Bitter is the wind, p.10
Bitter is the Wind, page 10
He watched her shaking. “Abria, he is not here,” he said, gently.
“You are his brother,” she whispered, her voice thick and shaking. “You are a man. You are all the same.”
“He may have been my brother, but that does not make us the same, any more than your name makes you the same as Abrianna,” he pointed out, carefully. “Maybe we are both guilty of making empty comparisons.”
Her breathing started to slow. His words were getting through to her. The whale lamps were petering out as the night deepened and the flames of the fire flickered light over his strong, handsome face.
“Have you ever been loved, Abria?” he asked, quietly. “Loved, not raped or used?”
She shook her head.
“So, all you know of love is what you had with Thorulf?” he asked, carefully.
Her nod was barely perceptible.
“There is another way, Abria,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, no…”
“You cannot go through life believing that is all love is between a man and a woman. It can be, and should be, sacred,” he said.
“My father said he loved me and sold me into slavery. Sold me to someone who hurt me,” she said, trembling. “And if it had not been that, he would have had me marry someone of his choice, for money, for his kingdom. I am nothing more than to be used by men. Why should I trust anyone? Why should I trust you? You, too, were about to have your way with me.”
“No, Abria, you are wrong,” he said, shaking his head. “The bed was warm. You were warm. We have both lost in life and I sought only to give you comfort.”
“To take comfort for yourself,” she said, bitterly.
“Abria, I am a man. I do not deny I have needs and lusts,” he admitted. “Yes, I would take pleasure in fucking you, but I have learnt there is little pleasure in fucking an unwilling woman, especially since…” His voice trailed off.
“Since you lost Abrianna?” she said, pointedly.
He nodded, looking away, thoughtful. “I hear only how she would have screamed with the fear and pain of being cruelly rutted. For the first time, I understood.” He turned back to look at her. “So I will never treat you that way. I shall never force myself upon you, or any woman. By the gods, I’ve done it enough to carry the guilt through my life. But,” he smiled, “that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to.”
“You just want to empty yourself in me,” she said, accusingly.
He shifted around and wrapped his arms around his knees, pulling over a hide to cover his still swollen cock. “And is that so wrong, Abria?” he argued. “I am a man and, like I said, I’ve grown accustomed to you being with me. I would like to lie with you.”
The light in the boathouse darkened as the last lamp fizzled out and the flames of the fire grew dimmer.
“Is it so wrong for two lonely people to lie together for warmth and comfort?” he asked.
She struggled with her thoughts. “No, but you want more.”
“There are many ways to love a woman, Abria,” he said. “Ramming a swollen cock into a woman is not love. But that is all you have known. You need to learn what love really is. What I had with Abrianna taught me love. Loving her made me a man. Not a user of women for fleeting reward.”
His words were gentle. But truthful? It is true he had not tried to hold her or force himself upon her. She watched him, wide-eyed, through the disheveled mess of her hair falling over her face. Her heart was still thumping but, slowly, her breathing was calming.
“So,” he said, with a twitch of a smile, “it is getting cold. Will you let me slip in beside you and share your warmth? Will you let me hold you to comfort you and give you my warmth? Or would you have me shiver here and spend the night loading logs onto the fire?”
She tried to read his face and believe his words. “And nothing…?” she began, hesitatingly.
“And nothing else will pass between us,” he promised.
She looked at him and his naked, muscled torso, dark hair running over his chest. Would it be so bad to lie in his strong arms and feel the heat from his body? Just two people being close, out here in the wilderness, with no one but each other, thrown together as they were.
“Abria?” His deep, soft voice cut into her thoughts. “What would you have me do?”
She hesitated a moment longer, then slowly moved across the bed, raising the hides for him to slip in beside her.
“Are you sure?” he asked, not moving towards her until it was her will.
She nodded and turned away from him, curling into a ball, waiting to feel him close to her, hardly daring to breathe. Slowly, his body curled close to hers, pulling the hides around them. His skin touched hers and her breath became a sigh as he gently folded his arms around her and pulled her nearer. All along her body she felt him, her skin rippling with shivers at his touch. Her mind clamoured for her to pull away from him, protect herself from what would surely come. The harshness and brutality, the beating and the rape. But he was warm and gentle. His touch, his body, was a balm to her and she could not pull away.
“It’s all right, Abria,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. I gave you my word. It’s all right to feel the warmth and closeness. It is not wrong.”
He stroked her arm and her hair. Comfort. But his cock was hard against her.
She wept. “I cannot, I cannot,” she sobbed. “You want more.”
“Hey,” he consoled. “I am a full-blooded man, Abria. Of course my body wants you. It’s not easy lying naked with you but I, too, can accept the comfort. I’ll not force myself upon you. What you think of me is more important.”
“I understand it is hard for a man, for you, not to…” Her voice trailed away.
“Think no more of it. I am a man of my word. Be comforted and sleep.”
* * *
He felt her slowly relax in his arms and struggled with his own ardour, his urging erection.
Could his brother have done this to her? Treated her so harshly? Violently raped her? Hurt her in every conceivable way? Everything that he had become to see as abhorrent? Why should he doubt it? He had done the same so many times. Brought up as a warrior to righteously take and plunder the spoils of war. His heart ached for her. Her despondency was profound and visceral and cut into him.
Her soft breath fell lightly on his skin as she slept. She was trusting him. Her warm body nestled in his arms and the scent of her mingled with the musk of the fur hides. It was all he could do not to respond to his own body’s needs. Clenching his jaw, holding his breath, he willed his engorged cock to fall back. The thought of his brother forcing himself upon her made his lust turn to anger. He would save his own lust for another night when she would, maybe, want him. How desire and fortune had changed. Even he could not have thought his return would have brought him to this—lying naked with an Irish princess he was growing to lust after and love. After Abrianna.
CHAPTER 21
She rubbed her eyes and stretched languorously in the hot heat under the heavy furs. As shafts of daylight struggled through the gaps in the old walls, she remembered where she was. She had slept in his arms. Naked. He did not take her. He promised he would not force himself upon her and he had not. And she had dared to trust him. To sleep and be warm without fear was a gift.
He was not beside her now. She sighed with the warm memory of his body wrapped around her. His strong arms had held her safe, but gently. The touch of his skin on hers, all along her, his leg, in sleep, thrown casually over hers, was a dream. And she remembered his hard cock pressed against her bottom, twitching and swelling, wanting entry but denied.
The boathouse door swung open and made her heart leap into her mouth. She twisted around to see who was entering, peeping over the furs, her old fears returning. It was him, carrying a pile of freshly chopped logs. She let out her breath with relief. He threw the heavy logs down by the fire which was already burning and pulled off his over tunic, hot from the growing heat.
Straightening up, he looked over to her. “That should be enough to get you through the morning,” he said. “There are more stacked outside.”
She sat up, conscious of her nakedness. “Thank you,” she said.
“No matter,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll chop more later.”
“No, I mean…” she began. “Yes, thank you for the logs but, really, thank you for not forcing me last night.” Her voice trailed away, embarrassed.
He looked surprised. “One day, maybe, you will believe my word is my oath. I’ll not break it. And, again, no matter. Over logs or lust.” He grinned. “Now, some food remains, so eat.”
“It is my job to bring in the logs and stack them,” she said.
He put his hands on his hips and studied her. “Abria, we are in this together it seems. There is no one here besides us so we share the duties. Today, I am going up to the homestead to begin to see what needs to be done to prepare it for Winter. And to make sure Mistress Vigdis is preparing to leave.”
“Did you wish me to come and take up duties?” she asked. It filled her with dread but that was her position.
“No, Abria,” he said, irritation in his voice. “I do not wish you to be a slave here.”
“Where, then?” she asked.
“All will be resolved with time and that is all. Do not press me further on this,” he warned.
“Take care, then, ” she whispered.
He grinned. “Did I hear you wish me well, Abria?”
She nodded, shyly.
“It is good to hear,” he said. “I shall look forward to keeping you warm again under those furs later. In the meantime,” he turned, picking up his over tunic, “you can try your hand at hunting a rabbit. But do not stray far and be wary of others,” he warned.
He said no more and she waited until he had pulled the door behind him before scrambling out of bed. To be free of clothes and no one to see her was a luxury and she stretched her arms above her, up to the high roof. The fjord was a step away and, if no one was about, she would love to feel the ice cold waters clean her body. But first she must work.
She had no clothes other than the hunting ones so she pulled them on, tying the breeches tightly with the torn piece of her old tunic. One day, perhaps, she could get a tunic from the big longhouse to wear for work. Or ask Thorstein to bring one, but she was fearful to go there, and equally to ask him, when he had so many cares to deal with.
Turning to the fire, it was burning well. The pile of logs he had dropped beside it were in an untidy heap. She gathered them up, made a tidy pile and stacked more against the wall. Looking up at the roof, she could see the sky. He must have clambered up and cleared it in the early morning light. True to his word.
She shook out the bed furs and swept the floor. Food was left on the table and she sat a while to eat, drinking some of the sweet mead, full and strong. It was good to feel its richness warm her throat and belly. As she sipped the honeyed drink, she looked around the boathouse. It looked better already with the sweeping and having them live in it, warming it and driving out the damp. But the air was still musty so she got up and pushed open the oak door, letting in the fresh morning breeze.
The sun was up and dazzled on the waters of the fjord. She shielded her eyes and looked around at the beauty of this land. Wherever you went there was beauty. The days were getting shorter as Winter hung in the northern sky, ready to creep and fall on everything, chilling man, starving beasts and clothing the dark green trees. The waterfalls and bubbling brooks would freeze solid until the Spring. But the fjord would stay, swelling and falling, lapping the rocks, still and deep at its heart. The scent of Winter made her restless. She would hunt. The very word excited her.
She pulled on the fur boots that were too big for her but better than the thin leather shoes she had had to wear. Now she could walk over rocks and pebbles without wincing as they pushed through the thin soles. She may be slipping inside the big boots but she could run in them and was sure footed over the rocks and roots.
The fur tunic fell heavily over her shoulders. It, too, was big but she felt like an animal and a hunter in these clothes and could merge with the forest. Grabbing the precious bow, the quiver of arrows and an old sack she had found under the bed skins, she stepped out of the boathouse and looked about her, checking no one was lurking nearby. It was clear and she moved quickly to the forest, ducking low.
The pendulous trees hung about her and she melted into their green light, breathing in their pine scent and marveling at the jewels of orange sap on their lichened covered trunks. She touched some and tasted it. The seeping sap oozed from gashes on its trunk from the clawing of a bear or ripped by the antlers of a great elk. It was sticky and sweet. The wise woman of her homeland had taught her how to make sweet drinks from the sap of trees and needles of pine. They had drunk together whilst she taught her magic, potions, the ancient language and curses. She had taught her how to understand the nature around her and use it for good and healing and to drive out evil.
It was these ancient words that she had cast over her captors and made them fearful of her powers. As yet, too fearful to kill her or sell her, afraid of what may befall them. But she had lived in fear that soon they would pay them no heed and death would come for her. And yet Thorstein was not fearful. He understood the words. He had learnt from the magical Abrianna and lived in her land. Had she also been taught the ways of a wise woman, the magic of the soils and souls of Eire?
She stepped carefully and silently around and through the trees and over their gnarled roots, stepping on bright green moss and soft earth. Each step released the scent of the earth, the trees and the moss as they told each other there was a stranger amongst them. She knew the language of trees and began to whisper a song to them to soothe their unease.
In the perpetual dusk of the forest, rabbits ran freely and, every now and then, she caught the flash of their bobbing white tails in the gloom. Finding a place to hide herself, she swiftly charged her bow and whispered a prayer to the gods as she prepared to take a life. She would not miss as she did not want to lose any of her precious arrows or for the animal to suffer long in its dying. Raising the bow, she pulled back its string until it touched her nose and looked, unwaveringly, down the shaft of the arrow. Her prey bobbed across her sight and she released the power of the bow. The arrow flew swiftly and true, hitting her target with ease. The animal quivered barely for a moment before death took it.
She walked over to it and pulled out her arrow from its warm body, allowing its blood to spurt out and empty, then stuffed its carcass in her sack. Again she hid and soon had bagged another. As she secured it in her bag, she heard the chilling sound of a wolf in the distance and she stopped to listen, to judge how far away it was. Another wolf answered the first. More than one, probably a pack. Hastily, she kicked moss and pine needles over the thickening blood on the ground to give her time. They would be able to smell a kill from afar.
With her bow over her shoulder, her quiver strapped around her waist, she clutched the blooded sack and made tracks back to the boathouse, warily looking about her for hunting wolves. She felt real and alive hunting in the wild. She could believe she was free of enslavement, even of her princess life. Then she could ride but never in the clothes of a man and always to return to the confines of her father’s manor. This is who she should be. This is who she was. No slave or princess. Part of the forest, the wolves, the bears, the elks, the waters of the fjord. To find some freedom in this foreign land which had been a prison to her was a revelation. But how long before Thorstein Eriksson decided what to do with her? She could not bear to be a slave again, freezing in a rough tunic and thin shoes and feeling empty inside. She would rather drown in the deep fjord.
CHAPTER 22
The edge of the forest was in sight and, as she pushed on towards it, something berry red flashed in the brightness at her feet. Stopping, she looked around, listening. She was far enough away from her kill to be safe from the wolves. Bending down, she pushed the pine needles away and found a red apple. Picking it up felt like finding treasure and she marveled at it, turning it in her hand. It was almost perfect apart from the nibble of some creature who had dropped it there. There must be an apple tree nearby. Maybe more than one. She looked around but could see only the thick pine trees. Tomorrow she will explore. Walk along the fjord side where it was sheltered and caught the sun and see if she could find more treasure. Perhaps Thorstein would know of a place to find apples and berries and maybe nuts. Her mouth watered but she resisted the temptation to eat the juicy fruit, putting it in her sack, and pressed on to the boathouse.
There was no one about. Thorstein must be making them work hard at the big house. She hurried over to the boathouse and cautiously peered inside in case anyone had entered. All was clear. She was safely home. That was a strange feeling. Home. The nearest that she could begin to call home.
The fire was smouldering. Some fresh, dry logs made it jump into life again. She would prepare the rabbits, spit them and let them roast slowly. Whilst they were cooking, she would take that plunge in the fjord to feel fresh and clean again before Thorstein returned. Carefully, she pulled her rosy-red treasure out of the sack and placed it beside the fire. Searching around, she found a knife she could use to skin and gut the rabbits. Its blade was just sharp enough so grabbing her hunting sack, she went out and listened for the running water of a stream. In this land of tumbling water, she quickly found one nearby.
The water was as clear as crystal. She bent down and cupped some to her lips. It tasted pure and with the sweetness of mountain heathers. Finding a flat rock downstream, she deftly dealt with the rabbits, pushing their entrails away, and made back to the boathouse. Before long, she had them spitted over the fire embers and left them high to start cooking slowly. They would be succulent and tender by nightfall.
At last she could clean herself in the deep fjord. The boathouse was near the water’s edge. Quickly, she dropped down to some lower rocks and picked her way over them. She wanted to find a sheltered, hidden place, away from the boathouse and eyes that might catch her. Looking up, the sun had already started its arc down towards the high mountain tops. Her time was short but she kept walking. Ahead of her she could see sea otters leaping the rocks and playing in the water. She stopped to watch them and smiled. They were happy in this rugged place. She pressed on.
