Viking Passion (10 page)

“Hrolf and Bjarni?”

“Among others.” He grinned at her again.

On her other side, Erik drank steadily.

“Are you all right?” Lenora asked.

“Yes,” he replied shortly, helping himself to
a large portion of cooked, dried fish and smearing it with sweet
butter. He licked the thumb he had used to apply the butter and
began to eat. Like his cup, his spoon was silver and of foreign
design.

He was the strangest man Lenora had ever
known. His anger at his half-brother had apparently vanished
completely. Having had no experience with such things, she was not
sure exactly what Snorri’s taunt against Erik’s manhood had meant,
but she dismissed it. Recalling his prompt arousal when he had
kissed her, Lenora felt certain there was nothing wrong with his
manhood. Still, she understood that Snorri’s jibes about Erik’s
luck and his half-Frankish parentage had somehow diminished him
before the other men. She wished she knew how to comfort him.

“Erik?”

“What is it?”

“Snorri was only trying to make trouble. No
one believed him.”

She laid one hand softly on his arm, her
anxious eyes meeting his. He gave her the smallest of smiles, and
for once he did not pull away from her.

“I know,” he said softly, so no one else
could hear. “Everyone knows how Snorri lies. Thank you, my –
Lenora.”

That night Erik drank much more than usual,
with the inevitable unhappy results when he stumbled into his house
early the following morning. Lenora held his head over a large
basin while he was sick, then wiped his face gently with a damp
cloth. She stripped off his soiled shirt and helped him into a
fresh one. When she would have unfastened his breeches, he
protested.

“Leave me alone,” he ordered, “I’m going to
die now.” He flopped facedown upon the mattress.

“You shouldn’t drink so much,” she told him,
covering him with a fur.

“I don’t drink as much as the others do.”

“You did last night. You are all like
children, trying to outdo each other.”

“I’ve heard the Saxons are great drinkers
too.”

“I have never seen anyone drink like you
Norse.” She pushed him back as he tried to sit up.

“I should go to Thorkell. There is work to
do,” he insisted. “Oh, my head.”

“Lie down,” she ordered sternly, giving him a
harder push that flattened him. She placed a cool, damp cloth
across his forehead, then stood regarding him with a peculiar mix
of feelings.

Try as she might, she could not hate him. She
loved the times when, as they worked together on Thorkell’s
accounts, he talked to her of his travels and the strange places he
had seen, when his memory and her insatiable curiosity merged in a
close companionship such as she had never known with anyone else,
not even her father. She felt compassion for him when the other men
treated him as a weakling or outsider because of his lameness, and
exasperation and anger when he treated her as the slave she was.
There were times, like this morning, when she was overcome with a
tender, almost maternal warmth toward him. And always, underlying
all her mood changes and varying attitudes toward him, there was
the undercurrent of his powerful physical attraction for her. But
he would never touch her as a man touches a woman, of that she was
now certain. She sighed deeply.

“Try to sleep,” she said. “I will do your
work for Thorkell.”

She did not think he heard her, for he was
already asleep.

She straightened the little house, then
combed her hair and washed her face before heading toward
Thorkell’s chambers.

A crowd was gathered at the river’s edge.
Good-byes and wishes of good luck were called across the water as
Snorri’s longship set out on its voyage. Fifteen pairs of oars
dipped and rose in unison. Snorri stood in the stern of the
Sea
Dragon
, next to the helmsman. Lenora wondered if he and his men
were as sick this morning as Erik had been. She hoped so.

“Good-bye, Snorri,” she whispered. “I hope
you never return. May some good Saxon warrior hack you to pieces,
very slowly.”

I’m growing as bloodthirsty as the Norse, she
thought as she made her way to Thorkell’s room. No one was there,
so she set to work, copying out a list of silver and gold items.
Thorkell planned to send the pieces to Hedeby, where they would be
traded for oil, for wine and glass from the Rhineland, for
sword-blades, for the silken cloth for which Thorkell had such a
weakness, and most important of all, for dirhams, the silver Arabic
coins that were the basis of Thorkell’s private hoard. Arab silver
was easily stored and could be traded for almost anything available
in the northlands. Lenora had no idea where Thorkell’s hoard was
hidden, but it was rumored to be unusually large.

She looked up as Thorkell came into the room,
followed by Edwina.

“Where is Erik?” Thorkell asked.

“Asleep. He was sick this morning.”

Thorkell chuckled. “He never had a head for
drink. I suppose it’s because his mother was Frankish. Can you do
this by yourself?” Thorkell indicated the parchment on which Lenora
was writing.

“I can.”

“Then I will leave you. There is something
else I want to do right now. Come, Edwina.” Thorkell’s smile made
it quite clear what he wished to do. What shocked Lenora was the
worshipful answering smile on Edwina’s face.

She likes him, Lenora thought. She even wants
him. She enjoys sharing his bed. Oh, Edwina, my dear, treacherous
friend, how have we come to this? How can you care for a man whose
son killed your betrothed?

When she finally returned to Erik’s house,
Lenora found him toweling himself briskly with a linen cloth. The
room she had left so neat was an untidy mess, with Erik’s clothes
strewn about it. An empty wooden cup and a bowl half-full of
porridge sat on one of the chests.

“I feel much better,” Erik announced. “I went
for a swim in the river.”

“Thorkell said to tell you that you two will
leave for Sven’s home in eight days.”

“So the decision has been made. Good. He
feared Snorri would refuse to marry Gunhilde. Snorri likes to be
free.”

“If I know Snorri, he will be no less free
once he is married. Poor Gunhilde.”

Lenora began to fold the blanket Erik had
tossed aside when he rose from the bed. He came up behind her and
put one hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him.

“Thank you for caring for me this morning,”
he said softly.

“It is my duty to care for my master,” she
replied, not meeting his eyes. “You need not thank me.”

He tilted her chin up until she was forced to
look straight into his eyes. His fingers wove themselves through
her chestnut curls, playing with the ends. His eyes were bottomless
green pools, in which she would gladly drown.

“You are a beautiful young woman, Lenora. Do
you know how difficult it has been to lie beside you all these
nights and not touch you?”

“I am your slave,” she answered with false
meekness. “You may do what you want with me and I must obey.”

“I do not want a woman who only obeys.”

Still his eyes held her. She fought against
feelings that threatened to burst out of control and overwhelm her.
She wanted to put her arms around him, wanted his arms around her.
Most of all, she wanted the touch of his wide, burning mouth on her
lips. She put the idea firmly away, reminding herself that because
of Snorri, she was repulsive to him.

“It has not been so difficult for you
lately,” she said, knowing she needed to recall herself to cold
reality, and that this was the best way. “I have heard gossip about
you and Erna.”

“Erna?” He laughed, poking one finger at the
wooden cup and half-filled bowl. “Erna brought me these. Take them
back to the kitchen when you clean up.” He saw Lenora’s involuntary
glance at the tumbled bed and smiled.

“No,” he said. “I was too sick for such a
thing. And besides -” He stopped, shrugging his shoulders.

She stood helplessly, watching him, wondering
what it was he wanted of her, fearing the longing that would not
leave her pounding heart, until he took her hand.

“Lenora, my sweet,” he whispered, his voice a
soft caress, “how I wish Snorri had never touched you.”

“No more than I,” she said ruefully, as Erik
lifted her hand to his lips and held it there.

“Why do you torment me?” he asked. “Why can’t
I let you go and be done with it?”

“Erik, are you ready to go hunting?”
Halfdan’s tall form filled the doorway. “Oh. Shall I leave?”

“No, I’m coming.” Erik quickly released
Lenora’s hand and picked up his sword-belt.

“Where are you going?” Lenora asked.

“Don’t question my actions, woman.” The
tender moment was gone and Erik was his usual distant self once
more, his cold words clearly intended to push her away from him.
“Clean up this room. That shirt needs washing. And when you take
those dishes back to the kitchen, tell Erna to wait for me tonight
if I am late. She can serve my food as well as you.”

He went out, slamming the door behind him,
giving Lenora just a glimpse of Halfdan’s startled face. She
thought she heard a low laugh as the men left, and the sound
infuriated her.

“Tell Erna yourself, you Norse animal!” She
picked up the wooden cup and hurled it against the door. The sound
it made was so satisfying that she picked up the bowl and threw
that too. It hit the door jamb and split. Sodden gray porridge
dribbled down the door frame and onto the floor. Lenora flung
herself onto the bed, sobbing.

“Erik, Erik,” she wept, pounding on the straw
mattress, “I hate you so much. Don’t leave me like that. Don’t
leave me. Please.”

She did not see him again that day and she
did not go to the great hall to eat that night. She cleaned the
house a second time, took the dishes back to the kitchen, and
managed to deliver Erik’s message with some semblance of
indifference.

She turned away from the triumph on Erna’s
face, picked up a piece of flatbread, some cheese, and a flagon of
ale, and made her way back to the house. There, in a gesture of
defiance, she took all of Erik’s books out of the foreign chest and
unwrapped and examined each one. She chose one to read and put the
others back neatly, but deliberately not in the same order, so Erik
would know what she had done. She lit a second and third oil lamp
and read all night, slowly, tracing each word with her finger,
trying to remember all the Latin her father had once taught
her.

After that day, Erik did not seem to notice
anything she did. He ignored her, except when they were at work
together in Thorkell’s rooms. He no longer slept in his own house
at all. Lenora did not know where he was sleeping, but she thought
she could guess who was sleeping with him. She had more than once
interrupted the other women gossiping in whispers about Erna’s
undisguised desire for Erik, and had seen the sly glances aimed in
her own direction.

Lenora could not look at Erna without wanting
to slap the woman’s smug face, and it took all of her self-control
to be polite to Erik, to pretend not to notice what was happening.
She feared if she made him angry, he would send her away from
Thorkellshavn. Lenora did not think she could bear that. She told
herself it was because of Edwina. She was surprised Erik had not
put her out of his house and sent her to the women’s quarters so he
could bring Erna to live with him. So far he had not suggested it,
and for that sop to her pride Lenora was grateful.

When Erik and Thorkell, after an enormous
farewell feast, left for the home of Sven the Dark, Lenora felt
only relief. What did it matter whether Erik was at Thorkellshavn
or elsewhere? He cared nothing for her. Nothing at all.

“Where is Edwina?”

Erna looked up from her weaving. With her
overly plump face and figure she was not pretty, but she exuded an
air of bored sensuality that Lenora knew many of the men found
exciting. When she saw Lenora, Erna’s hand went to the bronze
bracelet on her left wrist, and she wore a mocking smile.

“Weren’t you told?” she asked sweetly.
“Thorkell took her with him this morning when he left for Sven’s
house. Thorkell cannot bear to be parted from Edwina, not even for
one night. He says she is the best present Snorri ever gave him.
That’s very different from the feelings of some other men about
their slaves, isn’t it?”

Lenora did not answer. She would rather die
than let Erna know that Erik, like Edwina, had not bothered to say
good-bye to her. She sat down on a low stool and leaned back
against the cool wall. It was an unusually warm day, with
low-hanging clouds threatening rain. The heavy, moist air made her
feel sick. She pushed damp curls off her brow, picked some wool out
of a basket, and began spinning. She would stay in the weaving room
just long enough to make it clear that Erna had not driven her
away, and then she would go elsewhere to work.

Erna continued to play with her bracelet.
When Lenora paid no attention, Erna thrust her left wrist under
Lenora’s nose.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Very pretty.” Lenora pretended
indifference.

“Erik gave it to me.” Erna’s tone was almost
defiant.

“So you have said, many times.”

“I please him.” Erna smiled. “I am proud he
wants me.”

“You must be, to talk about it so
freely.”

Erna smiled more broadly and ran her hands
along her lushly curved hips and thighs in a sensuous motion. Then,
with her eyes fixed on Lenora, she slowly drew her hands across her
abdomen, continuing upward to cup her heavy breasts.

“And he pleases me too. Erik is a strong
man.”

Lenora stared at her coldly.

“I can hardly wait for him to return,” Erna
went on, wriggling her hips. “He is so big and strong,” she
repeated.