Stars and a Wind- The Complete Trilogy

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  He stood and looked, half obliterated by the spikes of leaf and twig. “Very well. It’s an acceptable attempt. Now come down.”

  It proved even harder.

  Nearly the whole day seemed to have passed and she was hungry. Accustomed to more regular food, she had begun to look forward to her meals. She said, landing beside him with a tumble of loosened bark and beetles, “Well, I did it. Is it dinner time?”

  “It is not,” he said, “but you have managed fairly well as usual. Tomorrow I shall also teach you how to run.”

  “Run?” She shook her head, then saw his expression. “Repetitions. Sorry. But I mean, I already know how to run. Even in skirts. I’ve been doing it all my life. I’ve done more running than anything else.”

  “Obviously to little avail,” said Grimr, beginning to stroll back towards the longhouse. “Females run like ships under too much sail in a storm.”

  “I don’t see how you can teach me to run like a man,” objected Skarga. “I’m not one, whatever you dress me in. And it’s you who’ve made my hips wider.”

  “As usual, your conversation is remarkably inane,” said Grimr. “It would probably be better if you refrained from speaking altogether.”

  “There are lots of other things I’d sooner learn,” Skarga said hopefully.

  “You will learn what I intend you to learn,” said Grimr. The smile slipped narrow and his eyes clicked suddenly cold. “And the next lesson is obedience, the one thing you have still not mastered.”

  Skarga was careful with Grimr’s threats. She was learning when his words meant danger, and when they did not. Consistently obedient, she continued an education which astonished, sometimes pleased and often frightened her. Like a moth burned by the same flame that draws it in, she hoped only to survive until the promised release.

  Early winter crept harsh and the daylight hours shrank to a hollow midday gleam. Skarga’s grand clothes were frequently soaked and although they dried a little during the stuffy evenings steaming beside the fire, she still trailed damp into bed.

  It was cold and she had worked hard during the day, climbing, running, and grappling with Grimr. She had tumbled from a tree, missing the lower branch on her descent, and had fallen to her back. She would have cried, but did not, because Grimr watched her. If she had made any sound he would have kicked her. She was not allowed to complain.

  As she struggled up, Grimr attacked. He caught her as she rose, twisting one arm behind her back and forcing the joint of her elbow hard upwards. She had screamed and he had laughed. “You should always be ready,” he said. “You must learn. An enemy will take advantage when you’re vulnerable.” She kicked back, heel hard to his shin. “Good,” he said. “That’s the right response.”

  She was wearing her most beautiful clothes and they became quickly soaked with mud but the lessons continued. By evening she was exhausted. She ate what little she could stomach and limped to bed before the last lamps were snuffed.

  She was still drenched but in the bliss of darkness and the snuggled warmth she quickly closed her eyes and curled to dream. She was immediately shaken awake. “Use what little sense you have,” Grimr ordered her. “Take them off.”

  She looked up in a startled flurry. Her head ached. The unwise, undisciplined voice from her dream world answered. “I’m tired,” she said. “Leave me alone.”

  From the shadow depths, she watched his eyes turn cold. “I have never yet,” he said, very slowly, his words precise, “actually punished you. But the next time you question my orders or attempt to disobey me, I will do so. I will strip you and bind you to the central pillar in the hall, and order my son to flog you, back, buttocks and legs, while I watch. I will have you whipped until your skin peels from your flesh. Then I will return you to my bed and fuck you bloody.” Skarga had crawled to the far corner, where she cringed, hugging her own wolf pelt to her chin. She felt nauseas. Grimr watched her, then said, “This I promise you. I make few promises, but this is one I am prepared to make, and have every intention of keeping.”

  Skarga laid down the cloak she was clutching, and very quietly started to undress. When she was naked, he took the armful of dripping materials and slid open the closet door to fling them out. Then he called for a slave. Aud came. She bowed to her master and did not look at Skarga cowering against the far pillows. Grimr said, “Bring me the bowls I made ready before. Have one of the boys build up the fire, and then leave. I want the hall entirely empty of both slaves and animals. Have all the dogs removed except Bram.”

  Aud bobbed again and hurried off. Skarga looked at Grimr and waited. She guessed his orders concerned her and she was nervous. Asking for explanations invariably angered him and whatever his plans, this would not be the time to further risk his anger. She sat in silence, crossed her arms across her breasts and looked studiously at the wall. When Aud came back with the two bowls, Grimr told her to leave them, well covered, beside the hearth. Then he also leaned back and waited in the silent dark.

  After a few moments, Aud tapped on the door. “My lord, everything is as you ordered and I am the last to leave. I will lock the main doors behind me. Bram is asleep beside the fire. Goodnight, my lord.”

  Grimr did not answer. He looked across at Skarga, as though judging her. Finally he said, “Very well. Come with me. Bring your cloak.”

  He climbed from the bed and stood a moment, waiting. She followed him, surprised and frightened, tugging her wolfskin around her shoulders. Huge shadows leapt from the flaring hearth against the long plastered walls, hurtling and beating up into the sooty thatch. Although the hall was now empty, the smoke still found little space to dissipate its fogs and Skarga’s eyes smarted, as if crying. As she walked past the central pillar where Grimr had threatened to tie her, she wondered if she would indeed be crying before the night was over, and if the boy would enjoy beating her as undoubtedly the father would.

  The wolfhound Bram laid paws outstretched at a short distance from the hearth. Ears alert but snout low to the ground, its eyes glittered with reflections from the fire. The flames at Grimr’s back haloed him, the shadows stark over his face. He stood at ease, his heavy tunic rich over the loose silk shirt and soft woollen britches. At his feet his own shadow flared across the faded rushes, creating serpents.

  “Come here,” he said. “I advise you, however, to keep clear of Bram. Having watched you fight me many times, he sees you as my enemy. In my defence, he would kill you as easily as I would.”

  “Then your dog mistakes me, as you do,” whispered Skarga. “I never even knew you. You make yourself my enemy.”

  Grimr was smiling. “Bram is a trained hunter, as I am,” he said. “He attacks both in defence and for pleasure. However, he will not attack yet. He is obeys my orders as you do not. Now, do as I have told you and come here.”

  She avoided the dog, skirting the hearth. The flames scorched her back. Grimr’s heavy belt, buckled in copper and inlaid with silver, still held his sword, the hilt of carved walrus ivory protruding from the scabbard at his left. Uncaped and wearing not the usual riding boots but soft dyed shoes, he was dressed for feasting, entertaining company, ready to recite and play the bard. Then he reached out, pulled the cloak she clutched from her and flung it down. In contrast to his elaborate clothes, she felt more naked than before. He said, “If it is true that you have the power of the curse, then I would suggest this is your best moment to demonstrate it.”

  She swallowed hard. “If I had any magic, I would have used it before this. You must know I’ve no such power.”

  “How unfortunate for you,” smiled Grimr. “On the other hand, I have many powers. I have decided, finally, to exercise another of my own.”

  Skarga lowered her eyes. “I know how powerful you are,” she said. “You don’t have to prove it.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I have never needed to prove anything. But in spite of your presence in my bed for the past three months, I have never yet felt the slightest desire to take you. I have barel
y touched you. You have not appealed to me and I took pleasure instead amongst the slave women. But you have improved. Finally you are clean and toned. At last your body is attractive. I have decided to try you out.” Skarga wondered if there was any point in running. Grimr’s knife would find her even before the dog reached her. She stood still. “You belong utterly and only to me,” Grimr continued. His voice was charming, soft and melodic, the rich voice of the saga singer that she had once heard and loved. Now she felt sick. “You do only what I allow you to do,” he said. “You are only what I allow you to be.”

  “I have my own thoughts,” Skarga dared to say. “I’m master of my mind. You don’t know my thoughts.” She stood straight but she stared at her toes and did not meet his eyes.

  “I doubt if you think at all,” he said, studiously undisturbed, “but I accept that some semblance of inner world inhabits your head. Naturally your female delusions do not interest me. But courage gives you personality, and it is that which first appealed when your physical appearance did not. You risked death and dared to defy me. Instead of surrendering, you attacked. This is the only reason you are still alive. I gave your father my word that you would be dead by autumn’s end and now it is winter.”

  “You said you’d let me go,” breathed Skarga. “You promised to release me sometime soon.”

  He was still smiling. “I shall probably do that. It is still my plan. But tonight I have other plans. My plans are always detailed and precise and I never accept failure. Your reactions will influence me very little, but they will make some considerable difference to you. How badly you are hurt will depend on your own behaviour.”

  Skarga gulped. “Why bother threatening me?” she demanded. “You know I can’t escape you. Because you’re strong, because you have huskarls and slaves within call and your damned vicious hound there watching me. You’re protected and I’m defenceless. So why do you need to hurt me?”

  He almost smiled. “Because it is my pleasure,” he said.

  She said, “I’m frightened of you and I’m frightened of the dog so I’ll co-operate. Will that make you hurt me less?”

  It was a smile after all but his eyes, the pupil barely visible beneath the deep set lids, remained frost. “I do not require co-operation,” he said softly, “and I am not interested in a passive mount. But obedience will be necessary and that is what I shall enforce.”

  “I’m usually obedient. I have to be.” Skarga looked back at her toes. “I’ll do what you tell me to. But I should warn you, you may have to explain things. I’m – a little inexperienced.” Her face felt quite ridiculously hot. “Well, completely inexperienced.”

  “Really?” Grimr laughed, pinched her chin between finger and thumb and forced her face up to look at him. “How delightful,” he said. “And how unusual. No suitors at your age? Although I found you unappealing at first, surely you were never that ugly? A chieftain’s daughter, even a remarkably plain and skinny bitch, is usually courted by some.”

  Skarga wriggled her toes, pulled her head away and stared down again. “It was my choice. Men were frightened of me and my father always refused to arrange a proper dowry. Some men tried but I sent them all away. I hated being touched.”

  “I’d noticed that,” smiled Grimr. “So does my son. It was one of the few things that first attracted me to you. But now you’re half trained, you’ve improved in many ways. You’re clean and groomed and your flesh fills the cavities as a woman’s should. Your breasts are full and high and the hips rounded. Your hair shines, even at your crotch. I’m reasonably satisfied with my own work. I now consider you ready. The fact that you’re unused adds flavour. I shall open you to my own measurements, and enjoy your pain.”

  Skarga had never trusted the gods to help her and she did not call on them now. She stood still, head bowed. But she promised herself that if he had told her the truth and intended letting her go one day, she would never allow any man control over her ever again.

  Grimr laid her own wolf pelt cloak carefully across the edge of the stone hearth where the logs did not reach. Then he leaned down and took her into his arms, lifting her suddenly and sitting her down again onto the spread of fur. He had held her many times while teaching her to shoot, to climb, and to fight, but she had always been well covered. This was the first time he had fully embraced her naked. He made no intimate caress but his arms beneath her legs, and his hands across her breasts, made her flinch. Then Grimr uncovered the two bowls which had been set there by the house slave, bringing one nearer, moving the other aside. The bowl he had chosen held seeds, brown and dried. He drew a smouldering twig from the edge of the fire and blew it gently into full flame, then thrust the tip into the bowl and left it there. He watched the sudden flare as the seeds caught alight. Then, his palm cupped at the brim, he blew the flames out. The seeds became dark glutinous ashes and a pale smoke spun upwards in wispy fingers. Grimr picked up the bowl and held it out to Skarga. “Breathe it,” he told her.

  The smell was pungent and unpleasant. Skarga recoiled and said, “What is it?”

  Grimr grasped the back of her neck and thrust her head downwards into the plumes of smoke. “Remember obedience,” he said softly. “This is most definitely the time for obedience. Your reluctance is irritating. Do not try my tolerance.” He forced her face into the heat and fumes and held her there.

  Skarga, gagging, breathed in lungfuls of smoke but then struggled back gasping. “You want to poison me.”

  “Stupid bitch,” Grimr pushed her roughly away and set the bowl again on the edge of the hearth. For the first time he seemed excited. “If this was poison, I’d be dying too. This smoke is from the henbane seed and holds more magic than you can imagine. Now, tell me what you feel.”

  She felt nothing but fear and revulsion. “The fire burns me. The smoke smells vile. What else should I feel?”

  He sat beside her on the wolf cape, his hand absently caressing the fur as if it aroused him, and stared at her as though reading her mind. Then he relaxed. “You will feel it soon,” he said.

  “I feel sick and I have a headache. Doesn’t the stink disgust you?” It was more than a headache, as if the ache floated separately, just above her forehead. Her head, and the thoughts it carried, seemed no longer bound to her, disguising caution and giving her courage. She sat stiff, and said, “Do you realise that everything you do is madness, like a disease, as sick as the yellow pox or the rotten hollow of an old yew tree.”

  She expected him to hit her. Instead he laughed. “Good. You’re nearly ready. Tell me.”

  Unreality claimed her. Her head had detached and was travelling into the distant shadows beneath the thatch where the smoky spiral coiled up from the bowl of seeds. Now her nose, flying, followed the smell of the henbane smoke. Then her voice, coming from somewhere else entirely, seemed to hiss in fury. “I may be inexperienced, but I have some idea of what is natural. What you do is never natural. Is this what excites you? Your desires are all horrible. You don’t know about love, only about pain.”

  His face was a finger’s breadth from her own, his breath against her eyes. He still spoke softly. “Long ago I repudiated the desires of common men. I have no weaknesses. I only experiment with the weaknesses of others. Now, tell me what you feel. Are you flying?”

  She was. “I don’t know. I’m in pieces. What is this? It’s hateful.”

  “No, not hateful,” he whispered to her, “it is utterly beautiful. Unite with the fur beneath us. We are wolves, racing from the forest. We are eagles. Take wing and fly. Breathe the smoke and let your body go.”

  She clung to the remembrance of reality. “No. I hate it.”

  He laughed. “It’s me you hate, not this. I want you to hate me. Don’t be afraid of hatred. Are you afraid? Take my hand and fly.”

  He grasped her hand and pulled her down from the place where she sat, lying her on the wolf pelt beside him. He flung one leg over her, his shoe forced quickly between her thighs. She struggled a moment, then let her
mind drift, feel the breeze and fly. She saw mountains and stars and a wind like an ocean’s gale spun her upwards. She flew through the stars and rode the gale’s back.

  His hands were on her, examining, turning her and flying with her, but nothing was real and she felt only the bite of the wind. Through the milky haze and the glitter of the star shine, his eyes touched her like spears, concentrated slits of steel beneath hooded and lashless lids. Something seemed to move inside her and she did not know if it was Grimr or the dream. Then she thought it was his fingers, controlling her from both without and within. She said, “Where are we going? Where are you taking me?” though the words were lost in the clouds.

  “Further than you have ever gone before,” he whispered, “through the fires of Muspell and into the void. Then north to the gates of the dead. But I will not kill you. I have tested the dose many times and I know your size and weight and have judged exactly. Tonight you can trust me, though perhaps never again. Tonight we fly together.”

  She had forgotten he was poet and bard, the writer of sagas and inventor of magic. “Will you sing to me then?” she murmured.

  He laughed. “Do you want me to?” She nodded and he laughed again. “No, not this time. I’ll show you the path to another music.” And he lifted her a little, supporting the small of her back, and held the second bowl to her lips. She expected soot and the touch of burned seeds on her tongue, but there was only liquid. She drank, as he demanded. It was warm and perfumed and she tasted the memory of new baked bread, but the spice was sour and stung her throat. She pulled away but Grimr held her firm. “More,” he ordered, and she obeyed. When he took it away and set her back down, he raised the bowl to his own mouth, tipped it and drank.