Page 13 of Mastered By the Viking King

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 thatbetter. 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 youronlychoice”—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.

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