Aeva The Wild

by Claire Marion

  Ælric stopped her well short of Gunnlaug’s throne, and Æva was grateful not to have to approach any further. The warriors looked terrifying, but it was the lasciviousness of the Viking King, with his leering smile on bulbous, grease-smeared lips that nauseated and frightened her the most. Wulfram and Bayan walked on, stopping a respectful distance away, where Wulfram took a discreet step back in reverence to Bayan’s position. There was a moment of silence as Bayan and Gunnlaug measured each other.

  Finally, Gunnlaug broke the silence.

  “So you are the son of Ælle?” he asked.

  “I am,” Bayan replied, his tone unreadable.

  “King for a week,” the Viking waved his hand dismissively, ‘But I heard tell he was a great warrior in his day. Not great enough for my men, though, eh?” he called to the warriors who stood on either side of them. They jeered in tandem, enjoying Bayan’s humiliation.

  “And so now it would fall to you, eh, pup?” he said, goading Bayan with a grin. “Are you to be the next King of Northumbria?”

  He waited a moment, hoping to draw Bayan into an answer, but the latter stood patiently, waiting. Gunnlaug appeared disappointed for a moment, before launching back into his stride.

  “Are you indeed?” he said. “That is the question!”

  With a great heave he propelled himself from the chair, wobbling forward on surprisingly strong legs. Æva was struck anew by the monstrous size of the man. She wondered again what she was doing here, praying fervently to God she was not to be a gift to this ogre.

  Gunnlaug stepped towards Bayan, stopping only two paces away. He towered above the younger man, leaning forward threateningly.

  “I could kill you right now,” he sneered, spittle bouncing from his lips and landing on Bayan’s tunic. Bayan held his ground, looking up at the Viking impassively. “I could march my men out to Rypum and have them slaughter every one of your soldiers with a word.”

  Gunnlaug paused again, searching Bayan’s eyes for anger. Though his hands bunched into fists of rage, Bayan gave no other sign of emotion.

  “Huh,” Gunnlaug huffed, dissatisfied. He waddled back to his seat, dropping down heavily, his face red and sweaty from his exertions. Æva watched Wulfram shift position almost imperceptibly and knew that they were coming to it now. The Viking leaned his elbows on the wings of his chair and clasped his hands together in front of him. He scrutinised Bayan with piercing eyes.

  “Tell me why I should not,” he challenged.

  Bayan took a moment to begin. Æva could see that he was measuring each word. His life, her life, all their lives, hung in the balance.

  “You have won,” he said softly. “You have taken Eboric, you have defeated our army, and you have killed our king.” He bowed his head in reverence to the Viking’s victories. Gunnlaug grinned appreciatively, but his eyes were focused as he listened.

  “But if you take all, if you rape our country dry, you will be rich for a day, but Northumbria will have no more to give. Far better,” he continued quickly, for Gunnlaug had opened his mouth to speak, “Far better to have her work for you, and have her riches keep you well fed and happy year after year. The Nobles of Northumbria will not bow to you, but have them work under me, have them pay their tithes into my coffers, and I will bow to you.”

  Here he stopped, eyeing the Viking king keenly, searching his eyes to gauge his reaction.

  “So you would be my puppet, then, pup?” Gunnlaug asked, the smirk still on his face but his eyes thoughtful.

  Bayan nodded respectfully.

  “Hmmm,” Gunnlaug mused, rubbing the hair of his beard, deep in thought. “And what makes you think the great Nobles of Northumbria will obey your commend, eh?”

  “My father was king,” Bayan answered. “And my bride to be is the daughter of King Æthelred. He was a strong king and is well remembered.”

  He waved a hand behind him at this, and all eyes swivelled to Æva.

  There was no hiding the shock on her face. She stared at the back of Bayan’s head, speechless. Then Idin’s words floated in the back of her head. Bayan’s ‘legitimacy’ he had called her. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, appalled at her stupidity. That was why she had been brought here.

  Gunnlaug pierced her with his stare. He shifted in his chair, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he was going to rise, to come over to her, but he seemed to think better of making such an effort, and contented himself with leering at her from across the room.

  “Ha ha,” he chortled. “So this is why you brought the pretty little urchin with you. I did wonder. Perhaps I will take her for myself, make her my legitimacy?” he suggested, licking his lips suggestively at her. Æva managed to repress the revolted shudder that wound through her, but she could not stop the shaking of her limbs. Ælric’s vice-like grip on her arm was the only thing keeping her standing.

  Gunnlaug stared at Bayan for a moment, assessing his reaction to this proposal, but Bayan shrugged, seeming disinterested. Æva hoped ardently that it was just a ruse. Her pulse raced and bile rose in her throat at the thought of being passed to this hideous fiend. Gunnlaug nodded to himself, and Æva found herself holding her breath as she waited for him to speak. Seconds ticked by.

  “I think,” he said, “I think I like you, boy. Very well, you shall be my puppet, and you can take your little bride, have her make you a king. We had best be quick about it,” he sneered, ogling her again. “Tie her down before she gets cold feet. I think she is making eyes at me.” He winked at her and Æva’s stomach twisted. She swallowed hard against the need to vomit.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “We will fetch one of your little priests. Until then you will stay here, where I can keep my eye on you.”

  With that he dismissed them, turning away and clicking his fingers impatiently at a servant, who tottered over with a tray laden with food and drink.

  Thakkrad slithered forward out of the shadows where he had been loitering.

  “Come with me,” he told them, and lead them away from the snorting and sniffling noises as Gunnlaug gorged himself on the food.

  ᚫ

  “Ælric,” Æva whispered, “Ælric please. You have to help me.”

  Her voice barely carried the length of the tiny room, but she knew he heard her. He stood in the doorway, the one source of light, his massive frame blocking the way. He had his back to her, his outline a silhouette against the brightness of the day. He did not even flinch at her words, continuing to stare straight ahead, ignoring her.

  Æva looked around the small space. It was square, made of stone with a thatched roof. There were no windows, the doorway in front of her the only way in or out. It had most likely been a small storeroom, for grain or oats judging by the scattering of seeds that dusted the floor, empty now except for a small empty wooden box Æva used as a stool. Fidgeting on her seat, she folded her arms across her chest, hugging them to her for warmth. It was a cold day, the bite of winter beginning to take hold, and she had no travelling cloak, just the blue dress and a thin linen slip. Nerves and tension added to the juddering, making her teeth rattle. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

  “Ælric, look at me,” she pleaded, her voice tight. Yet again he ignored her.

  They had been playing this game for an hour. Bayan and Wulfram were holed up in a building nearby, discussing their strategy. Wulfram had asked the messenger for somewhere to keep her, somewhere safe but out of the way, and Thakkrad had led them to this room. She had been pushed inside and abandoned, Ælric stationed at the door with orders only that she not move. He had turned his back on her at once and no amount of pleading, begging, or angry hissing had moved him. She had not dared to raise her voice any louder.

  The longer she stayed penned in by these claustrophobic walls, the more panic rose up inside her like vomit. She saw no way out, of the room or her situation. She was almost embarrassed by her idiocy, cursed herself for being so blind. How could she not have realised why he was keeping her, why he h
ad made such efforts to bring her back time and again? Ludicrous conceit had made her think he wanted her, that some quality in her looks, her body or her mind bound him to her. She was nothing but a pawn in his political game.

  His actions had both saved her from servitude and saved her life, she knew, but that was not enough. She could not be his key to the throne, his legitimacy, his wife. The final word hung in her head, mocking her. She had been so close to her happy ending with Idin: uncertain and reckless as it had been. Then the cruel hand of fate had snatched it away. Now, just two days later, she was going to be enslaved, bound forever.

  She stood up, unable to cope with the ball of fear choking her chest. She felt strangled by invisible hands. She couldn’t stay here; she couldn’t do this.

  Though she knew it was useless even as she did it, she spun, launching herself at the narrow gap of light in the doorway. She ducked under Ælric’s arm and tried to squeeze her way out. Caught off guard, he slammed to the side, pinning her against the doorframe. His arm came up, smashing into her chin and splitting her lip. Her head snapped back, and she paused for an instant, stunned, but she shook her head and blinked rapidly, hauling air into her lungs and trying to wriggle her way out. Almost snarling, Ælric grabbed her by the middle and flung her back into the room. She landed painfully, slamming her hip into the floor, her head hitting the corner of the box. She was winded and dazed, but she still struggled to rise, demented in her desperation to flee.

  Seeing her continued efforts, Ælric cursed under his breath and stepped into the room. He towered over her, arms spread, watching for her next clumsy move.

  “Æva, don’t!” he ordered, his face a mixture of annoyance, exasperation and pity.

  Æva stopped trying to rise and lay on the dirt floor, panting. She watched him, feeling both disappointment and satisfaction: she had not succeeded in escaping, but he was at least looking at her, talking to her. Before he could turn and resume his post at the door, she clambered to her knees. She reached out for his hand, grasping it faster than he could pull it away. She knew he could yank himself free at any moment if he chose, but for now he stayed. She took comfort from that.

  “Please let me go,” she implored, disregarding the indignity of begging on her knees. She was desperate, willing to try anything.

  Ælric pressed his lips together, choosing his words.

  “For what purpose?” he asked. “So that you can wander amongst the Vikings, have one of them take you as his whore?”

  His words wounded her, but she swallowed against her retort. She would gain nothing by arguing with him.

  “Just help me get out of here,” she said. “I will run, hide. You would be rid of me; I would never come back.”

  He shook his head.

  “You would not survive,” he said, his voice certain.

  “Does it matter?” she asked, the hopelessness in her eyes unnerving. He looked away, uncomfortable.

  “Please,” she begged. She saw him close his eyes in anguish, knew she was wearing him down. “Please, Ælric.”

  She squeezed his fingers and he looked down at her, his face troubled and clouded by uncertainty.

  A shadow darkened the doorway but Æva did not see it. She was focused on reading the conflict of emotions on Ælric’s face, on supplicating him with her eyes, her face, the touch of her hands, the prostrate position of her body. He was turning slowly, she could see it. Hope gleamed momentarily, sensing victory. She dragged one foot forward, planting it on the ground and preparing to rise, wanting to close the distance between their eyes, to force him to look deep into hers and choose.

  “Ælric, go and eat.”

  Wulfram’s voice broke the spell. At once Ælric stiffened, pulling his hand so quickly from hers that her palm stung. His eyes grew distant, the softness hardening into emotionless black. Æva dropped back into a sitting position, defeated, as he turned and nodded to Wulfram before sweeping from the room.

  Wulfram held a plate in his hands. He stepped forward into the room and offered it to her, but she paid no attention to him, glaring at the floor. Unperturbed, he laid the plate down on the box, then shifted over to the wall opposite, just to the side of the door, and sat. His position was relaxed, hands resting casually on his knees. He did not feel the need to stand guard: he knew he would beat her to the door if she moved. Æva knew it too.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she asked, her voice dejected, her eyes trained on the floor in front of her.

  “I am a soldier,” he told her, “I do what I am told.”

  She looked up at him, eyes scanning his face. It was calm, unrepentant. He held her gaze, no hint of indecision in his eyes.

  “No,” she smiled ruefully, shaking her head. “You are choosing this. Choosing to help him force me into this-,” she stopped, unable to mouth the word marriage with composure. She knew she would not win him with emotion; her only hope was with reason, but even then, in her heart of hearts, she knew she fought a lost cause.

  “You would not be the first,” he said, ignoring the look of distain she shot him.

  He sighed, rubbing his forehead with one huge, powerful hand. Æva shifted, sensing an opportunity to run, but his legs twitched in tandem and she knew he was aware of her every movement. She would not outmanoeuvre him.

  “You promised me,” she began, her lip trembling and sending her voice into a quaver, “You promised me you would look after me, keep me safe.”

  “I am trying to do what is best for you,” he said.

  “No,” she denied, shaking her head. “You lie.”

  “No,” he said, his voice heavy with sincerity, “I do not.”

  The softness of his words took the fight out of Æva. She slumped sideways, leaning against the box.

  “You should eat,’” he said, indicating the plate, “Then it would be wise to rest, try to sleep.”

  But Æva could do neither. All arguments spent, she sat motionless, watching the doorway but seeing nothing. Slowly the rectangle of light darkened, then flickered in the glare of a nearby fire, but eventually that, too, dimmed. The night was almost welcome, a chance to hide, to not have to try to mask the emotions thundering within her, to allow them to sit plainly on her face and have tears course down her cheeks. Though she did not sleep, the night passed frighteningly fast, and soon morning light illuminated the world outside, picking up the shining orbs of Wulfram’s eyes as he watched her. Exhaustion had numbed her into a trance, and she could only stare ahead, waiting.

  An hour later she still had not moved. Her muscles were cold and stiff and aching, but her mind seemed somewhere far away, as if she floated above herself, staring down in disbelief and incredulity. She preferred this deadened feeling.

  She was aware of Ælric coming to the door and whispering to Wulfram, but she took no interest in what they were saying, did not even try to unravel the incoherent mumbling into words. As Ælric left, deliberately avoiding looking at her pathetic form, Wulfram hoisted himself to his feet and moved over to her. Hunkering down, he grabbed a chunk of bread from the plate he had brought.

  “Please eat,” he urged, holding the lump of bread up to her lips. Her face expressionless, she opened her lips and allowed him to slip the bread into her mouth. She tried to chew, but her mouth was dry, and the muscles of her throat seemed to have stopped working. She swallowed anyway, feeling the food lodge in her throat. Wulfram sighed, but she did not bother to look into his eyes to gauge the feeling behind the sound.

  “When?” she asked, completely conquered.

  “Soon,” Wulfram replied, a promise and apology in one.

  It seemed moments later that Thakkrad arrived at the door. He said nothing, but exchanged a meaningful glance with Wulfram, who nodded curtly, his lip curling in dislike as soon as the Viking turned his back.

  “Come, Æva,” he said softly. He grasped under her arm and pulled her to her feet. Æva lurched into him, her legs bloodless from the long hours of sitting on the cold, hard floor. She
gasped as the circulation flooded back into to her feet, pins and needles stabbing at her toes, the balls of her feet and her heels. She wriggled her toes, her first voluntary movement since the previous day. The feeling returned to her legs quickly, but her mind remained numb.

  Bayan appeared at the door, his face drawn and haggard. He ignored her, addressing Wulfram.

  “Let’s go,” he said, his voice rough. Æva stared at him, her eyes accusing, but he turned without meeting her gaze.

  Wulfram placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her from the building. She blinked, dazed, as her pupils contracted against the bright light. For a moment her eyes were a dazzling sea-green, standing out ferociously from her deathly pale face, but as she adjusted to the dim morning light her pupils dilated until the colour disappeared, leaving her eyes black, haunted. They walked slowly, like an executioner’s march. Out of the corner of her eye she caught the horrifying sight of bodies hanging from the city wall, nooses tightened around their necks. Their death must have been terrible, she knew, but in that moment of despair she wondered if they were the lucky ones: they were free. Their souls had floated up to Heaven where the world could no not hurt them, where they were no longer subject to the cruel twists and turns of fate.

  Thakkrad led them back to the hall. Its steps were deserted this morning, most of the Viking soldiers still slumbering in the early hour. Inside, the hall was identical to the day before: the fire blazed, baking the room in a suffocating heat, the Viking King lazed in his massive chair, and the melee of men he surrounded himself with loitered in watchful silence. Today, however, another man stood there, dressed in long robes and sweating profusely, his face pale with nerves. The priest.

  “Let’s make this quick,” Bayan said, stepping forward and crossing the long room. Æva followed after a gentle push from Wulfram.

  “What is your hurry?” Gunnlaug called, his voice fat with disparagement. “You are afraid she will change her mind?”