Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Nay!” she screamed. “Nay! Nay! We made a bargain!” Frantically, she resisted the Viking leader until he was forced to release her. “You made me a bargain!” she cried as she tumbled to the floor beside Stefan’s body.

  His face in death was still as sweetly innocent as it had been in life, no fear, no regret—he’d done it for her. “Nay... oh, nay!” He was but a boy! God have mercy, he’d died for her! She seized him, clutching him to her breast, rocking him. “Stefan!” she whimpered. “I’m so... so... so, sorry!” It was her fault.

  She cried out, her features twisting with horror as she lifted her tear-stained face to the chaos about her. Bodies were strewn about the once spotless hall, littering every corner. Tables were toppled. Stools, so beautiful once with carved legs that clawed the ground, were axed into little more than rough-hewn splinters. The only lives that seemed to have been spared were those of the female servants who now screamed for mercy beneath the abusing bodies of murdering Northmen.

  Nay, they were not being raped, but how long before they were all defiled? How she wished she could aid them! She released Stefan, and tried to rise, but her vision blackened as blood rushed into her temples. Desperately, she fought another wave of nausea as she rose. Her legs had never felt more unsubstantial.

  Anger unlike anything she’d ever known soared within her. She whirled to face the Viking leader, loathing in her eyes. “You made me a bargain!” she cried furiously. She lifted her fists to strike him and he caught both wrists in midair with a single fluid movement.

  Wrenching herself free, Elienor turned to face the rest of his butchers, all the while shaking her head in denial. “He was just a boy!”

  The flame-haired Viking laughed uproariously. Undaunted, she met his gaze without fail, her own eyes vivid with fury. He would laugh? He would rejoice at the death of a child? Too furious to consider the consequences, she lunged at the flame-haired one, too desperate to avenge Stefan to consider the consequences.

  An arm caught her firmly about the waist. Elienor screamed, bucking and squirming against the iron hold.

  “Think you a boy cannot deal a death blow?” a husky voice asked at her back.

  “As God is my witness, I wish he had!” Elienor told him and meant it with all of her soul. “Set me free, you deceiving, misbegotten cur!”

  Trying in vain to shake herself loose from the leader’s grasp, she kicked him. He dropped her at once. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a Norse curse, he spun her about, his expression furious, though he said not another word.

  Blinding tears welled in Elienor’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks, but she lifted her chin, daring him to make her repudiate her words, daring him to say aught more to defend himself. They’d struck a bargain and he’d forsaken it, and she’d never forget. Ever!

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Whether boy, or man, in fact,” he said, “by the blade he wielded he declared himself a man!” He spared a quick glance at Flame Hair, and turned back to Elienor with a look that was lethal.

  Elienor shook her head. Accursed fate! She cast a withering glance at the one called Red-Hrolf.

  The Viking leader snarled and tore his gaze from her abruptly. “Enough!” he commanded his men. His scowl was as cold and fierce as the north winds. “We go now! Take whatever catches your fancy from this wretched mound of stones—but do so quickly!”

  The Viking in the nearest corner snickered wickedly and again tackled the wench he’d pinned to the floor. Red-Hrolf shouted heinously as he turned and dove upon the girl, as well. Struggling in earnest they squashed the buxom wench beneath their strong play, causing her to scream in fear and protest.

  Another came and tapped the leader upon the shoulder. He smiled meaningfully. “I’d have a taste of this one, if it please you.”

  “Nei, you will not!” the leader barked. His eyes narrowed in warning. “Take what else you will with my blessing, but do it now. Do not try me tonight!”

  The other Viking stood beside him stubbornly, his expression offended and resentful.

  “Suit yourself,” the leader grumbled, and then still scowling, he turned to yet another—the nude one! “Enough, you bare-assed sapling, dress yourself! We go! And you!” he added to Elienor, “get yourself up and walk!” He pried her away from Stefan’s body, lifting her and nudging her forward.

  “Nay!” Elienor planted her heels. “I’ll not leave him!”

  He shoved her this time. “You will,” he apprised. “Walk of your own accord, wench, or I will haul you out myself!” When she wouldn’t comply, his fingers dug into her upper arm in warning. “Walk!” he demanded.

  There was no doubt in Elienor’s mind that he would, indeed, carry her out as he’d warned, but it was the only way she would leave, she vowed. If he would steal her from her home, she would not go easily!

  Muttering another savage curse, the Viking leader lifted her up, and for the second time this night, flung her over his hefty shoulders.

  Chapter 6

  Three longships were beached upon the narrow embankment, the largest of them monstrous, over eighty feet long. Spanning more than sixteen feet in the midsection, it held no seating; the oarsmen used great-footed war chests in their stead, their surfaces weather-beaten and smooth from use. Moonlight glinted off the polished wood, casting deep shadows into the planking.

  Elienor was dumped unceremoniously into the belly of the largest vessel, into the shadows, next to a young woman she recognized by name as Clarisse, Brouillard’s fille de chambre. And then, cursing roundly, the Viking simply turned his back and stalked away.

  “I shall see you rue this day!” she swore tearfully.

  Never had she felt such loathing for another human being. Indeed, never had she even considered it possible! She might have forgiven him anything—anything! Stealing her away from her home, the raid upon Count Phillipe’s castle—anything but the killing of an innocent boy!

  “Oh, God... Stefan.”

  Her throat tightened.

  In her mind she could see him again so clearly, his innocent young eyes widening the instant he recognized death. “Unfair, unfair, unfair,” she sobbed. Her gaze bore into the Viking’s back as he assumed his position at the helm. Curse him—a thousand times curse him! The Norse fiend had been three times Stefan’s size, and likely claimed three times his skill.

  Trembling with fear and fury, Elienor sat in bitter silence and watched as the last of the Vikings boarded, seating themselves upon their sea chests. At once they took up their oars.

  “M’lady?” the young woman beside her ventured timidly. “You should not blame yourself. I... I saw it all... It was the boy’s...” She swallowed visibly. “It was Stefan’s fault.”

  Elienor shook her head adamantly, refusing the comfort offered.

  “Aye, m’lady!” Clarisse insisted. She began to sob quietly, disconsolately. Elienor thought she might be weeping for Stefan, for she knew they, too, had been close. Impossible not to care for young, lighthearted, sweet, smiling Stefan. “It was his duty to defend you!” Clarisse maintained. “My lord Phillipe would have expected it.”

  “He was so young!” Elienor cried. “So very young!”

  Hot tears blurring her vision, she swallowed and met Clarisse’s gaze. She swiped at the fiery wetness upon her cheeks, and shook her head. “If... if only... I’d not struck the demon…” She averted her gaze, unable to continue, grief and remorse wrenching her heart.

  Through misty eyes she watched as the Vikings launched their dragon ships into the Seine. It was like naught she’d ever seen before. In one fleeting moment the castle was in plain sight, in another it was gone, vanishing into the night mist without a trace, so swiftly did they glide away. And with it, their last chance for deliverance.

  Would her uncle know where to seek her? Would he bother? And what of Count Phillipe? The Viking had said he lived. Could it be true?

  She dared to hope.

  Against her will, her gaze was drawn again to the
helm, where the King of Demons stood peering out over the waters.

  Murderer! her heart screamed.

  His back was to her this instant, but even at this distance, she knew him. Aye, she knew him—never would she forget those silver eyes, so cold and hostile!

  The men surrounding him were large of stature, yet he towered over them still, his fair hair glowing pale beneath the silvery moonlight. Bound with a braided leather strip about the forehead, its silky length fell well below his nape, catching the light so that it gleamed. The thought occurred to her suddenly, bitterly, as she stared transfixed, that she’d never seen the likes of his hair before. Not even the fairest ladies of Francia’s court had such beautiful tresses as did he. She found herself wondering over the feel of it.

  Would it be as soft as it appeared?

  The instant she considered it, she recoiled. Jesu, but whose thoughts were those? Surely not hers!

  She shivered as the breeze swept her hair into her face, and closed her eyes to pluck away the stinging strands from her lashes. When she opened them again it was to meet the Golden One’s dark gaze. The way he watched her never ceased to send quivers down her spine.

  Faithless was what she was.

  But nay, all it took to keep those thoughts at bay was to remember Stefan’s face as he’d died. “Murderer,” she whispered, and hoped he could read her lips. Still, she could not wrench her gaze away, and so she willed him to know what was in her heart, every last trace of loathing. And yet if her emotions were truly in her eyes, he seemed wholly unaffected by what he saw, for his gaze never wavered. His lips merely curved at one corner, as though to mock her, and then mercifully he turned to address his men, releasing her at last.

  With another shudder, Elienor turned to meet Clarisse’s probing gaze, and gasped in surprise at being watched so cannily. Chagrined at what thoughts might have been evident in her confused expression, she wrenched her gaze guiltily away.

  “M’lady?” Clarisse asked weakly. “What do you suppose they will do with us?”

  Elienor’s blue eyes were full of torment as she turned to acknowledge the question. She had no notion what to say to allay Clarisse’s fears. In truth, she had no inkling what lay in store for either of them; the dream had ended in the chapel, with the screams of the wounded and dying. She shook her head miserably.

  Clarisse nodded, bowing her head, and Elienor turned again to watch the men at their rowing.

  Heathens though they were, they moved gracefully together, in perfect accord. Yet, as beautiful as their motion was, the sound they made was diabolical. Keeping time with the head oarsman’s pounding rhythm, the oars groaned eerily as they rolled over wet wood, lifting and plunging again like savage beasts into the murky water. As the three dragon ships soared over the night-blackened waters, the sound only escalated, grating on Elienor’s nerves.

  For the longest time, neither she nor Clarisse spoke. She simply sat, watching all, seeing naught. Against her will, she kept envisioning the Viking leader... the way his eyes had pierced her within the chapel... the way he’d touched her... caressed her cheek so tenderly.

  Those eyes.

  She saw them again as he’d touched her within the chapel… gently… more gently than any single person ever had. Not even Sister Heloise had shown her such affection. Troubled by the image, Elienor closed her eyes to ward away the memory and at once it was replaced with another.

  Stefan.

  “Sweet Jesu,” She moaned. Would she ever forget the look on his face as he’d died? Never! she swore vehemently. “Never!” she whispered.

  All too soon, the three longships exited the mouth of the River Seine and entered into the turbulent channel.

  Water rose up to slap against the dragon vessel like mighty wrathful hands. At once the rowing ceased and the rigging was hastily raised, the sailcloth unfolded and prepared. In short time the red diamond-patterned sails, which struck terror in the hearts of men, women, and children alike, billowed sharply with the strengthening breeze.

  Elienor’s heart wrenched as the sails filled and the ship punched forward with a terrible fury, leaving the mainland of Francia small in its wake.

  She dared not weep. With silent, stoic pride, she watched her homeland vanish before her eyes, then squeezed her eyes shut, even as her heart constricted with grief.

  It was her duty to be strong, she told herself. For Clarisse.

  Beside her, Clarisse began to weep in earnest. Burying her pallid face into the sleeve of her gown, the girl fell forward against the planking to sob.

  Hours later, as the sky began to lighten, Clarisse lay weeping still, though quietly now. Elienor had no notion what to say to comfort the poor girl. Try as she might, the words would not form. She scooted to the maid’s side to soothe her the only way she knew how, the way Mother Heloise had so often done for her. She stroked the back of Clarisse’s matted hair, and when Clarisse’s sobs began to ebb at last, Elienor coaxed the girl’s arm away from her face.

  Clarisse resisted, whimpering, concealing her eyes. She turned her back to Elienor, and it was then Elienor discovered the sticky blood that coated the girl’s dark hair behind her head. “Clarisse!” she exclaimed. “You’re injured! Jesu, why did you not say?”

  Clarisse moaned and shook her head, refusing to bare her face. “I... I... sorry, m’lady! So sorry...” She moaned pathetically. “’Tis the light!” she complained.

  As best she could, Elienor parted the girl’s hair to find the gash little more than a graze. The welt beneath, however, was a furious purplish crimson. She hesitated to touch it. “Does it pain you?” she asked, and then berated herself for the question. Of course it pained her!

  Clarisse nodded emphatically, concealing her face into her sleeve, yet the gesture managed to bare her wound more fully to Elienor. Elienor gasped to see the swelling so severe at the base of her skull. She shook her head. “Jesu... what have they done to you?”

  Clarisse responded by coiling herself protectively into a little human ball.

  “Clarisse, how can I help if you will not speak?”

  “H... he...” Her breast heaved on a sob. “He struck my head against the stairwell.”

  There was no need to ask who. In Elienor’s heart it wouldn’t have mattered who the guilty party was. She knew precisely at whose feet to place the blame.

  His.

  “It hurts more with every passing moment!” Clarisse whined.

  Cautiously, Elienor reached to probe the wound with her fingers, gently, so as not to cause more suffering.

  At Elienor’s touch, the girl wrenched herself away with a shrill cry, rolling out of reach. Once again she began to sob, and Elienor felt utterly helpless, wanting to aid her, yet knowing she had not the means. Elienor looked to the helm, and this time, she rose determinedly, not thinking, only feeling.

  The very least these heathens could do was to supply her with cloth and water to cleanse the wound!

  Before she could rise fully to her feet, she was shoved backward by the one called Red-Hrolf. He scowled fiercely at her and began to bellow viciously in his garbled tongue. Elienor knew not a word, yet understood him perfectly. He commanded her to stay—like a dog! Well, she refused to be cowed! Clarisse needed aid and she would not fail her!

  As she’d failed Stefan, a little voice hounded her.

  Resolved as Elienor was, she rose again, only to be thrust backward once more.

  “How dare—” She halted on a gasp, restraining angry words, and despite the trembling in her limbs, once more rose to face the irate Viking. “I would speak to your jarl!” she demanded furiously. “I’ll not sit idly by and watch this woman die! Have you no mercy at all?”

  She didn’t stop to consider why she felt the jarl would help her any more than the flame-haired one would.

  Red-Hrolf continued to bellow, shoving at her arm intermittently, and then abruptly he ceased his tirade to glower over her shoulder.

  “Since when do thralls demand aught?” the
leader demanded.

  Elienor’s heart flew into her throat, and she buckled to her knees. Mary mother of God! She resisted the urge to cross herself. She dared not rise, nor turn to look at him for fear that her eyes would betray her. Her heart throbbed painfully as she waited for him to speak again, but when he did, it was to address Red-Hrolf in their own tongue.

  Red-Hrolf immediately sat down upon his sea chest. Hushed and angry, he took up his oar once more, all the while glaring resentfully at Elienor.

  At once she was wrenched about to face the Viking leader.

  “And you! Mistress Arrogance! I remember not affording you choices!”

  “Arrogance!” Elienor gasped, fury choking her. “Arrogance?” she returned contemptuously, “And what, prithee, my lord Viking, could be more arrogant than to steal into a sleeping manor and butcher those within for the sake of glory, or greed?”

  The Viking’s eyes darkened to coal before her eyes, smoldering with ire. “Glory?” he replied sharply. “Greed?” His sneer mocked her. “Nei, wench! But I’ve no inclination to explain myself to you. Best you listen to me well, for I vow I’ll not deign to warn you again! From here forth you will do what is expected of you, or you will pay the consequences!”

  Elienor met his gaze boldly. Something about this barbarian Viking liberated that wicked part of her she’d repressed for so very long; so many times she’d had to bite her lip to keep her words from spilling free, but not this day, she vowed. “And what might that be?” she dared to ask. “Might I lie down and die for you too?” she asked contemptuously.

  He shook her briefly, and she choked back a startled cry. His eyes glinted in warning, his jaw working furiously. “What is expected…” He paused, obviously battling his raging temper. “…is that you be seated in silence and cease to goad my men. As it is, you’ve caused more than enough unrest today.”