by Susan Amund
“What is it?” he frowned, pinching it between his fingers, testing its hardness.
“It is part of you,” she answered. “This is part of your chest,” she reached up and pointed to a spot on Eric, just where his ribs met in the center. “When the pike went in, that broke off. The little bone lodged up against your spine and kept the pike from going through your back. If it had, and you had lived, you would not have been able to walk again.”
“A keepsake of how close I was to death?” Jens’ face twisted sourly.
“No, a reminder of how God smiled on you – how he favors you,” she rebuked him gently.
“Aye,” he squeezed his fist around the tiny bone, “thank you Lady. But I don’t think it was your God with his hand in my chest.” He nodded, “Seems like one of Loki’s jokes, to catch me at the edge of Valhalla and send me back to earth full of pain and suffering at the hands of a beautiful woman. Aye, you saved me Lady Julia, and if any smiled on me, it was that trickster Loki.” They talked for a few more minutes before Jens drifted into a doze. Eric waited to exit the cottage behind Julia.
“If I don’t make it back around by mid-afternoon, please wake him. He is exhausted, but I want to make sure he is awake and alert each day, and that he sleeps deeply at night.” Julia slung her bag of medical supplies across her chest and started towards the next patient. Eric’s hand on her arm stopped her.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. His eyes were a dark honey color. The lashes long, thick, and dark brown. She was struck by the harsh, masculine angles of his face compared to his warm gaze.
“It is nothing that anyone wouldn’t have done,” she responded quietly.
“Few would have helped us, you know this. Most would have attacked us while we were weak from our voyage and wounds. Many more would have refused us medicine or refuge. You have offered us your homes. You have saved my men.”
She was uncomfortable with his praise and tanks, but she understood the importance of that moment: a proud warrior who might have been her enemy was offering something rare and valued, but it was also dangerous to accept an oath without due consideration. “You saved us, when the Normans would have slaughtered us on our own beach. The people of this island have much to thank you for as well.”
“I owe them a debt of gratitude also. But now I thank you, I will do whatever I can to repay you.” His hand tightened, almost painfully, on her arm - stressing his conviction.
“Your men saved Aurelius from the Normans, we have given you healing and shelter. I say we are even.” She patted his hand awkwardly and tried to pull out of his grip.
“Perhaps the healing is payment for our skills as warriors, but we will earn our keep here. We will help you rebuild, and do anything else we can while my men heal.” His thumb was rubbing circles on the exposed flesh of her arm, and Julia felt the rough abrasion of his calluses and a spreading warmth in her belly. “And I owe you more - a personal debt - which I will do all I can to repay.” She couldn’t look away from the intensity of his gaze. A heat was spreading up her chest. She could feel the beginnings of a red blush.
“We can discuss this later, Sir Vandalsson. You and your men are welcome to stay – as long as you obey the law of the island.” She finally pulled her arm away, and felt a shiver where the warm breeze replaced the heat of his hand. “I have duties to attend. Brother Simon will see to your ribs.”
“What is the law of the island, my Lady?” His voice was low, and there was something in his tone that sent a shiver to the base of her spine.
“I am the law,” her voice was so quiet, it was almost a whisper. She shook herself. She was the law. She was the Lady of Aurelius, and she would not allow a handsome barbarian to use his calluses to distract her from her responsibility. She straightened her spine and dampened the blush by sheer force of will. “If you are looking for something to do, speak with Ulrich or Duncan. They can put you and your men to work.”
“As you wish,” his head dipped, ever so slightly, but his eyes never left hers. She turned and flew into the next cottage, telling herself that discretion was the better part of valor.
Getting Acquainted
“Vandalsson!” Eric looked up from the thatch he had been mending to see Bjorn the Red and another man making their way through the village. He hadn’t seen Bjorn much in the past few days. The soft-spoken sailor spent most of his time making repairs to armor, helping with the harvest, and trying to keep a check on his younger brother’s attempts to woo every lass over twelve summers. Eric ran a hand through his hair. Autumn was at its peak, but despite the cooler weather, he was sweating. His ribs were well on the mend, but the hours he had put in on the cottage roof had reminded him that they were not yet completely healed. He climbed down the ladder and waited in the shade.
Bjorn was followed by one of the fifteen or so men that had joined his crew in their escape from the slaughter at York. Eric wracked his mind but couldn’t remember the man’s name. His nose was disjointed and he had some fresh stitches on his forearm, but otherwise appeared unscathed.
“Bjorn,” Eric nodded when they were close enough.
“Eric,” Bjorn paused, taking a casual look at the women bustling around and the other men repairing cottages. “Would you rest and take a walk with us?” Eric nodded, surprised, and fell into step beside Bjorn as they followed the shore south and west away from prying ears. “You remember Alvar? He sailed with Knute Jarlsson.”
Eric nodded at the slender man, “I fought with Knute in the North.”
“Alvar and Skald have been guarding the Norman, as Lady Julia ordered,” Bjorn continued. Eric raised his brows. She orders my men now, he thought, but he remained quiet. “Several of the other men have been up to the keep while he has been there.” The news stopped Eric cold, his companions took a step past him before realizing he was no longer moving and turning back.
“Why would anyone else have a need to visit the keep?” His voice remained calm, but inside him something tightened painfully. There was no reason, no good reason, for any of the Norsemen, other than Alvar and Skald, to be at the keep.
“They have no real reason, Vandalsson,” Alvar confirmed his thoughts. “I don’t know these men well, none of them sailed with Knute, but they aren’t doing anything there.”
“He pointed them out to me as well, they aren’t ours, but some of the men from Stamford Bridge who retreated with us.” Bjorn stood patiently, quiet while Eric considered. The two men had fought together since the battles with the Danes, Bjorn knew Eric was a fair man. If any who were responsible to him had even breathed across the line of truce he had drawn with the islanders, he would act without hesitation.
“What did Sir Ulrich have to say to them?”
“Nothing. They don’t approach the gate unless he is in the village, and the one time he came back while they were in the bailey they ignored him and left.”
“How do you view their actions? Have they harmed or approached any of those who live at the keep?” If they had approached her, he cut off his own thoughts. Eric didn’t examine the anger that was tightening his jaw and making his pulse jump.
“I have only seen them looking around. They stick to the courtyard, although the thin Swede climbed the wall and walked around it. This morning two men went into one of the storage areas. An old woman shooed them out, but they refused to leave the bailey. Lady Julia came out of the upper bailey and spoke to them. I couldn’t hear what she said but they left after that.” Alvar hesitated, a frown on his face.
“What else?” Eric commanded softly.
“They walked past me on their way through the gate.” Alvar looked away from Eric, a faint flush forming under his tan. “They, uh, had a few things to say about Lady Julia.”
“What would that be?”
“Nothing I would repeat about a Lady, Vandalsson.”
“He told me, Eric,” Bjorn said. “It wasn’t anything I would say about a ship’s whore.”
“Thank you, Alvar,” Eric said.
His voice was still even, but he had to fist his hands at his sides to keep from hitting something, someone. “Go back to the keep, stay there until I come for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Alvar paused mid-turn. “I don’t like what they are thinking, Vandalsson. The Lady and these people, they have done more for us than…” His voice trailed off before he finished simply, “I don’t like it.” Alvar headed back to the village at a quick pace, leaving Bjorn and Eric alone on the rocky beach.
“See what the crew knows about these men – quietly, I don’t want to stir up anyone yet. I’d like someone at the keep with Alvar as well, but I don’t want to draw any attention to it.”
“Balric could use some time at guard duty, everyone knows I have been trying to get my brother away from these English girls.”
“If you see Ulrich, tell him I need a word with him.”
“Where will you be?”
“With Lady Julia, at the keep.”
Eric kept his eyes and ears open as he set a quick pace on the road to the keep, using the exertion to help curb his temper. He had intended to make the journey days ago, but had wanted to wait for an invitation from Ulrich. The knight was tense from the large force of men who were so recently the enemies of his Lord on the island, and Eric didn’t want to push his host too quickly. It was farther than he had expected; the keep wasn’t visible from the village, and he hadn’t seen it during their approach from the sea.
In the village the road was made of smooth stones set close together. Eric expected it to give way to hard packed dirt shortly past the bathhouse. Instead, the cobblestones rose gently with the hills towards the cliffs on the north side of the island. He stopped under an ancient gnarled tree on the last hill before the approach to the keep.
Although the villagers, and even Julia, referred to it as a keep, Eric could see it for what it was: a fort. Two stone walls rose at the top of the hill. The first was nearly twenty feet tall, with a parapet and rampart along the top. A large watchtower flanked either side of a set of gates centered in the wall. The fort rose in elevation – backing up and into the cliffs behind it. Where the lower bailey ended, two long stone buildings flanked stairs and a smooth ramp that led to the upper bailey. A four story stone keep, with long shorter wings on each side, was built into the rock. Well-proportioned buildings were set along the walls of the upper bailey and the road leading from the main gate to the keep.
It was impressive – and most unexpected. Even if the wealth of the island was double what he had estimated, the fort was more than the islanders could afford to build. It was certainly more than most nobles would be able to afford. The fort looked as though it could house every islander and have room still for their sheep.
While he walked the last half-mile to the gates, he studied the fort from a defense standpoint. It would be very difficult to seige, even with a sizable force. Fortunately for him, the gates stood open. One young man, not old enough to grow a decent beard, stood between the two arched openings.
“Good afternoon,” Eric waited for his reply.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the boy’s voice cracked painfully on ‘sir’ and his face flushed.
“Is Lady Julia in the keep?”
“I don’t know.” Eric’s irritation must have shown on his face, because the boy swallowed heavily before continuing, “She hasn’t come this way today, but she might have gone through before I started my duty.”
“Where might I find her, if she is here?”
“In the drying houses, sir, or up at the keep.” Eric would have gone in then, but he saw another man, one of the Swedes, walk across the courtyard. His back was to the main gate while he studied the stables.
“How many others are here?”
“I, uh,” the boy cut his eyes to the side.
“If Ulrich has given you instructions, that is well, but if men I am responsible for are here, I would know. Now.”
“Er, yes, sir,” the boy had trouble meeting Eric’s stern gaze. The Norse warrior sighed inwardly and did his best to lighten his expression. “Three of your men have come through the gate this morning. They stay in the lower bailey. Margaret has been keeping an eye on them.”
“Margaret?”
“She is in charge of the drying and distilling - she is usually in one of the storerooms.” The boy pointed to a series of sheds built against the outer wall, across the bailey from the short tower where Alvar stood to guard the Norman. Eric nodded and followed his direction. He stopped in the shadow of a grain building and listened for a moment as the thin Swede spoke to another companion out of sight.
“If they have much here beside flowers and weeds it will be in the upper bailey.”
“The old man watches the ramp like a hawk.”
“He’ll be easy to put down.”
“Of course, but one of the servants will alert Ulrich or someone else. Vandalsson will be up here before we can find any wealth.”
“He is one of us. He may not want to search the keep himself, but he won’t stand against us if we find anything.”
“I don’t think he is the man you think he is, Undr.”
“Don’t be a coward, Wencel. He is so busy sniffing at the noble’s skirts he won’t care what we are doing - as long as he gets his cut.” Undr said. The third man laughed, “If the haul is big enough, he may even let us have a taste of that black-haired bitch when he is tired of her!”
Eric did not announce his presence, but stepped into the open with a stony expression. He crossed the few paces to the men and slammed one huge fist into Undr’s face. The Swede dropped like a stone. Wencel backed away, but the third man snarled and reached for the short sword at his belt. Eric grabbed that man's wrist and twisted his hand backwards, forcing him to his knees lest the bones break. The man bent and whimpered as he arched his back to relieve the pressure on his hand.
“I stand down, Vandalsson,” Wencel held his hands open before him. His fingers splayed wide to ward off an attack and show he held no weapons. Undr twisted on the ground, attempting to stand while he choked on the blood streaming from his broken nose and split cheek. Eric didn’t speak, but stalked Wencel. A strangled cry from the man on the ground brought out workers from the granary and drying rooms in the lower bailey. Eric did not release his hold on the man and the snick-snap of a broken wrist was followed by a guttural noise of pain. “I yield!” Wencel’s eyes widened and he backed away faster.
The workers gathered as close as they dared to watch the encounter. Eric ignored them, an anger unlike any he had felt before burning in his chest. His vision tunneled until he saw only the man before him. A rage that made his muscles tense and his heart hungry for blood, surrounded him and pulsed in his ears until he could hear nothing but the pop of his own knuckles as he formed a fist. He would have ignored the quiet shuffle behind him if not for her voice,
“Behind you!”
Eric turned, his hold on a broken wrist discarded, and met the bulk of Undr’s gut with his fist. A woof of air escaped his attacker’s mouth, but it didn’t break the haze of battle surrounding the Viking. Undr didn’t land a direct hit with his narrow knife but managed to stay close enough to land a violent punch to Eric’s face.
Snarling, Eric seized the man’s right hand with his left, curling both around the hilt of the blade that had grazed his shoulder. He pushed slowly and then turned the knife, forcing it through Undr’s tunic and into his stomach. The man abandoned his own attack to seize his belly with both hands - unsuccessful at pushing the weapon away. Eric used the opportunity to land a punch of his own. His fist connected with a crack like a splitting melon against the soft temple of his opponent and Undr slumped to the ground.
“Vandalsson!” Ulrich’s voice rang out across the bailey as he ran, his sword drawn. Alvar had also abandoned his post to stand at Eric’s back. Eric’s vision and hearing were clearing along with his rage. The haze of anger began to cool with the death of the man who spoke so casually of betraying the accord with the islanders, o
f betraying him. It was still smoldering in his chest when Wencel fell to his knees and Ulrich skidded to a stop. The crowd, even those who did not understand Norse, were stilled by the guttural sound of anger and barely restrained death.
“You would Viking here? You would pillage those who have sheltered us? Those to whom I have given my word?” Eric’s voice was even, but so deep it seemed like a growl. The hush of tension was broken only by the shaky, pain-filled breaths of the man with the broken wrist.
“It was Undr’s idea! Morri and I only went along with him!”
“You would follow him?”
“I tried to talk him out of it? You heard, just know!”
“Shut up, Wencel,” gasped the man on the ground, “it won’t matter to him.”
“But I-” he stuttered. His eyes were wide with fear. “I will leave, Vandalsson, I will not trouble what is yours! Spare me!”
“Coward,” Eric spat. His booted foot broke Wencel’s jaw and the blood sprayed across the hard packed earth of the lower bailey as he fell to the ground. Eric ignored Ulrich’s raised eyebrows and obvious questions. He pivoted and towered over the last traitor awake. “Are there others?”
“Yes,” Morri sat awkwardly on the ground, cradling his broken hand. He named three more men, not any of Eric’s crew. “We intended to draw the soldier away and kill him before we ransacked the keep. Undar thought that if we saved the woman for you and gave you a double portion of the loot you would have no reason not to accept our right to a prize.”
“Undar thought wrong.”
“Wencel, for all his cowardly blubbering, did try to tell us.” Morri looked on the unconscious body of his comrade with distaste.