by Arreana
That afternoon, they climbed high enough that the drizzle turned to snow. At first the flakes fell big and wet, but the higher they climbed, the icier the path and the whiter the ground became. In a span of six hours, Disa witnessed the transformation of the mossy forest into one of snow and muffled silence.
No Norseman would settle at such a high elevation, so when the hour of sunset arrived, it was the prince’s men who made camp. They found a good clearing, swept the snow from the hard earth and made a smoky fire from the damp twigs and branches they found sheltering beneath the evergreen boughs.
Arms wrapped tightly around herself, Disa hunkered down by the fire to watch the men erect the tents and groom the horses. They worked in silence and in complete unison. These fellows had traveled so frequently together that they needed no direction from the prince. They knew their roles, knew their tasks, and only spoke to complain of the snow that blew into their eyes and the cold dampness seeping in through their shoes.
Disa was not used to feeling so useless. Her mother certainly wouldn’t have abided her sitting and watching. She should be helping—with her tent, with the dinner, with the horses—but when she tried to offer her services, she found them curtly declined. Even the evening meal of yet another beef stew was to be made by Olav.
The men were exhausted by the time they finished. They fell in around the fire with sputtering sighs. It was not long before the clearing was littered with all the damp fur jackets and woolen wrappings they peeled from their sweaty bodies. Even the prince, who had been an onlooker to all the camp’s preparations, let out a low moan as he slouched in beside the coals.
No one stirred while the stew cooked. The fire’s warmth lulled them all into a peaceful stillness, and the flames, licking eagerly at dried pine needles, drew their gazes and mesmerized them.
They would spend another two nights in the mountains, and Disa did not look forward to the soggy days and the cold evenings ahead.
She jolted to attention when the prince spoke, “Sigtrygg, if you would?”
Disa roused herself from her stupor to discover that night had long since fallen. A full hour must have passed since she had first plopped herself down. The heart of the fire burned a deep red. The heat made her blistered cheeks itch.
Sigtrygg was the smallest of the prince’s men and easily the oldest. His hair was feathery-white and nearly all his teeth were missing, but when he stood it was in a single, fluid motion. He shrank backwards into the shadows silently. A fern rustled, the snow crunched, and then he was gone. None of the others questioned his sudden disappearance. Only Trogils stirred, and then it was to fetch the wooden bowls for dinner.
“Where did you send Sigtrygg?”
Prince Eric received his stew first. He was more interested by it than her question. “It’s getting late. Sigtrygg will be keeping watch.”
Their talk of jotun and draugr was too fresh in her mind for her not to wonder. “Keep watch for what?”
The prince enjoyed a couple bites of Olav’s stew before answering, “Bears. Wolves. The such.”
“And he leaves the camp to do that?”
“You are full of questions today, Lady Saldis.” He narrowed his eyes at her over the rim of his bowl. “But yes, he’ll go into the forest to keep watch. I would rather he spot any danger from afar than when it is already upon us.”
“But what—” Disa stopped herself as the prince’s lips tipped into a frown. She was keeping him from his meal, and when Olav handed her a bowl she, too, turned her focus upon the warm, brown gravy glistening on her spoon.
Frode produced some mead from his sack, and he and Trogils partook heartily in its consumption. They laughed and joked and ruminated again and again on the shared memories she would never understand, women she would never know, and places she would never see. Their boisterousness was enough to fill the clearing, and no one else spoke. They ate, and when the stew was gone they stared again into the fire.
Sigtrygg did not return before Disa retired to the large tent the men had prepared for her. She was worrying about the old man as she pulled off her filthy jacket and gown. She huddled beneath her thick fur blanket, beneath her thin canvas walls, and thought of all the monsters these men had fought and killed.
They had seen frozen seas and olive orchards, and though they had faced many hardships along the way, she envied their experiences. How alive they must feel, how god-like, when the creature skewered on their sword is a beast straight from Hel. She envied Rorik’s ragged scars, Frode’s broken nose, and Olav’s frost-dead arm. Would the prince take her with them on their adventures? Perhaps she could accompany them on their travels. She could dress their wounds and cook them supper. She wanted her marriage to be more than her mother’s. She wanted to be a part of her husband’s life in the way Lady Bergljot had never been a part of her father’s.
“Lady Saldis?” Prince Eric lifted the tent flap. He didn’t wait for a response before ducking inside.
Her smock was woolen and thick, but she hastened to cover herself as if it were see-through. “My lord!”
He ducked inside and squatted at the end of her bedroll. Her eyes now adjusted to the gloom, the bright light of his candle came as a shock. She squinted against the sharp light and rubbed at the spots fluttering behind her eyelids.
“Are you well, my lady? You were very quiet after dinner.”
“I—I’m fine,” she said, clutching her blankets to her chest but fearful it could not disguise the frantic beating of her heart. “I was not expecting the prince to…”
“Calm yourself.” He dropped to his knees and wedged his candle into the soil in the corner. “I was only hoping we might become better acquainted, you and I.”
He had been wearing his jacket by the fire, but now it was gone. He wore only his tunic, and the lacing that usually held it tight around his neck had been loosened to reveal a dusting of brown chest hair. Her father was right; Prince Eric was not a natural red-head.
“I thought perhaps my men had scared you with all their talk of giants and draugr.”
“No,” she said, meaning it. “I was surprised, but not… not really scared. I find their adventures fascinating. They are good men.”
“Very good indeed.” He leaned closer as he spoke, His lips pursing and his eyes roaming her face. He did not mean the men outside.
She couldn’t bear his stare and something in her gut convulsed and writhed.
Prince Eric reached forward and grabbed her shoulder. His hand was still warm from the fire. She couldn’t help leaning into it.
“You’re cold.” His voice was a soft murmur she could only barely catch from the air.
“No,” she said reflexively. “I’m fine.”
But he did not believe her, and she did not protest when he wrapped his arms around her. His hand spread across her lower back and the other came up to cradle the nape of her neck. Held against his torso, she felt the coarseness of his chest hair and the firmness of his muscles.
He stroked her back and his fingertips buried themselves into her blonde hair, but she did not know what she was supposed to do with her own sweaty hands. She rested her arms against his shoulder blades and grabbed the back of his tunic with trembling fingers.
If he had not heard it earlier, she had no doubt that he could feel her heart beating against him now. Only Hakon had ever embraced her in such a way, but that wasn’t the same. Hakon was her brother, and Prince Eric was so much more. Flustering feelings addled her senses: deep longing, cool relief, and blushing excitement.
If the prince was here, if he was holding her, then surely he had forgiven her for Hakon’s kiss. Surely he didn’t mind that her face was still red and her hands blistered from the scalding they had received the night before.
He pushed her backwards, and she fell beneath him. He was too heavy to resist even if she had desired it. They sank into her bedding, and then the prince’s lips found hers.
Firm and warm and wet, they pressed against hers and demanded more. Mor
e.
The hand on her back slid downwards. He found her thigh beneath her cotton gown and seized it tight with strong fingers.
Muffled by his kiss, she could only utter a note of surprise: “Uh!”
He took the small opportunity to deepen the kiss. He licked her teeth and tasted her tongue and Disa was sure she had never felt more astonished or more confused by the sensation that blossomed in her belly.
She was scared. Not by the prince, but by the tight walls of her tent, her own inexperience, and the men sitting by the campfire only an arms span away.
Was this right? Was the groom allowed certain privileges with his bride before the wedding?
Then she arrived at another, more pressing question: does it feel good?
She could hardly breathe and the ground was hard, but she thought that perhaps she was enjoying it. He was close and warm and obviously impassioned.
But then she was sure his men knew what was happening. They must have seen the prince entering her tent. Even as he lifted her thigh and tipped her head to prolong the kiss, she was aware that the men had stopped talking. If they were no longer talking, did that mean they were listening?
Then his hand shifted. Up. Quick and sure, his fingers found her and delved within.
Tight heat and sharp pain.
Disa wrenched her head to the side, breaking the kiss as she cried, “Ah—no! Stop! It hurts!”
She pulled herself up and wiggled her arms between their bodies to push him back, but he was already pulling away.
The swift release of pain as he withdrew sent the tears pooled in her eyes pouring down her cheeks. She yanked her smock down around her ankles as the prince rose to his knees.
“I’m sorry,” he was saying. “I shouldn’t have rushed it. I forgot you’re still—”
His words, however, were lost beneath Frode’s hooting laughter. The men had heard everything: Trogils mocked her cry, Olav applauded, and Frode could hardly breathe for all his cackling.
Between bursts of laughter, Frode crowed, “That be a maid, boys!”
Disa covered her face with her blistered and stiff hands. The prince was hovering over her, watching her. She hated his stare almost as much as she hated Frode’s tittering.
“And how would you know?” Olav snapped. “You’ve only ever had whores.”
While the men bickered, the prince reached down and gently squeezed her knee. “I really am sorry, Lady Saldis. I forgot myself.”
She couldn’t look him, and he did not speak again. She uncovered her eyes several minutes later, and he and his candle were already gone.
Disa couldn’t forgive herself for stopping him, just as she couldn’t forgive Frode and Trogil and the others for laughing at her. She had failed her groom.
They were talking about her around the campfire, she was sure. She heard muttered voices without discerning a word. Was the prince relating the details of their encounter? Was he telling Frode and Trogils how he had only grabbed her before she had squirmed away?
She was wiping the dried and crusted tears from her cheeks when Rorik spoke. His voice was so deep and so loud, that even in whispered conversation she could hear him clearly. “Where did Sigtrygg really go?”
Olav hushed him with a hiss.
The prince answered in a voice too quiet for Disa to hear, and Rorik spoke again, this time without any pretense of whispering. His voice grumbled with a belly-deep rumble; he was almost growling:
“And why would you want that?”
And though the conversation broke apart and neither the prince nor Rorik spoke again, the former’s silence and the latter’s irritation kept Disa awake for many hours more.
Why would you want that?
Had Rorik meant her?
Chapter Nine