Prisoner of the Raven

by Kirby Crow

  All his questions were answered when Ranulf sighed deeply and began to snore. Aleyn fixed his gaze on the cracks in the ceiling and the thin rays of starlight peeping through. His poor head was packed so full of thoughts and worry and distress with everything new and terrible and wonderful that had happened in the past day that he simply gave up and fell deeply asleep beside his captor.

  Chapter 2

  Aleyn slid the narrow hatch aside and squinted in the bright morning light. Above him, a pack of gulls scolded and called, and he ducked under the high shelf and left the compartment. The moment he stepped on the deck, every head turned toward him.

  The stares of the Vikings were neither hostile nor particularly friendly. Instead, they regarded him with a kind of amused contempt that made his spine stiffen with offense. He had no illusions that the warriors believed their leader had kept him alive because he was valuable to their campaign, but neither was he sure that they knew exactly what transpired between him and Ranulf in the night. He wondered for a moment if such things were common among Vikings, and then had to admit that he had no way of knowing.

  He stood there for a long moment, unsure of himself. He had awoken alone, not having heard Ranulf exit the compartment, and wondered what to do until his pride informed him that would not hide like a mouse in a hole the entire time he was a prisoner, waiting only for Ranulf's next appearance to use his body.

  One thing was necessary. He moved to the edge of the starboard side, where a black-haired Viking was relieving himself over the rail, and unlaced his clothing enough to expose himself. The Viking barely glanced at him as he pissed into the slow-churning water below, and he felt the tension around him ease as the warriors went back to their various tasks. Perhaps this one common act that every man must perform shrank the mystery around him, made him less of a riddle and more human, though no less a prisoner.

  A deep voice called to him from the bow, and he turned to see the jarl's large form framed by the shadow of his banner; a black raven on a field of yellow and red.

  "Over here, Irlander!"

  Aleyn was almost relieved. He made his way toward the bow, trying not to look as unsteady on his legs as he felt. Alas, his hope was in vain, for not a dozen paces more and he slipped on a wet patch on the deck and landed on his rump. Laughter cascaded over him and he sat up quickly, his face burning with humiliation.

  "Sorðinn,” he heard someone say very near him, and looked up to see a rugged young man with red hair and a ruddy complexion staring down at him.

  "Soft cat,” the man said, followed by a flow of Norse that Aleyn had not a chance of following.

  Aleyn got to his feet, dusted the seat of his breeches with dignity, lifted his chin, and strode towards Ranulf.

  Unlike the others, Ranulf had not laughed, but his blue eyes were merry when Aleyn reached him. “It takes time for sea legs,” he said when they were close together on the bow. “It matters little.” He put his hand on Aleyn's shoulder, right where the white scar there marked him like a brand, and it took every bit of Aleyn's control not to flinch away. His pride had taken enough of a beating. It would be unwise to risk Ranulf reacting to his dislike in public.

  "That man,” Aleyn turned and nodded towards the red-haired man who had spoken to him. “Who is he?"

  Ranulf peered over the top of Aleyn's head. A gust of salt-smelling wind caught his magnificent hair and it trailed behind him like a gold banner. “Haakon. What of him?"

  "He called me a soft cat. What did he mean?"

  Ranulf's mouth twitched and Aleyn sensed that he was holding back a smile. “Not important."

  Aleyn frowned. “Maybe not to you.” He set his chin stubbornly. “What did he mean?"

  One of Ranulf's golden eyebrows climbed high. “I am the hard cat,” he said. He poked Aleyn lightly in the chest with a stiff finger. “That would make you the soft cat, yes?” Then he laughed, as if it were an old joke that an Irlander could not hope to understand.

  Aleyn scowled and stared out over the choppy waters, wishing the Northman in his grave. Ranulf shook his head and pointed to a group of men working on the port side near several large coils of rope. “Go to Oskell, he will show you how to work."

  Aleyn was grateful for anything to take his mind off the present, so he picked his way carefully over to the men. “Which one of you is Oskell?"

  His tone was bold, but inwardly he was quaking, and so he was glad when a Viking with frost-pale hair and eyes like chips of ice looked him up and down and thumbed his chest. “Oskell,” he provided.

  Aleyn nodded. “You have work for me?"

  Oskell looked blank. Obviously, he did not speak his tongue. Aleyn pointed to Ranulf, who was now making his way to the stern of the ship to speak with Haakon. “Work.” He pointed at the coils of rope the men were checking for flaws, and saw that some had been set aside for repair. “I can braid."

  Oskell seemed to understand. He kicked one of the large coils with his foot and grunted as if to say ‘start there', and Aleyn moved to squat on the deck beside the coil. He was aware of many eyes on him, but he concentrated on his work. There was a small cutting knife, tar, and hemp nearby, and he began the laborious task without much enthusiasm.

  Work was work, and to Aleyn, one piece of labor was much like another. Whether it was shearing sheep or plowing or repairing lengths of rope, he tended to set his hands in motion and his mind adrift. It was a good habit, usually, because it made long, tedious work bearable. At the moment, it was also helping him to disregard the dull headache beginning behind his eyes. He often had this ailment, which had appeared when he was a youth, but he had never gotten used to the blinding pain and sickness it could bring. In another hour, the pain had sharpened into a red pounding behind his eyes, and he was trying valiantly to ignore it when he slowly realized that a shadow was looming over him. He looked up and saw that it was the red Viking, Haakon, the one who had called him a cat. Haakon snarled a few words at him in a guttural tone, and Aleyn realized several other men were looking at the two of them. Annoyed, he set the rope aside, wiped his tar-sticky hands on his breeches, and stood up.

  "What?” he asked, irritably.

  Haakon extended his hand and pushed him a little with a hard forefinger planted in the center of his chest. Aleyn rocked on his heels but otherwise did not budge. “What do you want?” he repeated.

  Haakon shoved him. Aleyn went stumbling back a pace and caught himself on the railing. He glared at the red giant, his hand tightening on the little cutting knife still in his grip. Haakon shouted at him.

  "I don't know what you're saying, you shit-faced sheep-fucker!” Aleyn shouted back.

  Haakon's ruddy complexion went nearly purple and he lunged forward, only to find himself shoved back by Oskell.

  "Nei!” Oskell snapped. He stood between Haakon and Aleyn and stared Haakon down, speaking sternly. Aleyn only recognized the words Ranulf and Irlander, but nothing else. Apparently, Oskell was reminding Haakon that he belonged to their jarl.

  Aleyn felt his tenuous hold on his temper slipping. Too much had happened in too short a time and his head felt like it was about to burst. He wanted to shout Oskell down, tell him he could fight his own battles, He pressed forward a little, the small knife clutched in his fist, and the big Northman swept him aside casually and focused completely on Haakon. Apparently, this was a personal battle between Oskell and Haakon, and Aleyn wondered what the cause could have been.

  He opened his mouth to speak and Oskell shot him a warning glance. A younger man came up beside Oskell, a handsome youth with short, curling gold hair and a snubbed nose. The younger man took up position a little behind Oskell, staring at Haakon with an expression of challenge. If Haakon moved to strike Oskell, he might find himself with two adversaries instead of one.

  Haakon looked like he was working himself up into a good, slaughtering rage, but before Aleyn could decide whether to move back or disobey Oskell and intervene, Ranulf appeared. For such a big man, he moved incredibly
fast. His muscular arm shot out and Haakon went tumbling back, almost losing his footing on the deck. Ranulf did not shout, only gazed at Haakon with a mild expression on his face, though his hand went to his waist and his fingertips brushed the haft of the long knife he kept there. His chain mail was turned to pale gold armor in the bright light, glittering like the sun on the water.

  Haakon glanced from Ranulf to Aleyn, and then his mouth worked as if he would spit, but instead he meekly bowed his head. “Já,” he muttered, and moved off.

  Ranulf dropped his hand. He turned to Aleyn and fixed him with a burning look. “Go. Get off the deck."

  "I didn't do anything to—” Aleyn began.

  "Go.” Ranulf said, already turning to confront Oskell and the youth whose name Aleyn did not know.

  The unfairness of sharing the blame for the argument stung him, but he supposed it was not as bad as Haakon sticking a sword in him and pitching him over the side. He tried to shoulder past Ranulf, but the jarl grabbed his upper arm with iron fingers.

  "Leave the knife,” he commanded.

  Aleyn had completely forgotten he was holding it. Now that Ranulf had reminded him, he discovered he did not want to be disarmed again. “Are you afraid?” he challenged.

  Ranulf blinked and then laughed. He made a show of taking the knife out of Aleyn's grasp and examining it, whistling his admiration of the useless little weapon before dropping it back into Aleyn's hand.

  Ranulf ruffled his hair as if he was a silly child. “Keep it,” he chuckled, his blue eyes shining with humor.

  Aleyn felt his cheeks burn with humiliation. He pushed past Ranulf and made his way back to the compartment at the stern, avoiding the looks of the warriors.

  Once inside with the hatch safely closed, he hurled the knife away from him and stood there fuming. Ranulf was right: he had as much chance of killing Ranulf with a mending knife as he did of killing a bear with a sewing needle. He sank down onto the chest and eyed the rumpled bed sourly. The nights were short this time of year and it was hours before sunset, but he had no doubt what would happen when Ranulf made his appearance.

  The bad part, he thought, is that it's not half as terrible as I thought it would be. He could almost believe that this was a normal voyage, for in truth his work and the way he was treated were not much different than aboard the trade cog. With one exception, he reminded himself. One very big exception.

  He felt a flush come over him as he remembered the size of Ranulf's cock, and how he had not sought to make him touch him or take it into his mouth or body. It was almost as if the Viking was plotting out a seduction and last night was only the first stage.

  Then what of tonight? he wondered, and marveled that he felt no fear. He should be afraid, he was sure. Despite Ranulf's lack of brutal treatment, he was certain the Northman could be cruel at a moment's notice. Look how quickly he had cowed Haakon on the deck!

  Aleyn sighed and dropped his face into his hands. He began to wait out the long afternoon, listening to the men calling to each other and the scrape of the long oars being rolled out, the cadence as they began to row, the sound of birds and wind, and one time, Ranulf's voice rising above the others. The voice of a captain or a king, sure he would be obeyed, promising danger if he was not.

  The motion of the ship was making him sleepy, and he was beginning to get fiercely hungry. At sunset, Aleyn's stomach rumbled and he yawned and stretched and looked again at the bed, wondering if he should take a nap and if Ranulf would take it as an invitation if he came in and saw him there.

  As if his very thoughts could beckon, the hatch slid back and Ranulf ducked into the compartment. He held a bundle in his hand.

  Aleyn's drowsiness vanished and he watched the man as he approached. Ranulf held out the linen wrapped bundle. Aleyn took it and opened it. It was bread and cheese.

  "Thank you."

  Ranulf shrugged. “You worked. You have to eat.” He sat on the edge of the bunk and motioned to Aleyn to go ahead. Aleyn unwrapped the bundle and tore a chunk of bread off with his teeth. It was coarse and stale but it was bread, and the cheese made it go down a little easier.

  "Here.” Ranulf motioned for him to stand up, and Aleyn did, moving aside so Ranulf could get into the hide-covered chest he had been using as a chair. Ranulf took a long-necked pottery jug out of the chest and left the lid open. “Sit by me."

  It did not sound like an order, and Aleyn was leery of the bed, but he obeyed. Ranulf opened the jug—it was stoppered with wax and a bit of wood—and took a long drink from it. He offered it to Aleyn.

  "What is it?"

  "Mead,” Ranulf said, pushing the jug at him.

  Aleyn took a drink. It was wet and strong but far too sweet. He made a face and Ranulf laughed. “You don't like honey wine?"

  "Is that what it is?” He wiped his mouth. “No wonder it's so sweet."

  "You do not like sweet things? My wives do."

  "I'm not your wife!” he snapped. He was angry at the comparison, but curious as well. “You have wives? How many?"

  Ranulf thought. “Four. No. Three. Gunel divorced me last year."

  "And do your wives know what you like to do with men in bed?"

  Ranulf did not answer, but took another long drink and pushed the jug back at Aleyn. “Your turn."

  Aleyn chewed his bread and looked narrowly at Ranulf. “Are you trying to get me drunk?"

  "Are you ... what is the word ... an ardent drunk?"

  Aleyn saw that Ranulf's eyes were again sparkling with humor, and he decided he was being teased. “No."

  "But how do you know? You have never had mead before. Maybe it is the bitter Irlander wine that makes you sour.” He smiled. “This will make you sweet and wanting to be touched.” The back of his hand brushed Aleyn's shoulder as he passed the jug back. Aleyn flinched a little, but continued to chew his food and said nothing, only drank as he was bid, even though this mead seemed to go straight to his toes. It also had the welcome effect of banishing his headache.

  Ranulf was still looking at him. Aleyn turned to eye him warily. “What?"

  "You stood up to Haakon."

  Aleyn's brow creased in bewilderment. “'Course I did."

  "But you did not stand up to me on the cog."

  Aleyn gulped some more of the mead. “What's your point?"

  "That you are not a coward, yet you chose to submit to me."

  Aleyn shrugged. “It's not cowardice to want to live. It doesn't mean I'm a slave or weakling just because I know I can't defeat forty warriors with one knife."

  Ranulf scratched his beard, looking at Aleyn as if trying to puzzle him out. “You are telling me you are not a thraell because you chose your master. That does not make sense."

  Aleyn shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to insist that Ranulf was not his master, but feared it would provoke the man into feeling he had to prove something. Tread carefully, his cautious side warned. It was good advice.

  "The man on the deck,” he said, trying to change the subject. “The younger one with the nose like a cat who stood beside Oskell."

  "Gamelin."

  "Is that his name? He ... he did not seem to like Haakon.” Aleyn hiccupped as he took another long swallow of mead. He was beginning to like it.

  "No, he would not. Haakon is a free sokeman. You know this word? A farmer who owes service to his jarl. I did not want to take him with us a-raiding but we were short of men. Gamelin was thraell to his family and also his...” he paused to think. “There is no word. Gamelin was in Haakon's bed before he was in Oskell's. He liked Oskell better. This did not please Haakon, and Haakon fought Oskell over it. Oskell won."

  "Oh.” He was a little shocked that Ranulf spoke of men being lovers with such casual ease. “And that's ... I mean ... that's right and well among your people? That men bed other men and do with them ... well ... what we did?” Aleyn's cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

  Ranulf slipped the jug of mead from Aleyn's hands and took a last drink, setting the
jug on the deck. “What did we do?"

  Aleyn finished the bread and cheese and dusted his hands off. To Ranulf's amusement, he reached again for the jug and took another long drink. “You ... put your mouth on my prick,” Aleyn said lowly.

  Ranulf grinned. “I like that word. Do my people object to men fucking each other? Yes and no. They object to a leader being treated as a woman in bed, but to one such as you or Gamelin, who is thraell and does not lead, but only fights where I send him, they do not really care."

  "So, you can tup me and no one bats an eye, but if a man tupped you ... what would that mean?"

  "I could no longer lead.” Ranulf said. “My men would not respect me if I let myself be used like that."

  Aleyn snorted. “That doesn't seem fair.” But, he thought, he's the one who put his mouth on me. Doesn't that mean that he was the one tupped?

  Ranulf was silent for a long moment. Aleyn turned and saw that the Viking's eyes glittered dangerously and that a cruel, calculating look had stolen over his features. It was a look he had not seen there before, and he began to feel nervous. Perhaps he had said too much.

  "What are you thinking, little Irlander?” Ranulf asked after another long minute of silence.

  Aleyn swallowed in a throat suddenly gone dry. “Nothing."

  Ranulf took the jug from him and set it firmly on the deck. “Why does this ‘nothing’ put the fear back in your eyes?"

  Aleyn was suddenly nervous. He did not know enough about these people to go making guesses about them and running his mouth! What if Ranulf felt threatened by him and sold him to the Saxons just to keep him quiet? He would never see his home again!

  "I was ... it was nothing,” he blurted.

  "Perhaps you are not the pretty fool I took you for,” Ranulf said, shaking his head as if at some inner folly.

  Aleyn wondered if he was goading him

  "Enough talk.” Ranulf placed his hand in the center of Aleyn's chest and pushed him back. He straddled Aleyn's chest, his broad legs on either side of his ribs, and began to unlace his own leather jerkin. When he was naked to the waist, he untied the laces of his breeches and brought out his cock, stroking it roughly in his hand before Aleyn's eyes.