by Sandra Hill
“Your violet eyes are unusual and attractive.”
She lowered her lashes in an attempt to hide their beauty. He fluttered the feathers over her breasts, causing her lids to shoot open. And she gasped. A good sign, he believed.
“I like your breasts, but then you already know that from past experience.” Her breasts were arched out nicely with her arms tied at the wrists behind the pole, but he fancied that she arched even more.
He walked behind her. “And, praise the gods for your lovely arse.” The twin globes with their matching dimples could be seen from behind on either side of the pole. With mischievous intent, he ran the quill end of the feather along her crack, and she led out a yelp of protest. “Stop that!”
He knelt down in front of her. “Truth to tell, I even like your feet.”
Her toes curled in reaction, especially when he fluttered them with the feather.
She whimpered.
“Ticklish, are you, sweetling?”
He glanced up and realized he was facing her nether hair. His cock, which had been standing out for what seemed like hours, jerked in appreciation of her beauty there. He brushed the feathery fan back and forth over the blond curls, noticing how she stiffened in a futile attempt to halt what he was hoping was her rising arousal.
“I do not suppose you would spread your legs so I can feather your female folds.”
She made a choking sound that he took to mean, Not bloody likely! before she pressed her legs tightly together.
“Ah, well. Later.” For now, he decided to move on to a different feather. As he surveyed the collection, he remarked, “So you wanted to marry the old man?”
“Wanted? Nay? Decided to, yea.”
He practiced painting her lips with a stiffer-bristled feather. Back and forth until she parted her lips and stared up at him helplessly. He leaned in and kissed her briefly. That was all the bodily contact he could allow himself lest this game of torture be over before he had gained what he wanted.
“Why?” he asked. “Why did you do it, Medana?”
“Betimes a woman has no choice. Betimes she makes adult decisions to protect . . . well, just suffice it to say, it was time for me to grow up and accept what women throughout time have done. Accept the marriage that is best for their family.”
He was “painting” a thick line up the inside of one leg, from ankle to groin, then down the other leg from groin to ankle. He performed this exercise several times, and was rewarded with a soft groan. “Are you saying that you needed to protect your brothers?”
“Huh?” She stared at him through passion-glazed eyes.
“You mentioned protecting your family. Your brothers are your family.”
“You are confusing me. Oh, please do not do that.”
“What? This?” He was “painting” increasingly smaller circles around her breast until he got to the nipple, which he gave an extra splash of “paint,” back and forth, back and forth. Mayhap later he would try the same with wine, or honey. Then he did the same thing to the other breast.
She was keening now. Her violet eyes had dilated and turned almost purple. She was panting. And her chest was heaving.
Bloody hell, he was probably panting, too.
He picked up an even stiffer feather now, almost like a turkey feather. But before he used it on her, he undid the ties that restrained her to the pole. To his immense satisfaction, she did not move.
“The worst thing about what you did at the Althing,” he told her then as he used the stiff bristles over all the most erotic parts of her body—breasts, neck, shoulders, backs of knees, arches of feet, her buttocks, and, yea, her nether folds, “is that you showed so little trust in me.”
She blinked at him in confusion. He might have gone too far in his torture play.
“You made me feel less than a man when you thought only you could solve your problems. Why did you question my ability to protect you and your . . . family?”
She brought her hands around to the front of her, and seemed surprised that she was free. “You do not understand.”
“Nay, you do not understand. Agnis and her son are safe at Thrudr. My men rescued her whilst we were at the Althing.”
At first she didn’t understand. “Agnis is safe?”
He nodded.
Then she choked out, “You knew why I did it?”
“Not at first. My mother is the one who alerted me.”
She sank down to her knees and began to weep. At the same time, she drew her long hair, which had come undone from its braid, over in front to cover her breasts. Her hands folded over her private place.
Thork felt shame then that he had brought her to this point.
He dropped the feather and went over to pick up his braies.
She raised tear-filled eyes and asked, “Why have you done this?”
She waved a hand at her nudity and the mast pole.
“To punish you a little, I suppose. A bit of tit for tat, I suppose,” he said, “and because I love you, I suppose.”
“That makes no sense.”
He shrugged, his heart aching with the intensity of his thwarted emotions.
“What are you doing?” she asked as he stepped away.
He was about to shimmy up the mast pole to raise the flag that would alert his father’s ship anchored in the distance that it was time for them to leave. It was way sooner than his father would have expected. His father and brothers would have a grand time jesting about his lack of charm in the love arts. Not that he had attempted any charming or love play. “I’m going to raise the flag to summon my father’s ship.” He turned and was about to drag on his braies, deciding bare shimmying might result in some splinters in parts where a man didn’t want a splinter.
To his shock, he was tackled from behind, landing flat on his face. And Medana was sitting on his back, pummeling his shoulders. When he was able to breathe, he turned over, and she was still atop him, refusing to budge.
“What in bloody hell was that?” he asked.
“You do not tell a woman you love her and then shimmy off up into the air.”
“I do not?”
“Nay, you do not, you loathsome lout.” She was glowering at him in the most appealing fashion.
Loathsome lout? In that moment, he began to hope. Did she mean those words as an endearment? He rolled again, and now she was on the bottom, his lips within breathing distance of hers. “Does that mean what I think it does?”
She nodded. “Can you forgive me for not trusting you?”
He leaned down and kissed her lips, for a long time, before replying, “Can you forgive me for . . .” He waved a hand toward the mast pole and the leather case of feathers. “I will burn the whole lot.”
“Are you barmy?” she said. “You are going to finish what you started with that erotic nonsense. And then I am going to try my hand at feathering you.”
And he did.
And she did.
Later they lay on the pallet under the shelter, both of them sunburned in some unmentionable places. They could not get enough of each other. Nor could he get tired of hearing the words, “I love you, you loathsome lout.” Nor could she get tired of hearing, “I love you, my pretty pirate.”
His father came back to the longship, much later, took one look at the two of them, and said, “I always knew I had raised a wild son, but ne’er did I expect my son to get himself a pirate bride. What a Viking!”
Epilogue
The Viking’s wild pirate bride . . .
It was the first wedding ever on the island of Thrudr.
Thork’s family was there, of course, and all the pirate women. Bolthor and Katherine had returned for the wedding, as had Alrek and Brokk and Finn. Henry had never left. Jamie had scampered off to the Highlands, summoned home by an irate father who threatened to handfast him, by proxy, to some well-known shrewish lass. Jolstein disappeared to no one knew where.
Even Thork’s uncle Eirik and Lady Eadyth had come from Northumbria, c
arting many crates of bees, to Medana’s joy. Their son John of Hawk’s Lair accompanied them with his bride, the Viking princess Ingrith. And children, lots of children. To say the island was overcrowded was a vast understatement. But it was a joyous overcrowding.
“There is naught like a black sheep come home,” Lady Alinor was overheard saying. To which her husband was heard to reply, “Or a wild child reformed.”
Not that Thork was really reformed. That became clear to one and all once the Christian matrimonial ceremony was completed by the beleaguered Father Peter, who’d been coaxed from Dragonstead. Thork stood under the bridal canopy—a flower-bedecked arbor near the pond—and urged his bride to come forward with a beckoning forefinger. The twinkle in his green eyes did not look at all reformed.
Tykir performed the Norse marriage rituals for the pair, with Thork’s three brothers standing as his witnesses, and Gudron, Bergdis, and Solveig at Medana’s side.
Medana wore a collarless, gauzy chemise that trailed in back. It would have been scandalous alone, but it was covered with the traditional long, open-sided apron of rich lavender silk, embroidered along the edges with gold thread in a diamond pattern. Her blonde hair was loose, held in place with a gold circlet in a diamond pattern, a gift from her soon-to-be husband.
Thork was finely garbed, too, all in black, except for the gold belt about his waist and the silver thunderbolt earring in his one ear. His hair was loose, at his bride’s request, but with war braids on either side of his face. The braids were intertwined with green crystals, gifts from his bride.
Tykir began to chant some ancient Norse prayer, then raised his hands on high. “Odin, please bless this couple with wisdom to know when to fight with each other, and when to yield. Thor, grant them the strength of your mighty hammer Mjollnir, that they may have the stamina to meet each other’s needs. Freyja, goddess of fertility, give them many children, and please gods, no wild ones.”
“This is like no Norse wedding ceremony I ever attended,” Medana whispered to Thork.
Tykir overheard and said, “I am making it up.” He picked up a sharp knife then and asked them to extend their hands. Cutting a thin slice on each wrist, Tykir then had them press the wrists together, and he called out, “Blood of his body, blood of her body, now joined! Praise be!”
After that was the bride running. Thork gave Medana a head start, and she picked up the hem of her gunna, racing for the longhouse where the wedding feast was to be held. He soon caught up and whacked her on the behind with the broad side of the blade. “Just to show who will be the head of this family.”
Medana turned the tables, as she was wont to do, by stamping on his foot and declaring, “Just to show who will be the head of this family.”
As a bride-gift, Thork promised to stay and live on Thrudr with Medana until they could fortify it properly, construct a few longships, and, yea, build those bloody steps. Medana promised to come live with Thork after that on land near Dragonstead that his father had gifted him. It was there they would raise their many, many children, they promised each other.
There was dancing and drinking and storytelling throughout the day. In the middle of the feast, Bolthor stood up and said, “My wife has given me permission to compose a few more sagas. This one is for you, Thork.”
Thork and Medana sat holding hands as the old man spoke:
“Like father, like son,
The wise men say.
Be a wild man,
And eventually you will pay.
Your sons will grow up
And cause you pain,
Just like you did when
You failed to abstain.
But listen, Thork,
On this your wedding day,
In time you will have a son
To remind you of your once wild way.
And listen, Medana,
For you will learn,
That pirate brides breed
Girls who yearn.
But wait just a moment,
Think about this,
A wild Viking and a pirate bride
Are sure to bring bliss.”
Everyone clapped, even though it was a rather silly poem, but then all of Bolthor’s poem were. That was their charm.
Soon, it was time for the couple to go to the hunters’ hut, which had been turned into a bridal bower, complete with wine and food and soft linens on a feathered mattress. The wedding feast would continue without them.
“I’ve been wanting to see you all day in this chemise and naught else,” Thork whispered in her ear.
She soon complied, and he was vastly appreciative.
Then she said, “I’ve been wanting to see you all day in nothing at all.”
He complied, too, and she was equally appreciative.
Taking her hand, Thork led her into the bedchamber and said, “I have something special to show you.”
“I’ve already seen it.”
He smacked her on her almost bare arse and laughed. “Not that.”
Walking over to a low table, he picked up an ornate box and handed it to her.
Suspicious of the glint in his mischievous eyes, she opened it carefully. She put both hands to her burning face. It was another collection. An outrageous collection of various sized silver balls. She could scarce imagine their purpose, except she knew it would be wicked. Wicked good. “Are you sure this is a gift for me? Or you?”
“Both of us,” he said, and with a wild Viking whoop, he picked her up and tossed her on the bed, setting the small chest beside her. A long time later . . . a very long time later . . . Thork said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Thork. I really do.”
“Why do you have that little smile on your face?”
“You can ask that?” she exclaimed, then added, “Actually, I was thinking how wonderful it is to be a wild Viking’s pirate bride.”
Glossary
Asgard—Home of the gods, comparable to Heaven.
Below the salt—Salt was very expensive in ancient times and it was placed in the center of the high table, to be used only by those of higher rank; being placed below the salt meant the person was of lesser social status.
Berserker—An ancient Norse warrior who fought in a frenzied rage during battle.
Birka—Viking age trading town located in present-day Sweden.
Braies—Slim pants, breeches.
Byre—Cowshed.
Deadfall—Fallen trees and branches.
Drukkinn (various spellings)—Drunk.
Ealdormen—Chief magistrates or king’s deputies in Anglo-Saxon England, later referred to as earls, appointed by the king; most often they were noblemen.
Ell—A linear measure, usually of cloth, equal to forty-five inches.
Fathom—A unit of depth measure, once said to equal the distance between a sailor’s outstretched arms, equal to roughly 1.8288 meters or almost two yards.
Frankland—Later called France.
Frigg—Queen of the gods, Odin’s wife.
Gammelost—A pungent cheese once a staple of Norse diet, so rank it was said to turn some warriors into berserkers.
Garth—Side yard.
Gunna—Long-sleeved ankle-length gown worn by women, sometimes worn under a tunic or a long, open-sided apron.
Handfast—A betrothal contract, usually completed by a mere handclasp.
Hedeby—Market town where Germany is now located.
Hersir—Military commander who owes allegiance to a king or jarl.
Hird—A permanent troop that a chieftain or nobleman might have.
Hnefatafl—A Viking board game.
Holgaland—A section of northern Norway.
Hordaland—Norway.
Housecarls—Troops assigned to a king’s or lord’s household on a long-term basis.
Jarl—A Viking social class, similar to an English earl, or could be a wealthy landowner, or chieftain or minor king.
Jorvik—Viking age York.
Jutland—Den
mark.
Longship—The graceful, shallow, lightweight sailing vessels made by Vikings, known for their high speed and endurance whether in shallow water or high seas.
Lutefisk—Dried cod.
Manchet—Type of flat, unleavened bread baked in a circle with a hole in the center so that they could be stored stacked on a pole.
Mancus—A measure of weight for gold, equal to roughly 4.25 grams, or about one month’s wage in those days for a skilled craftsman or soldier.
Mead—Honeyed ale.
Miklagard (various spellings)—Viking name for Constantinople or Byzantium.
More danico—The Viking practice of multiple wives.
Muspell—A fiery place in the lower level of the Norse afterlife, similar to Hell.
Neeps—Turnips.
Nithing—The worst possible insult to call a man, means he is worth less than nothing.
Norns of Fate—Three wise old women who destined everyone’s fate, according to Norse legend.
Northumbria—One of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, bordered by the English kingdoms to the south and in the north and northwest by the Scots, Cumbrians, and Strathclyde Welsh.
Odal laws—Laws of heredity.
Pace—Distance measured by a step or stride, about thirty inches.
Pannage—Medieval term for natural, self-foraging diet of animals, like wild pigs (boars), such as beechnuts, acorns, chestnuts, and wild fruits.
Pennanular—Type of jewelry design, often of a brooch, usually in the form of an incomplete circle.
Runes—Stick-like characters in Old Norse alphabet.
Rushes—Hard-packed dirt floors were often covered with sweet-smelling grasses or straw called rushes that could be raked up when they got too dirty.
Russet—Coarse homespun, often reddish-brown color.
Scat—Animal waste.
Scathe—Harm.
Scree—A scattering of broken rocks.
Sennight—One week.
Skald—Poet.
Skyrr (skyr, various spellings)—Soft cheese favored by Vikings, similar to cream cheese or cottage cheese.
Sword dew—Blood.
Thatch—A sheltering material (roof) made of plant materials, like grass.