Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (26 page)

“Jarl Thorsten will not
soon forget your delivery of Grimar’s body,” Alaric said darkly. “But many in
the village will want to deal the Jarl a greater blow in retribution for the
lives lost.”

 “We’ll hit his holding
before the first frost of the year,” Eirik vowed.

Both Alaric and Madrena
nodded grimly before departing down the path toward the village.

Laurel helped Eirik
into the cottage and to his bed. He eased himself down with a groan.

“I was to be sold at a
slave market?” Laurel blurted out, too tired to measure her tone.

Eirik winced, though
she guessed it wasn’t entirely from his physical pain.

“Ja. That first day,
Gunvald ordered that by the end of the summer, you’d be taken to the market in
Jutland and sold. Grimar and I were to split the price you brought. It was his
idea of a fair resolution to Grimar’s and my claims to you.”

Several emotions surged
through her so quickly that she had to pause to sort them out. She felt relief
that Gunvald’s ruling would never be carried out. The thought of being sold at
an open market sent shivers of horror through her. Yet her mind flitted back to
that first night when Eirik had told her that she would remain his thrall
indefinitely.

“And you didn’t tell
me. You lied to me.”

He caught her hands and
pulled her down so that she sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes locked on her.
All traces of weariness vanished, yet they were filled with a deeper pain.

“Ja, I did. I thought I
was doing the right thing by keeping the information from you. I knew from the
second Gunvald passed down his ruling that I would find a way to protect you
from such a fate. I didn’t want to frighten you with the thought of being sold,
because I was going to do whatever it took to make sure that never happened.”

She eyed him
cautiously. “What were you going to do? How would you have avoided your uncle’s
decision?”

He swallowed, and for
the first time, Eirik looked genuinely afraid. Laurel felt herself holding her
breath as she waited for him to speak.

“The only solution I
could come up with was to…to marry you.”

Laurel’s stomach
dropped and her chest squeezed painfully. “That’s why you proposed that we
wed?” She snatched her hands back from his.

“That was how it
started,” Eirik said, his voice filled with desperation. “By marrying you, you
would be made a freewoman, and then you couldn’t be sold. But it has gone far
beyond that, Laurel. You must believe me. I love you.”

He reached for her. She
hesitated, letting him wrap his hands around her waist. “Is there aught else?”
she said, trying to sort her swirling thoughts and emotions. She didn’t doubt
his love, nor hers. Yet it stung once again to be reminded that when she’d
first arrived in Dalgaard, her fate hadn’t been her own.

“I must say something
more,” he said quietly. “In truth, I could have simply challenged Gunvald’s
ruling, and thereby his Jarlship, several sennights ago. By Odin, Madrena and
Alaric have been encouraging me to do so for years. But I thought marrying you
would be a better course of action.”

He paused but she
remained silent, so he went on. “I was too cowardly to challenge Gunvald then.
I didn’t want to face my responsibility to lead this village, to fulfill my
father’s belief that I was bound for great things. But it was more than that.
Even then, my love for you had taken root in my heart. I was a coward twice
over, for I didn’t want to admit it to myself or you, but I longed to join our
lives together, to wake up next to you every day, to stand by your side in awe
of your bravery and intelligence.”

He lowered his eyes,
but his hands squeezed her waist. “I wanted you, but I couldn’t find the
courage to admit it. My approach was wrong, but you must know that my love for
you guided me.”

She reached out and
took his face in her hands, drawing his eyes up to meet hers. The sennight-old
stubble on his jawline and cheeks tickled her palms. His dark-gold brows were
drawn together over his blue eyes, brighter than the midsummer sky.

What did
she
want? She was so tired of her fate not being her own. Yet this was the man who,
even when she was considered his property, gave her
a
choice and treated her with dignity. She thought back to her life in
Whitby Abbey under the thumb of the cruel Abbess Hilda and vulnerable to
Brother Egbert’s lecherous desires. She shivered at the memory of her brief but
horrifying days as Grimar’s thrall. And then she thought of her life with
Eirik—his commitment to honor, the way he treated her as an equal, and the
passion between them.

She wanted to marry
this man, but more than that, she wanted to make the decision for herself. She
wanted this union to be on her terms as well as his.

“I know you acted as
you did to protect me,” she began, holding his gaze. “But I hope I have proven
that I no longer simply need your protection. I need your trust, your respect,
and your openness. We cannot have any more lies or secrets between us.”

He nodded solemnly, his
eyes searching hers.

“I understand your
desire to protect me, for I desire to protect you, too,” she went on.

“You saved my life by
attacking that man, Laurel,” he said, his eyes bright with emotion.

“Just as you saved
mine,” she replied, her throat growing thick. “I love you. Can we still be
married this Frigga’s Day?”

His eyes widened at her
words, but then he pulled her to him in a rough embrace. When he finally eased
his hold on her, he chuckled.

“Unfortunately, I doubt
we’d be able to fetch the
goði
in time. We’ll have to wait a sennight.”

He sobered quickly as
he pulled back so that he could lock eyes with her. “You’ll still have me?”

“Ja,” she replied with
a little smile.

He pulled her under his
good arm and leaned back onto the bed, drawing her down beside him. As she
nestled her head onto his chest, she looked up at his face. His eyes were
closed and his mouth turned up in contentment.

“Frigga’s Day cannot
come soon enough,” he said just before he dropped off into an exhausted sleep.

“Repeat the vows again
to me.” Madrena was fumbling with the shoulder straps at the front of Laurel’s
dress. Despite the woman’s brusque tone, her fingers shook slightly.

“I’ll remember them.
And if I don’t
,
I’ll just look to you to
remind me. Everyone knows I’m an utlending,” Laurel said.

“Ja, but every day you
become more and more like one of us,” Madrena said, a crease forming between
her light brows as she tugged on the strands of beads draping between the two
pins on Laurel’s dress. “We don’t want to draw everyone’s attention to the fact
that you are an utlending.”

Laurel only laughed and
patted Madrena’s shoulder. Even in her softened behavior toward Laurel, the
woman was still a hard-edged warrior who was used to getting her way. Madrena
only snorted and muttered under her breath, but she went about fastening the
brooch Eirik had given Laurel to her chest. “You should have had someone who’s
actually been through this ceremony to help you,” Madrena said.

“But none of them would
be you,” Laurel replied simply. For her kind words, she got an eye
roll from Madrena, but the woman’s lips curved up
slightly.

“We’d best be on our
way. There’s just one more thing.” Madrena turned and retrieved the crown of
flowers that several of the village women had made for the occasion. As Madrena
set the crown on top of her head, Laurel was surrounded by the delicate scents
of wildflowers.

“Come on! We’ll be
late!” Madrena grabbed Laurel’s hand and pulled her out the door of Eirik’s
cottage. Several hours ago, Alaric had fetched Eirik to help him with his own
preparations for the occasion.

Laurel hurried to keep
up with Madrena’s long-legged stride as she made her way to the village. The
buildings were unusually quiet and the square was empty as they strode by.
Madrena pulled her toward the mountainsides and the narrow path to the practice
fields. Before Laurel could catch her breath enough to ask Madrena where they
were going, they reached the clearing.

The meadow, normally
filled with warriors hacking away at each other, was now nigh overflowing with
villagers dressed in their best. Most of the women and even a few men had
flowers woven into their hair or held little bouquets.

Madrena motioned for
Laurel to step forward, and slowly the villagers began to part, creating a path
to the back of the meadow. As she passed, women approached and handed her a
blossom or two until her hands were overflowing with wildflowers.

So overwhelmed was she
that she didn’t notice until she’d almost reached the far end of the meadow
that the path the villagers were clearing for her was leading her directly to
Eirik. She inhaled as she took in the sight of him.

His golden hair was
braided back from his face along the sides of his head, but otherwise it fell
in waves around his neck and shoulders. He wore a simple, clean tunic, but with
an elaborate leather belt and scabbard around his waist. He’d shaved his face,
and she could make out the hard contours of his jaw.

He stood under a tall
wooden bower that was intricately carved and painted in a multitude of colors.
Atop the bower lay several leafy tree branches, providing dappled shade from
the late summer sun. A man she’d never seen before stood next to Eirik garbed
in pale linen robes. He must be the priest.

As she stepped to
Eirik’s side under the bower, she locked eyes with him. All of Madrena’s
drilling and training in how to conduct herself in a Viking wedding flew from
her mind as his bright blue eyes pierced her.

She went through the
motions as if in a dream. The priest said several words to those gathered as
well as to her and Eirik. Then Eirik drew the sword at his hip and presented it
to Laurel. She had to set down her bouquet of flowers to receive the sword.

“I place my family’s
sword in your keeping,” Eirik intoned loudly. “To be given to our sons when the
time comes.”

Madrena had told her
this would happen but hadn’t warned her just how emotional it would be. Eirik’s
eyes misted as he passed the sword, which had belonged to his father, into
Laurel’s hands. She felt her own throat grow thick at the future that lay ahead
of them—one filled with many happy children, if God granted her wish.

Then the priest
instructed both of them to put their hands on the sword’s hilt. “Eirik the
Steady and Laurel the Brave are now united in the eyes of the gods and mortals
alike,” the priest said. The villagers cheered heartily, but shock made Laurel
almost deaf to them.

“‘The Brave’?” she said
to Eirik over the noise.

“Ja. Since you don’t
have a family name, we decided to give you one,” he said, his eyes twinkling
with merriment. Before the priest could instruct them to do so, Laurel planted
a kiss on his smiling lips, much to the amusement of those gathered.

The villagers began to
file out of the clearing and make their way to the longhouse for the start of a
three-day long feast and celebration of the union. Madrena had assured Laurel,
though, that they wouldn’t have to be present the entire time. In fact, the
woman had smiled conspiratorially at Laurel and said that after the first
evening of feasting, Laurel and Eirik would be excused from the rest of the
celebration.

Eirik sheathed his
father’s sword as she scooped up her wildflower bouquet. Then he took her hand
in his and followed the trail of villagers toward the longhouse. By the time
they reached
it
, villagers had already begun
to make merry, both inside and in the square.

As they approached the
doorway to the longhouse, all eyes seemed to fall on them. Eirik drew his
father’s sword and laid it across the door’s threshold. Then he moved to
physically bar her from crossing through the doorway.

Laurel gave him a
little bow of acknowledgement. Madrena had explained this custom and she knew
her role. If she were to trip or stumble as she stepped through the door, it
would portend bad luck for their marriage. Eirik was to take her hand and guide
her safely across the threshold.

She extended her hand
for him to take, but at the last moment, he scooped her up in both his arms.
She shrieked in surprise as he carried her over the doorstep, to the pleased
roars from those watching. When they were inside, he set her down and retrieved
his sword. She swatted him on his good shoulder, though his still-healing
wounds did not seem to bother him after a sennight of rest.

With a grin, he led her
to the raised dais, where two large chairs and a table awaited them. As they
took their seats, servers began delivering trays of smoked meats, apples and
berries, bowls of vegetable stew, and fresh flatbread. Ale and mead were
already circulating, but a special pitcher of mead and two cups sat on their
table.

As the celebration wore
on, musicians began to play drums and flutes, and several rounds of singing and
dancing erupted in the longhouse. Eirik’s hand found hers under the table and
he intertwined their fingers as they watched the merriment.

“Earlier today Madrena
and Alaric asked if you might be willing to teach them your language this
winter,” Eirik said, leaning in to be heard over the music and singing.

She turned fully toward
him, not hiding her surprise. “Why?”

Eirik shrugged. “They
are both gripped by wanderlust,” he replied. “They want to return to your land
and see more of it for themselves.”

“To raid?” Fear
suddenly pinched her stomach, cutting through her happiness. Though this was
her home now, she couldn’t condone—or aid in—the raiding and pillaging of her
homeland.

“Nei,” Eirik said, his
eyes soft. “To settle.”

She felt her eyes go
wide as he went on. “For the benefit of our people, my hope is that we can find
new lands to grow into, and to live peacefully alongside the present
inhabitants. We can trade, teach them some of our ways, and learn some of
theirs.”

Laurel chewed on his
words. She couldn’t imagine Viking warriors settling down to farm or raise
livestock in Northumbria, nor could she imagine people like Abbess Hilda
welcoming pagan barbarians in any way. And yet, she and Eirik were proof that
the two sides could come together in peace.

Then another thought
struck her, and she once again felt the twist of fear in her stomach.

“And will…will you be
joining them on these voyages?”

He untwined their
fingers and lifted his hand so that he could caress her cheek with his thumb.
“Nei, Laurel. My duties as Jarl will keep me in Dalgaard. And besides,” he
said, his eyes penetrating her, “all I could ever want is here.”

She closed her eyes for
a moment, savoring his words and his touch.

“Eventually we’ll have
to move, of course, but only into the chambers off the longhouse,” he said once
her eyes had fluttered open again. “It is the rightful place of the Jarl and
his wife.”

Even though the sweet
honey taste of the mead filled her with warmth, she felt her heart sink
slightly.

“We’ll have to leave
your cottage?” she said. “I’ve grown quite…fond of it.”

A slow smile spread
across his face, his eyes pinning her with a heated look. The day they’d held
the celebration to honor Laurel’s freedom and Eirik’s Jarlship, they’d both
been so exhausted from the trials they’d survived that they’d fallen into bed
and slept like the dead. But every night since then, and sometimes in the
mornings as well, they’d explored each other’s bodies, finding their pleasures
and passions together.

“Well,” Eirik said,
considering her, with that sensuous look that held a promise in it, “I suppose
we can stay there for our honey-moon.”

“Honey-moon? What is
that?” Madrena hadn’t said anything about such a thing.

Eirik leaned in even
closer until his lips brushed her ear. “We have a full moon cycle from this
day—two fortnights—where we will be expected to retreat from the
responsibilities of daily life, drink as much honeyed mead as we please, and
simply…enjoy each other’s company.” His hot breath tickled her ear, causing a
shiver to race over her skin.

“Did I hear you say
honey-moon?” Alaric stepped onto the dais, holding something behind his back.
After a pause to make sure he had their attention, he produced an enormous clay
jug from behind him.

“Since we drank so much
of your mead, we thought we’d better replenish your stock,” Madrena said,
coming to stand next to Alaric with a rare smile on her face. “Besides, we
can’t have you running out before your honey-moon is over. Speaking of which…”

Madrena motioned to several
villagers near the dais. Eirik groaned and began protesting, but the longhouse
grew quiet as the villagers turned their gaze on them. The air was thick with
excitement and anticipation, as if everyone knew that something was about to
happen. Laurel looked between Madrena, Eirik, and Alaric in confusion, but
Eirik was too busy grumbling, while Alaric and Madrena both had wide,
mischievous grins on their faces.

The villagers whom
Madrena had indicated grabbed torches and lit them in the large central fire. A
ripple of gaiety swelled among those gathered.

“I think it is time our
Jarl and his bride went to bed!” Alaric said loudly. The crowd cheered and
shouted ribald jokes, some of which brought heat to Laurel’s cheeks. Alaric
grabbed Eirik by one arm, the jug of mead in the other. Madrena took hold of
Laurel and guided them both out of the longhouse.

“What is this?” Laurel
asked Madrena over the cheers and merriment of the villagers.

“Just another Viking
tradition,” Madrena said, her eyes flashing with laughter in the torchlight.

Alaric and Madrena took
the lead with Eirik and Laurel in tow. The villagers holding the torches fell
in beside them, with the others streaming behind, singing and shouting gaily.

By the time they’d
reached Eirik’s hut, Laurel’s skin burned in a hot blush at all the attention
and bawdy humor around them. She shot at glance at Eirik, and even though he
looked uncomfortable as well, he was smiling good-naturedly.

“Off to bed, you two!”
Alaric shouted, thrusting the jug of mead into Eirik’s hands. He opened the
cottage door and hustled them inside, but to Laurel’s relief, the door closed
behind them, leaving them alone in the dim hut.

Songs and jokes drifted
outside, but the villagers were now making their way back to the longhouse for
more celebrating. Soon the only sound was their own breathing.

“I have been thinking
about this moment since I saw you in the meadow.” His voice held the same
promise as his sensuous stare had earlier that evening in the longhouse.

He set down the jug of
mead and stepped toward her. Leaning down, he inhaled against her hair and the
crown of wildflowers she wore. He sighed contentedly, then gently removed the
crown and set it aside. Next he let his hand slip along the strings of beads
hanging between the two pins holding the shoulder straps of her dress. His hand
brushed over first one breast and then the other, sending ripples of awareness
through her.