by Alexa Cole
Had God forgotten her, as well?
Out in the courtyard, a lofty mound of treasures was being hastily thrown into an oversized tin tub, and loaded onto the abbess’ wooden cart. They were even stealing her laundry tub, she railed incredulously. Was there no end to their pilfering ways?
All around her, raging Norsemen poured out of the convent like angry bees fleeing from the hive. They scaled nimbly over the stone walls of the abbey, despite their immense size and myriad of weapons. They disappeared like ghosts into the misty moorland countryside, with gunnysacks in tow. Gone. Like they had never even been here, Elizabeth thought. An entire abbey ransacked, lives ruined, and ancient treasures vanished, in less than a quarter hour.
The Viking lord strode rapidly across the cloister, issuing orders to the men who remained. Elizabeth struggled to keep up with him, the rope around her neck snapping tensely each time she lagged behind. He never even bothered to look back at her, letting the rope mete out its own punishment instead.
The men that remained dragged out heavy oaken barrels of stolen wine, cheese, ale and grains, and loaded them into the stolen wooden cart – that was tethered to the stolen team of draft horses. Purloined pigs, sheep, goats and chickens had been corralled into the wagon, as well. Even Bessie, the old milking cow was lead away.
Elizabeth wondered if these pirates ever felt remorse, or even grasped the irony of their immoral occupation, but she doubted these soul-less creatures had the heart to feel regret. She thought for a moment about their homeland; it must have been a cold, empty, barren place to have produced these ungodly thugs.
Their lives must have been bleak and hopeless for them to have turned to a life of thievery to survive, she thought. Mayhap, their bellicose gods had deserted them long ago, like the Romans and the Celts. She almost felt sorry for them, but not quite.
Her thoughts were cut short, as the postern gates of the courtyard opened wide, and the last of the raiders left the abbey. The Viking chieftain moved to leave, too, and the cord bit cruelly into her throat.
Realization dawned on Elizabeth like a hammer to the head.
The life she had known for five years was over.
Elizabeth threw herself to her knees, praying quietly. Our Father, thou art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. The Viking leader jerked the rope and she gagged aloud, but resumed her orations. She jammed her fingers between the rope and her neck so she could breathe. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven.
He yanked harder on the cord, stalking away. The force nearly knocked her to the ground, but she held herself stubbornly aloft on her elbows in the dirt. He didn’t even turn around. Her hands were still bound together, and she teetered precariously, but did not give in. Elizabeth knew he was strong enough to pull her from here to Byzantium if he chose, but she rebelled doggedly against his rule, if only to make a futile stand. She would not go with him willingly.
She was a noblewoman, and he was a barbarian. It was beneath her to even speak to him.
“Give us this day and forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.”
Finally, the man turned about leisurely, cocking his head as he glared at her sinisterly. An amused grin danced about the corners of his mouth, as if this were all just a game to him. The wind rustled his golden tresses, and they glittered in the sunlight. He moved toward her unhurriedly, a lion sauntering, derisively, toward his prey.
He squatted beside her, and tipped her chin gently with one finger. He ran his thumb over her bottom lip, and she felt it quiver against her will.
Abruptly, he clasped her elbows, and hauled her to her feet, as if she weighed no more than a feather. The ground spun beneath her. He held her upper arms for a long moment, stroking them intimately. His hands were hot on her skin. His eyes scorched her flesh.
Without warning, he brushed the back of his fingers lightly over her breast. She shuddered, and her nipple responded visibly.
Elizabeth jumped, as if he had struck her, and yelped with indignation.
“Værdifuld,” he murmured.
She raised her chin with a huff and stomped away toward the open gate.
His laughter echoed behind her.
Hours later, the midday sun shone brightly overhead, pulled across the sky by Dagur’s chariot. Up ahead, black ravens circled the air, a sure sign that Odin himself was assisting the brave warrior band’s escape.
“I demand you let me go,” Elizabeth insisted irritably.
She wiped prickly sweat from her brow, with the scratchy back of her woolen sleeve. The hot noonday sun was thrashing her mercilessly. Her thick, brown cloak, while perfectly comfortable within the windowless confines of the stone abbey, was proving to be an excruciating torture on this stifling hike across the Northumbrian moorlands. The treeless savannah provided little protection from the summer heat.
The heavy weight of the attached hood pulled her head backwards, and the thick rope around her neck pulled her forward, abrading her delicate skin of her throat on all sides.
She could feel the sweltering sun burning the flesh of her face, and the itchy fabric of her sleeves was almost more than she could bear. The flimsy calf-skin slippers upon her feet were worn nearly clear through from trudging over the rocky terrain away from the abbey. She could see specks of blood soaking through the soles.
The man’s hellish pace was unyielding.
What’s worse, she was all alone with the brute. His men had scattered like flies, and she had seen not one of them in hours since they left the priory.
“I said, I demand to know where we are going,” she repeated, louder.
“Nej,” the Viking lord said tersely in his language.
She did not need a translator to understand him. ‘No’ sounded the same in every language, she supposed.
His pace did not slow, and he made no effort to answer her question, or even further address the fact that she had spoken to him. Elizabeth thought about screaming for help, but she knew they were far from any village or hamlet where someone would hear her. These men were experienced raiders who couldn’t risk getting caught.
She debated hurling herself to the ground and begging him for mercy, but for some inexplicable reason, she didn’t want the man to see her comport herself so indignantly. She would suffer in silence rather than let him see her lose composure.
Her final option was to try to escape, but she knew it was futile too.
She sensed intuitively her captor would pursue her. She didn’t know how she knew this, but she was certain he would hunt her down relentlessly if she ran. Somehow, he had branded her as his possession, and would hound her to the ends of the earth if she attempted to get away. The thought was at once terrifying and titillating.
Plus, she had no idea where they were.
Nay, escape was not an option. Neither was pleading for pity.
“Mayhap we could stop for water?” she asked. She tried to speak in her sweetest voice, although she truly desired to plunge a sword in his back.
That big, bronze, beautiful back, spreading out like the wings of an eagle. The unfamiliar sight of his naked, male flesh burned her virgin eyeballs, making her breath come in quick little pants and evoking feelings she had never felt before.
The man paused, pivoted on his foot, and faced her squarely.
“Nej,” he repeated coldly, his deep voice a low rumble.
“I am thirsty, and I require a respite,” she held her ground firmly, trying not to notice his glistening, golden chest.
“Nej,” the muscle in his jaw ticked and his azure eyes were nebulous.
Yet, strangely, they were appealing.
“You are a shameless, sinful swine,” she retorted, angrily.
Who did he think he was, denying her reasonable request to rest and replenish?
“I demand that we stop, and quench our thirst,” she stated. “I am hot.”
Unhurriedly, he ambled closer, until he was so close, his expansive chest blocked out the sun. The earthy scent of
him filled her nostrils. She could smell soap, and leather, and ale. But beneath that, she smelled the deep, primordial scent that was his signature, as individual as a thumbprint or a snowflake. Something that belonged to him and him alone. Elizabeth found it inexplicably, intoxicatingly alluring.
It filled her with a longing she had never known. Like she wanted to burrow herself so deeply into his arms, she would melt right in to him. She breathed deeply, unwittingly enjoying the fragrance of him.
Elizabeth noticed the thick veins in his muscular forearms and powerful hands. She marveled at the contours of his masculine body, noting the differences from her own. She watched a rivulet of sweat meander down his glorious chest. Her eyes followed its path until it reached a trail of dark hair that lead down from his navel to his....
She gulped.
His calloused hand gently cupped her chin, and tilted her head upwards. He towered over her, truly Thor himself incarnate. His cobalt eyes grabbed hers, holding them hypnotically. Slowly, his hand slipped downward, resting upon her breast. His other hand came to rest upon its twin. Danger radiated from every ounce of him.
“Varn?” he asked, his eyes never leaving her face.
“Warm?” she discerned. “Yes. I am warm. Very, very warm.”
Her own voice sounded far away, as if in a dream. His hands melted her flesh where they touched her, and she felt like clay in his hands. Her eyes blurred.
Leisurely, he untied the laces that held her cloak together. One, by one, ever-so-slowly, he unlaced the stays. He pulled back the seams that concealed her from his view, sliding the coat partially down over her shoulders. For some reason, she didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. He held her, spellbound, like a spider’s sticky web.
Finally, he spread the garment wide, fully revealing her body for his viewing pleasure. Her breasts swelled under his smoldering gaze, and her nipples strained against the fabric of her dress. His gaze mesmerized her, riveting her to him.
Elizabeth saw a glimmer of surprise flash in his eyes when he encountered her scantily clad skin beneath. Under her bulky woolen nun’s habit, she wore only a thin linen kirtle. He cocked a brow and grinned with approval. The kirtle was nearly transparent, barely anything more than a night rail. She wore no chemise or undergarments beneath it, nor surcoat over it. His eyes devoured her hungrily.
The nuns never even looked at one another, so what did it matter what she donned beneath her cloak? She had never dreamed anyone would see her like this. Never in a million years had she thought to find herself disrobed in plain sight of a man, any man, this day or any day for that matter. But for some reason, it felt good.
A wide smile flashed unexpectedly across his handsome visage. His facade softened for an instant, and he actually looked charming. Elizabeth glowed under his scrutiny.
Then the moment was broken, and his chilling scowl returned.
Without a word, the man hauled her off her feet, tossed her roughly over his shoulder, and resumed walking.
She landed upon him with thud that knocked the wind right out of her lungs. It hurt so badly, salty tears filled her eyes. She bit her lip until it was bloody to keep from crying out in pain. She thought she would die of humiliation.
“Let me go, you beast,” she hissed.
He whacked her buttocks loudly with a slap of his right hand.
“Nej.”
She pummeled his back with her fists but he was unmoved. Each movement brought her dangerously close to the battle axe that hung from his back. A long, curved drinking horn swung precariously close to her each time she moved. Finally, for her own safety, she held still, albeit begrudgingly.
“I said, let me go!” she tried again.
Without warning, the man did let go, and Elizabeth nearly tumbled off his shoulder. She clutched at him frantically to prevent the fall, barely avoiding his sharp blade and sinister horn.
He laughed aloud at her discomfiture.
The Viking chieftain hauled her higher up onto his shoulder, and placed his hand squarely on her bottom. Molten lava burned her core, and her womanhood felt suddenly damp and soft. And empty. The strange, new sensation scared her.
This time, she didn’t fight him.
The Viking leader did not stop walking. In fact, he did not slow his pace at all. His long legs ate up the ground beneath his feet, the additional weight of his unwieldy passenger apparently as inconsequential to him as a fly on the rump of a hog. Seeing there was no way out of her predicament, Elizabeth let herself relax for a moment, relieved, at least, that her feet were no longer killing her.
“Vard?” she heard him say gruffly.
Damnit, why did all the words in his language sound the same?
He pushed the long, curved drinking-horn up his hip towards her. Elizabeth wasn’t certain if he was inviting her to drink water, or tempting her with his fury, but she grabbed the canteen greedily and downed the contents nonetheless. As no punishment was forthcoming, she whispered a word of appreciation at his back.
Not that he would understand such civilities as gratitude, she thought.
The hasty march continued, and Elizabeth became keenly conscious of the man’s body against hers. She could feel the rock-solid formation of his muscular arms molded against her hip where he held her, and the potent strength of his fingers clasping her skin. Her legs dangled against the bulging pectoral muscles of his chest, and she held on as tightly to his corded back as she could with bound hands. The man was built like a mountain.
His soft, fine, blonde hair tickled her face each time an errant breeze rustled it.
How ironic that he should have pale, downy locks, like a babe, she thought. The soft little ringlets hung incongruously against his thick, hard neck, tanned deep copper from years of seafaring and raiding. For a moment, she was tempted to run her fingers through the silky tresses, just to assure herself that they were real. His hair looked truly like an angel, an innocent babe. But she knew inside he was a devil.
Black, horned spikes would suit him more accurately, she scoffed. He was a kidnapper, a thief, and probably an assassin, too. He would most assuredly slit her throat this night in her sleep if she didn’t keep one eye open.
He was her enemy in every way and she hated him with every fiber of her being. Didn’t she?
Then another thought struck her. Mayhap he did not intend to let her sleep this night at all. He probably planned to deflower her!
The appalling idea almost made her shriek. She clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. Certainly, he intended to force his vile self upon her tonight. Perhaps even in front of his men!
She vowed to fight him tooth and nail if he laid a hand upon her, futile as it may be.
Just then, the man whistled.
The loud, piercing sound perforated the still summer air. A giant, one-eyed Norseman appeared immediately – right out of nowhere - mounted upon one of the horses stolen from the convent. His instantaneous arrival was soundless.
Elizabeth was stunned.
Was the Viking lord able to see his men, even when they were out of sight? To hear them, when they were silent? To know where each and every soldier was located, even when they were hidden from view? What powers did these men possess?
They had truly honed their senses to perceive the imperceptible.
These men were dangerous beyond measure. Elizabeth couldn’t help but tingle. The man’s dominance of everyone, and everything, around him, even the natural world, was hypnotic.
The two Norsemen exchanged words in their tongue, and Elizabeth was suddenly handed, unceremoniously, up into the saddle. Her hands were still tied, and the transfer was mortifyingly awkward. She scrambled to clasp her cloak together, but her bound hands were clumsy, and the task was nearly impossible.
For a split second, she felt a pang of disappointment. The Viking chieftain was going to leave her alone with this man, to give her away to him for all the troubles she had caused him? Just like her parents had done so many years ago, when they s
ent her to the abbey. Unaccountably, the little ping grew into a full blown ache in her chest.
Then, to her relief, the one-eyed Dane dismounted, and her captor swung easily up behind her. The big, old warrior vanished, like an apparition, right into thin air before her eyes.
Elizabeth chastened herself. What was the matter with her? Why had she felt distraught the thought of being separated from the querulous, kidnapping knave? She hated him and hoped she never saw him again as long as she lived. Perhaps the unrelenting sun was making her lose her mind. Her mother had always warned her as a young girl of such an occurrence. It ran in the family.
The Viking lord settled himself into the saddle behind Elizabeth, and guided the horse into a walk. Her feet were feeling slightly better now, and she was finally starting to cool down. In fact, she was beginning to feel downright drowsy.
The rhythmic gate of the work horse felt surprisingly soothing, and the man’s hard, strong body felt curiously comforting. He eased her back to lean upon his strapping chest, and his hand guided her weary head to rest in the crook of his neck.
He loosened her grip on the edges of her cloak, and splayed the seams to give her air, relieving her hot discomfort. Elizabeth allowed him to do so, pulled to him by some mesmeric force against her will. It was as if the fates were playing mischievous tricks on her this day. Her own body seemed bent on betraying her pledge to hate him.
Unbidden and unwelcome, the man wrapped one of his steel arms protectively around her waist as he urged the horse to trot. Elizabeth tried to pull away, but he held firm. With each staccato clop of the steed’s hooves, the wayward arm crept higher and higher, until it was finally nestled snugly beneath her breasts. The heat of his contact burned right through the thin material of her kirtle. Elizabeth seethed at his audacity, but her body responded uncontrollably to him.
Little-by-little, as if by accident, his hand turned upward. His big, hot palm cupped her breast. Elizabeth knew she must remove it, but she didn’t. It simply felt too lovely to resist. Instead, she continued riding along upon the draft horse, jostling up and down, with her left breast bouncing up and down in a stranger’s hand. It was ridiculous. But for some reason, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt divine.