Patricia Bates Read online

  Master’s Mistress

  By

  Patricia Bates

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Champagne Books

  www.champagnebooks.com

  Copyright © 2009 by Patricia Bates

  ISBN 978-1-897445-71-6

  March 2009

  Cover Art © Amanda Kelsey

  Produced in Canada

  Champagne Books

  #35069-4604 37 ST SW

  Calgary, AB T3E 7C7

  Canada

  Dedication

  To all my family, who supported me in this venture. To my big guy – James – I love you so very much from Mommy, and to Georgie, Suzannah, and Dar who have to be the best writing partners out there! Thanks so very much. 5

  One

  Brattalh’id, Norway

  Spring 883

  His heavy weight on her chest made her struggles futile. Amoda bucked and twisted under him, finally freeing her hands. She scratched his face, raking her nails deeply across the weathered skin, drawing blood and curses of pain.

  The stench of stale wine and sweat filled her senses, drowned her in helplessness, and added to her horror. She screamed. Her fists pummeled his shoulders. She pulled his hair. Desperately, she kicked him as his calloused hand crept under her tunic to maul a bare breast.

  “Too much for the Prince to handle, I say. What he doesn’t know can’t trouble him.” Rognvaldr sneered. His hot breath washed over her face and neck, spittle splattering on the bare flesh.

  “The King will kill you for this!” She clawed at his bare arms. Her teeth sunk into flesh, biting, ripping until he retreated. Weeping, she curled into a ball as the shadowy figure hobbled out of her chamber. The cold morning air whispered over her torn clothes, caressing her exposed flesh.

  Amoda pulled her tunic and apron around her and stood on shaky legs. Sunlight streamed across the floor; a cruel reminder of her misery. Head bent, she hurried out the door to clean up before she began her day’s chores.

  Amoda Ni Cormac tossed three more logs onto the flames before she strained to lift the pot of water to boil. She tensed when she heard the heavy shuffle of footsteps approach. A shudder raced through her, and she eased the pot down onto the hearth.

  Amoda gathered her skirts and tiptoed to the corner of the kitchen. Moving aside the wooden door, she slipped inside the tight crawlspace. She ran her hands over her the goose-prickled flesh of her bare arms and winced as she encountered the bruises from her last beating. She cringed as memories flooded through her.

  Amoda refused to allow the memories to haunt her and pushed them aside by sheer force of will. Instead, she focused on the small kitchen she normally toiled her days away in.

  Through the small slit in the crawlspace door, Amoda watched Rognvaldr’s bony hand pick up a nearby ladle. He muttered his vile words in a tone so soft she could barely hear them, but she knew what he said.

  “Worthless, ungrateful little whore. You don’t deserve to be alive. You aren’t worthy of being a Prince’s concubine.”

  Shakily, he filled a bowl with hearty soup and retreated through the narrow, darkened doorway. Certain he had left the kitchen, she crawled out of hiding and stood waiting uneasily for the coming punishment. Her fingers plucked at the threadbare fabric of her clothes, and she shuddered as Rognvaldr’s rant grew in volume.

  “Stupid girl. Never know where she is. She hasn’t learned at all from my teachings. Olaf will cure her of the lack of obedience. Amoda! Come here!”

  Rushing to the back entrance, she emerged in the doorway of the next room. “Yes, master?”

  “Lord Tyr summoned you.” Rognvaldr slurped at the soup, his gaze never moving from the steaming bowl.

  “When do we leave?” She feared the uncertainty of what awaited her at the castle, but what awaited her within this small cabin was worse. From Rognvaldr’s obsessive rants, she had come to the realization that her ‘teachings’ had been only a means to an end.

  “We leave before first light.” Eyes marred by disease and age stared at her face. “There is a wedding we are to attend. Aye, a grand celebration for the king and his eldest son. It is time to join your true master.”

  Amoda nodded slowly and turned to vanish back into the shadows of the small kitchen. In the flickering glow of a single candle, she collected the items needed for the journey. Her mind raced with thoughts of her future at the castle. She’d been a small child, no more than six, when she’d arrived on the shores of Tyr’s realm, and now, at nineteen, her future lay before her. Her years of training to be a bed slave to Prince Olaf had come full circle, and her time had run out.

  She had not been welcomed several years before when she’d gone to celebrate Prince Olaf’s first wedding. She’d watched the women in their gowns trimmed with fur and jewels laugh while the music played. Bitter, disdainful looks cast upon her from those in attendance. Men drunk on wine and ale laughed boisterously and told war stories, each more embellished then the last. Listening to their words, seeing the enjoyment they’d gotten out of their acts; Amoda had struggled with the revulsion and disgust rolling within her stomach.

  Dressed as she had been, in her simple tunic and skirt, she had been unable to hide her status as a mere slave. She followed Rognvaldr closely but still endured the groping and leers of drunken men. Worse than the taunts of the men had been the harsh looks from her master.

  The King himself had looked at her with naked lust, his eyes stripping her bare and promising things she feared. She wondered what awaited her within the towering stones this time. Setting the fire for the night, she retreated to her sleeping area and curled up within her furs. There would be no rest this night.

  Two

  Tyr eyed the gathering before him from his seat at the front of the room. With many of his allies in attendance to witness the wedding of his son, his rule was certain. Their power, and more importantly, their gold, kept him satisfied. He would do whatever was necessary to ensure his kingdom stayed strong.

  A younger man strode into the room, his cloak billowing out behind him. “My Lord.”

  A slight bow from the dark haired young man to his right drew Tyr’s attention. “What is it, Romal?”

  “Prince Mykyl has arrived at the shore. He shall be within the courtyard soon.”

  Tyr smiled and shrugged deeper into his robes as he stepped from his throne. He paused next to his trusted Captain. “Excellent.” Slapping him on the shoulder, he strode towards the door.

  Tyr maneuvered through the crowd of courtiers as quickly as courtesy allowed. A shout from outside made his steps quicken. “Lord of Woodstown has arrived!”

  He hurried through the halls to greet the young man dismounting a grey stallion. His youngest son stood a few inches taller than he did, with his mother’s fair coloring. The long, pale blonde hair touched his shoulders and highlighted the deep tan of a man comfortable out of doors.

  “Mykyl, you arrived safely.” Tyr greeted him with a hearty embrace.

  Mykyl paid little attention to the clamor of the courtyard as he turned to face his father. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Two young lads made short work of rolling his banners to put away until his departure. The clatter of armor as his men dismounted and hooves on stone filled the courtyard as forty men he’d brought to witness his brother’s marriage ceremony
dismounted.

  “When is the ceremony to begin? I have not missed it?” Mykyl handed the reins to one of his father’s slaves. He watched his men leave their mounts to the care of the slaves and hurry into the castle in pursuit of more pleasurable activities. He would have to reprimand them once they departed the welcoming embrace of his father’s castle.

  “Tomorrow morning. And Woodstown is flourishing?” Tyr turned toward the approaching pounding of hooves upon stone.

  Mykyl watched his father’s priest, Rognvaldr, gallop into the yard. Directly behind him rode an unfamiliar young woman. She sat relaxed in the saddle as the animal stopped next to Rognvaldr’s mount. Her long auburn hair fell in waves past her waist to brush against the back of the saddle as she dismounted.

  She looked foreign, with wide set eyes and a small, upturned nose. He found himself aching to stroke the pale, flawless skin untouched by age or disease. She nodded at him slowly; a mere movement of her head, but it was an acknowledgement, one that settled like a familiar touch upon his heart.

  Tyr’s voice boomed out. “I see you made it, Rognvaldr.”

  The disapproval in Rognvaldr’s eyes as he turned to look at the woman irritated Mykyl. He caught the flash of unease in her eyes before they darted to the horses. Mykyl bit back a curse as his father brushed past him to greet the aged priest.

  “Indeed. As you can see she is well.”

  Mykyl watched the other slaves turn to eye the young woman. Her simple, unadorned clothing spoke of low stature—at odds with the length of her vibrant mane.

  “She’s certainly grown more beautiful. Do you not agree, Mykyl? Oh, but I have forgotten you prefer them blonde and blue eyed, do you not?” Tyr eyed the woman with a slight smile.

  “You have done well, Rognvaldr. Your reward shall be as impressive as the girl.”

  Quickly masking his anger at his father’s promise, Mykyl focused on the girl. She held both of the horses, her head bowed, and her lips pressed into an angry, flat line. Turning his attention to the old man, who now faced him directly, Mykyl clasped his outstretched hand in greeting.

  “Welcome, young Prince.” Rognvaldr’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, they cooled considerably as Mykyl stared at him.

  “And her teachings?” Tyr demanded before Mykyl could speak.

  “She’s quite intelligent. Speaks at least three languages as well as reads and writes. A rarity amongst our women, but something I’ve encouraged. Took to my lessons very well, my Lord. As obedient as she should be.”

  Mykyl stared at the old man. Clearly uncomfortable, the priest’s hands trembled as they clung to the folds of his clothing, sweat beaded along his brow, and his eyes darted between the king and himself. The thread of dishonesty within Rognvaldr’s voice intrigued him. If Rognvaldr would lie about the slave’s obedience, what else had he been dishonest about? Mykyl glanced at his father who did not appear to have caught the faint hint in the priest’s voice.

  “Who is that, Father?” Mykyl watched the woman look around the courtyard with hatred and banked rage in her eyes. He felt drawn to her, like a moth to the flickering of a candle.

  “Her name is Amoda, Prince. I’ve been teaching her our ways.”

  Mykyl nodded and glanced at his father. “Is she a slave or a priestess?”

  “Slave.”

  “I have not seen her before.” He felt a familiar stirring within him and shifted at the discomfort in his trousers.

  “She’s been within Rognvaldr’s care from a very young age,” Tyr explained and turned back to the Priest. Mykyl shook his head. Some things never changed. It was obvious that his father’s favor did not lie with him. He did not doubt his father loved him in the distant, aloof manner of all Norsemen. No, quite simply, King Tyr’s attentions directed to his kingdom and his eldest son and heir apparent. Mykyl found himself unhappy to think she might be a gift for his brother. The lazy lout had no need of another woman. Not when he had his choice of women to take, including a bevy of mistresses, a bride to be, and the slaves that occupied the castle.

  “Amoda, come,” Rognvaldr ordered. The girl hurried after the King and his priest.

  “I want her prepared,” the King said.

  Mykyl caught his father’s words and inwardly cringed. His father did not normally care to pamper his slaves in any fashion.

  “Father? What of the girl?”

  “I will give her to Olaf as a wedding present.”

  “Is he not to be wed tonight?”

  “Nay, tomorrow. He is a man of great appetite, my son. You can pick from all the others in my house for your own entertainment.”

  “Aye, Father,” Mykyl said.

  ~ * ~

  Amoda lost the last whispers of music and laughter as she followed the three men deeper into the castle. Massive tapestries stitched in many fashions and colors hung from the halls. Some of them painted while others woven with vibrant, bright colors. Several bore the palpable stains of blood. With each step, Amoda felt sickened by them, by the tales of battles, of royal lines cut short. No pity lay within King Tyr, no mercy for those he had massacred or for the kingdoms he destroyed as easily as one would squash a bug. Screams and pleas for mercy echoed within her as she remembered the fall of her own world. Her mother, two sisters, and a brother had all fallen before Tyr’s sword that day.

  “He will be wed tomorrow and our allegiance with Aedh Aherne will be set.”

  “And what of her?”

  “My son will surely enjoy his prize. You have followed my instructions?”

  “She is as whole as the day you saw her, Lord Tyr. I am most assured that Prince Olaf will enjoy her talents.” Rognvaldr bowed slightly to the King.

  “Indeed.” Amoda clenched her teeth as she listened to their discussion. For all intents and purposes, she could be part of the livestock from what she heard. Rognvaldr had taught her two things. One, a touch meant pain no matter how simple it may be. Two, never surrender. To surrender meant to endure worse punishment than her struggles. Subservient but not weak. Olaf liked a bit of fight in his women.

  Like an unwanted ghost, memories flooded her mind. The sensation of his fingers probing her most secretive of places, the hard press of his erection in her back, a hard hand over her mouth as he crushed her breasts—all of these memories haunted her. Those feelings, those memories were harder to push away than the recollection of beatings.

  Loud, boisterous laughter brought her head up. Before them and filled to capacity, stretched the great hall. Men in fine clothes sat drinking around a large, scarred wooden table. Small groups of women in formal dress spoke in hushed tones and clustered together in the corners of the room. Women and girls scurried around the room, pouring ale and serving platters of meat. They showed no emotion at the lewd remarks and pawing from the men. They worked steadily and without comment or expression.

  At the front of the room, two large chairs sat on a dais flanked on either side by smaller, less ornate chairs. Sitting in one of the chairs, a large, heavy-set man with a flowing beard observed the activity with icy disdain. His thin, pale hair disappeared into the heavy cloak about his shoulders. The cloak covered his shoulders, but did little to hide the sweat-stained under-tunic he wore.

  “The Prince seems to be enjoying himself greatly.” Rognvaldr glanced at the front of the room then to the king at his side.

  “He will certainly enjoy himself tonight.” Tyr winked at his son.

  Amoda inwardly fumed at the casualness, their callous disregard for her in their conversation. In their wisdom, they’d decided her fate.

  A simpering giggle drew her attention to several young girls hiding their mouths behind their hands. Dressed in finery, hair coiffed and braided with gold accents, they huddled together. They eyed her with laughter and disdain. Amoda met their gazes head-on. She felt no shame at their stare. Rather, it inflamed her desire for freedom.

  A startled cry drew everyone’s attention to the front of the room. A woman struggled within the Prince
’s grip. Her blouse held rips, exposing most of one breast, and her skirt bore an ugly wine stain.

  “Nay, my Lord, please. Let me be!” The girl’s cries filled the uneasy silence.

  “Prince Olaf is not in a gentle mood,” Rognvaldr pointed out. He shot Amoda a telling glance, a sneer twisting his aged face as he met her gaze.

  His face mottled with rage, he drew out his dagger and with a quick, ruthless stroke slit the girl’s throat. He tossed the body aside, his gaze searching the room until it stopped upon the trio in the doorway.

  Amoda met his eyes and shivered, suddenly chilled despite the warmth of the midday air. The cold grey eyes stared at her and seemed to strip away every layer of protection and every instinct within her screamed at her to run. She tensed as Prince Olaf waddled toward her. He shoved a young servant boy out of his path, and she took a step back in fear.

  A hard grip encircled her upper arm and she glanced sharply at the man who smirked back at her. “Keep your place.”

  “Who is this?” Olaf’s voice boomed over the room.

  Amoda tried to stem the dismay and fear within her. The stench of his body odor so heavy as to be smothering, she swallowed in a desperate attempt to keep the contents of her stomach in place.

  “My Lord Olaf, this is Amoda. Is she to your liking?” Rognvaldr kept his tight grip on her arm as he made the introductions.

  Nausea rolled within her stomach as small, beady eyes assessed her callously. Calculation gave way to approval, which burgeoned to lust. The thought of Olaf’s touch made Amoda’s skin crawl.

  “Perhaps a sampling?” Olaf chuckled and cupped her jaw in a tight grip. He bent his head to hers.

  Amoda felt the pressure of his lips upon hers. Chapped lips, soaked with grease, bruised her lips. She nearly gagged as his tongue invaded her mouth.

  It took every ounce of willpower to remain passive under his brutal kiss. She wanted to shove him away, to bite his wretched tongue from his mouth until he left her in peace. However, fear of punishment kept her from acting upon her desires.

  “A true gift. Perhaps she could be better prepared. I rather think a bath and attire would highlight her bounty.” A pudgy finger trailed down her throat, circling one breast and pinching at her nipple.