Edda dropped her wash basket into the dirt as a cry went up
in the village. Such a racket could only mean one thing: the dragonships had
returned. Uttering a little cry of her own, Edda hiked up her skirts and ran
for the shore as though she were a girl and not a woman married.
As she neared the waters, she saw the prow of Valgard’s
ship, the Odinsvolk , not carved as a traditional dragon as the rest, but
rather as a mighty, snarling wolf. Valgard’s first great deed had been slaying
a mankilling wolf at the tender age of 8. He had done much else since—Valgard
Thorson’s name was sung throughout the land as a great hero—but people still
told the tale of Valgard and the wolf in the hushed tones reserved for legend.
Edda dropped the hem of her skirt as she neared the crowd
welcoming their warriors home. It wouldn’t do for a woman of high standing
to be seen so undignified , she thought, with a soft snort to herself. No
matter that all she truly wanted at this moment was to throw herself into
Valgard’s arms.
“And for you, little Sveni, your man Harald has brought you
back wine so sweet that even his face will be a pleasure to look upon
once you drink of it!” boomed a deep baritone voice that sent chills down
Edda’s spine. “Say nothing of the jewelry. I had thought perhaps to put it upon
your husband to improve his countenance further. No need to thank me!” A roar
of laughter went up as Harald, plain of face and kind of heart, lifted both his
chest of spoils and his slight wife and set single-mindedly off for their home.
Edda pushed through the merry, laughing crowd, impatient to
see her husband. Her heart constricted in her chest as she spotted him, tossing
treasure from the decks of his ship down to his faithful friend Thialfi
Arnlaughson. When he laid eyes on her, Valgard let out a great whoop of joy,
leaping down from the prow. Edda winced, not eager to see her husband’s leg
broken within minutes of their reunion, but Valgard landed nimbly as a cat and
charged toward her, spinning her around.
“My beautiful Edda!” He laid a passionate kiss on her lips,
much to the amusement of the onlookers. “For weeks I have thought my eyes were
growing weak as I gazed on the ever-graying shores of the Picti, until at last
I realized they simply thirst to see your face again.” She buried her face
against his chest, smelling Valgard’s familiar scent. As she pressed her body
to his, Edda felt heat building deep in her groin. She was separated from
Valgard’s muscled chest and leather armor by only a linen shift, her nipples
pricked and hardened, reminding her that it had been a long time since she had
been with her husband.
Much to her disappointment, he pulled away slightly. “Soon,
my love,” he murmured in her ear. “You know I must see to duty first.”
Edda sighed, crossing her arms over her breasts to hide her
arousal. Though Valgard was well-respected and well-liked, he was not the
village headman. Edda secretly thought that if Valgard were to challenge old
Jonakr Agmundson for the role, the people would welcome him as their leader
with open arms, but Valgard refused to try, saying only that he preferred the
freedom to come and go as he would. Edda was sorry for it, both because she
would like for Valgard to stay by her side, and because Jonakr was no great
leader.
He and Jonakr had butted heads two years ago when one of
Valgard’s fighters had died, leaving a young widow and son behind. Jonakr had
craftily insisted that the widow could not inherit her husband’s treasure
without wedding a new husband first, suggesting that he himself might make a
good match for the comely young thing. Valgard, perhaps seeing the horror in
the young woman’s eyes at the thought of being second wife to such an old man,
had intervened, although he had no authority to do so. The woman, he argued,
would be better-suited to a man who had no sons, so her son would not be
forgotten as an heir. When a young warrior
in the village. Such a racket could only mean one thing: the dragonships had
returned. Uttering a little cry of her own, Edda hiked up her skirts and ran
for the shore as though she were a girl and not a woman married.
As she neared the waters, she saw the prow of Valgard’s
ship, the Odinsvolk , not carved as a traditional dragon as the rest, but
rather as a mighty, snarling wolf. Valgard’s first great deed had been slaying
a mankilling wolf at the tender age of 8. He had done much else since—Valgard
Thorson’s name was sung throughout the land as a great hero—but people still
told the tale of Valgard and the wolf in the hushed tones reserved for legend.
Edda dropped the hem of her skirt as she neared the crowd
welcoming their warriors home. It wouldn’t do for a woman of high standing
to be seen so undignified , she thought, with a soft snort to herself. No
matter that all she truly wanted at this moment was to throw herself into
Valgard’s arms.
“And for you, little Sveni, your man Harald has brought you
back wine so sweet that even his face will be a pleasure to look upon
once you drink of it!” boomed a deep baritone voice that sent chills down
Edda’s spine. “Say nothing of the jewelry. I had thought perhaps to put it upon
your husband to improve his countenance further. No need to thank me!” A roar
of laughter went up as Harald, plain of face and kind of heart, lifted both his
chest of spoils and his slight wife and set single-mindedly off for their home.
Edda pushed through the merry, laughing crowd, impatient to
see her husband. Her heart constricted in her chest as she spotted him, tossing
treasure from the decks of his ship down to his faithful friend Thialfi
Arnlaughson. When he laid eyes on her, Valgard let out a great whoop of joy,
leaping down from the prow. Edda winced, not eager to see her husband’s leg
broken within minutes of their reunion, but Valgard landed nimbly as a cat and
charged toward her, spinning her around.
“My beautiful Edda!” He laid a passionate kiss on her lips,
much to the amusement of the onlookers. “For weeks I have thought my eyes were
growing weak as I gazed on the ever-graying shores of the Picti, until at last
I realized they simply thirst to see your face again.” She buried her face
against his chest, smelling Valgard’s familiar scent. As she pressed her body
to his, Edda felt heat building deep in her groin. She was separated from
Valgard’s muscled chest and leather armor by only a linen shift, her nipples
pricked and hardened, reminding her that it had been a long time since she had
been with her husband.
Much to her disappointment, he pulled away slightly. “Soon,
my love,” he murmured in her ear. “You know I must see to duty first.”
Edda sighed, crossing her arms over her breasts to hide her
arousal. Though Valgard was well-respected and well-liked, he was not the
village headman. Edda secretly thought that if Valgard were to challenge old
Jonakr Agmundson for the role, the people would welcome him as their leader
with open arms, but Valgard refused to try, saying only that he preferred the
freedom to come and go as he would. Edda was sorry for it, both because she
would like for Valgard to stay by her side, and because Jonakr was no great
leader.
He and Jonakr had butted heads two years ago when one of
Valgard’s fighters had died, leaving a young widow and son behind. Jonakr had
craftily insisted that the widow could not inherit her husband’s treasure
without wedding a new husband first, suggesting that he himself might make a
good match for the comely young thing. Valgard, perhaps seeing the horror in
the young woman’s eyes at the thought of being second wife to such an old man,
had intervened, although he had no authority to do so. The woman, he argued,
would be better-suited to a man who had no sons, so her son would not be
forgotten as an heir. When a young warrior
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