‘Shieldmaiden’ – A Viking Romance

Sample From Shieldmaiden

Is Freedom What You Think It Is?

Mercia

Despite the unpleasant task ahead of me, it’s a lovely spot. Away from the trees, sunlight plays and dances over the surface, casting a rainbow from the spray of the fall. And under shady boughs, moss, thick and soft, deep green, cushions the ground, a robe cast over the naked earth.
In places, silver-grey specklers hang stationary in the water, heads pointing into the flow, tails undulating. They make good eating. Perhaps I should tickle one into my hands after I have completed my task. The lady would be pleased with me if I returned with extra food. I might even be permitted some of the treat myself.
Away from the fall, the pool spills into the river once more. I set myself downstream in a spot where the water flows freely, carrying away froth and foam. On this occasion, it will also carry away the foul results of the task in hand.
So there, with my stinking basket, I squeeze out pig entrails, voiding the wretched things of their contents, turning the clear stream to a greenish-brown. Then running the empty tubes through with fresh water, I work at them until they are clean and fit for use. If I’m lucky, I might get to eat some of the resulting sausages, so I take some care over my task.
The sunshine is warm, but the air cold and the water icy. Trickling water through the translucent membranes, my fingers quickly turn numb and my hands are red and rough with chill. I work with a will, to finish quickly so I can return to the warm indoors. Working at speed, I’m more careless than I mean to be, and brown-and-green muck flecks my gown.
Lost in my work, at first, I don’t hear it.
But then, the whistling is all but on top of me. Someone is close by and I shrink back in case whoever-it-is takes offence at my presence. Snatching up my basket of pig guts, I push myself back into the shadow of a great tree root.
And then I see. It is Bjorn, strolling easily along, with a thick fur draped over his shoulders, a sheet slung over his arm, heading for the bathing pool. Red-faced and sweating, perhaps he has come from the steam house. He’s not seen me and by the waterfall, he sheds the fur then tugs his shirt up and free from his belt.
I press further back into my lurking-place in the tree roots.
He fiddles with his belt, dropping it on top of the fur. Then he works at the laces of his trousers. My mouth goes dry and swallowing is suddenly difficult.
The trousers fall and he kicks them to join the rest of his clothes. Then he stands, stretches, yawns and scratches at his scalp.
I watch him, naked; a man with the body of a god. Long-limbed, well-muscled, his red-gold hair drapes over his body, partly concealing the tattooed dragon which coils from shoulder to chest. And without meaning to, I find myself staring at his… manhood… nestled among copper curls.
When first I came here, half a lifetime ago, I was a child and Bjorn not much more than a boy. Now he is a grown man and mesmerised, I stare as, still whistling, he steps under the falling waters.
The whistle is cut short, turning to a gasp. “Thor’s balls!” He retreats from the waters, then taking a breath, plunges back under and I suck in a smile as he hastily scrubs himself down with the harsh soap.
Inside, I’m growing warm and liquid. Something spears through me. In my hand, the basket is shaking.
Realisation wings home. Here I am: a slave, a nothing, stinking of pig-shit. And I’m dreaming of a man so far beyond my reach I might as well try to net the moon.
Heat pricks behind my eyes. Abruptly, all I want is to be away from here, but my task is unfinished. And even if it were not, I cannot leave my hiding place without Bjorn seeing me; knowing I was watching him.
And so, I wait; gulping against the tears which want to break free. I had thought I was reconciled to my life of drudgery. I had thought that, even as I am, I could have some happiness. Now I know that is a lie.
And I look away, turning my face from the glory that is Bjorn.
At length, the whistling resumes and I look back to see him dive into the pool, covering its length and back in long easy strokes. Then, stepping up and out, he shivers, shaking water from himself like a dog, before wrapping the sheet around himself and towelling himself dry. Dressing once more, he sits on a boulder, combing out his hair, still whistling tunelessly, his gaze wandering…
And, all too late, I realise…
His eye passes over, returns… then fixes on me. “Mercia?”
Is he angry?
I’ll be punished. I know I will. Stammering, I stand. “Sir, I was… They sent me to clean the entrails…” I hold up my basket in proof.  “I didn’t mean…”
My words dry up. Head tilted, his eye is calculating, assessing. Then he smiles. The smile is soft and golden, and it lights his face like the dawn after the long winter’s night.
And in that moment, I would give myself to him. No matter that he could command it if he wished. I would let him take me and I would rejoice in the taking.
Comb still in hand, he stands, walks over to me, looks down at me. And still smiling, he offers his hand, helps me stand.
After a long silence, he shakes his head. “Not like this, Mercia. Not like this.” Turning, he gathers up his goods and strolls away, leaving me trembling in his wake.

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