Malice Striker (16 page)

He caressed her woman’s nub and bit and licked her nape, her lobe, the corner of her mouth. She reached back, tangled a hand in his hair, and thrust her tongue into his mouth.

Brökk grunted when her folds slickened and dewed and coated his fingers with her cream. His stones knitted and the base of his prick throbbed painfully. He could wait no longer, and drove home, closing his eyes and giving over to the berserker in him. The ecstasy struck him blind, deaf, and dumb. Scent, taste, touch, spurred him into a wild hammering.

She met him stroke for stroke, tilting her bottom and arching back into his driving prick. The climax hit them both at the same time. His seed spurted into her fisting puss, hot, furious bursts that seared him to the core.

Chapter Eight

’Twas midmorn and yet no one had come to let them know if the Arab ship had departed the fjord.

“Skatha, stop pacing. ’Twill not make the time pass quicker.” Lady Gráinne had unearthed needle, thread, and torn tunics from a trunk in the Lord Dráddør’s lodge. All save Skatha had been charged with mending the garments whilst waiting for word they could go to the kitchens.

“I like not Lady Hilda having charge of the spices. She is spiteful and likely to spill copious amounts of the precious seasonings during our absence.” Skatha found the iron poker and prodded the logs in the hearth. A stray spark alighted on her wrist. She stifled a curse, sucked the singed spot, and set the metal rod back against the wall.

“’Twas the reason I sent for Raki’s wife, Dóta. She will see to containing Lady Hilda’s venom.”

Someone battered the closed oak door.

Elspeth clapped her hands. “At long last.”

Flattening her twitching lips, Skatha ambled in the direction of the noise. Elspeth hated needlework more than any other duty, whilst Muíríne found sewing restful and calming.

“Shall I answer, milady?” Dagrún asked.

Skatha flinched, startled to hear her old nurse’s voice so close, as she had left Dagrún in the small room off the main one scrubbing a cauldron with sand. “Make haste to do so, Dagrún.”

A blast of cold air laced with the taint of the pigsty swept around the chamber. Skatha sniffed. The aromas came from the right of the lodge. They had tied back the hides from the windows, and the sun’s rays added to the fire blazing in the hearth, giving the chamber the warmth of a midsummer’s day. The usual sounds of a holding were absent because, according to Lady Gráinne, the lodge was located at the very periphery of Bita Veðr’s boundaries.

They were all anxious to be away from Dráddør’s lodge for ’twas bare of any but the absolute essentials: a pallet, pitcher, basin, and cauldron. Extra blankets and bedding straw had been added to the room, but none of the women had slept well, bar Skatha, who had slumbered in Brökk’s snug embrace on a plump mattress covered in soft linens and thick furs. ’Twas wondrous how, instead of depleting her energy, the vigorous bedsport of the eve afore increased her stored restlessness threefold. How she longed to find the mare, take her for a pounding gallop along the coast, and then cool her bare feet in the fjord’s icy waters.

Brökk had escorted her to his brother’s abode at the crack of dawn. On the walk to the dwelling, they had spent much time discussing Hjørdis, Lady Gráinne’s guardianship, and his intention to send Lady Hilda to Jutland. His scathing contempt for Hilda had been so obvious, Skatha ne’er bothered to question him about Lady Hilda’s sly suggestion she was or had been his mistress. ’Twas an obvious falsehood.

When Skatha had imparted the news of the housekeeper’s eminent departure to the others, Elspeth had whooped her joy. Lady Hilda made a habit of bullying the kitchen servants. And the morn afore had nigh twisted the ear off one of the spit boys Elspeth had taken a shine to, a runt of a child with no family left living, called Óttarr the orphan.

Skatha followed the sound of Dagrún’s heavy footsteps to the door and winced when the massive oak creaked and groaned a protest at being opened.

“Beg pardon, my lady. I was sent to bring the fare to break your fast.”

Skatha couldn’t repress a grin at the high-pitched squeak. The voice belonged to Óttarr.

“Tsk. We broke our fast at dawn, lad. Set the basket in the other room. Milady, what do we with this food? ’Tis loaves, cheese, and fruit preserves.” Skatha recognized the gruffness in Dagrún’s voice. She, too, had a fondness for the reedy orphan lad.

“Let the boy eat his fill, Dagrún, and cover the rest for later.”

“He needs a good wash,” Elspeth muttered. “And shoes. Did you see his poor feet? Covered in filth and cuts. I counted seven burs clinging to one leg.”

Lady Gráinne heaved a sigh. “Go, Elspeth. Take the boy under your wing. See if you can fashion shoes for him from the contents of Lord Dráddør’s chest.”

“Should we do so without permission my lady?” Muíríne, ever the watcher of propriety, asked.

“If Lord Dráddør takes issue with a few missing items, I will deal with him on his return. ’Tis not as if—”

A thunderous pounding drowned the rest of Lady Gráinne’s declaration.

“Milady?” Dagrún queried.

“Answer it.” Naught annoyed Lady Gráinne more than excessive noise for no reason.

“Good morn, Lady Hilda.” While Dagrún may have observed the requisite pleasantries by uttering polite words, the snarl in her tone belied all pretense of civility.

“The jarl commands his wife to the great hall.”

Skatha frowned. Why would Brökk send Lady Hilda to fetch her to the hall? Nevertheless, she strolled to the door, which was less than nine steps directly ahead of her.

“Dagrún, stay with the boy. The rest of you gather your cloaks.”

“Nay. You are all commanded to remain in the lodge. The Lady Skatha comes with me.” Smug venom laced Lady Hilda’s grunted words.

“I would have those words from the jarl himself. Muíríne, Elspeth, Skatha, to me.”

Lady Hilda captured Skatha’s wrist in a cruel, punishing grip.

She clenched her jaw and refused to acknowledge the searing pain arcing from forearm to shoulder. “Remove your hand.”

“Desist at once,” Lady Gráinne ordered, her voice coming from behind Skatha.

Lady Hilda released her hold on Skatha.

“Touch my ward again and I will have your hide.” Skatha had never heard Lady Gráinne hiss and spit fury afore. “Make haste. Skatha, here is your cloak.”

The warm fur-lined wool skated o’er her shoulders, and Skatha grabbed the ends, found the two leather strips, and knotted the garment at her neck.

“Ready?” Lady Gráinne linked arms with Skatha. “We journey in silence, child. Something is amiss.”

Why had Brökk summoned her to the hall? Why command the others to remain behind? Mayhap the injured he had spoken of earlier had arrived?

The journey to the hall took no time at all. Skatha noticed the moistness in the stiff breeze, the horses whinnying in the distance, and the silence that fell when they passed a group of women who had been tittering moments afore.

Distracted and anxious, the over-warm great hall gave her pause when they stepped inside. ’Twas as if the air throbbed around her. The room smelled of hordes packed tightly together, and the sour scent of sweat overlaid the other aromas of dirt, grass, grease, roasted boar, and the ever-present cow manure.

“The chamber is crowded. Stay close to my side,” Lady Gráinne whispered.

“My lady. I am to escort the jarl’s wife to the judging bench.” Raki’s voice.

Judging bench?

“I will accompany her.”

“Nay. Lady Gráinne. ’Tis not allowed under the rules,” Raki stated. He gripped Skatha’s upper arm and said, his lips so close to her ear his hot breath tickled a stray strand of hair into motion, “Do not resist, my lady. ’Tis the jarl’s command.”

“She cannot see,” Lady Gráinne’s furious whisper sent Skatha’s heart galloping.

“I will stand by her and explain what is happening. The jarl has given her enough advantage. All are speaking of his favoritism.”

Swallowing around the blockage in her throat, Skatha asked, “I am to be judged?”

“You disobeyed the jarl’s command yesterday. He cannot have one rule for you and another for all else who live at Bita Veðr.”

Another warrior flanked her right. Raki, on her left, urged her forward. ’Twas only when they began to move Skatha realized how crammed the great hall was.

“We move to a platform in front of the jarl’s judging chair.”

The crowd parted to let them through.

A woman muttered, “He shouldna punish her. She knows not our ways yet.”

“Quiet. She disobeyed. She must suffer the penalty,” a man growled.

Her stomach sank as they threaded their way through the crush. Brökk had said there would be no whipping. Had he changed his mind? Now she understood why Lady Gráinne and the others had been ordered to remain at Dráddør’s lodge. He had granted her boon that they not witness her punishment.

Skatha lifted her chin and the words she had paid scant attention to on the beach echoed in her head.
Know well, wife, I am jarl here, and any who break the laws of either the Thing or Bita Veðr will suffer the consequences.

“Step up, my lady.” Raki cupped her elbow and assisted her onto the platform. “I will be standing right beside you, my lady. Scratch your right hand if you need a moment. Scratch your left if you need me to describe what is happening.”

“Stand me in the direction of the jarl. I would look at him when he speaks.” Skatha relaxed when her voice did not waver. She would do Brökk proud if it killed her.

“Turn slightly to the left and you will be facing him. He is on the dais. The table has been removed. You will be the first one judged. After your penalty has been decided, he will spend the morn in here judging other disputes.” Raki’s melodious voice soothed the rough edges of panic urging her to bolt, to run like a wild horse until her legs no longer functioned.

An eerie quiet settled over the great hall.

“Lawsayer, begin.” ’Twas Brökk’s deep rumble that gave the order.

“Olaf Longface recites the laws of the Thing,” Raki muttered.

She frowned. What was this Thing he spoke of? As if she had asked the question aloud, he added, “The Thing is the court of the Vikings, where jarls and freemen alike resolve disputes. As the king’s steward, Olaf is the lawsayer.”

Skatha listened as the man recited the different penalties for any infringement of the Viking laws. She began to understand why honor was paramount among the Vikings. If one man killed another, then the entire family was responsible for the killer’s actions. ’Twas no wonder the brothers cleaved to each other. She had been so wrong to even consider that Konáll could injure Brökk.

For the killing of a freeholder, the killer had to pay a
mulct
, the equivalent of a herd of cattle, to the freeholder’s family. She found it interesting that the murder of a woman was regarded as serious a crime as that of a man, but the mulct for a female was half that required for a male. Skatha concentrated fiercely on Olaf’s recitation, too afraid to let her focus wander to what penalty she would have to pay.

“My thanks Jarl Olaf for your law saying. Jarl Konáll, present the first case.” The timbre of Brökk’s command was clipped and impatient.

“Lady Skatha of Sumbarten Abbey, you are charged with disobeying a direct command of your jarl. Do you contest this charge?”

Konáll’s somber tone scratched icy claws up her spine. Skatha expected her heart to leap out of her mouth when she answered, “Nay. I do not.”

“No wergild can be paid for this offense. Lady Skatha will be confined in the pillory until the sun sets this day.” Brökk spoke without emotion, his statement delivered in a calm, impersonal manner.

Wergild, a payment for a crime, this she understood, but pillory? She knew not the term and refused to voice her ignorance. Howbeit, she must have shown her confusion in some manner, because Raki whispered, “You will be tied to a block in the middle of the village square.”

A smile nigh lifted her lips, but she pressed them together. ’Twas no punishment at all, not when whipping was an option.

“I will take you to the village now, my lady.” Raki’s breath feathered her nape. Glad was she that Dagrún had insisted on braiding her hair this morn, for the air had seemed heavy and ’twas cert to rain at some point.

She flinched when Raki gently captured her hands and bound them behind her back. Whispers and mutters permeated the chamber, the low conversations morphing into a buzz as if a giant bee swarm approached a hive.

“The goddess will be angered,” muttered a familiar voice she recognized as Dóta, Raki’s wife.

A tug on her bonds prompted Skatha to step off the platform. Raki led her through the assembled throngs. None pressed her closely, ’twas as if the crowds parted to give them easy passage.

“The Christian god will damn us to hell for treating a holy woman so.”

With each stride more hisses and grumbles reached her ears.

“The jötunn Skaði will rain misfortune upon us.”

Raki halted, cupped her elbow, and said, “The dais.”

Complying with his unspoken order she adjusted her pace and stepped up and onto the entryway platform. A fierce gust tunneled into the great hall and plastered Skatha’s skirts to her legs.

“She needs be taught a lesson. He should have had her whipped.”

Skatha ground her teeth. A few titters of approval followed Lady Hilda’s venomous statement.

“Aye. Stripped to the waist and whipped.”

Hoots and cackles broke out. “Give us a peek at those titties.”

Someone grabbed her shoulder.

She tripped over a stick or a foot and fell forward.

Instinctively, she twisted to one side. Better to hurt her arm than smash her nose.

Strong arms caught her before she crashed into the stone floor.

“My lady. Are you unhurt?” Raki asked.

It took a few moments to catch her breath. She nodded.

Raki snarled an order. All at once the press of the crowds vanished.

The smell of manure attacked her nostrils and never had the aroma been so welcome. They were out of the hall and into the open. The jeers and taunts receded.