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This whole "torment Sif" sequence was too much. I'm laughing so hard my sides hurt.
Sverker has some damn good dialogue and narration in this chapter. Hats off to you, @Peter Ebbesen! I freaking love the arson-murder-jaywalking description of Sif's state of mind:
And this casual escalation below is too damn good:
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Then I got an idea.
An awful idea.
The KING
GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!
Of course, there's the slight possibility that he may have misjudged his wives' and their older half-sister's reactions to his logical solution, but then again, he might not. He's getting wiser to the ways of women these days after all. At least if you ask him about it.
An awful idea.
The KING
GOT A WONDERFUL, AWFUL IDEA!
Hah, I wondered how many would recognize the "idea" quote. Since you quoted it, I'll assume you did, and well done!
Thanks! That's the paragraph I had to rewrite most times for this chapter. Ending it with the "increasing number of chess sets." was part of it from the start, but I had to get the escalation just right: Not too innocent, not too menacing, and making clear that Sverker was very much deliberately messing with Sif's mind, while still sticking to the jovial gloating mood he uses when discussing his various triumphs with his little witch.
It all proceeds rationally from first causes! KISS principle in action.
Of course, there's the slight possibility that he may have misjudged his wives' and their older half-sister's reactions to his logical solution, but then again, he might not. He's getting wiser to the ways of women these days after all. At least if you ask him about it.
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For those seeing video unavailable instead of the link;
Search for Toby the Devil.
By Rowan Atkinson, of course.
There are a couple of versions of it, varied by the age it was played - this one is from 2014, according to the intended url.
Or better: Re-read Born to Breed: House of the Prophets (but imagine the narrative voice as Brian Blessed
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The Sverker Diaries, part seventeen
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- Chapter the Twentyfirst: The Sverker Diaries, part seventeen -
the world of 933
- Chapter the Twentyfirst: The Sverker Diaries, part seventeen -
the world of 933
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
I sailed up to Lundenborg on the Thames to pick up my present for Sif. The blacksmith was proud of his work, and rightfully so.
He'd had taken my instructions and turned out a masterpiece. It was truly exquisite craftsmanship, the whole greater than the sum of the parts, and every piece measured and blessed by a priest of Freyr. The smith had met my strict time limit, so I doubled his reward and gave him a solid gold arm ring as a bonus.
Some might consider it excessive, but it never hurts to get a reputation as a generous ring giver.
Others might say that this was going too far for a practical joke, but what's the point in being a king if you don't indulge yourself every now and then?
I had my men carry the four chests and the collapsible frame back to the longship, and set sail for home.
Sif is going to be so surprised, and possibly scared out of her wits. She'll never see it coming.
This is going to be great!
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32
Dear Diary,
Home, sweet home!
I arrived at noon and my wives greeted me warmly – even Sif's “Hail the Great Violator!” lacked its usual edge – and spent an entire afternoon without killing anybody, without issuing any orders, and without worrying for my life. I handed out presents to my little witch, heavily pregnant with our labours of early summer and glowing as only she can do, and Kráka, and then I told the tale of my war in the east to a rapt audience of my children while my little witch and Kráka looked on fondly, and Sif pretended not to pay attention. And once I was done talking, it was time to hand the children their gifts from abroad, and mayhem erupted.
Once order was restored my wives dispersed to their chores. I, however, went to my room and undressed, and wearing only a long cloak I went to Sif's stall and stealthily crept up on her. She was patching the childrens' clothes, and was so engrossed in her work that she failed to notice me until I loomed over her, blocking the light.
“At last we are alone, Little Violator,” I breathed huskily, “I've been dreaming of this for weeks.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin, but recovered well under the circumstances, and turned to face me.
“You know what sustained my during those long, lonely nights on campaign? The memories of playing chess against you the week before I left... You were so radiant, when playing, so full of life.”
“You are being creepy, Great Violator.” she said, an edge to her voice.
“Hush, Little Violator. So I decided to honour you with a gift beyond compare, and here we are. Alone. Together. I thought it better to give it to you in private as you are shy. You'll never guess what it is.”
“I think I might, Great Violator. You are naked under the cloak, aren't you?”
“Oh, that. I realized that your lack of clothing had provided a competitive edge in our games. It is the only way to explain how you beat me so many times, so it came to me that turnabout is fair play, and, at least for the moment, you are dressed. So how about a game of chess for old time's sake before I slip you your present... or would you prefer getting down to business right away?”
“...I'd like to play a game of chess.”
So we sat down at her table, and we played a game just like old times, and she was pretty good. But I was better.
A tense game, but it vindicated my theory. While I was only minimally distracted by looking at her, she was jumpy, and whenever I leaned over to move a piece, she shivered, and as the game went on she grew ever more distracted, staring at my chest. It was well I remained cloaked – had she had my hairy chest to ogle rather than relying on her memories and imagination, her mind would probably have shut down in self defense to protect her from my manly charm.
So struggle as she might, the outcome was never really in doubt, and eventually I moved in for the kill...
“Checkmate, Little Violator! Well fought. I would love to play best out of three, but it is time to end this if I am to give you your gift before dinner. Now, I know what you are thinking: 'Is this the time for ranting or for hysterics? It is so hard to choose...' but think again. Who knows, you might like it more than you think. It has been a long time since I honoured you this way, after all, and absence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“And thus the mask of virtue is cast away and you stand revealed at last for the lustful swine I always knew you to be. Very well, Sverker. Have it your way. 'Honour' me with your gift. Just start the unwrapping. We wouldn't want you to be late for dinner,” she replied rising from her seat to stand before me, gnashing her teeth.
My goodness, how she had mellowed.
“Unfortunately, I didn't have time to wrap it. Perhaps you'd like to guess what it is before I reveal it?” I cajoled her.
“No. I am not playing your sick games.” she said in a dead voice, stripped of all emotion.
I felt almost ashamed, as she succumbed to despair and the animation slowly left her face, the light of her eyes dwindling, but I quashed the feeling, and continued.
“I'll give you a hint. What is a two foot long, hard as iron, and one queen's delight but another queen's fear?”
“It bloody well isn't two foot long!” she replied, angrily.
“It bloody well is unless it has expanded in the heat! I had a priest of Freyr measure and bless it!” I said, doing my best to sound affronted, “Now, jolly up and guess.”
“I could see it rising against the confines of your cloak through the entire match, Sverker! I KNOW what it is, and we both know what you are about to do to me. Why must you play these games to torture me? Just get it over with!” she cried, tears streaming.
“As you wish,” I answered, and I opened my cloak and she instinctively shrank from me, then froze in disbelief as I handed her the gigantic black iron chess king that had been resting in my lap throughout the game, and most uncomfortable it had been too, depressing IT and bobbing up and down against my chest depending on IT's whims.
If I had occasionally wondered during the darker days of my eastern campaign whether it would really be worth the cost I paid to have a master blacksmith craft this set, I was repaid in full by seeing her reaction. Tears fled as incredulity set in, soon no doubt to be replaced by outrage, so before she could reach that stage I told her sweetly, “the other 31 pieces are in chests outside your door together with the collapsible board frame, as I couldn't fit them under my cloak.”
She just kept staring at the king, its exquisitely crafted face grinning at her. My face.
“I had them made just for you. I hope you like them. This is where you say 'Thank you, Sverker'!” I continued.
Colour and animation returned to her face, and then she looked up to me, and said, “Thank you, Sverker... YOU BASTARD! YOU REALLY HAD ME THINKING THAT... WAIT, WAS THIS YOUR PLAN ALL ALONG? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, SVERKER!!!!!!” her voice increasing in pitch with every word.
This was glorious.
I beamed my most winning smile down at her.
“Just wait till you see the queen”, I told her, and brought forth the black queen from where I had hidden it under the table. “I think the craftsman really outdid himself with this piece.”
She took a careful look, and then she took another, a cloud of emotions chasing each other across her face, before answering. “The breasts are too large, Sverker.”
“Everybody's a critic. The blacksmith was working from my description and he is used to making statues of goddesses, so perhaps they got a bit of extra oomph, but I honestly don't see it. From head to toe he managed to catch your nearly divine beauty in iron. He certainly got your scowl right.” I wheedled.
“Sverker, I don't know what to say. I can't decide if you are trying to be deliberately crass or romantic. Either way, you are failing miserably. Are you out of your mind?” she asked, clearly baffled.
“Is that a trick question, Sif?”
“...No.” she murmured.
“As it happens, I am out of my mind. With love for you. What your admittedly first rate body failed to win you, your brilliant chess mind has.” I answered, and very romantically so, if I say so myself.
“A likely story, Sverker.” she said, faintly. She certainly hadn't expected that answer, and seemed to be scrambling for another topic. Naturally, she walked right into my trap. “Wait a moment, 31 pieces. That's one too many!”
“I was wondering when you'd catch on to that. I play red, of course, and the red king also has my likeness. Win or lose, I am guaranteed to be the last king standing. Viola, it goes without saying, is the red queen, and she looks positively stunning in her wrath. But the 33rd piece of the set is an extra red queen based on your sister Kráka, which I can use for pawn promotion. As a bonus, if you play a game against your sister, she can play herself for a level playing field. You are going to love her expression; I had the master base it on that wild look she gets when she explains game rules.” I explained.
“I know just what you mean,” she chuckled. Then stopped when she realized what she was doing, and continued coldly, “You DO know that this changes nothing, Sverker. Right?”
I gave her my most winsome smile. “Of course I do. But it was worth it to see your smile, if only briefly. I'll let myself out as I need to dress for dinner.”
I left her staring at her scowling face in iron, as if looking for an answer.
Later, after dinner and after having my steward pop in to to give me the latest news from the capital, where no news is always good news, I relaxed with Viola, it being a v-day. My homecoming days always are. She's considerate like that. Her condition precluded horizontal acrobatics, but cuddling, kissing, and plotting is a decent substitute.
She wanted to know what was up with Sif, whose strange expression at dinner must surely have been occasioned by my visit. (How did she know? One of the children must have noticed and tattled on me. Little snitches, one and all.)
So I told her, and if I nearly strained my arm patting my back explaining the practical joke, who could blame me?
My little witch, that's who.
She didn't object to my having fun, but Sif's unwillingness to do her duty for the Grand Plan and my unwillingness to force the issue to a successful conclusion was a sad state of affairs and to the detriment of the Grand Plan, especially with my absence for months on end to go campaigning, so perhaps it was time to get rid of Sif.
“Well, she was just seventeen,” I began, “and had some girlish notions.”
“You know what I mean!” my little witch retorted.
“And the way she looked,” I continued, “on our wedding morning, I tell you, I'm sure she'll come around. What woman could resist my charm for long? Or my jokes? Did I tell you about how she reacted this afternoon? She's clearly weakening, no doubt remembering how IT”
“was way beyond compare,” she interrupted with a deep sigh, and continued: “I get it. No need to elaborate. You've already told me about your great joke thrice, and I regret to inform you that no woman, ever, anywhere, said, 'Wow! I love his practical jokes! I must have him!'”
If my little witch can be said to have a character flaw, it is that she always takes things so seriously.
“So I have just one more question on this issue, my stallion. Please don't take this wrong, but this isn't a case of, 'I, Sverker, am a genius! I've found a way to circumvent the Grand Plan and get a guaranteed full night's sleep whenever it is an s-day, is it?” my little witch asked.
She's so smart!
“Perish the thought! What do you take me for, little witch?” I asked. “I don't need rest when I've got wives to please. RAWR! Speaking of which, I have missed you. A lot.”
“I noticed and likewise, but let's not digress from the issue at hand just yet. Since you are still having fun, I'll leave you to your little game with Sif rather than putting her out to pasture. Who knows? Your strategy might work, unlikely as it seems. In the meanwhile I'll get you a fourth wife as soon as possible to pick up the slack and help satisfy your needs so you don't suffer from Sif's disability.” she said sweetly.
I walked right into that one, I must admit, but it is not as if I hadn't been expecting her to increase the wife count this winter anyway, so if she considered this winning a minor victory – well, she deserves them and I like to humour her.
It just so happened that my little witch had the perfect candidate for me. Colour me surprised.
“First choice is fiery of spirit, strong, young. and has an amazing body. She can squeeze the juice out of apples with her bare hands and crack nuts with her thighs, and those are just some of her party tricks.”
“Just the skills a wife needs,” I winced, “Who is it?”
“Well, it is like this. Kráka and Sif misses their sister...”
“...”
“:..”
“Sverker? Are you there? Say something, my stallion.”
“For the love of all that is holy, little witch, do you intend me to roger my way through all of Baldr's younger daughters in order of birth?”
“Don't be silly! I skipped Yrsa and Gyda – they aren't up to my standards. Dalla, however, is. If she lives up to her promise, and so far everything indicates she will, she'll end up the perfect campaign wife like her mother Queen Mateja, somebody who'll fight for you and keep you safe on campaign and the nights less lonely, and you'll have strong, smart, babies. Sure, she's a bit on the young side, but with a body like hers there's no reason to wait except for custom, and fuck custom.”
“I am neither fucking custom nor Dalla. End of story. I want somebody older and, while we are at it, I want somebody more sensible than Sif as well.”
“But...” she began.
“No!” I said.
“...Think of posterity! Don't you want our son Blazej to have a good wife? I guarantee you that he's a perfect match for your daughter by Dalla. All my charts indicate so.”
“My WHAT?”
“Projected daughter, I should have said. The omens are in favour.”
“Blazej can fuck himself, and that that is my final word!” I grumbled.
“Now you are just being unreasonable to our son, my stallion. That wouldn't advance the Grand Plan at all.”
“You know that's not what I meant. The question of Dalla is closed. DONE WITH. I'VE HAD IT UP TO HERE WITH BALDR'S DAUGHTERS. DO YOU HEAR ME?”
“No need to shout, my Stallion, I'm just trying to be helpful. As it happens I do have two other candidates that while perhaps not quite as good as Dalla are good enough and considerably older.”
“By which you mean 16-18, I take it”
“16-17, actually. Well, 16 if you want precise numbers, and that's rounding up for one of them, but who's counting? Prime maidens, the best of their generation.” she began enthusiastically.
“Not again...” I sighed.
“In addition to these two splendid candidates, I remembered your musings from last time, and I have found one (1) mature widow of a Jarl for you, who knows what's what, and might serve despite her advanced age. She's one of my little snitches, and a diligent worker, so she could even help me run the household, as you suggested. She recently became available on the marriage market after her husband suffered an unfortunate axe-related incident, but given her advantages, I don't expect her to remain unmarried for long. I have severe misgivings about her and the maidens are clearly the superior choice, but you did ask and she does fulfil my criteria for the Grand Plan, if only barely.”
“That's more like it. Tell me more about this widow.”
“She's one of your many cousins, and she's smart enough for any two women. Her mother was a Greek, and it shows. Though her beauty has faded somewhat with age, it is an exotic beauty that has aged gracefully. She doesn't have many years of childbearing left, but if you work hard enough at it, I am sure you can make her bear a few children for the Grand Plan. She's currently sorrowing greatly for her dead husband, whom she loved dearly, but she understands her position well and would react positively to a marriage proposal. So far, so good, but as I mentioned, she has significant drawbacks. I have misgivings.”
“Greek? That's good. I acquired a taste for that during my visit to Sicily. Your misgivings?”
“She's opinionated, and several of your acts as High King have displeased her greatly. So she will dislike you, at least at first, and will see this purely as a marriage of convenience with duties and obligations.”
That sounded perfect to me. No games, no hysterics, just the occasional wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am with an older woman as my little witch's schedule demanded, and otherwise we'd ignore each other apart from the occasional report or argument about who needed killing or rewarding, once my little witch had her helping out with the duties of the household. If I had to have a 4th wife, this sounded as low-maintenance as it could be.
“Thus,” my little witch continued, “she won't be meek, but will stand up to you.”
“That's called having a backbone. I'm all for it.”
“She's diligent and temperate, but she is also very, very, cynical.”
“I'm cynical too! I'm sure we'll get along famously.”
“Famous last words. Well, you might be right. A more serious issue is that she has a living son and is likely pregnant, a last legacy of her departed husband, which means it'll be months before she can work for the Grand Plan.”
“Fine with me. Proves she has experience and is fertile, and as you noted, we've recently had an issue with that in the herd. You women can bring the children up as part of the family. The more the merrier, right? Also, her son gives me another lever if her backbone is too stiff.”
“She doesn't have huge tracts of land, as you desired.”
“That's worse, but if I recall right from my Mediterranean adventures, many exotic beauties come with smaller tracts of land. Just how small are we talking?”
“Nothing at all. Her husband's personal land all belongs to their son, if somebody else doesn't take advantage of the situation.”
“Oh. I see. THAT's no problem.”
“And of course there's the issue of how Kráka and Sif will react to your marrying an older woman and giving her status over them, which she will need if she is to help me with my duties.”
“Kráka's opinion doesn't matter, and Sif's opinion matters less than that. If she's good enough for you, she's good enough for them, and I trust I can count on you to squelch any dissent.”
“That's really all the misgivings I have. Is there anything else you want to know or can we get back to the maidens? You'll really like them, I promise. They come 3P-guaranteed: pleasant, pliant, and ready to plough.”
“Not quite yet, little witch. Before we continue, I have one more question. Please don't take this wrong, but as you were talking a horrible idea suggested itself. This isn't a case of 'Kráka and Sif misses their sister' influencing you, where you are proposing I marry one of their older sisters such as, I don't know, perhaps Karl's widow, to take an example completely at random? Deviously presented with reverse psychology to make me think you are distancing yourself from your choice?”
“Perish the thought! What do you take me for, my stallion? Kráka hates her and bears her a grudge, and given how close Kráka and Sif are, I wouldn't be surprised if Sif bears a grudge too. They'll be properly horrified if you choose this cousin. I didn't mention it before because their opinions matter little to you, but now that I think about it, it is yet another strike against the aged and opinionated widow: Strife between your wives will upset your work-life balance.
“My what?” I asked, puzzled. I definitely hadn't seen that one coming.
“You tend to fall off the bench when you are drunk, dearest.”
“Military secret. Inspecting the floor. Best way to ensure it hasn't escaped.”
“Whatever you say, my stallion.” my little witch sighed.
“So that's all right, then. Wifely strife is hardly a problem, or at any rate, not my problem. I'm sure they can work it out as adults, and, if not, you'll set them straight, little witch. I'll take this one.”
“That's it? You don't want to know her age, name, or how you are related? You don't want to hear about my other choices, both much better than this widow?”
“Got it in one. I pick experience over youth.”
“She's in the capital right now settling an inheritance dispute for her son. You could meet her and get to know her before making such a momentous decision,“ she said desperately, “frankly, I think you'd be quite appalled by her views on some of your actions as king.”
“The more reason not to waste time getting to know her. I'm sure we'll get along famously ignoring each other except for our duties to the Grand Plan. And since she's in the capital, let's get it over with as swiftly as possible so I can get through her sacred week and on with planning the spring campaign. Set the marriage for Friday.”
For once I managed to shock my little witch.
“That's three days from now, my stallion! However will we manage to prepare in time!?”
“By keeping it a small intimate setting. Just you, me, Kráka, Sif, and however many family members my handy henchmen can collar before then. Oh, and the bride. Mustn't forget her. That would be silly.”
“You are going to regret this, my stallion.”
“Am not. I have a good feeling about this.”
“Well, don't say I didn't warn you.” she sighed.
There was no way I was getting the last word in this discussion, so I kissed her and we got down to some serious cuddling.
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“It bloody well isn't two foot long!” she replied, angrily.
Best line.
Did you ever read "How to cheat at chess"?
Best line.
Did you ever read "How to cheat at chess"?
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A collection of comic vignettes. Fisher Spassky era. There was something about that last piece that made me wonder if it was an influence.A) She was wrong
B) No, I haven't. Which type of book is it.
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This is not going to end well. Sverker's best ideas have been refined by the little witch before they ever enter his mind. With more wives, is the twice weekly with a rest day plan obsolete? Thank you for giving us a glimpse of a genius' home-life.
...
And now you have me wondering which peculiar chess episode from the Fisher-Spassky era would remind you of the absurdist Sverker-Sif chess story being told. I'm probably going to regret this, but pray tell. Grandmaster honeytrap?
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One section is imagined scenes where chess is inserted into other genres. The one I was thinking of is 007 vs. female assassin with action both on and under the chess board.
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The Sverker Diaries, interlude 6
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- Chapter the Twentyfirst: The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 6: A Tale of Two Sisters -
the world of 933
- Chapter the Twentyfirst: The Sverker Diaries, Interlude 6: A Tale of Two Sisters -
the world of 933
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – Wednesday Before my Wedding
Dear Diary,
Finally it is my wives who have an unexpected countdown to deal with and not I, since I masterfully told my little witch I wanted the wedding done by Friday.
This morning my little witch announced the upcoming marriage to my household. Kráka and Sif were full of questions about the wedding and the lucky bride, which was fine by me as it allowed me to concentrate on my breakfast. After a long journey by sea and a longer campaign, there is nothing like fresh bread and dried fruit in the morning: the breakfast of champions. Clearly Sif had won the baking rights this day, for the bread was delicious, so I dug in as they began a spirited discussion.
It was the time to think of the day's work. The High Kingdom mostly ran itself with each chief handling his own affairs, and five of the great ones deputizing for me. I designed it that way, after all. Uncle Arnbjörn still ran religious affairs, but in a shake-up of the old guard I had four of my cousins dealing with non-axe diplomacy, stewardship, knocking heads, and spying.
None of them were all that happy with me except my steward Bui Valdarrson, who shared my sense of justice and suffered a lack of independent thinking that made him perfect vassal material, as I was new to power and had caused some eddies in the family what with forcibly breaking Hugh and Sif's engagement and then taking Sif as my wife.
Some considered it an abuse of power, but that was just envy talking. More importantly, most considered it unsporting, which was a much worse strike against me given our family's favourite pastime. But I could hardly explain the circumstances without becoming the laughingstock of the family, so I had to live with it.
The only ones I could truly rely on were uncle Arnbjörn and his son Tóki, my chancellor. My spymaster Bragi was the firstborn son of my father-in-law, old Ádárn, the Jarl of Wessex, and adored my little witch, his little sister, so he was probably trustworthy, if not necessarily reliable or very competent. The Fucker of Flanders was completely untrustworthy, as always, and was part of the group only because he was too powerful to leave out. I had talked with Töki and Arnbjörn yesterday, and mostly things were going swimmingly, but there were minor problems.
What a surprise. There are always minor problems, and occasionally I have to crack heads and kill people to keep them in line.
Their successors in line, anyway, and these days I have people to do most of the killing for me, which is a relief. But that way lies complacency, and as grandpa Sigurd once told me, “lad, however tiring, however easy it is to delegate, sometimes you have take a personal interest and brutally murder those who offend. It is that personal touch so beloved by the gods that keep people loyal. Your people need to know that you care.”
Who should I pick? I was apparently spoiled for choice, as there were about a score men bothering chancellor Tóki, and waiting to petition me in person now that I was home, but choosing victims at random would be unjust. I could see no way around it. I would have to listen to their complaints and hope somebody was stupid enough to provoke me.
The pleasant background noise of quarrelling wives was interrupted by my little witch's fist of doom slapping the table followed by silence, broken by her asking, in that excessively kind voice she uses when she is being anything but kind and expects to be obeyed, “I trust I made myself clear. Now scram.”
Apparently she had, as they departed the table at speed. Ignoring wifely spats is an essential ingredient to a happy married life in my experience, but I did find myself wondering just what had occasioned such an outburst.
Dealing with administrative affairs was boring, and I found it hard to pay attention. Until the seventh petition. Some guy from the far north who kept staring at my boots while repeating ”eep!”
He'd got a chance to petition the High King himself, but he couldn't meet my eyes, and all he could do was mumble ”eep!”, wasting my time? I had clearly found my victim, so I cut him down with a single stroke. What a strange man, strange man. You'd think he'd never seen a man standing in blood to the ankles before.
By early afternoon the remaining petitioners had respectfully decamped, and as Tóki helped me haul out the five corpses he suggested I take the rest of the day off, as I seemed preoccupied. He'd have some thralls to do the cleaning, and have the Hall of Justice pristine for use tomorrow. Good man.
So I went home and chopped wood. You'll never see one of those feudal lords doing that, but me, I chop my own wood! It is a man's duty to keep his family warm.
Finished, and my blood cooled by the fresh winter weather, I entered my home to find my little witch awaiting me. She oohed and aahed at the heap of logs I was carrying, and best as I was feeling all chuffed up, she scolded me for not cleaning my boots as the frozen blood was thawing all over her floor, and called for Sif to clean them. One of the many duties of the lowest ranked wife, apparently. My boots were too important to be left to the thralls.
Then she announced, calmly as you please, that the week's schedule had been changed due to the upcoming wedding. Regretfully, there would me no more v-days for nearly two weeks. Today was a k-day, tomorrow an s-day, then we had the wedding and the customary week for my new bride, and the scoreboard from the spring made clear that both Kráka and Sif were below quota, so they would go next after that and well, one thing with the other, it all added up. A crying shame, really, as she had longed for more nights together now I was home, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances with the sudden wedding upending her plans. She was sure I would understand the necessity.
I smiled through clenched teeth and thanked her for her good work.
So, later in the evening, Kráka's new game began with a combination lock of a kind with which I was by now much too well acquainted. I tore the chain-mail underwear apart with my bare hands, which must have been quite uncomfortable for her, but she had none to blame but herself.
She pouted, and asked me why I didn't unlock it.
I told her that if Sif wanted to know how I did it, she'd have to ask me herself. Kráka looked slightly embarrassed to have been caught out, but sought refuge in outrage, claiming I had spoiled the game.
All she had wanted was a bit of light entertainment to celebrate my homecoming, for I had been gone so long, and she had really missed me, and now she'd get even less of my valuable time due to Aslaug.
”Aslaug who?” I asked, but in retrospect, I really should have seen it coming.
My new wife. Popular name in the family. So I asked Kráka what she had against Aslaug.
Big mistake.
Puller of hair, arrogant bitch, obnoxious pervert, sly seductress, untrustworthy leader, hideous hag, and slayer of ponies was just the beginning, but I rather ignored her after that, and when finally she paused to catch her breath I sealed her mouth with a kiss, which took her mind off her woes and left us both breathless by the time we were done.
My little witch was clearly right. Kráka disliked my new bride, though the reason was not immediately obvious. Perhaps a game of Smack the Pony had gotten out of hand?
Whatever the cause, the little dear was clearly terrified, though not perhaps so much at the idea of having to share my time with Aslaug, as at the idea of Aslaug put into a position of authority. That fear, at least, I could easily dispel.
”I missed you too, dear Kráka, and rest assured no hideous hag will ever displace you in my affections.” I told her earnestly, giving her a loving squeeze.
”Thanks, my love.”
She seemed to glow with pleasure, haloed like one of those Christian saints you find plastered all over their churches, but that may have been a visual glitch caused by my longing for her - or possibly caused by the activities of her small dexterous hands, which were rapidly eroding my concentration. I suspect the saints would disapprove of her. More fools they.
I did my best to focus on the matter on hands. Hand. Bad choice of words, there.
”If you are worried that Aslaug might bully you, perish the thought. If she did, my little witch would punish her severely. Putting aside that Viola adores you, you are younger, fertile, and have a prominent role in her Grand Plan. How could an older woman – no matter how helpful in organizing daily affairs – possibly compete with you in the daily rankings?”
”I wasn't worried about that at all, but it is good to know you care.” she said, obviously pleased and lying through her teeth about worrying. ”But let's not talk about her. Tonight you are MINE, and I have already lost too much time.”
”Well, if you are in search of lost time, I have a suggestion”, I said, and exclaimed loudly, ”Proust!”
“What was that supposed to be, my love?”
“That's my horse impression!” I said, and began orating: ”Beware, my mare, for here comes the chevalier rampant, lance in hand!”
“Oh, Sverker!” she said, alight with anticipation.
We played Mount & Blade. It is a simple game, but it never gets old.
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – Thursday Before my Wedding
Dear Diary,
I have failed. And I have won. In my defense, there is no way I could reasonably have seen this coming.
It happened like this.
Anticipating another fun evening unsettling Sif and another victorious game of chess, I went to her stall tonight carrying a chess set of a more customary size, wearing only my cloak.
Opening her door, I anticipated a robust greeting of ”The Great Violator comes!” but Sif was preoccupied preparing a game of her own. And dressed in a cloak.
”It is bloody heavy, Sverker. Stop ogling me and give me a hand, will you?” she called, struggling with the board-frame for her gigantic chess set, so I gallantly set aside my own smaller set and came to her aid.
We set up the game in companionable silence, but I had to know.
”Why the change of clothing?”
“I found on Tuesday that wearing only a cloak provided you a competitive edge, as the occasional glimpses of what lay beneath meant I couldn't help thinking of your hairy manly... chest. It was much worse than playing you clothed.” she sighed, a far away look in her eyes. “So it came to me, that it would probably be equally distracting for you, if you were denied ogling my naked body while playing as you have gotten used to, instead catching only an occasional tantalising view of the object of your vile male lust. Turnabout is fair play, and this puts us on an even footing.”
“Whatever you say, little violator. Let's play.”
There was no sitting down for this chess game. We bestrode the board like giants, making our moves, and... she had a point. I played a conventional aggressive game, and she defensive, but when I prepared my first trap she took her turn with a mighty swish that parted her cloak, revealing a distinct lack of chain-mail underwear, and... I fumbled the next move, charging her queen with my king. NOT a good move.
Sif smiled sweetly at me.
“Ha, Sverker! I knew your loathsome instrument didn't do that because of opening combination locks”, she crowed, as I realized what was up.
I came under furious assault, though you wouldn't know that looking at her, and I looked very carefully. Sif took her turns languidly, walking up and down the board with an excessive amount of swishing and swaying, bending over with Idun's apples partly exposed when moving her pieces... and her chess moves weren't half bad either. It was all I could do to defend, and soon it turned into a bloodbath, trading officers and pawns as I tried to regain control. I was being herded into a trap, and I would have to turn the tables on her soon, but how?
Inspiration struck.
“My, it is hot in here, isn't it?” I asked her, unclasping my cloak and letting it fall to the floor.
Sif gasped and her face reddened as she stumbled over her remaining berserker, pushing him three squares ahead by mistake. A legal move, but a bad one, leaving him exposed to my queen.
“No backsies, right?” I asked her, knocking her berserker off the board while she was trying to compose herself.
“Of course not,” Sif responded, gritting her teeth, “I meant to do that.”
This was not the sort of elegant chess game about which stories are told. If her swishing and swaying had been bad before, now they were positively vicious, and her bending over when making moves was definitely excessive. I, for my part, had a newfound interest in flexing my muscles and doing chest stretching exercises when it was her turn, while IT tracked her movements. It was a brutal slaughter as we attempted to seize the advantage but settled for elimination. Fortunately, she had no counter to my manly chest! She remained strong on the offense, but her defense deteriorated rapidly.
She was not defeated yet, and had one more trick to play. A move to unscrupulous it should be banned.
“Right you are, Sverker. It really is hot in here. All this swishing and swaying is making me sweat all over.” she said, unclasping her cloak and letting it fall to the floor.
I looked carefully, but frankly, I couldn't see it. She didn't seem to be all sweaty to me. Not even when she had to bend far over to move her queen to check my king, did I notice more than a few drops - and I ogled her very thoroughly to be sure. Clearly, she was mistaken.
Somehow she had taken advantage of my minor distraction to improve her position, and I was another two pawns down, but I managed to extricate my king in time as she moved in for the kill. And now my experience from the spring paid off, as I had grown used to playing against her in her birthday suit. I redoubled my efforts, focusing strictly on the game, and in the end she was not my equal as a player, though given how she had improved over the past year, she would probably end up the stronger player by far if she continued improving.
It took me another six turns and the sacrifice of a Gode for her to put me in a most dangerous position: If only she were not a turn behind, she could spring her trap and her queen would check my king and push me into a ruinous defense, but.. she was a turn behind and her attempted trap had left a flank open, as I intended. Swiftly I advanced my remaining Gode along the diagonal to threaten her king. ”Check”, I told her kindly, ”and mate in four.”
”Dammit, Sverker! I really thought I had you there.” was what she said.
”But you didn't.” I added helpfully, ”Do you want to resign?”
“Not so fast!” she answered.
Sif walked up and down the length of the board's frame while studying the situation carefully, all theatrics abandoned, then shook herself and looked at me, a puzzled look on her face: ”That's not mate in four. You overlooked something.”
I couldn't believe it. What had I overlooked? Now it was my turn to carefully inspect the board, but no matter how I looked at it, the conclusion was the same. Mate in four. Sif was mistaken, and I told her so.
”You forgot the Queen's gambit, Sverker.” she gloated.
”What gambit?” I asked.
”THIS!” she cried, and rotating at speed on her left foot, her right leg swept my king off the board, ”Mate in one!”
”FOUL!” I cried, but she wasn't listening. She was busy giving me other things to worry about than an illegal chess move.
Sif had somehow hit the floor with her hands and redirected her momentum into a flip. She landed again on her hands halfway across the board, and with a mighty push she launched herself straight at my head, feet first.. I knew she was athletic, but how did she get so strong!
I took a step back, then grabbed hold of myself. I'd damned if I retreated from my wife, even if she was attacking me in this novel fashion! So I braced myself for impact and brought up my hands to protect my face. An instinctive reaction, but a tactical mistake as it left them out of position.
For I had misjudged her intent. She tucked in her arms and legs and somehow rotated in flight until her body was upright, then she stretched out her arms and spread her legs, while beaming all over her face. What I had taken for an attack was a most unconventional jump into my arms powered by her freakishly strong arms.
But she came in too low, and with my arms out of position, I could not catch her in time.
“Ooooh!” she exclaimed, as she struck home and desperately clung to me, arms and legs wrapped around my body, trying to halt her slide.
“!!!!!!” I exclaimed, as her impact registered and I tried to support her weight.
“Oh, my, “ she exclaimed, as she realized what had happened.
“For the record, that does not count as an assault. You did NOT just win our little game.” I exclaimed, as I realized what had happened.
Then, and only then, did the pain register, my mind having been too stunned by developments to notice immediately.
I nearly blacked out from the pain, but with a great effort I held on to consciousness, and lifted her into a more comfortable position where she could hold on with her arms around my neck rather than mid-ribs. “What the hell was that for!? That really hurt!” I demanded.
“I just wanted to please you, Sverker! Kráka says you both love when she jumps into your arms!” she answered, “and this is nice. Very nice. I see why she loves it. It is hardly my fault that you took a step back, spoiling the trajectory.”
So this was Sif's demented variation of Kráka's The Jumping Women of Cadiz game? Much was explained. Except perhaps for one thing. “Please me? By Thor's golden balls, why would you want to please me! I am the Great Violator, remember?”
“Because I love you and cannot live without you,” she said. I may have heard more surprising statements in my life, but if so, none came readily to mind except possibly when the Emir of Córdoba's daughter offered me a complete edition of Archimedes' works as an alternative form of entertainment to the all-natural, not realizing that I wasn't the either-or type of raider.
A certain suspicion did form, however. Sif's statement bore examining, so I suppressed the pain for the moment and stayed silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She must have sensed that I wanted an explanation, for she continued.
“You are a king and of the greatest renown, a warrior without equal, a ring-giver without parallel, feared by his foes and beloved by his friends. What woman would not desire you?”
Friends? I had friends? News to me. Also not important. Focus on the main issue.
“You, until today.” I answered.
“I was young and still held girlish notions this spring! I can't believe you are still making a big issue out of that. That was ages ago, long forgotten! I made up my mind to be your wife in truth long before you returned,” she pleaded, not entirely convincingly, as her face began reddening at being caught in her lies so easily.
“Pardon me for my scepticism, but your actions upon my homecoming raise doubts about your sincerity.” I told her, kindly.
“I was surprised! I don't react well to surprise! It was only when I realized that it was all an elaborate joke, that I could relax. I love your jokes – that's what first attracted me to you. The whole seven-days-to-Sunday threat, followed by holding back and making me look a fool in the process, utterly humiliating me in the eyes of my sister, Viola, and worst of all, myself? Sure, it hurt, but was a good hurt. It was brilliant!” she pleaded, and as Odin is my witness, she sounded earnest.
I knew she was touched in the head, but this was something else entirely.
“I have it on good authority that no woman, ever, anywhere, was attracted to a man because of his jokes. And few people enjoy humiliation. So this would not by any chance have to do with my upcoming marriage to Aslaug, would it?” I asked her, calmly.
“No. She's a bitch, but she knows better than to cross me,” Sif said, making an angry bounce and forcing me to tighten my grip, “and while I don't like being ranked last doing the worst of the chores, whether last means third or fourth would make no difference in Viola's eyes.”
She still sounded earnest, but I am made of sterner stuff. So I gave her a firm slap on the rump, and told her to tell me the truth. Her face flushed, though whether from shame or anger I could not tell, and her legs locked in a death-grip, and she leaned back, drawing in a big breath, before unleashing a torrent of words:
“It is true! I am enthralled by your hairy manly chest, and fear and respect your loathsome instrument, and love your kindness to your wives and children when you think nobody is noticing, and I like how you crush your enemies without mercy and bring lamentation to the heathens, and I love the extent you are willing to go to make a good practical joke, and I want your respect rather than pity, and I want to help you plan campaigns because I have read all the classics, and I want to be yours forever and bear your children and not always be ranked last. I only acted as if I detested you to inflame your desire for me, and I stopped eating Maiden's Delight to prevent pregnancy in anticipation of your homecoming! And now Viola is threatening to put me out to pasture so I will never be with you again!” she wailed. “If that means ending my game early and conceding to you to prevent that fate, it is a small price to pay. And it really is nice being held in your arms. I see why my sister recommends it. It is therapeutic.” she said, ending with a happy sigh.
O-ho, so Viola was threatening to put her out to pasture, was she? That, at least, was a lie, since my little witch had agreed with me not to. Or perhaps, were I to be more generous to Sif, it might be her fear speaking, misunderstanding my little witch's subtle threats, though I had no doubt that the one she feared being parted from was her sister.
Either way, the whole thing sounded like at least half fiction with just enough truth added to tempt me into fooling myself that she loved me, and what man can realistically expect more from a woman? Other than my little witch, of course. One thing was clear – the stress free nights of sleep on s-days were a thing of the past, and it was time to be a graceful winner. Or loser, as the case might be.
Her previous outburst having left her seriously short of breath, Sif was breathing heavily now and emitting small, happy, noises.
“So it is time for a new beginning, is it?” I asked.
Her face split in a wide smile.
“Yes! Let us make wild reckless love all night!” she gasped; This sounded like a prepared line, and it wasn't half bad, though it would have sounded more impressive than desperate were she not out of breath. Still, I had to give her points for the effort, if for nothing else.
“No offense, but it is kind of creepy to hear that coming from you, Sif. What happened to your chastity and fear of IT?”
“Suppressed by logic and desire.” was her answer, and one that was hard to argue with. Where would I even start? And did I want to? I put aside the thought. There was a more imminent issue to deal with.
“Unfortunately, I may have to disappoint you, as my pain may delay your ultimate satisfaction.” I excused myself.
“What pain?” she asked, utterly confused.
“From your impact to my nether region; It was crushing,” I explained myself, delicately.
“Do you want me to blow on them to make it better?”
“NO! Also, that would be impossible in your current position.”
“Then I really don't see what the problem is, Sverker.”
She was back to being her unreasonable self.
“It hurts so much I am unsure whether I'll be able to perform at all! I'll be lucky if everything is in working order for tomorrow's wedding. That is what I am trying to tactfully suggest!” I shouted in frustration.
She paused for a short while, digesting my outburst, while rubbing her breasts against my chest which was most distracting and a serious challenge to my willpower. Then she spoke.
“You are such a fraud, Sverker! Your loathsome instrument has been pounding away since you caught me, and you are doing great!”
“IT has? I didn't notice. I must have left IT in autonomous mode.” I answered, feeling rather proud of myself.
“There is a time and a place for jokes, Sverker, and this is not it. PAY ATTENTION TO ME!”
So I did.
But not for long.
For I had a thought.
“Sif,” I said seriously (so very seriously!) without slowing down, “I have been thinking of the chess game, and I must bow to your superior analysis.”
“Errr. Thanks?” she said.
“You achieved mate in one,” I said, delivering the punchline with relish and perfect timing as I erupted.
“Sverkeeeeeeer!” she cried, arching against me.
I do so love telling a joke to an appreciative audience. There's a time and place for every joke, and in nailing her I had nailed it. No wonder she loved me!
Later, much later, as we lay exhausted in bed, drowsing, Sif began giggling. As her face was to my chest, this was a ticklish but not unpleasant sensation. I grunted an inquiry.
“Nobody is ever going to believe my jump happened. It is too outrageous. How did you do it?”
“Would you believe me if I said IT was heat-seeking?”
“No.”
“Your sister does.”
“I am less gullible. Now give!”
“Then call it chance, or a miracle, and accept that Frey or Freyja may have influenced the landing. A divine joke is as good an explanation as any. I suggest we keep knowledge of this to ourselves, our own secret from the world.”
“A secret? Even from my sister?”
“ESPECIALLY from your sister. If you told her, she'd make a game out of attempting to replicate the jump.”
“Perhaps it is better so,” she acquiesced, “she is not as athletic as I and might damage your loathsome instrument.”
“Can you please stop calling IT that?”
“Archimedes' Lever, then?” she asked, drowsily.
“Works for me,” I replied, equally drowsily. It had been a long day, and a longer night.
“Then I definitely want you to demonstrate the Archimedes' Screw on me using Archimedes' Lever”, she whispered lustily in my ear.
“Irrigation doesn't work that way, Sif”, I mumbled, as my mind scrambled to follow this strange turn in the conversation. There was something familiar about it, but I could not for the life of me recall what.
“Oh, yes it does,” she said, climbing on top, her exhaustion and drowsiness banished by the spirit of curiosity.
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The inspiration for Kráka's jump in the The Jumping Women of Cadiz game came from an outrageously funny rom-com (Another Miss Oh/Oh Hae Young Again), though I am sure Kráka performs it without the slow-motion and Sverker without the flashbacks. (Also: I believe that might be a new high jump record.)
I have been unable to find a video that shows Sif's jump.
I have been unable to find a video that shows Sif's jump.
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I hope interlude 6 lives up to your literary example. I did my best.
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Sverker as usual is three moves behind when thinking four moves to mate. Thank you
Good one!
Fortunately, there is only one wife to go, after which Sverker is safe from his little witch's plans to enlarge the stable and associated family shenanigans. Come to think of it, scratch that. He cannot rest safely unless he is on campaign, which presumably is high on his list of priorities because it is so relaxing compared to family life.
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They call me Mr. Subtle.I see what you did there...
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The Sverker Diaries, part eighteen
Born to Breed: House of the Prophets
- Chapter the Twenty-second: The Sverker Diaries, part eighteen -
the world of 933
- Chapter the Twenty-second: The Sverker Diaries, part eighteen -
the world of 933
The Secret Diary of the Genius King Sverker of Denmark, Aged 32 – Friday, my Wedding
Dear Diary,
My wedding day began auspiciously.
I sat down to break my fast with my little witch and Kráka, Sif being inexplicably absent, and was in high spirits as we discussing the business of the day over breakfast – which wedding guests to keep an eye on, which to lean on for support in the upcoming campaign season, which to shun for their lack of support – the usual.
We were in the midst of a heated argument about Kráka's brother Egill - she thinks the world of him, and he is reliable and competent enough, but he is one of nature's followers – when Sif appeared and staggered slowly to the table, unsteady on her legs.
“Wow, you look PGSS today. Busy night, was it?' my little witch asked her, and remembering her explanation of that expression at my last marriage (for ha! I DO listen to my little witch, even if she thinks I do not), I have to admit that Sif did look a bit like a stunned bunny.
But my little witch had guessed the wrong cause this time; I was blameless! It was Sif's airborne assault that did it, not a half-Bødvar. Unfortunately I would have to pass up on this rare opportunity to correct my little witch. There are some ideas that Kráka must not be subjected to, lest she gets creative.
“We played chess and I lost,” answered Sif, looking incredibly guilty and out of sorts.
“You were ever a sore loser,” grinned Kráka to her sister, and continued, “I was trying to put the small ones to bed, but you kept distracting them. Why, they wondered, were you crying 'MORE, MORE, I'M STILL NOT SATISFIED!' And just as I had finally quieted them, Wincenty ran up to me, begging me to prevent you from killing his father. He had, purely by coincidence, been passing your door, when he heard Sverker shouting 'VALHALLA, I AM COMING!' and the sound of breaking furniture. So I told him not to worry, that was how a Fylkyr prayed, which comforted him.”
By coincidence? I think not. He must have been eavesdropping, the little sneak. But that was neither here nor there. This was an excellent opportunity to jolly Sif up.
“Well, it was a very vigorous game of chess,” I answered, grinning back at Kráka, then turned to her sister. “Sif, dear, correct me if I am wrong, but this would be when I cornered your queen, penetrated your defenses, and just as I was about to unleash my Gode... the table broke.”
Watching Sif's face grow red with mortification never gets old, but she gamely rallied when Kráka offered her a high-five over the table.
“My decision not to put you out to pasture or render you down for glue is clearly vindicated,” said my little witch.
A sudden silence descended.
“Just my little joke”, she said, and perhaps it was. We all laughed at her wit. Better safe than sorry.
Work was decidedly average. I ruled on the ownership of a pig, executed a thief, and played hnefatavl with Jarl Bjorn in the early afternoon.
I decided to call it an early day, and went to chopped wood for the wedding feast.
The latter took longer than expected, as halfway through I was hit on the back by a snowball. I expected it to be one of the children, but as I turned and roared to scare the little blighter, I realized my mistake as I saw Sif for the brief moment before her second snowball hit me right in the face. Shaking my head to clear the snow and make it a harder target, I dropped my axe and charged her as she was packing her third snowball.
Only to be tackled from the side by a scantily clad Kráka, rising from the snow beside her sister. I had been double-teamed.
“You crazy...” I began, but I lost my breath as I crashed into the snow with Kraka on top. She hugged me close and spoke words of frost, “Woe is the Ice Queen, caught by the lecherous Fire Lord!”. Great, just great. Another bloody game.
She began tickling me, and I tickled back, and I was just about to complain that strictly speaking she caught me, when Sif intervened, undoing my belt and pulling off my trousers, and I realized that not only was I was outnumbered, I was arse-deep in snow and chilling fast.
“Cut it out, you two. This is ridiculous!” I shouted.
Apparently this was the wrong cue, for Kráka ignored it, shaking with cold and saying in her game-master voice, “Will his vile lust consume her and thaw her frozen heart, or will IT shrink from the challenge?”
Risking chillblains, frostbite, and hypothermia for a game. Wouldn't that be an embarrassing way to lose a wife. Not to mention potential damage to IT. Fortunately, I know a thing or two about central heating and I still had my good coat on, so I pulled her under the coat to share my body heat, slipped her the wood, and together we went on to prove that vigorously rubbing can start a fire.
I rather lost control, then, but eventually the Ice Queen was thawed and lay sweating in the snow, and with a mad but satisfied smile Kráka proclaimed the game at an end. Sif, who had patiently been watching us, handed us our clothes and returned my axe, which she had thoughtfully secured for the duration of the game.
As exercise goes, a spontaneous roll in the snow with a willing lass is not to be disdained, and there is something to be said for chopping wood in company, especially when the company is my two young wives cheering me on. But I could have done without their after action report. Their squabble over just how many points Kráka had earned free-range for the scoreboard was bad enough, but when they began discussing technique... Some things were not meant for man to know.
So we all returned home and rejoiced in the warmth of the hearth, and as dusk descended, is it any wonder that I was in a fine fettle for my wedding, and wondering what my new wife would look like?
Greek looks, exotic beauty, a bit worn but still good for a tumble?
Soon the guests began arriving, and my little witch brought me to see my bride for the first time. I was impressed. She seemed vaguely familiar – likely I had seen her at some family gathering – but more importantly, what a view!
“My dear, at last we become family,” my little witch greeted her, and before I could get a word in edgewise, they were deep into a discussion of women's issues, leaving me free to continue my inspection without the distraction of words. If anything Viola had underestimated her exotic beauty. She must be around forty, but what she had lost with the departure of youth's bloom she more than made up for with her queenly bearing and matronly looks, that screamed that she was in dire need of a tumble. I caught her eye, and her wicked smile was all I needed to know we were of one mind.
I had just begun undressing her mentally when reality intervened. Viola told her that she had spotted Áslaug and suggested we greet her. And just as I was puzzling that out, a young woman wearing the richest of clothes and an exquisite fox-skin around her neck glided up to us and greeted me as king and husband. Which was when the coin dropped.
My bride was radiant. And quite a bit younger than my little witch had intimated, but that... was an issue for another time. I looked her up and down, performing a quick inventory, and I liked what I saw. And if she ended up looking like who I belatedly realized was my mother-in-law to-be in another twenty years, I would, indeed, be a fortunate man.
Like mother, like daughter. Time to turn on the charm.
“Though I don't recall seeing you before, you seem familiar, somehow. As if I have found a piece of myself that was lost,” I told her, smoothly.
“I'm your cousin, Sverker,” she replied, “and have the family looks. That probably explains it.”
“No, there is more to it than that, I am sure. Why do you seem so familiar? Can it be that our marriage was fated?”
“More likely you noticed me in passing earlier in the year, when you passed through my late husband's domain on your way to war. Moreover, you must have seen me plenty of times as a child at the king's great family gatherings, but you were never one to pay much attention to the children. And rightly so. I was an awkward gangly child, then. I trust I have outgrown that as a woman.” she replied.
That was a straight line if ever there was one. Time to bury her in praise, and her dead husband as well, whomever he had been. One of my Jarls, according to my little witch, but there are so many I can hardly be expected to remember them all.
“Thoughts of war had driven our earlier encounter from my mind, but I recall it vividly now. Your steadfast support for your mighty husband impressed me. He was a good man in the shield-wall, and his loss hurt me greatly even as it strengthened my great-father Odin's host. Unless Freyja got him for Fólkvangr, that is, and he strengthens her host instead. I wonder if Freyja is a Commander With Benefits? Who knows? Who cares? He's better off where he is now, is the point I'm making,” I told her with feeling.
“Praise Odin!” she answered.
“And you, obviously, are better off with me. Not just because I am bigger, stronger, richer, king, and Fylkir, but most importantly of all because I am alive, and he isn't, the inconsiderate bastard. Frankly, he did you a favour by biting the dust. Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
“...Yes, obviously.”
“As for your childhood, I find it almost impossible to believe you were an awkward gangly child, but if you were, you have long outgrown it. You are a true beauty, Áslaug, with a queenly bearing and, according to Viola, wisdom to match, which is a rarity amongst women. Please do not pretend this is news to you. You are no blushing maid, but a woman in the prime of your life, and deserving of the praise you are given. Truly is it said that one man's loss is another man's gain, but in your particular case I find the loss of one man to be my gain, and you are worth having. No false modesty.”
“As you say. Still, it is nice to be praised, and as I have always believed that we make our own luck, I would enjoin you to refrain from false modesty on your own part as well. It hardly suits a king. A real man takes what he wants!”
“Indeed, and so I shall. Hear my words and know I speak truth: WOMAN, I WANT YOUR BODY!”
“That's more like it!”
Silence descended and for some reason all my guests were staring at us, except for Áslaug's mother, who crossed herself and began speaking Latin. I only understood one word in five, but given the amount of hellfire and damnation I made out, this was probably not a prayer.
My little witch took this as a cue to call us all to the tables to start the feast. She is wise like that.
Áslaug had impeccable table manners and a way of looking at me that promised much. As the evening progressed I began looking forwards to the end of the ceremony, but realized that some things had better be said before our vows. Just in case Viola's briefing of the business deal to Áslaug had been as incomplete as mine.
“Just to be sure, you are aware that it is a marriage of convenience, yes? A business agreement where you get to be high queen and front for Viola while helping her run affairs when I am on campaign, and every so often the two of us indulge in bedroom gymnastics, but frankly, not too often, as keeping up with Kráka and my little witch was hard enough before Sif decided to stop sulking and join the fun.”
“You are oversharing, but I completely agree. This is a business arrangement, plain and simple. You don't have to like me and I don't have to like you, but we can use each other to further our plans.”
“Fairly said. I know how I plan to use you, but how do you plan to use me? What are you really after?”
“Power.”
“Silly me. Here I thought you were going to say safety for your children or a place to live without undue hardship or something equally soppy, but power? I can respect that.”
“I am a woman with simple tastes.”
“Good. My point was that love or companionship is no part of the deal, and I am happy you agree. That I happen to lust after your body is merely a fringe benefit as I see it. If I may be so coarse, you are a woman worth stealing, and not one to put over the side of the longship, as the old saying goes. ”
“Funny you should say that. So you DID notice me, earlier this year. I wondered what I had done to draw the attention of the King with the Iron Rod, when Viola suggested this marriage so soon after I was widowed. You could have had any woman you wanted, but you wanted me and took me. Ruthless and efficient. I like that.”
“I fear I must correct you: I did not deliberately target you. You only came to my attention because Viola mentioned that you matched my requirements.”
“I see. Of course it is as you say, my lord. I apologize for misunderstanding.”
“Now that we have cleared that up, I have a question for tonight... Please don't take this wrong, but you don't happen to have either a) a love for role-playing games with dice, b) a fetish for pretending you are a virgin, c) a hankering for wargaming, or d) an unnaturally loud voice during sex?”
“That's weirdly specific, but no, I do not. I hope that does not disappoint you. I do have one question since we are clearing things up, and please don't take this wrong, but there are some frankly unbelievable rumours about you, so... Is it really two feet long?”
“I imagine you'll find out soon enough.”
“I imagine I will, but nevertheless... Is it?” she asked, coyly.
“Of course it isn't a two-footer! Who could possibly swallow that? One of Kráka's boasts got out of hand, and now everybody from here to Miklagård think I am hung like a horse!”
“I see.”
“So don't worry on that account. It is a foot and a half at most, and that's really stretching it!”
As I carried Áslaug down the hallway of stalls after the ceremony, I noticed it sported a new banner: ”Sverker expects every wife to do her duty.”
Fortunately Áslaug was too busy snogging to notice, so whether this was Viola's well-intentioned message to Áslaug or a mockery by Sif and Kráka, it did no harm, but it did hasten my steps to the mare's newly opened stall. Bedchamber. Dammit. So perhaps I was preoccupied with snogging too, and who can blame me with such an active bundle in my arms?
I kicked open the door and rushed us through aiming for the bed, and that is when reality intervened as we smashed into a pole in the middle of the room.
“Why is there a pole in your stall?” I asked. Perfectly reasonable question if you ask me.
“I asked Viola to provide a few accessories. Good times, I see she remembered the chain and manacles”
“She always pays attention to details. Wait, what!? Chain and manacles?”
“The pole would hardly be useful without them, husband, though I guess the rope on the bed could do in a pinch. Now shush and help me find the whip.”
“Explain yourself. Now.”
“I hardly think an accomplished raider like you would need to an explanation, but if you want to play games, who am I to argue? It is so you can chain me to the pole, leaving me utterly helpless and allowing you to play out your most depraved and perverted desires on my body when you claim me, overcome with lust. We can go to the dungeon and do it, if you prefer that, though it would be a shame as this wedding chamber is more comfortable.”
I shook the ugly visions of the dungeon... This wife was supposed to be normal? I'd have some words with my little witch, that was for sure.
“I trust I treat my wives with more respect than that!” I said.
“Oh, really? I attended Kráka's wedding. Even Praxida was shocked when you had her daughter in the lettuce, though that may be because Kráka's hair whipped her mother's face when you pounded especially hard,” she responded, in a rather sharper voice than her quiet and forthright demeanour at dinner.
“Be that as it may,” I said, attempting to maintain my dignity, ”I prefer my women unchained. Why would you even want to be chained in the first place?”
“Because I've been a bad girl and deserve punishment!” she said through clenched teeth.
“Whatever. No wife of mine is being chained to a pole!”
“Viola warned that you might be unreasonable like that. How about you rip off my clothes, throw me on the bed, tie me up with the provided rope spread-eagle style, and ravish me until dawn? You can't possibly object to THAT!”
“Well...”
“What are you waiting for, husband?”
“You know what? I was going to ask you why you wanted this, but this isn't even the third strangest thing I've been told by a wife this week. So Vive La Weird, as they say in Francia. Let's get you naked and strapped in!” I said, and stripped her and strapped her in before she could muster a retort.
It is true what they say: If you learn from the best, you never forget how, and half a lifetime ago I had been taught by a professional: Mother Superior Iyana of fond memory. This is why education is so important.
Then I got down to business.
Truth be told, I was still exhausted from last night, not to mention the afternoon, so I took her slowly and gently, or at any rate as gently as one could with a lover who was tied down. Can't say it was a particular pleasant experience as I prefer my women to participate or at least struggle to show willing, but Viola expects every husband to do his duty, so I did. It was soon over.
“That was gentler than I expected from the King with the Iron Rod.” she said. “You don't have to show such remarkable restraint, you know.”
It came to me that mentioning to Áslaug that this was the best I could do, as I was exhausted from sexually pleasuring Sif for hours last night and this morning, would not be the wisest approach on her wedding night.
Neither would mentioning Kráka's assault this afternoon. Oh my, she really was competitive when she put her mind to it, the saucy little minx... Unless, were it possible that they had coordinated this to exhaust me on my wedding night? It hardly seemed likely, but if they did... well, who was I to complain?
Better concentrate on the woman on hand, who was waiting for an answer.
While regaling Áslaug with my exploits would undoubtedly impress her with my virility, odds were that she'd have preferred a personal demonstration to an informed one, and she might take my priorities amiss. I needed an excuse, and thankfully my brilliant mind came to my rescue.
“You are with child, lovely Áslaug, so I need to be careful for both your sakes,” I replied in a show of gallantry.
“I am sturdier than I look and it is early in my pregnancy. You can do anything you like to me – no need to hold back.”
“Anything?” I asked slowly, an idea presenting itself unexpectedly.
“Anything. No matter how violent, depraved, or perverted. Live out your fantasies on my body. I need to be punished.”
“I can really do anything? I must warn you, once I get started I am impossible to stop.”
“Yes, really anything. I have sinned and must suffer punishment!”
“ALL RIGHT! Just don't go running to Viola tomorrow crying over spilt milk”, I said, and laid myself down beside her to sleep.
“Husband?”
It was so relaxing. A lovely by my side, and both my primary and secondary brain content to relax after sex, and yet sleep eluded me.
“What are you waiting for?”
If only she would shut up, it would be perfect.
“If this is some type of psychological torture, it isn't working, husband.”
She was right. It wasn't working.
“Might I suggest the whip? Everything is better with a whipping, you know.”
Of course! The whip! Why hadn't I thought of that. I got out of bed, doused the candles, and picked up the whip.
“Coming, my lovely. Now, open your mouth and close your eyes, and you will get a big surprise.” I called to her in a sing-song voice as I approached the bed.
“Oh my, I wonder what that can be,” she answered seductively. Obediently she opened her mouth wide, making it child's play to gag her with the whip.
I had to admit it, but she was right. While I had had my concerns about tying her up, it had certain advantages and added spice to the oldest game.
So I drifted off to sleep, while Áslaug mumbled against the gag and engaged in futile attempts to free herself.
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