Matthew’s bare feet broke the grass with each footfall, the dew still fresh from the morning before. The hatchet was clenched tightly in his hand as he ran, terrified for what he might come upon as he turned the corner onto the dirt streets of the town, and, as the grass subsided to the dirt he saw what he had been fearing since looking out the window. Massive men with long, braided hair and beards, draped in animal skins and leather, massive axes and short swords seemingly blurs to the naked eye. Matthew raised his hatchet and charged towards the closest Viking.
His hatchet dug into the back of the Viking’s head, cleaving the massive man to the ground, his knees buckling as he let out a gurgle. Matthew then saw what the man had been doing, his axe still embedded in the body of the town baker, her dress torn at the waist. Matthew shook it off as best he could and removed the hatchet from the man’s head with a sickening noise. He then continued to walk through the city streets quietly and quickly, his footsteps obviously covered up by the loud crackling of the fires that raged above him.
As he turned a corner he came upon a small group of men. The man in the center was taller than Matthew by a few inches, but didn’t appear to be lanky at all. His arms were muscular and tattooed with what Matthew can only assume were considered tribal tattoos for the Viking’s. His hair was long and blonde, but caked with mud and dirt, the sides of his head were shaved revealing more tattoos.
His beard was surprisingly well kempt considering the appearance of the other men around him. The beast of a man to his left was a good foot taller than Matthew and appeared to be carved out of a small mountain, his arms not so defined, but massive. His hair was hewn short and his face was covered in scars. An axe, about as tall as Matthew, rested lightly in between his two hands. The other men were all seemingly just there to watch the show.
The large man took a step forward and with a single kick knocked the wooden door to the house clean off its hinges and sent it flying inward. Matthew was around the corner and could swear that he saw the house shake. The mountain then ducked and walked inside the house, the other few men that were merely voyeurs all funneled in after him. That was when the scream of a woman tore through Matthew’s very soul, causing the skin to stand up on the back of his neck. He decided that he couldn’t wait any longer and charged forward, rushing the blonde man.
He raised his hatchet and as it came down, the man merely shifted his weight, causing Matthew to topple past him, completely missing his target. The blonde man hand’s quickly darted to the hilt of the sword that hung from his waist, but Matthew quickly spun and continued his assault on the man so he didn’t have a chance to draw his weapon.
Even though Matthew had the man back pedaling through the town’s dirt street, he couldn’t help but notice the look in the man’s eyes. There was a determination even though Matthew thought he had the clear upper hand. His feet deftly stepped back and seemingly didn’t miss a beat. In a blur, Matthew found himself on his back though.
The man spun under Matthew’s advancing hatchet and in one fluid movement he shifted all his weight forward and lowered his shoulder into Matthew’s stomach causing the wind to be completely knocked out of his lungs. His legs seized up and he felt himself falling backward. In one move this man did what he couldn’t do with a weapon.
Instead of advancing and finishing him off though, the blonde man slowly drew his sword and allowed Matthew to stand up and catch his breath. The blonde Viking cocked his head from side to side, like a small dog trying to understand what exactly what to do with a bug that it had found.
“Why do you fight?” The words came slow and deliberate from the Viking’s mouth. His voice was heavily accented from a land that Matthew had never visited and had no intention of ever setting foot on. Matthew took his eyes off the sword in his hand and looked into the eyes of the man standing before him. He didn’t seem like the bloodthirsty animalistic creatures they had heard stories about though. This Viking that stood before him seemed genuinely confused as to why he was fighting.
“These are my people.” Matthew thumped his chest as he said this motioning at the homes around him. He knew that he would have to speak slowly for the man to understand him. The man nodded knowingly though and began to circle Matthew as he spoke once again. Matthew kept him at a distance, circling in the same direction so that they were moving together.
“You are their jarl then. If I defeat you, the others will stop fighting.” Matthew shook his head frantically as he watched the Viking’s grip tighten on the sword hilt, his knuckles growing white from the strain of his grip. Matthew raised his hatchet up in a defensive position as he tried to defend himself.
“No, we’re only a small town, there is no jarl. We pay our tithe to the church and the king.” The blonde man either didn’t understand or didn’t care. Either way the man charged forward in a blur of motion. Even though Matthew had raised up his hatchet it didn’t do much against the hardened steel of the Viking’s sword. The last thing Matthew remembered was the look in the Viking’s eyes. It was no longer one of confusion, but one of thrill. After that, only black.
******
Matthew woke up with a throbbing pain in his head. He struggled to reach up with his hand and tenderly touched the source of the pain and pulled his hand back and looked at it. His entire hand was covered in blood. Groaning he put his hand back over the open wound and applied pressure to it hoping to at least subside some of the throbbing. He rolled onto his side and tried to assess the damage that he could see. Immediately he saw that the majority of the fires that had been burning had died out, leaving only shells of formerly great stone and thatched roofed homes.
He slowly rose to his feet and searched for his hatchet, just in case the Vikings had decided to stick around for a while. However, upon looking down towards where he had fallen he only saw a broken axe handle and blade. Shaking his head Matthew tried to remember what happened, but could only piece together what he saw.
The Viking had struck him so hard that his sword literally broke his hatchet. There was no way that Matthew could stand up against that kind of attack. He then looked back up and saw a few villagers emerging from the rubble of the homes. With a gasp he began to trudge his way through the town’s streets.
His feet kicked up mud and dirt as he walked, still barefoot. With one hand clutching his head, the other steadying himself along the remaining stone structures of the homes he made his way back towards his farm house. His eyes were foggy from the blow to the head, but he searched the horizon for any sign of Angela. As the dirt path turned to grass and he got closer to the house he saw what he had feared. The door had been broken in, the wood splintered at the hinges as if someone had taken an axe to the door frame to knock the door out.
Matthew did his best to speed up, but the throbbing only persisted in his head as he urged his legs to move faster. He crossed the threshold into his house and he couldn’t help but think of his wedding night, carrying Angela across this very threshold. As his feet touched the wooden floor of his home his eyes adjusted for the slight shift in lighting. He was horrified by what he saw. The kitchen was in complete shambles, the small cabinets and their store of dried foods had been tossed around the room and their cast iron tools and pans were bent and smashed.
He continued to walk through the house to find similar scenes everywhere. Cautiously he walked upstairs in the hopes to find his wife in hiding, however, he found the upstairs was nearly untouched. When he had heard the screams of the woman he knew in his heart what was happening and was glad to see that at least it had not happened to Angela in their bed where they had just shared the morning. However, even though nothing had been changed upstairs, there was still no sign of his wife.
Matthew hurried downstairs and threw open the door beneath the stairs to find a small pool of blood. Dropping to his knees Matthew wept. His mind raced to all of the different possibilities that could have happened and none of them ended well. However, as his tears tapered off after a few minutes, he noticed
that there was no body. The Vikings were known for large body counts, but there was no body from this obvious killing. Which could only mean one thing: Angela wasn’t dead.
Matthew rushed back into his bedroom, tossing off the jacket and dressed himself in real clothes. After he was dressed he then sprinted to the garden behind the house and entered the shed, opening up an old chest that was covered in dust. Reaching inside he emerged with a small axe, unlike the hatchet, this was clearly intended to be used as a weapon.
The steel was forged well and it was engraved with a number of insignia. He also pulled out a shirt of chainmail and a pair of well-worn leather gloves. Matthew knew that the time would come when his military training would come in handy. However, it wasn’t to defend, it was to attack.
He made his way towards the center of town after packing a few essentials into a bag and came upon the other townspeople all gathered, speaking in hushed tones. Most of them were wearing bandages around their heads or arms. A few men wore slings, but it was clear that no one came out of this raid unscathed. A woman sat slightly away from everyone else, her clothes torn and shaking. Matthew walked up and everyone turned as he approached.
“Matthew, where’s Angela,” asked one woman that was cradling a child’s head in her bosom. Matthew tucked the axe into his belt and adjusted the bag on his shoulder as everyone quieted down their own conversations to hear what he had to say.
“They took her. And I’m going to find her.” A quiet murmur started up through the crowd of townspeople, but Matthew continued. “I can’t do this alone.” His eyes darted from man to man, trying to make contact to convey his feelings through a look.
“Angela and I have always considered you our family. And as family I am coming to you asking for help.” The men all began to avert their gaze, uneasy with the thought of letting Matthew down or not wanting to give him false hope that they would help.
“But you saw what they did,” said one man quietly. It was almost as if he was speaking to himself he spoke so quietly.
“I know what they did here, but they’re mortal just like us. I killed one and stood my own for a short period against their commander.” Pleading, Matthew searched their faces looking for help. “We can do this if we work together.” The men all kept their eyes downcast, the women not telling their husbands to step forward either as Matthew had imagined. “Please,” he begged. After a moment of silence, tears began to well up behind his eyes, so Matthew turned. “Then I’ll do this on my own.”
And in that moment, Matthew truly felt alone.
******
Angela hadn’t had a nightmare in a long time and as she reached across in the bed for Matthew she wanted nothing more than hold him close and have him make the dream go away. However, with her eyes closed still, she closed her hands around thick woolen sheet. These weren’t the sheets that she was used to on the bed. It wasn’t nearly cold enough to need the wool blanket. Slowly, she opened her eyes to realize that she wasn’t in her bed at all, but rather was asleep on a large cot, draped in wool blankets and furs.
She sat up with a start and searched around the room for any kind of answer. Angela had thought it was a bad dream. One moment she was experiencing pure ecstasy with Matthew, the next her entire world was sent into turmoil. She pinched herself on the arm and slapped herself a number of times, muttering under her breath that it couldn’t be real, but as she sat alone in what she imagined was a large tent, it came back to her.
Matthew had told her to hide, and she had done as he said, taking the kitchen knife with her. But one of the beasts had gotten in and broken the door. She would have called them men, but she stabbed the man in the chest and he merely laughed, his beard and face covered in war paint. The creature left the knife in his chest as he bled onto the floor and he had reached out and grabbed her, dragging her into the kitchen by her hair. She feared for her life and screamed, calling out for Matthew, but the beast ended her resistance with one punch.
And now she was here.
Angela stood up and noticed that she was no longer dressed in her own clothes, but rather she was dressed in attire that she had never seen before. The shirt was far too big for her and she felt like she was practically swimming in it. It hung low on her waist and upon closer investigation she realized that she wasn’t wearing pants at all. Her butt cheeks even hung a little under the bottom of it, revealing herself slightly.
She grabbed the nearest fur and swung it around her shoulders, the wolf fur dragging on the floor behind her as she walked towards the flaps of the door. Peeking through, she saw that there were about thirty men, all in various stages of relaxation, resting around a fire. She gasped quietly and clamped her hand over her mouth.
Across the camp she saw a few other members from her town bound and gagged, clearly unconscious. She searched their faces, looking for Matthew’s, but didn’t see him. Her heart dropped into her stomach, realizing that he was most likely dead. He would have died defending the village, it was the kind of man that he was. She stepped away from the tent flap and fell back into the cot.
She covered her face with her hands and wept. She heard the shuffling of leaves in the direction of the exit and she quickly began to frantically search for something to defend herself with. The cloth flap opened before she could find anything and a man walked through that took Angela’s breath away.
He was the same man that Matthew had fought. His hair was wet and the tight braid that had been slicked down hours earlier with mud and dirt was now damp and stuck slightly to his back. The tattoos on the side of his head were still visible though and Angela felt her eyes drawn to them, unable to look away. It was a cross pattern and interlacing of dark black lines, forming knots and crosses up to his temples. The man stepped into the tent, his eyes adjusting, and he turned them upon Angela.
His eyes were of a piercing blue that she had never seen before. Immediately she felt as though this man was able to look through her and in that instant knew more about herself than she did. His head cocked to the side and he motioned to a pitcher of water that was on the side table next to the cot. She turned her head slowly, almost unwilling to break away from his gaze. She saw a pewter cup and a pitcher full of water. Looking back she saw that the man had an inquisitive look on his face.
“Would you,” his voice trailed off as he walked across the room towards the table. Angela pulled away and crawled fully onto the bed, not wanting to let him get too close. “Like some water,” he continued. He reached the table and picked up the pitcher, pouring water into the pewter mug that was sitting there empty.
Gripping it he held it out to her and waited for her to take it. Angela hesitated, but the man merely smiled and held the cup in the air, unmoving. Cautiously, she reached out and took the mug. She took a sip and as the water hit her tongue she realized just how thirsty she was, draining the mug in a few swigs.
The man laughed and reached out, taking the mug back from her and poured her another glass. Angela nodded to him as he placed the pitcher back on the table and stood up. She sipped from the mug now as this mysterious man began to pace around the room, his face in a constant expression of pain or confusion. He emoted loudly with his hands as he spoke, trying to convey his message both through physicality and words.
“I am sorry for what happened in your village and your home.” He continued to swing his arms somewhat erratically as he spoke, but Angela was impressed by how eloquent of a speaker he was. His accent was heavy and it was obvious he was struggling, but even though she was clearly some sort of slave, she appreciated him trying.
“If there is anything that will make your stay with us easier, please tell me.” He motioned towards the exit of the tent and by proxy the men that sat around the fire. “My men will not harm you, and if you would like, none will speak to you.” Angela looked at him dumbfounded and he smiled at her, his hands clasped behind his back now waiting for a response.
“I-I-” Angela stammered out. “I want to go home, my-” the ma
n held up his hands to stop her and walked across the tent, kneeling in front of her. Angela admired the other tattoos that spanned his across his chest and shoulders. He was still damp from washing off the blood and mud and his muscles looked tense, but controlled. As if at many moment he could strike with the speed of a falcon, but was still calm enough to read the situation.
“There is nothing to go back to.” His piercing eyes met hers and although she wanted nothing more than to cry, she sat silently. The man took this as a sign that she had accepted this as a final answer and stood, brushing his knees off from the dirt that was on the ground. He began to walk back towards the exit, but Angela called out to him, causing him to hesitate.
“I don’t even know your name.” The man slowly turned, becoming a silhouette in the way the light from the exit illuminated him.
“You may call me Sigurd.” With that, he turned and exited, the flap closing behind him. Angela listened as his footsteps faded away and heard the men around the fire explode into song as he reached them. She covered herself in the blankets and cried, until she fell asleep.
******
Angela lost track of the days and how far they had ended up moving around. It seemed that every few days Sigurd would take her out of her makeshift abode and they would stand together and watch as a few of his men dismantled the shanty tent that she stayed in. They would load everything into a cart they must have stolen from another local village and the whole camp would move along to another town and raid it. Each time they would bring back more people and more treasure. The treasure always ranged from small trinkets that the Vikings found interesting or gold.
ROMANCE: BILLIONAIRE ROMANCE: Completely Obsessed (Bad boy Alpha Male Pregnancy Romance) (New Adult and College Contemporary Romance) Page 118
