Now I present to you... Silver and Spice!
View Prologue and chapter 1 HERE, chapter 2 HERE, chapter 3 HERE, chapter 4 HERE, chapter 5 HERE, chapter 6 HERE, chapter 7 HERE, chapter 8 HERE, chapter 9 HERE, chapter 10 HERE
Ireland four years
previously
Sean MacRonan thrived on
being a trader. He sailed from Dubh
Linn, to the hot, dry lands of Byzantium, the crossroads of East and West, to
the cold bustling port of Hedeby, up and down the rivers of Europe. He earned
his coin by trade and trickery, deals and deception. There was always ways to
cheat an extra scrap of silver out of the transactions. There were always suspicions
around him, but none could confirm his underhandedness. Besides, Lorcan, his man, fought all battles
on his behalf. Sean’s sire had taught
him well, but had become fat and complacent; two years ago when he was a score
in age his father had been found with a blade in his heart, the hilt of the
dagger removed. No evidence of his killer was left behind. Peter MacRonan had
so many enemies it would have been impossible to identify a single suspect. Since that time, Sean had taken more
mercenaries into his hall, men who asked no questions and expected their coin.
Slouching on the dais,
he eyed the interaction between Alfhilde and the boy, barely a young man, envy
and jealousy eating at him like lye. The fosterling was distinctive in
features, with his auburn hair, tall frame and eyes as stormy grey as the north
sea, and it was evident that Alfhilde favoured him in her teachings publicly
and in the hall, and privately in her chamber. A sharp pain seized his hand, as
he looked down and saw the trickle of blood caused by his fingernails
puncturing his flesh.
Alfhilde had lain with Sean’s
father many times and neither had made a secret of their casual union. It was
Peter who arranged his son’s first encounter as an untried youth, and Alfhilde
was willing to lie with him. The fact that she enjoyed young blood was well
known. He had taken her to his furs
many times since then. Her home on the Shetland Jarlshof had become a familiar
stop over the past number of summers, and he was welcomed with open arms, and
legs. Other women were not as willing in bed-sport as Alfhilde. But today, Alfhilde
only had time for the man-boy Kristr Halsrason, and he would eventually rid the
world of his rival.
Roisin woke up, the feel
of Kristr's even breathing warm and reassuring on her neck. Her cheeks pinked
as she thought of the previous eve, and how Marthe had left her bound and
helpless on the bed for Kristr. Perhaps this was a Norse tradition, but more
likely the actions of a playful younger sister used to getting her own way.
Without wakening Kristr, she tried to move onto her side, her muscles stiff from
unfamiliar use. Propped up on her elbow, she studied the man before her. She watched his ribcage rise and fall, and
finally allowed her fingers to lightly dance down his body, over his muscular
chest, tracing over the blue outline of his tattoo, down the fine trail of hair
to his navel, stopping as she saw his shaft, rising again. She held her breath
as she watched, as if it had a life of its own.
'Curious, Sweetling?'
Kristr opened one eye and looked up at her, smirking at her stunned expression.
'I trust you slept well, as I did.' He followed her gaze to his now near fully
erect cock, saluting them proudly. 'It is the effect you have on me in the morning.
Or afternoon. Or evening.’ He reached up and tugged her half-done braid, her
black hair wispy and fuzzy from the lovemaking of the previous eve.
She clamped her hands
over her face, peeking out between her fingers, 'I slept well, considering,
considering I'm such a hussy!' How could she face Marthe today? Or Ciara? Or
Gertrude? What would her mother, Breda,
have thought of her actions?
Chuckling softly, he
prised her fingers from her face, 'Maybe, but you are my wanton hussy. I could
have you warm my furs every day and night.' Mesmerised by the unfamiliar view
in front of her, she continued to stare; in the cool morning light he looked
even bigger than the night before. He rolled over to kiss her, and she giggled,
as she feigned an innocent struggle, before returning his embrace. 'Come here,
little sweet,' he pulled her back onto the bed as he gave a mock growl, 'I need
to feel my little hussy, my greedy little sea-cow, again.' She laughed in
outrage, then in approval, thinking of his first insults that he threw at her
when they were on the boat; now the harsh words had taken on an endearing
nature. He paused, 'Are you sure you
wish to continue? You might feel a
little tender this morn.'
'I am fine. Mayhap I am
a little sore, but nothing that some more lovemaking with a fine Nordic Viking
cannot remedy.' Roisin could not believe
the words that she was uttering, but she longed to feel the myriad of
sensations again, upon her body and within her soul.
Giving a squeal of
delight that Marthe would have been proud of, he tugged her ankles, sliding her
down the bed. Kneeling between her thighs, he licked his lips. 'Now let me
apply some of my salve to your poor tender skin!’
oooOOOooo
She must have fallen
asleep again. Roisin woke up to the
sounds of Kristr shuffling about the hall. She looked at the tell tale sign of
her purity on the silky sealskin fur that was now folded neatly on the chest.
She blushed and groaned in embarrassment when she realised it was he who had
tidied the chamber, and that he would have seen the drops of blood, ruining the
pelt.
Kristr smiled as she peeked
out from behind the leather curtain separating the bed chamber from the
hall. Even after all that they had
shared, she was still shy about her nudity, and although he thought it
endearing, he was looking forward to seeing her naked form again. It was his turn to care for her. There was a ready supply of logs, and the
fire was well stoked and now blazed and crackled in the hearth. Although it was not exceptionally cold
outside, the heat was necessary to take any chill off the air. He had drawn a tub of warm water, the steam
rising in curls to the ceiling. For breakfast, he had prepared a trencher of
bread, cheese and ham which was sitting on the bench along with a jug of
buttermilk.
'Come, let me care for
you, lest Marthe return and demand to carry out the duty whilst she questions
you on our activities of yester-eve!' Holding her hands, Kristr helped her sit
down into the tub, allowing the warm water to lap and ebb. Taking a cloth, he
rubbed her skin in soft gentle circles, his eyes never leaving contact with
hers. He cupped the warm water in his hands as he rinsed her body, washing away
her virginal life, cleansing her of her own perceived sin of wantonness.
Carefully wrapping her
in a soft clean linen sheet, he led Roisin back to the chamber, and laid her on
the bed. A sensuous aroma filled the air when a small vial of oil was uncorked.
Kristr smiled when she inhaled deeply. The
scent would be unfamiliar to her. 'This is oil of rose, from Babylon,' he
whispered, as he anointed her pale skin, massaging her tender muscles,
worshipping her external beauty with his hand and eyes, her internal grace with
his heart and soul. She may be his hostage in the eyes of both Irish and Norse
law, but he was imprisoned to her now in love. No amount of silver would meet
that ransom.
Only after he had felt
he had come some way into treating her as the goddess she was to him, did he
help her into her under-dress and kirtle, and return with her to the main hall
where they could finally break their fast. He watched intently as she cut the
food up in to small pieces, and taking a morsel of bread and ham and a small chunk
of cheese, he allowed her to feed him, slowly, lovingly, taking the same care
in giving him his meal as he had just lavished on her.
The sensuousness silence
was broken by the now-familiar squeal of Marthe as she bounced down the hall.
Swinging Roisin in her arms she put her down as she gave Kristr a long look.
'Oh do tell! Did you? Did you?' looking from Kristr to Roisin to Kristr she
squealed again. 'You did! I'm going to have a sister!' She playfully punched
her brother's shoulder, 'And, if I can manage Erik, soon I shall have two sisters!'
'Marthe!' Kristr called
in exasperation 'You have meddled enough! Leave us be, you silly girl lest I
find you a husband, should there be a poor man fool enough to marry you!' Marthe
gave a mock pout. 'Stop spoiling my fun! I have been waiting so long to see you
happy!'
The quiet bubble of
their lovers' time was now well and truly burst, as reality came flooding back
to Roisin. There were no regrets from her time with Kristr, but there may be
some awkward conversations ahead, as her time on the steading was still marked
as that of a hostage.
'We shall have to face
your father and Jarl eventually, Kristr.'
'I know. I am surprised
that my father has not already arrived here. I am quite sure Marthe has
informed the entire steading.' He loved his sister dearly, but her exuberance
and enthusiasm for life would try the patience of even the hermit monks from
Ireland.
Roisin decided it was
time that she followed Ciara's lead, and take part in the running of the
steading. She was not sure what her standing would be. Ciara was accepting of
her concubine status here. Was she one now too? What would the Christian priest
at St Aonghus think of her ruination?
She was not even sure if she cared. The Halsrason steading may as well
be on the moon, she was so far from home.
She stood up. 'I shall
ask Gertrude what I can do. I'm a very good seamstress, and on Dun-na-Shee I
wove some of the finest cloth within four leagues,' the pride evident on her
face.
'Maybe you were, and I
am quite sure Gertrude will be delighted to have your skills put to use, but
today I would like to start teaching you how to use a dagger. It will give you
some defence against raiders and marauders.'
She paled. Marauders?
Did these Vikings raid each other? Sensing her fear, he smoothed his finger
over the worry-wrinkles on her forehead. 'Shhh, no lines. It is a very rare
occurrence, but all men and women should have at least the means to protect
themselves enough to flee to safety.'
Looking into his eyes,
her mind flashed to their first encounter and the blazing fury they held that
day, were now twinkling silver. 'Would a dagger have stopped you?'
Pausing, he considered
her words, 'Nei, it would not have stopped.
I had been taught weapons skill from I was five summers old, and I was
determined to thwart MacRonan.’ His actions that day still sent a cold chill
through his heart. ‘Roisin, tell me
this, what would have been your choice, to fight and fail and know you did
everything in your power to protect yourself?
Or would you have chosen not to fight at all, and surrender in anger and
frustration at your lack of skill?' He knew could not argue with that. He remembered the fear and fury within her
eyes on that day. She had no control
over her own life, not even the control to defend herself. Decisions in her life
had been made by men. As a man, he was able to offer her a choice.
‘You know, my mother had
been trained to use a weapon by her father, my Grandfather.’ Roisin sighed. Conall, her father told her how kind, gentle
and wise Breda had been, but it was Diarmuid, Conall’s best man, that kept her
huntress-mother’s memory alive. ‘But the
night that she was murdered she had left the rath without a dagger. It was the middle of the night when she was
called to help birth a babe. The mother and infant survived, but she was ambushed
on the way back to Dun-na-shee.’
‘Well, if your mother
had half the courage and beauty that you possess, your father was indeed a
lucky man.’ Kristr added under his
breath, ‘as am I.’
Kristr found his father
with the blacksmith, assisting the giant smithy as he sweated and pounded on a
white hot lump of metal, the clanging loud and abrasive on his ears after the
calming morning he had experienced with Roisin. 'May I speak with you Fadir?'
Kerik pulled off the
heavy leather apron protecting his tunic and skin from the heat. 'I believe you
have some news to share with me, my son.' Kristr rolled his eyes. Marthe. There
were no secrets on the steading when she was in residence. He loved his sister dearly, but when she went
back to Merksfjeld, the farmsteads on Halsrafjord would be a lot quieter.
'Ja, Fadir. It is true.'
He needed say no more.
‘Under our Norse law, she
is still your hostage. What are your intentions?' Kerik had to remind his son
that surrendering the ransom price was not an option. He would never be
respected as a merchant again, despite how noble the action may have been
presumed. 'I have not changed my mind from our previous discussions. You may
take her to see her father, but without a payment of silver, she must return
here until four seasons have passed. Then, and only then when she becomes your
property rather than your hostage, can you free her, and take her as your
concubine or wife.' Kristr scowled, but his father was Jarl and Kerik’s word
was law on his land. His father’s terms were harsh, but it was Kristr who had
set the original plan in motion, not his sire.
'What status may she
have on the steading, Fadir?'
'Her status remains that
of your hostage. She will be cared for, and protected, but she will not have
the rights that Ciara now enjoys.' It was not easy to treat his beloved second
son in this way, given that he himself had brought an Irish woman into his own
life a score and three years ago. For his son's sake, Kerik sincerely hoped
that the silver would not be sourced by Roisin's menfolk.
Roisin found Ciara in
the kitchen again, not breadmaking this time, but learning from Gertrude how to
prepare the stew for the natmal, grinning in delight each time she said the
correct Norse word for an ingredient. She called to her friend, and both women
looked up from their chopping. Ciara dropped her cutting knife and ran to her
friend.
'Have I heard
correctly?' Ciara giggled as Roisin blushed. Her language skills were
developing much faster than Roisin's and she had a fairly good understanding of
the conversations between Marthe and Kristr the night before.
'Aye, 'tis true. I
suppose I am a woman now.'
'We are both women.' Ciara
smiled shyly at Roisin. After hearing of Marthe's antics, she had taken it upon
herself to throw caution to the wind and herself at Erik the previous eve. And,
because their news had not yet reached Marthe's ears, her and Erik’s bed play
was not the talk of the steading. Ciara hugged in a long embrace, lost in their
thoughts of her previous life.
'What of Brian and your
agreement?' Ciara sighed. It was never her agreement, or Brian's for that
matter. It was an arrangement made when they were children. 'I do not know. But
I love Brian like a brother. I hope he will understand. He has the right to
meet a woman who will love him as a husband.'
Their chattering was
interrupted by a soft coughing from Gertrude. She stroked each girl's cheek,
murmuring softly in her own language. Roisin turned to Ciara, and whispered
'What does she say?'
Ciara looked up at
Gertrude, her eyes shining with joy. 'Dottir. She calls us Daughter.'
Gertrude's other
daughter ran into the kitchen, wide-eyed and breathless, almost tripping over
her skirts in her excitement. 'There's a ship coming through the fjord, it has
been sighted by Knottr and Erik, but the sail does not bear Norse colours!'
Roisin did not know
whether her heart leapt or her stomach sank. What of her and Kristr?
Thanks go to: E. Paterson for the Viking painting
Bio
Maria MacAuley is from Derry, Ireland and has a degree in Celtic Languages. She is married to the love of her life, and they live in relative peace with two cats.
She has a secret wish that her husband will investigate his Nordic family tree further and whisk her off on a longboat to Hammerfest to view the Northern Lights.
If Maria were to choose her favourite tense, it should be the subjunctive, and is always keen to discuss same over a pint of Guinness.
She has a secret wish that her husband will investigate his Nordic family tree further and whisk her off on a longboat to Hammerfest to view the Northern Lights.
If Maria were to choose her favourite tense, it should be the subjunctive, and is always keen to discuss same over a pint of Guinness.
email: banbha@hotmail.com
~*"No portion of this story may be copied or shared without the direct permission of the author."*~
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