Exceprt
Prologue
The
Norselands, 850 a.d., where men…and life…were always hard…
Ivak
Sigurdsson was an excessively lustsome man.
Ne’er
would he deny that fact, nor bow his head in embarrassment. In truth,
he’d well earned his far-renowned wordfame for virility. On his
back. On his front. Standing. Sitting. On the bow and in the bowels
of a longship. Behind the Saxon king’s throne. Deep in a cave. High
in a tree. Under a bush. On a bed. In a cow byre. Once even
with…well, never mind, that had been when he was very young and on
a dare and another story entirely.
He
liked women. Everything about them. Not just the sex bits. He liked
their scent, the feel of their silky skin, the allure of their
secrets, the sound of their sighs and moans, the taste of them. And
women liked him, too. He wanted them all.
You
could say lust was a sixth sense for Ivak. He was a Viking, after
all.
He’d
been twelve years old when, swaggering with over-confidence, he’d
tried his dubious charms on his father’s eighth concubine who’d
laughed herself into a weeping fit afore showing him exactly which
hole he should aim for. Now, twenty years and at least two hundred
bedmates later--he’d
stopped counting after that incident in Hedeby--
there was naught he did not know about sex. Men came to him for
advice all the time. Women, too
The
cold Norse winds blew outside his keep now, but he and his
comrades-in-arms were warm inside as they sat before one of the five
hearth fires that ran through the center of his great hall at
Thorstead. Their body heat was aided by the mead they were imbibing
and the satiety that comes from having tupped more than the ale
barrel, and it not yet eventide.
When
bored and having no wars to fight, or any other time for that matter,
taking an enthusiastic maid to the bed furs was always a worthwhile
pastime. Leastways, it was for Ivak. You’d think his jaded
appetites would have waned by now. Instead, he found himself wanting
more and more. And the things he tried these days pushed even his
sensibilities for decency…but not enough to stop him.
And,
of course, when bored and having no wars to fight, men did what men
did throughout time. Drank.
In
fact, Esbe, the widow of one of his swordsmen, walked amongst them
now, refilling their horns from a pottery pitcher. When she got to
him, she smiled, a small, secretive smile that Ivak understood
perfectly. Women told him that he had an aura about him…a presence,
so to speak. By leaning against a wall just so, or merely staring at
them through half-slitted eyes, or gods forbid, winking at them, he
sent a silent message. Here was a man who knew things.
He
smiled back at Esbe, who shared his bed furs on occasion, and watched
appreciatively, along with every one of his men, as she walked away
from them, hips swaying from side to side.
Another
thing men did when bored and having no wars to fights, and especially
when drinking, was talk about women.
“Tell
me true, Ivak,” demanded Haakon the Horse, a name he’d been given
because of a face so long he could lick the bottom of a bucket and
still see over the rim, not because of other bodily attributes.
Haakon was a master at swordplay if ever there was one, a soldier
you’d want at your back in battle, but an irksome oaf when
drukkinn,
and he was halfway there already. “There must have been times when
your lance failed to rise to the occasion. It happens to the best of
men betimes.”
Ivak
exchanged a quick glance with his best friend, Serk the Silent, who
sat beside him on the bench. Serk, a man of few words, did not need
to speak for Ivak to know that he was thinking: Here
it comes!
Ivak
tapped his chin with a forefinger, as if actually giving the query
consideration. He could feel Serk shaking with silent laughter. “Nay,
it never has, though there have been times I’ve had to take a vow
of celibacy to give it a rest.” He cupped himself for emphasis.
“For
how long?” scoffed Ingolf, his chief archer. A grin twitched at
Ingolf’s hugely mustached upper lip, knowing when Ivak was about to
pull a jest.
“Oh,
a good long time. Two days at most,” Ivak admitted.
Everyone,
except Haakon, found amusement in his jest, including Kugge, the
young squire he’d been training of late. Gazing at Ivak in wonder,
Kugge blurted out, “Did it hurt?”
“The
celibacy or the excess?” Ivak asked, trying to keep a straight
face.
A
blush crept over Kugge’s still unwhiskered face as he sensed having
made a fool of himself.
Ivak
patted Kugge on the shoulder.
Haakon
glared at him, his question not gaining the results he’d wanted…a
fight. Ivak returned Haakon’s glare, his with a silent warning that
Haakon thankfully heeded. Haakon stood, tossing his horn to the
rushes, and stomped off, hopefully to sleep himself sober.
Ingolf
took a long draught from his horn of ale, cleared his throat, and
proclaimed with a chuckle, “To my mind, a man’s cock is like a
brass urn.”
“Oh,
good gods!” Ivak muttered.
“How
true!” Serk encouraged Ingolf and nudged Ivak with an elbow to
share in his mirth.
“Now,
hear me out,” Ingolf said, stroking his mustache. “Everyone knows
that brass needs polishing from time to time, and--”
“Mine
is especially shiny these days since I got me a second wife,” one
of the men contributed.
Ingolf
scowled at the interruption and continued, “Of course, a one-handed
rub will do to ease the throb, but best it is if the polishing is
done in the moist folds of a female sheath’s choke hold.”
“I
don’t understand,” Kugge said to Ivak.
“’Tis
a mystery,” Ivak replied with dry humor.
Ingolf,
who fashioned himself a master storyteller, was on a roll now. ‘Twas
best to let him finish. “The thing about brass is that too much
rubbing and it loses its luster. Even grows pits.” Ingolf pretended
to shiver.
“Pits?
Like a peach?” Kugge whispered.
“Nay.
Like warts,” Ivak told the boy. “You do not want warts down
there, believe you me.”
“Even
worse,” Ingolf told Kugge, “tainted oil in the sheath can spoil
all it touches. Remember that dockside whore in Jorvik.” The latter
Ingolf addressed to the other men. “Now that was a woman with teeth
down
there.”
“She
had a lot more than teeth,” Serk remarked, “as many men soon
learned.”
“The
difference, my friend, is that some cocks are solid gold.” Ivak
motioned a hand downward.
The
other men rolled their eyes and guffawed.
“Mine
is solid silver,” Bjorn No-Teeth said, his lips twitching as he
attempted to hide his gummy smile. “I’m thinking about having
it…etched. Ha, ha, ha!”
Others
offered their own self-assessments:
“Mine
is ivory, smooth and sleek, and big as an elephant’s tusk betimes.
Not that I have e’er seen an elephant.”
“Mine
is a rock. A rock cock.”
“Mine
is iron, like a lance. A loooong lance.”
“Holy
Thor! Do not make me laugh anymore lest I piss my braies.”
Someone
belched.
Someone
else farted.
More
bragging.
Ivak
sighed with contentment. It was the way of men when they were alone
with time to spare.
Their
merriment was interrupted by the arrival of Ivak’s steward
announcing Vadim, the slave trader from the Rus lands, who had come
from Birka before circling back home. He would probably be the last
one to make it through the fjords before they were frozen solid for
winter.
Ivak
and Serk left the others behind as they went out to the courtyard and
beyond that to an outbuilding that usually housed fur pelts. It was
empty now, the goods sent to market, and cold as a troll’s arse in
a blizzard. He waved to a servant who quickly brought him and Serk
fur-lined cloaks.
Vadim
was a frequent visitor at Thorstead. As often as he dealt in human
flesh, Vadim also traded in fine wines, spices, silks, and in Ivak’s
case, the occasional sexual oddity…dried camel testicles, feathers,
marble phalluses and such.
Serk
joined the steward who was examining some of the wares on display in
open sacks while Ivak, at Vadim’s urging, walked to the far end of
the shed.
“Come,
come, see what delights I have for you, Lord Sigurdsson.”
Ivak
was no lord, and he recognized the obsequiousness of the title
dripping from the Russian’s lips, but it wasn’t worth the bother
of correcting him. “So, show me the delights.”
Three
men were roped together against one wall. Nothing delightful here. An
elderly man that Vadim identified as a farmer from the Balkans. With
the rocky landscape at Thorstead, Ivak had no need of a farmer and
certainly not a graybeard. Next was a boyling with no apparent
skills; Ivak passed on him, as well. The third was a young man that
Ivak did want…a blacksmith’s apprentice. He and Vadim agreed on a
price, although Ivak did not like the angry exchange of words in an
undertone between this last man and Vadim that the trader dismissed
as of no importance.
Next
came the best part. The delight part. The women. Ivak always enjoyed
checking over new female slaves. Serk, who had finished examining the
household wares, joined him.
The
five women were not restrained, but they were shivering with cold, or
mayhap a bit of fear, not knowing that Ivak would be a fair master.
They shivered even more when Vadim motioned for them to disrobe.
While Ivak pitied them this temporary chill, he was not about to buy
a piece of property without full disclosure. Once he’d purchased a
prettily clothed slave in Jorvik only to find she had oozing pustules
covering her back, from her neck to her thighs.
“I
see several you would like,” Serk whispered at his side.
Ivak
agreed, a certain part of his body already rising in anticipation.
The
first was clearly pregnant, normally a condition that would preclude
his purchase—there were enough bratlings running about the estate,
including some of his own--but he had a comrade-in-arms who had a
particular taste for sex with breeding women; so, he motioned for her
to join the young blacksmith at the other end. With an appreciative
nod of thanks at her good fortune, she quickly pulled on her robe and
drew a threadbare blanket over her shoulders.
“This
one is a Saxon, a little long in the tooth, but an excellent cook,”
Vadim said.
“I
already have a cook,” Ivak demurred.
“Ah,
but does she make oat cakes light as a feather and mead fit fer the
gods?” the heavy woman of middle years, whose sagging breasts
reached almost to her waist, asked in Saxon English. The Norse and
Saxon languages were similar and could be understood to some extent
by either. She’d obviously got the meaning of his remark.
Ivak
liked a person with gumption, male or female, and he grinned,
ordering her to join the other two. Besides, a Viking could never
have enough good mead.
All
the thrall bodies were malodorous from lack of bathing…for months,
no doubt…but this next one—an attractive woman of thirty or so
years--had a particular odor that Ivak associated with diseased
whores. He gave Vadim a disapproving scowl and moved to the fourth
woman.
“This
one is a virgin,” Vadim said. “Pure as new snow. And a skilled
weaver.”
Ivak
arched a brow with skepticism as he circled the shivering female who
had seen at least twenty winters. He doubted very much that a female
slave could remain intact for that many years. Still, she would be a
welcome diversion. New meat for jaded palates. Not to mention, he had
lost a weaver this past summer to the childbirth fever. He nodded his
acceptance to Vadim.
And
then there was the fifth woman…a girl, really. No more than
sixteen. Red hair, above and below. Ah, he did love a red-headed
woman. Fiery, they were when their fires were ignited, as he knew
well how to do. He could not wait to lay his head over her crimson
fluff and…
He
smiled at her.
She
did not smile back. Instead, tears streamed down her face.
He
ran his knuckles over one pink, cold-peaked nipple, then the other.
She
actually sobbed now, and stepped back as if in revulsion.
The
tears didn’t bother him all that much, but the resistance did.
Thralldom was not easy for some to accept, but she would settle into
her role soon. They usually did. They had no choice. Not that he
would engage in rape. Persuasion was his forte.
But
wait. She was staring with seeming horror at something over his
shoulder.
Ivak
heard the growl before he turned and saw the smithy tugging to be
free from the restraints being held by both Vadim and his assistant.
At the same time, the young man was protesting something vociferously
in what sounded to Ivak like the Irish tongue.
“What
is amiss?” Ivak demanded of Vadim.
“He’s
her husband, but you are not to worry--”
Ivak
put up a halting hand. “I do not want any more married servants.
Too much trouble.” He started to walk away.
“You
could take one of them,” Vadim offered.
Ivak
paused. The woman’s skin wasdeliciously
creamy and her nether fleece was
tempting. “I’ll take her. You keep him.”
The
husband didn’t understand Ivak’s words as he spoke, but Vadim
must have explained once Ivak and Serk left the building and headed
back to the keep because his roar of outrage would be understood in
any language.
“Is
that wise, Ivak?” Serk asked. “Separating a man and his mate?”
“It
happens all the time, my friend, and do you doubt my wisdom in
choosing good bedsport over good metalwork?”
Serk
laughed but at the same time shook his head at Ivak with dismay. In
some ways Serk had gone soft of late, ever since he’d wed Asta, the
daughter of a Danish jarl. Six months and Serk was still besotted
with the witch. Little did he know that Asta was spreading her thighs
hither and yon. Ivak knew that for a fact because he’d been one of
those to whom she’d offered her dubious charms. He would have told
his friend, but he figured Serk would grow bored soon enough, and
then it would not matter. As long as she did not try to pass off some
other man’s bratling as his own. When Ivak had mentioned that
possibility to Asta, she’d informed him that she was joyfully
barren. That was another thing of which Serk was uninformed.
And
women claimed men were the ones lacking in morals!
That
night he swived the Irish maid, and she was sweet, especially after
having been bathed. It was not an entirely satisfying tup, though.
The girl was too willing. He kept seeing her husband’s face as he
was dragged away. No doubt Ivak’s distaste would fade eventually,
but tonight he had no patience for it, especially as she begged him
to be permitted to stay. Instead, he sent her away after just one
bout of bedsport, wanting no more of her for now.
He
drank way too much mead then, which only increased his foul mood.
That was the only excuse he could find for his seeing Asta slinking
along one of the hallways and motioning him with a forefinger to come
to her bedchamber. Another round-heeled woman with the morals of a
feral cat. He knew for a fact that Serk was serving guard duty all
night.
Mayhap
he should tup Serk’s wife and then explain to him in the nicest
possible way on the morrow what a poor choice he had made in picking
this particular maid for his mate. He would be doing his friend a
favor, he rationalized with alehead madness.
Asta
was riding him like a bloody stallion a short time later, and while
his cock was interested, he found himself oddly regretting his
impulsive invitation. Bored, he glanced toward the door that was
opening, and there stood Serk, staring at them with horror. This was
not the way he’d wanted his friend to discover his wife’s lack of
faithfulness.
“Ivak?
My friend?” Serk choked out.
“I
can explain. It’s not what you think.” Well, it was, but there
was a reason for his madness. Wasn’t there?
At
the stricken expression on Serk’s face, Ivak shoved Asta off him,
ignoring her squeal of ill-humor, and jumped off the bed. By the time
he was dressed, his good friend was gone. And Asta was more concerned
about having her bedplay interrupted than the fact that her husband
had witnessed her adultery. To Ivak’s amazement, she actually
thought they would resume the swiving.
Ivak
searched for more than an hour, to no avail. It was already well
after midnight and most folks, except for his housecarls, were abed.
His apology and explanation to Serk would have to wait until morning.
Without a doubt, Serk would forgive him, once he understood that Asta
was just a woman, and a faithless one at that. Oh, Ivak did not doubt
that Serk would be angry, and Ivak might even allow him a punch or
two, but eventually their friendship would be intact.
Still,
he could not sleep with all that had happened, and he decided to walk
out to the stables to check on a prize mare that should foal any day
now. What Ivak found, though, was so shocking he could scarce
breathe. In fact, he fell to his knees and moaned. “Oh, nay!
Please, gods, let it not be so!”
Hanging
from one of the rafters was Serk.
His
friend had hung himself.
What
have I done? What have I done? She was not worth it, my friend.
Truly, she was not. Oh, what have I done?
Ivak
lowered the body to the floor and did not need to put a fingertip to
Serk’s neck to know that he had already passed to Valhalla. With
tears burning his eyes, he stood, about to call for the stablemaster
in an adjoining shed when he heard a noise behind him. Turning, he
saw the young Irish blacksmith, husband of the red-haired maid he’d
bedded, running toward him with a raised pitchfork. Vadim and his
crew were supposed to depart at first light. The man must have
escaped his restraints.
Before
Ivak had a chance to raise an alarm or fight for himself, the man
pierced his chest with the long tines of the pitchfork.
Unfortunately, he used the special implement with metal tines that
Ivak had purchased this past summer on a whim in the open markets of
Miklegaard, also known as Byzantium. Why had he not been satisfied
with the usual wooden pitchforks for his fine stable? So forceful had
the man’s surge toward him been that he pinned Ivak into the wall.
“You
devil!” the man yelled, tears streaming down his face. “You
bloody damn devil! May you rot in hell!”
Sandra Hill is a graduate of Penn State and worked for more than 10 years as a features writer and education editor for publications in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Writing about serious issues taught her the merits of seeking the lighter side of even the darkest stories. She is the wife of a stockbroker and the mother of four sons.
