Page 48 of Viking Warriors: Vol. 1-3
I desired a man inside me again, but also hungered to lose myself in the act. We’d consume each other, in wrath and fury, rather than love.
He withdrew from Faline’s body, presenting a cock no longer fully rigid yet still emboldened.
“You’re an animal,” I hissed, picking up the nearby jug of ale and casting the contents to drench his groin, knowing it would fire his passion all the more.
In a single step he was upon me, his hands wrenching my shoulders, growling his ire and laughing low.
“Exactly as you wish.”
He yanked the front of my dress, breaking the clasps, then dragged down the shift beneath, tearing the clothes from me as I stood. I did nothing to defy him, my own hands helping until I was naked, revelling in his palms moving over my breasts, cupping my buttocks, squeezing my flesh. I cared not that Faline watched as I gave myself to him, nor that her eyes burned with displeasure.
I clasped the great muscles of his arms, steadying myself against the roughness of his mouth, opening my legs even before he lay me upon the table. His piercing brought a moan of pleasure I couldn’t conceal, my cunt eager for his violence, my skin hungry for his raking teeth.
He crushed me to his chest as he ejaculated, with a cry to match my own bursting wail. The sparks flared, broke and collided, dazzling me with their light and sending me, once more, tumbling into the abyss.
22
Gunnolf had become brutal, rough and ravenous. I knew his soul ached and there was no remedy, his anger another version of my own. We sated mutual grief and savage passion. Each bruise he gave me was a brand for my many sins, marking the slow death of my heart.
His moods continued, volatile and violent. He lashed out before burying his head upon my lap. He told me of the first days of his wedded life, and before. His uncle had arranged the marriage. A contract of alliance, of course; not planned for love but for her rich dowry. Nevertheless, Gunnolf had marvelled at Asta’s loveliness, her composure, her grace. She’d been his prize.
Now, he lamented all he should have said and done. “She carried my child but it was not enough to keep her in this life. Did she die, Elswyth, because I failed to show my love? Is it this she cannot forgive? Her beauty is buried and rotting, yet she is beyond the door, beyond the curtain. She does not rest; nor will she allow me peace.”
Mixing the sleeping draught he demanded, I said only that intended to soothe him. Even then, he tossed, restless, thrashing from haunted dreams.
Fingers bone-white, eyes hollow and searching; I saw her too.
Each moment of sleep took me to the forest, through which I ran, the trees leading me in circles, so there was no escape. She was always there; now close at my shoulder, then behind. It was no longer her belly that she clutched buta bundle in her arms, which she thrust towards me. Within was the grey face of her swaddled baby, without breath or life.Her expression held the pain and reproach for which I blamed myself, and great sadness, too, for all that might have been and was lost.
I couldn’t shake the fear that I’d never been asleep but had been looking through the darkness at her face.
* * *
The rising sun brought the promise of summer and its warmth should have lifted my heart, as it did those of the children who ran outside, eager to make up for lost days.
I’d done my part in helping Svolvaen recover from the pox, easing raging itches of the skin and debilitating fever, but I could scarce rejoice; Asta’s death, and my betrayal of her, remained a torment to me.
I’d been remiss in many ways, seeking to avoid what was difficult. I’d retreated so far into remorse and self-pity that I hardly recognized myself. My body remained healthy, despite all that had happened around me, but I no longer believed in my purpose, nor my skills. I hadn’t saved Asta; nor had I found a cure for the disfiguring sores. My treatments were but a temporary salve.
There was only one person I could turn to, though our friendship had floundered. We’d spoken but briefly sinceOstaranight. Astrid had confided in me during her anguish; I’d pulled away in mine.
She looked tired, answering her door. Pursing her lips, she kept me on the threshold, inclining her head at last, shifting the wriggling baby from one hip to the other.
“Take a seat, then.” She lowered the little one to the floor. “You know you’re welcome.”
I deserved the sharpness in her tone. I’d neglected her, and Ylva.
“Fresh pulled an hour ago.” She poured some milk and handed me a cup. “Ylva’s taking the goats down to the meadow, so it’s just us.”
I sipped the creamy liquid, still warm, and smiled my thanks.
“You’ve been occupied, I hear.” Astrid took the stool across from me, beside the hearth. She clucked her tongue. “’Tis no more than anyone would expect, of course, you sharing the same roof, and Eirik gone these many weeks.”
All Svolvaen probably knew; there was little that could be hid. Astrid looked at me pointedly, waiting for me to unburden myself. We hadn’t kept secrets from each other, in the past.
When I didn’t reply, she rose to stir the contents of her pot, suspended over the fire.
“I didn’t intend…” I couldn’t bring myself to explain. Whatever was happening between myself and Gunnolf, I didn’t know how to describe it.
