by Julia Byrne
Yvaine jerked upright, a thin cry bursting from her lips. The sound was abruptly cut short as fiery pain lanced across her back. Whirling black clouds threatened her senses.
‘No, lady. You must be still.’
The voice sounded somewhere above her. Gritting her teeth, she looked around. She was in a tent. A girl hovered nearby, her face anxious. Further away a woman sat, holding a child in her arms. Another woman crouched next to them, head bent over a rosary as she muttered prayers beneath her breath.
The girl nearest her knelt and spoke again. ‘You should rest, lady. You’ve been hurt. Do you remember what happened? Did those barbarians do this?’
Yvaine blinked at her, trying to think. ‘You know me? Who are you?’
‘I’m Anna, lady. The silversmith’s daughter. I saw you in the manor once when I delivered a buckle to your lord.’
‘My lord?’ A sound that wasn’t quite a laugh escaped her. ‘He’s dead.’
Anna nodded. ‘And they took you. Well, we shan’t suffer a like fate, I think.’
Yvaine barely heard her. ‘They killed Jankin, too. A slave. A mere slave. Too simple to fear Ceawlin’s spite against anyone who was kind to me. He was my only friend.’
‘Well, now we’re all slaves and friendless,’ remarked the woman holding the child. Her voice was brusque but not unkind. ‘I’m Britta,’ she added. ‘And the child here is Eldith.’
The little girl gave a timid smile.
‘They took a child?’ Yvaine whispered. ‘Blessed Jesu…I suppose we should be grateful she’s alive.’
‘Aye, but for how long?’ Britta shivered ‘Vikings kill for the pleasure of it. ’Tis what befell Eldith’s father, my master. He tried to run and was slain.’
Yvaine glanced at the woman mumbling over her beads. She neither looked up nor spoke. Only her fingers moved, ceaselessly counting the rosary. The other two waited, as though instinctively looking to the lady of the manor for answers.
A fine source of help, she thought, on a silent, despairing laugh. She could scarcely think when every breath she took was laced with agony. But still they waited.
‘I think Anna is right,’ she murmured at last. ‘They won’t kill us. Sell us, mayhap.’
‘Then we might as well make the best of the situation.’ Anna settled herself more comfortably against the bulkhead, shrugging when Yvaine gaped at her.
‘I was little more than a slave in my father’s house, lady. Worked day and night with not a groat to show for it, nor hardly a decent meal. I’m no stranger to slavery.’
‘Nor I,’ Britta added. ‘But at least in your father’s house, Anna, you weren’t forced to share the master’s bed. That could well change before this day is out.’
‘No!’ Shaking visibly, staggering with the effort, Yvaine managed to gain her feet. ‘I won’t! I won’t submit to rape. Better to escape…take our chances in the river.’
‘Escape? Your wits are still wandering, lady.’
‘Britta’s right.’ Anna sprang up and caught Yvaine’s arm. ‘There’s a ship full of Vikings out there. We can’t escape. And you’re hurt.’ She tried to urge Yvaine down to the crude skin bedding. ‘Come, lady. Lie down and save your strength. God knows, you’ll need it.’
Yvaine threw her off. The movement sent whips of fire across her back, but she managed to stay upright.
‘Listen to me,’ she gasped. ‘There are no waves. That means we’re still on the river. Can you swim?’
Anna goggled at her. ‘No, but…What are you saying, lady?’
‘I will not be captive to another man. Never! I don’t care if I risk my life. Better to try and fail than…’ She stopped, willed steadiness to her voice, strength to her trembling limbs. ‘Once we’re at sea, there’ll be no chance of escape. Do you come with me or not?’
Anna stared at her, mouth agape. Britta shrugged and bent to speak to the silent child. The muttering droned on in the corner.
‘Then pray for me,’ Yvaine whispered, and whirled towards the curtain. She was through it before Anna’s quickly outflung hand could stop her.
Light exploded before her eyes, flashing off sparkling water, blinding her. Dazed, she flung up a hand, stumbled. Her foot struck something hard, sending it clattering across the deck. She faltered, trying to blink her vision clear.
And those few seconds’ hesitation were her undoing. Every eye on the ship turned to her. Before she could move, a yell came from the stern.
‘Othar! Stop her!’
Mindless with terror, still half-blinded, Yvaine sprang for the side. Her hands reached, groping desperately for the topmost plank. Before she could take hold, footsteps thundered behind her. Heavy breathing rasped through the air, she could almost feel it, hot on her neck.
Sheer instinct had her swerving like a hunted deer, darting for the opposite side, only to have another Viking leap into her path. He spread his arms, laughing, his mouth a gaping maw in an unkempt reddish beard. Behind her, her first pursuer let out the bloodcurdling yell of a hunter.
Gasping for breath, she dodged again. The bulkhead flashed before her eyes, feet away. Her chest was on fire. She lunged. Her fingers touched, clung…
And an arm came from nowhere. She was flung to the hard oak planking, unable to prevent an agonised scream rising in her throat when her back hit the Viking’s abandoned oar.
The scream sliced through Rorik with the ice-cold kiss of a naked blade. Already halfway up the ship, he leapt the remaining distance in seconds, roaring as if charging into battle, and knocked his brother’s hand away as Othar reached for the neck of the girl’s kirtle.
‘I said stop her, not kill her!’
Othar looked up, surprised anger turning his face petulant. ‘What’s got into you, Rorik? She’s only a thrall. Let’s have some fun.’
Rorik went down on one knee beside his captive. She glared at him, but pain was clouding the golden fire in her eyes. Holding her arms, he carefully pulled her upright.
‘She’s mine, Othar,’ he said, knowing full well his brother was going to challenge that statement.
Othar wasn’t the only one. A low growl rumbled through the crew, the warning before a storm.
Every muscle in his body tensed. Odin curse it, why couldn’t she have stayed senseless until he’d warned the men off her? Didn’t she know they would’ve fallen on her like slavering wolves if he hadn’t reached her in time?
‘Little fool!’ he snarled in English. ‘You think drowning is such a desirable fate that you’d risk arousing my men to achieve it?’
‘’Tis more desirable than slavery to you fiends of Satan,’ Yvaine spat.
She tried to wrench out of his hold and staggered as the relentless throbbing of her bruised back sent a wave of sickness through her. The dazzling water beyond the ship dipped and swayed. She felt herself swaying with it and squeezed her eyes shut.
The Norseman’s grip tightened until she could feel the throb of her blood beneath his fingers. Holy Mother, he was strong. Those powerful hands could snap her in two in a heartbeat. But…he wasn’t hurting her. His hands felt protective…and utterly steady. As if he knew she couldn’t stand alone, that she was summoning every ounce of willpower to stay conscious.
She lifted her lashes and gazed up into eyes the colour of ice crystals.
‘So you can speak now,’ he said in a calmer tone. ‘What are you called?’
The dazzling swaying water came back, reflected in his brilliant grey eyes. Yvaine gritted her teeth. If she was going to drown in those icy depths, she would drown with pride intact.
‘I am Yvaine of Selsey, second cousin to King Edward,’ she enunciated clearly. And crumpled between his hands.
Rorik caught her up in his arms before her knees had done more than buckle. He cradled her against his chest, gazing down at the sweep of her lashes against her cheeks, the gentle curve of her mouth, and again felt that odd wrenching deep inside. And knowledge. A sure, irrevocable knowledge.
His! This hu
rt, proud, recklessly courageous girl belonged to him.
He didn’t think past that. Shoved the other sensations to the back of his mind. They went too deep, to a place he hadn’t looked into for a very long time. Right now, he had a more immediate problem on his hands.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned to face his men. Several were on their feet, wolves closing in on a prey they knew was weak and helpless.
He glared at them across her limp body.
They shuffled, stepped back. Discomfort and wary acknowledgement replaced the avid purpose in their eyes. Some even looked sheepish, the expression sitting incongruously on rugged, weatherbeaten faces. Without a word, Rorik met each pair of eyes in turn.
They sat again, and started rowing.
Except Othar—and one other.
‘Not so fast, Rorik. What do you mean, she’s yours? We all share the loot.’
‘We don’t share women, Othar. As of this moment, every female on the ship is under my protection. They won’t be forced. They won’t be sold unless I approve the arrangement.’
Othar’s light blue eyes, almost level with his own, went cold. The boy rocked on the balls of his feet, but he made no further move, seeming undecided about what to do next. The red-bearded Viking took a step nearer.
From the corner of his eye, Rorik saw Thorolf moving towards them. ‘Why don’t you take a turn at the styri?’ he suggested to Othar. ‘And get us out to sea.’
His brother slowly relaxed his belligerent pose. ‘You’re going to let me steer?’
‘If you like. Keep the speed up and hoist the sail as soon as we reach open water.’
Othar cast a long, considering look at Yvaine, then turned a scowl on Thorolf who now stood a pace away.
‘You don’t have to play the watchdog,’ he sneered. ‘If Rorik wants to keep the wench, let him. We have others. Right, Ketil?’
‘Aye, and plenty of time.’ The red-bearded ruffian stared into Rorik’s eyes for a second before moving away to his place at the oars. ‘We won’t be on the ship forever. Eh, Gunnar?’ He cuffed the man seated in front of him and took up his oar.
His friend turned with a grin that displayed several missing teeth. ‘Time is useful, Ketil Skull-splitter. Very useful.’
Othar laughed and started back towards the stern. ‘Come on, you men,’ he yelled as he passed them. ‘Put your backs into it.’
‘Swaggering young cub,’ muttered Thorolf. ‘He’ll probably run us aground.’
‘Othar can steer in this calm water.’ Rorik jerked his head towards the sea, where white caps could be seen dancing over the surface. ‘But keep an eye on him, will you.’
‘Aye, but this won’t be the end of it, Rorik. I didn’t like the look in Ketil’s eye. Or Gunnar’s. And a ship’s a damned inconvenient place for men to be fighting over women. You’ve said it yourself often enough. Get rid of the wench. Get rid of all of them.’
‘What do you suggest I do? Toss them overboard?’
‘Of course not. Put them ashore somewhere. They’re only going to cause trouble. I can see it.’
Rorik’s jaw tightened. ‘Before you start prattling like a soothsayer,’ he bit out, ‘you’d better see something else. Come with me.’
He strode towards the tent, brushing through the curtain just as the dark-haired girl went to peep out. She withdrew at once.
Her swift retreat didn’t improve his mood. ‘You won’t be harmed if you behave yourselves,’ he snapped. ‘We’re not all monsters.’
She glared at him. ‘So you say.’
Behind him, he heard Thorolf sigh. ‘Trouble.’
‘Stop bleating like a damned sheep and look at this.’ He laid Yvaine down, flicked back the edges of her kirtle and glared up at his friend. ‘Well?’
Thorolf leaned closer. ‘By the runes! Who did that?’
‘Her husband. I killed him.’ He didn’t wait for a comment on this terse explanation. ‘How can I put her ashore like this? She’d never survive.’ His voice lowered as he touched a hand to her hair. ‘Even as brave as she is.’
Thorolf’s jaw dropped. He gaped at Rorik for a full ten seconds before he managed to clamp it shut again. ‘Uh…right. Wouldn’t survive. As brave as she is. So…what did she say her name was?’
‘Yvaine of Selsey.’ Rorik frowned. ‘She’s some kind of cousin to Alfred’s son.’
‘Alf—’ Shocked comprehension had Thorolf jerking upright. ‘But…she’s a woman.’
‘Aye. So you said before.’
‘And you think that’s just what the Gods ordered? Because she’s cousin to the King of the English? For Thor’s sake, Rorik, what do you have in mind for her? Ransom? Another beating? Shall we throw her overboard in truth?’
Rorik shot to his feet, his face hard. ‘That’s my decision to make. All you need do is make sure Othar is steering us in the right direction.’
Thorolf studied his leader for another tense moment and decided not to say ‘trouble’ again. Rorik was clearly not in the mood to listen to ominous forebodings or grim warnings. Indeed, his friend looked ready to knock the teeth down the throat of anyone who tried issuing such omens.
But as he backed out of the tent, he took with him an uneasy memory of a vow of revenge against the English king that had been sworn on the blood of betrayal eight years ago. A vow that went to the very heart of Norse honour.
Since then, he’d never seen Rorik strike anyone other than warriors who were his equal in battle, but it took no great leap of logic to see the Lady of Selsey as a means by which he could achieve his final act of vengeance against the king himself. Even if it meant going against his own nature.
And if that happened, Thorolf decided grimly, they wouldn’t need a soothsayer to see dangerous shoals ahead.
And he didn’t mean the sandbar Rorik’s spoiled brat of a brother was probably heading for.
Yvaine drifted in a timeless haze of semi-darkness and pain. Sometimes she felt someone spreading an evil-smelling salve on her back. Another time a hand held a cup to her lips, but it was too much effort to drink. She turned her face away and the hand disappeared.
A few minutes later it was replaced by a large hand that pressed the cup hard against her mouth, forced her lips apart, and ruthlessly tipped the contents down her throat.
After that, she drank whenever the cup returned. Usually it held water. Sometimes the contents were hot and tasty. Broth, she decided, before she slipped back into the merciful darkness.
Once she woke to feel herself lifted and gently lowered again on to a thick bearskin. She sighed and snuggled her cheek against the unexpected luxury. A hand stroked her hair from her face. It wasn’t Anna. Anna’s hand was small, her touch light and quick. This was the large hand that had forced her to drink. She stiffened in vague alarm, but a soothing murmur stilled her and she drifted.
And then, aeons later, she opened her eyes and was herself again. The cruel throbbing across her back had lessened to a dull ache that was bearable; movement would no longer rob her of her senses. She could think.
But with the return of awareness came terror, a crushing weight of it, constricting her chest so she could scarcely breathe. Her heart seized; her limbs turned leaden. For a moment, just for the moment it took for her heart to start beating again, she wished she’d stayed senseless forever.
Then she clenched her teeth, swallowed to ease the icy fingers of fear gripping her throat, and pushed herself to a sitting position. There’d be time enough for terror when she knew what the future held. And she wasn’t alone.
‘The saints be praised. You’re with us again, my lady.’ Beaming with relief, Anna came to sit beside her. She held out a cup and Yvaine took it.
‘Where are we?’ she croaked when she’d taken a few sips of water. Her voice sounded like rusty mail being hauled from storage.
‘Somewhere off the coast of the Danelaw, heading north,’ Anna told her. ‘The Norsemen beach the ship every evening so they can prepare hot food. Broth or gruel mostly. Som
e of the men stay ashore all night, but we’re not allowed to leave the ship. Well—’ she gestured slightly ‘—only for a few minutes morning and night.’
‘Aye,’ said Britta shortly. She stroked Eldith’s hair and drew the child closer. ‘We’re forced to live like animals in this cramped shelter.’
‘Prisoners in truth,’ Yvaine murmured. But even as panic threatened again, something else nagged at the edge of her mind. A sound that had been constant and now was gone. She turned swiftly towards the dimmest corner under the prow when she realised what the silence meant.
‘The other woman. Where is she?’
Her companions glanced at each other.
‘Poor thing,’ Anna murmured. ‘We never knew anything about her, lady. She refused to speak, except to mutter over her beads. Then last night she got up and threw herself into the sea. The men on board were asleep. I suppose they thought if we tried to escape, ’twould be towards land, and that way was guarded.’ She shook her head, sighed. ‘Her body was found early this morning, washed up on the beach. They buried her at least.’
‘May God have mercy on her soul,’ Yvaine whispered, crossing herself.
‘Aye. ’Tis a terrible sin to take your own life. Still, she was escaping from pagans. A martyr’s death, you could say.’
‘But she hadn’t been molested,’ Britta added hastily. ‘None of us have.’ She thought about that for a minute. ‘That’s not to say some of them wouldn’t treat us like common harlots,’ she amended. ‘Especially that cold-eyed lout Othar and his friends. Blessed Mary, what a pair they are. Skull-splitter and Ale-swiller. Names well earned, I warrant. But they go in awe of Rorik.’
‘Rorik?’
‘Their leader. The one who captured you.’ Britta eyed her curiously. ‘Do you remember him, lady?
A young warrior. Big. Powerful. Glittering eyes, watching. A large hand…
No! She wouldn’t remember. That time in Ceawlin’s hall was part of her nightmare.
‘No,’ she murmured, aware that Anna’s gaze, too, had turned curious with her long silence.
She glanced away, towards the leather curtain. One corner had been drawn back to admit some light into the shelter. Warm summer sunshine beckoned, a welcome distraction.