by Alexa Cole
Finally, they made their way through the throng and reached a large, rectangular tent. It stood in the middle of the cove, just outside a ring of fallen logs that made a natural circle around a bonfire.
Six tall men stood guard, motionlessly, at the opening. Their faces showed no emotion at all. Like the others, they wore great axes upon their backs, swords and daggers at their hips, spears in their hands, and knives sticking out from their boots. Two of the men even had bull horns affixed to their helmets. They must have been the infamous “berserkers,” men who went berserk with bloodlust in war.
Ragnor ushered her rapidly inside, with a curt nod to his elite guards. He released the rope, tossing the loose end on the ground.
“Untie me,” Elizabeth said, the noblewoman returning.
Ragnor didn’t understand, or didn’t care to. She made a sawing motion with her hand against the rope.
“Nej,” he said gruffly.
Elizabeth stared at him. In the few brief minutes since they had arrived, everything between them had changed. Gone was the eager lad who had proudly showed her his ships, and in his place was the ruthless Viking barbarian who had cruelly kidnapped a nun.
She wound the cord around her waist and tied it to her belt, glaring at him. This was not finished. Not by a long shot.
He ushered her gently to tree stump in the middle of the tent, and motioned for her to sit down. Elizabeth folded her arms across her chest stubbornly, and refused. Unperturbed, Ragnor went to his knees before her, and gently lifted up one of her feet. Astounded, Elizabeth lost her balance, and grabbed his shoulder to steady herself. What on earth was he doing?
Ragnor saw the flecks of blood on the bottom of her thin, calf-skin shoe.
“Oh, Elizaveta,” he murmured, looking into her eyes with such genuine concern, it made her chest ache. She melted.
He peeled the dainty slipper off her foot cautiously, trying not to hurt her. He couldn’t believe he had made her walk. What an ass he had been. He should have let her ride in the wagon with Oxnard.
But the truth was he had wanted to be alone with her. Because of his own selfishness, he had caused this.
Ragnor released her foot, and eased it to the ground. The poor girl had been sequestered in that hellacious dungeon called a convent, for Odin knows how long. She probably wasn’t accustomed to the exertion of the walk this afternoon. He had heard that the unnatural places allowed for no exercise for its prisoners, and they were barely even allowed out of doors for any purpose at all. No doubt her entire body was sore from the long hours of movement. Who would do something so cruel to someone so exquisite? Tonight, he would make it up to her tenfold, he vowed.
Still on his knees before her, only inches away, Ragnor put both of his hands on her hips, and compelled her to sit. Elizabeth acquiesced, strange sensations growing in her womb as he knelt between her legs. She covered her calves modestly with skirt of her cloak. He took her other foot in his hands and stripped away the other slipper.
“Vent på mig,” he said softly.
Elizabeth shook her head, not understanding, no longer motivated to even try. She was exhausted, lonely and on the verge of tears. Her legs were sore, she was scared, and on top of everything else, she was hungry.
“Du,” he said, his voice was low. “You...”
He put his palm gently over her chest. Her body stirred. Her heart raced under his hand.
“Vent på mig,” he pointed to himself. “You...wait...me.”
“I will wait for you,” she mumbled.
As if she had anywhere else to go, she thought tiredly.
Resting his hands on her knees for a brief instant, he kissed her nose and rose to his feet. He pressed a kiss on her forehead, then turned away and left the tent. The scent of him hung sensually in the air.
While he was away, Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted unwillingly back to him. She dreamed about running her fingers through his long, silky hair, and touching his back and shoulders. Her hands trembled. She wanted to feel him. She wanted to run her hands down his arms, and his belly. She thought about him kneeling between her knees, and imagined lifting her skirt for him. What would she do?
What would he do?
“Hei,” he smiled, coming back into the tent.
Elizabeth jumped. His eyes held her, and she had the eerie feeling he knew everything she had been thinking.
In his hands, he carried a pitcher and basin. Inside the basin was a drying cloth, a bar of rose soap, a small flask, and an earthenware jar. Ragnor knelt at her feet again, and filled the basin with warm water. He tilted the flagon, and added a few drops of peppermint oil to the water. The perfume wafted to her nose, and the therapeutic aroma instantly soothed and relaxed her.
Ragnor tenderly placed both of her feet in the warm water. It felt beyond divine. He washed her feet carefully with the rose soap, fastidiously avoiding the chafed skin of her soles. He rinsed her ankles and her calves, giving her feet time to soak. He pulled a small tablet out of a pouch that hung from his belt. It was almost like a tiny bar of soap, and he dropped it in the water. To her astonishment, it began to fizz and effervesce. Her toes started to tickle, and the pain began to subside.
Elizabeth laughed with amazement. Ragnor flashed a lopsided grin. His eyes shone, and Elizabeth had the distinct feeling this was only the beginning of the sensual tricks the enigmatic man had up his sleeve. Ragnor pulled one of her feet chivalrously from the water. He patted it dry with the cloth, meticulously drying in between each of her dainty toes, and dabbing at her soles delicately. He left the other foot in the warm, bubbly water.
He opened the earthenware pot and a strong, herbal scent of pine, marjoram and sage filled the room. Tentatively, he applied a bit of the odiferous salve from the crock to her feet. Elizabeth winced. But the medicinal properties of the analgesic plants quickly began their magical healing, and within seconds, the pain was gone.
He added more unguent, and began to massage her foot with it. He kneaded her soles deeply with his thumbs, and worked the tension out of her heels and ankles. Finally, he rubbed each individual toe, giving it a mini-massage unto itself, until she was almost limp with contentment. He repeated the action with the other foot, almost seeming to derive as much pleasure as she did.
Elizabeth sighed with disappointment when it was over. He smiled knowingly. He pulled her skirt all the way down, to cover her ankles, and patted her knee affectionately.
“Vent på mig,” he said again.
Elizabeth was beginning to understand him. Wait for me.
She nodded.
He gathered up his supplies and left the tent. When he returned, it was with a young man in tow. The lad was only twelve or thirteen years old, so he must have been a page or a squire, Elizabeth thought. Yet he already looked like a full-fledged blood-thirsty Dane.
As two men spoke rapidly in the Norse language, Elizabeth saw the boy peaking curiously at her out of the corner of his eye. Ragnor pointed to the adolescent’s boots.
He shook his head.
Ragnor pulled a dagger out of his belt, frowning with displeasure.
Elizabeth stifled a gasp.
He handed the dirk carefully to the boy, whose eyes sparkled with delight. He turned it over and over in his hands, admiring the fine craftsmanship of the tooled metal handle. There was a large ruby inlaid in the haft, and the serrated blade looked absolutely lethal.
Quick as a flash, the lad untied his boots, took them off, and set them before Elizabeth. He scampered gaily out of the tent.
Ragnor chuckled. He squatted in front of Elizabeth again, pulling a pair of thick, clean, knitted stockings from his pouch. He slipped the socks and the boots onto her feet, tying the leather straps.
The socks were soft and fluffy, padding her feet. The boots were too large, but manageably so. Elizabeth felt guilty for commandeering them, but she could see the lad was pleased with the trade, so she didn’t protest. When he was done, Ragnor held out both of his hands to her, and she accept
ed.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely, coming to her feet.
He clasped her hands, and tangled her fingers with his. He stepped forward, and kissed her softly on the mouth, their fingers still laced together intimately. He released her hands, and cupped her face. She turned her face away, but he tilted her chin until she could no longer avoid his gaze. His eyes smoldered with smoky desire, turning almost grey with passion. This, time, he would kiss her soundly.
Outside, there was a loud roar of voices, and the sound of arguing.
“Vent på mig,” he said, still holding her face.
Now, she recognized the phrase for certain. Wait for me.
Roughly, Ragnor put his hands on her hips, and pulled her into him. She could feel his manhood beneath his pants, and she realized to her surprise, it was still hard. He kissed her again, and stepped away.
He grabbed his sword and shield.
“Jeg er nødt til at gå. Jeg er straks tilbage,” he flung over his shoulder on his way out the door.
Elizabeth had no idea what all that meant, but she certainly had no intentions of going out there without him. To do so would spell suicide – or worse - of that she was sure. She could only imagine what havoc a rowdy mob of vicious Norse raiders could wreak upon a hapless female.
Without another word, he left the tent, issuing instructions in Danish to the guards as he departed.
Elizabeth sat forlornly on a tree stump inside the tent, tired and terrified all at once. What on earth was she doing here? This morning, she had been sitting peacefully at her breakfast table in the calm and safety of the convent. Now she was cowering in a flimsy sailcloth tent, hiding from over two hundred of the world’s most murderous, merciless, malevolent killers. Men who had no fear of God, and no remorse for their disgusting, aberrant ways. Warriors who wanted to kill her, rape her - and probably even eat her for their dinner, she almost sobbed.
She was in real, imminent danger, and one solitary man was the only thing that stood between her and a fate worse than death.
And, if these were the most brutal and violent men on earth, and he was their leader...what exactly did that make him? The thought was not at all comforting.
Fighting the urge to cry, Elizabeth looked around the tent for something to cut the rope. It was completely empty. Not one single item was available for any purpose whatsoever. Only a chamber pot.
She knew, without asking, the henchmen outside would not aid her.
Elizabeth peaked furtively out the door of the tent. Outside, it was a flurry of activity, and Ragnor, her captor and kidnapper, was right at the helm of it all. The argument had apparently been quelled, and the work of loading the ships had begun.
Elizabeth watched as Ragnor divided the livestock animals, sorted the barrels of grain, and divvied up the bags of treasure among the men. It appeared that all of the booty was shared equally among all of the warriors, regardless of rank or position, evidence of which, she could find none. They all seemed equal, except Ragnor.
After it had been partitioned, Ragnor ordered it all to be stowed safely and efficiently onto the boats. Elizabeth couldn’t help but be impressed. She guessed that in his lands he must have been a great laird, like her father. For an instant, she forgot her anger, and almost felt proud of him.
“Hei,” the young man, now shoeless, suddenly returned, pushing his way into the tent. “God eftermiddag.”
Elizabeth looked at him.
“My lord told me to check in on you,” the boy said in perfectly fluent Anglo-Saxon.
“You speak English?” she said, with relief.
Finally, someone who could understand her.
“Yes, of course, I speak English,” he replied. “I am from the Kingdom of Mercia.”
He was from England too, from the lands just south of Northumbria, her home.
“You are Anglo-Saxon?” she asked, skeptically.
“Do I not look it?”
“Nay, not at all,” she answered truthfully.
At first glance, he looked every inch a Norseman. But upon closer inspection, she could see his English blood.
“I am Ragnor’s slave,” he said proudly.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.
“Then why do you not escape?” she asked.
The young man looked at her for a long time, as if completely baffled by the question. He almost looked offended.
“I do not want to,” he said simply.
Elizabeth shrugged doubtfully. What slave would not want to escape?
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Jordan,” said he.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jordan,” she said sincerely, extending her hand. “My name is Elizabeth.”
He kissed the back of her hand, and bowed politely.
“May I have some water, Jordan?” she asked.
“Yes, of course, my apologies,” he said, passing her his drinking horn.
She took a long, un-ladylike chug.
“Can you remove this?” she pointed to the rope about her neck.
He shook his head vigorously.
“May I have a knife, then?”
“No,” the lad shook his head again. “I am sorry, my lady.”
“I am a noblewoman, Jordan,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “They have no right to keep me here, trussed up like a hare.”
“This is Dane law,” he answered. The young man looked uncomfortable and almost blushed “You are a slave now. Even under Anglo-Saxon law, you are the spoils of war.”
“May I leave the tent?” Elizabeth questioned.
He hooked his thumbs on his belt, and scuffed his boots on the ground for a long moment.
“The Viking men,” he began. “Well, they always...share,” he paused. “They always share....everything.”
Elizabeth gulped. The boy shuffled his feet again.
“They plan to share me?” she squeaked.
Her eyes went wide with horror.
“Yes.”
“All of them?” she gasped.
He paused again, searching for the right word. “Eventually.”
Elizabeth almost fainted. It was only by sheer force of will that she managed to continue to breathe and to remain upright. Damn them all to hell, she would not give them the satisfaction of fainting and making it easier for them to pass her around. She would kill them, God forbid, if she had to. Even with no knife.
“Thank you, Jordan,” she managed to croak, nodding toward the door to dismiss him before she lost all control of her emotions. “Good bye.”
“Don’t worry, my lady,” he added, trying to smile to reassure her. He realized his error too late. “Ragnor of Lejre will not share you, of that I am certain.”
“Very well,” she nodded again curtly, not at all reassured. “Good day.”
Finally, he left.
By the time the work was done, the sun was beginning to set. Ragnor donned a dinner shirt from his ship, and fastened his new seax dagger to his belt. Then, he hurried across the beach, whistling to himself. He couldn’t explain why he was excited to see Elizabeth again. Ah, well, that was easy. She was a woman. She was his captive, and she was alone in his tent, practically naked beneath her cloak. That was reason enough to be eager to return. But there was something else, something he dared not acknowledge, not even to himself that made him impatient to be with her again.
When he opened the tent, Elizabeth was sitting on the tree stump, waiting for him. He grinned upon seeing her. Tonight was going to be memorable for them both. He would make sure of it.
“I will not be a whore for your men!” she flew at him, clawing at his face and kicking at his shins.
Ragnor deflected her attack easily, despite his momentary surprise. In an instant, she lay flat on her back on the ground, arms pinned above her head. She tried to lash out with her feet, but the weight of his body atop hers pinioned her to the dirt. She shoved with her hips, trying to dislodge him, but the frantic movements were pointless. The
little spitfire certainly had spirit, he thought. He was going to enjoy taming her, even if it took a lifetime. He had a feeling it would.
Elizabeth felt his firm manroot stiffen against her thighs. She shoved herself against him with alarm, laboring in vain to free herself. His staff grew again, as solid as granite against her tender feminine flesh.
Ragnor’s eyes bore into hers. His breath grew heavy. He moved over her, spreading her thighs forcefully with his knees. His steely rod drilled down against her womanhood through her skirt. She tried to squeezed her knees together, but he held them apart with his own. The entire length of his battering ram pressed insistently against her gates, despite the meager fabric that separated them.
But he would not take her like this. Not in anger, not in haste. He would bed her leisurely, savoring every moment, awakening her virgin senses. He wanted to see her burgeoning pleasure play across her face, when his tongue lapped up her cream like a contented cat.
Ragnor leaned closer until his mouth was only a fraction of an inch from hers. Elizabeth tried to loosen her arms from his grip, but he clasped her wrists tightly until she feared her fragile bones would snap like kindling.
His mouth came down upon hers unhurriedly. At first, his lips brushed hers lighter than an angel’s breath. He kissed one corner of her mouth, then the other tenderly. Elizabeth purred and her lips opened to him against her will. His tongue probed her mouth patiently, retreating and returning, thrusting and parrying, until she was panting with need for him and writhing with longing.
He gripped both of her tiny wrists easily in one hand. With his other hand, reached for the new dagger attached to his belt. Elizabeth saw the glint of metal in the waning light and gasped, renewing her efforts to escape. She screamed aloud, shrieking like a banshee and bucked like a madwoman, gnashing her teeth and flailing her legs. With the flick of his wrist, Ragnor cut the rope away from her throat and tossed the cord over his shoulder.
“Elizaveta, stoppe,” he said softly.
She ceased fighting, realizing what he had done. He planted gentle kisses across her neck, licking the line where the rope had been to soothe her and calm her fears.
