Odin's Shadow (Sons Of Odin Book 1) (9th Century Viking Romance) (14 page)

Tafl was a game of strategy. The black pieces represented the king and his men, and the white pieces the attackers. The object of the game was for Alrik to get his king to the other side of the board before Olaf could surround and capture the king with his own men. The smaller pieces were called knobs, which were unimportant and could be sacrificed to keep the king safe, or to eventually capture him.

Alrik made bold, impulsive moves. It seemed as though he played tafl exactly the way he lived his life; with overconfidence. Selia could see how Olaf might take advantage of Alrik's strategy, but Olaf's moves were consistently mediocre. Was he not a good tafl player, or did he simply know better than to beat Alrik?

The Hersir probably wasn't a gracious loser.

They were all drinking rather heavily, and after a while Selia began to feel warm and drowsy. One of the slave girls, the plainer of the twosome who had served them at dinner, sat in the corner out of the way but scurried to refill their cups of ale as soon as they were emptied.

Still unaccustomed to the strength of the ale they drank, Selia found it went to her head very quickly.

Hrefna sat by the hearth spinning a length of wool. Did she think Selia an idle girl, relaxing on the bench like a princess? She should get up and do something useful as well. But her body felt warm and heavy, and she couldn't bring herself to move. She had already nodded off twice despite her best intentions to stay awake.

Traces of lingering daylight filtered in through the smoke holes in the gables. How silly, falling asleep like a child while the adults laughed and enjoyed themselves.

The days had seemed to grow longer and longer the farther north they sailed. Had anything Eithne told her about the Finngalls been true? The woman had always asserted the blond giants came from a land of darkness. But here the sun rose at what was surely the middle of the night, and finally set hours after it would have been already dark at home.

Selia must have drifted off again, because she awoke bemusedly to the sound of Hrefna's disembodied voice.

"What do you think you're doing, Alrik?" Hrefna asked in a rough whisper. She sounded angry. Selia opened her eyes a crack, enough to see them through her eyelashes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied.

Alrik’s aunt blew her breath out as she dropped the spinning into her lap. "Oh, you don't, do you? Marrying that girl, for one thing. You look ridiculous with her, you know. What exactly were you thinking?"

Obviously Selia was not meant to hear this. Her breathing even, as if asleep, she remained still and unashamedly eavesdropped.

"Hrefna—" Olaf began, but she cut him off.

"You just hush. You had the chance to talk sense into him, and you didn't," she hissed at her husband, then turned back to Alrik. "There are bruises on her shoulder, Alrik. I saw them while I was dressing her hair. I won't stay here and watch you hurt that poor girl, I tell you—I had my fill of
that
with Ragnarr."

"She bruises easily. I didn't hurt her on purpose." Alrik’s voice was gruff.

The woman refused to back down. "On purpose or not, it doesn't matter. She is too small for you-she will end up hurt one way or the other. And what will happen when you get her with child? Do you actually think she could birth a babe of yours? That girl will be dead in a year, mark my words."

Alrik stood abruptly, causing the tafl pieces to fly across the room. His jaw clenched as he glared down at his aunt. "I'll thank you to stay out of my business, Hrefna. If you want to go, then go. It is no concern of mine."

He bent to pick Selia up from the bench, then carried her to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with his foot. Selia could feel the tautness of his body as he laid her on the bed. She stared up at him.

"How long have you been awake?" He looked furious.

She averted her gaze, and he cursed, probably realizing she had overheard the entire conversation.

"Alrik," she said cautiously, "Do you think I will die . . . from your babe?" She had heard this prediction twice now, once from Gudrun and once from Hrefna. That, coupled with Niall's willingness to marry her off to Old Buadhach because he couldn’t get her with child, had not left her with much confidence.

"No," he said, undressing. He threw his clothes in a heap on the floor. "I do not."

Selia wasn’t accustomed to seeing her husband completely naked. Aside from their grisly nuptials at the priest's house and their brief time at the tavern, their lovemaking had always been conducted in the woods. And so he usually just unfastened his breeches, did his business with her, and fastened himself back up.

Now he stood in front of her in all his naked glory; a massive man, thickly muscled, achingly beautiful. She sucked in her breath at the sight of him.

Alrik bent to kiss her, hard and unrelenting, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and returned the kiss with fierce intensity. He pulled back with a thin smile, pausing just long enough to undress her, then he was on top of her again.

She shivered as the cool air brushed her skin, still a bit sore from earlier, but also throbbing with need. She found the longer she was with Alrik, the less foreplay was necessary for her to be ready for him-her body responded to him quickly, sometimes with just a look or brief touch.

Now she felt ready to explode. "Please," she moaned.

But surprisingly, he didn't pierce her just yet. His lips moved over her body with maddening precision, kissing and licking his way downward. The softness of his mouth was in direct contrast to the scratchy, rough feeling of his beard on her sensitive skin, and it was almost too much to bear. Selia had to bite her lip to keep from screaming. She tasted blood, but she didn’t care.

Nothing mattered but what he was doing with his tongue . . .

They lay for a moment, breathing hard as their damp bodies chilled in the cool air. She smiled up at Alrik but he still looked angry. He must have held back quite a bit, keeping the beast firmly in check, and so had not allowed the tension in his body to fully dissipate.

He rose from the bed, then began to dress. "Sleep," he said as he bent to kiss her. The pressure of his hand on her shoulder caused her to flinch, and Alrik drew back. He hesitated for a moment, then stroked the bruise with his thumb. Without looking at her again, he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Was this an apology? Did he feel remorse for his earlier behavior, and was trying to make it up to her? Or perhaps-more likely-he wanted to prove Hrefna wrong, to prove that he
could
be with Selia without hurting her. If that were the case, it must not have been quite enough for him, his victory therefore hollow.

Selia slipped into her shift, and turned the blankets down to climb into bed. She paused as her hand touched the unexpected softness of the sheet below. Silk. Alrik's bed not only had a feather mattress, but sheets made of silk. She pondered the extravagance of such a thing, but had to admit as she settled into bed that silk felt much nicer than wool against the skin.

Finngalls. Such curious people.

She covered herself with the blankets and furs, rolling over in the bed that seemed much too large without her husband in it.

As she drifted off to sleep she distinctly heard the splintering sound of wood being chopped.

Chapter 17

When Selia awoke, she wasn't quite sure if it was morning. Daylight streamed in from the smoke hole, but that meant nothing. Alrik slept on his side, away from her. She touched his bare shoulder but he didn't move.

She watched him sleep for a few moments. If the lingering scent of sour ale surrounding him was any indication, he wouldn't be up for quite some time. She might as well rise from the bed to see if anyone else was awake. Perhaps she could help Hrefna with something to prove to the woman she wasn't the lazy girl she had appeared to be yesterday.

She pulled on her gown, then slipped from the bedroom. The house was quiet as she followed her nose to the kitchen. There were several loaves of bread rising on the work table. Evidently someone was awake, but the kitchen and main room were deserted. The curtains on Ulfrik’s bench were drawn tight. Was the pretty slave girl sharing his bed?

She made her way outside to the privy, holding her breath at the smell as she relieved herself. Her stomach had been more sensitive than usual recently, probably from the unfamiliar spices the Finngalls used in their food. Perhaps she would not break her fast this morning.

On her way back to the house, she passed one of the barns and heard the bleating of sheep coming from inside. She smiled as she lifted the latch to the barn door. A pail of fresh sheep's milk would be a suitable offering to Hrefna to make up for last night.

The interior of the barn was warm and dark, smelling strongly of sheep excrement. Selia wrinkled her nose, but nevertheless set out to find a pail.

"Is someone there?" a female voice asked, and Selia squinted into the darkness. She could just make out the shape of a human head leaning around one of the sheep.

"Yes." She tried to hide the disappointment in her voice. Now she would need to find some other way to please Hrefna.

"I've already done the first three. You can finish up here if you like, so I can check on the bread."

Selia walked over to the figure, prepared to do as she was asked. The woman looked up at her, then dropped to her knees with a cry of fear.

"Mistress," she said, "please forgive me . . . I did not know it was you."

Selia blinked down at the woman's lowered head for several seconds. How was she to respond to this? Judging from the woman's cropped hair, she was a slave. Her Norse had a slightly different quality to it than Selia was accustomed to hearing. Was she Irish?

"Stand up," she said in Irish. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The woman's cautious gaze met Selia's as she rose to her feet. It was the slave who had served them at supper last night, the one in whom Ulfrik had been so interested. She was young, tall and well-formed, and even in the semi-darkness Selia could see she had lovely green eyes. No wonder Ulfrik was so taken with her.

"I'm sorry, Mistress."

Her heart leapt at the sound of the girl’s perfect Irish. It seemed a lifetime since she had conversed with someone who spoke her native tongue. Ulfrik didn't count-although his Irish had improved greatly since she had met him, he still had a Norse accent. This girl, however, spoke so clearly and so perfectly that for a moment Selia felt as though she were home.

"It's all right," she assured her with a smile. She couldn't restrain herself from reaching out to touch the girl's arm.

The slave flinched. "No one is ever awake this early except me . . . it's my job to prepare the bread."

"What's your name?"

"Muirin."

"Muirin." Selia let the fine Irish name roll from her tongue. "You have no reason to fear me. I came out here to milk the sheep, but since you're here we can do it together." Now that she had someone to converse with in Irish she was reluctant to stop. The bread could be damned.

She patted the stool. Muirin sat down rather hesitantly as Selia went to find another pail and stool. She returned, sitting before the next sheep in line, and began to work its teats.

After a while the girl seemed to relax a bit, and finally opened up to Selia's relentless questioning. Muirin was nineteen, and from a fishing village on the southwestern coast of Ireland. She had been nine years old when the Finngalls had come and taken her. A Hersir named Gunnar One-Eye had raided her village, selling her to a slave trader in Bjorgvin. She had only been here at this farmstead for less than a year.

Selia did her best to hide her shock at the story. Although Muirin was shy, she spoke matter-of-factly about the events of her early life, seeming almost numb as she told Selia of the raid on her village and the deaths of her parents and her younger brothers. Her sister was three years older than she and had been taken as well. Both girls had been sold to a brothel.

“What is a brothel?” Selia asked.

Muirin kept her gaze fixed on the udder in front of her. “It is a place where men pay for pleasure. They pick out a woman and she must do whatever he asks of her.”

Selia stopped milking for a moment. What a terrible tragedy. Muirin had seen her family murdered, then had been torn from her home to be sold into slavery in a foreign land. She had been forced to service strangers with her body. But how had Muirin come here to this farmstead? Had Ulfrik been a patron of the brothel? There seemed no polite way to ask that question.

"Are you treated well here?" Selia asked.

She heard nothing but the sound of milk streams hitting the bucket for several long seconds.

"Yes, Mistress," Muirin finally responded.

A gnawing ache began to grow in Selia's belly. Both she and Muirin were silent as they finished milking.

They walked to the house, carrying their pails. The scent of porridge and freshly baked bread wafted to them as they entered the kitchen together. Apparently Hrefna had cooked the morning meal herself, as there was no one else in the room.

They stopped short at the look on Hrefna's face. "Where have you been?" she demanded of Muirin.

Muirin blushed and stammered, clearly reluctant to blame Selia, but unable to explain herself otherwise. Selia stepped forward. "It is my fault, Hrefna," she said. "I was talking to her. I went to milk the sheep." She held out her pail for inspection.

The woman turned to her with a strained smile. "Of course, my dear," she said, taking the milk from her. "But you don't have to—"

Selia startled as she heard Alrik's voice behind her. "Next time tell me where you're going." He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

"I did not want to wake you, Alrik."

He grunted, unwilling to be appeased. His eyes narrowed on Muirin, who shifted like a frightened rabbit under his blue gaze.

Hrefna gave her nephew a hard look as she waved him out of the kitchen. "Go sit down," she ordered, and she took Selia by the arm to follow Alrik to the table in the main room.

Ulfrik and Olaf were at the table, looking quite worse for wear after the night's hard drinking. They both gave Selia a weak greeting. Ulfrik's gaze followed Muirin as she and the other slave-whom Selia heard Hrefna call Keir-dished up their food, but Muirin did not look at him or anyone else.

Selia smiled up at her in thanks as the girl placed a bowl of porridge in front of her, yet the slave’s face remained expressionless. It was as though the conversation in the barn had never occurred.

The front door slammed shut. Ingrid walked in, scowling at everyone around the table as she sat down. She ignored Selia completely as she tore into her food.

"And where have
you
been?" Hrefna inquired.

"At Bjorn's, of course," Ingrid said, her mouth full.

Selia studied her new stepdaughter. Who was Bjorn? Judging from the lack of reaction from the others at the table, it must be somewhere she went regularly. Apparently she could come and go as she pleased. How remarkable for an unmarried girl of her age to have so much freedom.

Muirin placed another platter of bread in front of Ingrid. The girl glanced up, and as her eyes registered on the slave she nearly choked on her food. She dropped her chunk of bread on the table and burst into laughter, looking from Muirin to Selia.

"Ingrid," Hrefna warned.

Alrik scowled at his daughter as if daring her to speak, but the look on Ingrid's face was triumphant. She turned to Selia. "Stepmother," she said sweetly. "Did they tell you this thrall is with child, and she doesn't know if it's by Ulfrik or my father?"

Time seemed to stand still as Selia gaped at those seated around the table. Ingrid was grinning like a fool, and Hrefna and Olaf looked mortified. Ulfrik's face drained of color as he pushed his plate away. Muirin stood frozen, her gaze to the floor.

Alrik, however, leapt from the table, knocking over his bench in his rush to get at his daughter. He grabbed her by the neck, lifting her high into the air, and her fingers clawed at his arm as her feet kicked helplessly beneath her.

Olaf and Ulfrik jumped up to restrain Alrik, but he shoved them aside. He threw Ingrid against the wall, and her body smacked hard before collapsing in a boneless heap on the floor. She moaned but didn't move.

As Hrefna screamed and blocked Ingrid's body with her own, Olaf and Ulfrik stood between him and the two females, prepared to leap on him. Alrik's hands clenched convulsively as he glared at his family with his wild, white-ringed eyes.

Then he snarled something unintelligible and stormed from the house, slamming the door so hard the log walls reverberated.