Elizabeth Chadwick - The Conquest

'I want to breed her to Sleipnir,' he answered. 'And there is no way on God's good earth that I am bringing him back across the narrow sea. Once was enough. She has mated well with Orage, I won't deny it, but I want to see the result of putting her to the grey. There are some other mares I have a mind to take too.'

Her eyes clouded. 'That means you will be spending much of your time in England.'

'For a while, until the lands are more settled, and the breeding established.' He ceased stroking the mare and sat down on the river bank where Arlette had organised a picnic. In the village he knew that his people would be dancing around the maypole and indulging in various pagan rites connected with the celebration of the fertility of spring. Father Hoel would be among them, scattering blessings and holy water in a vain attempt to Christianise the proceedings. Rolf would have preferred to join the dancing and oversee the feast he had provided for his people, but Arlette, full of righteous disapproval, had suggested the alternative of dining by the river in the sunshine, adding that in the month he had been home, they had scarcely been together except at retiring time.

He had complied, for it gave him the opportunity to inspect his horses, nor was he averse to a lazy hour beside the peace of the river. Besides, the May celebrations would go on all day, and well into the night. And the night was usually the best part.

Watched closely by her mother, Gisele toddled about on the grass, constantly plumping down on her fat little bottom. Delicate pale gold curls escaped the edges of her linen bonnet and framed a dainty face that was Arlette's in immature miniature. Rolf took her on his lap, but she struggled free immediately.

'Want Mama,' she whined, and tottered over to Arlette. Shrugging, Rolf dug a stone out of the ground and threw it at the water. It vanished with a plop, leaving only the ripples radiating downstream. Arlette directed a squire to pour him wine from the stone bottle that had been cooling in the shallows.

'Perhaps I could go with you to England,' she suggested tentatively as she settled Gisele on her own knee.

'No!' Rolf snarled, surprising himself as much as his wife with the vehemence of his denial. He realised, as her great, grey eyes rested on him in shock, that he did not want her bringing her dainty ways, her mouse-like attention to detail, to the robust simplicity of Ulverton. England belonged to his spirit and he did not want his wife interfering, no matter how good her intentions. 'No,' he modified his tone. 'It would be too dangerous.'

'But other Norman women are there,' she objected. 'What about Felice de Remy?'

'Felice de Remy almost died in England,' Rolf said impatiently. 'Even when I sailed, she had not recovered her full strength. And not every Saxon is as good-hearted as the one who saved her life and that of her child. It is no place for you, Arlette.'

'But I want to be with you. How will I bear sons for Brize-sur-Risle if you are never here?'

'I am here now,' he said. 'Every night for a month I have sown my seed in your furrow. It is not for want of my attention that you have begun your flux.'

Her pretty mouth drooped and she lowered her eyes. 'I know, Rolf. I wish I conceived more easily. If only we could…'

'I need you to govern Brize in my absence,' he forestalled her plea. 'It is unwise for us both to be away. What if there was a storm in the narrow sea and we both drowned, or our ship was attacked by Dublin pirates? What would become of Brize-sur-Risle then?'

'I'm sorry, Rolf, I didn't think.'

He rose jerkily to his feet and walked along the river bank a little way. What he had said was true, but it was an excuse to keep her away from England. He did not want her finely manicured fingers meddling in that particular pie. He felt a twinge of conscience. Perhaps he would take her to William's court. The Duke was currently accepting the adulation of his populace at Fecamp with a bevy of English hostages in his train and a treasure house of English booty — artefacts of gold and silver, heavily crusted embroideries, books and church ornaments. Arlette would like that. She would be able to wear her new gown of green silk damask and the gold Saxon round brooch he had brought her from Ulverton. In fact, he would quite enjoy parading her before his fellow Normans. Not having borne many children, her figure was supple and slender, well suited to the new fashion for closer-fitting garments. Other men would admire her demure prettiness and feel envious of the man who possessed its obedience.

Arlette and Gisele returned to the keep, and Rolf joined his villagers in their May Eve celebrations. A huge bonfire had been kindled on a low slope above the village and the people capered around it, their blood warm with cider and the vigorous surge of springtime currents. A man and a woman, each with a tabor, beat out an ancient, insistent rhythm while alternate circles of women and men performed the sacred dance, and all of them wore at least one item of green to symbolise the clothing of the earth in new life.

The light faded from the sky, leaving a teal luminescence. Older women carried querulous, sleepy children home to bed. The unmarried, the unattached and the drunk remained to dance in the Beltane ring, honouring a religion far more ancient than the one that the poor, isolated priest was trying to uphold.

Rolf accepted a cup of rough, golden cider from a grinning villager, and watched Father Hoel depart in the direction of the keep, there no doubt to commiserate with Arlette about the blasphemous collection of pagans who made up his flock.

Rolf joined the dancers, linking his arms with his overseer and Brize's blacksmith. They faced the fire, circling, stepping to the beat of the tabor. Then they faced the women and circled in the opposite direction. Three times the move was repeated before the men separated and the women were passed through in a handfasting figure of eight to become the inner ring. The links were reforged and the dance continued.

Rolf's eye fell upon one of the village women. Her tossing corn-blonde hair was bound back from her brow by a crown of white hawthorn, the symbol of the fertility goddess. Her face was flushed with exertion and her breasts and hips jiggled suggestively as she twisted and turned in the motion of the dance. Hand over hand, Rolf passed her from inside ring to outer. The side of her breast, heavy and soft, brushed against his arm; the musky scents of hawthorn blossom and sweat filled his nostrils. His loins began to burn.

In and out, weaving the darkness with a living thread. The drums and the cider banished all thought and left only touch. A dark-haired girl, slender as a weasel, swept her hand across Rolf's groin in a feather-light touch that left his manhood as huge and hard as the maypole at the foot of the slope. Her eyes glistened; she drew a thick tress of hair across his face and arched her spine, offering him the thrust of her small, pert breasts.

Rolf swung her round into the arms of one of the village men and sought the blonde woman instead. She seemed momentarily surprised to be chosen, but when his hands settled on her hips and he pulled her out of the dance, she went willingly into the shadows with him.

Her breasts were large and soft from the suckling of several children, there was a gentle roll of fat on her belly and her hips were wide and meaty. But Rolf saw none of this. His only care was that she spread herself willingly to accept him. All sensation was concentrated in his swollen shaft and aching cods. He grasped her ample buttocks and plunged in hard. Her thighs gripped him; she struck her heels on the ground and circled her hips to meet his thrusts. Blonde hair tossed in Rolf's face. He felt the surge of power rising inexorably within him. He tried to slow his thrusts and prolong the pleasure, but the woman urged him on, kneading his back with her hands, pumping her hips in a relentless, slick rhythm, and making small, inarticulate cries.

It was too much. Rolf jammed into her, his spine arching. 'Ailith!' he sobbed through his teeth as his seed pulsed from his body into the woman beneath him.

He roused to the flickering light of the bonfire behind his eyes, to the shouts and laughter of the people who still danced, the whispered moans of those who had succumbed to the lure of wearing the green' in the form of grass stains on their clothing. Slowly he withdrew himself from the woman and tucked himself back inside his braies. .

'What was that word you shouted, my lord?' His partner tugged her bunched-up skirts back down over her legs and sat up beside him. Her fingers combed through her coarse blonde hair and she straightened the hawthorn crown on top of her head. 'Was it a charm?'

Rolf shook his head. He had not intended to cry out at all, but the intensity of his climax, the fair hair, the body arched beneath him in passion, had roused a powerful spectre from his imagination and clothed it with life. 'A charm,' he repeated and smiled with irony. 'I suppose you could call it that. An English one.' He tugged a strand of her hair and grinned. 'Riding always gives me a thirst. Go and fetch a jug of cider, there's a good lass.'

She wove unsteadily away to do his bidding. Rolf reclined on the grass, pillowed his head on his hands, and looked at the stars.

The worse for drink, old Ragnild tottered out of the shadows and regarded Rolf with gleaming, weasel eyes. 'You will get what you desire, Rolf de Brize.' She nodded as if listening to an invisible presence. 'But not without a reckoning. Break your faith, and the axe will break you.'

He jerked to a sitting position, intending to ask her what she meant, but his companion returned with a brimming jug of cider and plumped herself down beside him. Ragnild rummaged in the pouch at her waist and brought out a scrap of linen which had been twisted and tied to hold herbs. 'A pinch is all you need,' she cackled, dropping it in Rolf's lap so that it landed over the area of his genitals. 'Keep you firm as a quarterstaff all night if you've a mind to pleasure.' With a lascivious roll of her hips and a wink, she moved on towards the bonfire.

Rolf swore and hurled the scrap of linen after her, but later, in the aftermath of a second, more leisurely mating, he retrieved it from the grass and stowed it in his pouch. His head spinning with the force of the cider and the Beltane scents of crushed grass, sweat and sex, he wondered what Ragnild had meant about the axe and breaking faith.