The Viking's Captive

by Julia Byrne

  ‘Are we allowed to breathe some fresh air?’ she asked, suddenly desperate to escape the confines of the tent. She had to be outside, had to think. Because out of the array of facts she’d just learned, one stood out clearly. If the Norsemen beached the ship at night, they might still escape.

  ‘Thorolf usually fetches us,’ Anna said doubtfully. Then she shrugged and helped Yvaine to rise. ‘But I see no harm if we stay near the tent, behind the rowers. I’ll come with you in case you feel weak.’

  Yvaine gave her a smile, and was about to assure Anna that she felt much better, when they stepped into the open.

  The instant barrage of curious, assessing eyes tore the smile from her face as if she’d been struck. Frozen, she stared back, unable to do more in that first moment than wonder, stupidly, why the men weren’t rowing.

  The answer came as she staggered and almost fell. The ship was under sail, ploughing through the waves with a speed that caused her to grab for the side in startled surprise. A quick glance showed her that, far from making any threatening move towards her, most of the crew were seated on wooden chests along the sides, tending to equipment or keeping watch on the shrouds attached to the sail. To her everlasting relief, the men in the immediate vicinity seemed to have looked their fill.

  And, after that first furtive glance, she had no intention of finding out if the rest had done likewise.

  ‘Dear God,’ she whispered. ‘There seem to be hundreds of them.’

  Anna gave her a wry smile. ‘Aye, so I thought at first. But there’s only forty, and they ignore us for the most part.’

  If that was so, Yvaine thought, perhaps she should jump over the side now, when they’d least expect it.

  Taking a shaky breath, she forced her gaze past the men to the water beyond—and felt her heart plummet straight to her feet.

  Jumping overboard would avail her nought. Fore and aft and to one side of the longship, the open sea stretched to the horizon; dark, fathomless, surging constantly as though spurred by the force of some vast invisible power.

  And on the landward side…a lonely, windswept beach, its sandy hillocks covered in swathes of long grass that, stirred by the wind, looked eerily like the hair of long-departed souls. There was no sign of human habitation. No sound except the haunting cry of a kestrel as it swooped above the dunes in search of prey.

  The empty landscape had her gripping the side in an agony of helpless frustration, but at the same time she felt the sun, warm on her face. The air was fresh, tangy with the scents of the sea. The cry of the kestrel called to something deep within her. She was alive. Alive. And if the other girls were to be believed, they hadn’t been harmed. Indeed, she’d been cared for.

  She turned to Anna on the thought, grasping at the small, everyday task of thanking someone, as though that alone might restore some normality.

  ‘What have you been putting on my back, Anna? Now that I have air in my lungs, I have to own that even the threat of being watched by every lout on this ship pales before the stench inside that tent. I thought ’twas because we’d been confined, but—’ She craned her head to look over her shoulder, sniffed cautiously. ‘I seem to have brought it with me.’

  Anna laughed. ‘’Tis sheep’s fat. The stuff smells vile, but ’tis wondrously healing. Your bruises are fading already.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She reached out to give the girl’s hand a quick squeeze. ‘My thanks for all you’ve done. ’Twould have gone ill with me, I fear, if you hadn’t been here. I only wish I could repay you, but…’

  ‘I need no payment, lady. Besides, I alone didn’t care for you. Rorik, himself, watched over you often. Indeed—’ her voice lowered ‘—he watches you now.’

  And with those four words, the fragile shield of normality she’d been trying to build shattered like the spray flying from the prow above them. Yvaine fixed her gaze on the sea, her fingers pressing into the wood beneath them. ‘Where?’ she whispered.

  ‘The stern,’ Anna said in the same low tone. ‘Do you wish to retire, lady?’

  ‘Retire?’ She gave a short, rather desperate laugh. ‘Of what use is that? I’d sooner jump over the side and swim for shore.’

  ‘You already tried that,’ Anna said drily. ‘Besides, Rorik would be after you before you’d so much as wet a toe. What he takes he holds, mark me well.’ She glanced warily over her shoulder. ‘I may have spoken with him only briefly, but I’ve come to know his friend, Thorolf, somewhat better, and if half the tales he tells are true—’

  ‘Tales?’ Yvaine turned. ‘What tales?’

  Anna looked back at her, solemn-eyed. ‘’Tis said Rorik has never been defeated in battle, not even when he wrestled a great ice-bear with only his hands and a knife. Can you imagine it, lady? ’Tis why the men call him the Bearslayer. He wears the beast’s tooth on a cord around his neck and—’

  ‘Wait…wait!’ Yvaine waved her hands to stop the flow. ‘An ice-bear?’ She frowned. ‘This Thorolf weaves a fine story, Anna, but I wonder you paid him heed. A bear made of ice? We should all see such a creature.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, no. Trust me on this. ’Tis only a tale. A Norse saga. I know all about them.’ And not for the world would she admit that icy little fingers had tiptoed up her spine during the telling.

  ‘Then what of Thorolf’s accounts of battle, lady? With his own eyes, he’s seen—’

  ‘Aye, feats of great daring, I have no doubt. Have you ever heard a tale of battle that didn’t include such things?’

  ‘They must have some truth in them,’ Anna retorted with heavy meaning. ‘Or we wouldn’t be standing here unharmed when there are forty Vikings not ten feet away. What do you think would happen, lady, if Rorik didn’t have the men under control?’

  The question effectively robbed Yvaine of the urge to discredit Anna’s tales; there could be only one answer. The ruffians, whose very presence made her want to shrink into the smallest possible space, were kept under control because the man who led them was more brutal, more ruthless, more savage than his crew.

  And she would have to face him, she realised, shaking inside. Before she could plan any escape, she would have to face him, assess the danger, try to outwit him.

  It might not be so hard, she thought, trying to bolster her courage. He was heathen, a barbarian. He probably didn’t look beyond the next bloodthirsty battle. But if they engaged in a battle of wits, the outcome might be different. Perhaps she could lull him into thinking them so cowed it would be safe to let them spend the night ashore. Then if she could lay her hands on a weapon—

  She turned, her gaze darting over the ship, from oars to pails to bundles of goods. There was nothing here to aid her. Nothing. Only ropes, a thick block of wood, a dragon—

  Dragon?

  She looked back at the stern, to the flash of gold that had caught her eye. Not a dragon; the steering oar, shaped like a long sea-serpent, the gilded eyes catching the sun in a way that seemed to breathe life into the carved beast.

  For a moment she was caught by the fanciful creature, captivated by the artistry. Then she saw the hand, large, long-fingered and strong, wrapped about the solid wood as though holding the dragon in check.

  A cool whisper of air brushed her skin, lifted the hair at her nape. Her gaze shifted, as though drawn by a force beyond her control; skimmed over a muscled forearm, past gold armrings, across a broad shoulder, upward.

  And there, watching her with the glittering intensity of a hawk sighting prey, were the light, piercing eyes of her memory.

  Chapter Three

  Everything stopped. Time, thought, movement. The entire length of the ship separated them and yet she felt as powerless beneath her captor’s gaze as if he’d shackled her to the deck. When he finally glanced aside to address the man standing next to him, her breath shuddered out on a ragged sound that echoed her heartbeat.

  ‘Thorolf comes to speak to us,’ Anna warned softly. ‘No need to fear him, lady. He’s more civilized than some of the
others.’

  ‘They’re savages,’ Yvaine muttered. And didn’t ask herself why she needed to make a point of it. ‘Every last one.’

  ‘Hmm. Was your husband any better?’

  Before she could answer that pointed question, she was confronted by a blond, bearded Viking. He glanced at Anna, then held out an imperative hand. ‘Come, lady.’

  Not knowing what he intended, she stepped back. ‘Not at your bidding, barbarian.’

  Thorolf sighed, seized her wrist and, without wasting any more words, began towing her towards the stern.

  Shock had Yvaine nearly tripping over her own feet. She’d expected force—and it was—but not quite as she’d anticipated. She finally got her voice back when she realised where they were going. ‘Loose me at once, you misbegotten savage. I’m not a sack of loot to be dumped at your leader’s f—’

  She broke off to avoid being yanked willy-nilly over a cross-rib.

  ‘Hush your noise, lady.’ Thorolf threw her an impatient glance over his shoulder. ‘Would you make an outcry in front of the men? Rorik merely wishes to speak with you.’

  ‘And this is the manner of his fetching? Who taught him courtesy? Your swineherd?’

  He muttered something in Norse, then stopped, swinging about to face her. ‘Do you think Rorik can leave Sea Dragon to steer herself while he runs after you? Women! Nothing but trouble, first and last.’ Turning, he stomped onward. ‘Watch out for that bailing pail.’

  Yvaine blinked at his back. The incongruity of an annoyed Viking making sure she didn’t stumble over the unfamiliar hazards in her path was beyond comprehension. Of course, he was just as likely to kill her if she followed her instincts and gave in to the urge to break free and run.

  Aye, and where is there to hide? she asked herself grimly. Behind the three men lounging at the base of the mast, idly casting dice?

  As if the trio had heard the thought, they looked up. Their attention fastened on her instantly, like leeches to human flesh. Yvaine shuddered and turned her face away. To her strained senses, the laughter that followed her held a hideous anticipation that reminded her of Ceawlin.

  ‘Ignore them,’ Thorolf said and, when her gaze darted up to his, he startled her again with a wry smile. ‘Perhaps Rorik should’ve come for you, lady, although Thor knows even he can’t stop the men from looking. But these seas are treacherous and he’s waiting for a tricky wind change. Best helmsman in all Norway, you know.’

  No, she didn’t know. She didn’t know anything. The entire world had gone mad, leaving her floundering in confusion and disbelief.

  For there, standing before her, up close, without his helm, was the warrior of her dreams. Not the coarse brutish ruffian she’d anticipated, not the mindless barbarian she’d feared, but a man who could have stepped straight out of the Norse legends that had enthralled her as a young girl.

  How could that be? she wondered, frantically trying to recover her image of a witless savage. He was tall and strong, aye, but he didn’t possess the finely moulded features she’d always attributed to those legendary heroes, nor even the ordinary male good looks she’d grown accustomed to at her cousin’s court. He was too tough-looking. Too hard. This was the stern, savage beauty of slashing cheekbones, straight high-bridged nose, firmly chiselled jaw. And in the direct scrutiny of those piercing grey eyes, she saw an ice-cold intelligence that was more daunting than any brute force.

  Without speaking, without movement, he took her breath away.

  ‘You recover quickly, lady. Freyja must have watched over you.’

  Yvaine jolted at the sound of his voice. Deep, with a husky timbre that made her think of darkest night, it stroked over her taut nerves as if he’d touched her.

  ‘Credit your heathen Gods if you will,’ she retorted, flushing with the belated realisation of the way she’d been staring at him. She hadn’t even noticed that Thorolf had left them. ‘No doubt they approve of men carrying off helpless women and selling them into slavery.’

  The Viking’s brows rose. Glancing up at the mast, he made a slight adjustment to the tiller, then returned his gaze to her face. ‘Your husband would have abandoned you to slavery. I won’t.’

  Tilting her chin in disbelief, she affected an absorbed interest in the sea beyond him. But she was aware of him still. Saints preserve her, she was aware of every little detail.

  The way the wind ruffled shoulder-length hair that was lighter than her own and streaked by the sun. The way he stood, long legs braced against the movement of the ship; the powerful ripple of muscle in his arm as he held the vessel on course; the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes when he narrowed them against the light.

  So sure of himself, so utterly male. Standing there challenging the unpredictable forces of nature and harnessing them to his will. How could she ever escape such a man?

  Did she want to?

  The question had her gasping before she could stifle the sound. Her knees buckled.

  ‘Here,’ he said gruffly, shoving a wooden sea-chest closer with his booted foot. ‘Sit down before you keel over. You’re probably weak from hunger.’ He reached to a sack at his feet.

  Yvaine dropped to the chest without a murmur. It wasn’t obedience; her legs simply gave way. Where had that thought come from? Had she forgotten she was dealing with a Viking? He wasn’t going to take her for a sail along the coast, then return her with a polite word of thanks for her company.

  An object that resembled a strip of leather landed on her lap. She stared at it as one eyeing a serpent poised to strike.

  ‘’Tis dried fish, not henbane,’ her captor murmured. And at the note of wry humour in his voice, she looked up—into eyes that were no longer cold. He smiled at her. A slow, heart-stopping smile that completely transformed his stern features, melting the ice in his eyes and replacing it with something warm and wicked. Something that invited her to forget about forced abduction and slavery and follow where he led.

  Dear God, why would the man even need force? she thought dazedly. That smile would make a willing thrall of any woman. It caressed, it embraced, it enticed. It threatened to destroy the walls of stone she’d built around her emotions.

  Heaven save her, hunger really had addled her wits. She had to get her strength back. Fast!

  Tearing her gaze from Rorik’s, she snatched up the fish, put it between her teeth and bit. Then nearly choked when he leaned over and swiftly unfastened her kirtle.

  Screams tangled in her throat, sounds without voice. She tried to leap up, only to feel strong fingers clamp around the nape of her neck, anchoring her to the chest. Her heart slammed against her ribs in a terrified rhythm she was sure he could hear. Was he going to tear her clothes off in front of his men?

  ‘Be still,’ he murmured. ‘The sun will be good for your back, and the men can’t see anything.’

  His fingers relaxed, cupping the nape of her neck rather than gripping it. She felt his hand move to her back, a fleeting touch. Then he straightened away from her.

  Relief had her slumping on the chest as every muscle went limp. He wasn’t going to tear her clothes off. At least, not yet. Indeed, his attention was no longer on her at all, but on his ship. He pulled hard on the steering oar, bellowing out orders.

  Men swarmed up the mast, sure-footed on the ropes as they brought the sail around. She fixed her gaze on the huge expanse, realising, after the space of several heartbeats, that it wasn’t particularly war-like. It was criss-crossed in diagonal lines of red and white, but there was no fierce black raven such as she’d heard described.

  Surprised, she followed the line of the mast upward. A triangular, gilded wind-vane was swinging around to landward. Pennants attached to holes along its lower edge flew proudly in the breeze and, higher still, the small figure of a dragon gazed out over the horizon with remote, far-seeing eyes.

  The light was dazzling. She lowered her eyes, vaguely aware of the heat bathing her back. The sun did feel good; warm and healing. She absently took another b
ite of fish.

  ‘Tell me, lady. Why did your husband take the time to beat you in the middle of a Viking raid?’

  The question, coming without warning, jerked her upright again as if Rorik had taken a whip to her.

  ‘Well?’ he prompted when she sent him a quick, startled look. ‘Had you goaded him beyond reason? Lain with another man? What had you done to be so grievously punished at such a time?’

  ‘Oh, that’s right, assume I was to blame.’ Outrage restored her voice in a hurry. ‘Goaded Ceawlin beyond reason? Aye. The very fact that I breathed goaded him for the entire five years we were wed.’

  ‘Five years?’ His brows snapped together. ‘You must have been a child.’

  ‘I was fourteen,’ she said curtly. ‘What of it? As for a beating, you Norse probably do the same when your wives defy you. Or worse.’

  ‘In my land, lady, a woman may divorce her husband for the treatment you were subjected to, unless he can prove she was a faithless wife. In my land, a woman may divorce a man for being a poor provider, or lazy. Or for baring his chest in public.’

  ‘Baring his chest?’ She glared at him. ‘You must think me a lackwit, if you think I’d believe that tale.’

  Amusement edged his mouth. ‘Far from it. But I speak the truth. My own uncle employed the ruse to rid himself of a wife whose tongue was honed to a sharper edge than any battle-axe on this ship. If a man bares his chest publicly ’tis considered bad taste and provocative. By the same token—’ He reached out, touched the honey-gold tresses tumbled about her shoulders; a gentle caress that was over before she thought to evade it. ‘A married woman must cover her hair.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hot colour rushed to her cheeks. Until that moment she hadn’t given a thought to her appearance. Now, for some strange reason, she was acutely aware that several amenities had been missing from her life for a couple of days. Such as soap, and a comb. She wondered if Rorik was aware of the pervasive odour of sheep fat that hovered about her, and then wondered why the thought had even occurred.