Her Lord and Master (7 page)

Elizabeth’s face turned ruby-red. She looked at him, shocked. He had just licked her. In public. On the lips! His gaze locked with hers, and lightning flashed between them. His stare penetrated her as intimately as if she had been completely naked before him. 

Someone hooted and clapped.

Elizabeth thought she would die, but Ragnor held her tightly. The banquet continued, and more food appeared. There was dried cod they called ‘lutefisk,’ strange turnips called ‘rutabagas,’ and even pickled eggs. Ragnor reached for Elizabeth’s hand under the table, lacing his fingers with hers, and making slow circles on her wrist with his thumb. The tiny motion caused Elizabeth’s belly to quiver, but she didn’t pull her hand away, as she should have. She liked it.

All around them, the camp was a flurry of activity. The other men served themselves elk from the spit, and stew straight out of the pot. More wooden trenchers, piled high with mountains of food, were passed around the crowd. Elizabeth saw that many of the men had lain their shields across their legs, forming temporary tables. All the while, the dancing, singing and drinking carried on.

Elizabeth took the opportunity to observe the Viking men around her as she dined. To a man, they all had long hair. Some of the men’s hair was worn straight and loose, while others had dreads locks or braids. They all wore ornate gold or silver bands around their biceps, and leather about their wrists. A couple had cords about their necks, strewn with animal teeth and bones. Almost all had beards; a few were long and twisted, or forked and tipped with beads. Every one of them looked ferocious.

Most of the men had donned shirts for dinner – mothers around the world must be in agreement on that point, Elizabeth thought – with leather vests and tunics, or collars lined with fur. A handful of men had donned pants made of bear fur. They were all still armed to the hilt, and many of them remained in their battle helmets. She wondered if they slept like that, ready for battle at any instant.

Elizabeth’s eyes were drawn to one of the dancers. Like the rest, his hair was long, but he didn’t have a beard. He was fully armed like his companions, but rather than a battle axe, he carried a crossbow strung across his back. His clothing and ornamentation was the same as the rest, except for a short, fringed apron of leather about his hips. His face was obscured from her view as he danced to the music, but something peculiar about him held her interest.

When he turned, wide, amber eyes lined with coal looked directly at Elizabeth.

The warrior was a woman. A beautiful woman!

Her eyes flew about the circle. One, two, five, ten. More than a score of the Viking warriors were female.

“Shield maidens,” Ragnor said, sensing her surprise. “Although they are not all truly maidens. Some are married women.”

Women who armed themselves, and fought in war beside men? It was outrageous. Yet for some reason, Elizabeth burned with inexplicable jealousy at their lithe, beautiful bodies, so free to move among the men, laughing, dancing and enjoying life.

As the night progressed, the soldiers presented themselves one by one before Ragnor, and saluted their Viking lord. Elizabeth seethed when the striking shield maidens passed.

The warriors bowed before him, and thumped their chests with fists over their hearts, even the women. ‘Jarl,’ they all called him. Elizabeth guessed it meant chieftain, captain or earl. There was no room for doubt that he was their respected, and beloved, commander. She actually felt proud to be with him.

“I am so full, I could not eat another bite,” Elizabeth groaned when the meal was finished.

Ragnor didn’t understand her. She rubbed her stomach comically. He laughed, and pointed to his in agreement.

“Look...More food,” he said, smiling, and nodding to Jordan who was rushing toward them with another tray.

Elizabeth stared, incredulous.

“Smoked apples with honey,” Jordan said. “And ‘søtsuppe’ for dessert.”

He passed her a steamy bowl of warm, thick cream. There were raspberries, gooseberries, star anise and cloves cooked into the liquid. Other berries she didn’t recognize, dull blue and bright red, dotted the dessert. Elizabeth drank it straight from the bowl, and then passed it to Ragnor. Not surprisingly, it was every bit as appetizing as the rest of the meal had been.

“Do you like...blue...berries?” Ragnor asked in English, returning the bowl to her to finish it off.

She nodded affirmatively between sips. He looked to Jordan to explain.

“They are called juniper berries, from our lands,” the young man said. “The bright red ones are lingonberries.”

Ragnor watched her nod, and sip the dessert soup daintily, growing hard again as she swallowed the cream. His mind flashed with a vision of his white milk on her lips, her little tongue darting out of her mouth to taste it. He imagined her licking her fingertips, impatiently tasting his manly ambrosia. Would she swallow his masculine essence as enthusiastically as she had devoured the cream? 

“I like it,” she replied. “The berries are sweet,”

“You are sweet,” Ragnor said, his voice low.

He leaned in to her, his eyes scanning her face hungrily. Jordan vanished swiftly into the darkness.

Ragnor’s hand came up, cupping the side of her face, and he moved close to her lips. His mouth hovered over hers, stealing her breath from her lungs. His breathe smelled sweet like berries, anise and wine. The scent of his skin clung to her neck from their earlier embraces. His lips finally came down on hers, kissing her softly.

Suddenly, everything went quiet.

A cricket chirped. The fire crackled.

Someone dropped a spoon in the pot of stew with a loud clang.

One of the hulking Danes stood before Ragnor and Elizabeth, obscuring the bonfire behind him. He was easily the biggest man Elizabeth had ever seen, making even Ragnor look small. Tension was thick in the air. A circle of warriors formed silently behind Ragnor, and the elite guards closed in upon Elizabeth. Jordan reappeared, coming to stand right next to Elizabeth with his arms crossed bravely over his adolescent chest.

The man’s ugly face was a mask of rage.

“Why does Ragnor get to keep a slave?” his voice boomed.

Half of the Viking men stood up, soundlessly, and put their hands on the hilts of their swords.

“We agreed to take no slaves on this raid, only booty,” the man said.

Elizabeth felt two hundred pairs of eyes boring into her. Jordan translated quietly at her side.

Ragnor pulled a giant dirk out of its sheath. He reached slowly for an apple, and began to peel it, disinterestedly, with the big seax dagger. His eyes never left the fruit.

You could have heard a pin drop.

Without a sound, ten or twelve men appeared spontaneously around the angry man, swords drawn, in unspoken communication. They were disciplined warriors, accustomed to working in silent unison. And they were fiercely loyal to their leader.

“What say you, Ragnor?” the man tried again. “Why do you get to keep the girl?”

Ragnor did not look up.

He paused a long moment before he spoke.

“Because I want her,” he said simply.

The angry man opened his mouth again to protest, but he was cut off.

“I say—-"

“—-Do you wish to challenge me, Føde?” the leader’s words were almost inaudible.

Someone gasped.

Ragnor stopped peeling the apple. A silver ray of moonlight glinted off his wicked, jagged knife.

“Any weapon, Føde, you choose,” Ragnor said.

Silence.

“Or no weapon at all, you decide. Hand to hand.”

Elizabeth looked at Ragnor, then at the man, and back again. The man was much, much bigger than he was. Yet everyone seemed to know something about Ragnor that she didn’t.

The other man shook his head, and sputtered

“Do you wish to challenge me for the girl?” Ragnor repeated.

“No, my liege,” the man said, stammering.

“Then ‘tis finished,” he bit into the apple.

The other man bowed, and backed away.

“And no more ale this night for you, Føde.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Does anyone else wish to challenge me?” Ragnor came to his feet.

No one spoke. He waited a long moment.

“Very well. The girl is mine,” he proclaimed loudly. “I will hear the matter no more.”

Ragnor took Elizabeth’s hand, and lead her to the tent.

People began to chant. “Ragnor! Ragnor!”

They thumped their shields noisily with their fists and swords.

The throng moved in rapidly around Føde, and he disappeared. The feast resumed, as if on cue, and the agitator was absorbed into the merry, drunken crowd.

Just like that, it was over. Her fate was sealed.

She was the Viking’s woman.

I
nside, the tent had been transformed. A hempen tarp covered the floor, except around a small fire, where a circle had been cut around it. The fire glowed inside a copper brazier in the middle of the room, settled safely upon a pile of rocks, inside a ring of stones. An overturned wooden barrel formed a table that it held a candelabrum, stolen from the convent, Elizabeth noted, along with some candles that also looked suspiciously familiar.

Ragnor’s sword and shield had been laid out meticulously next to the bed, along with his various other accoutrements of war.

Additional candles had been lit and scattered about the room, forming a radiant circle of pinkish light. To the right hand side, a luxuriant pile of furs – literally a fortune’s worth - made a lavish bed, and to the left was a wooden chair with an embroidered cushion. Elizabeth recognized it as the abbess’ special seat, the only one in the priory where a pillow was permitted. No one was allowed to touch it.

From now on that would be
her
special chair, Elizabeth thought with glee. She apologized instantly to God for her avarice. It was a sin.

In the back of the tent stood her laundry tub.

The oversized tin trough was filled with warm water, and rose petals floated on the surface. A kettle of steaming hot water sat patiently beside it, along with a plush pile of drying towels. The tree stump had made a perfect side table, and a jug of mead was waiting atop it.

In that moment, she felt like the most pampered and spoiled woman ever to live.

“Thank you, my lord,” she mumbled.

Ragnor led her to the improvised bathing tub, and pointed for her to get in. Elizabeth shook her head. She couldn’t take off her
clothes
in front of him. Then she would be naked, and all alone in a room with a man. A strange man. He was not her husband, and she was still under a vow of chastity. Forever.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I can’t. I mean...”

Shrugging, he went to a leather satchel that lay beside the bed, and retrieved a long length of rope. He pulled it out of his bag, and wound it, casually, around his hand. At the same time, he took off his leather belt, doubling it over in his other hand. He peered at her darkly, and strode directly towards her.

Elizabeth watched him warily.

She would be damned if she would let him tie her up again. She would run through the camp naked screeching like a harpy if she had to, but she would not permit him to restraint her. She would throw herself in the cold sea, and swim to France, if that’s what it took. 

Instead, Ragnor strung the rope up between two sturdy tent posts. He unfurled a bundle that lay next to the tub, shaking it out. It was a large cloak made of fur, lined on both the inside and out. She had never seen such a thing. He hung the fur robe over the rope, tied it with the belt, making a temporary curtain. He stepped to the other side to give her privacy.

Elizabeth hesitated. This was still highly improper in every way. Even if she weren’t pledged to the church, this man was not her lawful spouse, not even her betrothed. She barely knew him.

And he was a contemptible Viking.

Yet the bath looked heavenly. It had been five years since she had bathed in a tub. At the abbey, the only hygiene available was daily cold ablutions, between chilly stone stalls, in the undercroft of the convent. Occasionally, Elizabeth had snuck out in the wee hours of the morning, before dawn, to immerse herself in the frigid water of the River Aln. It had been invigorating, and it had gotten the job done, but there was nothing in the world like a long soak in a tub of hot water.

Mayhap it would not be so improper if she remained clothed...

Finally, she gave in to temptation. She doffed her cloak and kept her kirtle, then stepped into the water. What harm could possibly come from it if she was still wearing a dress? She wasn’t technically naked, she told herself, so truly nothing unseemly could occur at all. Except that she was alone with him. And he had kidnapped her.

And that he was the most virile and handsome man she had ever seen.

Shrugging off the feeling that she was hurling herself into a dangerous abyss, she sat down in the bathing tub, and laid back. Just as she expected, the hot, fragrant water was heavenly. Elizabeth closed her eyes and relaxed.

Inevitably, thoughts of Ragnor filled her mind. She recalled how he had kissed her, just before the feast, gently at first, and then with passion. She imagined herself kissing him back, touching his face, and running her hands though his hair. She twirled his downy locks through her fingers in her mind, feeling his lips on her breasts. Her body grew warm and restless, and an ache began to grow in her nether lands. She wanted to relieve it but she knew not how.

Agitated, she pulled her skirt up around her hips, feeling confined by the annoying, wet fabric.

“Sæbe?” Ragnor’s voice penetrated her vivid reverie.

His head peeked around the fur curtain, looking right at her shamelessly. His hand was extended, holding out a bar of soap.

Elizabeth gasped, and scrambled to cover herself. The water only barely came up to her armpits, and her breasts were floating like water lilies on the surface.

“Ragnor!” she squealed.

Her wet kirtle was all but transparent, and she knew he could see everything. For all the good it had done to conceal her, she should have disrobed completely. It was utterly useless.