Elizabeth seethed when the striking shield maidens passed.
The warriors bowed before him, and thumped their chests with fists over their hearts, even the women. ‘Jarl,’ they all called him. Elizabeth guessed it meant chieftain, captain or earl. There was no room for doubt that he was their respected, and beloved, commander. She actually felt proud to be with him.
“I am so full, I could not eat another bite,” Elizabeth groaned when the meal was finished.
Ragnor didn’t understand her. She rubbed her stomach comically. He laughed, and pointed to his in agreement.
“Look...More food,” he said, smiling, and nodding to Jordan who was rushing toward them with another tray.
Elizabeth stared, incredulous.
“Smoked apples with honey,” Jordan said. “And ‘søtsuppe’ for dessert.”
He passed her a steamy bowl of warm, thick cream. There were raspberries, gooseberries, star anise and cloves cooked into the liquid. Other berries she didn’t recognize, dull blue and bright red, dotted the dessert. Elizabeth drank it straight from the bowl, and then passed it to Ragnor. Not surprisingly, it was every bit as appetizing as the rest of the meal had been.
“Do you like...blue...berries?” Ragnor asked in English, returning the bowl to her to finish it off.
She nodded affirmatively between sips. He looked to Jordan to explain.
“They are called juniper berries, from our lands,” the young man said. “The bright red ones are lingonberries.”
Ragnor watched her nod, and sip the dessert soup daintily, growing hard again as she swallowed the cream. His mind flashed with a vision of his white milk on her lips, her little tongue darting out of her mouth to taste it. He imagined her licking her fingertips, impatiently tasting his manly ambrosia. Would she swallow his masculine essence as enthusiastically as she had devoured the cream?
“I like it,” she replied. “The berries are sweet,”
“You are sweet,” Ragnor said, his voice low.
He leaned in to her, his eyes scanning her face hungrily. Jordan vanished swiftly into the darkness.
Ragnor’s hand came up, cupping the side of her face, and he moved close to her lips. His mouth hovered over hers, stealing her breath from her lungs. His breathe smelled sweet like berries, anise and wine. The scent of his skin clung to her neck from their earlier embraces. His lips finally came down on hers, kissing her softly.
Suddenly, everything went quiet.
A cricket chirped. The fire crackled.
Someone dropped a spoon in the pot of stew with a loud clang.
One of the hulking Danes stood before Ragnor and Elizabeth, obscuring the bonfire behind him. He was easily the biggest man Elizabeth had ever seen, making even Ragnor look small. Tension was thick in the air. A circle of warriors formed silently behind Ragnor, and the elite guards closed in upon Elizabeth. Jordan reappeared, coming to stand right next to Elizabeth with his arms crossed bravely over his adolescent chest.
The man’s ugly face was a mask of rage.
“Why does Ragnor get to keep a slave?” his voice boomed.
Half of the Viking men stood up, soundlessly, and put their hands on the hilts of their swords.
“We agreed to take no slaves on this raid, only booty,” the man said.
Elizabeth felt two hundred pairs of eyes boring into her. Jordan translated quietly at her side.
Ragnor pulled a giant dirk out of its sheath. He reached slowly for an apple, and began to peel it, disinterestedly, with the big seax dagger. His eyes never left the fruit.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Without a sound, ten or twelve men appeared spontaneously around the angry man, swords drawn, in unspoken communication. They were disciplined warriors, accustomed to working in silent unison. And they were fiercely loyal to their leader.
“What say you, Ragnor?” the man tried again. “Why do you get to keep the girl?”
Ragnor did not look up.
He paused a long moment before he spoke.
“Because I want her,” he
The warriors bowed before him, and thumped their chests with fists over their hearts, even the women. ‘Jarl,’ they all called him. Elizabeth guessed it meant chieftain, captain or earl. There was no room for doubt that he was their respected, and beloved, commander. She actually felt proud to be with him.
“I am so full, I could not eat another bite,” Elizabeth groaned when the meal was finished.
Ragnor didn’t understand her. She rubbed her stomach comically. He laughed, and pointed to his in agreement.
“Look...More food,” he said, smiling, and nodding to Jordan who was rushing toward them with another tray.
Elizabeth stared, incredulous.
“Smoked apples with honey,” Jordan said. “And ‘søtsuppe’ for dessert.”
He passed her a steamy bowl of warm, thick cream. There were raspberries, gooseberries, star anise and cloves cooked into the liquid. Other berries she didn’t recognize, dull blue and bright red, dotted the dessert. Elizabeth drank it straight from the bowl, and then passed it to Ragnor. Not surprisingly, it was every bit as appetizing as the rest of the meal had been.
“Do you like...blue...berries?” Ragnor asked in English, returning the bowl to her to finish it off.
She nodded affirmatively between sips. He looked to Jordan to explain.
“They are called juniper berries, from our lands,” the young man said. “The bright red ones are lingonberries.”
Ragnor watched her nod, and sip the dessert soup daintily, growing hard again as she swallowed the cream. His mind flashed with a vision of his white milk on her lips, her little tongue darting out of her mouth to taste it. He imagined her licking her fingertips, impatiently tasting his manly ambrosia. Would she swallow his masculine essence as enthusiastically as she had devoured the cream?
“I like it,” she replied. “The berries are sweet,”
“You are sweet,” Ragnor said, his voice low.
He leaned in to her, his eyes scanning her face hungrily. Jordan vanished swiftly into the darkness.
Ragnor’s hand came up, cupping the side of her face, and he moved close to her lips. His mouth hovered over hers, stealing her breath from her lungs. His breathe smelled sweet like berries, anise and wine. The scent of his skin clung to her neck from their earlier embraces. His lips finally came down on hers, kissing her softly.
Suddenly, everything went quiet.
A cricket chirped. The fire crackled.
Someone dropped a spoon in the pot of stew with a loud clang.
One of the hulking Danes stood before Ragnor and Elizabeth, obscuring the bonfire behind him. He was easily the biggest man Elizabeth had ever seen, making even Ragnor look small. Tension was thick in the air. A circle of warriors formed silently behind Ragnor, and the elite guards closed in upon Elizabeth. Jordan reappeared, coming to stand right next to Elizabeth with his arms crossed bravely over his adolescent chest.
The man’s ugly face was a mask of rage.
“Why does Ragnor get to keep a slave?” his voice boomed.
Half of the Viking men stood up, soundlessly, and put their hands on the hilts of their swords.
“We agreed to take no slaves on this raid, only booty,” the man said.
Elizabeth felt two hundred pairs of eyes boring into her. Jordan translated quietly at her side.
Ragnor pulled a giant dirk out of its sheath. He reached slowly for an apple, and began to peel it, disinterestedly, with the big seax dagger. His eyes never left the fruit.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Without a sound, ten or twelve men appeared spontaneously around the angry man, swords drawn, in unspoken communication. They were disciplined warriors, accustomed to working in silent unison. And they were fiercely loyal to their leader.
“What say you, Ragnor?” the man tried again. “Why do you get to keep the girl?”
Ragnor did not look up.
He paused a long moment before he spoke.
“Because I want her,” he
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