Bitter is the wind, p.3
Bitter is the Wind, page 3
“That I shall, Gudrun. I remain grateful for your food and shelter today.” He belted his tunic. “And I’ll be on my way in the morning.”
She nodded. “It is right.” She looked around the hall. “The air is heavy. Have you supped enough?”
He nodded. “You have been more than generous.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “I wish to speak with you further but, here, there are too many eyes and ears. Too much bawdiness and revelry. I have a chamber that gives a little more seclusion. Join me.”
Without waiting for his reply, she made her way to the back of the hall, people parting to let her through. Raising an eyebrow, he gave a sigh and followed. He had had enough of dealing with matters for the day.
Underneath the rafters, the air was cool. The secluded corner was dark. Gudrun signalled to a servant to bring embers to light a fire in the corner and a vessel of warm mead was set beside it. Thin wisps of smoke began trailing upwards to the hole in the roof and flames flickered light around the small chamber. Gudrun ladled out some mead and handed him a full tankard. He sat on the bench beside the fire and sipped the warm honeyed drink and she eased herself down on the other side, stretching out her hands to warm them over the glowing embers.
“Winter’s not far away,” she said, rubbing her hands.
He nodded, leaning back against the cold earthen wall. “I noticed you are well prepared. Your logs are stacked high.”
“We work hard at logging, all summer. A lot is needed to keep everyone warm and fed through the long months.”
“I hope Thorulf’s woman has been as good in managing Heimsgaard as you have here. If she has been with child, she may not have had her heart set on the farm. Has she had help?”
“Doubtless her family would have been helping. But only because they see the prospect of wealth coming their way by one way or another. And, of course, now they will see the opportunity is before them with the death of Thorulf.”
She gave him a guarded look. They both knew what may lay ahead and they sat in silence with their own thoughts.
“We both know what may be, Thorstein.” She broke into his thoughts. “And I am only going to give you more to deal with.”
He groaned, inwardly. What more was there to deal with?
“I do not want the slave-girl. The Irish princess. You must take her with you, back to Heimsgaard,” Gudrun said firmly.
He sucked in his breath but tried to remain calm. “I thought we had an agreement. That you would sell her on.”
She rocked back on the bench and shook her hands, dismissively. “No, we did not finally agree. I have no use of her. She is disruptive and a troublemaker. I do not want trouble with Gunnar Haraldsson. She must be gone.”
“She would get you a good price, Gudrun, ” he said. He had enough to deal with without a troublesome slave-girl.
“Not with her spitting and cursing,” she insisted, shaking her head. “She was Thorulf’s. Now she is yours. I have had her long enough and have fulfilled my promise to Thorulf, now he is gone.”
The fire was burning low. Leaning over he threw on some fresh logs, giving him time to think. He did not want the girl. And what Gudrun said was true. The girl needed taming before she could be sold. She may be a princess but, above all, she was wild. He watched the light of the flames flicker across the woman’s weathered face. He could see she was resolute. There would be no changing her mind. And he could understand her reasons. The slave-girl was not hers and Gunnar Haraldsson could cause great unrest over his humiliation that evening. He had no choice.
He sighed. “I cannot deny that I do not want the slave but I would not wish you further disharmony, Gudrun, for something or someone that is not your responsibility. You have done what you can. The girl will go with me,” he said, resignedly.
“You are a fair man, Thorstein,” she said. “And I give you a word of advice.”
He looked at her.
“Tame the girl. Do not spare the rod—by branch or by body. Break her and then sell her. And hope the curses she will rain upon you and yours do not come to fruition.”
He stretched his legs out. “Curses mean nothing to me and hers are no different.”
“Let’s hope the gods of our ancestors and the giants of the mountains are with you and not her,” she warned. “And the hidden people stay hidden, unless they come to take her as she trades in their same ways.”
He smiled. “Old thoughts, Gudrun.”
“That’s as may be, but be wary, Thorstein Eriksson.”
He got up to leave. “I shall need to purchase an extra pony from you for the girl as we have far to travel.”
“That can be arranged.” She got up slowly, wincing. “These legs get stiffer with each passing winter.”
“Take care of yourself, Gudrun,” he said, reaching out to steady her. “This place needs you still. I’ll make my own way out.”
She nodded, tightly. “Call servants if you have need of anything and take some mead to your bed. It will warm you in this evening chill. The horses will be ready for you in the morning.”.
He filled his tankard with warm mead. “I’ll bid you goodnight and hope to see you at first light.”
“No, no. I think not,” she said with a shake of her head. “Too early for me when there are others who can work.”
“Then I thank you again for your hospitality, Gudrun. But,” he gave a rueful grin, “perhaps not for the Irish girl.”
“Take her and furrow her deeply, Thorstein. You will subdue her, eventually.”
“Or die, cursed in the trying, eh?” he mocked.
She shrugged and raised her hands. “They don’t call you Kveldulf for no reason.”
He smiled. “What have you heard?”
“Let’s just say the Wolf of the Night has a reputation that goes before him. Now leave me. The night has been long and I have need of your departure. Go!”
* * *
He slipped out and made his way to the small hut close to the longhouse. The wind was still blowing strong. There was the smell of winter in the air. The snows would be here soon. He could only hope that those at the old homestead would have worked hard to ready it for the ravages of the winter.
He ducked through the small doorway and shoved the door closed, shutting out the chill wind. There was a fire smouldering in the hearth and extra skins on the bed. He rubbed his hands together, glad to be alone, and pulled off his stiff boots, throwing them down by the doorway.
The burning logs shifted, sending sparks and a belch of smoke upwards. The air was heavy and he reached for the tankard of mead, glugging most of it, clearing his throat. He should sleep well after the feasting, forget his troubles for a few hours. He pulled off his tunics and breeches, dropping them onto the fresh straw on the floor and crawled between the silver skins. The warmth of the reindeer hides felt good on his naked skin and the scent of the rough fur was a comfort. Silence and solitude were always something he was drawn to. Running his hands through his thick long hair, he lay back. The honeyed mead warmed his stomach and seeped through his blood.
For all his love of solitude, he would have gladly shared it with a good woman right now. The scent from between fulsome breasts and the taste of trickling juices from between warm legs. He groaned. His cock was thickening. Reaching down, he sheathed it and let it pulse in his hand. His thoughts wandered to the velvet softness of a woman’s channel and the tight grip of a bottom hole. He would need to get a woman by fair means to service his needs before too long. For now he only had his thoughts as he pumped his cock and gripped his balls, feeling the surge of his cum and his hot ejaculate on his hands. He breathed heavily with a shudder... but he still needed a hot plunging of a woman to purge his genitals and to bury his cock in her mouth and deep bottom. Soon.
CHAPTER 6
Her face hurt and she shivered with the pain. Cupping her cheek, she could feel the heat from the swelling and the tautness of her skin. He had swung at her with all his might. The other side of her face was hardly any better. When Mistress Gudrun was enraged, her beatings were savage. If the stranger had not saved her, how much worse would it have been? The thought of being raped and beaten by the barbarian made her shudder. The thought of his stinking cock buried deep inside her, leaving his filth running inside her and never being able to be clean, to be rid of him, sickened her. She was grateful to the stranger, but did not want to be. He had been only a step away from raising his fist to her so he was no better. And he was a friend of her captor.
She lay back on her sleep-bench and pulled over the thin coverlet to try and stop her shivering. Her face pulsed with pain and she swallowed hard to stop her tears. After all, she knew she would be punished for escaping to the wild, to taste a little freedom. She had done it before. Most times it was worth it. This time it was worse. The fear she felt in the drunken beast’s tight hold and the hideous taste of his flesh in her mouth choked her. She could take a beating but not anyone holding her so close, so viciously. She would never be rid of his stench and she retched at the memory.
“Are you all right, princess?” a voice beside her asked.
They mocked her, calling her princess. They did not believe her.
She opened her swollen eyes and peered into the dim light. One of the girls looked down at her.
She nodded. “I’m all right,” she whispered.
“Why do you do it, when you know you’ll get a beating?” the girl asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the thick log pillar.
“I need to. They cannot hold me,” she managed to say. Her voice was dry, her face ached.
The girl turned away and came back with a tankard of watered mead, handing it to her. “Here, take it.”
She was grateful for it and the sweet drink felt like nectar to her battered body. “Thank you.”
The girl sat down beside her. “Stop cursing and stop running and things will be much better for you,” she said quietly. “People are afraid of your magic.”
“Then let them be afraid,” she said, hoarsely. “I will bow to no one.”
“But don’t you see?” the girl said. “No good will come of it. You are here. Nothing will change. You are no different from us whatever your life was before. This is your life. Be one of us and things will be easier for you.”
“I am me and all this is wrong. For me. For you. For everyone,” she muttered through her painful jaw. “And the other girls will despise you for talking to me…”
The girl shook her head dismissively. “Just heed my words, and don’t fight all this. You cannot change it,” she urged. “Be their slave for their bodily needs. That’s all we can hope for—that we become a favourite bedmate and, maybe, one day, win our freedom.”
Abria could hear the wistfulness in the girl’s voice. “Maybe.” She tried to agree.
The girl got up. “I hope your face is better in the morning. Sleep is healing.”
She turned and disappeared into the gloom.
Sleep may heal my body, but not heal my mind, she thought.
She slept fitfully, shaking with each throbbing ache in her body. Confused thoughts muddled her mind. Who was the stranger and why had he cared? She could not remember the words that were spoken. Pain and fear can confuse anything. What would become of her? But, then, what did it matter? She pulled the coverlet tighter around herself. The night was cold. Her tears would freeze.
* * *
The next morning, new clothes were thrown at her to use until she could wash and repair her own. She pulled them on and stuffed her ripped tunics into a corner. All the time, she was watched.
“Get moving, girl. Fill the water buckets before the sun is over the mountains. Hurry!” The yardswoman ordered her.
Grabbing some buckets, she hurried through the guard walls and trudged down to the mountain stream that splashed into the deep fjord. The water was icy, numbing her fingers as she dipped the buckets into the babbling brook.
The water sounds happy, she thought, tumbling over the rocks.
The cawing of crows made her look upwards to watch them circling around. Their loud cries reminded her of home. The sun was almost up over the mountains and the fjord shimmered silver in the dawn light. Here it was peaceful. If only she could be wild, happy and free like the brook, here in this peace.
Back up behind the farmstead walls, horses neighed and the dogs were barking. The cows were lowing in the pasture up the hill. They needed to be milked and the cheese started. She could see someone at the gate watching her, waiting for her to return, to burden her with another task.
They are afraid I shall escape again, she thought. But not today. She was too sore from her beatings.
Sitting on a rock, she breathed in the fragrant morning air, laced with forest musk. She did not care if they could see her sitting. With her frozen hands, she cradled her swollen face and gasped. In Nature there was strength and healing.
The water splashed over the full buckets and she hauled them out of the stream. Wincing with the bruising on her arms where he had clutched her so cruelly, she dropped the buckets, almost spilling the water. She shook herself. She would not be weak and would find a way. She was Abria—strong and powerful.
Bending down, her cold hands pulled up the heavy buckets again and she made her way back to the farm. Her thin leather shoes slipped on the ground soaked with morning dew and the drenching rain from the storm. The buckets were heavy and the wet ropes cut into her hands. And only two buckets. She would need to get more. Biting her lip, she crossed by the stables and the dairy, to the longhouse.
It was noisy. The horses were restless and the dogs ran around, excited. Stable slaves were saddling the horses and trying to calm them. The stink of steaming horse muck filled the air. Abria recognised the one she rode in on with the stranger. He must be leaving.
Walking warily around the fidgeting horses, she put the buckets at the door and stretched her stiff fingers. They would yell at her if she tarried. Two more empty pails were already placed out and she reluctantly picked them up. There was no end to the toil. She made her way back to the mountain path.
A voice yelled, “Hey! You, girl!”
While she stepped on, she half turned to see who was called.
“Yes, you with the buckets. Come here,” a man ordered.
She stopped and looked around. There was only her with the buckets. She tried to make out who called her through the shouts and busyness of the morning work.
The stranger who had rescued her came from behind the horses.
“Irish princess. Come here,” he called again, walking towards her.
She stared at him, unsure.
“Put down your buckets. You are to come with me.” He reached her and waited for her.
“I have to fetch the water…” she began, confused.
“No more. You are coming with me, so take the pails back to the longhouse and gather your things.”
“I don't understand. Why am I going with you? Where are you going?”
He sighed. “Why do you never do as you are bid, girl? We need to leave so get your things.”
She hurried to put the pails back. Her mind was in turmoil. “I need to know. I want to know,” she started.
“You are a slave. You don’t need to know anything. You do as you are bid.”
Her eyes flashed with anger. She would never get used to being treated like she was dirt. But she had no choice. And anywhere could be no worse than here.
“Your things,” he ordered.
“I have none. Just my ripped tunic, and a comb,” she answered.
“Then get those. And hurry,” he ordered, turning back to the horses. He finished checking the journey packs and secured them to his saddle.
She held up her tunic and hurried inside to find her few possessions. Her comb was precious. Taking off her shawl, she wrapped everything inside it and tied the shawl back tightly around herself. The muddied clothes she would have to leave to rot. It was wasteful but she had these new clothes on now so what more could she do? The others were beyond cleaning.
“Get out here, slave!” he shouted from outside. “I'll not wait any longer. If you tarry, you’ll be sold at market, which will do you no good.”
The dream of getting out of the farmstead, on top of a horse, began to excite her and made her stomach flutter. She took a backward look around the gloom, then stepped out into the risen sunlight. He was already mounted, a shadow against the light. She squinted up at him.
“At last,” he said, tightening the reins on his horse that was anxious to be off. “I have no wish to have you clinging on to me so you ride alone. Have you ridden before?”
She nodded. The stableboy held out the reins to the horse that would be hers.
“I thought as much… if, as you say, you are of noble birth.”
She glared at him but said nothing. Grabbing the reins, she mounted the horse with accomplishment and sat up proudly, gathering up the reins.
“Well mounted, girl,” he said, admiringly. “I can see I won’t have to coddle you on our journey. Let’s go.”
As he turned his horse, Gudrun emerged from the longhouse. “Remember my advice, Eriksson,” she called. “Tame her. And may the gods protect you.”
He nodded and raised his hand to bid farewell.
Abria kicked her horse and followed him. She gave Gudrun no second glance and rode proudly past her, her head held high. “I’ll not be tamed by any man,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 7
He did not hold back but she kept up with him. All the years she had ridden strong, willful horses back home, were in her blood. Her tunic blew up over her knees as they rode into the wind and her pale skin reddened in the freezing morning air.
They rode out of the valley and up a mountain track. It rose higher and higher. The track was narrow but the horses were surefooted. Her heart was in her mouth at the sheer drop from the path on one side, dropping to the deep, meandering fjord way below. At home, she had ridden through fields and meadows, gentle rivers and gladed woods. This country was fierce and mighty.
