good. The bear was bound to kill himself one day if he wasn't taken in by a firm hand. Sifrit smiled to himself as he helped Glam down a gallon of mead in record time. And he knew just the person to do it. Poor Glam.
Chapter Sixteen
All this time, Glam had been happy for Casca and Lida, but still, he missed not having the free life and the togetherness that they had given up with Casca's marriage, although, he felt he personally had not forfeited as much as Casca. He still haunted the taverns and countryside, hopping into the sack, a pile of hay, or a grassy field with every willing-and some not so willing-maiden. No! By Thor's great hammer Mjolnir, the married life was not for him! It would be a crime to deprive the women of the world of their greatest experience, and selfish beyond reason to restrict himself to just one female when he could satisfy the dreams of dozens.
No! By the holy Aesir, it was his duty to spread his seed among the tribes and improve the bloodlines of the race. And Glam was not a selfish man.
Farmers took to locking up their daughters, wives, and maiden aunts when word got out that Glam was in the region.
It was commonly believed that if Glam's head were ever split open to expose his innards, there would be no brain there-only one giant, female sexual organ. For surely that was all he ever seemed to have on his mind.
While on the prowl, Glam had caught sight of a sweet young thing with hair long enough to drown in and thighs that looked strong enough to crack the ribs of a horse. Whenever he came close or tried to talk to her, she refused to listen to his promises of unequaled pleasure that would fill her nights forever with fond remembrances.
Asking around, he found out that she had come from a neighboring village and was spending the summer with friends of her family. She appeared to be about twenty, well over the age for marriage and, Glam figured, no wonder! For if she had refused his advances, the girl had to be a little weak-minded. But no matter, he wasn't really interested in how smart she was. He just wanted one night in those strong, well-fleshed arms.
Her continued denial of him began to drive Glam insane. He even went off his feed and lost his appetite. He only picked at his food and never ate more than a leg of lamb at any one sitting, washing it down with a gallon of beer. Casca was worried about him, but Sifrit, who'd become Glam's boon drinking companion and wenching friend, told him not to worry. Everything would be all right; he'd personally see to it.
Glam took to following her about, determined to sample the joys he knew she held if only she wouldn't be so stubborn. He even started bathing more frequently after one of the few times that she'd spoken to him she'd referred to him as having the odor of a goat. It took Sifrit to clue him in that he'd been insulted. Glam personally had always liked the smell of goats.
Sifrit tried to tell him to leave the girl alone and pursue easier game, that she was too much for him. Glam paid no heed. It took him the better part of a week to find out her name: Hemming Danesdotter. He liked the sound of it. To Glam, the more she denied him, the greater was his desire for her. In his mind, she was the perfect representation of Nordic womanhood-almost six feet tall with a single blond braid that reached almost to her buttocks, lovely swaying mounds of pleasure that rolled and twitched at the same time when she walked. She had icy lake-blue eyes that he knew he could melt if she would just let him get near enough.
Sifrit's efforts to dissuade him from following her did nothing but increase his determination. Others paid their attentions to Hemming also, but not for long. Whenever they called on her, Glam was always nearby, practicing swings with his two-handed sword. He severed trees with a single blow or tossed his twenty-pound axe in the air, catching and twirling it with one hand as a child would a twig. From the glint in his eye they chose the better part of valor; it seldom took more than that to discourage any callers. Once, when trying to be reasonable with a young warrior caller of Hemming's, he did squeeze the boy's arm a little too hard and broke the bone in his wrist. But he thought anyone that delicate would have been no good for her anyway.
Glam asked Lida to put in a good word for him when he found out that Hemming would be among the guests at the next feast coming up in a week's time. She was to be seated next to him.
For the rest of the time prior to the feast, he was as nervous as a virgin in a whorehouse, especially after he'd gotten a good look at her coming out of the hut of stones where the villagers went for the steam. When she came out, it was early morning with a light mist hanging over the ground. Her hair was undone and hanging loose in a gold, rippling wave. Her thin, flaxen shift was clinging to her damp body, outlining and emphasizing the shape and size of her breasts, which Glam swore rode like two magnificent ramming prows, jutting out straight and firm. It nearly drove him crazy.
When the night of the feast came, Glam nearly outdid himself. He scrubbed his entire body raw, combed his beard and picked the lice from his hair and, following Lida's advice, even cleaned his fingernails. Hemming was a clean woman and, Lida had informed him, she would probably like a clean man. Glam sighed in frustration at the indignities he had to endure in his preparation; but, he, thought, maybe it would be worth it.
All were seated at the feast enjoying the food and drink when Hemming made her entrance. Glam almost swallowed his tongue. Her hair was braided about her forehead and intertwined with wild flowers, and her cheeks had a rosy glow of health. Her dress was finer than any he had ever seen, other than the Lady Lida's. It shimmered and flowed on her body when she walked. Cut simply, the dress was of royal blue, hanging almost to the floor, and a girdle of woven silver thread cinched it at her waist. Glam figured that he could almost reach around her waist with just one of his mutton-sized hands.
Lida whispered to him that she'd heard that the material Hemming was wearing was of pure silk and had come all the way from Rome. Glam whistled between his teeth. He'd heard of the material before and knew that it was worth its weight in gold. Glam's desire knew no bounds. This girl was not only beautiful and desirable; she was also rich.
Sifrit watched with scarcely concealed good humor at his friend's efforts to amuse the girl. Glam had barely touched his food and drank no more than nine or ten horns of wine and a few beers.
Casca was really concerned about him. The night wore on. Bards sang and the minstrels plucked their instruments and blew on reed flutes. Hemming sang a song of love from her homelands; during that, Glam thought he would be unable to restrain himself. As she sang, she stood in the flickering lights of the fireplace and torches. Her body swayed with the words of her song. They were of love and frustration and dealt with how a young man, rejected by the object of his adoration, had finally forced the issue and gone to his ladylove in the night, claiming her against all her protests and, by doing so, had made her love him.
She finished her song and walked with long strides back to sit by Glam, whom she studiously ignored.
By Mjolnir, he thought, she's fit to be a queen herself. She'd even put Freya, the wife of Odin All Father, to shame. He'd almost chewed his beard in half and did lose one part of his mustache, but still she'd refused to speak to him directly.
He was starting to get a little peeved by the time the party ended, and it wasn't until he'd found out that she was staying the night in the hold in one of the guest rooms that he brightened up a little.
So, she liked to sing songs about men who took what they wanted, did she? Sifrit again addressed his old friend. 'Glam, old horse, believe me. It would be best if you left her alone. I'm telling you this as a friend and companion. That girl's not for the likes of you. Why don't you just have a keg or two of wine and forget her? There are plenty of willing wenches about.'
Glam glared back. 'Other wenches? Since she's come here I haven't been able to get turned on even once. She's driving me crazy, but,' and he slyly winked, 'I'll teach her a thing or two before this night's over.'
Sifrit merely sighed. 'I wouldn't try anything if I were you. You don't know what you're letting yourself in for.'
Glam snorted. 'I'd risk wrestling a snow giant with one hand for just one hour to teach her what a real man is like.'
Sifrit patted him on the shoulder. 'Well, you can't say I didn't try. Do what you have to, but remember, I warned you. Whatever happens now is all of your own doing.'
When the last of the guests had left or had found places to sleep in the hold, Glam stayed by the hearth and waited, letting the last sounds of life fade from the Hall. When he had tried to talk to Hemming before she'd left for her room, she had only looked at him coldly. In the next moment, she flashed him one quick smile, turned her back,
