Page 17 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
Enter a world of burning desire and brutal passion; a world threatened by ambition, jealousy and revenge.
Caught between two Viking warrior brothers, is Elswyth anything but a pawn in their game of vengeance?
As the ancient blood-rituals of Ostara night begin, dark forces are stirring.
Nowhere is safe. And there's nowhere left to run.
1
959 AD
With the midsummer sun dipping to the last portion of the sky, twenty men took the oars and pulled against the current.
We’d been three days on the open sea, travelling to Svolvaen. Some places on the rowing benches were now empty, for several of Eirik’s men had fallen in the skirmish with the troops garrisoned near our village. As the ship battled fierce winds and my stomach heaved with the churning of the waves, I wondered if I’d made a grave error in leaving all that I knew to join these Norsemen. My thoughts turned repeatedly to my ailing grandmother, lying weak in her bed, left in the care of our neighbours. My decision had been selfish, borne of yearning for adventure and the chance to start anew, of my knowledge of kinship with these warrior men; borne, too, of my desire for Eirik, who’d pulled me into the protection of his hard-muscled body as the ship plunged across the vast sea.
At last, we sighted the mountains of the north. Reaching the calmer waters of their coast, sailing between scattered islands, the men’s eyes raked the maze of inlets, looking for their own.
Gulls and gannets whirled above, cormorants and kittiwakes, as we followed the narrow channel of thefjord, as Eirik called it, past cliffs on either side, rising steep, pocketed with caves.
The crew’s elation was plain to see and I shared in it, for I was now part of this world, although all in it would be new to me.
The other ships of the raiding party had returned some days before, survivors of the storm that had brought Eirik and his men to our coastline of Northumbria and the rocky beach on which my former village had nestled. His people had been keeping look-out, horns blowing through the still dusk of the evening as we approached the landing piers.
What a press of bodies there was: comradery between men, as friends slapped and hugged one another, and received kisses from their wives, embraces from mothers, daughters and sisters. I no longer thought of those men as murderers, but as my kin. They’d shed blood, but I now knew my blood was also theirs. I recognized some part of their brutality as my own, for I was not as other women in the village in which I’d lived all my life. I was half-Viking: tall and golden haired, as the women of Svolvaen mostly were, and born of a wilder spirit.
Amidst the jumble of voices and the scramble of the crowd, Faline and I received little regard. We were no more than possessions, of Eirik’s concern alone; curiosities, eyed briefly, then ignored. Whatever welcome I’d hoped for in my heart, whatever foolishness, I pressed it down and bit my tongue against disappointment. To earn my place would take time.
Eirik’s sister, Helka, guided us away from the crowd, scanning for one who wasn’t there: one who hadn’t deigned to push among the common throng, who’d waited, instead, for Eirik to come to him.
We climbed the slope rising from the small harbour, past modest dwellings which appeared little different from those of my own village. The light had almost gone as we approached the summit of the hill, where stood a longhouse of great size, turf-covered upon low walls of stone. A sentry guarded either side of its door, whom Eirik greeted with clasped hands before we stepped inside.
The vaulted ceiling rose higher than that of the home I’d not long ago shared with my husband. The ribs reached up into the darkness, above a central fire pit, whose flames leapt, casting the farther reaches of the hall in shadow. The air was thick with the smell of stew, a great cauldron hanging over the heat of the pit, smoke curling upwards, to an open hole in the roof. Along the length of the hall were deep benches, sheepskins thick upon them; there was room enough to sleep the household and many more.
Faline and I stood behind Helka, who whispered a little of what was said, translating enough for us to understand. I was glad, too, that during our sea voyage, Eirik had begun to teach me some of his words.
“Jarl Gunnolf!” cried Eirik, “And my Lady Asta, who grows more exquisite than ever.” He bowed to the pale beauty, sitting beside the man richly dressed in raven-black. She was beautiful indeed, with an air of delicate refinement, her fine hair hanging to her waist, a silvered cloak complimenting her dress of light-blue. Eirik was surely addressing his brother, the chieftain of their village, orjarlin their own tongue, and his fair wife.
So dark was his clothing, his beard and mane that I could not fully discern the man seated in that half-light. The shadows played over his face, concealing and then revealing. I saw him in pieces that did not resolve until I stepped closer, following Eirik’s approach to the dais.
“You’re returned then, brother.”
Their features were similar, with full lips and a strong jaw; Gunnolf bore a livid scar through one eyebrow, deeper than that crossing Eirik’s cheek. Despite the white creeping at his temples, I thought him yet in his prime, with shoulders broad and strong, and limbs muscular. As with Eirik, I imagined him taking whatever woman he desired, regardless of whether she was compliant. Yet the two were different. Where my lover was a stallion, his energy and passion scarcely contained, Gunnolf had a concentrated intensity to him. I found that I looked too closely and made myself lower my eyes.
“And Helka, my dear sister.” Gunnolf rose from his seat, crossing the remaining space between us to kiss her hand. “You’ve brought prizes, I see.”
Grasping above my elbow, he drew me forward, and looked at me directly; his eyes were the same icy blue as Eirik’s, and my own. His scrutiny was piercing, as if penetrating to my naked skin.
Abruptly, he unhooked my cloak, letting it fall, so that I stood trembling in my worsted dress. It was not from cold that the shiver fluttered through me. His eyes took in the shape of me and lingered in careful appraisal.
With a shake of her hair, Faline jostled forward, pushing back her cloak to reveal the curves of her young body, wishing to capture the jarl’s attention for herself.
My anger flared as it had when Eirik had taken us both to his bed. Faline was dark where I was fair, beautiful by any standard, and my rival for any man who showed me interest.
He regarded her with some amusement, and a nod of approval, before resuming his examination of me.
Eirik moved closer to my side, placing his hand firmly upon my shoulder. “Elswyth is a woman of former standing, and with some proficiency in healing.” His voice, though level, was firm. “She is mine.”
Gunnolf’s eyes narrowed, and I saw him set his jaw as he squared his shoulders to Eirik. His fist clenched and I feared he’d reach for the dagger at his belt. The vein at Eirik’s temple stood visible as he returned his brother’s glare.
