The Viking's Captive

by Julia Byrne

  Suddenly furious, he jerked upright. What in the name of the Gods was he doing? He was here for a purpose, damn it. And she was English. English.

  He reached down to yank the kirtle’s sleeves roughly over the girl’s arms, intending to cover her again before he cut her hands free.

  Another shock jolted through him before he’d touched the first laces. Desire leached out of him as if it had never been, and he, who had looked upon the most gruesome of battle wounds without flinching, was sickened by what he saw.

  She’d been cruelly beaten. Not with a whip, he saw at once. Her skin was unbroken, but angry red weals criss-crossed her back from shoulders to waist, surrounded by ugly bruises that were already darkening to purple.

  Rorik’s mouth hardened into a grim line. He knew the marks of a knout when he saw them. By Thor, he gave his men plenty of leeway, but if one of them had done this—

  Bending, he cupped the girl’s face in one hand. Her blank gaze told him she was probably beyond speech, but he tried anyway.

  ‘Who did this to you, maiden?’

  There was no response, but her lashes flickered as she looked away from him to the shadows at the end of the hall. Rorik heard it at the same time. Rapid footsteps approaching a leather door-curtain in the corner behind the high table. There was no time to warn her. Hoping her shock-induced silence would continue, he straightened and stepped behind the post, his sword held aloft and ready.

  Ceawlin brushed aside the curtain and hurried into the hall, tucking a laden sackcloth bag into his tunic.

  Yvaine watched him approach through the mist that dimmed her vision. She wondered if she ought to tell him there was a Norseman nearby, but the thought was strangely distant. And faded completely when he spoke.

  ‘Still undiscovered, my lady? Perhaps ’tis as well. I’d enjoy watching your pride stripped by those barbarians, but ’twould be unwise to linger. Tell them I hope they won’t torch the hall, considering the gift I’ve left them. A building is so much more costly to replace than an insolent, disdainful wife.’

  ‘Tell me yourself, Englishman,’ suggested the Viking, stepping into the open. He studied the short, bloated figure in front of him and lowered his sword in a slow arc, until it pointed straight at Ceawlin’s heart, inches away. His eyes slitted.

  The chill of that ice-cold glare sank into Yvaine to her very bones. She didn’t wonder that stark terror wiped the look of pleasure from Ceawlin’s face. She could only marvel that she didn’t feel the same fear. The Norse giant standing over her was a formidable enough vision, and he’d done something—

  What had he done? She couldn’t think clearly. But then, minutes ago she hadn’t thought at all. Not until his deep voice, softly questioning, had brought her back from a mindless abyss of pain. She couldn’t recall his words, but her surprise that he spoke English, and the rough velvet of his voice…those she remembered.

  Yvaine lifted her gaze to his face. She had to look up a long way. He stood several inches over six feet, and every inch of the journey passed over solid muscle, from his long legs encased in woollen chausses and thonged leather boots, to his broad shoulders covered by a sleeveless chainmail tunic. Heavy bands of twisted gold encircled his powerful arms, and more gold adorned his belt.

  She couldn’t see his face clearly, couldn’t tell if he was dark or fair. An iron helm covered most of his features, the nose guard, sharp curving sides and frowning onyx inlays above the brows creating a visage meant to terrify. From this fearsome mask glittered eyes the colour of a mid-winter sky, a cold, light grey. And below the nose guard his mouth looked brutally hard.

  Her eyelids flickered when he jerked his head at her, but that arctic gaze never left Ceawlin’s face. ‘You did this.’ It wasn’t a question.

  The realisation that he hadn’t instantly been killed had restored some of the colour to Ceawlin’s ashen face. He attempted a fawning smile. ‘How else does one treat a wife who dares to scorn her husband?’ he whined propitiatingly. ‘Perhaps you’ll have more success in teaching her respect for her masters.’

  The Viking’s head tilted slightly. ‘You’d give up your wife to me?’

  ‘Aye…aye…if you want her.’ Ceawlin’s words tripped over themselves in his eagerness. ‘Do as you please with her. She may be a defiant wench, but she’s not uncomely. Look—’ He reached down a hand to her face.

  ‘Touch her and you lose that hand!’

  The snarled threat had Ceawlin’s eyes bulging. His mouth fell open as the Norseman’s sword flashed with deadly swiftness to hover over his outstretched arm. ‘Is she not enough?’ he babbled. ‘Here—’ Not daring to withdraw the arm extended towards her, he extracted the pouch from his tunic with his free hand and held it out with shaking fingers.

  ‘Take my treasure as well.’

  The Viking made no move to accept the proffered bag. Contempt sliced through the rage in his voice. ‘For what do we bargain, Englishman? Your life? Your costly hall? Only your arm, mayhap?’ He lowered his blade until it rested on Ceawlin’s forearm. ‘What do you demand for a paltry bag of coin or jewels and a beaten wife?’

  ‘No…no…you don’t understand.’ Ceawlin’s arm trembled so violently beneath the Viking’s blade that a thin line of red appeared. He squealed like a suckling pig at the sight and snatched his arm back.

  The sword point followed to aim at his heart again.

  ‘I only beat her today…never before…and the wench is untouched…I swear…’ The disjointed phrases tumbled from Ceawlin’s slack mouth in a panicked rush, only to cease abruptly when surprise flashed in the Norseman’s eyes. Yvaine saw calculation overlay the raw terror of her husband’s face. He licked his lips.

  ‘You’ve already sacked the town, looted the shops, plundered the church. Surely this wealth and the girl are worth my life. A virgin will fetch a high price as a slave if you don’t want her for yourself. Or give her to your men. There’s much pleasure to be had in watching such sport.’

  The air in the room seemed to still and ice over. Yvaine shivered as the chill brushed her flesh. She heard the Viking speak again, his voice as biting as the winds howling across the frozen wastelands at the edge of the world, and knew that everyone in the vicinity of a rage so terrible was going to die.

  ‘By Thor, I knew you English were lying, faithless traitors, but what manner of man throws his wife to an army already drunk with blood-lust?’

  ‘But isn’t that what you want?’ Ceawlin shouted, waving his arms in his agitation. ‘You rape, you loot, so take her. Take her now. You’ll see I speak the tr—’

  The last word shattered into a strangled scream that tore aside the mists threatening Yvaine’s mind. Murderous intent flashed in the Norseman’s eyes; stark horror filled Ceawlin’s. The blade, which had been held with such controlled stillness, suddenly whirled above his head, then slashed downwards with a vicious rush of air.

  When Ceawlin’s body hit the floor only inches from her face, Yvaine didn’t even flinch. She watched her husband’s killer sheath his sword and draw a wicked-looking dagger from his belt; saw the lingering traces of ferocity in those chilling eyes as he bent towards her.

  He was going to kill her, too. She felt nothing.

  His dagger made quick work of the leather binding the girl’s wrists. Abruptly released, her arms would have fallen, but Rorik held her hands with one of his, kneeling again. The killing rage was leaving him, but he still had to force the gentler note into his voice when he saw the bloody streaks encircling her wrists.

  ‘Easy, little one. Let your arms down slowly.’

  She didn’t utter a word, her face remaining blank, but he saw her whiten as the blood returned to her limbs.

  Rorik pulled the kirtle more securely over her arms, covering her nakedness but leaving the back open. Then, without a second’s hesitation, he lifted her bodily over his shoulder and rose to his feet.

  He had no fixed purpose in mind as he carried the girl from her home. He only knew he couldn’t le
ave her behind. Not like this. Not hurt and helpless. No echo of discomfort sounded. He ignored the fact that she was English. Let the Norns weave trouble for him if they would because of it. He had killed for her.

  She was his.

  Chapter Two

  Noise surrounded her, ebbing and flowing as if in a dream. Voices shouting, the roar of flames, a shrill cry abruptly cut short.

  A woman ran past, screaming, pursued by two men. She wondered vaguely who it was, then her gaze fell on a body lying by the riverbank and grief, layered upon shock, layered upon pain, became too much to bear.

  Her mind simply shut down; shutters slammed against the battering of a violent storm. She heard her captor speak sharply to the two men, saw them break off their pursuit of the fleeing woman, but none of it made sense.

  She had no idea where she was being taken, and cared less.

  ‘Rorik! Since when have you carted off boys when there’s richer plunder to be had? You want the church, my friend, not the cow byre.’

  Rorik eyed the tall, bearded warrior who barred his path. His helm was dented, one muscular arm sported a gash, but his blue eyes twinkled, and a sack, overflowing with gold and silver, was slung over one shoulder.

  ‘I see you’ve collected your share of spoils, Thorolf.’

  ‘Nobody ever called me backward,’ Thorolf retorted, turning and falling into step beside him. ‘But this is the first time I’ve seen you take anything. Don’t tell you’re collecting new thralls for your stepmother. She’ll only wear them out within a sen’night.’ His voice altered to a shrill falsetto. ‘Go here, go there. Do this, do that.’

  Rorik’s mouth twitched at his masterly imitation of his stepmother’s discordant tones.

  ‘I wouldn’t hand a dog over to Gunhild,’ Thorolf continued, casting a cursory glance at the limp form draped over his friend’s shoulder. ‘Let alone a puny boy like that. You’re not really taking him home, are you? He won’t last the voyage.’

  ‘We must’ve been at sea too long,’ Rorik said dryly. ‘Take a good look, you lackwit.’

  Thorolf sent him an indignant glare but obliged. He goggled at the sight of golden-brown hair hanging down to Rorik’s knees.

  ‘Thor’s hammer! ’Tis a woman.’

  ‘Oh, well said, Thorolf. How encouraging to know my men are so observant.’

  Sarcasm rolled off Thorolf as easily as insults. ‘But I’ve never seen you carry off a female in all the years we’ve been a-viking together,’ he protested. ‘What’s more, you’ve always stopped the men from doing so.’

  Rorik shrugged, the girl’s slight weight hardly impeding the gesture.

  ‘What’s Othar going to say?’ Thorolf persisted, beginning to look dubious.

  ‘Why should he say anything?’

  ‘Because he thinks he ought to have what you have. Better yet, he wants more. You have a woman. He’ll fill the ship with ’em. Damn thing will probably founder.’

  ‘Where is Othar?’ was the only response to this grumble.

  Thorolf shifted his booty to a more comfortable position and sidestepped around a burning chunk of thatch. ‘Probably chasing some unfortunate wench. Odin’s ravens know why. There’re plenty of willing girls in the Danelaw if he can’t wait until we get home.’

  He caught the quizzical glance Rorik sent him and grinned sheepishly. ‘So I agree with you on that point. It doesn’t mean I think you were right to bring Othar with us.’

  ‘He’s my brother. Where else should he be, but with me?’

  ‘Well, I can think of—’

  A sharp movement of Rorik’s hand cut him off. They had reached the point where they’d landed and the four guards left on board the longship were already alert to their leader’s approach.

  Ignoring their curious stares, Rorik stepped on board. The girl shifted in his hold, but she made no sound and he thought she’d probably swooned. Just as well. He didn’t want her hurting herself in an attempt to escape. Once they were underway it wouldn’t matter. There was nowhere to run to on a ship. Except the tent.

  His gaze swept the seventy-foot length of the vessel and rested frowningly on the leather shelter in the prow. It shouldn’t have been there.

  ‘Why is the tent up, Orn Hooknose?’

  A warrior, grizzled of beard and lined of face, stepped forward. ‘Your brother and his friends brought women back, my lord. To use as they please until they sell them.’ The man scratched the hawk-like feature that had given him his nickname and aimed a thoughtful look at his leader’s burden. ‘Knowing your views on captives, we thought it best to keep the wenches out of sight until you returned.’

  Rorik’s eyes narrowed. Trust old Hooknose to remind him of his own rules. Orn wouldn’t indulge in speculation with the other men, though. He’d sailed with Rorik’s father and was loyal to the death.

  Dismissing the man with a nod, he turned to Thorolf. ‘We’ve been here over an hour. Call the men back, my friend.’

  Thorolf grunted agreement and reached for the elk horn hanging from the mast in the centre of the ship. But as Rorik went to move past him he put out a restraining hand.

  ‘I know you couldn’t leave Othar at Einervik after what happened,’ he said, lowering his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. ‘But be careful, Rorik. He’s jealous of you. Always has been.’

  ‘He’ll get over it as he grows older.’ Rorik cast an amused glance at Thorolf’s sober countenance. ‘But my thanks for your counsel.’

  ‘Aye, I can see you’re taking due notice,’ Thorolf muttered, and vented his feelings on the elk horn.

  The blast set the seabirds shrieking as they wheeled and dipped above the mast. The incoming tide was beginning to turn. Rorik eyed the swiftly flowing current, calculating speed and distance. With luck they’d reach the Thames estuary and the North Sea before they were discovered by one of the warships of the late King Alfred’s fledgling navy.

  Normally he’d welcome such an encounter. Hel, a sea battle might finally release him from a certain vow. But he hadn’t taken the girl from one battlefield only to dump her in another.

  He paused outside the tent to watch the crew as they answered the call of the horn. They were in rowdy humour, drunk with triumph, yelling battle cries and thumping each other’s shoulders as they leapt on board. He could expect a scuffle or two over the division of loot but, for the most part, they were good, seasoned men who’d sailed with him before. Any trouble with the women would come from Othar and his cronies.

  Eyes narrowed in thought, he pushed aside the leather curtain of the shelter and entered.

  Three women and a girl child were huddled together against the far side. They stared at him with varying degrees of hatred and fear.

  Ignoring them, he seized one of the skin bags used for storage by day and sleeping by night. He flipped it open and spread it over the rough planks, then lowered the girl on to her front. Her eyes were closed, but when he turned her head to the side and laid his fingers against her throat, her pulse beat steadily. She stirred slightly as though trying to find a more comfortable position, and a small whimper escaped her lips.

  He frowned as he studied the makeshift bed. It would have to do for now; he’d find something softer along the coast. At least she had the other women to tend her. That she needed them was the only reason he was keeping them on board. Although the terms of their captivity were going to be changed and—

  ‘Savage! Accursed barbarian!’

  Rorik jerked his head up, as surprised as if one of the iron rivets in the hull had suddenly addressed him. His gaze clashed with the accusing glare of one of the captives, a dark-haired, sturdy wench in a blue woollen gown that matched her eyes.

  ‘Is that the measure of Norse manhood?’ she demanded, shifting her glare to his captive’s bruised flesh. ‘To beat a woman until she’s senseless.’

  ‘I didn’t do this,’ he growled before he could stop himself. And then wondered why in the three worlds he was defending himself to a bunch of captive wom
en.

  He stood up so abruptly his head only narrowly missed the overhead awning.

  Cursing silently, he turned on his heel and strode outside. He grabbed a skin waterbag and tossed it into the tent. Then he rummaged through another sack.

  At best, the treatment of wounds tended to be crude and spartan on board ship, but Rorik prided himself on never having lost a wounded man on a voyage. He produced a pot of sheep fat and, pulling aside the curtain, threw it to the sullen girl.

  ‘Do what you can for her,’ he instructed curtly, and let the curtain fall again, stamping down on an utterly senseless urge to care for his captive himself.

  By Odin’s missing eye, he must have gone soft in the head. He’d spent enough time fussing over a woman. He had a ship to run.

  Dreams slid through her mind. Nightmare visions of Ceawlin’s jeering face, red flashes of pain, crazed laughter. And then, as though to mock her with the hope of rescue, Ceawlin’s face disappeared, and there, through a dazzling haze of dust motes, stepped a warrior from an ancient legend. Tall and powerful, surrounded by light, gold flashing off his helm and shimmering along the naked blade of his sword.

  She tried to cry out, to call to him. He would save her if she could only make him hear, but he was gone in a wave of agony, leaving blackness wrapping around her like a shroud. And voices. Norse voices, speaking of men and ravens. Jankin’s body lying by the river. Grief like a torrent of tears rushing through her head.

  ‘Am I weeping?’ she whispered, and couldn’t tell if the whisper was hers because other voices immediately struck her senses, rapping like sharp little blows against her head.

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘What is it? Does she live?’

  ‘Hush! She spoke. Lady, do you hear me?’

  She could hear the rushing noise. And there was movement beneath her; a strange kind of rocking—

  They were taking her away.