Edin's embrace (13 page)

Finally, reaching down to clasp her bottom in one big hand, he simply thrust into her. She felt a frightful stab and went rigid as it coursed through her. Butterflies, bouquets of light, fluttered behind her eyelids. He thrust again, hard, and something within her gave way. He'd broken through her maiden's gate, through her innocence. The stretching and distension! She felt him withdraw his weapon with vast relief—but he drove into her again.

There was some pain with this second thrust, but there was something else as well. She inhaled violently with unwilling sensation.

Yet another driving thrust. And another. A sensitivity bloomed in her. She arched her back to bring herself against him —her breasts were suffused with a need to be flattened against his chest. Her movement was not missed. His mouth angled over hers, and she opened her lips for his tongue. Her next cry was muffled in her throat.

He kept his hold on her bottom and pulled her into each of his thrusts —until suddenly his muscled body went rigid over her. He stopped moving, burying his face into her shoulder, and she heard a muffled "
Huh!
" as his seed exploded into her. She felt him throb, and throb . . . and throb.

His hold on her relaxed; he lay heavily on her, then withdrew himself. He rolled to lie beside her, rested, nuzzled. His gaze touched her face like a gentle caress. She felt . . . spent, and could only look up at him with vacant eyes and a half-opened mouth.

"Still in the battle trance are you, Shieldmaiden?"

Her hair was wound around her breasts, and after a while he got up on his elbow to brush it away from his playthings. Eventually he parted her legs again. She whimpered softly. He entered her cautiously, watching her face as he did. "Good," he praised her, "you do well, Shieldmaiden, better than I expected."

He gathered her in his arms as his hips began to move, slowly and mindfully. She had no words nor the strength to get him off. He was big and determined and well-practiced in the art of taking. Each stroke threw lightning through her —yet it never quite seemed to strike. He took her slowly that second time, with less urgency, thrusting into her until she began to move with him, and to moan.

***

Inga Thorsdaughter had a sudden fit of uneasiness, a rush of anxiety that gripped her chest till she could hardly breathe. She rose from her bed and rushed for the door of her chamber. All was still in the hall. With that strange anxiety driving at her, she stole along past the tables, past the high-seat, the fire pit, until she stopped before Thoryn's door. What was that faint noise? What? She drew closer, placed her ear to the wood, then stood arrested, listening.

It was a strange, breathy, not loud noise. Her blood stood still. It had an almost soundless rhythm, yet was rushing and powerful, as if something large in violent, hushed motion. What was it? In Odin's lame, what was it?

She needn't ask. She knew that noise, though she refused to name it to herself, refused to put it into words, not even silent, private words. On and on it went.

Passion!
The word came to her unbidden, and at the same instant her mouth filled with a coppery taste.

"Thoryn . . ." she whispered. But then a strange, distant nostalgia took hold of her, and Thoryn's name was replaced: "Beloved Kirkyn, my beloved. . . ." With all her tortured, rejected love flooding within her, she turned away.

***

The steading was awake. Edin heard the cattle lowing, the sheep and goats bleating, the thralls moving about their morning tasks. From the open window she heard the birds' bright squabblings high up in the tree outside the longhouse.

She opened her eyes to see the four monsters guarding her in the big bed —the dragon on each of the four bedposts. The Viking was seated in his chair finishing the lacing of his leggings. She sat up. Her hair was atangle, and she felt rosy from sleep. And a little sore and sensitive everywhere. She held the blankets to her so that they covered all but the uppermost slopes of her breasts.

The Viking was dressed particularly well in a tunic of green silk. He looked up at her— and something strange happened. For an instant they seemed to be caught by one another's eyes. For an instant they were coupled in a mystic bondage as surely as if he were crushing her into the bed yet again.

Without greeting her, he said, "No doubt my mother could use your help today if your feet are healed enough."

Edin thought of Inga, that overbearing, watchful woman, her glower, her eyes that were like blue pebbles. She said, "Of course," but her voice came out as delicate as her body felt after the Viking's handling throughout the night.

"We're hosting a feast. There will be a sacrifice in thanksgiving for our profitable summer, and prayers for a mild winter, and — "

"You pray?"

He gave her a look. "You'd best get up."

"I have nothing to wear."

He frowned, remembering. "I'll tell my mother — no, I'd better see to it myself. I don't want you dragging around in another sack, disgracing me."

Her eyes snapped at that, but she said nothing.

He crossed the floor and stooped over her, catching her face between his hands before she could elude him. The touch electrified her; the air all about her churned.

"You served me well last night, Shieldmaiden," he said gruffly, placing a kiss on her closed lips. "Would that I could while away this morning with you, too, but there is much I must do."

"Don't let me keep you, then," she said in a fruity, impudent voice.

Far from insulting him, she saw the corners of his mouth struggle against a smile. "Let me kiss your breasts at least before I go."

She hugged the bed clothes tighter. "You have so much to do; you'd best not tarry."

Now he did smile. It was as if he didn't want to but couldn't stop himself. Yet he wouldn't let her have the last word. "You seemed to grow to like my kisses last night."

She dropped her gaze.

"Aye, they stiffened to little peaks in my mouth; the tips rolled like little cranberries between my lips."

She turned from him, but not so soon that he missed the tears gathering in her eyes. He frowned, then sat down on the bedside. "Why do you cry now?"

"Because I'm ashamed, Viking!" she lashed out at him. "Do you have any conception of the word 'shame' in your barbarous head?"

That sobered him, and more. "You're ashamed because your master took you?"

"Ashamed because I gave myself to you," she said miserably.

His face hardened. "You gave nothing that wasn't mine already."

His words washed over her. She continued to hang her head in remorse. He couldn't possibly understand.

"Show me your breasts," he said again suddenly. Both the command and the tone startled her. She gathered the blankets tightly under her arms. He sat straight, not touching her, and put an even more dangerous undertone in his voice: "Show me your breasts, Saxon.
Now
"

The Viking moved not a muscle, only glared at her and waited. She'd seen fighting men reduced by that particular voice and that particular glare. And she was but a woman. Slowly she loosened her hold on the blankets and lowered them to her waist, leaving nothing but her hair to shield her nakedness. But not even that was going to be allowed.

"Put your hair back."

She did it and felt her breasts lift with the motion of her arms.

He reached for her casually, with both hands, covered her with his palms —and abruptly pushed her back into the mattress. Leaning close over her, he said, "You possess too much pride for a woman. You make the mistake of thinking that because you didn't fight me —a thing that proves laughable whenever you try it —you gave yourself. But are you giving me your breasts this minute —or am I taking them?"

"Oh!"

"Aye, you see now. If you want to weep out of frustration, which women are known to do, or out of anger, or even out of sadness for all you've lost to me, then go ahead, wear your tears like jewels —but you infringe on my pride when you claim you gave yourself to me. All you did was yield, which is another matter altogether, and even that was tedious for me to enforce."

He allowed just a little relenting back into his voice. "Not that I'll ever refuse anything you do care to yield. Mayhap you'll yield me another kiss now? No?" His mesmerizing, thoughtful eyes dwelt on her. "But you are aware that I could take one? Then I've made my point."

He seemed extremely reluctant to leave her lying there, his for the taking. But he did rise. She was too bullied to cover herself again.

He took up his sword and drew it out of its scabbard to check its edge. Its gold inlays glinted. He returned it to its sheathe and belted it to his waist. He clasped a fine cloak trimmed with squirrelskin to his shoulders with two large golden brooches. Then, looking magnificent, he said, "I'm going to see about finding you clothing. While I'm gone, rise and bathe your face and comb your hair."

Her eyes flashed again, which she knew suited him. The whole incident, she saw now, had been enacted to erase her tears and replace them with anger.

And he was right; anger was better than tears. Better for her —and certainly better for him! How she hated him. He was nothing but a hunk of chaos that had taken on shape, sulky and so evil!

Fair weather had returned, and while streaks of sunlight were still dancing off the morning dews, guests started to arrive from every nearby steading and
hof
. Some walked, some rowed from the far ends of the fjord, and still others rode horses or came by cart. They weren't all strangers with strange faces; Edin recognized many from her capture and terror aboard the
Blood Wing
.

It was a shock to see those fierce and frightening warriors now dressed in finery, wearing jewels and ornate weapons. They'd abandoned their sensible and comfortable work clothes for tunics encrusted with embroidery. Fafnir Longbeard made his appearance in a bronze helmet bearing a griffin's head. Vain Hauk Haakonsson, he with the nose like an eagle's, had on a pair of high boots sewn with colored threads and ornamented with gold. Many others wore gold bracelets and gold straps around their foreheads.

Every man, even the old and bent-kneed, came well armed and carrying a round shield. Of particular interest was the arrival of Kol Thurik, the man who had lost his front tooth during the storm at sea. He and his sons walked into the hall, each with a hawk on his shoulder, an extraordinary sight: four proud, golden-headed warriors with four imperious falcons staring unwinking from their mail-clad shoulders.

There was an abundance of sturdy young men like these, all intent on carving out a position in life for themselves. To England's sorrow, this race was clearly in no danger of dwindling, not with so many powerful and ambitious youths ready for any chance to increase their wealth by means fair or foul.

The Viking women were stately in their sleeveless dresses. They were like ice and snow, Edin thought, laughing and yet somewhat distant. They seemed very proud of their white arms and shoulders, and it seemed they loved richness and splendor as much as their men. Their gorgeous wrap-around gowns were made of luxurious Chinese silk, heavy gold brocade, satin, and soft velvet. Matrons wore their hair piled and fastened with twinkling combs or diadems; the unmarried wore it down like yellow floss on their shoulders. Edin was dazed by their loveliness — and overcome by her own position of dishonor and vulnerability.

She was thankful that these ladies never quite looked at her —and then felt worse because they didn't. She was nothing to these women who were free. The faint disapproval she sensed was no doubt because, as an abject slave, she was nothing but a strong temptation for such predatory men as were their Viking husbands and swains.

Even the little children who ran through the crowd, swooping and laughing, were dressed in garments exquisitely ornamented with gold, silver, bright silk tassels, and lace. Edin loved children, and when one tiny staggerer came rocking into her path, stopped, and suddenly sat down with a plop and commenced to cry, she naturally picked him up and bounced him until his mother, like a young hen, raced scolding to his rescue. She yanked the child away as if Edin's very touch were objectionable. Edin briefly wondered if she'd broken some rule —or was there an undercurrent here she couldn't comprehend?

The cacophony of greetings and conversations gradually filled the hall to the high log rafters. The men invariably came through the doors first, tall and fair, with their long Nordic heads, their long narrow jaws, and blue or grey eyes; their women, tall, stiff, dignified —also of Viking stuff —followed behind them. The jarl met each group and offered them refreshment. He smiled like a conqueror, betraying nothing of the man Edin was beginning to know.

Earlier, he'd outfitted her for the occasion in a twofold gown that hung from loops caught by brooches at her shoulders. This twin garment was two separate lengths of light-blue wool wrapped around her body beneath her arms, the first from left to right, the second from right to left. He'd also provided a shawl of fine lavender wool, which a third brooch held pinned in place over her breastbone. She finally had shoes again, too, soft leather ankle boots, fur-lined. Besides the three brooches, she wore one other piece of jewelry—a silver-gilt torque, a wide choker engraved with the image of a Valkyrie offering a horn of mead to a Vikings warrior. The jarl explained while clasping it around her neck, "Valkyries are Odin's shield-maidens; they select the champions for Valholl and service their needs there."

"Are they warriors then, or whores?"

"Both."

"I see."

"And so do I see —that you're less than grateful for these gifts."

She looked down at herself. She was dressed far above the standard of the average thrall, yet she said, "Gifts? By your own reasoning, you still own this gown and this . . . this
slave
collar. If everything of mine is yours to take — "

His swift response swept her thoughts away before she could finish voicing them. Suddenly he was again the fire-breathing dragon, determined and ruthless. His hands on her waist lifted her to the edge of the bed. He threw her new skirts up, opened his trousers, and sank into her. She failed to

When he withdrew from her and stepped back, her legs were dangling, her feet not touching the floor, the comb she'd been using dropped noiselessly from her limp hand to the sheepskin rug, and her face was flooded. She lay motionless, her loins still aflame — and curiously wanting. Their eyes met; something flashed between them, something of the unsettled sensations in her loins and a small frown of bafflement on his brow. Then, as with an effort, their eyes wrenched away from each other.

Edin thrust that memory away, and with it the anguish, the shame —and the mysterious and harrowing half-pleasure she felt with his rough takings.

The first order of business was the religious matter of which the Viking had spoken. As the local chieftain, it seemed he was also the community's religious head. To this end he donned a horned helmet that must have been used only for ritual purposes, for it would have been an encumbrance in battle. He also wore a hammer in his belt — Thor's sacred hammer, Edin was told.
Free
born and thralls alike followed him outdoors and up the slope away from the longhouse to where a flat-topped stone stood up out of the ground. The Stone of Thor. Edin could see old traces of blood on it. She located Dessa, who knew more Norse and so could help her understand what was taking place.

The assembled Vikings made both an elegant and a daunting presence. The jarl seemed to wrap silence around him before he ritualistically put his sword to the throat of a sheep, a goat, and finally a bull —sacrifices to placate the myriad gods they worshipped. Edin stayed carefully on the outskirts of the crowd. She didn't like to be close to him when he had his sword drawn. She watched with deep interest, however. It seemed these people held a less deferential attitude toward their deities than the lowered knee and humility that Christians were taught. Having been forced to bend her knee too often, their uncowering worship intrigued Edin.

A toast to Odin was drunk, for victory and for the jarl's health; then came a toast to Njord and Frey for fruitful harvests and— of all things!—peace. A "chief toast" was drunk to the late jarl, Kirkyn Atlason. A few men also drank "remembrance" toasts in recollection of certain of their kinsmen: "I drink to Ketil Ivarsson, who was awful in his might. . . ."

Following this, the sacrificed animals were prepared for baking in an earth-covered oval pit lined with hot stones. The sacrifice was evidently convivial; the worshipers would collectively feast on the nourishment consecrated to the gods. A sensible notion, Edin thought. While the thralls worked at this cooking, the Viking women caught up on their visiting, and their men played chess on the green outside the hall. Edin had never seen so many dice and board games and beautifully made chess sets.

The summer afternoon was long there at the northern rim of the world. The insects sang a drowsy verse as worn and comfortable as the knees of old breeches. Yet the weather began to bite with the coming of dusk. The gathering moved indoors, where the night's ritual feast and festivities filled the heated banquet hall.

Inga herself took around the first course of the meal, a thick cream of barley soup which she ladled from a magnificent silver cauldron carried by two thrall-men. Once this prettified gesture of hostessing was accomplished, she took a place near the jarl and let the thralls continue the more arduous serving. Edin, her shawl removed so that her arms were bare, moved among the glittering guests with trenchers of roasted sacrificial bull, mutton, and goat meat; Juliana served wooden platters of all kinds of fish; Dessa served honey bread and rye bread, pale cheese and sweet butter; and Olga helped Juliana with the wooden platters of fish, and several baskets of nuts. They toured and toured the abundant tables. The Vikings and their ladies drank, laughed, and ate —they ate like wolves.

Every time Edin raised her eyes, gold winked at her. She was nearly blinded by the beautifully worked gold brooches, the silver rings wound with sinuous Viking art, the arm rings and bracelets of gold, the strings of pearls and brilliant glass beads, the finely wrought silver chains, and the ornate belt buckles and pendants.

"See the combs that young lady with red hair is wearing?" said Dessa. "Are those really jewels?"

Edin glanced at a redheaded girl of about fourteen who was lacing into the food as eagerly as the rest.

"Is she not beautiful?" Dessa sighed.

"Yes," Edin said. She'd grown a little benumbed, what with the great fire burning, the noise of the feasting, and the clamor of the ale cups.

And over and above any other concern was her constant awareness of the jarl. Tonight he didn't look the pirate he was, sitting in his dragon chair like a king. She'd never seen him outfitted in such fine clothes, his fair hair held by a gold-encrusted band about his forehead, his strong light beard combed and trimmed. He was square-shouldered, powerful-bodied, with rings on his fingers and an unusual openness in his face. Everything about him was undeniably grand, and beside him, other men paled to insignificance.

Despite all that he'd done to her, all the excruciating intimacy they'd shared, she felt sure he wasn't even aware of her presence in this room, filled as it was with so many lovely women, free Viking women. But then a moment came that proved otherwise. A small moment. She was doing nothing but serving, but suddenly she felt his gaze on her. Across the width of the room. Through the crowd. She felt the strength of his look, despite the distance. Her palms went wet. Her knees got weak. Before she could help herself, she turned in his direction.

Then she could do nothing but stare back at him as blatantly as he was staring at her. She wondered what it meant, this strange response in her. It was like whirlwinds and flashes of lightning. The look in his eyes was approval mixed with a gauging uncertainty, as if in dressing her so gorgeously she now appeared more attractive than he'd ever intended or wished. That flicker of uncertainty in him made her feel instantly beautiful, as beautiful as any Viking woman present. Radiantly beautiful. She couldn't comprehend it. Mayhap she was only exhausted.

A small reluctant smile appeared about his mouth. Reluctant because she was a mere Saxon captive? Too lovely for a thrall? Was that his thought? It was she who broke the look and turned away.

Once the enormous feast was served and the prodigious appetites of the assemblage appeased, jollity took over. A group of clumsy, booted little girls danced for the crowd, grinning and holding wide their skirts. The Vikings cheered them effusively. They were growing merry with drink. The smith, Eric No-breeches, did a trick with a dagger. Already so drunk it seemed he was having trouble balancing himself on his two legs, he tipped his head back and tried to balance the deadly point of the dagger on his bearded chin. Somehow he managed that, but then, with a toss of his head, he flicked it up and opened his mouth beneath it. Edin gasped. But he caught the point neatly between his teeth. She watched him do it again, in fearful fascination until she realized she was being hailed by a man who wanted more of the wine she was now pouring.

She kept her eyes down as she approached him, knowing he'd been leering at her for some time. She hated to be looked at like that. After she'd filled his goblet, he suddenly hooked her with one unreasonably large arm and toppled her onto his lap. He laughed, as did the other Vikings at the table —though the women didn't seem to find it so amusing. The one across from the man snapped him an icy blue glance of disapproval, then lowered her eyelids until her lashes, lighter than her skin, touched her cheeks.

Edin only glimpsed this however, for her full attention was on him. He held her with such burly strength. His beard was bare in one place, marred by a large oblong welt that looked as if a patch of pink-colored clay had been fixed there haphazardly. He was gabbling at her in Norse as he held her against him with one hand, leaving the other free to rove. Slapping at him only seemed to make him bolder. He found the hem of her gown and rapidly skimmed his fingers up to her thighs.

She'd dropped her pitcher when he first toppled her, and so reached now for the only weapon at hand —his full goblet on the table. She emptied it over his head.

He stood, dumping her onto the rushes. She scrambled to her feet and ran unconscious fingers through her hair. He wiped his face with the fine fabric of his sleeves. His easy laughter was gone, replaced by a lurid glare with flame behind it. The hall began to quiet, and Edin knew she'd become a spectacle again. A slow flush crept up the Viking's scarred face. His right hand went to the hilt of the short, broad-bladed
scramasax
in his belt.

Out of the corner of her eye, Edin saw Sweyn lolling at the end of his bench with a smile that showed his yellowish teeth through his beard. She was surrounded by Vikings.

A furore Normannorum libera nos, Domine! From the fury of the Northman save —