Wolfskin (12 page)

“Come on, dearest, don't be shy now.” She reached out a white hand; he took it and was drawn inside. The woman turned to Eirik.

“Off you go now, my fine warrior. I'll look after your little brother, and send him home in time for his breakfast.”

“Be kind to him,” laughed Eirik, and all at once he was gone, and the door closed behind them.

“I–I don't think…” Eyvind could have kicked himself. He knew what this was all about, he knew what he was supposed to do. Indeed, his body seemed to be preparing itself for immediate action as the woman drew him along the hallway and into a chamber where a soft lamp burned beside a large, comfortable pallet whose rumpled blankets showed that they had, indeed, disturbed her sleep.

“Now, sweetheart,” the woman said, letting go of his hand and sitting on the edge of the bed. Odin's bones, her skin was as white and pink as meadow flowers, and she smelled so good, a wholesome, milky sort of sweetness that made him long to set his lips
there
and
there
and have a taste of her, but…

“Eyvind,” she said gently. “That's your name, isn't it? I'm Signe, a friend of your brother's, an old friend and a true one. Eirik tells me all his secrets. Don't be shy, Eyvind. You're a man, I see that: a fine man. Your first time, is it?”

“I–ah–yes, but—”

“Come on, sit here by me and let's talk a little. You can talk to me; I've heard everything, and more. Why don't you put your hand here, like this—ah, that's nice, isn't it—and I'll put mine
here
…no wonder they call you the little ox, sweetheart…now tell me. Something's worrying you about this, and yet you want it, that's plain as a pikestaff. Tell me now, Eyvind.”

Her voice was so kind, and her hand so wondrously exciting, that between those two things he did, at last, manage to blurt out the truth.

“It's just—it's just, I wouldn't want to hurt you, or upset you.”

“What? Why would you do that, love? What put such an idea into your head?”

“I thought—I was told—” The movement of her hand was agonizing, so sweet it was a sort of blissful torture, a tantalizing pain. “Well, that women don't like doing this, that they get no pleasure from it, and only agree to it because men make them. And I don't like the sound of that at all. That's why I haven't—why I never—”

Signe had taken her hand away. He thought he might explode with longing, and disgrace himself then and there.

“Who told you that?” she asked him, her eyes round with surprise.

“Just someone. I heard it somewhere. A friend.”

Signe sighed and rose to her feet. Now she would send him away, and he would feel even more of a numbskull than he did already, his body on fire and his stupid tongue unable to say yes.

“That was wrong, sweetheart,” Signe said gently, and she untied the ribbon at the neck of her gown and let the folds of sheer linen fall to the floor. “It's up to the man to make sure she enjoys it. Here, let me show you.”

Over many sweet nights since then, Signe had taught him a woman could indeed take joy in the act of mating, could experience a pleasure as piercingly intense, as blinding in its ferocity as his own. Indeed, he learned that to give enjoyment could be as satisfying as taking it, as she taught him new ways and, later, as his skills improved, they discovered newer ones together. He wondered, at times, about what Somerled had once told him: not a lie, since blood brothers do not lie to one another, but a misapprehension that caused him to think hard about his friend, and what had occurred that terrible summer at the shieling. He would have liked to explain to Somerled that he had got it wrong about women; that if one listened to what they had to tell, and valued what they had to give, and offered them respect, there was a depth of happiness in the congress between man and woman that could not be found elsewhere. But he did not speak of this. Somerled was a courtier, clever, sophisticated, still liable to snap with some cruelty if displeased. Tell him this truth, and it was very possible the only response would be a derisive laugh.

 

It wasn't until much later, when Eyvind was a grown man of eighteen, that Signe told him she'd known he was a Wolfskin from the way he'd made love the first few times: charging straight in for the kill, so to speak, with not a hint of subtlety about it. He had the grace to blush a little, remembering how much she had taught him since then.

“I was only a boy,” he protested, rolling onto his back to watch her as she dressed by candlelight.

“Oh, yes, and you're such an old man now,” smiled Signe, putting on her stockings in a way that made him itch to pull her back into bed once more. But he did not. With Signe, there were certain rules one had to follow. He knew she went with other men, his brother among them. He knew she chose carefully, and that she did not ask for payment, though she received gifts gracefully when offered. He understood the meaning of the pot of flowers, and that it must be respected—it was a sign to show if another shared her bed, or if there might be a place there for him when he needed her. For Eyvind, she usually was free; he knew he was some sort of favorite, and never ceased to be grateful for it. The elegant ladies of the
court still alarmed him, even now, with their sidelong glances and clever flirtatious asides. And he would not take a woman as part of the spoils of battle, though some of the others saw that as no more than a Wolfskin's right.

“You're a good boy,” Signe told him, fastening her overdress with its twin brooches, and leaning over to kiss him on the tip of his nose. There was a tantalizing waft of her scent, that warm, enveloping smell that was part of her very self. “Not now,” she said, evading his searching hand. “You're needed elsewhere today, and so am I. Come on, lazybones, up from that bed and into your clothes before I put you out into the alley stark naked. Not that you'd be left alone there long; there'd be some lonely widow quick enough to get her hands on you, I've no doubt.”

With some reluctance, Eyvind dressed and made his way back to court. He looked for Thord or Erlend in the stables, but there was nobody around but a couple of lads forking hay. It began to rain, droplets at first, then a sudden deluge. Eyvind ducked inside the first building he came to, which was a small annex to Magnus's great hall, a place favored for embroidery and music and games, since its shutters could be opened wide to catch the morning light. The place was near empty. A couple of women were seated by the far doorway, chatting and sewing, and two people were sitting over a game board, both of them very still, apparently locked in an intense strategic duel. Today, Somerled had the sixteen small soldiers, and the player with the eight, and the tiny king, was a woman. Eyvind stopped in his tracks. Somerled's opponents were always carefully chosen: visiting nobles, traveling merchants, skalds, or priests: none but the most accomplished and the most devious. He never played with women. And this girl was both young and comely, if not exactly to Eyvind's own tastes. He liked a woman tall and generously built, fair-haired, pale-skinned, soft to touch: in short, a woman just like Signe. But he had to admit, as Somerled caught his eye and the girl rose to her feet, looking him up and down in that way the court ladies had, that this one was not lacking in natural charms. She was of middle height and shapely though slender. Her hair was a dark auburn and elaborately dressed in a coronet of plaits, threaded with some kind of sparkling ribbon; her features were pleasing if a little sharp, the mouth full and red, the eyes dark. Those eyes were very shrewd indeed; Eyvind thought she had assessed him already, and decided he was not worth much.

“Ah, Eyvind,” said Somerled, not getting up. “Where have you been? This is the lady Margaret, daughter of Thorvald Strong-Arm. She's come
here to marry my brother. But Ulf's mind is much taken up with other things these days: ships, mostly. He hasn't a great deal of time to spare. So, as you see, the lady's having to make do with me. Margaret, this large fellow is my friend, Eyvind Hallvardsson. He is a Wolfskin, and much cherished by the Jarl. We don't see enough of him these days. He does rather tend to be away raiding strongholds, or chopping off heads, or—”

“You talk too much, Somerled,” said Margaret crisply, and Somerled fell silent. Eyvind gaped. “Sit here by us, Eyvind,” she went on. “This game's going nowhere. Perhaps you can help me.”

“Me?” said Eyvind, as Somerled's mouth curved in a derisive half smile. “Hardly. I'm no good at games, not this kind, anyway.”

“No? A shame. I'll just have to beat him myself, then.” Her dark brows creased in a frown of concentration; her elegant fingers, long-nailed, ring-bedecked, reached to nudge one of her men forward. “Your move,” she said sweetly, looking straight into Somerled's eyes.

It was quite a long game. Eyvind had never understood the rules or the strategies; instead of following the pieces, he watched the players. Sometimes he got up to fetch ale, or to stretch his legs. It was very quiet; the others spoke less and less as the morning wore on and the number of men on the board dwindled. It seemed to Eyvind that there were two games being played here: the one with the small soldiers in black and green, hopping about the inlaid squares in a dance of pursuit and evasion, and another, far more dangerous game whose moves were gestures and glances, a slight shifting of the body, the tone of a murmured word. How long had Margaret been here, a day or two? Perhaps he was imagining things, his senses heightened after the night's activities in Signe's bed. Foolish. This girl was to wed Ulf; that was why she had come. And brothers were always loyal. Look at him and Eirik. No, he was wrong as usual, a numbskull. No wonder Margaret had dismissed him with a single glance.

The game was nearly finished; Somerled had five men left, Margaret her king and two guards.

“You're trapped.” Somerled's voice was calmly confident. He reached out toward the board, and quick as lightning Margaret's hand shot out to seize his outstretched fingers before they could touch her king.

“No, I'm not.”

Somerled withdrew his hand slowly. The expression on his face was one Eyvind had seen before, and did not much care for.

“What can you mean?” The voice was chilly. “The rules are—”

“I know the rules,” Margaret said evenly. “It is you who have made an
error. See, my guard reaches the end of the board at this turn, and becomes a Wolfskin. Then he can move in any direction he pleases; and he is in position to take
this
man, and
this
man. Now it is your move again, I think.”

It appeared she was right. Somerled, who never made mistakes, had missed something, and Margaret had all but won the game. Eyvind waited for an explosion of temper, a withering remark calculated to provoke tears. Somerled was a master of both.

“Your move,” repeated Margaret courteously, lifting her artistically plucked brows.

Somerled stared at her. “I think I've met my match,” he said. His eyes were bright with some emotion; there was no telling what it was.

“A gallant loser,” said Margaret. “We must do it again some time. Tomorrow, perhaps. I sense you don't concede often, brother-in-law.”

“Correct. And perhaps, even this time, I have not entirely lost.”

“If you think I'm going to ask you what that means, you think wrong,” Margaret replied smoothly. “Now, I find all this hard work has given me a hearty appetite. Eyvind, will you walk to the hall with me in search of some sustenance? I've several charming ladies with me, from home; my father insisted. You might like to meet them.”

“I shouldn't think he would, you know,” put in Somerled, bringing up the rear. “The one he has already is enough for him, even if he does share her with half the town.”

If another man had made such a remark, he would not have remained on his feet and conscious long afterward. Eyvind's jaw tightened; his fists clenched.

“No offense,” said Somerled lightly. “Mmm, what's that I smell, apple pie?”

“Keep your comments to yourself,” Eyvind growled.

“Indeed,” murmured Margaret. “It's clear Somerled has no sisters. If he had, he would have learned by now that women are unimpressed by displays of pointless incivility.”

“Oh dear,” said Somerled, apparently quite unabashed. “I'm sure the girl's a sweet thing, everyone says so. Don't glower like that, Eyvind, you'll frighten Margaret. We mustn't do that. There's so much to look forward to, after all. So many new games to play.”

 

The wedding had been planned for the next full moon, before the autumn viking. But that was not to be. Before nightfall a messenger rode in from
the north. He spoke behind closed doors, first to Ulf and then to Somerled. Their father was dead; pressing matters must be attended to at home. Ulf exchanged the briefest of courtesies with his bride-to-be. There was no time for sleep. He took a crew of Magnus's men and set off at dawn in the
Sea Princess,
which the Jarl had generously made available. It was a long weary way up the coast to Halogaland. Ulf did not ask his brother to accompany him. It was understood that they could not be there in time to see the old man buried. The journey, Somerled told Eyvind coolly, was just another strategic move in Ulf's own game. It was no gesture of filial piety, no sentimental voyage of farewell.

“You're wrong, I'm sure,” Eyvind had protested, taken aback by Somerled's calm acceptance of such a loss. “Ulf spoke of your father with great respect, and with affection.”

“Typical.” Somerled's tone was flat. “You measure others by your own yardstick. Ulf cannot wait to cut himself free. He has the light of far horizons in his eyes, and will let nothing and no one stand in his way.”

Eyvind looked at him. “That last part sounds more like you,” he observed cautiously.