Ragnar & the Slave Girls (Ragnar the Dane) (2 page)

“
Wife! Your bowl,” Bjarni snapped. “Not only do you neglect our house, you’re making it dirtier.”

She looked down to see her stew slipping to the ground. Annoyed, she stuffed the remains into her mouth, or at least as much as she could fit.

“
You’ve made a right mess,” he observed.

“
I’m tired of cleaning. I think we should get a slave. Then I can leave her to do the boring work.”

He frowned. “If you can’t manage to clean our house on your own, I’ll arrange it.”

“
The Jarl has plenty of slaves. He could spare one. You could ask him tomorrow.”

“
Very well.” Bjarni sighed. “I’m tired. Let’s go to bed.” She hadn’t even asked him about his day.

He was just falling asleep when she climbed in next to him, so he put his hand on her breast, wondering if she would be receptive tonight.

“
Get off!” she snapped, turning away. “I’m far too tired. And don’t force me either, or my father and brothers will kill you.”

He lifted his hand, unsurprised.

“
Maybe in the morning,” she said more gently. “If you’re lucky.”

“
By the way, the next feast is Sigrblot, the coming of summer,” he mumbled, settling down.

Saehild opened her eyes and smiled. “Something to look forward to in the dreariness of my life.”

He turned away, wanting the night to be over as quickly as possible.  He enjoyed daytimes at Huskarl duties and training; at least his comrades respected and liked him. A year of souring marriage was becoming more than he could stand.

*  *  *

In the absence of Jarl Thorvald, who was away reviewing his distant estates, Steinar, the Huskarl commander, took charge. He now wore a patch over his scarred eye, as he couldn’t see out of it.

Turning sideways to look out of his good eye, he brandished his spear at the company.

“
Men! There has been a murder on the outskirts of Byrnham. Last time we found one of our own, Kjartan, guilty which caused bad feeling between us and the English. So, we should keep out of their way for the time-being until they find the culprit.”

Leofrun, his pregnant wife, smiled as she watched him. She’d made his eye patch out of wolf’s fur as she thought it made him look even manlier. It tickled Steinar unbearably, but he’d never tell her.

The commander began a long series of instructions about the day’s duties and training.

Bjarni eyed Ljotr with distrust.  He was a Huskarl but there was something different about him. He wasn’t tall or well-muscled like the others, but slight, and for a Dane his hair was unusually dark, the colour of hazelnuts. No one ever said a bad word about him but he made Bjarni uneasy somehow. He didn’t speak much, and didn’t seem to have close friends and he always disappeared after his duties.

Sometime last year he’d wounded Bjarni on the left arm in a training fight, and the cut hadn’t healed properly. It had formed a scar but sometimes became livid again and ached every so often, affecting his temper. Why hadn’t he used his shield that day? He’d thought he wouldn’t need it, but Ljotr had been unexpectedly skilful despite his slender build. He’d come very close to Bjarni and muttered something as he wounded him, his dark grey eyes flecked with gold, rather like an animal’s, making the normally stoic Bjarni’s stomach feel like it was tying itself in a knot. The memory of it brought back embarrassment and humiliation, so Bjarni turned his attention to Steinar’s words.

He found himself thinking of Saehild, however.  Why had their attraction died so soon? Every day was now the same, wearing him down with its dullness.

“
So, off to your duties, men,” finished Steinar.

“
You alright, my friend?” asked Ragnar, clapping Bjarni on the back.

“
Same as ever.” He shrugged. “Saehild wants a slave, but the Jarl’s away. Who should I ask?”

“
Er - Steinar, I suppose. We could go to the hall later, if you like?”

“
Yes, we will. How are Alvi and Aelfwyn?”

Ragnar launched into a loving description of his wife and baby, omitting his worries about further pregnancies.

Bjarni listened as they set off to chop firewood, their first task of the day, wondering if Saehild would be happier if she’d had a baby as quickly as Aelfwyn. Many men joined the Huskarls expecting constant battles and glory, but a large part of the work consisted of maintenance, repairs and guarding; not the glamorous life Saehild desired.

*  *  *

Bjarni and Ragnar arrived at the hall in the early evening.

“
We can’t stay too long or Aelfwyn will be worried, especially after the murder.”  Ragnar pushed his hair back impatiently. His wavy auburn locks were hard to control at the best of times, never mind after a day’s work.

“
Yes?” Steinar said through a mouthful of chicken stew as he met them in the living area.

Bjarni explained the situation.

“
Ah, yes. The Jarl hasn’t many slaves at the moment, but I expect he’ll bring some back when he returns next week.”

“
I hope Saehild can wait that long,” Bjarni sighed. “The house is a mess. She can’t seem to manage even simple tasks.”

“
Well, if you come back next week, I’m sure you can buy one from the Jarl. Now off you go. I’m busy.” He shooed them out of the door.

“
I hope you’re not going to have sex with the slave,” said Ragnar as they walked away.

“
What’s wrong with that? Slaves are there to be used.”

“
What if you father her children? Have you forgotten how my real father treated me because my mother was just a slave?”

“
No, I -”

“
If the Jarl hadn’t adopted me, who knows where I’d be now? Just a bastard slave, living like -”

“
Alright, alright! I’ll acknowledge any children I have with anyone. Is that better?”

Ragnar nodded and slapped him on the back, making him laugh for the first time in a while.

“
You’re strange.” Bjarni pushed him.

“
Thanks.” He pushed him back.

“
Going to the Huskarls’ hall tonight?”

“
No, I’m going home. Why?”

“
I just want some ale and good company.”

“
Do you do that every night?”

“
More or less.”

Ragnar paused, stroking his beard, not wanting to pry into his friend’s marriage problems.

“
Well, don’t stay out too late. You look kind of -”

“
Kind of what?”

“
Er - pale. Ill.”

“
I’m fine!”

“
Have a good time, then. Greet the men for me, will you?”

Bjarni nodded and set off. Despite Ragnar’s warnings, he mulled over the thought of fucking the new slave, cheered by the idea. He imagined a curvaceous blonde, just what he needed to make up for Saehild’s lack of interest.

Two women loitered outside the hall, hair loose about their shoulders despite the chilly air.

“
Good evening, Bjarni,” they chorused, one twirling a strand of hair in her fingers, the other fiddling with the neck of her tunic.

“
Ladies.” He bowed his head a little towards them and ushered them into the hall in front of him.

*  *  *

“
So, we must talk about babies,” said Ragnar at supper.

Aelfwyn bit her lip.

“
The midwife told me you shouldn’t have any more,” he continued.

“
I went to see her and she gave me a list of things to stop babies coming.” She sobbed. “It’s not fair! I so wanted to have a big family.”

He squeezed her hand. “But at least you’ve had Alvi. I just don’t want you to die because of me.” Tears pricked his eyes.

“
It must be the will of God,” she mumbled.

He knew immortals decided life for people, whether they still believed in the old gods as he did, or turned to the new Christianity, like Aelfwyn. But even so ...

“
I don’t think it’s the will of God for you to die, though, or the midwife wouldn’t have told us how to prevent it.”

“
She said we have to mix up things to make a paste.”

“
What?”

“
We need dates, acacia bark and honey.”

“
Sounds more like cooking.” He suppressed a smile.

“
Well, it isn’t.”

“
As long as I don’t have to put them on my cock.”

She slapped his arm. “No, they go inside me, fool. We’ll have to go to Gippeswick to buy such things.”

“
Or I could go on my own." He liked the idea of a journey; life in Hallby had been a struggle lately. "It would be easier than all three of us going.”

“
Yes. You’re right. Very well, you can go alone.”

She wondered what the paste would feel like inside her. Would it feel slimy? Or cold? But surely it couldn’t be worse than giving birth, or having her monthlies. She smiled to herself, thinking how particular she’d been when still a virgin. Now she was used to mess everywhere: blood, semen, milk from her breasts, Alvi’s vomit. Far less of a fussy girl.

And what about fiddling around making up the mixture before sex? They hadn’t made love since before Alvi was born. Would they be able to wait long enough to prepare it? Would they have time before the baby needed attention again?

She bit her lip. They would just have to try.

*  *  *

Later that night, the blond man and his accomplice slunk through the forest of newly budding trees, heading for their target, weapons ready. Not all the villagers lived within the walls. Many lived outside, due to temperament or occupation.

The men approached without being seen as the lack of light or noise from the cottage showed the inhabitants slept. One of the prowlers kicked down the door.

“
Who’s that? How dare you break into our home?” shouted Baegstan, the charcoal burner, hair tousled from his bed, beard uncombed, axe in one hand, candle in the other.  His wife and two daughters on the verge of womanhood appeared behind him.

One of the intruders dispatched Baegstan with a slice of his sword. The women screamed, but the other man grabbed the mother and held a knife to her neck.

“
Come with me or I kill her,” he growled to the girls, who nodded in terror. If only their brothers were still unmarried and at home to defend them.

He hustled the woman out of the door and dragged her off, followed by her daughters. His companion left the final, shameful mark of the sword on Baegstan, then followed the others, snarling at the girls if they dared make any noise.

“
Where are you taking us?” quavered one.

“
Somewhere you’ll never see any of your friends again.”

They cried even more.

“
But you’ll like it,” said the other man. “So many pleasures you don’t yet know.”

The thugs laughed together as the women wept and struggled.

*  *  *

Saehild straddled Ljotr in his secret shelter in the woods, kept warm by the small fire in the centre of the floor. She slid up and down until his cock almost fell out of her. Like pleasure to the point of pain, she grunted with effort and desire, mesmerized.

“
That’s - it - oh - that’s it!” he groaned. “You’re dripping all over me.”

“
I can’t - keep – going,” she gasped. “Please fuck me, please.”

“
You can.” He put his finger inside her at the same time, finding the little bud-like peak and massaging it until she cried out and shuddered, her world trembling, and slumped on top of him.

“
Isn’t it better after drinking wine?” he asked, one hand round his now released cock.

She murmured with satisfaction.

“
Why won’t you get on top and fuck me?” she muttered.

He paused for so long she thought he hadn’t heard. “It’s not time. I will do so when the time is right.”

“
What about you? You didn’t come.”

“
It’s alright. As long as you did.” He gave his usual fierce grin, teeth glinting like knives in his dark beard. “Let’s have some more wine before we leave.”

The now familiar wine, full of grape and berry flavours, and something she couldn't identify, slid down into her stomach, its heat building from the first sip, warming her, exciting her, relaxing her.