Edin's embrace

by Nadine Crenshaw

  She followed the bird's flight to its nesting place, an idea dawning to steal the fish. She climbed up toward the place where the bird landed. So single-minded was she that she was taken by surprise when wings suddenly exploded all around her. Screams of outrage echoed off the tall sides of the fjord. Feathers floated. She flung her arms over her head. Birds flew directly at her in their fear. There must have been a thousand of them nesting there at the edge of the water. She went to her knees, her hands over her head.

  When she could, she scrambled back down to the strand. Abrupt serenity settled over the birds behind her. Soon their fluttering and screaming stopped altogether, and she went on.

  She was so wet and weary, so cold with the rain and the cunning wind which now wound about the corners of the headlands, so tired of slipping and sliding over the grey pebbles that pained her sore feet, that she began to think that nothing could be worse than this, not even surrendering herself to the Viking.

  The rain stopped again, yet she felt no warmer. She wanted to cry. It seemed she'd been forever on the edge of crying. Her chest ached from holding her tears back. Her heart ached. What was going to happen to her? At this rate, she would be dead within days.

  She skirted a covey of gulls that stood shaking their red beaks at each other as though passing judgement on her, and then came upon a large rock pool that cast back the morning light with a dull silver-grey sheen. She caught a glimpse of her own ripple-broken reflection, then looked beneath that image which was so white with fear and desperation — those great martyrlike eyes!—to see that the basin was full of mussels. They lay perhaps three feet below the surface bluish grey, left by the tide, just waiting to be picked up and eaten.

  She slipped and slithered down the rocks that formed the bowl, stopping once she was thigh-deep in the pool, immersing her hands in the ice-cold water, getting herself soaked, yet already tasting the shellfish even before she had one broken open.

  The first salty mussel slid into her mouth and rolled down her throat like ambrosia. She had the second on her tongue when she heard a rustling above her, a step. She looked up.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Viking stood there as stark as a column of rock standing against the pounding seas. He had a long oaken stick clenched in his right hand. On one hip was his longsword, heavy enough to behead a bull; in his belt was a battle dagger, called a scramasax. He was glaring down at Edin in the rock pool, poised,motionless against the sky. An emotion of extraordinary volume banged in her chest, goosebumps rose up all over her body, and cold panic swelled in her stomach. With the lapping of the water, and the screaming of her hunger, she hadn't heard him climbing down. He stood there now like a butcher come for the lamb, the bronze of an armband gleaming where his cloak was thrown back over his wide shoulder.

  "Eat well, little run-away. You'll need something in your belly to make up for the beating you're going to get."

  She could hardly swallow the mussel on her tongue. It stuck in her throat, and she coughed and spluttered. Her hands made unconscious warding-off gestures. She wasn't aware of being starved anymore, only of being afraid. He was enormous on that rock, backlit by the grey sky.

  She glanced from side to side to see if there was a chance of scrambling out of the pool.

  He laughed sourly. "Don't even consider it. I'll meet you whichever direction you turn. I cut this stick three days ago, just to use on your back. I'm going to teach you a lesson with it. You'll scream and beg, but this time I intend to beat out every thought in your head that isn't obedient."

  His eyes were so cold that she had to steady herself. The slippery, grey-purple sides of the rock pool didn't give her a chance, not when the previous days of hunger had sapped so much energy from her body.

  "Come up here."

  She made a faint attempt; but she was afraid, and weakened, and her feet slipped. At once casual and intent, he stepped down closer to her. Squatting at the lip of a rock, he reached his stick so that she could grab for it. She was shaking so much she could hardly take a firm grip.

  Yet she saw that the rock he'd stepped onto was strewn with slimy purple seaweed. She grasped his staff as solidly as her numbed fingers could and, without warning, gave a great tug.

  A savage noise leapt from his throat as his feet slithered out from under him. He came hurtling down. She leapt aside just in time. As he landed with a splash, she was already scrambling out of the pool, terrified lest her feet slip again and she tumble down beside him.

  She drew herself up to the rock he'd fallen from. Behind her, he was floundering, trying to get his cloak back from his arms and his legs under him. She was frightened at what she'd done. He would follow her the length and breadth of the land now. She wished she'd simply taken the beating. She wished she'd never run away, that she'd gone to his bed. At least then she'd already know the worst and could be getting used to it. For a flash, she even thought of waiting for him to climb up to her, of yielding to his iron temper, just so she wouldn't have to be afraid anymore.

  But then, all at once, he surged to his feet. His entire titanic body vibrated with rage, communicating fury like a shout, even before the bellow of his voice: "Spraeling! When I'm finished with you even the shore birds won't want what's left."

  She saw him drag his stick to the surface of the water, saw the cold glitter in his eye, and knew he meant every single syllable. She started to climb.

  She gained the top of the headland and started across it, but then saw his horse, its reins loosely looped over an upright rock. The stallion was nuzzling the turf with its nose. She started toward it, ready to swing up on its back and ride away to safety; but the horse saw her coming and skittered sideways. Its look held a warning, and it snorted in a way Edin didn't like at all. She dropped the idea and went on; the stallion went back to pulling at the grass.

  She heard noises from the cliff behind her even as she raced toward the opposite drop. She had a good lead until she knocked her toes against a keen edge of upthrusting rock. She cried out with the pain and hopped on one foot —then she saw the Viking, big and brawny and drenched, as he came up over the cliff behind her. Violence glittered in his face. His eyes were slitted, and there was a terrible fury about his mouth. She had to go on.

  The far cliff-edge seemed an eternity away. Every stone seemed to twist under her feet. Behind her the Viking's strides got closer. Even in shoes, she could never have run like he could; almost at once he'd begun to catch up with her. She glanced over her shoulder, past her billowing hair: He was coming, his wet cloak swirling behind him.

  She had no idea what was over the crest of the far edge of the headland. Mayhap there would be a narrow beach she could run along. Mayhap there would be rocks she could hide among. Mayhap there would be something that would save her!

  She glanced back again. How close he was! How frightening he looked, a tall, gigantic, bearded man with an awful purpose! When she looked forward again, the cliff-edge loomed like the edge of the world. Suddenly she was looking down it. Her hope plunged. It was a sheer, shale-covered slope, a sheer cascade of scree simply waiting for an excuse to charge into perilous motion. But she had no choice. She started down.

  The loose shale slid away before her feet. She didn't go more than two paces before she fell sideways and started to slide, then to roll. On the first turn, she saw the Viking only three lengths above her and coming down fast. He didn't fall —he had leather boots on, and his feet were digging into the shale because he weighed so much more than she.

  He made a grab for her —she actually felt his fingertips on her back!—but she was sliding and rolling too fast. She heard an ear-splitting curse erupt from his chest. It seemed to bounce against the low sky as she tumbled down to where the water —there was no strand!—lapped with deadly patience at the foot of the sheer drop.

  And then she was in that water. She dropped into it like a rock, and it closed right over her entirely. The shock of it, the cold! A scream tore at her lungs. She flailed with h
er arms, but had rolled so much she was dizzy and couldn't tell whether she was straining upward or going deeper. She had no breath. There was only a liquid ringing silence. The cold water seemed to harden its hold on her, slowing her movements, paralyzing her. She sank like a stone down into the half-lights of the bottomless fjord.

  Thoryn watched the sea drink her down greedily. The water swirled for an instant, then closed over her. He cursed again and threw his stick aside. It skittered into the water and disappeared. The maiden was also disappearing. He could still just see her, her arms moving, her white hands groping up, a shimmering, amber goddess luring him, then she seemed to vanish, without leaving so much as a bubble behind her to brighten the world.

  He somehow got his dragging cloak and weapons belt off, but there was no time for further undressing. He dove in headfirst, directly over where he'd last glimpsed her.

  The shock of the cold crisped his flesh as he pulled powerfully downward with his arms. At first he couldn't see anything. He threw his hands blindly forward with each stroke, but found nothing. At last he saw her hair, flowing upward like rippling amber seaweed, and he noticed her breath bubble pass him. Don't breathe in Saxon! Then he saw her face; she was looking up at him. Her hair, like undulating seagrass, made so large a corola about her head that her face looked small. Her arms moved slowly, clumsily. Please, her expression called, please. His heart was captured, and he swam deeper, deeper after her.

  His lungs burned; his muscles chanted. His mind sang with the intricate metaphors and kennings of skaldic poetry as she enticed him deeper than any living man should go.

  He reached for her hand, touched her fingers, then lost them. Swim, swim! In dirtying waters, her hair brushed his wrist. Her amber beauty flashed. He swam as never before, his whole body surging with the effort. Her eyes shone, and her face gleamed like beacons.

  He tangled his fingers in her hair, got a hold of it, twisted it around his fist, and pulled. He had her! Bringing his feet beneath him, he saw the daylight far above. His legs kicked, but he didn't seem to move. Her sodden garments weighted her like stones, and he was wearing even more than she was, including knee-laced boots. He kicked again, but the light seemed to get no closer. He kicked and kicked, towing her like a dead weight. His lungs were scalding. It was the worst pain he'd felt in his life. He fought it, and fought the water, and kept pulling toward the daylight with his free hand.

  Let her go. She's just a thrall, not worth dying for.

  I just have to get her to the light. . . .

  That was his sole thought, to kick to the light, to get closer to the light, to reach . . . life!

  As soon as he broke the surface and brought her head up, she wrapped herself around him. She was making startling noises, attempting to drag breaths into her water-filled lungs. She clutched even his arms, making his work of keeping both their heads above the surface a close-clenched performance. His mouth filled with the green, salty sea as he sputtered, "No, let go! I have you!" But her will to live was stronger than he would have guessed, and finally he had to let himself sink again. She let go and paddled frantically. He swam up on her from behind, got her around her shoulders, and towed her to a small shelf of rock.

  She was coughing hard, straining to breathe, unable to do anything to help herself. With a surge, he gathered her and kicked and flung her up onto the small stony terrace. She landed like a mead sack, wet and limp. Water streamed from her hair. He came up dripping behind her, his arms and beard streaming. He bent over her rounded back and locked his hands together beneath her breasts and squeezed.

  Seawater gushed out of her. She retched and coughed and finally sucked in a rasping breath. He squeezed again. More water spewed. He kept it up until she seemed empty, until her breathing seemed clear. Then, his arms still around her, he bowed over her prostrate form and closed his eyes. He had her back.

  Now she began to cry, silently. He felt her body shuddering. He turned her, swept the streaming rack of her hair away from her face, and gave her a shake.

  "You're alive!" He shook her again. "Do you hear me, Shieldmaiden? You're not drowned."

  She quieted. Good. Now he could turn his attention to getting her home before she caught a chill. He went for his cloak and weapons, stepping gingerly along the edge of the scree-slope, using his hands as well as his feet lest he take another dip in the fjord water. He came back wearing his sword and scramasax and carrying his wrung-out cloak rolled under his arm.

  Casting a gauging eye upward, he saw it would be difficult, if not impossible, to carry her to the top. "Come," he said sharply, "you're going to have to use your own legs."

  Her face turned up to his. Her white skin was so marbled from the water that he muttered another oath, but for once she seemed willing to heed his advice. He said, less sharply, "Get your feet beneath you. Now hang on to my belt —can you hang on?"

  Her skin was blue, her hair still dribbling salt water, but she nodded.

  "Good. Then we go."

  He crunched halfway up the scree, then paused to let her catch her breath. "Too bad I lost my stick," he said. "I could use it to help us up this slide." He looked back at her and added in squared-off Saxon, "Not to mention the fact that now I have nothing to beat you with."

  She gave him only one peek of fear, biting her lower lip. Her obedience of the moment, this utter surrender and dependence, sent a thrill through him —and also turned over that ember of shame she had from the first sparked in him, which blushed hot and constantly threatened to kindle if he didn't watch it. In fact, she made him fear that there might be a whole flood of desperate feelings locked in the cold, dark rock that was his heart.

  At the top of the cliff, he stopped and felt her sway into his back, breathing hard. All his desire to hurt her had long-since withered. He pulled her around in front of him and took her into his arms. She let him. He murmured, "You're the laziest thrall between here and Byzantium." Yet for a long moment he held her folded against him, the top of her head notched between his throat and his shoulder, a place that seemed made for it. The small waves lapped whisperingly on the rock shore below.

  Had he ever held a woman in just this way? He couldn't remember it. The feeling was exactly right, a feeling as rate to him as wild flowers in January.

  He shouldn't kiss her, not now, but he sensed that she would let him — and an opportunity wasted was an opportunity regretted. He bent his head and nuzzled with his chin until her face came up. He took her moist lips once, working them until she opened them for him. That was what he wanted, and as she gave in, he praised her. "Very good, Shieldmaiden, aye." He took her mouth and this time drank the sweet and heady mead of her deeply. Time ran away. His sea-shriveled manhood grew stiff in his trousers. Before he lifted his mouth a long while later, his whole being seemed to glitter like embers.

  Her head remained where it was, fallen back over his upper arm. Her eyes were closed; her lips trembled and were a little swollen. He enjoyed the deliciousness of the sight; her perilous sweetness almost overwhelmed his good sense. He could take her now —but if he did, it might be the only time, for unless he got her home quickly she might easily sicken and die.

  His decision made, he remembered to praise her again for this show of surrender. "That's better," he murmured, "that's exactly as I want." Then he chuckled wearily. "I hope it won't always take near-drowning to make you pliant.

  "But come, wake up. You're as cold as snow and soaking wet, and the sky to the west glowers. We have to get home." He didn't notice that he was cold as well, and just as wet. His only thought was to get her warm and fed and rested so that he could plunder the innermost recesses of her mouth again — and make his first brilliant, brutal foray into her richer pastures.

  By the time he hoisted her up onto Dawnfire, his horse, she'd started to shiver, from shock as well as cold, he supposed, and her days and nights of hunger and fear and exposure. Indeed, he was beginning to feel the freshly sharpened wind himself. No sunny breeze that, but sneaking
, cold fingers that seemed determined to tease beneath their wet clothing and tickled their bare ribs. Great black cumulus puffs formed in the sky to the north, and the sea was getting choppy. He nudged Dawnfire to a trot.

  Edin couldn't have stayed on the horse without the Viking's help. He'd put her before him in his beautiful and foreign saddle, and kept his arms around her as the big horse went from a trot into an easy gallop. Her shivering became more and more violent as they rode along. It was difficult to believe she'd ever been dry or comfortable in her entire life. The wind pried viciously at her dripping clothes. She mindlessly huddled against the Viking's broad chest, welcoming his arms, and the sharing of his damp cloak.

  Occasionally she slipped back into a moment of tearful sobbing. She was so miserable, and death had seemed so near. The iron-like water of the fjord was in sight all along their way, its surface moving with mesmerizing undercurrents beneath the murky sky.

  The Viking didn't shake her and tell her to stop crying. He only held her closer, and sometimes made a noise in his throat that didn't seem at all cruel.

  She'd supposed the journey would be long and was surprised when they started down into the steading valley before nightfall. Her whole body was jerking hard with cold, however, by the time the snorting horse came to a stop on the tree-shaded green before the longhouse. Laag ran out from the stable to take the stallion's reins. The Viking slid down, turned, and held his arms up for Edin. Every one of her muscles was in a spasm; her teeth clicked uncontrollably. She felt numb and stupid. There the Viking stood, his hands up to her, waiting . . . and all she could manage was to lean forward and simply fall toward him.

  He caught her waist. Her toes touched the ground briefly; then he swept one arm beneath her legs and the other around her back and lifted her to his chest as if her weight were nothing to him. Thus he bore her into the longhouse.