Chapter Nine #3
“And you found a need tonight?” Her eyebrows arched inquisitively.
In one move, he could pin her against the wall and have her at his complete mercy. “Aye.” He nodded. Not because I’m overly fond of dancing, but near lopping heads off for the way these men stare at you.
He searched her face while stroking the base of her neck.
Randvior ran a finger between her breasts that were so temptingly pressed together and spilling over the lace bodice like two ripe melons begging to be plucked from the earth.
She gasped, positively radiant. Noelle was completely unaware of the bitterness choking him at seeing another man with his hands all over her, even if that man was his best friend.
He breathed deeply and tried to focus on something more pleasant.
“Did you enjoy the bathhouse?”
“That water possesses restorative powers.”
So does my cock … He wanted to rip her clothes off. What man could contain his feelings after tasting that virgin flesh?
Noelle drew back and showed him her hand. “I must thank you for this bracelet, it was so unexpected.”
He grazed her knuckles with a kiss, while eyeing the shiny metal.
Her hands were more the size of a child’s than a woman’s.
Mine. He stepped closer—obsessed with her lips.
His dark mood flared and he pushed her inside one of the many curtained alcoves along the west wall used for private conversations.
Out of sight now, he latched onto her hips and hugged her close.
She trembled as he covered her mouth possessively with his and stole air from her lungs.
He broke away, leaving her dazed and open-mouthed. “If you find yourself craving male companionship beyond the feast table,” he growled into her ear, “ask my permission first.” Randvior turned to leave.
“Sir McNally convinced me to dance with him. He told me you were like brothers.”
He threw his head back and laughed violently. “That would be as careless as a shepherd placing his prized lamb before the mouth of a wolf’s den. Brandon is my brother, but still a man. No, min lille dukke, don’t fret. I’m not angry with you. Brandon will always try to outdo me, it’s in his nature.”
“I’m not a helpless creature. I can fend for myself.” She crossed her arms over her chest and sulked.
“Forgive me.” He thumbed her chin. “I failed to identify you as my lamb. Does this distinction suit you better? Come, let us find refreshments.”
He parted the curtains and she followed him.
Lauga bit her lower lip as she spied her son and Noelle emerging from the alcove. She agonized over his lack of propriety—how he flaunted the girl so shamelessly.
No matter how disciplined a man, in her mind, if he abandoned honor to pursue a woman of questionable reputation, the woman was always to blame.
This particular tart thrived on his attention.
If Randvior needed to whet his sexual appetite by sleeping with exotic women, let him choose from amongst the Danes or Rus, even a Spaniard.
Not a filthy Saxon! Her heart nearly burst at the thought of her son bedding such a wench.
The family bloodline was in jeopardy, one of the purest in Norway.
And if her son possessed a sliver of conscience, he would forget this girl and marry one worthy of his name.
He needed to produce an heir. Lauga sighed at her misfortune in life—the gods closed her womb after Randvior was born.
In her heart, she knew she could have birthed at least a dozen sons.
She hovered predatorily and seized the first opportunity to get Noelle alone. She slithered to the girl’s side after her son left her standing while he headed for the tables on the other side of the room.
Lauga gave Noelle a glass of wine she’d poured with her own hands. She accepted the drink.
“I know you are unhappy with me,” Noelle said, sipping delicately. “I know you think I’m an outlander unworthy of your son’s affection. If you’d only give me a chance, I promise—”
Lauga didn’t want to hear her lies and cut her off immediately.
Noelle had seduced her son, plain and simple.
She raised her glass in salutation, refusing to participate in the conversation.
“This wine is not from my son’s stock, but from my personal collection.
Rennish wine, the most delectable in the world. ”
Noelle drank more sparingly. “Sweeter than any I’ve ever tasted.”
“Aye,” Lauga smiled, so much for intelligent dialogue. She inched away the moment she realized Randvior was headed back.
The musicians were done playing, and slaves reassembled the tables.
A troupe of skalds wearing festive robes entered the hall with all the pomp and ceremony expected of their kind.
They waved their hands, encouraging men and women to sing.
Norsemen have a soft spot for gifted storytellers—a fondness for poets who they believed were divinely inspired.
Randvior returned to his seat at the high table and signaled for the performance to begin.
“Lordly Jarl, gentlemen, and ladies …” The master of ceremonies established the credentials of his troupe by introducing each artist individually and listing their accomplishments.
Randvior grinned a bit drunkenly, tilted his goblet, and drained it.
He banged a fist on the table and held his glass up. A thrall rushed to refill it.
In bits and pieces, the skalds magically wove their enchanted tales, gripping the souls of everyone who listened.
Even Randvior sat on the edge of his seat, entangled in the story of Valkyries and warriors.
The latest story ended when the bravest and most celebrated warrior in the land shed tears for the woman he would never get to marry, as he laid dying on the battlefield.
His only reward was the aubergine-eyed Valkyrie that comforted him by ensuring his passage into Valhalla.
Fear not noble man, Odin has heard your war cry. You are chosen for his table.
Randvior eyed his lady as she clapped enthusiastically, dazzled by the talents of these men.
Most stories were told in Norse, some in English or Gaelic.
Brandon leaned close and translated. Randvior tolerated it.
He knew of the limited entertainment offered in English courts.
Master musicians, acrobats, clowns, dancers, and actors graced King Sweyn’s hall, but never a skald.
The English were not blessed with an ear for epics.
The last performer took his respective place in the middle of the room, a wiry youth with eyes as translucent as a spring.
Randvior felt encouraged, always interested in hearing new talent.
But the young man seemed distracted by Noelle; his voice wavered and cracked like an untrained adolescent.
The boy started and stopped, but was promptly rewarded with catcalls from the impatient crowd.
With great effort, he bowed toward Randvior and picked up a miniature lyre.
Skalds rarely accompanied their words with music, but he began a new verse.
A lord shall always honor those who serve loyally
With innumerable gifts of silver and gold.
But this time he rewarded us with a rare flower from across the sea of ice,
From a land for centuries laid low.
He brought forth a maiden with a countenance as fair as any I’ve beheld—beneath Odin’s goodly skies.
A woman with warmth breathed into her silky curls, a hint of winter maiden.
And after the lord jarl is taken up to Asgard, his just rewards to collect,
May her womb blossom and be opened in Freya’s abounding light—
“What insult is this?” Randvior bolted from his chair, stormed across the hall with his battle-axe raised above his head.
Never in all his years did he see a performer so eager to part with his head by paying homage to a virtuous woman in public—especially his woman.
Simply not done! Not in his court. A great commotion sounded from behind as Randvior towered threateningly over the singer who had dropped his instrument the moment he had attacked.
The boy cowered and trembled, fell to his knees in complete supplication.
“Wait!”
Randvior turned abruptly at the sound of the familiar voice. Noelle bent down and shielded the skald with her body.
“Go back to your seat!”
“What unforgivable sin did this boy commit?” she asked, her brown eyes opened wide, demanding explanation.
He ran his hand through his hair as if to clear his mind; her obstinacy was an even greater insult than the singer’s words. It reflected badly on him. “It’s forbidden to single out a woman in verse. It draws unwanted attention, compromises …” He spoke through tightly clenched teeth.
“Her maidenhood?” she finished.
He knew exactly what the sharp-tongued little shrew was insinuating. Wait until I get my hands on you … Noelle ignited a flame inside him that might never go out.
All of his thoughts fragmented as she suddenly crumpled on the floor at his feet.