Ragnar & the Slave Girls (Ragnar the Dane) (4 page)

“
Ifeyinwa, madam. My mistress and master call me Ifay.”

“
I am Aelfwyn. My husband is the red haired one, Ragnar.”

“
Ah, yes.”

They sat in comfortable silence after that, especially as Alvi wanted milk again, so Aelfwyn fed him, feeling relaxed and safe.

*  *  *

After two hours in town, Ragnar still hadn’t found the necessary supplies. Wanting refreshment, he made his way to an alehouse with a green bush up on a pole outside. This showed the brew was ready. Licking his dry lips in anticipation, he walked in, but as he did so, conversation stopped. Even with the absence of his red Huskarl cloak, the alehouse occupants recognised his status.

The alewife approached him with a cup of ale. “It’s free, sir,” she said.

“
Thank you.” He sniffed the brew.

“
It’s fine, sir.” She took a gulp of the liquid and smiled. “See, I haven’t dropped dead.”

Ragnar smiled in return, and raised the cup to the other drinkers in salutation. They raised theirs, and conversation began again.

“
Can you tell me where the foreign traders’ stalls are?” he asked the lady. “I need some supplies for my wife, to help with our baby.” He knew this would reassure her.

“
Oh, of course.” She smiled with relief and gave him directions, after which he went to sit by the window.

Everyone gasped and he looked up to see them watching him again.

“
You - you can’t sit there, sir,” quavered an old man.

“
Why not?”

“
The white fiend sits there. It’s his spot.”

“
The fiend? I’m not afraid of a spirit.”

“
It isn’t a spirit, sir, it’s a man.”

Before Ragnar could find out any more, the alehouse door crashed open and a man strode in.

His face pale and grimy, he squinted out of tired, reddened eyes. He wore a whole wolf pelt round his shoulders over a dark tunic, trousers and scuffed leather boots.

But his hair and beard were recognisably white-blond, although streaked with dirt and tied in a scruffy braid hanging down his back. Ragnar’s jaw dropped. Kjartan.

His eyes widened when he saw Ragnar, then after hesitating for a moment, he left.

The other drinkers gazed at the remaining Dane.

“
Oh, God bless you, sir, you have driven him out,” observed the old man. “He usually beats anyone who gets in his way. Or worse.”

Ragnar found his voice. “I know him. Or knew him. Where is his woman?”

“
Woman? They say she ran away. They say she couldn’t stand his rages and violence. They say she found another man, they say -”

Ragnar held up his hand for silence. He finished his drink, then set out for the foreign traders, his thoughts whirling. Hallby and Gippeswick weren’t so far apart, after all.

*  *  *

At night a young man went to a cave far away from the village.

“
Are you at home, mother?” he called at the entrance.

“
Yes. Come in.”

A broad woman in a fur cloak and thick woollen dress sat in a chair carved out of the rock, the opposite side to her bearskin bed and magical talismans. Torches flamed on the walls, fixed into crevices.

“
What news?” she asked.

“
It is going well. She is so nearly ready and her husband suspects nothing, the fool. When do you want to see her?”
             

“
Oh, very soon.”

She pulled him towards her and kissed him on the lips.

“
You are doing so well. Without you we would still be lost in the wild wood.” She smiled. “Do you want a measure?”

He nodded and she handed him a leather pouch which he hid in his tunic.

“
Can I do it properly yet?”

“
After I’ve seen her. Bring her here to my cave in three days’ time.”

He frowned, turning away to hide it from her. But she’d expected his annoyance and smiled.

She suddenly put her hand between his legs, making him catch his breath.

“
Not long now,” she murmured, squeezing him. “You can re-join us. You’ve done so very well.”

She let go, and dismissed him.

“
H–have I really done well?” He hesitated. “The potion works on everyone. They all think I’m one of them.”

“
Yes, my son, of course. Now go and finish it.”

He tiptoed out.

*  *  *

Bjarni’s face flamed as Saehild stormed out of the house. The scar on his arm throbbed, adding to his annoyance as her words rang in his ears.

“
You're so dull! And weak! Just the same as all the other men round here!”

How dare she criticise him? He’d only ever tried to make her happy, and give her everything she wanted and be a good husband. But yet again she rejected him sexually - the worst possible way.

When she’d come home that evening, he’d hoped they could at least talk, but as usual she’d been abrupt, distant, critical. What happened to the adoring girl he married?

But where did she go when not with him? Whenever he thought about it, the wound on his arm ached and he had to attend to it. By the time he soothed the pain, he’d forgotten what he was thinking of. It was just easier not to wonder.

But his wife’s defiance still angered him, so he concentrated on that, his hands balling into fists.

Ifay stood peeling turnips for the meal, her thin, dark body in complete contrast to Saehild’s. He stepped across to her in one stride and took the knife and vegetables out of her hands.

“
I want sex. Now,” he ordered, ignoring her gasp. “It’s your duty.”

He grabbed her wrist and took her to the bed. A slave woman in the marital bed would be a great insult to Saehild.

Ifay lay down gracefully, lifting her dress, positioning herself with legs apart, a blank expression on her face. He didn’t bother taking off his trousers, just undid them and climbed on top of her. She made a small sound as he entered her, gritting her teeth and clutching the covers.

It didn’t take long. Relieved to find a woman who couldn’t refuse, after so many of Saehild’s taunts, he finished after a few thrusts. He relaxed on top of Ifay’s slender, brown frame, the days of frustration gone, his mind clear.

Wriggling out of her, he glanced at her face. Biting her lip, but not in pleasure, her eyes tight shut, a tear trickling down one cheek. His stomach churned. He’d never made a woman cry with lovemaking before; they usually enjoyed it, begged for more. But slaves shouldn’t matter. He stood, fastening his trousers, unable to tear his glance from her set, tense face.

“
I’ve finished with you.” He cleared his dry throat. “You can get up now.”

Ifay opened her eyes but they didn’t meet his.

“
Why are you men all the same?” she muttered. “You must have your way. Never mind how the woman feels.” She pulled down her dress and, keeping her head down, crept to her corner of the hut.

Bjarni slumped onto the bed. Here was another woman thinking he was just the same as all the others, nothing special, dull. But he should be proud of himself. He’d asserted his manhood and place in the household, so why did he feel sick? Slaves usually had sex with their masters, so she must be used to it by now. He shouldn’t care. Gritting his teeth, he straightened his clothes, smoothed down his hair and beard, then strode out.

*  *  *

Ifay sat alone, so it didn’t matter if she allowed herself to cry. Her shoulders shook and tears poured silently down her cheeks.

But someone knocked on the door. Couldn’t she even have a few minutes to herself?

The dark haired woman - what was her name? Ale something? - stood on the doorstep again with her baby.

“
My master and mistress are not here.” She avoided the woman’s eyes.

“
Oh. Can I come in anyway?” asked Aelfwyn.  “I’d like a few minutes’ rest. Can I have a drink?” She sat down on a chair.

Ifay fetched a cup of ale without saying anything and carried on preparing the meal.

“
Do you like working here? My sister and her husband are kind people."

Ifay made a face to herself.

“
Do they treat you well?”

“
They are just the same as my other owners. Better than some, worse than others.”

“
Oh.”

Why couldn’t this woman just be quiet and go away?
She continued with her work, turning her back as much as possible. When she sneaked a glance, the baby suckled at his mother, who gazed at him.

Tears pricked Ifay’s eyes. She was the same age. Why couldn’t she have met a man to make her happy and give her a normal life? She chopped fiercely at a carrot.

“
What’s wrong?” called Aelfwyn.

“
Nothing, madam.”

“
Why are you crying? Do you miss your home?”

That made her cry even more, quietly so as not to disturb her visitor.

“
Does my sister mistreat you? She can be unkind.”

“
I hardly see her. It’s the master who ...” Ifay bit her lip. How weak she had become.

“
Bjarni? He’s always been the kindest brother to me.”

“
He is not kind to me, though. Sorry, please forget I said that.”

“
What did he do?”

“
Nothing. He is just - just - the same as all other men.”

Aelfwyn paused. “Sit down with me for a minute and take a rest from your duties. I won’t tell anyone.” She could think of a few things Bjarni might have done.

*  *  *

In Ljotr’s secret shelter in the woods, Saehild could feel the cloth against her eyes, the soft fur of the bearskin covers, the scratchy heather beneath her naked body. She could hear him moving around in the dark silence nearby and trembled to imagine what he was doing.

Wetness enveloped her nipple - his mouth? She felt the prickling of a beard, then teeth nibbled at it and traced their way down her ribcage, her stomach, her thighs, where his tongue wriggled in the hair between her legs.

She twitched and reached out for him, finding his shoulder and digging her nails in. His tongue moved slowly down between her legs, inside her just a little bit, and she moaned, tortured.

But then nothing. She reached out but couldn’t touch him. She was just about to speak when something wet trickled on her breasts, running down between them and under her back.

“
What’s that?”

No answer. Just the wetness pouring up her neck and into her mouth. Wine. She tasted its familiar strength and ripeness; she drank so much of it every time she met him. They both drank it, so much better than the boring ale served in the village.

Then his body weight crushed her, his warm naked skin damp against hers, his erect cock hard at her thigh. She gasped, pressing herself against him, trying to move and draw him inside, but he resisted and kept pushing at her thigh, so tantalisingly close to where she wanted him.

After a few minutes of this, something cold and smooth slid inside her and she jumped.

“
What’s that? It’s not you, is it?”

“
It’s my knife handle.”

She gasped and wriggled.

“
If you move too much, the blade will go in too and cut you.”

She froze, breathing hard and concentrating on the smoothness, pushing in and out. The edge of danger. She didn’t dare move, or touch him, just in case the blade caught her, but what if she did? Holding her breath, she waited to see what would happen.

He slid the knife handle out of her with a squelch, and they both drew ragged breaths.

“
Fuck me, please,” she gasped.

“
No.”

She hit out, catching him on the head and he chuckled. She ripped off the blindfold and glared at him as he lay next to her, one hand on his cock. The light of the candles irritated her eyes after they’d been in darkness for so long.

“
Do something to me then,” he whispered, “if you’re so angry.”

“
I will.” She pushed him onto his back and tied his hands together above his head with the blindfold. She pulled it tight but he just made a mocking face at her.

Grabbing one of the candles, she held it over his chest. The flame burnt into the wax immediately, and it spilled out, falling onto his chest hair and he twitched.