Viking's Prize

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  He nodded gravely and sighed deeply. “As you are. But you should know that he refused to repudiate her at first.”

  Her heart stumbled at his words, and she gazed at him.

  “Alas… as you know... to no avail. I fear it served my father well that your mother was known to bear the divine sight, for it took very little goading on his part to rouse the common folk against her.” He gazed at her pointedly. “At any rate, ’tis fortunate she did not bequeath to you... her... inauspicious gift.”

  Elienor’s heart turned violently. She dared not meet his gaze for fear he’d suspect. “Aye,” she croaked, “Fortunate, indeed.”

  He seemed not to note the alarm in her tone, for he carried on. “Were it not for your father’s intercession with the church,” he told her, “she might not even have been buried on sacred ground. For that at least, you should offer your father a pardon... for he loved you, too.”

  So Elienor took the ring.

  And she was grateful for it, for with it, her uncle had given her a sense of belonging. It had meant much to her to be acknowledged by her family. She had despaired of ever fulfilling that dream. She thought she understood why her uncle had been compelled to reveal it all after so long, for he indubitably felt at least a twinge of guilt for what his father had done to Elienor and to her mother.

  Then too, she was a little sad for him; Robert of Francia knew firsthand the pain and agony of losing a loved one, for he too had fallen victim to such manipulations. His first marriage had been annulled in much the same manner as was her own father’s, and his love thereafter confined to the priory.

  But as grateful as she was, she could not help but feel a little bitter over all that had been taken from her as a child. The pain her mother had endured.

  But it was best not to dwell on that, she knew. She tried to focus instead on the good things in her life: She was learned in the scriptures, knew her histories, and could tally her numbers well, for Mother Heloise had been priming her to become abbess in her stead.

  With a sigh, she curled her legs into the mantle that had appeared upon her so mysteriously the morning of the second day and wondered again to whom it belonged. It was not Red-Hrolf’s, she was certain. Nor did any of the others seem overly concerned with her welfare.

  She had a suspicion to whom it belonged, for it smelled of him; an elusive combination of wind, sea, and man. It was insane, she knew—to know his scent, when she knew him not at all, but she did.

  The wind howled about her, hissing like a viper through the sails, and Elienor made certain Clarisse was covered by the mantle as well. Leaning over her, she tucked the coverlet gently beneath her, and then peered out over the gunwales. Nothing but angry gray swells met her gaze. They were so far from anywhere.

  The unfathomable depth of the ocean made her shiver abruptly. She felt so vulnerable out here, almost as vulnerable as she had on that fateful day when she had been ripped from her mother’s breast…

  The sea was so dark—as dark as she’d so oft imagined her mother’s grave to be.

  She shivered again and hugged herself for warmth, cursing her lips, for they burned incessantly—even in the cold, damp darkness. She raised her fingers to them as though that brief touch might ease them.

  She wasn’t so much afraid to die, she told herself. Rather she was terrified that if she did, they would toss her body into the sea—to the dreadful creatures that dwelled within it. With a miserable groan, she glanced down at Clarisse.

  Moonlight glinted off the young maid’s face, making her skin seem too pale, her eyes black and eerie. The thought occurred to her suddenly that Clarisse might not survive the sea voyage. Once again she was failing. As she’d failed Stefan.

  Swallowing the thickness in her throat, she tilted her head skyward.

  Had God truly forsaken them?

  Her hand covered her mouth. In the darkness, with no eyes to see her and the rising wind to carry away the sound, she began to sob quietly.

  Fifteen winters she’d spent within the priory. Fifteen long, lonely winters. And Phillipe had been her greatest hope.

  Above her, the sails rippled violently, twisting the mast windward. Shuddering, Elienor crossed herself. What fate was this God had given her? To see poor Stefan die—and now mayhap to watch Clarisse suffer and do the same? Well, by God, she’d not allow it!

  As though her fury had become tangible, the wind suddenly lifted, pitching the ship viciously and jostling those aboard.

  “Clarisse?” she cried out.

  There was no response from the weak form beside her.

  Frantically, Elienor shook the girl’s shoulder as the ship listed once more. “Clarisse!” she shouted.

  Still no answer. Clarisse lay unmoving.

  “Nay! Oh, nay!” Panicking, Elienor felt for a pulse at Clarisse’s neck, and finding it fragile, breathed a shaky sigh of relief. With trembling hands she fumbled for the skin of water behind her. It was the fever, she was certain. If she could but cool her somehow. She found the skin instantly, but the moment her fingers lit upon it, the ship listed yet again, sending the skin flying behind her. She turned to catch it and was startled to find Red-Hrolf awake, watching them. Grinning balefully, his boot came down upon the skin, halting its slide across the planking. Fearful to retrieve it on her own, Elienor held out her hand for him to return it, hoping against hope that he would.

  His grin only widened, and Elienor’s heart twisted. Nevertheless, knowing Clarisse had need of the water, she dared to reach for it now, uncertainly at first, keeping her gaze on Red-Hrolf. Yet to her alarm, before she could grasp it, the ship listed once more, this time violently.

  Chaos erupted.

  With a terrified shriek, Elienor rolled atop Clarisse, striking her hard enough that she rose up only to bounce down upon the planking, her head landing with a sickening smack that Elienor could hear even above the sound of the wind and the waking shouts of the crewmen. To her horror, Clarisse’s body began to convulse beneath her, bucking as though possessed. Elienor screamed, taken aback by the sight and feel of Clarisse twisting and writhing beneath her.

  And seeing Clarisse, Red-Hrolf began to shout. He jumped to his feet in revulsion. “She is afflicted!”

  “Nay!” Elienor denied, “she is but ill!”

  Clarisse continued to buck and twist. Elienor couldn’t stop her. Her tongue lolled limply from her mouth, and her eyes opened and crossed, the sight appalling enough to terrify even Elienor.

  “’Tis a plague from Hella!” Red-Hrolf shouted. “We will all perish! Shrivel away to bones!”

  Fear clawed at Elienor’s heart. Before her eyes she saw again her mother’s accusers, heard their chanted convictions: Witch! Kill the witch! God’ll strike us dead for her sins! Kill the witch!

  She closed her eyes to ward away the bitter vision and prayed for strength. Merciful heaven. She must remain strong!

  “Pitch the whore to the sea!” someone shouted.

  Kill the witch! Aye! Kill them both! The daughter’s a filthy witch, too! Send them both to Hades from whence they came!

  “Nay!” Elienor shrieked at the memory. “Nay! Please! Please!”

  “Pitch them both to the sea!” another echoed in French, glaring at her.

  “Nay!” Elienor shrieked, wild with terror now. “Nay! Nay! Have mercy—I beg of you! Sweet Jesu! Have mercy!” She rose up, clinging to Red-Hrolf’s tunic, begging. “Jesu Christ—please!”

  Red Hrolf thrust her away in revulsion. “Filthy Fransk whore!” He lifted up his oar to frighten her away.

  Frantic now, Elienor rose up with him, pleading incoherently with fear. “Please, please, leave her be—oh, please!”

  There was no time to avoid the blow, even had she been aware of it.

  She screamed as the pinnacle of an oar struck her head. Her eyes widened at the sound of her flesh ripping, so loud it seemed to come from within her.

  Oh, God… had her visions been so wrong?

  Was she to die as well?


  Something wet and warm blanketed her temple, blood, she thought vaguely.

  Blood.

  Before her eyes a hazy blackness settled in, and it seemed an eternity passed as she fought the inevitable. A hollow ringing shrieked in her ears, blocking out all other sound.

  And then silence.

  The silence of her mother’s grave.

  In that instant, she felt as though she would retch, so violently ill did she become. She opened her mouth to call for aid, but the words never formed.

  Who did she expect would aid her? No one, a little voice sneered. “No one,” she whispered weakly, her vision fading swiftly to gray.

  To her shock, the face that swam before her in that instant was not her uncle’s, not her mother’s, not the kind old abbess’s, not Count Phillipe’s, nor Stefan’s, nor Clarisse’s... but his.

  She tried to look toward the helm, to plead for help, but abruptly the world spun away.

  Accustomed to frequent heated matches amongst his bored crewmen whilst at sea, Alarik had paid the sudden upheaval little mind, until he heard the scream. He turned in time to see her collapse to the planking.

  With a hoarse cry, he hastened to her side, lifting her face up. Her blood flowed freely into his hands from a gash at her temple. He turned his wrath upon Red-Hrolf, who was the only one near enough to have inflicted the mighty blow. “What need was there for this?”

  “She’s mad!” Red-Hrolf defended, his expression indignant. And then uneasy over the way Alarik glared at him, he insisted, “She’s mad, I tell you! and the other is afflicted!” His face reddened under Alarik’s censure, but as he caught an assertive nod from Bjorn, he dared to speak up once more. “Anyway, why should you object to what I’ve done to the whore, jarl? She’s just a filthy Fransk! We ought to toss them both overboard and be done!”

  As though the Gods of Asgard held their breath for Alarik’s response, even the winds abated in that instant, and the uncanny hush that followed Red-Hrolf’s inquiry taunted him. In truth, It was a question he’d asked of himself already. Though as yet there was no answer. Still, he’d not have the wench mistreated, and the vehemence with which he said his next words stunned himself more than it did his men.

  “I care!” he snarled, “because she is mine!” He slammed a fist against his chest and shot his brother a contemptuous scowl, cautioning Bjorn to take care, for he’d not missed the encouraging look his brother had given Red-Hrolf.

  Bjorn’s eyes widened in startle, and when Alarik was satisfied that his warning had been interpreted correctly, he turned to all within plain view and reiterated. “The Fransk is mine to do with as I will! I dare any who thinks otherwise to defy me!”

  Again he met each of their gazes; one by one heads shook in negation, shrinking from the challenge.

  No one dared even to speak.

  Feeling the warmth of her blood flow over his hands, Alarik glanced down, and with his salt-sprayed tunic, he swiped at the blood streaming so swiftly from the wound, baring the flesh of her temple only momentarily before another rush of her blood covered the open gash. As he’d feared, there was a fairly deep laceration just below the temple, a very delicate spot, he knew. And concerned by the gravity of her injury, he scanned the storm-tossed waters.

  The wind was rising once more, but there was little choice to be made if he wished to aid the wench. He was the best navigator aboard, but in light of the circumstances, he felt he could trust no one to minister to the Fransk.

  Sigurd, he thought, could skillfully guide the ship in foul clime... It was just that he preferred to sail himself at such times. Why did he always feel the need to do everything himself?

  No matter, those were his choices; to sail himself and let the woman die, or minister to her and possibly kill them all in the process.

  In that instant the Goldenhawk pitched to one side. With a muttered curse, Alarik braced himself, but he was too late. He was flung down upon her.

  So small.

  She was so small beneath him.

  He couldn’t let her die. His hands tangled in her bloody hair. Nay, he wouldn’t let her die!

  As long as he lived he’d never comprehend the pull she seemed to have over him, but he made his insane vow nonetheless—to save her life at all cost, even at the risk of his own, and those of his men. Why he would make such a treacherous pact with himself was beyond comprehension. He only knew that something beyond his power of reasoning compelled him unto it.

  As the drakken turned its prow into the whitecaps once more, he peeled his body from hers, his gaze slicing through the sea-spray and mist to see that the man at the helm was struggling at best.

  Sigurd would simply have to attempt it. His decision made, not even Thor himself could have swayed him from it. Not understanding his own motives, Alarik turned to Sigurd. “Replace Ivar at the helm! Quickly!”

  Sigurd’s jaw dropped with disbelief, his eyes widening. “But jarl—”

  “Go!” Alarik roared. “Now!”

  Shaking his head, Sigurd went.

  Laying the woman’s head upon the planking, gently, so as not to cause her further injury, Alarik watched him go, his hand reaching for his bone-handled dagger as he came to his feet. The wind battered his tunic as he held the hem within his fist, ready to slash it. He glared at Red-Hrolf as he rent a wide strip of his garment, baring his chest to the biting wind.

  Red-Hrolf stood, shaking his head, torn between his fear of a watery grave and Alarik’s wrath. “You’ll kill us all!” he accused.

  Hoping Alarik would change his mind, Sigurd halted abruptly, turning to hear Alarik’s reply.

  In the meantime Bjorn dared to speak his mind. As Alarik’s brother, he maintained certain privileges others were deprived of—at least that much was granted him. “Alarik, brother, you are the only one who can guide us through this storm!”

  Alarik stood silent, his legs braced apart, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

  Bjorn’s face screwed with disbelief. “You would kill us all over a worthless Fransk bitch?” Almost at once, he regretted his boldness. Noting the ire that danced like fiery daggers in Alarik’s dark eyes, he shuddered, never having seen his brother so furious.

  Clasping his dagger firmly, Alarik slashed another strip of material from his blood-smeared tunic, oblivious now to the numbing chill. He fixed a warning glare upon Sigurd. “Take that helm,” he said coldly. While his warning seemed directed at Sigurd, it was in fact meant for his young brother, and he issued the last of it as he turned to Bjorn. “Or ’tis you I’ll toss overboard, not the wench.”

  He turned again to Red-Hrolf and added pointedly, his eyes burning with fury, “I’ll not have my words questioned—ever! Do y’ heed?”

  Knowing Alarik’s words were not mere threats, Sigurd immediately took to the helm.

  “And you, Bjorn,” Alarik warned. “I shall take little more insolence from you—brother or nei. Now lower the accursed sails!”

  At once, Bjorn leapt to do Alarik’s bidding, knowing there was too little time to waste. In this Hel wind it would take very little to devastate the sail cloth.

  “Leave the mast raised!” Alarik called after him. He would need it later to raise a shelter. Then too, as soon as the wind abated he would again hoist the sail and use the drift anchor. Best to make use of it while they were able.

  Once more, the Goldenhawk tilted violently. With hoarse shouts and curses, the men braced themselves against the tempest, lest they tumble into the frothy sea. Alarik stood his ground like an effigy from hell, not wholly real, but paralyzing in his towering might and intensity.

  Satisfied that he would have no more resistance from his men, he gave his complete attention to the woman at his feet.

  CHAPTER 9

  “She’ll bring unrest,” Red-Hrolf said at Bjorn’s back.

  Bjorn didn’t bother turning. “How so?”

  “She’s Christian,” Red-Hrolf declared. “Why else?”

  A prickling crept down Bjor
n’s spine at Red-Hrolf’s proclamation. He paused at his task, turning abruptly.

  Red Hrolf’s expression was filled with scorn. “What else would a Frenchwoman be?”

  Shuddering over the notion, Bjorn frowned, returning to the task of lowering the sails. He tugged violently at the lines. “Why should that concern me? You heard as well as I... she is mine brother’s problem! Speak to him if you would!”

  Red-Hrolf’s eyes narrowed balefully. “Are you so blind, Bjorn? I say she is a threat to all of us.”

  “She’s naught but a puny wench!”

  “You underestimate her!”

  “I think not.”

  “Like a coiled adder is a woman’s bed talk. If you allow it, she’ll work her accursed faith upon you both! Destroy your alliance with the old gods! Mark my words, friend—else you will fall to its force... as has Olav... as has Alarik,”

  Bjorn’s face contorted with disgust, and he dismissed Red-Hrolf once and for all. “You lie!” he charged. “My brother has not claimed the White Christ! I would know! No matter what else lies betwixt us, there has always been truth!”

  Hrolf’s face contorted. “Do you not see how he risks us to save her? Nei, Bjorn, we all see what value he places upon our lives—your life.”

  At once, Bjorn’s gaze was drawn to where Alarik knelt over the Frenchwoman. He stood watching a moment, doubts creeping in even against his will.

  Red-Hrolf said darkly, “Watch them closely,” he warned, and with that spun away, leaving Bjorn to mull over his counsel.

  As the storm abated, frosty white flakes fluttered down from the northern skies, sweeping their way into the icy blue sea.

  Despite the fact that the gale had been brief it was fierce and Alarik estimated that it had borne them at least a full day closer to their destination. He’d been concerned for a time because the third and smallest drakken had vanished from view, but only moments ago it had been sighted ahead of them, its sails slightly tattered from the winds, but otherwise intact.