Mastered By the Viking King by Lily Harlem

Chapter 2

The billowing crowd made Tove’s head spin. She was used to a solitary life with only her mother and nature for company.

Halsgrof sat in the bosom of a fjord, protected on two sides by mountains, the other by water. It was a natural harbor, and people had flocked to make it their home so they could trade and travel—and to rest safe in the knowledge they had the protection of land and sea.

It was busy and loud. The narrow streets between dwellings and places of trade were packed with people rushing about their business. Tiny wisps of snow danced in the air, but no one seemed to notice.

Tove sidestepped out of the way of three huge Vikings carrying enormous whalebones. They were talking loudly, deep bellowing voices that echoed around the timber walls.

When they’d gone on their way she carried on, her boots slipping on the icy, mud-churned walkway.

She’d been told to find Wanda—a maid to the king’s previous wife—and follow her instructions.

To her left, a smithy worked at an anvil, hammering a sword into shape, sparks flying. A furnace burned bright at his side, and he wore leather pants, but no tunic. Ink swirled over his chest, a detailed pattern that no doubt represented his heritage.

“Excuse me,” she said.

He carried on bashing the metal with his hammer, muscles bulging.

“Excuse me.” She spoke louder.

He paused with his hammer aloft, brow shiny with sweat. “What do you want?”

“I’m looking for Wanda. Do you know where I can find her?”

“Wanda? The banished queen’s maid?”

“Aye.”

“You’re in luck.” He nodded to the right. “She’s my wife, you’ll find her yonder, near the boathouse. Look for the red flag.”

“Red flag…”

He frowned. “You’ve come for the king’s lineup?”

She swallowed and nodded. “Aye.”

He raised his eyebrows, and let his gaze slip down the length of her body and back up again. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two summers.”

“Don’t look it.” His gaze dropped to her flat chest.

She didn’t answer and folded her arms.

“Where you from?”

“Cativad.”

“You walked from Cativad today?” His heavy browed eyes widened.

“Aye, sir.”

“Snow is nearly here. Long way for a slip of a thing like you.”

“I know. It’s why I’m here. My mother doesn’t want me wintering with her. Life is hard, food is scant.”

“There’s food here if you’re willing to work. Which is what I must do.” He bashed the length of iron. “Best get yourself washed up. Line up at sunset.”

Tove watched him resume beating the iron, her stomach rumbling. The mention of food did that to her.

Suddenly, a horn sounded, blasting through the chill air.

At the same time, a frantic woman pushed past Tove. Quickly moving from a walk to a run, she let out a squeal. Long red hair flew out behind her and she gathered her tunic as she made for the shadow of the buildings.

“Gert! Get back here so I can tan your disobedient hide.” A warrior, tall, gruff, and with a beard laden with treasures raced after her. “Gert!”

“No!” the woman threw over her shoulder before disappearing.

Tove watched him chase her. What had the woman done to deserve a spanking? And surely running would only make it worse.

The horn sounded again.

Tove turned in the direction of the wooden pier. High baskets of fire lined its length, and longboats bobbed at its side, sails down, their mastheads carved with serpents, horses, and dragons.

A boat rounded the headland, oars rhythmically pushing through the rippling water. The yellow- and red-striped sail ballooned in the wind, and a white wake followed behind.

Around her, townsfolk stopped to stare at the newcomers. They jostled and pointed, speaking in loud voices.

“Who is it?”

“Do we know that sail?”

“A princess for the king’s lineup, perhaps?”

“Aye, that’s who it is. A princess.”

“Princess Hilda of Kaldaross. It’s her.”

“She wants to be our queen?”

“The king will surely pick her. She’s beautiful.”

Tove’s heart skipped a beat. What in Odin’s name was she, Tove, doing here? Her competition was a beautiful, rich princess. Likely more would arrive over the course of the day, Earls’ and Jarls’ daughters, too. And goddesses.

I don’t want to get picked anyway.

That thought steadied her heart. It was true. She had no wish to be married to a big brute of a king. So, if her competition outshone her from beauty to treasure then that was good. She could stand in judgment, keep her mouth closed, then go home. She’d be more skilled at hunting this winter, and make her mother proud. And if she worked for a few days in Halsgrof she could also take chickens and grain home.

The horn quieted as the boat pulled in, the princess’s male servants jumping onto the pier to secure the vessel to its moorings. Sat on a raised wooden chair in the center of the boat, Princess Hilda didn’t move. Instead, she sat wrapped in a silvery wolf pelt, its hood drawn up, and surveyed the people of Halsgrof.

Her eyes were narrow, her lips as crimson as a burst berry, wisps of dark hair peeking out from the hood. A large golden brooch set with red stones adorned her fur.

“Welcome, welcome.” A short man in a blue tunic rushed up the pier, the crowd parting for him. “It is a great honor to have you here, Princess Hilda! Please, let me, Halfdan, aid to the king, be your host and take you and your maids to a place of warmth and rest after your journey.”

“Aye, you can do that.” The princess stood.

Three maids hurried to help her alight from the boat.

Once on the pier she pushed back her hood, and the weak light from the winter sun shone on her raven black hair. With her chin raised she slowly looked around. “People of Halsgrof, I am Princess Hilda of Kaldaross, and I have come here to be your queen. When King Njal and I are wed you will bow to me, honor me, and give your meager lives to me if I so request.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd.

“You may start now.” She held up her hand and clicked her fingers. “Bow.”

“She’s not our queen,” a woman to Tove’s right muttered.

“She hasn’t been chosen by King Njal.”

“But she will be. How can he resist?”

“She’s a siren.”

“I’m not bowing to her.”

“Me neither.”

“I said bow!” Princess Hilda shouted.

A few people nearest to her bobbed a few inches down. Tove didn’t, and neither did the men and women around her.

“You are unruly peasants. When I’m queen you will obey me.” The princess turned to one of her maids. “This King Njal needs direction if his people are so obstinate and rude.”

“Aye, m’lady.”

“In fact, what he needs is a backbone—and I will give it to him.” With a flourish she swept through the gathering, lips pursed, fur floating along behind her.

“Queen over my dead body,” a deep, grating voice muttered behind Tove.

Tove spun around. But she couldn’t see exactly who had spoken. A tall man was walking away, broad shoulders swinging beneath a dark brown fur, his boots crunching on the icy ground. His hood was pulled up, flecks of snow sparkling upon it, and his fists were clenched.

Tove’s emotions rushed through her, the voices and jostling pulling at her nerves. She needed to find Wanda, and get this over and done with. Then see if she could get a few days’ work to trade for supplies.

She looked up at the sky. Daylight was fading, and pregnant clouds were collecting overhead. If she stayed in Halsgrof too long the pass would be blocked by snow, and she wouldn’t get back to her mother until spring.

The crowd was dispersing, and she spotted a red flag flapping in the stiff, ever increasing wind.

With a new sense of urgency Tove scurried through the crowd. “Sorry,” she said, nearly colliding with a woman carrying a basket of rye bread.

When she reached Wanda’s home, she banged on the door.

It opened quickly, and a woman with plaited gray hair opened it. “Aye?”

“I’m Tove, from Cativad. My mother, Ingrid, told me to come to you.”

“Aye, Tove of Cativad, come in.” She smiled and swung the door wider. “You are the last of my girls to arrive.”

“Your girls?”

“Aye, the princess has her own women to help her prepare for tonight.”

Tove stepped in and was glad of the warmth from a large central fire. “The princess will need the most preparation as she is the one who will be chosen as queen. I do not require much more than to be presentable to the crowd.”

Wanda waggled her finger. “Do not be so sure she will be chosen. Our king is unpredictable.”

“But she is beautiful and rich.”

“I would not disagree, but are those the qualities King Njal wishes to find in his new wife?”

“Wouldn’t every man want that?”

Wanda shrugged and walked to a pot of steaming broth. She ladled some into a bowl and handed it to Tove. “Here, eat, then you can bathe and dress. Tonight, your life may change forever.”

“I doubt that.”

Again, Wanda didn’t answer, instead walking to a young woman who was tending a green tunic with a needle and thread.

“Thank you for the broth,” Tove said.

Wanda smiled. “You look like you could do with it.”

The door burst open again, the wind pushing it into a stool and knocking a bowl to the floor.

A woman, flame-haired, stood there panting. Her eyes were wide, her breasts almost spilling from her tunic.

“Gert!” Wanda turned to her.

“Arne, he is…” She spun to look over her shoulder. “He is furious with me.”

“What have you done this time?” Wanda asked.

“Naught… much.”

“That is for your husband and my nephew to decide.” Wanda pointed to a woven screen. “But you may catch your breath behind there.”

“Thank you.” Gert rushed forward, again almost bumping into Tove and this time nearly spilling her precious broth.

“Where is she?” The doorway filled with an ogre of a man, his wide shoulders almost touching the frame and his boots caked in mud. “Where is that wife of mine?”

Gert let out a yelp. “No!”

A deep growl rumbled from his throat and he lunged forward. “You. Wench. You will feel the wrath of my hand into next week.”

“No. Please.” Gert gripped the screen. “I am sorry. I beg you. Have mercy.”

He took no notice of her plea and grabbed her upper arm. They jostled and the screen half fell revealing a bed strewn with furs.

He pushed her to the bed and she landed on her belly. With a flick of his hand he dragged up her tunic to reveal her undergarments.

“Arne. No.” Gert wriggled and writhed but to no avail. If anything it rucked up her clothing more. “Please.”

Arne was too big and strong, and he set a huge hand in the small of her back and pinned her down. “Keep still, you are making my plans for your punishment worse, wife. Much worse.” He yanked at the material covering her round ass and pulled it down, exposing her pale buttocks.

Gert yelped and attempted to shield her ass with her hands.

He batted her attempts away, and delivered a hard swift slap to the center of her cheeks.

She yelped again and kicked up her heels.

This seemed to infuriate him more and he crouched over her, setting a rapid rhythm, layering up the spanks over both buttocks.

Tove watched as Wanda closed the door and retrieved the bowl. She’d never seen an argument with such heat, anger, and passion. It was as if they were in the room alone. Nothing else existed except the punishment Arne was determined to deliver.

The other girls continued with their preparations. Wanda stirred the broth again.

But Tove was mesmerized. The slap, slap sound of flesh on flesh filled her ears. Gert’s desperate wriggling and her rippling, reddening ass cheeks was all she could look at.

Her own buttocks tingled and her nipples tightened. She gripped the broth tighter.

Arne reminded her of the giant brutes from her dreams. All muscle and fury, domination and grit. His narrowed eyes were alive with fire and he too was breathing fast.

On and on the spanking continued. Gert cried out and begged him to stop.

Her words fell on deaf ears.

When his attentions went to the backs of her thighs, her screeches became more high-pitched.

“You will not waste food again,” he bellowed. “Nor give it away.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears streaked down her face. “The wanderer was hungry!”

“Wanderers are not welcome here. On new order of King Njal.”

Suddenly Arne stopped spanking his wife and flipped her over.

She was naked from the waist down except for her boots. The patch of hair on her mound was dark, the skin of her thighs snow white.

He grunted and fiddled with his belt, quickly releasing it.

“Arne.” Gert stared up at him, her fists full of furs and her face wet and hot.

“You drive me to insanity, woman,” he said, releasing his cock.

Tove caught barely a glimpse of his member before he angled it at his wife’s spread sex and blasted in with the force of an ogre.

Gert cried out. Her back arched and her legs hooked up around his waist.

It had sounded to Tove like the action of taking her husband into her body pained her, but her reaction—clinging to him, pulling him closer—told her the opposite.

“Ah, sweet, wicked cunny,” Arne said, pushing his wife’s hair from her brow and staring into her eyes. “You anger and tempt me in equal measures.”

“Oh, Arne,” she gasped. “I am at your mercy. I am yours.”

“Aye, wife. You are.” He thrust his hips harder, pulling out, driving in.

The bed frame creaked. The screen fell a little bit more.

Tove’s mouth was dry and she licked her lips. Her parents had never behaved this way. Was it normal? Was that why no one else was taking any notice? Or was it just Arne and Gert who behaved like this and everyone was used to it?

She had no idea.

Their coupling was intensifying, Arne grinding in hard, as though on a mission to fell a tree or hunt down a wolf.

Tove could tell that nothing would stop him finding his pleasure now in his wife’s punished body, the man taking what he wanted.

But Gert too was gasping and crying out. Her hands had locked in his long hair and she was moaning. The tempo was frantic.

Tove pressed her legs together. Heat was growing between her thighs. It went upward, to her sex, to her belly, the sensation exciting, expectant, anticipatory.

She knew their climax was coming, that their feral, noisy coupling was about to reach a crescendo.

And then it was there. Gert cried out. A long, pleasure-soaked wail that seemed to go right through Tove too.

Arne let out a string of praises to the All Father that ended on a long groan.

They stilled, Arne sprawled over his wife with his face buried in her neck.

She tenderly pushed his hair aside and kissed his ear.

“Tove, girl. Eat your broth.”

Tove tore her attention to Wanda. “I… er… yes. Thank you.”

“As you can see,” Wanda said, leaning close, like a conspirator. “If you get chosen you will need your strength. And my nephew Arne, he’s a butterfly in comparison to the king.”