Edin's embrace (16 page)

What could he want that needed so much solitude and attention? She had nothing more to give him than what he now took at his will. He'd made her an object, a thing for his use, not a person to be respected. She said, without much hope, "What about my work here?"

His answer was sharp. "It was never my intention in carrying you away from your precious England to set you to baking wheat cakes and to milking goats. The arrangements are already made. We leave before the first meal tomorrow, before anyone is up to see us off."

Which made Edin wonder if Inga knew of his plans.

"You'll ride Rushing One. She's the color of dandelions." His voice became drowsy; he spoke more casually than she'd ever heard him before. "The skald told me today of a king to the east who shods his horse with gold and trims the hooves with gold filigree"

Edin spoke unguardedly, as well, as she would have spoken to anyone in the old days when she'd been free to be herself: "That undoubtedly makes a fine impression, but it can't be very practical, since gold is not a strong metal."

"Aye," he answered, tightening his hold on her fractionally, "iron is oft'times the better choice where strength is needed."

It seemed the middle of the night when next she heard his voice. "It's time, Shieldmaiden." She sighed in her sleep, but couldn't hold on to it, not with him patting her cheek so insistently. "We must be off." Not until he had her completely awake did he swing his long legs out of bed.

They were dressed and outside long before dawn. A thick, swirling mist covered the valley floor, as fresh as frost. Edin shivered in her purple shawl as the Viking himself quietly saddled their horses. Laag's head appeared briefly in the square opening of the loft above the stables. He was rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Is that you, Master?"

"Aye, go back to your sheepskin —but don't forget to give my mother my message as I told you."

"Aye, Master, at first meal. Good trip to you."

The Viking attached bundles of extra clothing and food to the horses' saddles. He helped Edin mount the smaller yellow horse, Rushing One. As he put his own foot in Dawnfire's intricately carved and inlaid stirrup, she arranged her blue skirts to cover her exposed legs.

He was dressed in full battle gear — metal war shirt and hammer-crested helmet, his sword in his scabbard and a knife in his belt. His shield hung from his saddle —a new one, emblazoned with a dragonship, since Sweyn had shattered his old one that night in Fair Hope's manorhouse.

They left the valley and the chilly arms of the summer mist by way of a damp path by the stream's side. The horses' hooves clopped softly along in the mud. It was so quiet Edin thought she could almost hear the worms wriggling their way through the liquified soil. Rushing One was clearly named for what she was not. She was a "fjording," docile, fat, and slow. The Viking claimed she could understand any language provided it was friendly.

The trail left the stream after a while and began to snake uphill. But then it came back to the water and disappeared beneath a falls. The Viking didn't pause, didn't even seem to give the action of heading his horse right under a waterfall a thought; he and Dawnfire slipped beneath as if this were an everyday occurrence.

Edin, however, hesitated, and in so doing, her little horse grew tense. The falling water seemed much more forceful than the gentle stream that irrigated the valley. It roared down and splashed and churned among rocks fifty feet below. The space behind it seemed misty and mysterious. Edin tried to look around the smoking fall, but somber evergreens spired and cut off her view of what lay beyond. The Viking was nowhere to be seen. The whole remote and lovely place was wrapped in the noise of the dashing water. Edin sat there trying to control her mount in that colorless, soulless, gloomy hour before the dawn.

At last the Viking reappeared afoot. Without speaking, he took hold of Rushing One's bridle and led the horse into the misty gap behind the water.

For a moment Edin was in a place of wonder. The sound of the racing falls echoed on the solid rock above her head and to her right, while to her left was a wall of unsolid silver, a sheet of moving glimmer. She came out on the other side, smiling with the marvel of it. "How beautiful!" she said, shouting a little over the noise of the water. "I was afraid —but really, it's beautiful, isn't it?"

The Viking looked up at her. His gaze was divided and made fierce-looking by the nosepiece of his helmet. His hand remained on Rushing One's bridle. "Aye," he said, as if he'd never voiced the thought before, "it is a pretty thing."

He remounted, and their journey continued. The trail wound ever upward. At one place it overlooked the fjord, and the Viking stopped to look down at the
Blood Wing
anchored in deep water.

Edin looked down as well. The fog had all but lifted, and in that silvering hour the valley was such a sight that she was moved to words again. "How green and deep the meadows look! And the water —it seems to glow!"

"Like a fire opal," the Viking murmured, a little reserved, as if trying out a thought to see how it sounded when given voice.

"Are there really jewels that glow like that?"

"There are."

"Fire opals," she murmured.

They didn't pause for long. Edin was glad he'd given her a pony with good legs and a stout heart, for up and up they went, following his own fast-stepping stallion. Sometimes they were surrounded by evergreen beauty. Sometimes Edin almost gasped with sheer amazement at the open views. The size and beauty of this great land! She'd never seen anything to compare with it. Once, from far below, a child's cries spiraled up, as featherlight as wood smoke. Could it be Arneld? She saw so little of him now. He'd learned to look out for himself here. Unlike her.

The dense forest thinned out and more and more gave place to bald rock and grassy slopes. When they rode above the timberline altogether, the path led them across an open sloping meadow. They stopped beside a stream for a drink of cold water, then went on.

At last, toward mid-morning, they climbed onto an undulating high plateau rich with heather, with wild flowers like glints of gold, and grass. Edin sat up in her saddle. The prevailing westerly wind stirred tendrils of her hair around her face as she gazed at peak upon peak disappearing into the distance.

"This plateau is called a
vidda
, and those mountains are the Kolen," said the Viking from his Dawnfire. "Kolen means 'keel.' The mountains range like a strong spine down the middle of the land, like the keel of an overturned ship."

Some of the peaks were snow-topped, but even where there was no snow, the highland was remarkably barren. It was a fierce yet exhilarating landscape. Great bare humps, polished and scored by glaciers, extended as far as Edin's eyes could see.

Closer to hand was a small, dream-lake ringed by reflections of those far-off mountains. The grass smelled sweet; the sun, golden now, invited them to sit in its warmth. Edin found the pack with their food and took out cheese, bread, sausage, smoked cod and herring, and a skin of buttermilk. She found a robe to spread and placed the meal for the Viking.

He stood a moment longer looking at the landscape, and she was impressed more than she could have anticipated by the majestic figure he struck, posed elegantly there against those distant, slatey-blue mountains.

At last he removed his sword, flung off his helmet and sat down. Edin pretended to be interested in the sights, being used to waiting for whatever was left after the men had eaten their fill in the longhouse. But then she heard "Come." She turned to see his hand held out to her. She drew near, took it, and let herself be drawn down onto the robe beside him.

She could tell he was in a generous mood; yet she was always nervous in his presence, and the nearer he was the more nervous she felt. He was very near now, and naturally she had little appetite.

"Here," he said, offering her a slice of sausage from the blade of his belt knife, "make some use of your teeth."

She tried, but it was hard with him watching her.

"You must be homesick for your Saxon broths of horse hooves."

"We don't eat horse's hooves!"

There was a little quirk at one corner of his mouth. Was he teasing her again? She gestured to his sharp knife. "Does that have a name?"

"
Evil-doer
" The quirk spread to the other corner of his mouth.

"Appropriate, no doubt," she muttered. She looked away, much as she wanted to see his smile. She was more than a little fascinated by the relaxed, teasing side of him, which she was beginning to glimpse now and again. It made her feel odd. She was glad her hair concealed her face. She plucked a tiny alpine flower growing near her hand and brought it close as if to study it.

"That's called Mountain Queen." His voice was close to her ear. She turned to find him leaning on his arm, his face bent to hers. He was going to kiss her, as she had known for some time.

He took her mouth gently, very gently. She didn't try to evade him, having learned there was no use in that, and she found herself lulled by that tantalizing gentleness. But as she'd known he meant to kiss her, she knew that now he meant to go on.

The Viking opened Edin's dress and stripped the garment off her. She briefly saw herself naked, except for her laced footwear, in the full light of day; she saw her womanhood with its chevelure of delicate curls, her white breasts and thighs shining in the sunlight. His metal war shin scraped her skin as he laid her back on the robe. He began to caress her, taking his time, taking care.

He cradled one breast with his hand. "Ripe as an apple," he murmured, and bent to taste it. Meanwhile, the fingers of his other hand were toying lower. She saw his big, strongly built, male shape bent over her, the only thing between her nakedness and the whole wide sky. He lifted his head, and she found herself staring straight into his eyes. He smiled and let his lips touch her forehead.

"Tell me, it seems that when I touch this little swollen knob, you like it." And he gently pinched a certain kernel of flesh between her thighs. Yes! it did seem there was craving accumulated there. Flustered, she closed her eyes and nipped her lower lip.

"Look at me. I want no modesty now. Tell me, do you like this, what I’m doing?"

She couldn’t meet his eyes, but only stared at his corded neck, his broad shoulders. He was rolling the tender kernel between his thumb and forefinger. Her pulse deafened her. There was pressure in her ears, in her throat. She wanted to bury herself against his metal-clad chest, if for no other reason than to feel less exposed and vulnerable.

"Look at me, Shieldmaiden."

It seemed shock after shock was passing through her, gathering in a knot in her belly. She looked at him pleadingly — while he merely studied her with absorption and went on tormenting her. His eyes seemed grey to the core and revealed nothing; but his mouth was slightly open, his teeth showing perfectly white behind his lips. "Little plaything," he said in an underbreath, "talk to me. You know something that needs saying. I see it on your face."

Her mouth tried to speak, but only quivered and made no sound. She fisted her hands at her sides. What he was doing was like a dawn that threatened to blind her. Her eyes slid away —to two eagles that turned in patterns above them, their spread wings buoyed by the steady stream of the air currents.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"Yes!"

He did. She nearly cried out, did cry out: "Oh!"

"What?" He gave her a piercing frown.

She squirmed. Her breasts heaved softly. It seemed the air itself teased the ringlets between her legs. "I, oh,
please!
"

He seemed unsure, then opened his clothes quickly and moved between her thighs. But as he was opening her, his touch chanced upon that place again, and she moaned. He paused, looking at her —then suddenly embraced her between his thumb and forefinger once more.

"Oh! Ohhh . .
" Another soft shock of shameful pleasure. There was no way she could conceal it. She felt almost mad. She was throbbing, heaving. She looked at him: He was curiously pale, yet his eyes were keen as a hunting bird's. "Stop!" she cried, and without realizing, stretched out her arms to him.

He spread her legs wide, quartered her, then covered her with his grand body and came down on her and, with a sudden downward plunge of his hips, entered her. His war shirt roughed her sensitive breasts exquisitely. He made strong thrusts, and she closed her eyes and let the sensations spear through her again and again.

When the muscles of his arms and back suddenly spasmed into stone and crushed her to him, when she heard the sound he made at the moment of his crisis, she knew he was nearly finished with her. And she was glad . . . yet not glad.

He rolled to her side and rested, then leaned up on his elbow to toy with her breasts again. "Did you feel pleasure?"

She turned her head away.

His hand on her far cheek turned it back again.

"You reached for me; you wanted me to take you. I think you felt pleasure."

She swallowed. "I felt . . . something. A wicked craving."

"Was it satisfied, this craving?"

She didn't know what he meant.

His eyes narrowed. "Do you feel it still?" His hand slid down her belly. His touch went through her like an impact. He saw. "Would you have me take you again, Shieldmaiden?"

"No!" She rolled away, sat up and reached for her clothes. In her spent state, this called for all the will she could muster, and if he'd made any effort to stop her, any effort at all, she would have been stopped. But he permitted her to dress.

He lay frowning at her, until, after a moment he sat up also. "Next time you'll tell me what I want to know."

Through the long, light, northern summer afternoon, following nothing but a thread of a path among tall grasses rippling in the breeze, he led her to his
saeter
. The hut he'd referred to was actually a good-sized cottage with a split-log facing on the outside and two rooms inside. The walls bore decorative carvings done by someone who understood the working of wood. The place was lifeless, however. It had an air of disuse. It was spider-scented, dusty, and damp, in need of a thorough cleaning after being used by only men for so long. Edin set about the chore immediately. The Viking seemed to approve. In fact, he took it upon himself to do similar work in the shed where he'd installed the horses.

He came in while she was finishing the cooking of their evening meal. She served him, and again he bade her to eat along with him. They sat at the table near the fire almost like husband and wife. He smeared a strip of dried fish with butter as if he were not a wealthy and powerful Viking jarl and she his captured slave, as if it were the most natural thing for them to share a meal. Yet it was hard for her to be at ease with him.

The log in the small firepit crackled and dispensed its scent. Hot coals glowed under it. The Viking reached for a hunk of flatbread. There was an inflexible authority in his every move, an arrogance. He gave her a sidelong look. "You haven't learned much of our language. The others are doing much better than you, though I know you aren't simple-minded. I think I converse with you too much in Saxon. I intend to remedy that while we're here."

The silence returned, as heavy as before, and expanded into a little forever. At last, when her nerves were on a knife edge, she asked, "How did you learn my language?"

He didn't look at her, but she saw his eyes flash with little dancing flames. "From my father's bed-thrall. No doubt you've heard about her; I imagine thralls gossip among themselves no less than free women. She was cunning. Aye, she managed to seem a gentle creature — like you in many ways. A gentlewoman, not very tall, delicately fashioned. Her eyes were brown, not a glowing pale green as yours, and she wasn't allowed to keep her hair. She had a sleek blond head. But like you, she'd been brought into a hard country and a hard climate, and there was about her something that seemed to move even the stoniest heart."

Beneath his words she sensed a huge reservoir of emotion, restrained, but gathered, biding.

"How old were you when . . . when your father died?"

"Fourteen winters."

"Was she-"

"You ask too many questions, Saxon, on a subject that does not please me. You would do well to step as lightly around this topic as on the first ice of winter."

She got up quickly to clear the table. She washed the dishes in water from a hogshead he'd brought in earlier, while he sat tugging his beard. She thought he was thinking about his father's murder, and was surprised when he said, "I've decided not to sell you"

She stopped washing the ladle in her hand and stared at him. Relief flooded through her. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how the threat of being handed over to yet another strange man had weighted her. He met her eyes, and with a small smile he said, "Aye, I've decided to keep you for my own."

She missed the import of that smile, of the honor he felt he was bestowing on her, the honor of being his favorite. The lifting of dread seemed to make her light-headed, and with a dripping ladle in her hand, her frozen tongue unlocked foolishly. "Red Jennie says that sometimes a thrall can earn her freedom."

She saw her mistake too late, saw that in his mind she'd just scorned his generosity once more and repaid it with indifference. She'd leapt over his proffered status to seek something else altogether. A serious tactical error. His look iced over; his voice was like thin ice breaking. "Fool woman," he muttered between clenched jaws. "Let me make clear your choices once again: You can stay with me and be my bed-thrall and learn all the terms and techniques of how to please me, or I can take you to Hedeby and stand you up among the market stalls and sell you to the highest bidder. Who knows what another master might teach you?"

The
saeter
had its own high-seat of sorts, a tall-backed, broad-armed chair placed at one side of the fire. The Viking sat there long after their evening mead was over. Edin sat on a bench at the table, staring like him into the flames. On the surface she probably looked calm, but she was swirling with subaqueous currents.

For the first time she was forced to consider the foolishness of her struggles against her situation. She'd fought stubbornly, as if she had some recourse to victory. Now she was forced to see what alternatives really stood within her reach.

She could make herself disagreeable to the Viking to the point that he lost patience and put her out of his feathered bed. Then she would sleep on straw again, and wear rags, and be put to lowly labor. And, since she was not a virgin anymore, and would have no barred door or strong man to protect her, she would be used casually by one man after another, night after night. And after a season of this, she would be sold to a stranger.

Her other choice was to try to please this Viking. That choice entailed deception. Yet no more deception than she'd been prepared to practice if she'd married Cedric, and for much the same reasons — stability, a place in the society in which she found herself, the comforts of a high status.

Children.

She slid away from that thought and rushed ahead with the consequences of falling in with the Viking's desires. If she pretended to welcome his lovemaking, would he not revel even more in that activity?

Well, wasn't letting him do as he wished with her better than being sold to a stranger, a man who might be much rougher, much coarser, much more violent? In the main, the Viking used her without causing her pain. He left her sore, but never had he injured her. In the main he was gentle. Gentle in the way of a man who was not accustomed to gentleness. In fact, the extent of his gentleness was a thing that confused her, because he was
not
a gentle man; he was a barbarian, a ravenous, rapacious Viking. He was big and often grim —but he'd never used her brutally. He'd taken her, ravished her, but if the truth be admitted, he might have done so far less gently.

What then would please him and insure that he would continue to want her for himself? He could already command her to submit without much more effort than a certain daunting tone of voice. He'd said in bringing her here that he wanted something from her. What more could he take? Earlier, by the lake, he'd said, "Talk to me, Shieldmaiden." She'd seldom seen anyone simply
talk
to him, except Rolf, and that not often. Mayhap —the idea seemed too outrageous —yet mayhap he was lonely. Mayhap he longed for companionship.

She stirred on her bench. The room she was sitting in seemed to snap back as though someone had lit it to life. She was aware of their solitude, of the night outside and the night sounds of this alpine country which were skeletal, like the veined framework of a leaf after the rest of it has crumbled. The room seemed full of stillness so profound a listener might hear the sentiments of her own secret mind. A mind that whispered,
I'm lonely, too.

She'd been sitting there for a long while, and when now she moved, it was with a racing heart. She rose and went to him. She couldn't look at him, but instead kept her eyes down. She felt, rather than saw, the inquiry in his gaze, and answered it with "I . . . I would sit near you."

A fearful breath came and went before he reached for her hand and drew her down. She curled her knees and sat on the soft carpet of rushes between his booted feet. She felt his big hand on her hair, stroking. After a while he said, "It's too bad we have no skald to entertain us. It's a perfect night to hear about some hapless little gnome in the clutches of a big, wicked, and not very ingenious troll." Was there really a touch of self-consciousness in his tone, or did she imagine it?

Was he making light of the two of them? Surely not! She made herself rise above her nervousness and ask, "What's a troll?"

"What's a troll? Well now, trolls are gruesome creatures. They spend their time making life wretched for the unwary man of iron —and for any captured gnomes, of course. They're incredibly grumpy."

He was making a joke!

"And what are gnomes?" she asked.

"Gnomes are dwarfish beings, little, old wizened women who keep themselves hidden away in caves where they guard their precious treasure."

Dwarfish? Wizened? "Are there no men gnomes?"

"Oh, I suppose. But it's the women the trolls are interested in."

"Why, if they're so ugly?"

"As I said, trolls are not very bright. They take what they can get."

She felt him tug her hair and looked up to find him grinning.

"Evil as they are, big trolls sometimes meet their match in these little creatures. Oft'times a troll finds himself with a captured gnome he wishes he'd never set eyes on."

"I would say he's got what he deserves."

"Mayhap. As I said, trolls are not known for their intelligence. They prowl at night and get into all manner of trouble. They sing, they weep, and they fight each other for the pleasure of it, then scurry home before the dawn comes."

"We didn't have trolls in England. They must be limited to this land, where it seems many untoward creatures have sprung up."

"Hm!"

She dared to continue: "You seem to know a lot about these nasty trolls. Where do you get your information? Have you ever spoken with one? Mayhap invited him to dine in your hall? Mayhap — "