Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 03] (30 page)

“You are so hot,” Eirik ground out as he leaned over her on straightened arms, his neck arching with his painful control. “Your womanheat is burning me alive. I want to kiss you and suckle your breasts and whisper sweet words to you, but I cannot wait…I cannot wai..”

He pummeled her body then with long strokes that grew increasingly shorter and harder. She braced her upraised palms against the headboard and tried to match his strokes. When the quivering flutters began again in her woman parts, she spread her legs wider and arched her hips up off the bed. The flutters became spasms, then full-blown convulsions, as Eadyth flailed her head from side to side, reaching, reaching, reaching…. When she reached her “peak” and splintered into a thousand shards of pleasure, Eirik arched his neck back and slammed into her one last time, crying out with a raw, masculine groan of triumph.

Eirik fell heavily across her, his chest heaving from his efforts, his ragged breaths tickling her neck. Eadyth felt a wetness between her legs—his seed and her woman’s moisture. His limp man part still nestled inside her.

And a warmth like spring sunshine flowed through Eadyth. She brushed her fingertips lightly across his shoulders and down his back. In the aftermath of their fierce lovemaking, Eadyth felt peace and a sense of rightness.

“I love you, Eirik,” she whispered, stroking his hair.

Silence reigned for a few moments. Then he raised his head, grinning. “I do have a talent for the bed sport, do I not?”

“I said I
love
you, Eirik,” she said, shoving him affectionately. “I do not ask that you return the sentiment, but do not make light of my affections, either.”

“I would not do that. Ah, Eadyth, I do not know if I believe in love anymore. It takes more trust than I have for womankind. I have grown fond of you, and I am pleased that
we are wed, but I cannot promise more than that. For now.”

Disappointment tugged at Eadyth’s senses, but he was being honest with her, and that counted for much. “Well, then, I will just have to teach you to trust me.” But what she really meant was love.

He smiled and kissed her mole. “Ever the managing woman, are you?” Then he slipped lower and blew against her breast. “What were you saying earlier about suckling?”

Eadyth could not “manage” a word right then.

Later, Eadyth asked Eirik if the feather game could be played with her wielding the “weapon,” and he said, “Oh, for a certainty. ’Tis the best way.”

By morning, they had torn the mattress in several places. The stool had a broken leg. Rushes were scattered in clumps all over the room.

Eirik’s knees were brush-burned and his shoulders had teeth marks in them. Eadyth’s face and breasts smarted from Eirik’s whiskers.

She cracked one eye open to peer at Eirik where he stood drinking deeply from a goblet of mead. He winked at her and she saw an invitation there. Again!

“Nay, no more. I could not do it again. Not even if…” She yawned widely and closed her eyes sleepily.

“Ead-yth,” Eirik called out a short time later in an odd tone of voice. When she ignored him, he cajoled, “Ead-yth, look here what I have for you.”

She scrunched her eyes closed tighter. “I already know what you have for me and I have had enough.”

“I know, I know, not even if I stand on my head bare-arsed naked. But have pity on me. You will not believe this. Truly.”

And he was right.

Eadyth’s mouth dropped open when she unshuttered her eyes, which grew increasingly wider with disbelief.

Eirik was standing on his head. And he was bare-arsed naked.

After she stopped laughing and he had dropped back to his feet, she said, holding out her arms to him, “Well, mayhap I have changed my mind. A little manly exercise deserves its reward.”

They awakened later to a loud pounding on the door.

“Go away,” Eirik growled and pulled Eadyth more closely into the cradle of his arms. Her head lay on his chest and one leg was thrown wantonly over both of his. Eirik shook his head in wonder at the implausible picture…and his good fortune.

“Not again, Eirik, I am too weary,” Eadyth mumbled sleepily.

Eirik’s lips turned up with immense satisfaction, knowing he had done a superior job of tiring her out.

“Eir-rik,” Tykir whined, knocking on the door again, “open up. ’Tis past dawn, and I have four bothersome children in my bed making so much noise my head hurts. ’Tis time for you and Eadyth to take over.”

“Begone, Tykir. And do not come back unless the keep is under attack.”

Eirik heard Tykir mutter several swear words, then stomp off. He put a hand on Eadyth’s satin-smooth buttock, relishing the idea that he had a husband’s right to do so. New, won
derful feelings washed over him as he gazed at his wife, and he feared examining them too closely, lest they be ethereal and fade away, like dreams. He closed his eyes, preparing to fall asleep again.

But Eadyth had other plans, soon evident when she shifted and rubbed her breasts across his furred chest, then placed a hand possessively over his exhausted man part, purring, “’Twould seem you need a bit of leavening in your life, dearling.”

And it was Eirik then who protested with a groan, “Not now, Eadyth, I am too tired.”

But he soon changed his mind when she asked saucily, “Not even if I stand on my head, bare—”

“You would not!” he said with shock, his eyes shooting open. “Would you?” He could not hide the gleam of interest in his eyes.

“Nay, you brute, I would not.” But then she swung her body atop his, challenging, “Are you done ‘peaking’ so soon? You promised me twelve ‘peaks,’ and you are only up to six so far.”

Eirik found he was no longer quite so tired.

An hour later, Tykir was back at their door, pounding insistently. “Eirik, you push the bounds of brotherly love. Get your arse out here and take these whelps off my hands. John has challenged me to a pissing contest. Larise has my feet aching from dancing so much.
Dancing! For the love of Thor, who ever heard of a Norse warrior dancing?
Emma has honey in her hair. Godric is shooting arrows into Bertha’s butter churn. Abdul has begun to molt. And your damn dog shit on my bed.”

Eirik and Eadyth exchanged looks of amusement before both exclaiming at the same time, “Go away!” and then they burst into laughter.

“Are you laughing at me?” Tykir demanded, affront turning his voice churlish.

“Why do you not teach the children some of your magic tricks?” Eirik finally choked out when Tykir continued to mutter loudly outside in the corridor. Tykir told him exactly
what he could do with his “magic tricks” and stalked away.

Since they were already awake, Eirik decided to teach Eadyth a few “magic tricks.”

“Have you ever heard of the famous Viking ‘S’ spot?” he asked his wife, grinning against the cleavage of her breasts, and moving lower with a trail of kisses.

“Nay. Is this another one of those caliph stories?”

“Of course not,” he said, affronted. “My ‘Uncle’ Selik told me about the ‘S’ spot. The tricky thing about it is that it can only be found with—”

“With what?” Eadyth asked with a gasp as Eirik knelt between her legs and raised her knees over his shoulders.

“—the tongue,” he answered smoothly, with a wink.

And Eadyth told him later, much later, that he could practice his magic tricks on her anytime he wanted.

The third time Tykir came banging on their door, about mid-day, he demanded, “Eirik, come quickly. Britta is missing, and we fear Steven may have her.”

Eadyth gathered the frightened children about her while she watched Eirik and his men ride off in full battle gear to search for the missing maid. She tried to hide her terror, both for Eirik and Tykir, and especially for the helpless Britta, who had been pulled into their battle with Steven.

Before he had mounted his horse, Eirik had drawn Eadyth into his arms and whispered against her lips, “I am well pleased with you, wife. I had hoped to have more time to show you my joy.”

“I, too, am happy in this marriage,” she had admitted huskily as she ran her fingertips caressingly across his cheek. “Take care, my husband. Take care.”

She and Bertha took the children in hand, forcing them to wash all the grime from their bodies, then seating them around the kitchen table where Eadyth proceeded to teach them their lessons. Though they shifted restlessly from time to time, they were all eager students, even Godric, and much was accomplished in the three hours before they heard the
horses returning in the bailey. Eadyth ordered the children to stay with Bertha, then rushed through the hall with foreboding.

Wilfrid was carrying Britta’s limp and battered body up the steps when Eadyth opened the door. Eirik and his men were already riding off again in search of the evil Gravely and his conspirators in crime.

“Is she alive?” Eadyth asked Wilfrid.

“Just barely,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Bring her to the guest chamber,” she said, leading the way, and called out to Girta, “Tell Bertha to send hot water and cloths.”

When Britta lay on the bed, and they had removed her shredded garments, Eadyth and Wilfrid both cried out with alarm at the horrendous cuts and bruises which marred almost all her skin from forehead to feet. Blood and man-seed had dried on her thighs. Her one eye was already swollen shut and her bottom lip cracked open. Her left arm appeared broken at the wrist.

Wilfrid exclaimed, “The bloody bastard. I will kill him for this, I swear.”

“Leave, Wilfrid,” Eadyth pleaded finally, putting a gentle hand on his arm. “’Twould be best to let me cleanse her body in private. Find the herbal woman in the village, if you will, and send her to me with healing draughts.”

“Will she live?” he asked brokenly.

Eadyth shrugged. “I hope so. I will do my best. ’Tis all I can promise.”

By the time she was done cleaning Britta, the maid had gained consciousness, moaning, “Oh, mistress, the beasts…the things they did to me…I hurt so bad…”

“Hush, Britta, you are safe now.” But she had to ask, “Was it Steven of Gravely?”

Britta looked up at her, wide-eyed with horror. “Yea. He and five of his men took turns…oh, the perversions…the horrid things they made me do…I will never forget…and he gave me a message for you.”

Eadyth stiffened with apprehension.

“He said…he said…to tell you that you are next. And he said he would not be so gentle with you.”

Eadyth brushed Britta’s lank red hair, once as lustrous as spun gold, off her battered face. Then she took the young servant in her arms and rocked her like a child, knowing full well that Britta had lost any remnant of innocence she still held that day. And her tears blended with the sweet maid’s.

By the time Eirik and his retinue returned that evening, Britta was sleeping restlessly, thanks to the herbs the village woman had brought. Eadyth was optimistic that the maid would recover, in time—at least in body, if not in spirit.

Her first glance at Eirik’s stormy features told her he had not found Steven. Once again, the devilish earl had eluded capture.

Quickly, she ordered servants to prepare baths for Tykir and her husband and to begin setting the tables for the evening meal. “And bring out several tuns of mead,” she told Lambert. “Methinks the men will have a mighty thirst.”

By the time Eadyth finally got upstairs, Eirik and Tykir had both completed their baths and were sitting in Eirik’s bedchamber, discussing the day’s events. She told them of Britta’s injuries and her hopes for recovery.

Eadyth’s heart went out to her husband as he sat with wide shoulders slumped in weariness and disillusionment. His handsome profile was rigid with tension. He had not shaved that day and a dark stubble shadowed his face. He was a strong man…he truly was…but he had been pushed sorely that day.

Eadyth hesitated, then put her hand familiarly on her husband’s shoulder. He looked up at her, in surprise at first, then laid a hand over hers. Eadyth thrilled at this small show of affection outside the fever of bedlust.

“We can no longer wait for a decision from the Witan on the custody petition,” Eirik said.

She nodded, knowing the danger grew day by day as Steven grew more bold in his misdeeds.

“I still say we could lure the bastard into the open if we used Eadyth or John,” Tykir grumbled.

“Tykir, I warned you not to broach this subject around Eadyth.” Eirik stood, towering over his brother menacingly.

Eadyth pushed Eirik gently back down into his chair. “Now, Eirik, let Tykir speak his mind. For once, treat me as a woman, not a child.”

“A child!” Despite the seriousness of their situation, Eirik grinned at her. Eadyth blushed, knowing he was thinking of all the ways in which he had treated her in a very womanly way, all night long.

“The answer is ‘nay,’ and we will not discuss it again, Tykir,” Eirik stated flatly. “We will find another way. On the morrow, I intend to travel to Gravely’s estates in Essex, and I will hide out there ’til he returns, no matter how long it takes.”

But the solution was taken out of their hands the next morning when Earl Orm came to give them the news. “King Edmund was murdered at Gloucestershire. ’Twas on the feast of St. Augustine. He and his court were feasting at Puckle-church when the villain Leofa stabbed the king in the heart.”

Eadyth and Eirik exchanged startled glances. What could it mean?

“The king’s men tore Leofa limb from limb after the assault, but ’twas too late. Edmund was already dead,” Orm said, gulping down deep draughts of mead.

“He was so young,” Eadyth murmured with dismay. “He could not have seen more than twenty-four winters.”

“Yea,” Eirik agreed, “and his sons Edwy and Edgar are barely out of swaddling clothes, being but four and two years old. His brother Edred will, no doubt, succeed him now, and him not much younger than Edmund was…only twenty-two, methinks.”

Tykir stood and paced uneasily. “But unlike Edmund, who compensated for his youth by surrounding himself with wise advisors, Edred thrives on evil companions such as Gravely. An ill wind blows over Britain, I say.”

“Was Edred responsible for his brother’s death?” Eadyth asked the earl.

Orm shrugged. “He is suspect, but there is no proof thus far. His supporters sweep down on Wessex even now, presumably for the funeral, but more likely seeking their spoils.”

“And the Witan?” Eirik asked uneasily, voicing Eadyth’s silent concern over Steven’s custody petition now that the king was dead.

“The Witan cannot be changed ’til after the funeral and a short mourning period. At least one month,” Orm advised. “Rumor has it, though, that the present members will meet in three days at Gloucestershire to plan strategy. But already Edred demands acceptance by the Mercians and the Danes of the Danelaw. Next will be the Northumbrians, and there is no question, Eirik, that you and I will be forced to swear fealty. From there he goes to Tadden’s Cliff where he expects homage from all the northern kings.”

“He wastes no time,” Eirik said scornfully, “but ’tis what we all expected. Yea, we will swear allegiance to him, Orm. What other choice have we? But mayhap we can work with the present Witan to forestall sweeping changes in his governing body.”

“My thoughts exactly. Can you meet me in two days so we can travel together to Gloucestershire?”

Eirik nodded.

Later, after Orm left, Eirik and Tykir sat discussing this new development with Eadyth.

Eadyth laid her hand over Eirik’s to get his attention. “I will not allow John to be used in any way, but ’twould seem you have no choice but to use me as a lure for Steven,” she told her husband. “’Tis more dangerous now to delay. Once Edred gets his own men on the Witan, I fear Steven’s custody petition will be granted.”

Eirik glared at her stubbornly, but finally he nodded his agreement. “We will do it my way, though, Eadyth, and you will do naught to endanger yourself. Do you hear?”

“I promise. But I tell you this, husband. I would kill myself
and my son afore I would allow that son of Satan to get his hands on John. Putting a child in his care would be like casting it into the pits of hell.”

Eirik put his arm around her shoulder and drew her protectively against his side. For now, she felt safe. But who knew what the morrow would bring.

Later that day, Eirik took her into the underground level of the castle to show her a secret exit from the keep, one they might use in the plan against Steven of Gravely. She had never realized there was a secret entrance to the below-ground level from behind a panel in the great hall.

Mainly, the rooms held old weapons and discarded furniture. Eadyth eyed the broken chairs and tables and bedsteads closely, thinking some might be salvaged for the cotters’ huts.

“What is in that locked chamber?” she asked.

“Treasures,” Eirik said offhandedly. He was squinting in the dim light as he gingerly picked up a rusted sword and put it out of harm’s way.

“Treasures? What treasures?”

Eirik looked at her and shrugged. “Coins. Jewels. Fabrics.”

A ripple of annoyance passed over Eadyth. “May I see?” she asked sweetly.

Eirik’s head shot up at her oozing tone, but he drew a large key from the ring at his waist and opened the creaking door. Then, taking a torch from where he had placed it in a wall sconce, he led the way.

Eadyth gasped. She could not believe her eyes. Everywhere she looked, she saw incredible riches—chests overflowing with jewels and gold coins, fine silks and rich wools, several ivory tusks, casks of wine, scented oils, tapestries, heavy plates and silver cutlery.

She turned on her husband and shoved his chest with the palms of both hands. “You tightfisted troll! How could you?”

“Wha-at?” he said, backing away.

“You must have been laughing heartily at my meager
dowry. You let me think you were impoverished, you lout.”

“Well, I did laugh. But only a little.”