Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Early morn on the second day of the men's sojourn on the island

Was there any part of him that didn't hurt? Ribs, arms, legs, back… and his head thumped as if he'd received a wayward hoof to the temple. Better he keep his eyes closed until that subsided.

Had he been overdoing the strong ale? Gunnar didn't recall, though his mouth was certainly parched. A cup of mead would sort him out when he was ready to stir.

Shifting position, he was struck by an acute pain in his ankle that brought forth a string of his ripest oaths. On the strong ale and fallen down some rabbit hole, was it while venturing outside to relieve himself? ‘Twould not be the first time, though Gunnar was old enough in years to know how much he might drink without coming to mischief.

Raising his hand to cover his face, he squinted through his fingers.

‘Twas dark, though a fire blazed merrily enough in the pit, with a cauldron hung above. There was no smell of cooking, however, nor did he recognize the room. He was reclined upon a narrow pallet on the floor. If some wench had dragged him home, ‘twas a raw deal for her to make him sleep so, rather than in her own bed. Unless he'd made even more of a fool of himself than twisting his ankle—spilling the contents of his stomach before managing to get to any tupping.

He only hoped ‘twas some widow who'd taken a fancy to him and not a married woman. He hadn't the strength to wrestle a disgruntled husband should one appear.

He gave himself a sniff. No whiff of bile, though whoever the lass was, she'd stripped him of his tunic, so ‘twas difficult to say with certainty that he hadn't cast up his supper.

Another thought suddenly occurred…

His braies were damp. Surely, he hadn't…?

Gunnar groaned again. Pissing himself was worse than vomiting. No wonder the wench had left him to it. He was fortunate not to have been turfed outside, whatever the weather might be doing.

He'd just lie here another short while before summoning the will to get himself upright. ‘Twas only the one ankle that was giving him grief. He'd surely be able to hobble back to the stables. Then he'd collapse in the hay. The young lad Rurik could see to the horses and bring him a bite to eat.

He'd a hunger on him such as he'd not known in many a long day. Choosing between the mead and a cup of thick broth, he'd take the hot stuff first. With his belly full, he might recall whatever escapade he'd been up to.

Peculiar dreams he'd had while sleeping, as a man did only while deeply drukkin , of being tossed this way and that, then a roaring sound, as of the wind lifting him up before being plunged downward again, and all about him spinning. Just thinking of it made him queasy.

At last, the dream had become quiet. He remembered now ther e had been a wench—and a comely one at that—bending over him. A great deal more appealing than the usual sort who deigned to let him rummage beneath their skirts!

‘Twas the way when a man worked with horses. The scent was a good, earthy one, in his mind, but the women were not so fond. Not that he didn't claim his share of swiving . When a man had to work a little harder, he honed his skills.

Had he managed to show that pretty wench a sample of what he could do before being relegated to the floor? ‘Twas while pondering that succulent thought he was assailed by blinding light, the entrance being flung open. A figure stood there, silhouetted upon the threshold, seeming to stare at him before entering and thankfully, closing the door.

Gunnar held himself still, though he continued to watch from between his fingers. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust once more to the dimness of the room, but he could tell without question ‘twas a woman who'd entered. A woman with pale hair, long-plaited, and a nice sway to her behind. Sweet-scented, too, for she'd brought with her the fragrance of herbs—rosemary, thyme, and some other he couldn't place.

He followed with interest as she pulled forward a small tub, bringing it close to the fire, before ladling hot water into it from the cauldron.

Means the wench to wash clothes? Better to heat a hearty stew on yonder fire and offer me some!

Though he continued to feign sleep, his stomach had other ideas and gurgled in a commanding fashion.

Then, to both his surprise and delight, the woman before him not only unpinned her apron, laying it to one side, but drew off her gown in one swift swish, passing it over her head. Beneath, she wore not a stitch.

Most definitely, a good arse. Gunnar did not stint in admiring the twin curves. Shapely legs, too, and an elegant gait. Were she a filly, she'd certainly be worthy of a place in the jarl's stable.

By the time she'd turned about, giving him an eyeful of pert breasts rising above a neat waist and pleasingly full hips, he'd almost forgotten his aches and pains—even though not quite the thudding in the region of his ankle.

He saved the best for last, ogling the straw-colored thatch betwixt the junction of her thighs. Then, all disappeared from view, folded into the tub, where the wench commenced her splashing.

Never mind. He'd seen enough of the component parts to ensure they were etched upon his brain.

As to the wench's identity, she remained a mystery. Skálavík was a fair-sized town and being a place of trading, saw its fair share of people passing through, but he prided himself on knowing most of its inhabitants. This pretty maid must be a cousin or somesuch newly arrived, to have escaped his notice.

All that beauty and you spoilt your chances by puking and pissing yourself? Gunnar sighed unhappily. What were the odds she'd give him a second go? ‘Twas not a wager he'd place more than a day's coin upon.

Some recompense was offered when the vision of loveliness stood, placing her foot upon the side of the tub in such a way as to give him a new and even more engaging landscape to appreciate—one framed by a light dusting of bush, artistically lit by the hearth flames.

A rush of blood swept his body, causing his ankle to throb all the harder and for Gunnar to utter an audible moan.

It was enough to spoil the charade of sleeping, for the wench gave a shriek. Sloshing water about the place, she crossed her legs, covering her thatch daintily with one hand while clutching at her bosom with the other.

"Don't look!" came the feminine cry as she jumped from the tub, displaying her charms once more, while she located her gown and wriggled damply into it.

There was little point in pretending continued slumber. Fresh tactics would need to be employed. In truth, it suited Gunnar well, for ‘twas hard to hold oneself like a statue while in the throes of manly arousal.

"Where am I?" Feigning a yawn, he stretched before giving the object of his lustful thoughts a lazy smile.

"You don't remember?" The woman, having restored her dignity, approached.

Certainly, it was she he'd dreamed of, for the violet-blue of her eyes and perfectly pouting mouth were out of the common way. Moreover, the manner in which she was leaning over him felt familiar, as if they'd played these parts before.

"I remember you ," he held her with a lingering look.

"Oh?" She looked both pleased and anxious, if not a little caught off guard.

"Your face, that is. You've a very memorable face. The rest of you is new to me. That is, I don't recall if we…" He raised an enquiring brow.

To that, she appeared merely puzzled. However, she knelt beside him and placed a reassuring hand on his forehead.

"You're quite hot. How are you feeling? In your whole self, that is? Not just your ankle?" The caressing hand moved to his cheek, giving a touch that felt entirely amiable. Women tended to go straight for the main prize rather than spending time on the niceties. It made for a pleasant change.

"I've felt better." Turning his head, he ventured to place a kiss on the curve of her palm. Unfortunately, it had the effect of making her withdraw, looking more surprised than ever.

"Well, it will be a terrible shock." She removed both hands to her lap. "And most distressing. We may talk, if that's what you wish."

It was his turn to be slightly mystified. A night of revelry, resulting in spewing his guts—and what he hoped was only a mild injury north of his right foot—hardly needed discussion. Unless…

Had they attempted the deed, and he'd failed to pass muster? He rarely suffered a problem in standing to full attention, but that part of a man's anatomy could be unpredictable, especially when ale had been imbibed.

His confusion must have been apparent, for she leaned close again, looking concerned, and he was struck once more by the color of her eyes. What did they remind him of? The bluebells that grew in swathes upon the Skálavík hillsides, perhaps? That led to thinking of her lying among them, as she had been straight from her bath but with her hair loose rather than constrained in the long plait. Naked in the bluebells! There would be a thing.

His cock, nudging upward, certainly approved of the idea.

There was nothing like lovemaking outdoors, with the sun on your buttocks as you…

"Though it's natural, and quite alright, if you'd rather not speak of it." Her eyes were all the wider now and if he was not mistaken, even a little misty.

"I only hope it will be a comfort, knowing that it was the goddess who brought you to me." She reached for him again, this time placing her hand upon his shoulder. Her gaze rested there as she traced a small path from the outer curve of his muscle to where his collarbone began.

For a moment, he was aware of nothing but the touch of her fingertips—even if they were traversing a rather innocuous part. Then, his mind caught up, and he revisited what the wench had been saying.

"Goddess?" Gunnar took a small reverse, all thoughts of tumbling in flower meadows forgotten. Was she one of those women obsessed with the idea of love being fated and the three wise Norns weaving their destinies together in the warp and weft of their mystical looms?

Not that Gunnar didn't have a healthy respect for the gods. Only a fool would discount them entirely, and he poured a libation as regularly as the next man to ensure the horses in his care kept healthy, siring well, and foaling without mishap.

But love matches written in the stars, or cast in the runes, or foretold in the entrails of a squirrel or somesuch? ‘Twas all nonsense, as far as he was concerned.

Man and beast were much the same—capable of fond attachment and driven by primal lusts—but the notion of man and woman mating for life and remaining content rarely seemed to work, as far as he could see. If it wasn't so, why was it that so many married women took a lover on the side? And men, too. So much for love when most of the couples he knew were long since bored with one another.

As for messing with virgins and maids promised in betrothal, they were definitely more trouble than they were worth. A sly tupping of a long-married woman might go unremarked upon, but ‘twas another matter when the marriage contracts were hardly dry. If it wasn't for those discontented wives and merry widows whose sole use for a man was between the bed furs, his cock would see little action from one end of the year to the next—for he'd no intention of entering the married state himself.

All he needed was the stable, a dose of brotherly company in the longhouse of a night, and the occasional romp between soft thighs. It was enough for him, and he'd vouch it kept him happier than most men of his acquaintance.

That wasn't to say his parents hadn't gotten along—when the wind blew in the right direction—and his sisters seemed content enough, though he suspected that was mostly because the men they'd married knew better than to disagree with anything that passed their lips.

With good reason, Gunnar had moved as soon as possible from under the nagging finger of his mother and five sharp-tongued sisters. He loved them well enough, but ‘twas too much for a man to bear. He'd take the warmth of a bed in the stable any day.

On the subject of marriages, that of his jarl had been another matter. Never had he seen devotion such as had existed between Eldberg and his beloved Bretta. It had been a dark day when the fire had robbed their leader of his wife. He'd not been the same since.

Gunnar couldn't imagine placing his own happiness so entirely in another's hands. Keeping life simple was the best way, and matters of the heart seemed anything but simple. Besides which, even if he did find a wench comely enough to tempt him, he doubted she'd be impressed by living above the jarl's stable.

He noted the violet-eyed wench was staring at him still, somewhat pityingly to his mind.

"The goddess, Freyja," she was speaking slowly, as if he were a half-wit. "It's all her doing, and we must trust her, even if the path seems clouded."

"Trust her about what, exactly?" Gunnar was beginning to wonder if the girl was half-witted.

"Over her plans for us, of course." She smiled indulgently. "It was a terrible thing, the way your ship was wrecked upon the rocks and so many of your crew lost to the sea, but the gods always have a plan, don't they? We need to have faith."

The room took an unexpected tilt. Gunnar's stomach lurched—this time, not from hunger.

His heart felt squeezed.

He couldn't breathe.

The ship!

That's where he'd been when all the rocking and tumult had begun, and the sea had rolled as if it were boiling. He hadn't even intended to join the crew. He was a stableman, after all, not a seafaring man. He'd hardly known how to hold an oar!

He'd only come along because he'd lost a wager with Rangvald during a game of Hnefatafl the night before they were due to sail, and his opponent had dared him to join the party. Jarl Eldberg had told him he was under no obligation to do any such thing, but his own bravado had gotten the better of him.

The next thing he'd known, he was climbing aboard, with J?rgen, Viggo, Rutger, and the others slapping him on the back, assuring him that young Rurik would be fine with the horses for a week or two. He'd barely been sober, having taken far more ale than he should have, thanks to Rangvald's encouragement. The first portion of the day had passed with his head hung over the stern, dry-heaving with each buffet of the waves—much to his shipmates' amusement.

What had she said? ‘Lost to the sea?'

His stomach suffered another pang.

It couldn't be true.

"How many?" He'd no desire to look at her now that he understood. All this while, she'd known, and she'd let him lie here, thinking only of how he'd like to tumble her! Though now he came to think of it, that was hardly her fault. It was his own imagination that had done all the legwork.

"We found six. You're all being cared for, and we think you'll live. That is, I'm certain you will… because it's written, you see. I've been watching and waiting, and it can't be a coincidence?—"

"Eldberg?" He cut her off, not wanting to hear any more of her predestined nonsense. He could hardly bring himself to ask, but he had to know. He'd been a steadfast friend for fifteen years. He couldn't imagine a world in which his jarl didn't reside.

"I don't know names…not even yours. I can't…" Her voice trailed off.

"Red hair and huge. The tallest among us." Gunnar braced himself for whatever reply would come.

"Ah, yes." She answered more brightly. "There's no mistaking him, is there? He's with Hedda, my sister."

Thank the gods!

Gunnar let himself look at her again. Her expression was hopeful, as if she expected him to smile and look relieved.

He was, of course. Thankful that, whatever had happened, he was still alive, as were five of the men he'd set out with. But what of the rest? Was he supposed to accept they were gone and be grateful to be among those spared?

"Hedda isn't the most,"—the woman frowned—"that is to say, she wasn't expecting to host a stranger, but I'm sure she'll take care of him, once she's used to the idea…" She trailed off again.

"Speaking of which, you must be thirsty and hungry, and perhaps you need to…" She glanced at the pot she'd placed within reaching distance. "I've something for you to drink, which should help with the pain you must be feeling, and you must have a lot of questions. We ought to get to know each other, at least a little, before we do as Freyja intends for us."

"Hmmm." He couldn't argue with most of that, although he still hadn't a clue what Freyja had to do with his fate.

As nonplussed as he must sound, she appeared emboldened.

"When you're rested, you can show me what to do," she added. "Not today, of course, but when you're ready."

"What to do ?" Gunnar rubbed at his temple, where the ache had ratcheted up a notch.

"Why yes!" She positively beamed. "To put a child inside me!" With a dreamy expression, she brought her hands to rest over her belly. "The goddess has sent you to give us babies. You and the other men. All chosen! I didn't realize at first, but it's plain to me now. What other reason could there be?"

Gunnar flopped back on the pallet.

Mischievous Loki, how you must be laughing! What I've done to deserve this, I can't think. The wench is clearly deluded, thinking the gods have brought this about—though going by some of the tales sung of by the skalds, stranger things have happened.

He gave a deep sigh. He had questions, alright. Where the menfolk of this place were, for a start! And why this wench thought intervention was needed to get her and some other desperate females with child.

It was the one thing he usually went out of his way to avoid—getting women pregnant. Adept he was, too, at controlling himself to spill outside, however warm and welcoming the sheath.

He opened one eye.

Not that the task would be an unpleasant one. He could think of at least three things he'd like to do with her as soon as possible, followed by a good three or four more when he felt a bit stronger.

Gods help him!

If this wasn't worthy of retelling when they returned to Skálavík, he didn't know what would be.