Submitting to the viking.., p.1
Submitting To The Viking Warrior, page 1
Submitting to the Viking Warrior
By Lily Harlem
SUBMITTING TO THE VIKING WARRIOR: text copyright © Lily Harlem 2022
All Rights Reserved
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from Lily Harlem.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Cover art and editing by Studioenp
Back cover information
Alone in her longhouse with a fierce winter ahead, the last thing Ingrid expects is a strapping Viking appearing on her threshold.
Laden with gifts from her daughter and new husband King Njal, Gunnar’s arrival is a lifesaver. And now he’s delivered the goods, Gunnar can journey back to Halsgrof on his fine horse.
But the wild storm and Gunnar have other ideas. Determined to stay with Ingrid, he settles in for the long dark Nordic months. He’s dominant, demanding, stern and strict, and he’s there every time Ingrid turns around.
And when he decides she’s been disobedient, she soon finds herself tipped upside down, her bottom bared, and a humiliating spanking delivered. Yet she can’t help but be drawn to his strength and kindness, and when he shows her just how good a man can make her feel, Ingrid forgets the chill outside and soon heats to volcanic proportions.
*Don’t miss the sister book MASTERED BY THE VIKING KING.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
About the Author
Chapter One
Ingrid shivered by the waning fire. Her meagre log store didn’t bode well for the long winter ahead. She simply hadn’t managed to summon the energy to fell and chop. But if she were frugal, ’haps there’d be enough until spring.
Spring. Just the word was lean in her mouth. It was so far away. The heavy snow, the kind that blocked the pass to Halsgrof, had only just begun to fall that morn. And now, the way it had floated a thick blanket onto the hills, stuck to the barren cliff edges, and draped the longhouse in white, Ingrid knew the only way to town would be obstructed. And as the days went on, more snow would fall, creating the giant rifts the gods blew on to create avalanches that would bury a warrior, no matter how strong and fierce he might be.
She sighed and rubbed her palms on her upper arms, trying to create warmth from the friction. This was it. She was alone now in Cativad—a place that was made up of one small farm. Hers.
She’d have to do her best to survive. If her daughter, Tove, had indeed been picked by the great King Njal to become his queen, the spring would mean a new life for her daughter. Comfort, protection, respect even. Tove would make a wonderful queen. The people of Halsgrof couldn’t fail to adore her.
Ingrid’s daughter was kind and gentle, yet she knew her own mind. She was brave but not foolish, and clever but not bloated with pride. King Njal could do much worse, in fact, he couldn’t do better.
The wind howled through a sword-shaped gap in the rafters. Several dots of snow danced in triumphantly. Ingrid frowned. She’d fixed the roof as best she could. Luckily her husband, now feasting with the gods, had made it well all those years ago. But like the seasons, roofs didn’t last forever. Indeed the barn roof was in even worse repair. Her goats and chickens would have to be herded into the longhouse when the loch froze. Not something Ingrid would enjoy.
Her small home was paltry, but she took pride in keeping it clean and making the most of the few possessions she had.
She poked at her tunic. The material was frayed, and it would benefit a wash. But this was her warmest one, to part with it for cleaning would mean a day and night of being chilly.
“Oh, my dearest Frode,” she whispered. “If only you had not left me. If only it was I with you on this night and not the gods.” She squeezed her eyes closed. It had been so long since her husband, Frode, had died, Tove a girl of only a few summers. It was becoming harder for Ingrid to conjure his face in her memory.
To recall his naked body against hers was even harder. He’d bedded her only a handful of times, enough, it seemed, for one daughter and naught else. Ingrid had wanted more babes, he hadn’t given it, not because he didn’t love her, but because that was the way the gods had decided his fate.
Frustrated, she’d taken to finding her own pleasure, in secret. Touching herself and thinking of him to rid the tension from her body in sweet pulses that rippled through her pelvis. That was one of the few things that hadn’t changed when he’d died because her physical satisfaction hadn’t been something he’d been involved with when he was alive.
Again the wind pressed against the longhouse. The bones of the walls creaked, and the door strained against its iron hinges.
“In the name of Thor,” Ingrid muttered, standing. Snow had skittered beneath the door and was piling up against an empty barrel that had once contained Frode’s mead.
Reluctantly, she left the feeble warmth of the fire and poked sacks into the gap. Her fingers were stiff and pale. “I should have gone to the town with Tove.” Maybe it would have been worth leaving the livestock to fend for themselves and giving up what little she had left. The town at least held hope of work, food, and shelter. Here, hope was a thin spider-thread to cling to, the only certainty was a long, bitterly cold winter with many days of solitary darkness.
Her stomach growled, and she placed her hand over it and turned back to the fire. Her insides felt hollow, concave. She was empty of everything.
Suddenly, the door clattered loudly. Three hard bangs that almost broke the wood from the metal.
She spun to face it, her heart rate ramping up. Was that the wind?
Bang. Bang. Bang.
She gasped. No, not the wind. A bear woken by the storm and starving for food? A wolf hurling itself in desperation to get in and eat her? An elk intent on finding shelter?
“Let me in, woman?”
A man? Who? Why?
“Open this door. I tell you. Do it now.” A deep, dark voice.
“Who…who are you?” Her throat was tight with fear.
“I said do it now, before the balls between my legs freeze.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Quickly Ingrid unbolted the door and pulled it open to a flurry of snow and a blast of icy wind.
She was faced with a giant of a man, made all the taller and wider by the enormous hooded wolf pelt he had thrown over his shoulders. His beard was thick and black, and from beneath heavy eyebrows his dark, narrow eyes glared at her.
“Your barn is a disgrace,” he said, pushing past her and into her home. “The roof good for naught.”
“You’ve…you’ve been in my barn?” She stared at him as he stomped snow on the floor that was instantly swept up by the gusting wind to dance between them.
“Aye.” He pointed at the door, his hand the size of a plate. “Shut that up, wench, it’s winter if you hadn’t noticed.”
“I had noticed, and I’ll shut it when you leave.”
He huffed. “I won’t be leaving. Shut the door.”
“You will leave, right now, or in the name of Odin, I’ll…I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” He shoved his hood down, sending a white powdery sprinkle into the air. “Huh? Tell me. What will you do?”
“I’ll…I’ll make you leave.”
“I don’t think so, Ingrid.”
Her mouth fell open. “How do you know my name?”
“You are the mother of Tove, our queen, new wife of King Njal, am I right?”
“Oh!” She fluttered her hand over her chest. Had she heard him properly? Could her dreams for Tove have come true? Was this Viking really standing before her saying these things? Or had she gotten so cold and lonely and wrapped up in her loss for Frode and missing Tove that she’d created him out of her imagination, a wicked trick played on her by the gods?
“So? Are you?” he demanded.
“The mother of Tove, aye, aye, I am.”
He grunted, stepped past her, and slammed the door. “Good, then I am where I was ordered to journey to by King Njal.”
He stood close, looming over her. The scent of the mountains and snow, the sea and earth filled her nose and lungs. Had she ever felt so small? The man was a giant, a head and a half taller than her, as big as a bear.
“King Njal?”
“Aye, I was sent to please his new bride. She wouldn’t see you go without, so I am here.”
“Here with what?”
“Supplies.”
“Er…” She stepped back and spread her palms. “Where are my supplies? I don’t see them.”
“In your barn, yonder.” He gestured to the door. “We will unload the wagon after I have filled my belly and slept.” He walked to the fire, shrugging out of his cloak and then tossing it on a bench.
She rushed after him. “We s
“In a state of such disrepair your husband should be ashamed to be a Viking.”
“My husband…” She tilted her chin. “Was a fine Viking.”
“Was?”
“Now he feasts with Odin and Thor, Frigg and Loki. He raises his drink to those who are yet to join him. Including you…” She raised her eyebrows.
“Ah yes, me, I am Gunnar of Barosvik.” He banged his hand on his chest, shifting a brooch in the image of a snake’s head. “Son of Ifor of Barosvik.” He paused. “And I am sorry for your loss. And for the queen’s loss of a father.”
She stared at him for a moment, searching for sincerity. It was in his voice, but was it in his eyes?
Before she could see, he sat at the table, the stool legs scraping on the floor. “So feed me, wench, a feast. I have traveled far on this evil night. And mead, pour me mead.”
“Feed you? Mead?” She gestured to a shelf that held a basket of dried fish, a bag of grain, and several jars of preserved fruit and cabbage. “You really think I can prepare you a feast out of that?”
“That is your supply?” His eyes widened.
For a moment shame washed over her, but she had no room for that emotion, it could take a hike into the wilderness. This was reality, her reality. Life had been hard. She’d saved Tove by sending her away, but herself… perhaps she hadn’t wanted saving. Maybe joining Frode and the gods had been a plan Ingrid had hatched yet refused to acknowledge.
“What in the name of the All Father were you going to eat this winter? The loch will be frozen as hard as a stone in your boot before you know it, woman? And the hills here are harsh, the land poor.” He shook his head. “Was not a good place to set up a homestead and raise a daughter.”
“It was where we landed,” Ingrid said. “When we came from our wedding in a fjord north of here.”
“Would not have been my choice.” He shook his head then reached for his cloak. “Put another log on the fire and water on to heat.”
“But I don’t have many…”
“You have logs now I am here with my axe.” His beard twitched, as though he’d set his jaw tight. “So use what you have freely.” He swung his cloak back on, the movement sending a breeze through the air. “Logs are no longer a problem.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the cart, to get us food. I had not anticipated you living with so little.”
He turned and stomped to the door.
Ingrid stared after him. Just a few heartbeats previously she’d resigned herself to a cold, hungry night, yet now this warrior had appeared, gruff, demanding, and enormous, but with food and the promise of fuel.
She threw a log in her fire trough and stoked the ashes to bring flames back to life. She then scooped several ladles of barreled water into the cauldron atop it. When she’d done that, she rushed to the door and pulled it open to the milky darkness.
She gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes. The cold was painful and the wind spiteful. Through the flurry, she made out Gunnar entering the barn; his big boots had dug deep indents in his wake.
Her goats and hens would bleat and squawk when a stranger walked in, she knew that. But he’d already put a cart in there, likely a horse or two as well, so she wouldn’t rush to calm them.
She glanced left, toward the fjord. It was only just visible through the sideways-blowing snow, but already a white sheen had landed on it—it wouldn’t be long before ice claimed the surface and stayed there for many moons.
Tomorrow, she’d drag Frode’s boat onto the pebbled bank. It was barely worth saving, but she wasn’t about to willingly destroy something that had been his.
A noise to her right.
Gunnar was trudging back from the barn, his shoulders swinging and the squall catching his long dark hair. He held a sack under one arm and a small barrel in the other.
When he reached the door, she stepped aside to let him in, then quickly shut it. “What do you have?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he set the barrel atop Frode’s empty one, pulled a horn from the sack, and filled it with mead. He drank deep, his gulps noisy and his eyes closed.
“Ah, that is better.” He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Get yerself a horn and I’ll fill it for you.”
Ingrid did as he’d instructed.
“And this, for you.” He took the horn, and in its place presented a red garment.
“What is it?”
“A gift from King Njal and the queen. It is all from them. Many gifts.”
“And the mead? The mead you’re drinking is mine?”
He paused, then. “I’m sure you would not deny a warrior who risked his life to bring these gifts a drink and a meal.”
“No, of course not.” That hadn’t been what she’d meant. Her brain was still catching up with the fact that her daughter was the new queen and that she had renewed supplies. “Please, sup all you want.”
He inclined his head as a gesture of appreciation.
“And this.” She unfolded the material. “It is beautiful.” Made of thick wool, the blood-red cloak had glinting golden thread along the seams and a hood of the softest wolf fur she’d ever felt.
“Aye, it will keep you warm until I can fix this roof.” He gestured upward.
“You’ll do that?”
“Aye, it has to be done.” He handed her a drink.
Before she took it, she draped the cloak over her shoulders. It was heavy and instantly trapped heat against her body. “I thank you.”
He didn’t reply. He refilled his drink then began plucking items from the sack and placing them on the table beside the fire.
Dried fish wrapped in linen, a loaf of rye bread, a jug of buttermilk, and pots of honey, pickled greens, and roasted hazelnuts.
Ingrid’s eyes grew wide, and her stomach clenched. “There is so much.”
“It will fill our bellies this eve.” He set the sack aside and picked up the bread. He tore a chunk and bit into it. “Tomorrow we will stack and sort the rest of the supplies to ensure the mice don’t get it.”
“There’s more?” She watched his beard twitch as he chewed.
“Aye, enough to last all winter, enough to last both of us all winter.”
Chapter Two
What? Had she heard him right? Both of them? For the winter? All winter? “But…what…I mean…” she stuttered.
He sat beside the fire, his frame huge on her small chair, and continued to eat the bread. A sprinkle of crumbs caught on his leather tunic that was held at the waist by a wide brass buckled belt.
“You can’t…Gunnar of Barosvik, you can’t stay here all winter.”
“So where do you propose I stay?” He tipped his head, his brow a slash of frown lines. “In the barn?”
“No.” She gestured in the direction of Halsgrof. “You can go back to the town.”
He huffed. “How can I do that?” He snatched up a fish and bit into it.
“The way you came…” Her heart sank as she realized the problem. “And now, go this moment, before the pass is blocked with snow.”
“You want me to leave now, wench?”
“Aye. Right now.” She rushed up to him and gripped his upper arm. Tugged. “Move.”
He didn’t budge.
“Come on, quickly, this snow will block the pass. You know it will.” Still she pulled at him.
“I am not moving from where I sit, woman.” He shrugged as if she were no more than an annoying insect.
“You must, you must go now. It is the only way.” She pulled him harder. Putting all of her muscle and effort into it and heaving.
“It is not for you to say.” He curled his big fingers around her forearm and stilled her. “It is not your decision, mother of the queen.”
“Ingrid. My name is Ingrid, and this is my house. It is my decision, and yes, I am the mother of the queen, don’t forget that.”
“That may be so as of today, and it may be your home, but without your husband, that makes me the man of this longhouse. The Viking whose word is heard and obeyed beneath this roof.” He scowled at the gap in the roof. “Now leave me be. I am tired and hungry after my journey.”
