Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  He embraced her, relieved she understood. “Thank you for understanding.”

  But he worried about other traditions he must follow that she might not be willing to accept. She had strong opinions concerning thralls, but he owned many, as befitted his rank. He had lain with more than one of the female slaves to alleviate his male needs. It was their purpose, but he had never spilled his seed inside any of them. He did not want to sire bastards who would be born into slavery. He dreaded telling Ragna about his slaves. Better sooner than later.

  He looked Dieter in the eyes and gave him an unmistakable signal. The Saxon nodded and took his leave.

  Reider drew Ragna over to a bench in a quiet corner and pulled her onto his lap. “Ragna, you and I are from different places. I have been to your country, but you know little of mine. We have different ways of doing things, different beliefs. I hope those differences will not come between us. You are a woman of strong opinions.”

  Ragna clutched his hand and gazed at it, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. “I share your fears, Reider. I have never been known for my tolerance of things I disagree with.”

  Reider moved his legs to change her position. The pressure of her bottom on his pik had produced the inevitable result. She must be aware of it. “Your strong-mindedness is one of the things that draws me to you. But there are some things about being a Dane I cannot change.”

  She turned in his lap and put her hands around his neck. “Such as?”

  The ache in his loins intensified each time she moved. “Ragna, in England and Normandie, your great lords have coloni. What is their duty in life?”

  She looked at him curiously. “To serve their master. They are bondservants.”

  He took a deep breath. “You did not hesitate to answer, yet are they not the same as the thralls who serve us? Your coloni are not free to come and go anywhere they please, are they? Neither are our thralls.”

  He felt her tense. “But a colonus is given land to work, protection, and access to justice.”

  He tightened his grip on her waist. “But whose land, whose justice? He is bound to his lord, is he not? And he must work his lord’s land before his own.”

  She squirmed in his lap, obviously uncomfortable, as was he. “But a bondservant works for all, his master fights for all, and priests pray for all. Each man has his role. A lord cannot sell his bondservants.”

  Reider glanced around the Hall as the sounds of jovial voices reached his ears. Dieter appeared engrossed in a conversation with Ivar, but his eyes kept drifting in their direction. Reider could not blame the Saxon for his concern for his sister-by-marriage, and he feared this discussion might turn into an argument, but had to persist. “Does Kirkthwaite Hall have bondservants?”

  Ragna shook her head vigorously. “No, Aidan is not a great baron, just a knight. We have tenant farmers who farm our land.”

  “We too have freedmen who tend farms, but we have thralls who are not free. Some are born into thralldom, others captured—”

  “Or rescued,” she interrupted angrily.

  Reider took a deep breath. “You say bondservants cannot be sold, but if an English lord sells some land, the bondservants must go to a new master, ja?”

  She got off his lap and sat beside him, tapping her foot. Not a good sign. “If one of your bondservants in England has a child, is the child free?”

  She pouted and shook her head.

  Dare he go further? “Ragna, if you were a bondservant, would you be free to marry any man of your choosing?”

  She looked at her feet. “No.”

  He held her hand tenderly. “The same is true of our thralls.”

  Suddenly, she glared up at him. “Do you have thralls?”

  This was the moment he had dreaded. “It is my right as the Prince of Strand to own slaves.”

  Ragna jumped to her feet. He held on to her hand. Dieter had turned to face them, no longer hiding his interest. “Do not judge me, Ragna. You either love me for what I am, or not.”

  She sat back down, but did not look at him. “What do these thralls of yours do for you?”

  Reider touched his fingers to her chin. “Look at me, Ragna. My thralls see to my needs. They feed me, clothe me, bathe me, labor in my fields, my forests. In return I feed them, clothe them, protect them. Most of my thralls were born into slavery, second and third generation descendants of prisoners of war plundered ages ago. They have known no other life. I treat them well. They serve me in whatever way I need them.”

  Understanding dawned in her eyes and her mouth fell open. “You are trying to tell me you have lain with some of your thralls?”

  He clenched his jaw and prayed for her trust. “I am a man, Ragna, with a man’s needs. But I have never sired bastards with any of my thralls. I have made sure of it.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. “But how can I live with these women you have bedded?”

  He took a deep breath. “Ragna, they will be honored to be your slaves. I am fond of them, but it is you I love. They take great pride in having bedded the son of the king, but they will not think less of you because of it. Did you think I come to our marriage a virgin? Was Aidan a virgin when he wed, or Dieter when he married Blythe? It does not mean I love you less. It means I’ve learned how to please a woman. Is it not what you want?”

  She came to her feet slowly, still not willing to look at him. “I need time to consider what you have told me, Reider.”

  He stood with her, dread knotting his gut. Had he lost her? He struggled to keep his voice steady. “We have time. It will take a few days to prepare for my father’s funeral.”

  He hesitated, afraid that what he must tell her next might alienate her forever. “My father will take his favorite thrall with him into the afterlife.”

  She frowned. “I do not understand.”

  He cradled her head in his hands, brushing his thumbs along her headband, willing her to look at him. “When my father was murdered, Gorm took his thralls. They resented serving a man who was not their rightful lord. One in particular, my father’s favorite, Sigrun, was bereft, and tried to take her life. She loved my father and does not wish to serve another. She wants her life to end. It is a great honor to accompany a chieftain on his death voyage.”

  Ragna frowned and finally raised her eyes to look at him. The color drained from her face. “She will be killed?”

  “It’s what she wants.”

  Ragna gasped and tore away, a hand clamped over her mouth. “I am going to be sick.”

  XXIV

  Elaborate preparations for the funeral progressed, but Ragna stewed in a fog. She saw little of Reider and Kjartan and spent most of her time wandering along the beach, glad of Thor’s company. Often Dieter joined her.

  They watched the construction of the stone ship on a headland overlooking the sea. Reider had explained it was his father’s favorite place in all his lands. Thralls used shovels to cut the outline of a ship into the earth, then embedded large chunks of rock into the ground. At either end of the ship they erected a stone as tall as a man. It took ten thralls to wrestle each one into place.

  In the centre of the ship they built a square wooden shelter. Ragna asked Dieter about it.

  “The central structure is the death house, the bier where they will place Reider’s father. It will be his funeral pyre.”

  She shivered. “They will burn his body?”

  “Ja! The Danes believe the smoke carries the soul to Valhalla. The more smoke, the better the chances Torfinn will reach the end of his journey quickly.”

  A heavy certainty crept into Ragna’s thoughts. “But what of Sigrun?”

  Dieter took her hand. “She will lie on the funeral pyre and journey with him.”

  Bile rose in Ragna’s throat again. She dreaded the question she must ask. “Surely they will not burn her alive?”

  Dieter’s face was solemn, but he kept a firm grip on her hand. “Such used to be the tradition, but it is more likely Reider will make sure sh
e is dead before they light the pyre.”

  Revulsion shuddered through her and she shook her head. “I cannot live among these people, Dieter. They are barbaric.”

  Dieter remained silent for a long while as they walked hand in hand. He stooped to pick up a stick and threw it into the water for Thor to retrieve. They watched the dog plunge into the waves then paddle towards the floating stick.

  Dieter turned to look at her, his expression serious. “Ragna, you forget that you are part of this heritage. Vikings have held these beliefs for hundreds of years. Your grandfather four generations ago, the man who carved your beloved dagger, would have accepted these traditions without question.

  “He probably took several thralls with him when he was cremated. Because customs are different from the ones you have grown up with does not make them barbaric. Is it not true that William the Conqueror inflicted acts of great barbarity on the Saxon people of England, yet your own grandfather, Ram de Montbryce, fought for him, would have willingly given his life for his Conqueror?”

  Ragna nodded mutely. Dieter spoke the truth, but could she live with a man whose customs repelled her?

  Thor returned with the stick grasped firmly in his teeth, then dropped it and shook vigorously, showering them with water. She squealed and they both laughed as Dieter picked up the stick to throw it again. “He will probably expect me to do this all day long!”

  Ragna took a deep breath. “He will.” It felt good to laugh, if only for a moment. She was supposed to be preparing for her wedding. Why did she feel unhappy? Perhaps she was too stubborn and opinionated to change her ideas for a man, even one she loved. Could she have been too hasty in accepting his proposal?

  Torfinn’s weapons were gathered, along with his clothing and symbols of kingship. Thralls sewed fine funeral robes for him and Sigrun. Dry wood was stacked against the sides of the death house.

  Reider arranged for Torfinn’s grave to be opened, and he returned to the Ringhouse grim-faced after witnessing the task. He said nothing when she took his hand and pressed it to her lips. He strode away quickly, leaving her feeling bereft and useless.

  The next day she wandered out to sit on a log on the beach, transfixed by the gaunt sight of the stone ship. She heard footsteps behind her and knew when she turned she would see Reider. His face was grim, his jaw clenched. “All is in readiness. The funeral will be this afternoon, before the sun goes down.”

  She bit her bottom lip and turned away. Anguish was written in every line of his face and in the stiffness of his body. She wanted to comfort him, but still struggled with what was to happen.

  His hoarse voice broke into her thoughts. “You must prepare, Ragna. It is expected for you to attend. You are my betrothed.”

  She shook her head, tears welling as a lump rose in her throat.

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “If this was your father’s funeral, I would be there for you.”

  She gasped, guilt sweeping through her. As usual, she had been too caught up in her own point of view. She came to her feet, but he had already left, striding away. She called his name, but the wind stole her voice. Thor barked, but Reider did not turn around.

  She sank back onto the log and sobbed. Thor licked away her tears, and she hugged him. “Thor, I love Reider. I cannot bear the thought of life without him. But somewhere within myself I fear I will have to summon the strength to walk away.”

  XXV

  The sea still held Ragna’s gaze when she heard footsteps behind her again. Disappointment surged when she heard Kjartan’s voice raised in greeting. “Cousin.”

  Coming to her feet, she sniffled and wiped a sleeve across her eyes, returning his greeting. “Cousin.”

  “You have been weeping?”

  She nodded mutely, still staring out to sea.

  He came to stand beside her. “Ragna, the same blood runs in our veins. Our lives have been different. You have your beliefs and Reider and I have ours, but we have many things in common. The manner of your parents’ deaths broke your heart. The same is true for Reider. You honor the memory of your parents. Reider seeks to do the same. Can you not understand that?”

  She fisted her hands and turned to face him. “Of course I can. But I cannot understand how he can allow a woman to be murdered and tossed onto a funeral pyre.”

  He put his finger under her chin and tilted her face to look up at him. “Ragna, not only will he allow it, he will be the one to make sure she is dead before the fire is lit. He will make it quick and painless. It is his right.”

  Ragna gasped and narrowed her eyes, her head pounding. “His right? It’s too much.”

  Anger tinged his voice. “Perhaps you have too much of the Dane in you. You are too set in your opinions. Why not speak with the woman whose chosen fate you condemn?”

  He turned to walk away, but then returned to her side. “If you do not attend the funeral, it will mean the end of your betrothal. Reider could never hold his head high again if he wed you. Will you come with me now to meet Sigrun? I am begging for my friend’s sake. If you leave him, you will break his heart.”

  Reluctantly, she walked with him, but hesitated outside the lodge where Sigrun prepared for the funeral. Kjartan took hold of Thor’s collar and pushed the hound to a thrall. “He will take care of your dog.” He put his hand on the small of her back and eased her inside.

  To her surprise, Sigrun rose to greet her. The slave was dressed in a beautifully embroidered red gown. She was tall and willowy, and looked—serene. She held out both hands to Ragna. “Welcome, thank you for coming. It is a great honor.”

  Kjartan translated. Ragna tried to speak, but the right words would not emerge. She closed her gaping mouth, then rasped, “You are beautiful, Sigrun.”

  The thrall blushed and bowed. “I want to be beautiful for Torfinn. Kjartan told me you do not understand why I wish to do this?”

  Ragna shook her head and averted her gaze from the woman who would die this afternoon, at Reider’s hand. She pressed her lips together and wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on her dress.

  “Torfinn was my master, but I loved him and he loved me, in his own way. He married two wives, Reider’s mother and Gorm’s mother. He cared for them both, though he was not Gorm’s father. He could never have married a thrall, no matter how much he wanted to, but I held a special place in his heart. Our bodies sang together when we joined.”

  Kjartan’s face reddened as he explained Sigrun’s words. Ragna blushed too, understanding perfectly. Her body sang whenever Reider came close, whenever he touched her. “But must you die for him?”

  Sigrun smiled. “I would have given my life for him before, why not now? I am not a young woman. I would rather journey with Torfinn. Do not blame Reider.”

  A chill travelled from the soles of Ragna’s feet all the way up her spine. Would she be willing to give her life for Reider? Would she be prepared to die to protect him? Had she not thrown caution for her own safety to the winds in coming to his aid, intent only on his welfare?

  As she watched, Sigrun took down her grey hair and another thrall combed it. Kjartan touched Ragna’s elbow. “You have probably noticed that female thralls have closely cropped hair. Torfinn thought so highly of Sigrun, he allowed her to keep her hair long. It was a mark of great respect. He gave her the amber beads she wears.”

  The peace of the small chamber was shattered by the sound of a mournful horn. Ragna jumped, gooseflesh coursing over her skin. A shadow of nervousness passed over Sigrun’s face, then left as quickly as it had come. Kjartan’s grip on Ragna’s elbow tightened. “It is time. The villagers are gathering. You must make a decision, Ragna. All or nothing.”

  All or nothing?

  Her lifelong mantra!

  She wanted it all! She had always wanted it all!

  She smiled at Sigrun, then turned to Kjartan, taking a deep breath to calm her raging heart. “Escort me to my chamber. I must dress for the funeral.”

  He grinned and whisked her out the doo
r faster than her feet could carry her.

  XXVI

  Thralls dressed Ragna in a fine white linen gown, embroidered around the neck and the ends of the sleeves. She pushed away thoughts of Reider lying with any of these women. A blue cloak was fastened around her shoulders and pinned with a sølje. Fingering the silver brooch, she suppressed a sigh of disappointment when Kjartan appeared to escort her to the rites.

  They climbed the hill to the site of the stone ship. Villagers had assembled, standing to one side of the ship, looking out to sea. Some held unlit torches. They bowed respectfully. Dieter stood among them, his expression solemn. He nodded to her, but did not smile.

  Kjartan took her to the entrance of the death house. She dug her nails into his arm, shivering at the sight of Torfinn’s body, surrounded by his earthly possessions. A shield lay at his head, his helmet at his feet. His dead hands lay over the hilt of a sword placed on top of his body. Decay lingered in the air.

  How difficult it must have been for Reider to complete this ritual that had been accomplished with such obvious love and care.

  She appreciated Kjartan’s support as they took their places outside in front of the villagers. Shadows lengthened as the afternoon sun made its way to the horizon. The two stone pillars at either end of the ship loomed like giant monoliths. She shuddered and felt Kjartan’s hand on her elbow. “Courage, cousin.”

  Her heartbeat had slowed, but then the horn sounded again, closer now. She put her hand over her throat, following everyone’s gaze down the hill. Sigrun emerged from the lodge, arm in arm with two men. Reider’s blonde hair was tightly braided, the bronzed glow of his skin deepened by the white linen of the long tunic he wore. He looked like a golden god. Yearning lit a fire below the pit of her belly and she swayed, but again Kjartan supported her.