Kathleen nance olympus.., p.3
Mastered By The Viking King, page 3
“That is for your husband and my nephew to decide.” Wanda pointed to a woven screen. “But you may catch your breath behind there.”
“Thank you.” Gert rushed forward, again almost bumping into Tove and this time nearly spilling her precious broth.
“Where is she?” The doorway filled with an ogre of a man, his wide shoulders almost touching the frame and his boots caked in mud. “Where is that wife of mine?”
Gert let out a yelp. “No!”
A deep growl rumbled from his throat and he lunged forward. “You. Wench. You will feel the wrath of my hand into next week.”
“No. Please.” Gert gripped the screen. “I am sorry. I beg you. Have mercy.”
He took no notice of her plea and grabbed her upper arm. They jostled and the screen half fell revealing a bed strewn with furs.
He pushed her to the bed and she landed on her belly. With a flick of his hand he dragged up her tunic to reveal her undergarments.
“Arne. No.” Gert wriggled and writhed but to no avail. If anything it rucked up her clothing more. “Please.”
Arne was too big and strong, and he set a huge hand in the small of her back and pinned her down. “Keep still, you are making my plans for your punishment worse, wife. Much worse.” He yanked at the material covering her round ass and pulled it down, exposing her pale buttocks.
Gert yelped and attempted to shield her ass with her hands.
He batted her attempts away, and delivered a hard swift slap to the center of her cheeks.
She yelped again and kicked up her heels.
This seemed to infuriate him more and he crouched over her, setting a rapid rhythm, layering up the spanks over both buttocks.
Tove watched as Wanda closed the door and retrieved the bowl. She’d never seen an argument with such heat, anger, and passion. It was as if they were in the room alone. Nothing else existed except the punishment Arne was determined to deliver.
The other girls continued with their preparations. Wanda stirred the broth again.
But Tove was mesmerized. The slap, slap sound of flesh on flesh filled her ears. Gert’s desperate wriggling and her rippling, reddening ass cheeks was all she could look at.
Her own buttocks tingled and her nipples tightened. She gripped the broth tighter.
Arne reminded her of the giant brutes from her dreams. All muscle and fury, domination and grit. His narrowed eyes were alive with fire and he too was breathing fast.
On and on the spanking continued. Gert cried out and begged him to stop.
Her words fell on deaf ears.
When his attentions went to the backs of her thighs, her screeches became more high-pitched.
“You will not waste food again,” he bellowed. “Nor give it away.”
“I’m sorry.” Tears streaked down her face. “The wanderer was hungry!”
“Wanderers are not welcome here. On new order of King Njal.”
Suddenly Arne stopped spanking his wife and flipped her over.
She was naked from the waist down except for her boots. The patch of hair on her mound was dark, the skin of her thighs snow white.
He grunted and fiddled with his belt, quickly releasing it.
“Arne.” Gert stared up at him, her fists full of furs and her face wet and hot.
“You drive me to insanity, woman,” he said, releasing his cock.
Tove caught barely a glimpse of his member before he angled it at his wife’s spread sex and blasted in with the force of an ogre.
Gert cried out. Her back arched and her legs hooked up around his waist.
It had sounded to Tove like the action of taking her husband into her body pained her, but her reaction—clinging to him, pulling him closer—told her the opposite.
“Ah, sweet, wicked cunny,” Arne said, pushing his wife’s hair from her brow and staring into her eyes. “You anger and tempt me in equal measures.”
“Oh, Arne,” she gasped. “I am at your mercy. I am yours.”
“Aye, wife. You are.” He thrust his hips harder, pulling out, driving in.
The bed frame creaked. The screen fell a little bit more.
Tove’s mouth was dry and she licked her lips. Her parents had never behaved this way. Was it normal? Was that why no one else was taking any notice? Or was it just Arne and Gert who behaved like this and everyone was used to it?
She had no idea.
Their coupling was intensifying, Arne grinding in hard, as though on a mission to fell a tree or hunt down a wolf.
Tove could tell that nothing would stop him finding his pleasure now in his wife’s punished body, the man taking what he wanted.
But Gert too was gasping and crying out. Her hands had locked in his long hair and she was moaning. The tempo was frantic.
Tove pressed her legs together. Heat was growing between her thighs. It went upward, to her sex, to her belly, the sensation exciting, expectant, anticipatory.
She knew their climax was coming, that their feral, noisy coupling was about to reach a crescendo.
And then it was there. Gert cried out. A long, pleasure-soaked wail that seemed to go right through Tove too.
Arne let out a string of praises to the All Father that ended on a long groan.
They stilled, Arne sprawled over his wife with his face buried in her neck.
She tenderly pushed his hair aside and kissed his ear.
“Tove, girl. Eat your broth.”
Tove tore her attention to Wanda. “I… er… yes. Thank you.”
“As you can see,” Wanda said, leaning close, like a conspirator. “If you get chosen you will need your strength. And my nephew Arne, he’s a butterfly in comparison to the king.”
Chapter 3
The Great Hall thudded with excited conversation and merriment. Even from the outside Tove could feel it vibrating through her chest.
It didn’t help her nerves, not one bit. She was terrified of coming face to face with King Njal.
The two other girls at Wanda’s house had spoken of his warrior prowess and his keen strike with a sword when it came to removing enemy heads. His voice was a roar, they said, and with his giant hands and feet, his godlike vision and hearing, he was the king of kings.
Tove wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep upright if he directed that roaring voice at her. Her knees were weak just thinking about it. She’d rather face a pack of wolves than a giant, angry king.
And to think of him the way Arne had been…and her on the receiving end. She couldn’t even imagine it.
She swallowed, hoping she wouldn’t be sick.
Stick to the plan, Tove.
She would keep her head down, hands clasped, and not speak a word. What could go wrong if she did that? Nothing. He wouldn’t even look at her. He’d go straight to Princess Hilda and take her as his queen.
How could he not want her?
The timber door to the Great Hall was flung open, and the small man who had greeted Princess Hilda flapped his arms in the air. “You are to enter now. The king awaits. He will choose his new queen this very night.”
A cheer went up and the crowd parted, making a pathway for the three girls.
Movement behind her caught Tove’s attention.
“I will enter first, make way for your new queen.” Princess Hilda strode past, her green woolen cloak flowing in her wake. Her hair was adorned with sparkling jewels, the thick locks caught by the wind.
Tove stepped to one side, as did Wanda along with the other girls.
“Of all the…” Wanda muttered.
Tove admired Princess Hilda’s breasts. Her tunic was low cut, and the fleshy orbs jostled as she walked.
Drunken shouts rang out as she entered the Great Hall.
“Come on, girls, you’re as good as her. No, make that better. Remember that.” Wanda clapped her hands. “Quickly! Do not keep the king waiting.”
Tove rushed in, last in line. The scent of mead, ash, and hot bodies filled the air. Everyone seemed taller than her. Faces grinned, leered, and sneered. Her breaths were coming fast, as if she’d run across a meadow.
But she dipped her head, and traced the steps of the other girls until she found herself lined up in a gap in the crowd. Before her, on a raised wooden platform, a man sat in an ornately carved throne. His hands curled over the ends of the arms, his chin tilted upward.
King Njal.
She risked a look, but kept her head dipped.
He was indeed enormous, his neck thick, shoulders wide, his legs long and powerful. A wiry, dark beard angled over his jawline, the point of which held three small beads. His tunic was open to his chest, showing off a patch of hair at his sternum. A wide leather belt with knife and pouch held up leather pants. His boots had a shine to them, as though he’d just walked through the settling snow.
She knotted her fingers and stared at the straw-littered floor.
“King Njal,” Princess Hilda said. “It has come to my attention that you are in need of a queen—which is why I have journeyed here from Kaldaross this day.”
Tove’s stomach swirled as she risked looking up again.
“And as I am the best choice, actually your only choice”—Princess Hilda gestured to the other three girls—“a fact which is blatantly obvious when you set your royal eyes on these three skinny peasants, I suggest we start the wedding feast now.” She laughed, but it was humorless. “I am your perfect queen, and I defy anyone here to disagree.” She looked around the crowd, her head tipped, arms folded.
“Silence!” King Njal’s shout was a deafening boom. “I did not tell you to speak.”
“Oh, but I…” Princess Hilda’s eyes widened, and she swallowed. She dropped her arms to her sides.
King Njal stood, uncurling to his full height and puffing up his chest as he took in a deep breath. His eyes narrowed and he stepped down from the platform, his big boots puffing up dust. Light from a nearby torch flickered over his face.
He set his hands on his hips, his attention on Princess Hilda.
Her face paled a little.
Tove was glad she wasn’t the only one who found the king intimidating and fierce. She’d had to stop herself from peeing when he’d shouted.
He moved toward Princess Hilda, his expression dark, then nipped her chin in his big fingers. He jerked her head to the right, then the left, examining her profile. “You are a princess?”
“Aye. And my father, King Ulf, trusts I will be safe and happy here as your wife. That I will want for naught.”
King Njal huffed and released her. He stepped up to the next girl in the lineup, the one with the green tunic. “Name.”
“Estrid, King Njal, I am Estrid.”
“And you have never been wed?”
“No, m’lord—I mean, yes. To Bjorn.” She looked at the floor.
“Where is he now?”
“In Valhalla. He was taken by the Valkyrie two summers gone.” Now she raised her face, as if looking up at Valhalla itself.
“And you miss him?”
“Aye, as does my son.”
“Your son?”
She nodded, plucking at a hem on her tunic.
“I do not wish for a queen who has a son.” He banged his chest. “The heirs under my roof will only be my blood.”
Estrid let out a frightened squeak and shrank back into the crowd.
He moved to the next girl, a tall, thin blonde with a scar down the right side of her face.
“How did you get that?” He stooped to peer at her cheek.
“In battle.”
“You are a shield maiden?”
“Aye. A damned fine one.” Her voice was loud and stern.
“If you became my wife you would still fight?”
“It is what the gods destined me for.” She slapped her hand on her chest. “I have hot warrior blood in my veins. When I die it will be for my king, my land, my gods. I am not afraid to go to battle. I am even less afraid of death whether it is in this land or when I travel west.”
“What of my two sons, our sons when we wed, if you bleed to death in the mud of a foreign land?”
“I am a brave shield maiden.”
“Aye, you said that.” He straightened, then sighed. “I do not wish to lose another wife.” He flicked his hand. “Go.”
She nodded, one sharp tip of her head, then retreated from the line.
Tove saw his boots first. Great, clumpy things that made hers look tiny. She let out a small squeak.
“You.” He gripped her chin with his thumb and index finger, forcing her to look up at him. “Are you married?”
She bit her bottom lip, shaking her head.
“You have children?” His eyes bored into her, seeming to see into her soul.
Her knees weakened and she locked her legs so she wouldn’t stagger sideways.
“Children?” he bellowed.
“No.” The word had come out as a squeak.
He dragged in a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. “Do you wish to die in battle?” His voice was quieter now, but still deep and guttural.
Her throat tightened, her breaths shallow. She gave another small headshake and dipped her gaze to his chest.
Still, he held her chin. “What is your name?”
She didn’t answer. It was as if the air was stuck in her lungs, and she was glad of that; it had always been her intention not to speak. The trouble was she hadn’t anticipated King Njal looming over her like that.
Touching her. Questioning her.
She felt like prey who’d been cornered. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
“Name?” he snapped.
“She is Tove,” Wanda piped up. “Tove from Cativad.”
“Ah.” He released her chin. “Tove from Cativad, that is a long way.”
“Aye.” She clasped her fingers so tight she feared her bones might break.
“You will not return before the pass is blocked.”
She didn’t answer, partly because the last thing she wanted to do was disagree with the king, but also because she sincerely hoped she would get back to her mother.
The sooner King Njal picked Princess Hilda, the better.
He turned and walked away. He sat back on his throne, and again curled his hands over the ends of the arms. “I have made my decision.”
“King Njal,” Princess Hilda said, stepping forward with her hands in the air. “I am so thankful you have picked me to be your new queen. I will soon whip this crowd into shape. It’s clear from their round bellies and broken roofs that they eat too much—and don’t work enough. A hard hand is what you need, to make examples of a few.” She drew a slit around her throat. “Something I am not afraid to help you with.”
“Is that right?” He raised his eyebrows and pulled on the beads at the end of his beard.
“I may not be a brave shield maiden, but my skills in dealing with lazy, mead-swilling peasants will outshine any sword and… oh, get off!”
King Njal looked between the two stern Vikings who had grabbed Princess Hilda by the arms.
“Get off me. Get off.” She tried to yank herself free.
“As I was saying.” King Njal tapped his fingers on the chair. “I have made my decision—and it is to be Tove of Cativad.”
What in Odin’s name?
Tove’s mouth hung open. She hadn’t heard him right, surely. There was no way he’d chosen her over the beautiful princess.
“What? Her? A skinny crofter?” Princess Hilda shouted. “When you could have me? A princess! Have you lost your mind?”
“No, I have not lost my mind. I am of very sound mind,” King Njal said. “And I’m sure all the men here will agree that a wife who comes without the baggage of a husband and children is a very good start.” He paused and swung his angry gaze from Princes Hilda. “Also, one who has no wish to die makes for a long marriage, and”—he stood and pointed at Tove—“what could be more perfect than one who barely speaks?” He pulled his ear. “No earache, no moaning.” He laughed. “Perfect! The perfect wife.”
An eruption of laughter blasted through the Great Hall, every man and woman amused by the king’s words.
The perfect wife?
Tove blinked as she stared at him. How could he think that? He couldn’t be serious. He had to be saying all of this in jest.
The laughing changed to chanting, fast and merrily, the words, “Queen Tove. Queen Tove. Queen Tove. Queen Tove.”
They rang through her mind. She had the urge to turn and run, flee into the snowy darkness. She had to. If she stayed, she was destined to a life as this giant king’s wife.
She stepped back, adrenaline kicking in. It was flight time.
“Queen Tove. Queen Tove. Queen Tove.”
But she didn’t get far.
Hands and arms scooped her up and she was lifted from the floor toward King Njal.
She gasped as she was plonked down on the smaller of the two wooden thrones.
Wanda placed a heavy metal crown upon her head. “Queen Tove.” She kissed her cheeks. “I am here to serve you.”
Tove touched the cool crown and blinked rapidly.
Before her, a swarm of happy faces chanted and sang.
Princess Hilda was nowhere to be seen.
“You will make a good wife and queen.” King Njal grasped her hand and squeezed. “The seer told me about a poor woman from a valley in the north who would make my life richer.”
“I have no treasures, King Njal.”
“What was that?” He cupped his ear.
She spoke a little louder. “I have no treasures.”
He grinned. “I do not want you for your treasures.”
“So…” She swallowed. “What do you want me for?”
“You will find out.” He raised her knuckles to his mouth and kissed them, his beard scratching her flesh.
“And now,” he shouted. “Feast, for you have a new queen! And I have a new bride.”
Chapter 4
Njal held the hand of his new bride and supped on a horn of mead. Finally a sliver of contentment came over him. He was grateful for it. The twisting in his guts—green, bitter, and sharp—had faded just a little.
Tove, she was a pretty little thing. She was too bony, he’d admit that—and she could do with finer clothes on her back—but with her he’d have hot, naked, sweaty fun on the long, dark days and nights of winter.
