Chapter Five
“He would have paid more. The silks were worth double what you asked for them.” Kristin Lofnsdottir could not keep the exasperation from her tone. Was her husband intent upon ruining them all? She hurried beside Baldvin Ryggiason, her spouse of just over two years, as they made their way through the muddy streets and alleys of Ravnsklif. It had been raining and the ground underfoot was treacherous. Kristin did her best to pick her way with caution, dodging the attentions of a stray goat and taking care not to set her best pair of sandals in a pile of manure.
Her husband’s response to her rebuke was predictably unhelpful. “Be silent, wife. I only agreed to have you accompany me today because I was sick of your incessant whining. I do not require your commentary on all that I do, even less your approval.”
“I merely wish to look out for your interests. Our interests,” she countered. “My father traded with Thurlow often enough, I know the man and his antics. He will avoid paying a fair price if he can.” And the other merchant had succeeded in doing just that, thanks to her husband’s unfailing arrogance.
Baldvin gave a disparaging snort. “Perhaps you can do all of us a favour and busy yourself with matters which are your concern. Not least of which, I would have expected another rowdy son to be squalling in my longhouse by now. We’ve been wed long enough.”
Chance would be a fine thing. Kristin would not find it necessary to remove her second glove in order to count the number of times Baldvin had presented himself in their shared sleeping quarters since their wedding, though she was not really complaining. His fumbling attentions, rare though they were, did not fill her with pleasure and the joys of pregnancy were not an experience she particularly aspired to explore.
“I am sure the gods will bless us. Eventually,” she murmured.
Kristin did not quite catch her husband’s grudging reply as the sound of his voice was drowned by another. A tall man, a jarl by the look of his fine garb, had taken up his stance on top of an upturned barrel and addressed the passing townsfolk.
“Twenty silver pennies for the safe return of this thrall. The man is a Celt, twin brother to my companion here, and identical to him. I shall pay for information as to his whereabouts, better still the man himself. He must be unharmed…”
Baldvin paused to listen. Kristin too. “Who is that?” she whispered to her husband.
“Mathios of Agnartved. I knew his sire, a good and brave warrior. The lad must have taken leave of his senses. Twenty silver pennies for a thrall? He could buy ten of them for that.”
Kristin had been thinking something similar, though the jarl speaking to the assembled throng did not seem in the least deranged. It was the man who stood impassively at his side who caught her attention, however.
She gasped, her hand clutching at her throat.
Him! But… how?
She would have recognised the Celt anywhere, though his appearance today was far removed from the bedraggled, beaten thrall she first encountered on the harbour at Holvik. Now, he was decently clad in a fine leather tunic and a warm cloak. His boots were of stout hide and fashioned to hug his feet and keep out the cold and the wet. His hair was worn loose and reached his collar, and was of a rich, dark brown flecked with paler shades. But it was his eyes she recalled most vividly. Those dark, assessing orbs that scanned the assembled crowd as though the people of Ravnsklif bored and exasperated him, as though he had far better things to be doing than standing here beside Mathios of Agnartved, seeking information about a missing thrall.
Mathios seemed to be saying that the man they sought was the identical twin brother of this Celt.
Sweet Freya, could there be two of them?
When last she saw him, the Celt was a slave and about to be flogged. Kristin’s stomach churned at the recollection. She thought she might be sick.
“What ails you, wife?” Baldvin was impatient, his usual lack of sympathy no surprise to her.
“Nothing.” Kristin swallowed hard, fought to regain some semblance of control. “Perhaps something I ate…”
“Aye, well, perhaps you can manage not to disgrace me. We shall go pay our respects and invite Mathios to join me in a mug of ale. I did much business with his sire and I see no reason not to continue the association.”
“Of course, yes, but if you would excuse me I believe I should… I should…” Kristin was at a loss. She could not simply walk up to the pair as though nothing had ever passed between her and the Celt. She owed him her life but had left him to be flogged for his trouble. He must loathe her.
“By Odin’s balls, you are white as snow. If you are about to make a mess you had better go home.” Baldvin was already striding away from her, waving his arm to attract the attention of the chieftain who addressed the townspeople. “Hey there, Mathios of Agnartved. I remember you…”
Left alone in the street, Kristin turned and started to make her way home. She was almost there when it occurred to her that her husband might well invite Mathios to accompany him back to their longhouse to share his hospitality. She halted. She did not want to risk running into the Celt again at close quarters, though she had no real notion as to why that might be. What could he do to her?
Nothing. Everything. He confused her, scared her, caused her stomach to twist and clench in a manner she found both disconcerting and quite embarrassing. It had taken days for the peculiar sensations to subside after their previous encounter, a circumstance she attributed to the stress of her brush with death.
He must be angry with her, she had no doubt of it, and he had a right to be. Kristin feared the Celt’s anger, at the same time as she bitterly regretted the part she played in what had happened to him. It had not been intended; if she could have saved him, she would have.
Should have—somehow.
Changing direction, she picked up her skirts and hurried along the narrow street in the direction of her husband’s warehouse. There was a new consignment of copper to be checked. She could while away the afternoon there doing something useful, until her husband’s attempts to woo Mathios of Agnartved into some business venture or other were concluded.
Kristin always found the warehouse a soothing place. She spent much of her time here, checking the goods, arranging for one cargo or another to be conveyed to the harbour, supervising the unloading of a delivery of wool, or spices, or wine. She could find plenty to occupy her, and her agitation began to subside as she settled into her familiar routine.
“So, a thief, as well as a liar.”
Kristin whirled at the harsh voice behind her. The pot of ginger she had been holding crashed to the floor, smashing into pieces at her feet. The outline of a man filled the narrow doorway.
A large man, with a stern, uncompromising glare and a score to settle with her.
The Celt stepped forward. His eyes were a deep brown, his shoulder-length hair was worn loose and only a shade lighter than his eyes. His jaw was strong, angular, and clean-shaven. Kristin appraised broad shoulders and muscled forearms and was surprised when her stomach clenched in helpless response.
No, not her stomach. Something deeper, lower… Dear sweet Odin, what was happening to her?
She gave herself a mental shake, sought to make sense of his presence here, in Baldvin’s warehouse. He must have seen her in the town square, followed her. Kristin found her voice.
“Who are you? What are you doing in here? I shall summon my husband’s guards and they will—”
A mirthless laugh was his response. “You know who I am. You remember me as fondly, no doubt, as I remember you. And you will summon no one, unless you wish to be discovered in your thievery. Perhaps I should save you the bother and call the guards myself.”
“What are you talking about. I am no thief.”
“You creep about like one. And we both know you to be a liar.”
“I… I did not lie. They would not listen to me, I tried to tell them…” She did not attempt to dissemble, to pretend she mistook his meaning.
“You went off about your business and left me to be flogged.”
“I did not. It was not like that…”
He had advanced further and now stood before her. The Celt smelled of leather, and of the forest, a spicy aroma, not unattractive. He cupped her chin in his palm and tipped her face up so a shaft of light from a crack in the roof fell across her features.
“You were beautiful. You still are, but you are also cold and heartless. I suppose I knew that, but still… Now, I know you to be dishonest, deceitful.”
“I… I am none of those things,” she protested. “This is my husband’s warehouse, his goods. I often come here, I help him…”
“Save it. I am not interested in whatever it is that you are about. That is someone else’s problem, someone else’s concern. What interests me is the unfinished business between you and me.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean, you owe me.”
“Take anything you want.” She gestured to the stacks of traded goods. “We have furs, silks, spices…”
His eyes narrowed. “You would make a thief of me too? I think not.”
“Then… what?”
“You did wrong. You deserve to be punished. Do you not agree?”
“I… I…” Kristin wanted to deny his charge, plead her case, but she could not. It was true, she had wronged him, and he had every right to seek justice. Not a day had passed since that fateful afternoon that she had not been racked with guilt over her part in what happened to the man whose only crime was helping her, saving her life. She swallowed hard. “I know that, but—”
“I took three strokes of the lash for you. I still bear the scars.”
Did he mean to whip her? Kristin let out a small cry. Her knees threatened to give way.
“Be calm. I will leave no lasting marks upon your body, though by the time I am done with you I doubt you will want to sit for a few days at least.”
“I do not understand. What…?”
“A spanking. A hard spanking, on your bare bottom. Here, now. I think ten slaps for every stroke of the lash seems about right. Do you not agree?”
“A spanking? You mean to spank me?” Horror at his declared intent and relief that it was not worse surged through her. Kristin could not determine which was the more powerful. Shocked to her core, she could only gape at him.
“I do mean that, and I do not have all day to spend over it. Would you prefer me to bar the door to ensure we are not disturbed?”
“You cannot,” she breathed.
“Cannot what? Spank you or bar the door? I assure you, I can do both.”
“I have not… I mean, no one has ever…”
He grinned, but the expression did not reach his eyes. “No? Well, that ends. Today.”
He released her chin and turned on his heel. For one glorious moment Kristin thought he was actually leaving, but no. He closed the door, then lowered the bar to keep it shut. When he turned to face her again, his expression was deadly serious.
“You may lean on those bales over there.” He gestured to a shipment of fabric awaiting transport to Ireland. “You may keep your clothing on, but you will raise your skirt and bare your bottom for me.”
Had the man taken leave of his senses? Kristin could but stare at him.
“I do not wish to hurt you more than is strictly necessary. It would be best that you obey. Now.”
“I will not! You have no right—”
He moved fast, much quicker than she would have expected for a man of his size. One moment she was standing before him, her chin tilted in defiant outrage, the next she was upended over the bale he had picked out, her hands secured behind her back.
“Let me go,” Kristin screeched, kicking wildly. “My husband will have you flogged for this. I will—”
“Be quiet, or I shall gag you.”
“How dare you? I am—” Her words were effectively stopped when the Celt inserted a balled-up piece of fabric between her teeth, then secured it in place with another strip of linen. Still, she struggled and writhed on the bale, though her efforts were no match for his effortless strength. One hand planted in the middle of her back kept her in place while the other grasped the hem of her skirt and scooped the whole lot up behind her. Cool air wafted across her exposed bottom and Kristin stilled, momentarily stunned at what was happening to her.
The Celt tucked the fabric about her waist, then paused as though to admire the view now presented.
“Such a perfect backside, lady. Ripe for a spanking so richly deserved. So, thirty slaps, are we agreed?” He laid his free hand upon her bare buttock and started to stroke large, sensuous circles.
Kristin’s response was muffled, but could hardly have been mistaken for agreement
The Celt laughed, the sound oddly rich. “If you keep still and accept your spanking I shall settle for just twenty slaps.”
Kristin managed more furious wriggling and indistinct cursing.
“Thirty it is, then.” The Celt raised his hand from her bottom, shifted his stance a little, and dropped the first slap on her unprotected rear end.
Kristin was shocked. It was actually happening!
Fear gave way to outrage as the spanks continued to rain down upon her vulnerable backside. The Celt had a heavy hand and seemed intent upon leaving not one inch of her tender skin unscathed. Heat built, and each new slap felt like fire snaking across her buttocks, first the left, then the right, then he shifted his attentions to the backs of her thighs.
Kristin made no attempt to count. It was all she could do to endure as her bottom felt to be about to burst into flames. At some stage, she could not quite gauge when, she ceased her useless struggles, her thwarted attempts to raise the very rafters with her screams. She lay still, absorbing the punishing blows, and finally accepting that what she could not change she must withstand.
And perhaps, just maybe, he had a right to be angry, to demand retribution.
She had abandoned her efforts to prevent him from being flogged far too soon. She could have made herself heard. Kristin was no shrinking little flower unused to speaking up for herself and her father was no tyrant. He made a mistake that day, misjudged the situation, but she could have corrected it had she but made more effort. Lofn would have listened, eventually.
This truth had gnawed at her conscience for over two years. She was ready to have her wrongdoing expunged, her guilt erased, and the Celt was doing a fine job of accomplishing that. So, Kristin stopped her struggles. She did not kick out, nor did she screech her protests though she could not prevent the small mewling sounds that each spank forced from her throat.
It hurt. It was meant to. But she lay still, acquiescent, submitted to the Celt’s just discipline and hoped he would consider the matter settled after the thirty strokes he promised.
At last the spanking ceased. The Celt removed his hand from the small of her back, then he freed her hands. The gag was tugged gently from her mouth and Kristin dragged in huge lungfuls of air before dropping to her knees beside the bale. She covered her face in her hands and sobbed.
She sobbed for her poor, smarting bottom and wondered if the sting would ever truly subside. She sobbed for her humiliation, the feeling of utter helplessness when he had grabbed her and set her upon the bale, tied her hands, and bared her buttocks. But most of all, she sobbed when forced to face the heavy burden of guilt that had plagued her, and the knowledge that she had done wrong.
She owed him her life. She had repaid the ultimate service with nothing less than careless contempt and she hated herself for it, though not as much as this Celt must hate her.
But he had extracted his punishment, so he would be satisfied, or she could hope so at least. He would leave, and she need never see him nor think of him again.
Except—he did not leave. The Celt crouched beside her and lifted her hair from across her face. His fingers were gentle, his touch soft. Despite the tumult of emotions coursing through her, Kristin leaned into his hand. She sought his caress, and with it the belief that he might, after all, forgive her.
“I am sorry,” she sniffled. “You are right, I should have… should have…”
What?
Something. Anything. She was uncertain, but on one point she was absolutely clear. She should not have left, should never had allowed her father to hurry her away and abandon the man who had saved her to his fate.
“Th-they hurt you, and it was my fault.”
“Aye, but it could have been worse.”
“They might have killed you…”
“Yes, but they didn’t. I was purchased by a man with less murderous tendencies who stopped the whipping.”
“I should have… should have…” she repeated, even now searching for the right words and finding none.
“Yes, you should. And it might have made a difference, but we will never know and now the matter is closed. You have been punished, it is done.”
“I am sorry.” It was little enough, but all she had.
“I know.” He moved again, and this time wrapped his arm about her shoulders. Without further thought, Kristin buried her face in his tunic and clung to him until her weeping at last subsided.
The Celt seemed to be in no particular hurry to leave, despite his words of earlier. Kristin was glad of it. His solid form offered solace, and as her senses began to settle again she was struck by the familiarity of the situation. Not for the first time, she found comfort and security in this man’s arms, and a peculiar sense of wellbeing.
Still, pleasant though it might be, she could not remain here, huddled on the floor of Baldvin’s warehouse, in the arms of a man whose name she did not even know. Kristin drew in a long, shuddering breath and tipped back her head to meet his eyes.
“I should go. My husband…”
“Ah, yes, the owner of all of this.” His sardonic grin suggested that still he did not believe for one moment that she was wed to the merchant whose warehouse they had used, that she had every right to be here.
“I am no thief,” she began again.
The Celt shrugged and got to his feet, lifting her with him. He held her elbows until satisfied that she was steady, then dipped his head in a bow.
“Your other failings are of no consequence to me, lady. Our business here is done, I think.”
Kristin nodded. “Yes. Thank you. I…”
“I have other business to attend to so must leave you.”
“I know. Your brother, the one who is lost…”
“You know of him?”
“No. I heard your companion’s words, that is all. I… I hope you are able to find him.”
“As do I, lady.” He dipped his head again then strode toward the door, which was still barred. He paused, his hands on the bar ready to lift it, appeared to be considering something. He turned his head in order to regard Kristin over his shoulder, then he returned to stand before her.
“When first I saw you, in the crowd at Holvik, I thought… wondered…”
“You stared at me.”
“I did. I daresay most men do.”
“I do not believe so.”
His lip quirked. “I disagree, but that is not what I wanted to discuss. That day, I wondered what it would be like to kiss you.”
She stiffened and despite her reddened eyes and continued sniffling adopted a haughty pose. “You are a thrall. A thrall may not lay his hands upon a Viking noblewoman, even less his lips.”
“I was a thrall, at least in the opinion of the savages who murdered my father and took me from my home. I did not agree then, and in any case, I am now a free man. And I have already laid my hands upon you.”
“You would not dare,” she whispered.
“Would I not?” came the response, an instant before he bent his head to brush his lips over hers.
The kiss was soft initially, questing, wondering. He cupped her face between his palms, deepened the contact, the tip of his tongue skimming the seam of her lips.
She should push him away. Her throbbing bottom should be testimony enough to the folly of yielding to this man, this Celt with the dark eyes and sardonic smile, but it seemed it was not. Worse, she throbbed elsewhere too, in places she considered most secret and private, places her husband barely showed interest in, yet this man set alight.
That place between her thighs dampened. Her inner channel clenched, she ached for something she could not name and barely dared acknowledge. But the next time his tongue sought entry, she parted her lips and sucked him inside.
His tongue tangled around hers, sliding, exploring, tasting. Kristin reached up on her toes, clasped her hands behind his neck and returned his kiss with a sensuality she had not even dreamed she possessed. The Celt tilted his head to deepen their connection, his hand now settled upon her still-tender bottom, but the discomfort served only to heighten her desire. She wanted—
As quickly as he had initiated the kiss, the Celt broke it. He breathed heavily, his face buried in the space between her neck and her shoulder.
“You are lovely,” he breathed. “It would be so easy to—”
The sharp crack as her palm connected with his cheek startled Kristin. She had not meant to hit him quite so hard, but it was done now. She glared at him, even as she fully expected to be turned over the bale again and soundly punished.
The Celt half-smiled. He stepped back, his hands upraised.
“I will allow you that, lady. And now, I shall leave you to your thieving.”
He had reached the door before she found her voice again. “Wait. I…”
He paused, though he did not turn. The door closed softly behind him, and the Celt was gone.
* * *
“Where do you go, husband?”
Several days had passed since the shattering encounter in the warehouse and Kristin had made valiant efforts to dismiss the mysterious Celt from her thoughts. Despite her final words to him, she was determined to convince herself that he was not, after all, especially memorable. No thrall was, or so she told herself several times each day. On every occasion, in fact, that the man’s image slid back into her mind’s eye.
Now, Kristin rose from the table in the centre of their longhouse. She positioned herself between her husband and the outer door. “Steinn Hakanson is expected to arrive at any time and he will wish to be paid. We owe him for three bales of fine wool and—”
“Hakanson will wait. I have business to attend to.”
“What business?” Despite being a woman, Kristin had been possessed of a keen grasp of commerce since she used to dog her father’s every footstep when she was a small girl. In particular, she well understood the intricacies of her husband’s affairs and was not aware of any trade to be transacted today, apart from the settlement of their debt to Hakanson.
“Nothing to concern you, woman. When will you learn to keep your meddling head out of the affairs of men? I am your husband, I will not be questioned like a naughty child.”
“I meant no disrespect, husband, I merely—”
“Silence. I am going out and you need not concern yourself as to my whereabouts.”
“If you were thinking of seeing Hrolf Ingerson today I would caution against it. I have heard that his cargo of wine is rancid and he has already attempted to offload it onto your son. I tasted it and advised Leidolf not to touch so much as one barrel of it. He was most belligerent, but I expect you to—”
“Are you deaf, woman?” roared Baldvin. “I told you to shut your meddling mouth. These are no affairs of yours. My son is older than you and he knows his trade. He is quite correct not to be swayed from a decent bargain by an interfering female.”
“Decent bargain?” Kristin sighed, fought to restrain her mounting temper. Why had her father, usually such an astute individual, seen fit to saddle her with a vain, brainless dolt for a husband? Sadly, Lofn Stianson had passed from this life almost six months previously so she could not ask him. She held her tongue as her husband stormed out, the door swinging closed behind him with an almighty crash.
Not for the first time she wondered why she bothered. Her husband and his sons were seemingly set upon ruining themselves and nothing she might say or do would sway them. It was a pity that her own fortunes were inextricably bound up with theirs and rested in such incompetent hands. Barely a day passed when she did not find herself intervening to amend a price here, a deal there. She could sniff out a decent bargain at a hundred paces, or a bad one for that matter. It seemed she was to be beggared anyway by the stupidity of her menfolk, but meanwhile there were bolts of fine silks waiting in their warehouse to be counted, valued, and conveyed to the marketplace.
It was as she assessed the quality of the Byzantine fabrics that the shouting started. She was alarmed by the sound of feet pounding the hard earth outside the crude structure that housed Baldvin Ryggiason’s goods and rushed to the door to see what might be amiss. Her stepson, Leidolf, thundered past, his expression one of murderous outrage. He was followed by his younger half-brothers, Dreng and Jorund. All three charged full pelt in the direction of their longhouse as though pursued by Odin himself.
“What is it? What has happened?” Kristin’s words were lost as her stepsons pounded past and she remained unnoticed in the doorway. Quickly, she secured the door to the warehouse and hurried after them.
Kristin arrived at her home to find the entire place in uproar. Leidolf, who might be her stepson but was her senior in age by just three years, roared orders at the top of his lungs, demanding that their family be avenged. In his rage he seized a jug of fine fish oil and flung it across the room. The vessel smashed on the floor, spattering the pungent liquid in every direction.
Leidolf continued to yell at the top of his voice, though much of what he bellowed was incomprehensible to Kristin. The best she could make out was that her stepson demanded that some individual he described as ‘murdering scum’ be dragged before him and he would mete out the necessary punishment. His younger brothers seemed to be in accord, their own shouts of vengeance barely any less strident. Kristin slipped into the main hall and would have asked one of the servants what had caused the fuss had the reason not suddenly become plain.
The lifeless body of her husband was laid out upon their solid oak table, his arm dangling over the side. Baldvin’s face was contorted in a grimace of pain. She could only surmise his end had not been an easy one.
Kristin stepped forward unnoticed in the general chaos. She stood beside the table, gazing in perplexed bewilderment at the man she had married little more than two years before. She had seen him, spoken with him, not an hour ago. How could he be dead? There had been little love lost between them, but she had never wished Baldvin gone. She reached for him, stroked his cold cheek.
“I do not understand. How…? I mean, where…?”
“What are you doing? Take your filthy whore’s hands off him.” Her arm was roughly seized. She swung around to face Leidolf.
“I do not understand,” she repeated. “What has happened?”
Her stepson’s lip curled back in an ugly snarl. “If you’d been a proper wife to him he would not have come to this. I always said you’d be the death of him. Now look…”
Kristin looked, and was baffled. They had quarrelled, yes, but she had done nothing to cause her husband harm.
“He should never have needed to go near one such as that. This is all your doing.” Leidolf lowered his face so it was but inches from hers, his wild, dirty blond locks loose about his angry countenance. His teeth were blackened and his breath foul. Baldvin’s hygiene had been little better, but he rarely placed himself in such close proximity to her so for the most part Kristin had been able to ignore her husband’s poor personal grooming.
She took a step back. “How did he die? Was he taken ill?” Apart from Baldvin’s pained expression there was no sign of obvious injury, no blood.
Jorund supplied the answer to her question. “Aye, he was taken ill. He died of a seizure, that’s what.”
“Oh.” This was not such a rare occurrence, and Baldvin had, after all, been almost sixty-three years old. He was hardly in the first flush of youth and at least his death would have been relatively swift. Kristin opened her mouth intending to offer some of this by way of comfort to the bereaved sons when the door burst open again and several of her late husband’s karls poured into the hall, dragging a dazed-looking young man between them. They flung him down on the earthen floor at Leidolf’s feet.
The young man, a thrall to judge by his tattered garments and perhaps of Frankish extraction, appeared to be crying. Certainly, he was pleading with Leidolf but his words made no sense to Kristin.
“I did nothing. He had only just arrived. We were—ooof!” The breath was forced from his lungs by the vicious application of Leidolf’s boot.
“Shut your foul mouth. No one wants to hear from your sort.”
The thrall took to whimpering but otherwise remained silent. This seemed a wise course to Kristen but still she struggled to comprehend what was unfolding. How was this unfortunate young man connected to her husband’s not especially untimely demise?
“How long has this piece of scum been fucking my father?” demanded Dreng. “And what did Baldvin Ryggiason ever see in such a scrawny piece of meat?”
Ah. Light dawned and Kristin peered in curiosity at the young man sprawled on the floor. She felt strangely unmoved by the revelation of Baldvin’s infidelity and the precise nature of it. She was, if anything, more concerned at the likely fate of her husband’s young lover. If left to the mercies of Leidolf and his brothers she did not give much for his chances. Sure enough, Dreng took the opportunity to direct a kick to the thrall’s stomach. The man doubled in pain.
“Take him to the keeping pit and fasten him in there. We will deal with him later. First, we must pay our proper respects to our father.” Leidolf released his grip on Kristin’s arm and turned his attention to the corpse on the table. “We must select a ship, build the pyre. Get to it,” he barked. “Now!”
The assembled servants and karls rushed to do Leidolf’s bidding. It seemed to Kristin that despite his apparent vengeful grief at the loss of his father, her stepson could not be rid of the remains fast enough.
* * *
Two days later she stood beside Leidolf on the harbour as the smallest of the knarrs in Baldvin’s fleet was pushed from the jetty. The craft had been loaded with bales of hay soaked in oil, and on the top of all of this the corpse of her late husband, garbed in his finest clothes, had been laid out. His personal possessions had been arranged about his body and rites for the dead chanted over him continuously by the skald. A goat had been sacrificed as a gift to the gods in the hope of facilitating a swift passage to the afterlife, and the beast’s blood sprinkled over the dead merchant’s attire. Once the knarr had drifted a safe distance from the other boats moored in the harbour, Leidolf gave the order to set fire to it. A volley of burning torches was launched from catapults and slingshots to rain down upon the funeral craft. The bales soon caught light and within seconds the entire boat was engulfed in flames. The skald continued to chant incantations beseeching the gods to take pity upon the dead merchant and convey him swiftly to Valhalla, though none of those assembled particularly expected this happy outcome since the deceased had most certainly not lost his life in battle. The delights of Valhalla were reserved for those who met their end in glory. Baldvin had died in bed, with his dick in the mouth of a male thrall. It hardly compared, and the ignominy of his father’s demise drove Leidolf into a frenzy from which he had barely calmed these last two days.
The unfortunate thrall concerned still languished in the keeping pit, his fate a foregone conclusion.
The mourners remained where they were until the final, dying embers of the funeral ship sank beneath the waves. Then, with not a word to his father’s young widow, Leidolf turned on his heel and marched away.
Kristin was in no particular hurry and chose to remain where she was for a while to offer her own, silent tribute to her husband. He had been brusque for the most part, and lacked anything by way of finer feeling, but he had been her husband and she could do no other than grieve his passing. She owed him that, at least.
When she returned to the longhouse she had shared with Baldvin, it was to find Leidolf seated in her husband’s ornately carved chair, his booted feet on the table and a mug of foaming ale in his grasp. His grief was much less evident now. Jorund and Dreng occupied seats at the table too, and all were making free with Baldvin’s fine beer.
Kristin bristled. How dare they treat Baldvin’s property with such contempt? They would never have dared to behave so had their father been alive. Baldvin was barely cold, and now look!
Leidolf eyed her with cold contempt as Kristin crossed the hall to help herself to a cup of mead.
“Aye, make yourself at home while you still may. You need not expect to continue to bleed this house dry like the leech that you are.”
Kristin turned to face him, one eyebrow arched. “I beg your pardon. And who gave you permission to sit in my husband’s chair, your boots on his table. Have you no respect?”
“My boots. My chair. My fucking table.” Leidolf banged his mug down with a crash. Kristin wondered the pot did not shatter. “I am his heir. It is all mine now.”
“Not quite all. My bride-price…” began Kristin. It was the Viking custom to ensure the welfare of a woman given in marriage by settling a sum of money upon her, to be her property whatever the outcome of the match. Lofn Knutson had not been derelict in his duty and had negotiated an appropriate settlement. Baldvin had agreed to a bride-price of ten palms of silver, not a fortune but sufficient to see her secure for a while.
Leidolf merely sneered. “What bride-price? Any money you might have laid claim to was squandered by your endless meddling in matters of trade you did not comprehend. You made poor bargains, one after another and there is nothing left of your funds.”
“But, that is impossible.” Kristin knew that every deal she made on her own behalf had shown a profit. She was modestly wealthy in her own right, let alone any inheritance she might expect from Baldvin himself. “I demand that you return my money to me.”
“You demand? Try begging, whore, and I might listen.” Leidolf leaned back in the chair and leered at her, then took another slurp from his mug. He slammed the cup down again and swung his feet to the floor before standing, a little unsteadily if Kristin was any judge. He addressed the room at large. “What do you say, brothers? Would we like to hear the bitch beg?”
“Aye,” the younger men agreed. “She can beg for her nattmal, or pay for it in kind.”
“What are you babbling about?” Kristin had no patience with the inebriated ramblings of her stepsons. They were never the brightest lamps in the house and the ale they had imbibed this day appeared to have utterly addled what meagre brains they possessed. They might be grieving, but did they really have to be such lackwits about it?
“Mind your mouth, whore. We know the dance you led our father, forcing him to resort to finding his pleasure in the arsehole of a filthy slave. He died without honour, because of you.”
How much more ridiculous could Leidolf become? Did he actually remain awake at night considering ways in which he might make himself more inane, more stupid? His brothers were no better. May the gods preserve their family with these three now at the helm of their father’s trading legacy.
Kristin set her cup down, refusing to waste any more of her time on these idiots. She had work to do, securing what was hers before Leidolf could empty their coffers entirely. “I am tired. I shall go to my sleeping quarters…”
“My sleeping quarters,” snarled Leidolf. “This is my longhouse now and everything in it belongs to me. Including you. If you insist upon remaining here you do so on my terms. I’ll not object to sharing my pallet with you, but you’ll earn the privilege.” He adjusted his clothing and made an obvious show of stroking his cock as he ran his lecherous gaze over her body.
Kristin shuddered, and revulsion brought bile to her throat. “You are disgusting. Baldvin is hardly gone and you… you would suggest such a thing to me!”
“I’m not suggesting. I’m telling you, whore, you will earn your keep in this longhouse. My father might have been soft and not seen through your grasping ways. He was a doting old fool, but not me. Things will be different, starting now. Get yourself off to bed since you seem so keen, but don’t expect to enjoy the comfort of my pallet alone.”
“If you come near me, I shall kill you.” Kristin’s fingers rested on the dagger at her waist. A tool rather than a weapon, nevertheless, she would use it as she must.
Leidolf simply laughed out loud, his brothers joining in the merriment. More ale flowed and Leidolf sank into Baldvin’s chair again to regard Kristin with a calculating gleam. “Ah, yes, little stepmother, you will soon learn your place here. Things will be different, you can be sure of that.”
There was no point in debating the matter further. Kristin gathered her cloak about her and marched for the door. She had business to attend to.
* * *
Kristin’s first stop was at the keeping pit. Situated about a hundred paces behind the longhouse, she was surprised, and relieved, to find it unguarded. The trapdoor set into the ground was weighted down with three large rocks, and a rope ladder lay coiled on the ground beside them.
It took several minutes of strenuous effort, but she managed to roll the rocks off the trapdoor and grasped the loop of rope that served as a handle. Kristin hauled the stout door up a couple of feet, then she crouched and wriggled her shoulder beneath it to shove it all the way until it flopped down and away from her. The keeping pit gaped open and she peered inside.
The unfortunate thrall huddled perhaps ten feet below her, shielding his eyes from the sudden assault of light. Kristin wasted no time. She secured the rope ladder to the hook embedded into the ground for just that purpose and threw it down to him.
“Hurry. You do not have much time.”
He remained where he was, as though he did not comprehend the meaning of her words. He knew the Norse tongue, she had heard him speak it in the hall, immediately after Baldvin’s death when he had been dragged inside.
“Your choice. You can stay there and take your chance with my stepson, or you can come out now and make a run for it.” His chances as a runaway were not good. There was little more she could do for the young man apart from set him free, but he faced certain death if he remained where he was. Despite the circumstances, Kristin bore this slave no ill will. She did not believe for a moment that he had had any choice in the matter and Baldvin’s death might have happened with or without his involvement. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, no more than that, and he did not deserve the fate that awaited him.
Kristin grabbed the top of the ladder and shook it. The rope danced crazily, and at last the thrall seemed to grasp what was required of him. He clutched at it and started to climb.
Kristin waited until he reached the top then helped to haul him fully out. As he lay panting on the ground she dragged the ladder back up and coiled it neatly again, then she lifted the trapdoor and slammed it shut. By now the young man had recovered his wits sufficiently to aid her in replacing the rocks in order that, to outward appearances at least, it would appear nothing was amiss. Their efforts would buy him a bit more time, probably, before Leidolf realised his victim was gone and mounted a search.
Their labours concluded, the slave offered her a brief nod and sprinted off in the direction of the closest trees. Kristin silently wished him luck. He would need it.
Next, she hurried to Baldvin’s stables where he kept his cart and several horses. She selected a docile animal she knew was accustomed to being hitched to the wagon and secured him between the shafts. If Leidolf would not release what was rightfully hers, she would take it. A couple of dozen bolts of fine silk from the warehouse would go some way toward covering the sum owed to her. All she needed to do now was load the fabrics and get them away from here. She would find some place to secrete them, and herself, until such time as she could get her goods to a marketplace.
By Odin’s bones. Kristin halted when she rounded the corner and came within sight of the warehouse. Leidolf had discovered his wits at last and posted a guard.
Kristin peered around the edge of the building, her frustration near enough choking her as the man lounged against the door post, barring her way. Should she attempt to brazen her way past him? After all, she was regularly seen here checking the stocks, overseeing deliveries. Would she be questioned?
Yes, she concluded. There had never been a guard set before. It could not be a coincidence. Not to worry, there was always another way. What about the cargo of spices that arrived yesterday, the day after Baldvin met his end? There had been so much happening, what with the funeral and preparing Baldvin’s body for cremation, that she had not ordered it to be unloaded from the knarr that had brought it here. She was ready to wager Leidolf would not have either. He probably did not even know of its existence. Her mind made up, Kristin crept back to where she had left the horse and cart. She turned the conveyance around and headed down to the edge of the harbour where Baldvin’s boathouse was situated.
The harbour was deserted, though the air was still pungent with the lingering scent of burning. Kristin spared a passing thought for Baldvin’s immortal soul as she tied the horse to the door post. Surely, her late husband would not begrudge her her bride-price back. She lifted the bar on the door and slipped inside.
Three knarrs bobbed at anchor, enclosed within the sturdy timber structure. Two more were out in the harbour, and the burned-out remains of the sixth now lay on the seabed. Kristin inhaled deeply, loving the unique aroma of the sea, the ships. They were her private joy, though neither her father nor Baldvin had ever permitted her to join them on a journey across the waves. Kristin longed to sail, to explore, to travel to the far-off trading ports she had heard tales of since she was a child. Such wondrous tales, too. Such beguiling places. The world was full of enticing locations, all waiting for her if she had but the means to get there, to explore for herself. If she knew how to sail one she might have liberated a knarr in lieu of her bride-price but that would be foolhardy. She doubted she would even get out of the harbour before Leidolf recaptured her and the consequences of that were not to be borne.
It was a pity, but not to be. At least, not today. Someday, though, she was determined to purchase her own sailing vessel. She would be a wealthy woman and no man would ever steal from her again.
Kristin set her musings aside. There was work to be done. The knarr in the centre of the three sat slightly lower in the water than the other two. That was the one still laden with cargo. She made her way toward it.
A scuffling sound to her right caused her to spin around. There was nothing to see. Her imagination? Surely it must be. She was unusually jumpy today but who could blame her? She drew in a deep breath and returned to her mission.
It appeared she was not entirely correct in her assumption that Leidolf would not have started to unload the cargo, or perhaps it had been the crew who had stacked several pots of spices on the dock, clearly intending to return for them later. Idiots. Anyone might happen by and help themselves, if the rats did not beat all of them to it. Kristin picked up the one on the top of the stack and eased the lid open. The pungent aroma of cinnamon filled her nostrils. She was not fond of the spice herself but knew it would bring a decent price. She set the pot down on the ground and reached for the next one.
This time the rustle was unmistakable. Rats, probably. Kristin hated the creatures, but they were ever present, and she was not to be deterred from her task by a few rodents. She could examine the goods already unloaded later. For now, she needed to check what remained on the boat. She eyed the knarr and pondered for a few moments how she might get aboard. The men who sailed for her husband would simply leap from the harbour wall and clamber over the side, but this was not a manoeuvre she had ever practised. She should have thought of this problem, but she had not and it was not to be helped now. Surely it could not be that difficult to board a sailing vessel, even in heavy skirts. What was the worst that could happen? A wetting? Resolved, she removed her cloak and readied herself to make the leap.
“I would not recommend it.”
Kristin stifled a scream and spun around again at the low, mocking tone behind her. At first, she saw nothing, then a figure emerged from the shadows. She peered into the gloom, wondered if the outline of a man she now saw was vaguely familiar.
“Who… who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”
“The same as you, I daresay.” The voice was soft, the words spoken in the Nordic tongue, but accented as though this was not his native language. “I thought to avail myself of one of these fine craft.”
“You were intending to steal one of my husband’s boats? How dare you?” As he emerged further into the dim light Kristin could see that the man was unkempt, his clothing dirty and tattered, his features obscured by a thick beard. A thrall, obviously, and no doubt escaped and on the run. She lowered her hand to the dagger at her waist. Such individuals were known to be desperate and dangerous.
“I do what I must, lady.”
“Get out of here. Now. I shall summon my husband’s guards, you will—”
“Your husband is dead. I am sorry for your loss, naturally, but I believe we will find his guards are, in the main, lying in drunken stupors having raised a mug or two to their lord’s fortunes in the afterlife.”
Panic bubbled but Kristin was not backing down. She had faced down worse rogues than this one. “You are wrong. I shall have you flogged for this.”
“I am not wrong, lady. It seems it is just me and you. I have no dispute with you, though, so if you would step aside I shall be about my business here.”
He moved closer. A shaft of light from a gap in the roof fell across his features and briefly illuminated his face.
“Do I know you?” He looked familiar. Kristin had seen this man before somewhere.
“I do not believe so, lady.” He made to pass her, but not before he met her gaze. Dark brown eyes locked with blue, and Kristin remembered.
The Celt.
He and Mathios were in Ravnsklif in search of the Celt’s identical twin. A reward had been placed.
“You are the escaped thrall,” she gasped.
He halted, cast a narrow-eyed look her way. “And?”
“There is a reward for your capture,” she babbled on. “Twenty silver pennies.”
“I am impressed. I had not considered my worth to be so generous.”
A sudden notion occurred to Kristin. “We could share it. The reward. I could take you back, and—”
The man laughed, a soft, and rich sound so hauntingly similar to that of his brother. It was not unpleasant exactly but neither did it give her cause to imagine he might be considering her proposal. “I think not. Were I minded to return to servitude I could find my own way well enough. Now, if you will excuse me…”
He crouched as though about to spring across the distance between the harbour wall and the knarr closest to them. He would get away, unless she stopped him. Kristin did not pause to think. She launched herself at him and shoved him off balance. The pair of them toppled to the hard-packed ground, Kristin landing on top of the man, her nose buried in his chest.
At once she realised her folly. He was twice her size and despite his unprepossessing appearance possessed a body as solid as granite. Within seconds he had rolled over and dragged her beneath him. She lay helpless, trapped under his weight, his leg wedged between her thighs. For one mind-numbing moment she believed she detected the swell of his erection against her hip.
Kristin lay still, rigid. Her hair half covered her face, but he smoothed it aside with fingers that were oddly gentle. The gesture was almost exactly the same as that employed by his brother after he spanked her. She blinked up at him, his ruggedly handsome features barely an inch from hers. Even with the beard, she would know that face anywhere.
“Well, now, lady. Had you mentioned that you fancied a tumble with me I might have been persuaded to delay my departure for a short while.”
Outrage, terror and confusion mingled, a heady concoction. “You are an animal,” she spat. “How dare you lay your hands on me. I am a woman of the jarl, a noblewoman, you will—”
“Let us not concern ourselves with such niceties just now.” The man had the audacity to grin at her. Despite the desperate situation in which she found herself, his expression still managed to ignite a spark of… what? Her stomach clenched. Her lower regions tightened, convulsed. He shifted his leg between hers and for one incredible moment she considered widening her thighs to permit his entry.
Dear Freya! What am I thinking?
Her dagger was wedged tight between their bodies, she had no chance of extracting it and using that to defend herself. Kristin reached out, scrabbling across the bare, cold earth for something, anything.
Her fingers encountered the pot of cinnamon she had examined earlier. She lifted it, tested the weight, then brought it down with as much force as she could muster.
He went limp and collapsed upon her, a dead weight pressing her into the earth.
Struggling to breathe, Kristin wriggled free and emerged from beneath the hulk of the man. He lay motionless, face-down upon the ground.
She had killed him. Kristin knew a moment of genuine remorse. She meant them no harm, but it seemed each time she encountered one of these Celts she did him injury. The other one had spanked her for earning him a whipping. How much worse would his wrath be when he learned she had killed his brother?
The businesswoman in her also rebelled at the squandering of valuable merchandise. Apart from anything else, the escaped thrall had been worth twenty silver pennies alive.
Her self-chastisement came to an abrupt end when the man emitted a low moan.
By all the gods, he lives still. Kristin crouched beside him to better check, and found that, though deeply unconscious, the man was breathing with ease. Blood oozed from the wound she had left on his temple when she struck him with the pot but apart from that he did not seem to be too badly injured.
She might yet lay claim to that reward. All she had to do was convey the slave to Agnartved, but from all that she had seen thus far she had no illusions that he might cooperate in her endeavours.
Kristin thought quickly. If she could just get him onto the cart, then she could tie her merchandise up and get started on the journey. Agnartved was not so far distant, a day at most…
Yes, she could do this.
A low handcart had been left on the jetty. Kristin wheeled it over to where the man lay and with much grunting and tugging she managed to drag most of his upper body onto it. Then, though it was awkward and she had to stop several times to drag his uncooperative form back onto the cart, she managed to convey the unconscious man from the boathouse to where her horse and cart awaited her outside. Getting the man onto the cart itself was more difficult. She had not a hope of lifting him unaided, but she was accustomed to watching heavy loads shifted from one location to another and knew the solution to this. Kristin contrived to rig up a pulley using ropes and one of the wheels from the handcart, then she tied more rope under the man’s arms and about his chest. She unfastened the horse from between the shafts and used the animal’s strength as well as her own to haul the dead weight of her captive up and onto the deck of the cart.
That was the hard work done. From there it was the work of just a few minutes to bind the man securely, and re-hitch the horse to the wagon. She considered gagging him too but was reluctant to interfere with his breathing in any way. This was a valuable cargo, after all and she was loath to risk further damage.
Kristin clambered up onto the wooden bench at the front, picked up the reins, and she was off.