Chapter 2
They moved quickly, soundless shadows creeping through the night.
Flattening their war-hardened bodies against the stone walls, they stole toward the hidden portal.
She was gone now, but Alarik could not wrench his gaze away from the tower above. Even once his men toiled to destroy the wooden portal, his eyes sought her. Once it was breached he could delay no longer, and he shuddered away a prickle of foreboding before turning to his men.
There was no guard posted at the hidden portal—arrogant, stupid Franskmann.
His eyes glinted with loathing. “Eyes to your backs!” he warned his men, and then he raised his gilt-edged sword into the night. “May Dragvendil spare no man!” he said. “May your own blades dole no mercy!” And with that, he stooped to lead them through the tiny, well-concealed portal.
‘To arms! To arms!”
Swiping at the tears that blinded her vision, Elienor shouted at the top of her lungs. ‘To arms!” she called again as she spiraled downward. Her frantic voice carried down before her into the hall below, and she was relieved to hear the ensuing commotion as men stirred from their slumber.
One man darted up the tower steps, tripping over himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, only to halt when he saw her. “My lady!” he gasped.
“Gaston!” It was the sentinel. He’d come in from the cold to warm himself only to fall asleep at the foot of the stairs. She’d passed him on her way up, had tiptoed around him so as not to wake him—so certain had she been that her dream would not hold true. Had he been at his given post tonight, it would have been Gaston who spied the Viking ships, and not Elienor. She wished, with all her soul that it had been so. Her heart pummeled against her ribs. For an unbearable instant, neither spoke.
“The Northmen are come!” she told him. “I have seen them from the tower. Go quickly—warn the castle!”
The man’s eyes widened. “My lady, art certain?”
“Aye!” she exclaimed. “Even now they climb the banks! Go!”
Sobered by her revelation, he did not hesitate to wonder why she’d been in the tower to begin with, nor did he linger to offer explanation as to why he was not, and she said a silent prayer of thanks. She watched as he whirled about and raced back down, sounding the alarm.
Knowing there was little time to spare, Elienor followed, praying she’d not lose her footing on the slippery steps. So intent was she on her descent that she nearly tumbled over Stefan as he came loping up the dimly lit stairwell. Despite the fact that his newly acquired sword clanged and scraped clumsily against the wall, she did not see that he was there until she was virtually upon him.
“My lady!” he reproved. “You will fall to your death!”
Elienor shrieked as he caught her arm. “Stefan!” Sweet Jesu! How could she have overlooked him? Despite the fact that he was no more than a boy of thirteen summers, he’d been the only one with wisdom enough to understand her apprehension over coming alone to a strange new household. The rest had kept themselves apart. It was her duty to save him if she could.
“My lady? Is it true?” There was a tremor of excitement to his voice. “Gaston says you have spied the Northmen?”
A quiver of fear passed down Elienor’s spine, but she recovered herself, seizing him by the wrist. Knowing full well that he would feel obliged to hie to his lord’s side, she ignored his question and tugged him after her. “Quickly,” she commanded on impulse. “Follow me!” If his face had been revealed to her in her dream, she would have known the futility of altering its course. But it had not been, and Stefan was far too young to die.
“My lady!” he protested. He cringed as the sword Count Phillipe had so recently presented to him shaved the wall. “My lord...”
“I spoke to him,” she lied. “He said you were to come with me to the chapel!” It was only a small lie, she reasoned. Surely God would forgive it.
“My lady?” He tried freeing his arm from her frenzied grip, but Elienor clutched it all the more fiercely. “Did you not realize that my lord has gone to Pa—”
“Please!” Elienor appealed. “Heed me—if only this once!”
Stefan dug in his heels stubbornly.
There were no torches burning in the great hall at this late hour, and the muted light came from the single torch that graced the stairwell behind them. As Elienor turned to face him, tears shone in her eyes. “Stefan,” she cried. “I beg you!”
His shoulders slumped in frustration and his brow furrowed, but he nodded. Elienor nearly wept her relief.
Clasping his hand firmly, she drew him at once out of the hall, into the narrow pentice, which provided them with a covered passage from the hall to the kitchens. Once in the kitchen, certain that in scant moments the donjon would be overrun with the Northmen, she ran across the smoke-permeated room, to the far doors. It was the quickest route, she knew, and there was no time to waste. Count Phillipe’s small numbers were simply no match for the scourge of the north.
As they left the kitchen and entered another narrow walkway between buildings, she pulled the boy to her protectively. Stefan recoiled at once. “My lady, please! I have no need of such coddling. I am elevated to squire! Aide to my lord!” he protested.
“Hush, Stefan! Instruct me to your heart’s content once we are safe within the chapel!”
But then Elienor grimaced, recalling the enemy. Since when had the Northmen regarded the Church as hallowed ground? Mother Heloise told her that the fiends never spared castle or monastery, whether Roman, French, or English. Their pillaging of Grande Bretagne’s Jarrow and Wearmouth were well renown, as well as the numerous parishes of her homeland. It was true that their reign of terror had subsided of late, but only now that most of northern Francia was at last under their barbarian rule.
The chapel door stood ajar a scant few feet away, the dark interior a greater beacon to her now than the brightest of lights, and she prayed, begging for God’s mercy and aid—not for herself, but for young Stefan.
Let us reach the chapel—please, please, please.
Tonight, she would live, as the dream foretold... but Stefan? There was no time even to make the sign of the cross, or she would have.
Within the chapel it was darker even than it had first appeared, but having spent so many hours within its cobbled walls, Elienor had no need of candle to light the vestibule. Letting her memory guide her, she snatched up the wooden bar and placed it within the stout metal rings on either side of the heavy door, locking the two of them securely within.
“My lady?” Stefan protested, this time with an edge of desperation to his voice. He was clearly growing impatient, yet having no choice, Elienor continued to ignore him. Taking him by the hand once more, she led him to a place beyond the crossing, well into the chancel, and finally behind the altar. There she shoved him with all her might onto his haunches. She shoved again when he resisted until he fell back upon his lean little rump.
“Bon dieu!” Stefan exploded. “Enough, I say! Tell me what goes here! Why do you bar the door when you know I must—”
From the donjon, shouts of ambush could be heard. Giving Elienor an accusing glance, Stefan bolted for the door.
Elienor seized him by the wrist. “Nay! You cannot! ’Tis done! ’Tis done!”
“My lady! I beg you release me! ’Tis my duty you would deny me!” Shouts of the wounded and dying escalated and so did his desperation. “Release me, I say!”
“Nay!” The scraping of metal upon stone could be distinguished beyond the chapel doors. “Nay!”
They heard a bloodcurdling scream. Elienor could picture it all so vividly, the savage Northmen with their axes raised high into the air. There was little use in closing her eyes, for the vision originated from within, from some accursed second eye within her soul.
“Set me free!” the boy demanded furiously. Again he shouted, “’Tis my duty you would deny me!” With a final twist, he liberated himself and raced for the door, his long legs awkward a
s he ran.
“Stefan! Nay, oh, nay!”
He could not go. She would not allow it. Desperately, Elienor groped about in the darkness, seeking the means to stop him. Her hand closed upon the sacred reliquary, a small copper chest that sheltered a sliver of the Christ’s cross, and she knew at once what she must do.
“Father, forgive me,” she whispered fervently, and then she bolted across the nave after Stefan, striking the chest down upon his head.
Caught in the process of sliding the bar from the ring, Stefan made some strangled sound and released it. Though she could not see him fall for the darkness, she heard him as he crumpled to the wooden floor, unconscious. The wooden bar fell from his grasp, slamming against the door as it began to slide cacophonously from the other ring. Without a moment to spare, Elienor seized it, securing it once more.
Chapter 3
The skali, or hall, was dark, save for the feeble glow cast by a single torch guttering further up the stairwell.
Alarik’s eyes scanned the shadows, noting with disdain the slain enemy scattered about his feet. What little resistance they put forth, these pathetic French. With a grunt of disgust, he gave the signal for his men to disperse and make use of whatever could be found, be it ale or wench, beast or gems.
He’d never doubted they would prevail, but it had been much too simple a victory, and he decided that tonight his men deserved whatever spoils they desired, for he knew they were not appeased. By the gates of Hel, neither was he, for the count he’d come to crush had been conspicuously absent from the fray.
Shouts of revelry followed Alarik as he wandered away in search of the missing count, but the terrified howl of a man found hidden beneath a table in the gloomy light of the skali drew him back, and he turned to watch, leaning a shoulder against the arched entryway.
Before him, Sigurd Thorgoodson scampered up the steps to retrieve the torch burning there and then returned like a maelstrom of fire, sweeping his way around the hall, lighting torches as he passed. He flew by each so quickly that it seemed he lit them with the sparks spilling in his wake.
Alarik understood the haste.
This last kill they would savor fully, terrifying the hefty man with their unappeased blood lust, rendering him senseless with fright. Then, they would offer the poor fool a battle axe for Northmen had little liking for killing the defenseless. There was no glory to be gotten from an execution. To fight in the face of danger showed one’s valor. And if by chance a man fell in the enemy’s stead, then from Asgard would come, donned in shining armor, riding steeds of white, the maidens from Valholl, the hall of the slain. Heads held high, solemn and deep in thought, the Valkyrs rode—choosers of the slain—and down they would come to the field of battle to swoop up the souls of the dead to join Odin in his great corps, the Einherjar. There, only the bravest served.
His men encircled the prey, successfully foiling any attempt at escape, and finished with the task of lighting the scattered torches, Sigurd, teeth bared, and growling, elbowed his way back through the pack. Using the pitch torch as his weapon, he lit the man’s hair from behind, garnering laughter from the others. The Frenchman yowled in pain, and Sigurd at once slapped out the small flame he’d begun, howling hysterically at his own cleverness.
Alarik’s brow lifted in droll amusement. Sigurd, ever the jester, was as loyal as they came, but his humor was sadly lacking—though evidently flame-haired Hrolf Kaetilson didn’t think so. Red-Hrolf was clutching his belly and howling at the top of his lungs. At once, Ivar Longbeard joined Sigurd in terrorizing the man, taking firm hold of his own long russet whiskers and tugging wildly, looking every bit the berserker. And seeing Longbeard ravage the hair of his face, Lars the Fair Head followed suit.
Bjorn, Alarik’s younger brother, nut-faced from the sun and too comely for his own good, immediately began the chant, “Die! Die! Die!”
The others followed his lead, their voices in the night sounding like a ballad to a Northman’s ear.
Suddenly, Sigurd threw an axe at the man’s feet and then waited for the fool to grasp it. Sensing his fate, the man stood arrested, paralyzed with fright.
To goad the man into lifting up the axe, Sigurd removed and discarded his armor and then his clothing, taunting him all the while, until he was nude as the day he was begot.
“Look at me, Fransk!” Sigurd goaded in disjointed French. “No breastplate! No shield! Still I shall crush you beneath my boots!”
Hoots of laughter greeted his claim.
“Hah! One blade behind my back!” With a flourish, Sigurd concealed his sword behind his back, and added a lewd pelvic thrust, then turned to collect grins of approval from the rest.
Despite himself, Alarik chuckled, though he shook his head.
The Frenchman sought his gaze, understanding instinctively that he was leader.
Alarik’s flesh prickled as the man stared without blinking. His own eyes narrowed as he moved nearer. The man shook violently, though his gaze never wavered, and one by one, his men followed the Frenchman’s gaze to where Alarik stood behind them, and quieted.
‘Tell me French dung,” Alarik demanded, once there was silence, “where is your murdering count?”
The sound of his own footfalls bounced off the stone walls.
The man’s gaze skidded away, then back.
Alarik halted before him, allowing a moment longer for his reply. When it was apparent he would not speak, Alarik asked once more, “Your count?” His hand tightened around Dragvendil’s hilt.
It was a long moment before the man was able to still his quaking long enough to respond, but when he did, he spat upon the ground before Alarik’s boots.
Alarik kept his composure, for there was only one man whose blood he ached to spill this night. This one he would leave to his men. “Stupid bastard!” he said. “I would have given you a clean death.”
He motioned for his men to carry on. “Do with the fool as you will.”
The revelry recommenced at once with hoots and laughter, and Sigurd, tired of waiting for the man to pick the axe up, feinted for it. Only then did the Frenchman move to take the weapon, understanding that it was his sole salvation.
Sigurd’s claim had not been mere boast, Alarik knew. His men were the finest—the best warriors to be found in all of the North Land. The Frenchman had not a breath of a chance. The man’s fate was sealed the very moment his stout fingers closed about the axe’s handle.
Alarik turned from the melee, entering what appeared to be the eldhus, or kitchen, while behind him an anguished cry spewed forth. The gruesome sound was followed by the merry roar of laughter. It was over, yet despite his feeling of justification, Alarik was not satisfied—not whilst the gutless count lived.
Behind the eldhus was an alley leading to a small kirken, or church. His mother had been Christian, he mused, as he scrutinized the large ornate doors before him. Fingering the woodwork, he pondered what it was that drew his brother to it, as well, and shook his head over the mystery of it all—so many wars fought over what?
A muffled sound came from within, and he stiffened. Something clattered against the door, and he jerked away. Eager for a confrontation with the count, he anticipated the opening of the door, his sword arm raised and poised to strike. But the only sound he could discern was a slight shuffling... as though someone were dragging an injured leg across the floor.
The count?
Determined not to be robbed of satisfaction, Alarik tried the door, and finding it barred, swore his displeasure. He could well picture the spineless bastard hiding like a coward within his forsaken chapel—more than willing to let his men fight his battle without him.
For his perfidy, Alarik vowed, the man would die this night, as cruel a death as he could manage.
“Coward!” he snarled at the door, and with a cry, he lifted his broad axe from the loop in his belt and raised it high. He brought the gleaming silver inlaid blade crashing down upon the door, shattering it easily with the force of his
blow.
At the terrible sound, Elienor bolted from her knees and seized Stefan’s arms. She tugged with all her might. She had to get him behind the altar. Had to hide him.
When the thundering crack of a battle-axe met with the wood of the chapel door a second time, she panicked. Instinctively, she threw herself over Stefan, her heart thumping madly as the barrier between them and the Viking cracked and splintered away. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to block out the voice of terror in her mind.
Her heart leapt into her throat as heavy footsteps tromped across the hallowed sanctuary, echoing over the ageless crypt that lay beneath. Stifling the urge to cry out in fear, she clutched Stefan.
She dared not move.
When finally the footsteps ceased before her, she did not perceive it, for her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Chapter 4
The moon’s glow filtered in behind him—enough to light a goodly portion of the kirken, but Alarik’s enormous shadow kept the figure before him cloaked in darkness. He stepped aside, and exposed, not one, but two shapes lying still at his feet. He cocked his head in curiosity, lifting a brow at the odd positioning of their bodies.
Were they lovers, then, preferring death by their own hands rather than meet with his blade?
Stilling his own breath, he strained to catch some nuance of life, but no sound was immediately discernible.
“Pathetic!” he snarled in Norsk. “May your carcasses rot where you lay!” He pushed the uppermost figure with his boot.
It was then he noticed the thick mane of dark hair that cascaded beneath his boots, and his brows drew together. In his curiosity, he stepped away and stooped to fondle the pool of lustrous strands.
Soft. So soft.
Squatting with one arm resting across his thighs, he lifted the length of hair from the chapel floor. At once he recalled the long-haired woman upon the turret, her hair fluttering in the breeze, and another prickle snaked down his spine. He’d somehow managed to forget her during the fray. Overwhelmed with curiosity now, he slowly wound the silken strands around his fist, and without a trace of gentility, jerked up the head.
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