A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  A Heart Enslaved

  By A.M.Westerling

  Digital ISBNs:

  EPUB 9781771457828

  Kindle 9781771457835

  WEB/PDF 9781771457842

  Print ISBN 9781771457811

  Copyright 2015 by A.M.Westerling

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2015

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  * * *

  Dedication:

  To my family

  Acknowledgements:

  Thank you to my fabulous critique buddies: Victoria Chatham,

  M.K.Stelmack, and newbie Toni Smink. Your input is greatly appreciated!

  Glossary

  Agdir Norway

  Frisia the Netherlands

  Kuapang A harbor town in Norway

  thrall a slave

  jarl earl, or lord

  Pater Noster Lord’s Prayer

  Aegir Nordic God of the seas

  Mor mother

  Chapter One

  Frisia, 850 A.D.

  It could be an omen, thought Thorvald Stronghawk as he gazed at the timbered Frisian keep stained a deep crimson by the afternoon sun. Crimson. The color of blood spilled in battle. Whether it was a good omen or not remained to be seen. He glanced beside him to gauge the reaction of Arni, his second in command.

  “The gods guide us well this day. The manor sits like a plump fowl ready for plucking.” A satisfied smile curved Arni’s lips and his brown eyes gleamed with avarice beneath the frizzed blonde fringe. “The peasants in the fields are fat, the cattle sleek. Doubtless the lord has many riches to feed them.”

  “I don’t know,” Thorvald muttered. “It’s late. We’ve travelled far today and the men are tired.”

  “Nonsense,” Arni said. “The battle promises to be a fine one. Odin himself smiles upon us by bringing us here.”

  Still unconvinced, Thorvald squeezed the hilt of his sword with one scarred fist. “Things are not always as they appear. Aye, the keep appears rich but something feels off to me. It’s too quiet, too peaceful, as if the Frisians have nothing to defend. And if our men are disappointed, it could be a long journey home and nothing to show for it.”

  “Nonsense,” Arni repeated. “Besides, we can’t call off the battle now. If the Frisians have seen us, we’ve lost the element of surprise, so we may as well attack.”

  As if to underscore his words, a creak and a thump signified the group’s arrival with the crude two-wheeled cart holding an arsenal of weapons—bows, arrows, spears and shields.

  Thorvald slid off his horse and strode to the edge of the woods. He squatted, rubbing his thighs. By the gods, horses were not to his liking. Nay, give him instead the sleek lines of his longship Sea Queen rolling beneath his feet and the fresh scent of sea air in his nostrils.

  He inspected again the keep, a scant thousand yards away. A calf bawled for its mother; the breeze carried the humid smell of freshly tilled land. Perhaps Arni was right. Perhaps the keep’s occupants would yield not only a brisk battle, enough to slake his men’s thirst for fighting, but also enough silver so Thorvald could finally quit this dank land and return home to Agdir to clear his name. Despite his misgivings, excitement shivered down his spine.

  He rose to return to the assembled Norsemen. They numbered perhaps thirty; not a grand army but enough to subdue their intended quarry. In a matter of minutes, all stood armed and ready for battle.

  Thorvald mounted his horse to lead the charge and adjusted his helm, pulling it low over his eyes and nose. With a final prayer to Odin, he raised his arm and gave the order.

  “Attack!”

  As he galloped towards the keep, a handful of people burst from the palisade and sprinted across the furrowed fields towards the distant forest. One in particular caught his eye.

  A young woman, with blonde hair glinting in the sun.

  He noted the direction she ran. She would not escape that easily.

  * * *

  Faint, frenzied shouts drifted through the great hall of Falkenstead. Terror rippled through the room, touching Gisela as surely as if someone had run a feather down her arm.

  She glanced up from her loom to see her father, Reginhard, skin pale and cheeks hollowed with fear, burst through the door. He darted towards her and her younger sister Martinga, who sat beside her with her mending.

  Dread tickled Gisela’s stomach, crept up her back, prickled her scalp. She knew what had frightened him, for she, too, heard the sentry’s cries. Falkenstead, so long a safe haven, had come under attack.

  “The Norsemen,” he shouted. “Run, daughters, run as if the devil himself has come for you.”

  Both girls sprang to their feet, the spindle dropping from Gisela’s lap to clatter away over the stone floor. Martinga’s mending fell into an untidy heap beside her.

  “Father, what of you?” Gisela wailed. She pressed one fisted hand into her midriff to quell the tremors; with the other she clutched Martinga’s arm.

  “I will fight to save our home from the northern heathen.” Reginhard’s words were bold, meant to reassure. He managed to squeeze out a smile. “Go and don’t worry for me. We’ve known Falkenstead would be discovered sooner or later. You know what to do.”

  “Fare-thee-well, Father.” Martinga spoke in a voice edged with tears. She grasped Reginald’s hand in both her own and raised it to her lips.

  “There is no time for farewells. Go.” He thrust away his youngest daughter so firmly she stumbled a few steps before catching herself upright. “You to the west, Martinga, and Gisela to the east. You’ll have a better chance of escaping if you separate.” Then he shoved Gisela towards the door, too.

  The action astonished her. Her father was never rude, never unkind. It galvanized her to action.

  Taking Martinga’s hand, she ran through the confusion in the great hall, dodging benches and pushing through wailing serving maids and grim faced men at arms. The two burst from the keep and pelted down the hill, through the putrid stench of fear and the pandemonium of squealing pigs, barking dogs and screaming peasants milling about in the log-walled bailey.

  Just beyond the gate, Gisela stopped and pulled Martinga up to clasp her in a quick embrace. Tears spilled down her sister’s cheeks, mingling with the tears on Gisela’s.

  “I don’t wish to go.” Eyes dull with shock, Martinga sank to her knees. “There’s nowhere to run. Everyone knows that. The Norsemen will hunt us down and kill us without mercy.”

  “Then at least let us give them a difficult chase.” She pulled her sister to her feet. Odso, this was not the time for her sister to be stubborn. “Go.”

  Fresh tears trickled down Martinga’s cheeks at the harsh tone in Gisela’s voice. Quelling the guilt at her sister’s obvious hurt, Gisela pushed her away from her. “Run.”

  Distant shouts grew louder, accompanied by the crash of weapon on weapon. There was no time to waste. If Martinga would not run, then Gisela must harden her heart and leave her. Father had commanded them to run, and so it must be. To her relief, Martinga picked up her skirts and dashed away.

  “We meet in two days at the mill.” Gisela shouted after the retreating figure of her sister before picking up her own skirts to run. Away from the keep she sprinted towards the far-away line of trees that promised sanctuary.

  But she couldn’t run from Martinga’s words still echoing in her ears: The Norsemen will hunt us down and kill us without mercy.

  Chap
ter Two

  Gisela, trembling, clasped her fingers together and sank to her knees. Her lungs stung, whether from exertion or from the acrid scent of burning wood, she couldn’t tell. Her legs ached and blood stained her skirt, thanks to a scrape on her arm when she crashed through a dead branch in her panic.

  She crawled behind a tree and leaned her back against its comforting trunk. To her right lay Falkenstead, hazy and indistinct through the trees.

  Falkenstead, home of her father and her father’s father. Situated north of the river Rhine, they had always escaped the notice of the murderous heathen from the Viking lands.

  Until now.

  “From the fury of the Northmen, deliver us, Oh Lord,” she whispered.

  Sadly, her prayer came too late. Clouds of smoke seethed in the late afternoon light, billowing so thick they obscured the sun, billowing so black they swallowed the sky. Then sparks erupted into the gathering darkness as the keep’s roof collapsed trapping all within, including most likely her father.

  The rising scarlet mist sucked away her previous life, and with it her hopes and dreams.

  Sorrow stabbed her and tears trickled down her cheeks again. She reached for the amber cross hanging from her neck, rubbing her thumb over it, taking comfort in its familiar warmth before tucking it back inside her bodice, where it lay smooth against her skin.

  The end. As stated in the Holy Bible, it seemed the end of the world was nigh. The Day of Judgment. As if to confirm her thoughts, she heard the shouts of men, thick with dread, and the shrill screams of women and children.

  Nay, today was not the coming of the Day of Judgment, for on that day, those who believed in the Christian Lord would find paradise in the afterlife.

  Nay, it was worse. Today was the coming of the Norsemen, fearsome warriors who raped and killed with wanton abandon. At their feet compassion was not to be had. Only unspeakable cruelty.

  Shuddering, she fought her way to her feet. To avoid detection, she must move deeper into the forest.

  The crack of a branch breaking sounded behind her. Heart pounding, she whirled about.

  A mounted masculine figure stood there, outlined against the few rays of setting sun penetrating the trees. Relief coursed through her when she recognized her father’s stallion.

  “Father! What happened? What of Martinga and the others?”

  The man said nothing, his face so shadowed she couldn’t make out the features.

  “Father? Why do you not speak?”

  Unease crept through her at the man’s continued silence, and she shifted her regard to inspect him more closely.

  Then she noticed his clothing—the helm fitted close to the skull, the coat of chain mail draped over the leather tunic trimmed with fur about the neck, and the woolen trousers bound with leather strips around the calves. A wooden shield rimmed with iron and painted orange and yellow hung from his shoulders. She tried to ignore the grooved sword dangling from his belt, but it trapped her gaze.

  Blood stained the blade. Frisian blood. Perhaps even that of her father. Nay! Her heart sank, and bile scalded her throat at the realization a Viking warrior faced her.

  She fumbled for the knife hanging from her braided leather belt. If escape proved impossible, then fight she must. Perhaps she would die in the struggle, but she far preferred death of her own doing than to yield meekly.

  * * *

  From his vantage point on horseback, Thorvald stared down at the Frisian girl. White-faced with fear, she defied him, holding before her an ivory handled knife.

  He resisted the urge to laugh at the puny display of defiance. Grudging admiration filled him. She hadn’t fled in terror, had chosen instead to hold her ground.

  He ignored the indigo eyes spitting venom at him, focusing instead on her glorious blonde hair. Golden blonde, like the color of warm honey.

  Her hair had caught his attention as she ran from the keep. A woman with hair of such magnificent color would fetch much silver when sold into servitude.

  As would her clothing—a cream woolen tunic woven of threads so delicate the fabric flowed over her hips like water. Its loose elbow length sleeves exposed the longer, snug-fitting sleeves of the pale green linen kirtle beneath, those sleeves embroidered with blue and darker green silk thread. Blood seeped through a tear in one sleeve. A pity, really, to have such a fine garment ruined.

  Someone with supreme skill wove that cloth, with equally fine embroidery. Perhaps both were her handiwork? That would increase her value as a thrall. Arni had been right to push for attack this day after all for it had yielded this prize.

  “Have you looked your fill?” She spat the words at him. The knife trembled as she held it high before her.

  He shrugged, amused by the anger in her voice. She spoke as if he were the vanquished, not she.

  “Do you not speak? Are you deaf? Or dumb that you do not speak our language?” Blatant disdain filled her words, and he narrowed his eyes in displeasure at her boorish manner. He would have to teach her better behavior or her worth would be diminished. No one wanted a disobedient slave, no matter how fair of face.

  “It’s not seemly to insult your betters.” He replied in the Frisian language, a skill learned during his years of raiding here.

  Her jaw dropped, then she collected herself. “You’re not better than me,” she said. “Nay, it is I who am better than the Norsemen, for you only know to destroy and kill that which you do not understand.”

  “Nay, it is you who do not understand. Hold your tongue, or I’ll strike you down where you stand.” A threat he had no intention of keeping, for dead she would be useless to him.

  His words had the desired effect, though. She clamped her mouth shut, although her eyes continued to throw daggers at him.

  Thorvald slid off the horse and moved closer. She refused to surrender her ground; approval for her pluck flowed through him. He stopped in front of her, mere inches away. He let his gaze rove over her, slowly, insolently.

  She stood tall for a woman, reaching his collar bone—tall and sinewy, well suited for hard work, with high, firm breasts and wide hips. She would easily whelp and nurse many brats. He let his gaze rest on her breasts for a few seconds before lifting it to look upon her full in the face. He could feel her panting breath on his cheeks, could smell its sweetness, could smell the sweetness of her. Like roses. Wild roses.

  He inhaled deeply of her scent—like spring in his homeland. A twinge of home sickness pierced him, but he shoved it off. This was no time to lament over that he had lost. He frowned at his captive.

  Her lips quivered, but she held her ground.

  He yanked the knife from her hands, tugging hard on the chain attaching it to her belt so that her belt gave way. It fell to the ground, along with the embroidered sack that hung from it. The sack gaped open, and a small leather pouch and a few silver coins spilled out onto the grass, as well as a little glass pot of what looked like balm and a pair of embroidery scissors.

  “Oho, what have you here?” He knelt down to pick up the pouch, the scissors, and the coins. The pot he tossed back to her. It landed at her feet, and she picked it up quickly, looking at him all the while before stuffing it into a pocket and rising to stand again.

  She refused to answer, crossing her arms and continuing to glare at him. He couldn’t deny she possessed spirit, for men, fighting men, had quaked before him.

  Not so her.

  She pleased him. A smile crept across his lips, and his loins quickened. It had been many months since he mated with a woman. A swift coupling would release the tension built up in today’s battle; he licked his lips in anticipation and reached for his waist to undo his trousers.

  A horn blew.

  Her head jerked at the sound; dread limned her features as if the echoing notes reminded her of what happened at the attacked keep.

  His comrades called him to return, leaving no time to slake his blood lust. Regretfully, he jammed her knife into his belt, stuffing the other items into the
woven bag hanging from his waist. He would look at them later.

  “What are you called?” He made his voice mild in an effort not to frighten her further.

  She whipped her gaze back to him. “For northern heathens I have no name.”

  Annoyed at the haughty tone of her voice, he snatched her wrists to pull her towards him before leaning his face close to hers.

  “Your manners disgust me. I am Thorvald. Now what—” He squeezed her wrists slightly to show his strength. “Are you called? Answer me.”

  “Gisela,” she whispered finally.

  He loosened his grip, but not before yanking a leather thong from his waistband and winding it about her wrists, leaving a length free. He dropped the end and stepped on it to stop her from bolting. As gently as he could to avoid bruising her face, he clamped his fingers around her jaw to force open her mouth.

  A perfect row of pearl white teeth shone in the dim light. She must be young then, for she had all her teeth. He guessed sixteen or eighteen years. She tried to bite him, almost catching his fingers. One slippered foot struck him; his shin tingled with the force of the blow.

  She continues to fight. Brave or foolhardy, he couldn’t decide but he would have to pay heed.

  “You have no husband? No children?”

  She shook her head.

  Untouched. Satisfaction filled him. Gisela had been a good find and well worth his while to chase after her, for she would fetch good coin at the slave market in Hedeby.

  The horn sounded again. He must return or they would divide the spoils without him. With a grunt, he placed her on the saddle and climbed up behind her.

  * * *