The solid ground beneath my feet was uncomfortable as I longed for the rolling aisle of the drakkar. My drakkar.
Then there was a scraping sound low in the earthen wall of the longhouse, where I had been cornered. I jumped as a ghostly white hand punched through near the floor. Ivor! Tears once again wet my face. I began to help dig in earnest, breaking my nails and scraping my fingers raw, until I could squirm through the hole in the wattle-and-daub.
I desperately dragged my body through the too-small opening, snagging my dress and slowing my progress down. Muted shouts came from inside. Rough hands gripped tightly to my legs, though I wasn't to be yanked back into the longhouse.
The running, stomping feet of my father's guards were heard emerging
from the doorway to the sound of healthy clunks in the dark. Then their
bodies collapsed with a thud.
"Ivor!"
"They were not harmed. Though they will have headaches when they wake." He had my hands in his grasp now, pulling steadily. I felt like I might be ripped into two by the opposing forces.
"I don't give a rat's shit about my father's guards. Someone has hold of my legs."
Ivor whistled and flipped his chin in the direction of the entrance to the longhouse. The sounds were muffled, but there was definitely a struggle indoors. Then all was quiet, and my legs were let go.
I scrambled the rest of the way and emerged into the harried, strong arms of Ivor who placed kisses over my face and neck.
It was difficult to see in the darkness. Clouds covered the moon and stars.
Three or four men rounded the back of the longhouse with a struggling
captive between them. The man was my father.
"Sea whore!" he spat.
Ivor clouted him across the mouth.
"Your brother could only retain your ownership until he died, or you were settled into a profitable match." My father yanked and squirmed against his bondage. "You're still mine. Your freedom was given tonight so that you could be sold at a higher status to one of my estate's Karls." He sprayed spittle in his vehemence. "You are nothing. Your dead mother was just one bitch I could whelp strong slaves on, regardless of the pretty stories she might have told you." He fought harder against the warriors who held him, but to no avail. "You won't escape me, and when I have you back, you won't be sold into a complacent marriage. You will be emptying my chamber pot in the morning, cleaning cattle dung by day, and I'll give you each and every night to a favored warrior for his pleasures."
Ivor clouted him again, this time hard enough to knock him silent. On his command, The Bear's warriors released him, and he fell ungracefully onto the muddied soil, where we left him.
Deep at sea, I laughed with my head thrown back as my brother had, feeling a newfound lightness at heart. Wind whipped my hair away from my face, and the men chanted my name as the sun hit its zenith. "Valkyry, Valkyry, Valkyry."
Those who had not already done so made their fealty oaths down upon
one knee. I tossed the lid of my brother's sea chest open and began handing out his hoard according to each warrior's standing.
As the sun rose above the water, I stood near the tiller fingering the ornate twisted metal armband. Take this and remember this day. I remembered. I would always remember.
"Valkyry, look yonder. A drakkar follows." Ivor stood as second in command.
"Ship oars. Ready your weapons. Mount the bear's head on the stem," I
commanded. "Can anyone see who follows?"
"I believe it's The Snake."
One of my father's longboats. "Listen. There is but one ship to bring us to heel." I waited for their raucous outburst to die before continuing. "We will flounder in the sea until it is alongside. Then we will show them how The Bear has won much plunder." I let this sink in, as many of the more recent warriors to The Bear would not want to engage friends or relations. "Are you with me?"
"Valkyry! Valkyry! Valkyry!"
The longboat bobbed in the sea swells. My men crouched low behind the colorful shields that hung on the sides. Archers readied their bows, while others peered through the line of shields to call the distance and speed of the approaching vessel.
Long hair flying loose in the wind, I stood at the stern so there would be no mistake of whose longship The Snake was attacking. At first, I thought they might come alongside to deliver a message of bargaining from my father. But their attack speed was a clear message about the insult he felt because of my escape in the dawn with men and food. I was sure his humiliation especially angered him because he had finally given his name to his bastards and offered to make a marriage match for his newly named daughter, freeing me from thralldom, raising my status greatly, and welcoming me to his house. But the gesture was all too late. I was a Viking warrior, a pirate of the seas and rivers. I now knew that I owed nothing to any living man. I had never asked for anything. Bjorn had been the only one in my life that I felt blood loyalty toward. And he was gone.
I pulled a sharp, ornate dagger from my belt, and played my thumb carefully along its blade. My brother had taken this weapon from a Saxon or Celt. I was not sure. But the workmanship was not as rudimentary, nor as rugged, as our Norse metalcraft. Fondling the dagger lovingly, I stared at the oncoming drakkar.
There would be blood today. I glanced at the high sun, then the calm sea. It was a good day to meet Odin and feast in his halls. Not one Viking would lack for courage and ferocity with such a reward promised at the end of this life's journey.
"Archers ready." The bowstrings pulled back to straining tautness. Each of the goose-fletched shafts rested straight between the bent wood and the waxed string as the archers held firm. "Aim." Whisperings marked distances and speed with which the squatting archers would calculate their shots. "Loose!" The arrows whistled through the still air, momentarily hung silent at their apex, then plummeted down, gaining speed in their descent to land with muted thuds that meant they had pierced flesh or wood. A roar from The Bear followed. Men leaned over the side to bang their broadaxes, broadswords, or bare fists against their shields. The battle frenzy swept the length and breadth of the ship. Seasoned fighting men, with no fear, were ready to leap the span between the two vessels in order to meet the enemy—some of whom may have just this past evening been friends or family.
"Steady! Archer, fire the sail." With that, one single shot landed squarely in the middle of The Snake, flames fanning out to lick the cloth with heated tongues that sent up black smoke. The Snake struck its oars as best it could and retreated.
Throughout The Bear the battle frenzy continued. I once again heard the chanting of my name. The warriors wanted to pursue the damaged hoard. They thirsted for blood as they slayed their enemies. But I knew what regret they'd have when they looked into familiar faces as they cut the life from those bodies.
"Strike oars," I commanded. "Put your backs into it with all of that fury you have." I was careful to watch. In their state, they could mutiny. In their bloodlust, they could turn the drakkar and ram The Snake. "We have Saxons and Celts to plunder. The sport of men, not brother killing brother." I made my way to the stem and placed my palm on the carved head of the bear. I was surprised to feel warmth radiating from the wooden likeness. Closing my eyes, I sniffed the wind. My face was slapped with the chill of salty spray as the ship cut through one swell of the sea, then the next. Ivor stood beside me on the rolling stem, his palm on the middle of my back. I had truly won my freedom this day. But now I was a Viking with no house, and no home port. My family would be those warriors that owed their fealty. My home would be The Bear. And the sea would be the one who welcomed me back after each raid or battle. I was a true pirate now. Landless, lawless, and constantly on the move.
I smiled into the wind, and my hair streamed out behind me in the cool
breeze, glistening with the wetness of sea spray. I threw my head back and
laughed.
I was free.
Lost Treasure
R. G. E
manuelle
Rianne Cotter slowly walked down the aisle of the darkened church, looking warily from one side to the other. The faint scent of incense and a light smoky haze from burned-out votive candles hung in the air.
They've been here. The smell of their filthy bodies rose up as she stirred the air with her own. They had knocked over a statue of the Virgin Mary, and as Rianne approached the altar, she looked over at the right-hand wall. The collection basket for the poor was empty. Scoundrels.
Rianne had known that her crew would come into the church looking for her, even though it was one of the few structures on Hispaniola where she could hide. Fortunately, she knew how her men thought, knew what each of them would do before he did. They would go to the church first. So, she had run into the jungle first and then backtracked to the holy house, buying herself a little time. But not much. The men would come back, and she needed to plan quickly or she would die.
Weariness gnawed at her bones. How did this happen? Thoughts of the last few days—how she had lost control of her ship—flitted through her head. Mutiny is always a possibility on a pirate ship, but Rianne had been so careful about keeping her crew happy. That had changed, a mere three days ago. But it seemed a lifetime.
She slumped in the front pew and looked up at the large wooden cross nailed to the wall behind the altar. Damn this chalice . . . she reached into her sack and pulled it out. The bane of her existence now. What is it about this cup? She turned it over in her hands, remembering.
Rianne looked down from the crow's nest of the Queen's Wrath and surveyed the deck. She went up there often to enjoy the view and watch her crew. "No one looks to the sky, Bowly," she'd once told her quartermaster. "Most likely because they're afraid to meet God's eyes." Besides, up here, she was truly alone.
She sported a kerchief on her head, drenched with perspiration. Hot today. She took it off and let it cool in the breeze. She turned her head and saw a dot on the horizon. A sail.
"Captain!" Bowly was standing at the foot of the mast, looking up at her.
"I see it." Rianne quickly climbed down from the crow's nest and grabbed the spyglass from Bowly's hand and positioned it to her eye. A two-masted brigantine. After a moment, she grinned.
"The Esmeralda, Bowly. Here's another chance at her." They'd attempted an attack on the merchant ship before, but the sudden becalming of the wind kept them from approaching, and enough distance came between them that the seizure of the Esmeralda was a lost cause. But here she was again, and Rianne wasn't going to lose her a second time.
Bowly took the spyglass. "Looks like her." He handed the glass back. "She looked rich last time we saw her. Probably rich still."
"Merchant vessels always are."
She peered through the spyglass again, then lowered it. "Bowly," she said, not taking her eyes off the horizon. "Prepare the crew."
"Aye, Captain." He barked out orders to the crew on deck and disappeared below.
Rianne could hear him still shouting orders. The call for attack always got her heart pounding and her skin tingling, no matter how many ships they'd plundered. Each one brought something new—a new fight, a new weapon, a new treasure, a new kind of food or fabric or ware she'd never seen, and occasionally, a pretty face. She smiled. More pretty than a pirate like her could ever be. Not in men's clothing. And no perfume here. She wore the scents of the sea and the wind, of ships and exotic ports. She had not even a proper woman's hair, all pinned up and shiny. No, Rianne kept hers long, just past her shoulders, tied back and made unruly by the salt air. In spite of all this, she never lacked attention from both sexes, though in many cases, the thrill of victory and plunder was as good as any romp. Bowly returned to the deck. "The men are assembling."
"Good. I have a feeling this ship will yield some fine things for us." An intuition, a thought—she just knew there was something valuable on the Esmeralda, and that she was meant to take it. Providence had seen to it that they crossed paths twice in a matter of a few months.
The crew converged on deck and began preparing the cannons and their own weapons. As the Queen's Wrath approached its target, the bosun lifted the ship's flag, a blood-red piece of canvas graced with a white painted sword. Rianne had used her own blood to dye it. As if reading her mind, Bowly stood next to her looking up at the flag.
"I remember the day ya cut open yer own hand for it," he said with a hint of awe.
"It hurt like hell." She shot him a look of warning. Captain Rianne Cotter admitting pain? Only Bowly was trusted with that bit of information. "Ya paid yer dues, though, doing that."
The action had earned her respect. She'd killed, maimed, plundered. But when she'd sliced her hand open, sat down on the deck, and squeezed her hand so that her blood dripped into the bucket of paint, her crew watched in awe. That was good—Rianne needed their fear, as well as loyalty.
The flag unfurled and the crew ready for battle, Rianne strode to the gunwale and positioned herself for attack, legs braced and lips curled in derision.
The Queen's Wrath broadsided the Esmeralda, and Rianne shifted her weight to help absorb the impact. She smiled as she surveyed her quarry. This should be easy.
"The chase has six puny guns, and it looks like a small crew, Captain."
Bowly's assessment of the Esmeralda confirmed her own. They had no chance against her and her crew. While the brigantine held fewer cannons and was, therefore, a swifter ship and could conceivably outrun her three masted carrack, the Queen's Wrath had twelve cannons and eighty men and would overtake her easily. But the Esmeralda's fool crew decided to fight. They blasted a round shot at the Queen's Wrath and followed it with fire from personal weaponry.
"Grapeshot!" Rianne ordered, and pellets ripped the Spanish ship's masts to shreds. The Esmeralda's crew scrambled for cover as Rianne's master gunner shot a cannonball, hitting the mainmast square and sending it plummeting onto the deck with a mighty crack.
"Grappling hooks!" Rianne shouted. Several crewmen obeyed, tossing hooks over the Esmeralda's gunwales, pulling, and grunting. Within moments, the two ships were but a few feet apart. "Stink pot!" she commanded, and one of the men lit the fuse.
"Stink pot!" the sailor repeated in warning, and he gave the bomb a mighty heave to the Esmeralda's deck, where it sent up a billow of smoke, obscuring much of it.
Rianne waved her cutlass overhead. "Now it's time for some fun. Board!" She followed Bowly, leaping onto the Esmeralda's deck, her cutlass in her right hand, her flintlock in her left, and landed squarely on both feet.
A man roared in anger to her right, and Rianne whirled, prepared for his attack. She brought her cutlass up and warded off his dagger, aimed at her throat. He was big and broad, but soft through the middle. Probably lazy and weak where drink was concerned, Rianne guessed. He lunged and she shot him between the eyes. He stumbled back onto several men, halting their approach, which gave Rianne an opportunity to engage them before they recovered their footing. She dropped the gun and grabbed a second, hanging from a sling on her hip. She fired with her left hand and slashed with her right, her cutlass ripping across a sailor's neck, sending blood through the space between them.
She awaited the next man, who dropped his weapon and backed away. "No more takers?" She raised her cutlass again. The remaining crew of the Esmeralda dropped their weapons as well. "Very well. We'll relieve you of your cargo. One wrong move and I'll take a hand." She scowled and motioned Bowly to the Esmeralda's hold. Good. Only five of her crew lost, and they'd routed a goodly-sized ship. Plus, the remaining crew would carry tales of her ruthlessness to the next port. All in all, a good day.
Rianne's crew loaded their hull with the Esmeralda's trade goods. Bowly would divvy it up after the damage to the Queen's Wrath was repaired. They set sail at dawn.
That afternoon, Bowly set to divvying. "Ahoy, scurvies! If ye be wanting yer drink, come and get it." All crew who were not on duty hurried to the deck to get a bottle of rum confiscated from the Esmeralda.
Rianne w
atched from the poop deck, content. The men looked happy, and this ensured her place as captain. Bowly moved from pile to pile, grabbing items and tossing them to the crew as he saw fit. He put piles aside for the few who could not leave their posts, and everyone received a fair share. Rianne knew one of those piles was for her, which she'd claim later. It would be no bigger than anyone else's. The only liberty she took as captain was private quarters.
The breeze was cool, and Rianne turned her face up to catch it, hoping it would dry the sweat coating her forehead. She returned her gaze to the deck below and something on the top of one of the piles glinted, catching her eye. Curious, she descended to the deck to see what it was.
She made her way past the crew members milling around the loot to the chest that contained the glinting object. She heard nothing around her as she approached it, focusing on the object. Then she stopped. It was a chalice. Just a plain pewter cup, unadorned but for a carving of a bird whose wings wrapped around it, tips meeting on the other side. But she recognized it instantly, and her chest tightened. Rianne scooped it up and turned and walked away, her eyes never leaving the object in her hands.
"Captain, I haven't decided who be getting that cup," Bowly said. But she ignored him. Muttering from crew members followed her until she reached her cabin and shut the door. She sat on her bed and examined the chalice, as if she could divine an explanation as to why this piece had called to her. A knock on the door broke her reverie.
"Captain?" Bowly always knocked out of respect for her privacy as a woman. He wouldn't enter until Rianne granted him permission. "Enter."
Bowly did so, wearing a worried expression. "What's goin' on?"
"What?"
"Beggin' pardon, Captain, but that was strange back there. The crew's
abuzz about it."
"What are you talking about?"
"You grabbed that cup," he nodded to it, "and ran off with it as if it was the Holy Grail itself."
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