by Alexa Cole
Her Lord and Master
Alexa Cole
Her Lord and Master
Copyright 2016 by Alexa Cole
Cover design by Melody Simmons
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, redistributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in any database, without prior permission from the author.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All characters are 18+ and all situations are consensual.
This book was previously released under the same title by Aileen McNaughton.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Disclaimer
Her Lord and Master | Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Epilogue
THE END
Her Lord and Master
Chapter One
Elizabeth sat in pensive silence in the refectory of the convent, staring miserably at her breakfast of cold porridge and boiled fish. She had eaten the same thing, every meal for the last five years of her life: cold porridge and boiled fish. Sometimes, there were boiled beets in the mix. Sometimes, there were boiled turnips. On holy days, there was even boiled cabbage. But the two ingredients that never varied were porridge and fish, served cold to dull the senses and remind the nuns who lived in the abbey of the sinful nature of their desires for earthly comforts and material pleasures - like warm beds and hot food.
There wasn’t even salt.
The young woman bowed her hooded head, and said a perfunctory prayer of appreciation for the food. Then, she immediately asked for forgiveness for the lie she had just told. She wasn’t thankful for the food at all. She hated every bite of it. She missed the lively feasts and banquets from her youth, when she had lived in an enormous castle, and never ate the same meal twice in her life.
Every day, her father’s hunters had brought in delicious fowl and game from the vast, fecund forest that surrounded his lands. The tenant crofters and serfs delivered pork, beef, lamb and mutton, along with garden-grown vegetables, and hearty grains, every week to pay their rents. There had been a dairy within the bailey of the fortress, and no less than ten milkmaids worked around the clock to supply the keep with fresh milk, cream, butter and cheese daily.
Anglers gave them fresh salmon and trout from the River Aln, and succulent seafood from the North Sea. Traveling caravans of merchant traders carried expensive, exotic spices from faraway lands like Andalusia, Firenze and Venetia.
The fiefdom boasted its own orchards and even a fanciful vineyard, although her father was the first to admit the wild, hilly landscape of coastal Northumbria did not provide sufficient nourishment needed for his experimental grapes. Still, everyone ate the dry, shriveled fruits good-naturedly and sipped his bitter tasting wines and juices with smiles on their faces. Elizabeth’s childhood had been a happy one.
Her father’s castle was located near an important river crossing, and was close to the Scottish border. The Great Hall of the fortress had hosted scores of important people every night. The keep had welcomed companies of the king’s horsemen, wandering friars and traveling lairds, along with colorful bards, gleemen, mummers, jesters and riddlers, sometimes for weeks at a time. It had required over a hundred servants just to run the everyday operations of the home. There had been a constant stream of visitors in and out of the place for all of the young woman’s carefree life.
Until her parents had decided to give her away.
The youngest of thirteen children, Elizabeth had been donated to the local priory at the age of twelve. Her father, the liege lord of Alnwick fief, had made the benevolent sacrifice of giving away his daughter to the convent. His kindness would ensure the family’s everlasting favor with the Lord God, and the eternal goodwill of the Pope John.
Every single member of the family would be blessed, in this life and the next, for their generosity; everyone except Elizabeth, who had been damned to a life sentence of silence, poverty and corporeal suffering within the prison walls of the convent. Cut off from the outside world, she had not been allowed to receive even a letter from her mother on Christmas, nor possess a single item of her own, other than her bible, her habit and her veil.
There were eight hours of obligatory prayer at the abbey every single day. The first started at midnight with matins, lauds at three, followed by prime, terce, sext, the midday prayer, vespers and compline. All were the price to be paid for the privilege of living in the priory, along with the other noble women who resided there.
No one had even asked Elizabeth once if she wished to go. It was her duty to her family and she would do it, willingly or unwillingly, it mattered none which. Besides, who would be so selfish as to deny her entire family a place in Heaven for all time, just to satisfy her own physical comforts? She had never once complained.
Elizabeth almost snorted aloud scornfully, but caught herself at the last second. Doing so would earn her a cold night of prayer on the chapel floor, or five lashes from the abbess. There would be extra chores as punishment, too, above and beyond the ten or twelve hours per day she spent as the convent’s laundress. Everyone in the self sustaining community had a job, and Elizabeth had blessed the abbey with her auspicious arrival just a few days after the death of the old washerwoman. Her fate had been sealed.
Choking down a bite of the food, if it could be called that, she looked around at the other nuns. All were noble women, like her, from wealthy, titled families. Each and every one accepted their lot at the priory, unquestioningly, as the command of God, and even submitted to the discomfort and humiliation of living lower than serfs as the Lord’s will.
Young as she was, most of the nuns were older than she, but a few were even younger. She tried to be kind to the new girls when they arrived, recalling the fear and anger she herself had felt when she had been delivered to the place, but human interaction was almost impossible. Between the tedious periods of prayer, arduous hours of work and precious few moments of cold, uncomfortable sleep, there was little time left even to smile at the newcomers. Plus, smiling was forbidden. So was sharing food or assisting with chores. All she could do was squeeze their hand covertly when silent tears tumbled down their cheeks.
Elizabeth, like all the others, had taken a vow of silence, obedience and chastity upon entering the convent. It didn’t matter that it had been involuntary, nor that she had been a child. All speech, indeed communication in any form - even the inadvertent emission of a bodily function - was strictly forbidden at the priory.
Elizabeth wondered if God truly wished her to live like this, or if he had something else in mind for her destiny.
She hadn’t even heard the sound of a human voice for more than five years.
That was about to change.
Chapter Two
It all happened in slow motion, the day that altered Elizabeth’s future forever. Outside, the summer sky turned ominously dark. The birds went silent. Thunder rumbled with malice on the horizon. Tension hung tangibly in the air, thick and oppressive. The abbess stood up, to bar the wooden shutters against the impending storm, but instead she swore, and dropped the earthenware pitcher she was carrying. It went crashing to the floor into a million broken bits. The double doors of the dining hall slammed open.
An army of terrifying foreigners spilled into the dining hall.
The unfamiliar cadence of heavy, booted feet pounded into the room. The tranquil silence of the morning was pierced by the shrill ring of swords being drawn. The very scent of the air changed as t
he peaceful convent was suddenly packed with sweaty, lusty, bloodthirsty barbarians. Their meaty fists beat upon their shields threateningly, while their mouths bellowed rhythmic, primeval battle chants to terrorize the helpless women.
For a split second, the sound of human voices was almost a welcome break in the spirit-crushing monotony of life in the abbey.
But only for a second. Instantly, the big, horrifying men filled every corner of the room, dressed in bizarre pants made of leather, fleece and fur. White bear-skin mantles flanked their mammoth shoulders, while cords of tusks and claws hung from their necks. Some of their chests were bare except for peculiar, black markings carved into their flesh. A few even had the ebony etchings on their faces, and carried deadly crossbows on their backs. Others wore leather vests fortified with metal plates or chain mail. Every one of them was armed to the teeth with swords, daggers, spears and axes. They carried large wooden shields, brightly painted with complex scenes from some distant pantheon of war gods or heraldic sagas. Helmets covered their monstrous, bearded faces.
A powerful man, obviously the leader of the heathen horde, stepped into the room, crossing massive arms over his bare, muscular chest. Thick, decorative gold bands encircled each of his biceps, and tooled leather bands clasped his thick forearms.
A triumphant sneer wiped itself across his tanned face, as he perused the scene before him. Bright, white teeth contrasted with his bronzed skin, and his startling, sapphire eyes shone with victorious satisfaction. Long, golden hair fell loosely about his wide shoulders, and it reached down a broad back that wielded a wicked, gleaming battle axe. His chiseled chin was tipped with a blonde beard and his chest bore the tattooed markings of a warrior.
A demonic aura emanated from his very being, as if he believed himself infallible, and, indeed invincible. The arrogant man didn’t even bother to wear a helmet or armor. He must have believed himself a god, as indestructible as almighty Thor himself.
Elizabeth realized at once who the men were.
Vikings!
Northmen, Danes, Nordics, Scandinavians...It mattered naught what name they be called. The words struck terror into the hearts of all God-fearing Anglo-Saxon men, women and children throughout the four kingdoms of England. Their reign of terror had reached as far as Ireland, Wales and Normandy. Even the fierce, war-like peoples of Scotland, the mountainous highlanders who had repelled the indomitable Romans, had not been spared the Vikings’ wrath.
The raids had begun without notice, with the malicious attacks on Dartmoor and Lindisfarne Abbey, and had been unrelenting ever since. What’s worse, the unholy marauders seemed to prey specifically on unguarded convents and monasteries where they knew they would encounter no resistance to their destruction. Defenseless nuns and monks were killed outright, taken for slaves, or thrown off cliffs and left to drown, while their churches and priories where pillaged for gold, silver and jewels.
When the Danes dared attack a village, they did so exclusively on the Sabbath day, and only when the unsuspecting townspeople where unarmed at mass.
The raging looters had no fear of the Cross or of the Christian God.
“God morgen!” the master of the raiders shouted abruptly, his deep voice reverberating from the walls.
The man was a giant.
They all were.
Elizabeth came to her feet, quaking with fear, but she couldn’t pull her eyes away from him. His penetrating eyes settled on her, drinking in every detail of her partially-obscured face. His eyes slid down over her body appreciatively, stripping her nun’s habit right from her flesh. A sarcastic smirk split his face.
He uttered a command to his men under his breath.
All hell broke loose.
The abbess screamed. Some of the women scurried to take cover under the tables, terrified eyes peering out in fear at the foul ogres who invaded their sanctuary. Others remained seated, heads bowed and lips moving in silent, fervent prayer for help from above. A few began to wail and cry, pleading hysterically with the fiends to leave. Sister Mary, bless her heart, held a wooden cross at the savage beasts, chanting the Ave Maria rhythmically over and over, as if to exorcise these devils from her sight. Finally, the abbess fainted.
The heinous intruders moved quickly, throwing everything of value into big burlap sacks. They ripped gold crosses straight off the walls, pried silver spoons out of the fingers of the startled sisters, and even stripped them of their personal eating knives. Candle sticks, gilded picture frames, lanterns, incense holders and jewel studded chalices were thrown into their bags of plunder. The kitchen was raided for copper, bronze and brass. Every object made of metal, ivory, bone, shell, embroidered cloth or lace was stolen. Even the smallest item containing a single gemstone or pearl did not miss their greedy eyes.
Next door, Elizabeth could hear their comrades similarly stripping the chapel. She could envision the great, golden ciborium and ornate, jewel-encrusted paten, sacred objects used for Holy Communion, tossed carelessly into some lout’s pack. The large, sun-shaped ostensorium would follow, no doubt mistaken for a tribute to some primitive sun-god, she thought with derision, and so would the ancient gold and ivory flabellum.
A loud crash heralded the complete destruction of the altar.
Finally, Elizabeth had enough.
“Stop this, immediately!” she yelled.
Her voice was hoarse from years of disuse, but it felt strangely good to use it again. It felt good to shout.
The thieves paused. Their leader laughed.
Elizabeth froze.
The pompous man strode forward, almost jauntily, stopping directly before her. He leered, as if amused by her pathetic outburst. He was a full foot taller than she, and his wide shoulders dwarfed her. He peered at her for a long moment, and all time stood still.
Elizabeth lifted her chin, and looked brazenly into his eyes. Their glistening azure depths shimmered with scornful disdain. Elizabeth forced herself to remain calm, to breathe deeply, but his cerulean eyes held her transfixed. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe at all, and her knees shook. Her throat was parched, and she gulped dryly.
But it wasn’t from fear.
The man’s hand shot out without warning, and pulled the brown woolen hood off her head, revealing the entirety of her face and braided hair for his scrutiny.
He stared at her for a long moment, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of her person.
“I said desist, and be gone with you,” Elizabeth ordered brashly, stamping her foot, like the noble woman she was.
The man laughed again. His deep voice echoed like a drum.
Elizabeth reached for her secret knife, occluded within the hidden pockets of her cloak. She pulled it free quickly, and hurled herself forward, throwing all of her weight at him.
She jabbed directly at the man’s heart.
But he was a skilled and experienced warrior. In a split second, he anticipated her move, divested her of the weapon, and twisted her arm painfully behind her back. He never even batted an eyelid. He held her immobile against his iron chest, his mouth only a breath away from hers. Elizabeth became acutely aware of his moist lips, his sturdy jaw, his stubbly beard. But more than anything, she sensed the manly essence of him, emanating from his very being. He was all man in every way, and he was in control of everything around him.
Elizabeth felt every scalding inch of his flesh that touched hers. His mighty hand branded her skin where it clasped her wrist behind her back. His virulent chest crushed her soft breasts that lay pressed against him. And, although she knew precious little about the anatomy of a male, she knew his manhood stood a mere hairsbreadth away, separated from her burning belly by only a few measly layers of fabric. She imagined she could feel it. Her cheeks flamed scarlet as she considered the full implications of her position.
Every fiber of her flesh awoke with tingling awareness of him. It was as if all her life she had been asleep before this moment. As if she had been born for his touch. Although they were both fully clothe
d, she divined that something intimate and extraordinary had passed between them, just as profound and private as if they had been alone behind closed doors.
And all of the nuns were watching!
She tried to pull away, but his free arm snaked around her waist, pinning her fully against him. She battering his prodigious chest with her fists, but the steel bands squeezed tighter around her waist until the air was sucked right out of her lungs.
Finally, she relented.
Quickly, unexpectedly, the man pulled both of her hands behind her back, holding them jointly with one of his own. Before she could blink, he lashed her hands together with a length of rope that appeared, seemingly, out of nowhere. Elizabeth tried to fight, but another long cord looped around her neck from behind. He pulled it tightly, stopping her short.
“Release me, you snake,” she croaked.
He wound the tail end of the rope slowly around his gigantic hand, taunting her. His eyes laughed at her plight, teasing and tormenting with each passing breath.
She tried to pry the rope away from her throat, but he snapped it taut. Now, it was uncomfortably tight. The man muttered something under his breath, but she understood not a word of his unfamiliar Norse tongue.
She was truly scared. This was not a joke or a prank, or even a simple robbery.
She was being hauled away by Vikings!
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death.
The man barked an order at his men.
As quickly as the raid began, it was over.
Chapter Three
Outside, the sun was peeking out tentatively from behind the clouds, and the birds had resumed their chorus in the trees. All signs of a storm had blown over, and the morning warmth was gradually sweeping away the mist from the moors. It seemed as if all of nature was oblivious to her peril, Elizabeth thought. As if it were a completely regular day, and nothing inordinate had happened at all. Mother Nature had turned a blind eye to the calamity that had occurred within the shrouded walls of the convent. It was a travesty.
