a cantankerous din resonated. Glimpsing Konáll on the dais speaking with a giant of a man he did not recognize, Brökk threaded his way through the packed room answering hails and returning backslapped greetings.
Konáll moved aside when Brökk jumped onto the platform housing the high table. “All is well?”
“Aye.” Thirsty from the long ride, Brökk poured ale into a goblet and drank the contents. He met Konáll’s gaze over the rim of the brass mug. An imperceptible headshake was the answer to his unvoiced question. No Dráddør. He turned to face the warrior standing next to his brother and raised a brow.
“Malice Striker.” The stranger, a brawny warrior with arms thicker than stout oak trunks, grinned. “I bring you a message from your brother.”
“My brother gave you leave to use Hefin Hamarr to deliver his message?” Brökk folded his arms and raised a brow. His brother Dráddør considered his langskip, Vengeance Hammer, his most precious possession and had never let another command her.
“’Twas the only ship available.” The warrior’s craggy features betrayed no fear. Indeed Brökk discerned amusement where there should have been dread.
“Stay your wrath, brother.” Konáll handed Brökk an open scroll. ”Before you is Tighe, Baron of Dalriada, and friend and ally of Dráddør. He has a curious tale to tell and brings us a missive from our brother. ’Twas sealed when I received it.”
Around them the hall thronged with activity. Maids and kitchen boys swarmed through the hordes delivering ale, mead, and wine as fast as warriors shouted their thirst. The neighboring jarls and their wives, who had attended the feast the eve afore, had delayed their departure when the new ships had arrived in port. Brökk spied three familiar faces and nodded to them before unrolling the scroll.
He turned his back to the hall, braced a hip on the table, and read the scrawled, smudged message. He looked up to find Konáll studying him intently. Brökk raised both brows in an exasperated grimace, and Konáll shot him a one-sided smile. ’Twas typical of Dráddør to scribe a missive that sprouted queries and answered naught, but Dráddør had vouched for the warrior, Tighe, and deemed him trustworthy.
Brökk shifted to face the Scotsman. “How long since you fled Dalriada?”
“We escaped from the dungeons and Baron Loudon half a sennight ago. The winds favored us.”
“How many are with you?”
“Three score, most are unarmed, some injured in the escape.” Tighe shrugged. “We lost as many afore we reached the langskip.”
“Sit.” Brökk waved at the seat next to his. “What provisions need you sent to Hefin Hamarr?”
“We are in sore need of a healer.” Tighe took the chair Skatha had occupied the night afore. The highlander filled the seat to overflowing, his massive legs squeezed together, forearms too wide to be contained by the carved sides, and his enormous head a finger’s width above the high back.
Ali’s words came back to Brökk. “My wife and her ladies are healers. I will order the sick brought to Bita Veðr and they will attend to them.”
“My thanks.”
“Here comes Ali, Cardas, and the commander of the Þengill Kaupmaðr.” The warning inherent in Konáll’s low murmur did not escape Brökk. Neither did the ominous name of the Arabic ship, King’s Trader. The unease that had woken him this morn returned fivefold.
Konáll covered his mouth with one hand. “King’s Trader belongs to Wazir Niketas. ’Twould seem the caliph’s man has come into sudden wealth.”
Brökk and Konáll had dealt with Wazir Niketas while doing service for Harald Bluetooth at the caliph of Abbasid’s palace. Niketas was a member of the caliph’s inner circle and had the authority to barter and rule on his monarch’s behalf.
“Last we saw Niketas, he was no trader.” Forsooth the man had overseen the execution of hundreds of conquered Turk women and children. The Viking brothers had been disgusted by the waste and the dishonor. Brökk studied the man’s swarthy features. “I like not this happenstance. Niketas gave us no warning of his ship’s intent to dock in our fjord. No skin boat nor messenger heralded his arrival. No missive was sent by another’s ship.”
“Nay. I am as alarmed as you, brother. ’Tis worsened by the fact Niketas has given his crew leave to occupy the village. The crew all cleave to the Koran.”
Brökk understood the unstated caution. Strict followers of the Koran did not tolerate the presence of females in open company.
Brökk signaled Raki.
When his captain reached the dais, Brökk squatted to give his order, shading his mouth, for he, like Konáll, knew the tricks of the east where mere children read lips from as young as seven summers. “Speak with Lady Gráinne. Tell her of the Arab visitors and bid her keep all the women out of the hall. Set a guard on the kitchens. Every female will be escorted home. None shall stray on penalty of the whipping post. Any man, woman, or child, who mentions I have taken a goddess wife will suffer a more dire punishment. Proclaim those orders to all and sundry.”
“Aye, Jarl.” Raki spun around and weaved through the crowd.
Brökk turned his attention to Niketas.
’Twas well known Arabs favored women with blue eyes and cornflower hair. He had seen many such captives while serving Emperor Tzimiskes on King Harald’s behalf.
From Brökk’s experience, most Arabic traders viewed women not of Muslim background easy prey. Whilst he did not believe Niketas would chance such an insult as to abduct or violate any of the noblewomen present, Brökk did not intend to risk the safety of any of the females under his protection.
The very fact Niketas had not informed either him or Konáll of King’s Trader’s intent to drop anchor in their fjord was enough to raise the hair on Brökk’s nape. Pray Freya, word of his marriage had not reached Niketas, for Brökk feared the man would be unable to resist presenting the caliph with such a treasure as Skatha. True she had inky hair like the women of the harems, but her milky skin and violet eyes—those would tempt even Loki, the wickedest of Gods. ’Twas a boon indeed none save Brökk, Konáll, Ali, and a few trusted warriors knew of the rumors of Skatha’s goddess parentage.
Brökk muttered, “Sit beside Tighe and bid him hold a tight rein on his lips. Have you spoken with Ali about keeping his knowledge of the women of Sumbarten Abbey and Skatha’s jötunn goddess mother to himself?”
“Nay. I had not the time ’tween the fire, Tighe’s arrival, and that of Niketas’s ship. I like this not, Malice Striker.”
“Know you how many men are aboard King’s Trader?”
“Nay. I extended an invitation to Niketas to have his crew dine in the great hall this eve. Raki is keeping count of how many are here, and he is to send a skin boat to count the men on board on pretense of taking food to the King’s Trader.”
“We have done all we can. I will order Raki himself to escort the ladies to my lodge. All of them.”
“’Tis wise. Safety in numbers. Figg’s stones, my axe hand tingles. I can but think ’tis some ruse.” Konáll smiled as if he had shared some witty remark.
Brökk chuckled. “’Tis like our court days. We smile and spout sweet words while watching for vengeance and betrayal. Where is Olaf Longface?”
Konáll surveyed the boisterous great hall. He angled his head slightly. “At the bench near the kitchens with the chess board. He has been playing any who know the game since the noon repast.”
“Have Niketas and Olaf sit to your right. We will put Ali next to Niketas.” Brökk considered the seating arrangements. Three neighboring nobles had arrived that morn; Jarl Sigrid the Red, his brother Árne the Rooster, and the elderly Jarl Eldar, the Learn
ed. Whether any of the Norsemen had heard of his marriage, Brökk knew not, but he could not deny them the dais. “Seat Eldar next to Ali, then Sigrid, then Árne.”
The sound of a legion of booted footsteps drew his attention. Brökk stifled a groan when he recognized the new arrivals.
Konáll cursed. “Loki is afoot this eve, brother. Why else would Moldof pay another visit to Bita Veðr so soon after the vow saying?”
Moldof, Konáll, and Brökk had served at the court of Harald Bluetooth at the same time. But where the brothers had aspired to the Jomsvikings, Moldof had courted and won the hand of a princess from Birka, a northern trading center. Two summers earlier Moldof had returned to his holding, located on the other side of the fjord, a wealthy merchant. Recently, his wife had died giving birth to a daughter who lived only a few hours.
Neither brother enjoyed Moldof’s company. The man considered himself a skald and was wont to bore to sleep those dining in the great hall whilst reciting endless verses committed to memory. No matter what strategy they devised when he visited, Moldof skirted their obstacles and at the end of the náttverðr, stood to recite a new tale.
“’Tis may not be a bad omen. Mayhap he will urge Niketas and his men to return to their ship afore he begins his second or third poem. Methinks I will greet Moldof and invite him to begin his tale during the repast. Offer him the accompaniment of Ali’s harpist.” Brökk grinned and slapped Konáll’s back. “Aye. ’Twill send them running. Speak with Ali while I greet Moldof.”
Brökk had forgotten how difficult ’twas to silence Moldof once the man began speaking. But in the end all were seated and the meal began. After the initial introductions, Brökk addressed Niketas. “I hear tell King’s Trader belongs to you. How come you by such a prize?”
“I have served the caliph for many moons, and he has seen fit to reward me with the command of King’s Trader. Caliph Abbasid has petitioned King Kenneth of Scotland for the hand of his daughter.”