The Viking's Captive

by Julia Byrne

  Yvaine nodded, surprised she could make even that response. When Othar rose and left her, she was incapable of movement for several seconds. It was plain that she, the crew and the ship were in the hands of a madman. A madman who didn’t have a tithe of Rorik’s strength, endurance or experience.

  The knowledge beat at her, over and over, until, finally, the pitching of the ship broke through the hammer blows of fear. She edged back until she could sit against the side. She had to stay calm. It was no use panicking about Othar’s madness or lack of seamanship. While the sea remained calm there was little danger, and the crew, at least, appeared to know what they were doing.

  She studied the men cautiously, making sure she didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Unkempt hair and beards made them look uncannily alike. None were familiar. She remembered Gunnar and Ketil, and was suddenly thankful that one had left Rorik’s ship at Kaupang and the other was at the bottom of the sea.

  On the other hand, she thought as she intercepted a sly, sidelong glance, these could be worse.

  Shuddering, she raised herself and peered over the side. Far behind them a dark grey line marked the horizon. It could have been cloud, or the fast disappearing shores of Norway. There was no other land in sight. They had begun the crossing westward.

  Yvaine sank back to the deck and gingerly probed the tender spot at the back of her head. Her hair was still braided, but her headkerchief was missing. She had no recollection of losing it. Given how far they’d come, and the position of the sun, she must have been unconscious most of the day.

  The thought of being handled by Othar and his men while she lay senseless had her stomach heaving, but she forced the images away, reached instead for a waterbag that lay nearby. The cool trickle of liquid sliding down her throat made her feel immeasurably better.

  She would survive this, she vowed, fisting her hands around the bag. While they were at sea, with the ship undermanned and Othar intent on getting away from Rorik, she might be reasonably safe. The real danger would come when they landed. But no matter what, she would survive.

  And that had been an empty vow, or no, she thought two days later as she rubbed eyes burning from the strain of watching the equally empty sea.

  Oh, she survived. Had she been hungry, thirsty, abused, she would still have held on to life. But she had water. Othar tossed her some food whenever he ate. Someone had even handed her a bucket when she’d eyed the communal slop-pail with a mixture of embarrassment and despair.

  When the demands of nature had to be met, she arranged her long skirts to retain some degree of modesty, even though the chuckles, the leers, the whispered jests, flayed her spirit. So she survived.

  But, by the saints, she was tired. The strain of being constantly on guard was sapping her strength, stripping her nerves raw. Too afraid to sleep, she dozed for minutes only, jerking awake at any sound or movement that came too close.

  She’d made a place for herself between a sea-chest and a cross-rib near Othar’s station at the stern, thinking that if he was bent on emulating Rorik, he wouldn’t be inclined to share her. At least not immediately.

  She’d been right, but there was a chilling flaw in her strategy. Othar chatted to her incessantly, pointing out how clever he’d been as though seeking her approval. And she was forced to respond, to keep him in his smug, self-satisfied mood, to avoid tipping him over the edge into the violence that simmered just beneath the surface.

  For it was there. It shrilled in his voice whenever the men were too slow to carry out an order; it twisted his face whenever the wind drifted and he had to change course. It was there when he fixed her with the hungry stare she’d seen in the bathhouse, and she dreaded the moment when they’d be alone, knowing her apparent acquiescence, now, would make rejection that much more dangerous.

  Yet what else could she do? Tell the men Othar had kidnapped his brother’s wife? Force a confrontation at sea where escape was impossible? She couldn’t be sure they would take her part, especially when one of them knew she’d been taken near Einervik and had helped Othar in the taking. Even if she threatened them with Rorik’s vengeance she might not be safe. To men of little thought and brutish instincts, the threat of vengeance had few teeth when there was no sign of the avenger. They could rape her, throw her overboard and disperse to lie low the minute they landed. She was balanced on a knife-edge. Like the line she walked with Othar, danger threatened no matter what course she chose.

  And she might be forced to choose soon, she thought, hugging herself against a chill as evening closed in on the second day. The western isles and the north of England were now within easy reach and, for the better part of an hour, the men had been demanding to go ashore to take on more provisions. Both areas were settled by Norsemen and thus safe ports, but Othar was making no move to change course.

  She didn’t know whether to add her voice to the men’s in the hope that Othar might listen to her. Landing would slow them down, give Rorik a chance to catch them. But if they beached the ship for the night, she would be staring danger in the face before ever they reached Ireland.

  Heaven save her, she didn’t know what to do, what to pray for. Was no longer sure her prayers would be heard. Battered by fear and exhaustion, she felt utterly alone. Had God forsaken her because she loved a heathen? she wondered vaguely, staring at the distant horizon. The priests would say so. They would denounce her love for Rorik as a sin.

  Then I am indeed a sinner, she thought, clenching her fists on top of the side in a burst of defiance. For I love him and always will. If that makes me a heathen, too, then so be it.

  And in that moment when anger and fierce resolve burned away some of her tiredness, an image of Katyja flashed through her mind. The words she’d dismissed and long forgotten echoed as clearly as though the witch stood beside her.

  You will remember my words and be strong. Two ships…one fleeing, one pursuing. Death surrounds you, but it does not touch you.

  ‘Two ships,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Rorik.’

  She sank to her knees, folding her arms on the topmost plank as she strained to see in the dimming light. The horizon misted before her eyes, creating wavering patterns, so that, for an instant, she thought she’d seen something. A flash, as though the setting sun had struck something bright.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, looked again.

  Nothing. And yet, she could have sworn—

  ‘And I say we are going to Ireland.’

  She sprang up, turning and slamming against the side as Othar shouted the words behind her. He was still at the steering oar, but the other men had left their posts to confront him in a group, the man who had knocked her senseless a pace ahead of the rest.

  ‘We’re not here to throw our lives away,’ he growled. ‘You never mentioned Ireland.’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you now. I’m the leader of this ship, Kalf, and—’

  ‘Leaders can be replaced,’ Kalf interrupted. ‘Especially one who lies. You promised us loot in England if we didn’t interfere with your business.’ He jerked a thumb at Yvaine. ‘’Tis time to deliver.’

  At a rumble of agreement from the others, some of Othar’s bluster wavered. ‘You’ll get your loot,’ he said sulkily. ‘No one’s asking you to stay in Ireland. You can leave us and go. You can even take the ship,’ he added, as though coming up with a brilliant idea.

  ‘’Twould be difficult to go anywhere without it,’ Kalf snapped. He bit out a curse and gestured with rough impatience. ‘You fool! The Celts drove us Norsemen from Ireland a few months past. Aided by the Danes, Odin curse them. Haven’t you seen the beacons along the coast? We’ve been spotted. If we land, our lives won’t be worth a thrall’s ransom.’

  ‘But we have to go to Ireland,’ Othar yelled. ‘Rorik won’t look for us there.’

  ‘Rorik?’ Kalf’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why would Rorik be looking for you, Othar? You said he’d been banished.’

  Yvaine’s lips parted. She took a step forward, glanced over her shoulder.<
br />
  Nothing.

  When she looked back, Othar was speaking again, his face sullen.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You were the one who wanted provisions, Kalf. Here’s your chance.’

  ‘Not in Ireland. You change course for England, or we’ll do it for you. By morning we’ll be off the northernmost part of the Danelaw. Get the Danes to take you to Ireland if you’re set on losing your life.’

  Othar’s lips thinned, but it must have been plain, even to his deranged mind, that he was outnumbered.

  ‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘We’ll take on more food in England. Raid a town or two.’

  Looking thoughtful, the men nodded, dispersing to their places in a silence that spoke louder than words. Kalf sent her a long look, before he, too, turned away.

  Yvaine sank back against the side, her heart pounding. One more night. One more night before she would have to face Othar, or try to escape.

  Could she do it? They would be landing very close to the border, which dissected England roughly from southeast to north-west. Once on land, could she risk asking Kalf to help her? He alone of the crew seemed wary of Rorik. Would that wariness incline him to stand alone against his leader—in Norse law a crime punishable by death—or would he throw in his lot with the others?

  She didn’t know, but there was one thing she was sure of. The question was going to keep her awake for another night.

  ‘They’ve changed course for England.’

  Out of sight, below the horizon, the lookout on a ship with a gilded wind-vane yelled the information down to his leader’s second-in-command.

  Thorolf nodded and strode aft to pass the news to Rorik.

  ‘Do you think they saw us?’ he asked, when there was no response.

  Rorik tore his gaze from the seamless line dividing sea and sky. ‘If our informant was right,’ he said curtly, ‘Othar has a half-dozen men. He can’t afford to have someone on the mast as lookout.’ His hand clenched around the steering oar with so much force he wondered the wood didn’t crack. ‘I hope.’

  ‘Aye. His crew must have barely enough time to sleep. Even Othar will have to pull his weight.’

  ‘Aye. He won’t have time to—’ His teeth snapped shut on the rest.

  ‘She’ll be all right, Rorik. Tonight we’ll get close enough to chase him into land, or board him at dawn, before he has much warning. You’ll get her back.’

  A muscle flickered in Rorik’s jaw. Aye, he’d get Yvaine back, he vowed, and stopped his thoughts right there.

  Because if he let himself consider the alternative he’d lose his mind. Even the thought of Yvaine in the hands of brutal warriors for one more night caused his gut to tie itself in knots. Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to give chase now, to close the distance between the two ships and snatch her to safety before daylight was lost.

  And he knew he had to wait, to give Othar as little warning as possible. His brother was too unpredictable. If he turned on Yvaine before they were close enough to save her, Rorik knew he would go mad. And if he lost the rigid control he was hanging on to by a thread, he’d be no help to anyone.

  He would get her back.

  He wouldn’t let himself believe anything else.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shouts ripped through the curtain of sleep that had fallen over her like a pall.

  Yvaine sat bolt upright, blinking in the grey light. Dawn had crept up on her while she’d succumbed to exhaustion. Before she saw the danger accompanying it, a hand fisted around her braid and hauled her to her feet.

  ‘Bitch!’ Othar screamed. ‘You were supposed to keep watch. You were supposed to warn me.’ His free hand flashed upward, catching the side of her face without any warning. Her involuntary cry was cut off when his arm swung back the other way. This time his fist was clenched; this time he let her fall.

  She dropped to the deck and lay motionless, her mind hazing. Then, spurred by the vague thought that she wouldn’t cower at his feet, she forced her head up.

  Othar was storming about the ship in a mindless frenzy. She flinched as he kicked a pail out of his path. He snatched an oar from one of the men and swung it at the mast. The crack of shattering wood had her flattening herself to the deck as splinters flew.

  ‘We don’t need oars,’ he yelled. ‘We have to get away. Hoist the sail!’

  She blinked at the sail. It bellied out in the wind as it had for the past few days.

  Before she could wonder why Othar couldn’t see it, he rushed past her. ‘No, we’ll land. That’s it. We’ll land and run. You hear me, Kalf? Why aren’t the oars out?’

  ‘Holy Mother of God,’ she whispered. ‘He’s run mad.’ She wasn’t sure if she crossed herself; her mind was drifting like fog. Moving as if she was crawling through the stuff, she pulled herself up against the side. One side of her face felt numb; her legs barely supported her. She hung on, trying to see through the mist in front of her eyes.

  Something wavered in the distance. Land. They’d sailed into a wide bay; hills surrounded them on three sides. And ahead…

  She narrowed her eyes. Were those tents on the hill above the beach? She couldn’t see, couldn’t be sure. But even if a bustling city loomed ahead of them, why would Othar descend into raving incoherence?

  She turned her head in time to see him throw a sea-chest over the side. There was an immediate explosion of rage from its owner.

  ‘Fool!’ Othar swung a fist at the man even as he looked around for something else to jettison. ‘We have to go faster! He’s put up a red shield. He wants to fight.’

  Fight? Who?

  Still clinging to the side, Yvaine peered toward the stem.

  Sea Dragon. Oh, God, it was real. There was the red and white sail, billowing in the wind. The fierce dragon’s head on the prow dipped towards the water, cleaving the waves as though devouring them. A red shield hung from her prow, a challenge to battle. She looked warlike, menacing and unstoppable. And she was gaining on them fast.

  ‘Rorik!’

  Her scream was snatched away by the wind, but her movement as she staggered sternward alerted Othar. He sprang to intercept her, dragging her back against him and wrapping an arm around her throat.

  ‘I’m not finished with you,’ he shrieked. ‘Not finished.’

  ‘Leave her alone, Othar.’ It was Kalf, looking as if he’d finally realised there was more to her presence than the simple kidnapping of an unwilling wench. ‘You’re behaving like a fool. If that is Rorik behind us, he doesn’t intend to fight a battle at sea, his sail is still up.’

  ‘Of course it’s Sea Dragon, you dolt. Do you think I don’t know my brother’s ship?’ Othar’s arm tightened, almost cutting off her breath.

  ‘All right, ’tis Rorik. Then you’d better have a good reason before I go against him.’

  ‘I’m Rorik’s wife,’ gasped Yvaine, barely able to get the words out. ‘Othar—’

  ‘Be silent.’ Othar’s voice was suddenly ice-cold. As cold as the dagger he drew and pressed to her throat.

  I’ve felt this before, she thought through the roaring in her ears. That night on the beach…

  But the memory vanished as Othar’s grip shifted. He began to crowd her against the side, one hand fisting in the neck of her shift as he forced her upper body over the rail. ‘Don’t move, Kalf, or I’ll slit her throat.’

  Kalf obeyed. The others stood like statues.

  No help there, Yvaine decided, fighting dizziness as the sea rushed past her eyes. But helpless or no, she would not die. She would not die with Rorik so close.

  ‘Othar, if you kill me, Rorik will hunt you to the edge of the world. He’ll—’

  ‘I’m not going to kill you,’ he snarled. ‘I’m going to slow Rorik down. And I hope you drown before he gets to you.’

  She felt a hard shove, Othar’s hands on her hips. Then there was nothing around her but air.

  ‘He’s less than a quarter-mile ahead, Rorik. You were right. The battle challen
ge made him run for shore. He’s trapped.’

  Rorik held the ship steady into the waves, grateful for the grim concentration needed to overtake Othar. The distance between the two vessels was shrinking rapidly. He could see people moving about on Othar’s ship now, but the sun was bursting over the hills ahead of them, shining right in his eyes. He couldn’t tell which one was Yvaine.

  ‘He won’t have time to hurt her if he’s worrying about me catching him,’ he muttered, and tried to believe it.

  ‘She’s alive,’ yelled Thorolf, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘There, amidships, with Othar. What in the name of…He’s throwing her overboard!’

  Rorik shoved the steering oar violently to one side as the shout left Thorolf’s lips. The big vessel listed dangerously, almost taking the mast overboard, then steadied and leapt forward, a hound freed from the leash.

  At the same time Yvaine disappeared beneath a rolling wave.

  Rorik grabbed Thorolf, spinning him around with an ironfisted grip on his shoulder as his friend sprang for the side. ‘Take the styri,’ he ordered, unbuckling his belt. He flung his sword to the deck and stripped off his tunic and undershirt.

  ‘No, wait.’ Thorolf cast an anxious glance at Rorik’s set face. ‘The ship will get there faster. Yvaine can swim, remember? She kept on telling you so. She’ll be all right. Wait until I have to bring the ship into the wind.’

  Rorik didn’t answer. He was poised on the side, every muscle tense, as he scanned the surface of the water. ‘Why doesn’t she come up?’ he said through his teeth.

  ‘She can swim,’ Thorolf repeated, hoping to the Gods Yvaine was still alive to give truth to the statement.

  ‘She’s fully clothed. And with those damned brooches—there!’ He went over the side in a low, powerful dive that took him well clear of the ship.

  Cursing helplessly, Thorolf yanked on the steering oar as he saw why Rorik hadn’t waited. An off-shore current was sweeping Yvaine right into the path of the speeding, oncoming ship. He’d have to slow down or alter course to avoid running over her; both alternatives would waste precious time.