Malice Striker (2 page)

“Nay, Lady Skatha, I heard the Viking—”

“Priest. Wed us. At once.” Brökk sheathed Bitter Bite, fixed a glare on the monk, and crossed his arms. He towered over the rotund holy man and had to clamp his teeth together to choke back the guffaw building in his belly. The man looked about to piss himself.

Brökk’s scarred face, immense size, and the thin war braids plaited at his temples cast horror into the souls of his foes and allies alike. His berserker battle skills were whispered about in all corners of the known world. Women and children feared him, other warriors sought to avoid him, and none dared risk his ire.

“’Tis customary to read banns, my lord.” The monk wrung his hands.

“Get on with it, priest.”

“My lady?” The priest’s fat jowls grayed.

“Read them now. Thrice.” Lady Skatha gathered her skirts and moved to stand beside Brökk. “Pray, make haste, Father. I fear the Viking grows impatient.”

Brökk snorted. The impertinence of the female, to speak of him as if he were not present. “You will address me as Jarl, or Lord Brökk, lady.”

“As you wish.” She folded her hands. The horrid headdress blocked most of her profile, and Brökk could not discern if the note of scorn in her voice was reflected in her expression.

The ceremony proved mercifully short.

When the vows were said and the priest had pronounced them man and wife, Brökk signaled Raki. “Escort my wife and her ladies to my lodge.”

He turned to his bride, ensnared her delicate hand, and brushed his lips over a shallow vein pulsing on the underside of her wrist. Her skin was like satin, supple as sweet cream, and a hint of lavender reached his nose. He detected not a tremble in her slender fingers. “I will come to you when the sun sets for the consummation, which will be witnessed by all present, including King Harald’s
Lovsigemann
.

To his surprise, she blinked not an eye. She showed no maiden’s terror, merely twisted her lips in a half sneer and queried him with a lifted brow. “Lovsigemann? I know not what this means.”

Aye, she had the bravery of a Jomsviking. Not a waver in her tinkling voice. He could not repress a twinge of admiration for one so slight of form who did not tremble before him. “King Harald’s law reader, Olaf Longface, who sits in judgment on all matters in this region.” She looked about to argue against the extra witness, so he added, “’Twould provide insult to the emperor, should the king’s lovsigemann not be included.”

Her plump lips thinned.

“My ladies and I have not broken our fast this day, my lord.”

She thought of food when faced with the loss of her maidenhood afore a room of witnesses? Bold, indeed.

“Fear not, my lady. I have no intention of denying you sustenance. Food will be sent to you. Now go and make yourself ready to receive your jarl.”

“As you wish.” She dipped a quick curtsey, her stare focused on the stone floor, before she spun about. The women surrounded her, and he traced their movements as Raki and a band of warriors led the females out of the longhouse.

She was not as he had expected. Defiant, unafraid, and resolute.

“’Tis done.” Konáll, his brother, slapped him on the shoulder. “You are wed.”

“Aye. And I find I have no liking for the all of it.”

“’Tis a conundrum indeed, our king’s command. What intrigue stands behind it we will not know until he is ready to divulge his plans. You could not do otherwise but wed her. Now you needs father an heir. Plow her. Let her breed you three or four sons.”

Brökk scraped his jaw. “’Twill take many horns of ale to fuel my lust.”

“Come. Order food, ale, and wine. We have time enough to get you sotted.”

The brothers walked to the high table. Already seated there was Olaf Longface. The fostered warriors who had the right of the dais hovered behind the burnished oak table. A few squires from nearby holdings surrounded the benches beneath the salt. Brökk spied Moldof, jarl of the holding on the other side of the fjord, engaged in conversation with the tavern keeper and his wife.

Brökk surveyed the longhouse. He had rebuilt the structure with the spoils gained while serving under Harald Bluetooth. ’Twas made of stone and marble carted from Miklagard, the great Eastern city ruled by the Emperor Ioannes Tzimiskes. Brökk and Konáll served both rulers, though they called Harald liege lord.

Watery sunlight seeped through the open windows. ’Twas as fine a day as could be had with the promise of
Vetrnætr
, the beginning of the winter nights, in the air. Not a cloud marred the blue sky, and the gentle balm of summer winds had long surrendered to the harsh wintriness of the snow falling on the mountain peaks.

“She is comely, your wife. I see no hint of Etta’s guile or spite.” Konáll stepped onto the dais.

“My first wife showed naught of her evil ways for many moons. We will see what happens with this one. I trust no female not of our lineage.” Brökk slumped into one of the two high-backed carved chairs on the platform.

“’Twas an unfortunate union, I am agreed, but do not let it sour you to all women.” Konáll sat and then signaled a kitchen boy for an ale horn.

“Believe you Lady Skatha is the daughter of Skaði? See you any goddess qualities in my new wife? She looks as frail as a birch twig, ready to snap in a strong wind. I see no evidence of the strength of a giantess. My wife is no descendant of a jötunn. I have been deceived.”

“Think you Harald Bluetooth plays you false?”

“Somewhat is amiss. I send word to Harold that I am taking King Kenneth’s bastard daughter to ransom for our sister and then he commands me to wed her? Why not allow me to travel to court to argue against such? How are we to free Hjørdis now?”

* * *

“What mischief is this?” Lady Gráinne hissed. “Pigs. Men are swine not fit to kiss the hem of a woman’s gown. This lodge has seen no master for many eves. ’Tis covered with filth.”

Skatha sniffed and grimaced. “Such a stink takes some days to form.”

“Draw back the hides from the windows, Muíríne. Elspeth, tell the guards to send for servants, buckets, and soap. No, wait child. I shall communicate with these pagans. These bed linens crawl with lice. And the straw in this mattress is damp. He insults you, Skatha, with this chamber. I will not stand for it.” Lady Gráinne stomped in the direction of the doorway.

“Describe the room to me, Elspeth.” Skatha dared not move until she got her bearings. The terror she’d repressed since the Vikings had stolen them had bittered the saliva in her mouth. She clasped her hands tight at her waist and fought the rising panic. Until the Norsemen had seized her from the meadow, she had not realized the inherent safety of familiarity.

She knew Sumbarten Abbey inside out, the grounds, the gardens, the church, the infirmary, the herbarium. Being blind had not been a hardship surrounded as she was by certainty. Ten steps from her small chamber to the garderobe. Five and ten steps to the stairs; nine and ten stairs to the kitchens.

Why had this Viking, this Lord Brökk, chosen her for his wife? Nay, he had said the King of the Danes had chosen her for him. Had her father, King Kenneth, decided on this alliance? She knew naught of kings and courts, wanted naught to do with them or with men. She had been well content at the abbey. Skatha bit the insides of her cheeks, welcoming the pain, hoping the sting would clear the horror building in her veins.

“’Tis square. Five ells from end to end.” Elspeth twined their fingers together. “Your hands are icy, Skatha. Dagrún, is there wood and tinder enough to build a fire?”

“Aye, Lady Elspeth. I will see to it.”

Dagrún’s deep voice held the strain of worry, and Skatha knew her old nurse feared for her wellbeing. She longed to reassure Dagrún, but shock and dread stilled her tongue.

“Continue.” Skatha squeezed Elspeth’s palm.

“In the center of the room is a bed on a dais. There are four posts and velvet drapes, though the fabric is worn in places. Garments are strewn throughout the chamber, but Muíríne is gathering them into a heap. The stench comes from trays of stale food.”

“Half of it bloody and raw and not fit for the dogs. But there is evidence of riches. Wooden bowls and plates, goblets, jeweled eating knives. Here, Skatha, feel the workmanship of this bowl and trencher.” Muíríne, a countess whose lineage traced to the Duke of Gascony, had been raised with fine glass, silks, and emeralds and pearls.

The slap of Muíríne’s slippers on the floor grew louder, and Skatha held out her hands to accept the dishes from her friend. She traced the rim of the bowl and fingered the carvings on the edge of the plate. “Aye. Fine indeed. ’Tis puzzling. Such possessions are not come by with ease. Was not the hall clean and ordered? I smelled no stench there.”

“Aye. The walls were whitewashed, the tables and benches free of grease.” Elspeth curled her arm around Skatha’s waist. “Shall we count the steps? We have little time before the sun sets.”

“Aye.”

They took three strides together, and Skatha halted when Elspeth did.

“Feel the wall. There is a torch sconce to the right.”

“I can scent the tallow and feel the slight warmth. How many in the room?”

“Three on each wall, but only the middle torches are lit.”

They walked from one end of the room to the other. “Fifteen steps.”

Skatha refused to contemplate what would occur when the sun set. She concentrated on learning the chamber and familiarizing herself with its contents. One table by the fire, an enormous chair, one small stool, a metal chest, an earthen pitcher filled with icy water, a chamber pot under the massive bed.

Time hurried onward. By unspoken agreement, Lady Gráinne, Muíríne, and Dagrún worked to make the room habitable, comfortable even, and none spoke of the coming consummation. The fire blazed, and the air in the chamber warmed to the heat of a midsummer’s day. When the servants arrived to scour the walls and floors, Muíríne led Skatha to the bed and helped her onto the mattress.

“Lady Gráinne had them bring in a new mattress and the bed linens have been changed. Feel, Skatha, ’tis fine fabric, the smoothest weave I have e’er seen.”

The material felt soft as cream. Skatha skimmed the bed’s surface. “The straw is well-packed. I cannot find any stray ticks.”

“Aye. To be sure, the jarl is a man of wealth.” Muíríne touched a hand to Skatha’s shoulder. “The servants have brought apples, cheese, and boar slices.”

“I am not hungry.” The notion of food made her stomach clench.

“You must eat. We know not what this night holds for you, and you must keep up your strength.” Elspeth sat on the bed and hugged Skatha. “Every wife faces this eve, and every wife lives to see the sun rise on the morrow.”

Skatha bit her bottom lip until she drew blood. “You speak wise words, but they do not ease the terror heating my insides.”

“Here. Eat this apple.”

Muíríne pressed the cool, round fruit into Skatha’s hand.

“I fear every morsel will find its way back up my throat.”

“One bite. Then another.”

The tart apple did not clear the bitterness from Skatha’s mouth, and her throat contracted in protest on each swallow.

“The sun is low on the horizon. We have but a piddling of time left. Elspeth, Muíríne, Dagrún, see you to finish cleaning the chamber.” Lady Gráinne clapped her hands. “Guards, take the servants back to the longhouse. Dagrún, bar the door. Skatha, ’tis time to prepare you for the consummation.”

“We will all be praying for you. When ’tis time, close your eyes and give over to the Lord. Think peaceful thoughts. Take yourself elsewhere.” Muíríne gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and scrambled off the bed.

“God be with you, my friend.” Elspeth squeezed her shoulder. “All will be well.”

The straw dipped when Lady Gráinne climbed onto the mattress. Skatha heard the sound of the bed curtains being drawn. “We have no time for gentle explanations, child. Say me halt if you do not understand my words. Do not hide under maidenly shyness.”

Skatha’s nape tingled, and ’twas as if a ghoul scraped ice and fire across her shoulder blades. “I wish only to be prepared, my lady.”

“I will be blunt then, my child. He will join his body to yours. Men have between their legs a sword of penetration. ’Tis an instrument called by many names: cock, pecker, prick. ’Tis the source of a man’s seed and his manhood. He will penetrate you between your legs and issue his seed into your woman’s flesh.”

A shudder racked her entire body. For a heartbeat she could not breathe. She frowned. “My lady? There?”

“Aye. It may be unpleasant and painful. I had the servants bring me softened lard. Hold out your hands.”

Confused, but trained to obey, Skatha did as she was told. Lady Gráinne placed a small, round bowl in her cupped palms. “Dip your finger in it.”

She obeyed, inhaled, and tentatively licked the tip of her finger. “Pig lard.”

“Aye. We will bathe you and dry you now. Then you will lie on this bed naked under the covers. You will take the grease and coat your woman parts. Inside and out. Use your fingers to push as much inside you as you can. Lord Brökk is a large man. His manhood will be of a proportion. The grease will ease his way and lessen your pain.”

She flinched. Swallowed hard, once, twice, thrice. “How long will it last?”

“Not long if you do precisely what I tell you.”

What Lady Gráinne had to tell her next stupefied Skatha. She listened carefully and tried to memorize every detail.

The women washed her hair and scrubbed her flesh. They wrapped her in a blanket, used drying cloths to wring the moisture from her curls, and untangled her locks with a bone comb they found in a trunk.

All too soon, she heard the sounds of roaring male voices joined in ribald Gaelic and Norse song. Pecker, prick, the songs the warriors warbled resonated with these words she now recognized. All at once came the knowledge that the men sang of the act to come, the consummation, the penetration. Her head giddy, she fought to gulp in air as an unbearable weight compressed her chest.

“Hurry. Shed the blanket, climb into the bed, and lie under the linens. Remember what I told you. Do not fight him.” Lady Gráinne gave her a slight push.