The Last Marigold

The Völva

Wolfgard awoke to the blinding light of the morning sun. A gentle stirring along his side alerted him to the soft presence of a woman. It was the Moor, the Marigold he had taken from Sven. He had bid her rest with him during the night. She at one end of the bed and he at the other. Somehow, they wound up tangled in each other. Her nearness brought with it a calmness, that made everything around it grow silent. She was a boon to his spirit. She had been able to soothe him, where others had failed. He could not recall a night of such restful sleep. It must be the strange and alluring gift of this girl. 

His Marigold's thickly rounded derriere innocently grazed his manhood, as she slept. An erection he perpetually maintained since meeting her, nestled neatly in the cleft of her backside. She moaned seductively, increasing his need to bury himself inside warm wet folds. He leaped from the bed and standing quickly to don his breeches. He would not have her witness the effect she had on his body.

He stood before a barrel of water, then plunged his head in as deeply as he could go. Praying that the cold water would clear his thoughts of the thrall in his bed. He had no time for women. He was Jarl now that Sigvat was gone. He would need to gather supplies and silver for the journey back to Northumbria. He would need to consult the Völva. She was the shaman who read the will of the Gods. His father made of habit of traveling with Brunhild. His father acted only by the will of the Gods and now the task fell to him. 

He looked back at the Marigold curled beguilingly in his bedding. She was young. She had likely only seen eighteen winters. From her reactions to him, she was unmarried. A flower that just begun to unfold. He would not be the one to do the plucking. He refused to be taken over by lust for her, not when her status of thrall could never change and would be never changed. He would bed and wed for power and position. For the advancement of his people. When his use of her was done, he would make a gift of her to one of his men. 

He threw a dark blue tunic over his head before rushing out of the tent. Somerhild caught his eye, as she moved about her chores. She was walking when he caught her by the elbow. 

"Come Somerhild, we must speak," He pulled her to a quiet corner of the encampment to ensure discretion.  "I wish you to work with the Marigold today." 

Confusion marred Somerhild's features, "Lord, what or who is the Marigold?"

Wolfgard sighed and rolled his eyes, when had he begun to strictly refer to the girl as the Marigold? "She is the Moorish woman in the tent. I want you to teach her our culture, customs, and language. I want that by the time we make port in Lindisfarne, she will have a working knowledge of our language. Go to her. See it done," Wolfgard said releasing Somerhild to her work. 

"Yes, Lord. What chores is she to do then?" 

"She tends me and only me. She cooks my meals, mends my clothing, and shares my bed at night." Wolfgard was aware of how it sounded when he said it and when it made the rounds around the camp how others might perceive it but he cared not. The girl had an uncanny ability to appease the storm raging inside him. For now, he could not give that up. 

Somerhild hid a perceptive smile, "Yes, Lord, it will be done." She turned and walked towards his tent. 

He made his way through the encampment, his men greeted him as he went. He neared the Völva's tent when he saw Alrik standing in the path waiting for him. His shoulder-length copper locks, shining from the days wash. His well-groomed features rivaling any of the men heralded in song. For his was an easy sort of handsomeness that happened without much effort. He was a man prone to quick smiles and boundless risibility. He was loyal to Wolfgard without question. They shared a blood bond, as close as brothers, though, Alrik was his Uncle's son.