The Sverker Diaries, part twelve
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- Chapter the Sixteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part twelve -
the world of 930
- Chapter the Sixteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part twelve -
the world of 930
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 28 – my Wedding Day
Dear Diary,
The day had arrived.
And what a day!
After breakfast, my little witch and I escorted Kráka to her father to officially return her to her family to mark the end of her time as my ward, and he thanked us for the good work and we exchanged gifts. Then we bid them farewell, and returned home to the longhouse that served my small household while at court, the grandly named chancellor's office, and that's when the fun began.
At the door we found one of the Handy Henchmen with a message from the king. I wondered briefly if it was his old shyness returning, but given that we had just left him in a genial mood in the royal hall, that seemed unlikely. It wasn't. He was having fun with me.
The Henchman told me that King Baldr had decided that the chancellor's office was too mean a home for one of his daughters. While in theory it was merely my ”home away from home”, in practice work kept me so busy that I hardly ever visited my Jarldom of Jutland and relied perhaps overmuch on my steward Thorfinn keeping affairs in order.
Be that as it may, since I lived at court most of the time when not raiding or fighting Baldr's wars, this was my home, and Kráka deserved better than living in an office. So uncle Baldr had ordered a huge longhouse raised nearby and declared it the chancellor's official residence, so in future I'd no longer be entertaining official business at home but next door. It seemed overly bureaucratic to me, but that's kings for you – or at least uncle Baldr.
I let him lead us to our new home. It measured an impressive 80 foot long and 30 foot wide and was built in the new style. Whatever could we possibly do with all that space, I asked my little witch, dumbfounded. It turned out she had some ideas about that. Which she had shared with uncle Baldr before construction, as it turned out.
Two-thirds of the house was devoted to bed-chambers. And not for visiting guests. One end was reserved for the family, and they were properly named stalls, not bed-chambers, she informed me triumphantly as she showed me to the largest bed-chamber. Above the door hang a sign showing a stallion and a mare side by side (and not just any mare, the boss mare, my little witch said), and that was ours. To the right, left, and across from it were were three stalls with signs showing a single mare, all looking eagerly in the direction of the stallion's room. Which ominously suggested that the Grand Plan was back in business and that I'd been lulled into a false sense of security by the Kráka-enforced delay. There were a number of stalls for children as well, though our oldest, Wincenty, is only 6. It pays to be prepared, she told me, and she had plans for communal rearing of children. In enclosed stalls/bed-chambers.
I do not understand modern education.
Our servants and thralls got to live in communal lodgings in the other end of the longhouse, she showed me, and the high seat and central fireplace was closest to the family wing. I already foresaw great difficulty keeping the longhouse heated during winter time.
But my little witch beamed at me proudly, so what could I say but that she'd done a great job? We discussed when we could move in, but the decision really made itself: Later in the week, after the wedding was over and the guests had left. Too much chaos otherwise. And in struck me that we were all alone in this big house and the evening was a long way off, so I suggested to my little witch that we take advantage of this... and she refused, telling me to save myself for Kráka!
So we returned to our old home in the chancellor's office and she agreed to sit in the bearchair while we finalized our strategy for the evening's political dimension, for with so many prominent members of the family present the hunt for support was on. A bit tasteless to do it right under uncle Baldr's nose, I guess, but not unusual in our family. Larger family gatherings are the best venue for talking shop and trading favours. Alas, my little witch viciously enforced a rule of no kissing or fondling during today's plotting, as she claimed she knew me too well to believe I'd stop there despite my assurances to the contrary.
Curses, foiled again.
Afterwards we dressed up for the wedding and walked to the king's hall where it was to take place. I wore my richest clothes and Viola swore I was the most handsome man at court, but she is biased.
It was a great family reunion.
My mother was here, and Tryggvi had made the trip from Ireland to attend. My little sister Unnr was here with her husband, cousin Gormr, Baldr's son. Frogsis and her husband, cousin Thordr, of the Irish Munsö Sigurdr's, had come from Chalons. Njáll, Regelinda, and Dorota were prevented from coming for various reasions, and finally my youngest sister Hólmfridr had come with Mother and Tryggvi. Can't say I ever saw much of her as she was born after I went to court, but she's turned into a fine woman – even if she can't stop speaking about her bethrothed when he isn't present, and lustily eating him up with her eyes when he is.
She's 16, like my bride, and her betrothed is Egill, king Baldr's valiant son. They are set to marry next year when he reaches maturity and king Baldr grants him a Jarldom or two somewhere. They'll probably be good ones too, for Egill is a great lad. Brave, wrathful, and humble, and with looks even the Asa-gods might envy, he is likely to become one of the leading young contenders to succeed king Baldr despite being a bit stupid. He bears watching, that's for sure.
Many other of Krákas numerous siblings were present as well. Baldr had spawned a score children, and they were out in force. All the younger ones born of the wives he took after becoming king, of course, but also several from his first two weddings. Baldr's firstborn, Gudfridr, came, far from his home in the Lower Lorraine. As talkative as ever, his genial personality in full display, he cut a splendid figure. Definitely my favourite cousin amongst Baldr's sons, but also the greatest threat to my ambitions. He's a political animal and has many strong supporters. Though not quite as many as he thinks. There are benefits to my office.
Also present was Emundr, ”the Butcher of Poland”, as vicious a sword-Dane as ever went raiding. Unflappable in the face of danger and proof positive of the dangers of over-education, he is a conceited man. He thinks himself a second Sigurdr, but mistakes unshakable conviction for vision and a high bodycount for accomplishment, and he never quits boasting about it. A throwback to the days of old, in other words, where enemies slain and buckets of blood spilled was the measure of a man. He has quite a following amongst the young and terminally dim, but of the two Gudfridr is the one to watch.
Looking around I saw that cousin Freyr, the “Fucker of Flanders”, son of my aunt Thora, had turned up like a bad coin, which meant that all the main contenders for the throne were in town. Probably in case uncle Baldr should expire from the feast. Such things have been known to happen.
Of the survivors of the older generation, both uncle Bødvar and uncle Arnbjørn attended, though whether as a favour to me or to spend time with the family I could not discern. Probably the latter. At present they were both securely in my corner, but with Egill an incarnation of the older virtues celebrating brawn over brain, I could see uncle Bødvar switching his support in the future.
The wedding feast and ceremony went well. King Baldr may be a shadow of the man he used to be, as age and lack of appetite ravages his body, but for the occasion of the wedding of his favourite daughter he did his utmost and he can still dominate the room.
Kráka was radiant – I guess all brides are – and she wore something undoubtedly expensive that complemented her curves. I can't say I paid much attention as my mind was on politics, but my secondary brain did, and when we finally sat down to feast it demanded I pay attention to the morsel by my side. Strange thing; it never had before, and she didn't look that different from yesterday to me. From this morning, for that matter, but something had changed.
I found myself sneaking glances at her, trying to discover what it was, to IT's great pleasure. Soon it was hinting strongly that bending her over the table and stallionizing her right there and then would be a jolly good way to get over the boring part of the evening, and would enliven the toasts and drunken speeches as well.
This is why it is not in charge.
Eventually the words were said, the gods invoked, and Fylkir Baldr ordered us to go complete our vows. I swept Kráka into my arms and she broke into a big grin – as did I when I noticed that my little witch was cheering Kráka on from the sidelines, giving her a thumbs up, and mimicking a kiss. Kráka gave me a tentative peck on the mouth, accidentally ramming me with her nose, and withdrew mortified, but I made up for it by giving her a kiss that must have curdled her toes, her first adult kiss, and bore her off to the cheers of our families.
The bridal chamber was... much like my last one, really. I guess when you've seen one, you've seen them all. Not that everything was the same. While Kráka was a callow youth, I was not.
So I set her on her feet and took stock. She looked eager with anticipation as well as nervous. Insecure. Trembling a bit, but trying to get a hold of herself. I considered ways of easing the situation like I had done with my little witch at our wedding in years past, but none readily came to mind. We'd been comfortable in each others presence and well acquainted with each other's touch, so relaxing with our old games had been a pleasant way to overcome anxiety, whereas Kráka?
She'd been underfoot and (technically) my ward for eight years, even if Viola had done all the work. Her bright personality and quick wits had always pleased me, when I noticed her at any rate, and my little witch said Kráka had been a good ward, eager to please and learn. I also knew she liked playing with her little sisters and... that was it? I realized that for all of that, I did not know her well enough to name her interests apart from horses (my little witch's indoctrination, no doubt), had no idea about her desires, did not know how to talk to her except by giving orders as the master of the household, and most definitely had no idea know how to calm her down as she stood trembling before me.
...and frankly, I did not care, either. If I had not cared about her the last eight years, it would be hypocritical to pretend I did now. I was overthinking it, and not for the first time. We both knew what we were here for, and I, for one, knew what I wanted. Why complicate matters?
I ordered her to strip, and ripped off my tunic and cast it aside, but she was slow, fumbling at her dress and getting nowhere, clearly enraptured by my manly chest. So I gave her a helping hand or two and if she instinctively flinched from my touch, her body's maidenly innocence overruling her mind's desire, it was no great inconvenience. I knew well from my travels how to handle that with shock and awe tactics, so with only minor tearing of the cloth we soon had her dress off and it joined my tunic on the floor, leaving her stripped down to her særk.
I cheered her on, saying, ”Rejoice, wife, for the best is yet to come!”, and pulled down my trousers.
”I've been waiting half my life for this,” she gushed, and truer words were never spoken, but as she got her first sight of IT rising to tower before her, she shrank from me with a wild look in her eyes (not an uncommon reaction in my experience), and said desperately, ”but merciful Frigg protect me, surely it can wait a little longer. Let's settle down to a drink first. How can I face THAT sober? That's a giant throbbing maypole!”, before finishing in a more pensive tone of voice, “and now it has begun vibrating as well? Is it supposed to do that?”
A maypole? Silly goose. She wasn't supposed to dance around it, but that gave me an idea.
”It is heat-seeking, and the vibration means it has acquired a target,” I explained, ”but if you cannot face it sober, please give me a moment and I'll slip into something more comfortable.” And she'd just asked me whether I meant a særk, when I seized the moment and whipped hers clean off, right over her head, revealing her in all her glory.
“Nice rack,” I complimented her, and she blushed and gave a little squeak as her hands flew to cover it. An instinctive reaction, but a tactical mistake as it left them out of position, and I've never in my life seen anybody as surprised as Kráka when I lifted her up bodily and popped her on the maypole.
Then I marched around the room performing the stallion's dance, as my little witch has named it when our conjoined bodies move to its rhythm, while singing my riding song: ”This is the way the ladies ride, trit-trot, trit-trot, trit-trot”.
But Kráka was no Viola. For one, she was heavier. For another, inexperienced. Her arms clung in a death-grip around my neck but her legs didn't get the message and flailed every which way when I thrust, and if I hadn't had a firm grip of her buttocks and immense strength she'd have fallen off. She made no attempt to do her part in the dance at all and alternated blubbering, moaning with pleasure, and begging me to stop, swinging from one mood extreme to another as her mind was blasted with a host of new sensations by her body awakening to womanhood.
It was a real test of my strength to carry her weight mostly with my arms while sliding her up and down and walking around the room. But am I not built like a bear? I persevered through the fair maid's and farm girl's verses (with repetitions!) doing all the work, and finally her body tired of her mind's dithering and mild obstructionism and locked her athletic legs tight around my waist, fixing her firmly in position. What a difference that made!
As a result the emir's daughter's verse was much more pleasant for both of us, and I had just started on the ”oh-my-lord, oh-my-lord” of the nun's verse, when with a cry of ”Freyja wills it!” Kráka joined in earnest. She contributed to the stallion's dance with more enthusiasm than skill, and two verses later, to my great pleasure and her evident surprise, I erupted and she jerked violently in my arms at the unfamiliar experience.
And if she had not been rather more top-heavy than my usual rider and inexperienced at keeping her balance, I probably would not have tripped and left us sprawling on the floor, with me out of breath and Kráka lying pleasingly on top, laughing hysterically to herself, wide-eyed, desperate, and eager to please.
I recognized her mood as it is a common enough response to my shock and awe tactics in stage one of the breaking, though they have seldom worked so quickly before. That's probably because Kráka is of good blood, a Sigurdr, born to breed and raised in the true faith, and not some weak blooded Christian or Moorish filly, and that meant she was ready for stage two, seduction.
So I slid out and caressed her, telling her that I didn't blame her for the fall as accidents happened and it all added spice to life. I praised her boldness in joining the dance despite her inexperience, and said we'd have a lifetime to perfect it together. That we were meant to be.
That I had seen how good she was at handling the children, and how lovingly she did so, and wouldn't it be something if we made one of our very own, and just think of how proud her father would be when she presented him with her firstborn.
I told her that I had longed for this day for the longest time, and apologized for using her roughly rather than giving her the time she needed, for I had been overcome with lust at the sight of her naked body, desiring nothing more than to possess it forever, and that she had pleased me greatly. I begged her to forgive me, and I continued with such sweet nothings until she calmed down and her body began responding to my touch and she began tentatively exploring mine in turn.
And sooner rather than later she found what she'd been seeking, and asked me whether my rod of lordly might was only good for one shot as it seemed rather diminished. To which I responded that if it didn't scare her any longer, there was a sure-fire way to load it with her help, should she be interested in learning the men's verses of the riding song. Very much so, she assured me, and as IT had already started stirring at her touch, with her gentle ministration it soon revived.
So I rolled her on her back and mounted her, singing, ”This is the way the vikings ride, gallop-a-trot, gallop-a-trot”, and she quickly caught on to her duties this time. During the third verse she experienced her first arching, and it wasn't the only one that night, as I rode her until she fainted from an excess of bliss, and you can't do better by a woman than that.
While waiting for her to come to for another bout, I gave her the old once over, and I must admit that her long athletic legs, broad hips, perfect waist, flat stomach, firm breasts, slender but muscular arms (that death-grip had impressed me), and stunning face all belonged to the class of features that never went out of fashion. Encase it all in flawless skin, her body practically glistening with youth (and sweat), and crown it with long golden hair, throwing in pair of large green eyes for good measure - that was Kráka.
She didn't come close to measuring up to Viola's divine body, but then, what woman would? If I had to make do with a second-rate wife, I could do worse. Once I completed her training I might give her a tumble every few weeks for the sake of variety and to keep her happy, and having a spare mount when my little witch was ill or big with child would be something to look forwards to. Yes, this would work out very well indeed.
So I went to the table and downed a mug of good beer, and when Kráka came to I brought her one to strengthen her before we continued. For the night was young and she was ripe for stage three, loyalty reinforcement.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 28 – my Wedding Day +1
Dear Diary,
I awoke alone in bed to the sound women talking and slid open one eye, and what did I behold but my wives, both fully clothed, alas, sitting at the table in the bridal chamber and having a chat. They both sounded agitated.
That was not how I had hoped for the day after to begin.
”Rise and shine, my stallion”, called my little witch, demonstrating that uncanny ability to detect changes in my sleep state I have come to take for granted, though I cannot fathom how she does it. She says she's just paying attention, but surely there's more to it than that.
She wore a most stern look, so I heeded her words with alacrity and let her chivvy me into dressing, while Kráka watched in silence.
No sooner was I dressed, than Viola herded us off to our new home! What about proof of consummation? I asked, but apparently that was already taken care of. The residence was much as I had left it yesterday, except that now the Mare #1 stall boasted a sign saying Kráka.
My little witch sent Kráka to her stall and me to ours, and told me to occupy myself while she spoke to her. So I asked her why she couldn't tell me first, and she gave an exasperated sigh and slammed the door.
I inspected my new master bedchamber to while away the time, but as we hadn't moved our belongings it was rather bare. Uncle Baldr had helpfully provided a large bed, table, two chairs, and a writing desk – or more likely the Henchmen had done it on my little witch's orders – and I saw that the desk was already supplied with quill, ink, and parchment. My brilliant mind suggested that rather than worry about whatever had Viola agitated, this was the ideal time to update my diary with the tale of my glorious conquest, and I did so, and I was just about to put my finishing touches to it – my memory was rather hazy about the details after the third bout as it had become increasingly strenuous to keep up with Kráka and my body diverted vital essences to where they were needed the most, and my critical faculties were not amongst them - when Viola returned. Given the happy tale recently recollected, I was in a fine fettle and suggested that since the usual morning after was apparently cancelled, how about we test the sturdiness of our new bed? Better make sure of it before we moved in, right?
She gave me such a look as I've rarely seen! I think last time was when I gifted Wincenty a sword at his fourth birthday, and had to listen to the speech about age-appropriate toys. It scared me now as it did then, for Viola in her wrathful aspect is a terror to behold, and I realized that horizontal refreshment was off the table (so to speak).
It struck me that something very serious indeed must have happened. What had caused her to interfere in the morning after? Why had she wanted to talk to Kráka alone first? It could be no little thing. Had something happened to uncle Baldr? Was it to be a day of politics and, possibly, blood-letting? It was too soon! But if I had to make my move, would I be better off taking advantage of the situation with a pre-emptive strike or gathering my supporters close and trying to strike a peace between the family factions when somebody else struck first? With everybody of importance in town for the wedding, it was practically guaranteed that somebody would try to trim the family tree.
It was definitely the wrong day to stay in bed.
But I had misjudged the situation.
“Sverker, my stallion,” my little witch said, “I love you and I cannot live without you. How you have treated other women has hitherho not been a matter of concern to me since stallions have needs, and what's that to me so long as you don't bring trouble home? But Kráka is not just any woman. She's your wife and, more importantly, as your broodmare she is part of the Grand Plan. We need to talk.”
Whatever did she mean by that?
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