Bitter is the wind, p.7
Bitter is the Wind, page 7
“Good. I shall take you at your word, but, by the gods, I should not,” he said, releasing his grip. “Do not defy me. Now, we ride.”
The horses were nearby, grazing the fresh grass of the pasture. He strode over to them, gathered up the reins and threw himself into the saddle, holding out her reins to her. She hesitated and held his gaze, steadfastly. He was giving her another chance.
The horses were getting restless. She walked over and grabbed the reins. Putting her foot in the stirrup, she pulled herself up and tightened the reins. She looked across at him. His face was dark.
“Follow me,” he commanded, sternly, and turned his horse back onto the path.
CHAPTER 13
The saddle was hard against his full balls and swollen cock. He wanted to bury his shaft in her wetness. He glanced down at the wet stain on his breeches and breathed in the faint scent of her. Intoxicating. His cock twitched. Her pale bottom with her reddened cheeks, exposed to the chilling air, was a beautiful sight. And she was wet for him. He could have taken her and slipped his fingers into her warm wetness. It was his right to rape her and have his way. She was the slave and he the master. Her body should be his. That’s what she was for. That’s what his brother had traded for. And now she was his. So, why not take her?
He had been alone for too long, without a woman and a place to force his cock. A hot channel. A tight bottom. She would not stand a chance if he took her. Rolled her in the grass. Forced her over a rock. Jammed her on his cock, deep and hard. He groaned inwardly. These thoughts just made him harder.
He had resolved never to force a woman again. He shook his head to free himself of memories. Besides, it made him no better than any other man like Gunnar Haraldsson and made himself worthy of a similar beating. There were better ways to be. But noble thoughts did not relieve his genitals.
When he had startled her at the little cabin, she had swung round to him, the bow fully loaded and engaged. Her tussled, dark hair hung wildly free around her shoulders and her eyes of incredible blue were wide and flashed with power in the shaft of sunlight. This was not the slave girl he was coming to know. This was a warrior woman, sure and commanding. He had held his breath. This woman was stunning.
Even the clothes became her. He should have been angered with her throwing off her slave girl’s tunic and daring to put on the garments of a man, a hunter. He feigned displeasure but seeing her dressed like that made him want to take her. This woman was different, intriguing. She challenged him, defied him, irritated and angered him. But her soft bottom and the feel of the wet lips of her sex between her legs were enticing. A warrior and a woman.
If he took her, raped her for his own ends, it would only force her bitterness against him. He growled to himself. Why should he care? He should take what he wanted, demand his own rights, plunder her body and cast her aside. But his relief would be fleeting and her hate never ending. He would want more and she would condemn him with one look from those incredible blue eyes. Why had he not noticed the blue of the glaciers in her eyes before?
It had come to this. This was not the plan. What was he to do with her? He had taken her on, an encumbrance, to return her to Heimsgaard and to slavery and never give her another care. She had tumbled into his life, blown across his path by the storm. He should have ridden by her and would have been none the wiser of her existence. Instead, time and again he had felt compelled to save her from whatever threatened her life. And now he cared.
But he had Heimsgaard to reclaim. He frowned and clenched his jaw. Had Thorulf’s woman heard of his death? There would be much to resolve. And he would be returning with his brother’s precious and favoured slave who was not welcome there and who did not want to be there.
He could do nothing until he returned to Heimsgaard. It would be enough of a struggle to reclaim his ancestral home without having to decide the fate of this noble slave. Could he return her to slavery? What to do with her?
His groin still throbbed for satisfaction and, cursing, he kicked his horse on to ride it out, trusting she would not defy him again and follow on. He had gone easy on her up to now. One more act of defiance and his full might would fall upon her.
CHAPTER 14
They rode down into the valley and began the climb up the next steep ridge. Through more forest, picking over the roots, crunching over fallen pine cones. Abria breathed in the mossy musk. The forest enveloped them and the pine needles rustled in the breeze. Beneath the crisp cones, the earth was rich and soft. She listened for the birds but they were silent. Sunbeams flashed through the dark, straight trees.
She watched his rigid back. He was troubled and pushed his horse on.
Desperate not to return to Heimsgaard, dare she believe that he would protect her? Hated at Heimsgaard, discarded by Gudrun and no longer the favoured slave of Thorulf, she was nothing and had nothing. Only him. He was the only glimmer of some new existence. He said he would not sell her and he would care for her. What choice did she have but to follow him? But he was the brother of Thorulf.
The horses clambered over loose rocks and laboured up the final path. As they cleared the ridge, the wind sheared over the top, unsettling the horses. Abria struggled to control her mount. He looked around at her for the first time since they had left the high pasture, holding back his horse from careening over the edge.
“Can you hold him?” he yelled against the wind.
She nodded, her loose hair whipping her face. “But not for long!” she shouted, desperately trying not to be unseated by her frightened horse.
He turned and looked down into the valley. She followed his gaze.
Heimsgaard. Her heart lurched when she saw it through the rising mist below. Every part of her did not want to go there.
Turning to her again, he looked into her eyes. “Ready?”
His words blew away on the wind but she grasped what he had said. He looked grim. With a nod of her head she committed herself to whatever was ahead of them. Swinging their horses around, they began the descent.
* * *
As they approached the settlement, they slowed to a cautious walk. She was exhausted and cold from the long, harsh ride. Her heart was thumping. It took all her courage not to run.
At the big gates, two farmhands came towards them, carrying rough tools. It had been months since she had left this place but Abria knew them.
Pulling up his horse, Thorstein called out to them. “Good day. We have travelled far. I have matters to discuss with Mistress Vigdis.”
They eyed him with suspicion. “Who are you?”
They looked behind him at Abria. She saw their faces change and they took a step back. “And why is she here? Why is she wearing the clothes of a hunter? She is not wanted here.”
Abria heard Thorstein catch his breath.
“She is no concern of yours, gentlemen,” he said tightly. “I am Thorstein Eriksson, brother to Thorulf the Strong, Master of Heimsgaard. Now, be so good as to give us entry and inform your lady that we are here.”
The two men looked unsettled and hesitated.
“Make haste, men. We have had a long ride. We need shelter, food and mead,” urged Thorstein.
“The Mistress does not welcome visitors,” said one, cautiously. “And she is not welcome here.”
He looked at Abria, hate in his eyes—or was it fear? She smiled to herself. It was good that they feared her still.
Thorstein sighed with impatience. “This is my ancestral family home and I do not take kindly to being challenged by guard hands. I will have admittance. It would be preferable if Mistress Vigdis were informed of our arrival, but, as you are reluctant to do as I bid, I shall introduce myself to her.”
He kicked his leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground, handing his reins to Abria. The farmhands raised their tools defensively as he strode towards them.
“You would be wise not to deny me entry to my father’s homestead,” he said to them, quietly. “I repeat, I am Thorstein Eriksson, son of Torbein the Bold and brother to Thorulf the Strong. Stand aside.”
Abria watched, her heart in her mouth, holding tightly to the frisky horses. She could hear the threat in his voice. Was it enough? He held his body taut. They could so easily take him.
They thought better of it and stood back.
“A wise choice,” Thorstein said, icily. He walked back to his horse and threw himself back into the saddle, taking the reins from her. “Open the gates.”
The old gates were pushed open, stiff on their hinges, dragging on the ground.
He glanced over to Abria. “Follow me. Closely.”
They rode into the large enclosure.
Abria looked about her at the old log huts and store houses, the yard and the animal troughs, and could not believe what she saw. The yard was covered with animal muck, not cleared and cleaned as it should be. The stink of the lying muck was overpowering, catching in her throat. Buckets and pails tumbled and clattered in the wind, not filled with water or grain, stacked up by the stables and the door to the long house ready to use. The log pile was low and fallen down when it should be piled high and stacked ready for the coming winter. Some of the doors to the store houses swung to and fro, creaking on broken hinges. Why had they not been repaired? Were the store huts filled with grain ?
She glanced over to Thorstein. This was his family home. This was where he had grown up. What was he thinking with this squalor all around them? He looked grim and his jaw was clenched fast, the muscles of his face twitching. But he said nothing.
They reached the long house and he jumped out of the saddle, calling for someone to take his horse. His voice was commanding and a young boy ran over and grabbed the reins.
“Get off your horse and stay with me. Bring your weapons,” he ordered Abria. “Boy, take the other horse. And treat them well. Clean out a stable and feed and water them.”
The boy hesitated.
“You know how to clean out a stable and care for a horse?” demanded Thorstein at the cowering boy, running up his stirrups and loosening the girth.
The boy nodded, nervously.
“Then, in the absence of anyone in charge here, do as I say. Take them. I’ll be checking on your work later,” he said, warning in his voice.
Abria jumped down, holding on tightly to the bow and arrows. The boy hurriedly grabbed her reins, pulling the tired horses after him.
“Come,” he said, turning to her. “You will be safe near me.”
He strode over to the long house. His steps were confident and sure and his presence was commanding. He knew this place well. She slipped the bow over her shoulder, strapping the quiver full of arrows around her waist and followed, jumping over puddles and muck. People loitering around the long house began pointing and muttering. She looked at them through narrowed eyes, knowing who they were, knowing they recognised her. She had returned but was changed. They would notice her clothes and weapons. They would notice that she trailed behind the powerful Thorstein Eriksson, ordered by him to follow him closely. She mouthed sacred words at them, words of old magic, taught to her by the old wise woman of her homeland, and saw them draw back into the shadows and behind the store huts. Their fear was still there which satisfied her and she felt protected by the old words.
They reached the long house and he pushed hard on the strong, heavy door, as he had so many times in his youth. The heat and smells of the big house seeped out. The air was heavy and thick with the odour of the smoke from the fire and roasting meat, with the stale smell of old bedding, unwashed folk and spilt, honeyed mead soaked into the earth floor. It was familiar to Abria but a cloying stench after the free, fresh air of the forests and mountains.
He ducked through the low, oaken door frame and stepped into his old family home. Glancing back at her, he signalled for her to follow and leave her weapons at the door. She stepped in and, taking the bow over her head, she propped it up against the wall and the quiver full of arrows beneath it.
This time she did not feel a slave but then she did not know what her place was. Her heart was racing. She looked around. The long house was as bad as the enclosure outside. The floors were unswept. The fire smouldered and belched smoke from wet logs. The remains of a roasting carcass hung over the dying fire. The weaving looms were silent. Why was no one bringing in dry logs? Why was no one weaving cloth? Cloth was vital for warm clothes for winter and for trading. Where was the wool for spinning? She could barely take it all in.
In the dim light, seated alone at the big table beyond the fire, was Vigdis, wife to Thorulf. Her mistress and persecutor. As they walked down the long house she stood up awkwardly and stared at them, wide-eyed.
CHAPTER 15
Abria caught her breath. This was not the young wife she had known who had loathed her and spited her. This was a full woman, heavy with child. But whose child? It could not be of Thorulf. He had sailed after he had left her with Gudrun and now lay rotting in Irish soil or in the deep, cold iron-grey sea. He would not have returned for many months and now would never return. But she could not have known that. Was she going to confront him with a child that was not his? Cry rape and beg for his forgiveness? No man would have risked the rape of Thorulf’s woman. With Thorulf away, she must have lain willingly with any man. She should thank the gods he was dead as his wrath would have been fearful, even though he speared his cock into any girl he wanted whenever he needed to relieve his loins. Small wonder she did not welcome visitors.
“Thorstein!” she said, startled. She looked at Abria and her eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here? Why is she with you? Where is Thorulf?” Fear crept in her voice as she looked beyond them and caressed her belly.
Thorstein stopped in his tracks. He may have been as shocked as she was, but did not show it. His voice was calm and respectful.
“Good day, Vigdis,” he said, with a nod of his head in greeting. “It has been many months. And I find you in… fruitful, good health,” he added, pointedly. “However, I am saddened I cannot say the same for my family’s homestead.” He looked around the big house, his face grim.
It pleased Abria to see her discomfort, standing there in front of the calm power of her kinsman, Thorstein.
“Where is Thorulf?” she asked again, fearfully.
He drew himself up tall. “That is why I am here. To bring you news of Thorulf.” He paused, watching her. “Alas, he was killed in a raiding skirmish in the country of Eire not long since. He will not return.”
She gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. “Is this true?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
Abria could see her pulse quicken in her neck and the colour drain from her face.
Thorstein nodded.
“Were you there? Were you with him?” she questioned, tremulously.
He shook his head. “No. I have been living along the coast of Eire and heard news of a vicious raid further north. I travelled to meet with some of my kindred and do business with them. It was they who told me of his death.”
“His body?” she asked, holding her breath.
Thorstein squared his shoulders. “Buried in the way of the Celts or committed to the ocean. No one could tell me.”
“Not the honoured way of a valiant warrior?” she said, a catch in her voice.
“No,” said Thorstein. “It pains me to say it, but it would seem not. I am sorry for your loss.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “I care little. He left me here so he could ride the seas and fight in far off lands.”
Her anger hung in the air and her body trembled. In a moment, Thorstein was around the table and reached out to steady her. She clutched his hand.
Abria watched resentfully. How could he help the woman who had treated her so harshly? And had he not vowed to protect her, not another and not her? The hardness and envy she felt in her heart astonished her. She had no claim on him.
“You must sit down. You are heavy with child,” he said, easing her down onto the wooden armchair. “It is clear we have much to discuss. But first you must eat and have mead. The news of Thorulf is still a shock, whatever went between you.”
She nodded, breathing heavily.
“Wait here. I’ll find someone to bring food and drink.” He strode over to the door with hardly a glance at Abria, with only a curt order thrown at her to remain where she was. She was saddened by his shortness with her. Once he had stepped out, she was alone with the hated Vigdis.
Slowly, the woman she despised turned to her, spite in her narrowed eyes.
“So, you have returned, slave girl. I don’t know why or how you come to be with Thorstein Eriksson. And dressed in the forbidden clothes of a man.” Stretching across the table, she spat the words at Abria. “But you are not welcome here. I do not want you here. Do you hear? You poisoned his mind. You cursed the farm. It is your doing that he left. Have you bewitched his brother as well?” She leaned back and laughed, cynically. “But with Thorulf gone, you are mine to do with whatever I wish. The farm will be mine and I shall sell you for a high price, Irish princess. And consider that a good outcome for you, for the alternative is death. I will not have your cursing here.”
“I am no slave and will never serve you,” Abria said, her heart filled with loathing, clenching her fists by her side. She had no power apart from her words but she would never bow down to this woman. “Your man was an animal. He stole me from my homeland and was brutal, in everything.” She shuddered inside herself.
Vigdis smiled. “Did he rape you, princess? Were you not willing to take in his cock? To suck his cock and arse? Did you take his beatings?” she taunted. “Did he suck your breasts and demand your bottom? Did he rip your flesh with his raping cock?”
Abria could take no more. She leapt forward and crawled over the table, grabbing the taunting woman’s arm. “If you were not with child, I would fight you for your words. Instead, I curse you and your unborn child!”
