Page 93 of A Tale of Two Vikings

“Can my life get any worse than this?” Toste asked.

Without asking, Bolthor walked over to the fire and got a bucket of hot water warming there. He dumped it in the tub, figuring that Toste was getting cold, if not wilted.

“Well, actually, life could get worse.” Tykir stared at him grimly. “I fear for Esme…oh, you are no danger to her…but her father and brothers are. They are a scurvy lot. I suspect that her early years at home were not pleasant.”

“You know, I had the same feeling,” Eirik said. “There are some men who hate women. They marry them, have daughters and sisters and yet, at heart they hate women.”

“I love women—always have.” Tykir took a long swig from the mug of ale he’d brought with him.

“We know,” everyone else said.

“Don’t let Alinor hear you say that, though,” Eirik told his brother.

“She knows. As long as I keep my hands and my manpart to myself—and her—she does not mind.”

“That’s what women say, but it is not what they really feel,” Bolthor advised. Bolthor giving Tykir advice about women was like a nun giving a harem houri advice on swiving.

Tykir turned his attention back to Toste. “What I was trying to say before I was so rudely interrupted, Toste, is that you must not be too harsh with Esme till you understand from whence she came. And she came from a snake pit.”

“Mayhap that means she is a snake, too.” Toste refused to make excuses for the deceitful witch.

“Or a mouse who has managed to escape the snakes…thus far,” Eirik offered.

They discussed the situation further while Toste dried himself off and dressed in clean clothes lent to him by Eirik. They all went down to the great hall then to partake of the evening meal. The subject of Esme was avoided by everyone. It was midnight before Toste made his way down the path again, carrying a bundle of food, soap, linens, a comb and various other items.

He wondered if Esme would be waiting for him, wide-eyed and scared. Would she beg for mercy? Or suffer in silence?

Instead, as he was about to open the door, he heard the oddest thing. Whistling. His captive, who should be shaking-in-her-skin fearful, was bloody hell whistling.

Turnabout is fair play…or is that fun play?…

Esme was lying flat on her back, naked, whistling. She always whistled when she was nervous. She was really nervous now.

“You are a terrible whistler,” Toste remarked as he hung his cloak on a wall peg and then threw several logs on the fire.

“The quality of the whistle is not so important as the fact that I whistle at all.” Dumb, dumb, dumb! The man is making me dumb. Next I will be conversing about the quality of breathing. “Believe you me, whistling has been the only thing to keep me sane on many an occasion in the past.”

His eyes shot up at her words. He waited for her to elaborate. Hah! She would not tell him she’d whistled when her father’s birch rod whipped her back. She would not tell him she’d whistled when her brothers had locked her in a root cellar for two full days as part of a youthling prank. She would not tell him she’d whistled on many an occasion at the nunnery when her loneliness had become nigh unbearable.

“To be a good whistler, you must wet your whistle first,” he told her and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

He must be as dumb as I am…continuing a lackwit discussion on the art of whistling when there are more important things to discuss, like my imprisonment. “I don’t need to—”

It was too late. He was already leaning down and outlining her lips with the tip of his tongue. She noticed irrelevantly that he must have shaven his face and his skin smelled of soap. Then he dipped his tongue inside her mouth and laved her lips with moisture. Over and over he did this till her lips were more than moist. Then he stuck his tongue inside again, and kissed her long and deep. As much as she disliked the rogue, her body liked his ministrations. Well! she thought. Wellwellwell!

He pulled back just slightly and said against her wet mouth, “Now whistle.”

Apparently, I’m the only one overcome with passion here. “Whistle this!” she said and nipped his lips before he could pull away.

He jerked back, then stood. “Not a smart move, Esme. Now you will have to be punished even more.” He rubbed his mouth as if she’d severely wounded him when in fact she hadn’t even broken the skin. “But first, are you hungry?”

She nodded.

“Good,” he said and took great pleasure in making her eat tiny morsels of manchet bread dripping with honey from his hand, like a pet dog. After each bite, he forced her to lick clean his fingers. She seriously considered, biting one of those appendages, but decided to pick her battles. She suspected that licking his fingers might be the least of the offenses he planned to inflict upon her. When she finished, he gave her a cup of cool water, then asked, “Do you have to relieve yourself, Esme?”

She did, but she would wet the bed afore she let him put a pan under her bottom and watch her empty her bladder.

He just laughed when she raised her chin defiantly. Then he loosened her ties, telling her, “I’m only untying you for a few moments while I go out to gather wood for the fire. You have a very short amount of time to take care of yourself,” he said, pointing to the chamber pot in the far corner.