The Valiant Viking

by Bambi Lynn

  What’s he thinking? Just ask him. Say something. Taking a deep breath, she finally asked, “Will you save Wulf?”

  He did not answer. Instead, he urged her off the bed as he rose. “Get dressed.”

  Painfully aware of her nudity, she did as he commanded. But she continued to pester him as she did so. “Will you? Can you? I’m not leaving until…”

  “Belay your questions!” He dragged her to the door and yanked it open. “I vow I will not see Wulf suffer.” He shoved her into the arms of the toothless Norseman who happened to be standing nearby. “Put her back with the others.”

  He slammed the door.

  The man leered his toothless grin at her. “Are ye through with ‘er, then?”

  Rolf heaved the door open again with such force he very nearly yanked it off the hinges. Very quietly, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Lay a hand on her, and I’ll cut off your dick and shove it down our throat.”

  She looked over her shoulder as Toothless ushered her back to Mae’s hut. Her heart ached at the sight of Rolf watching.

  He would do nothing. She had stupidly put her faith in a man who had no honor, showed no mercy. She had given her very soul to one who was unworthy.

  He was still watching when Toothless closed the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Without fuel, the fire had been reduced to a pile of glowing coals. The few survivors of yesterday’s raid huddled together for warmth. She could barely make out their shapes in the faint glow that barely penetrated the darkness. She closed her eyes against the tears that welled up. He had used her, manipulated all of them, and then turned his back on her people.

  I will not cry over him!

  Opening her eyes, she swallowed the lump that clogged her throat. He had turned his back on her. She had given herself to him. Not just her body, but her heart. In just a few short days, the man had endeared himself, giving her hope, making her feel for him what she had felt for no man before. She had left her heart unguarded, a mistake she vowed never to make again.

  She deserved to rot in Hell. But these people did not deserve the hell in which they found themselves. She glanced around. Down trodden, the remaining villagers stared at the walls or the earthen floor, dejected and without hope. Only a handful of women and children.

  No men–not even old men. Only the women and children would be taken as slaves. Wulf and Bearn must have been the only boys close to manhood who had been spared. Now Bearn was gone, and Wulf faced a most horrifying death. The tears she had tried to hold back trickled down her cheeks.

  Her modor suffered untold horrors at the hands of that heathen who claimed her. Where had he taken her? What was he doing to her? Heat flushed her face as she thought about the swiving she shared with Rolf. No more questions about what went on between a man and a woman. She could easily guess what Wray wanted with her modor.

  She brushed away the tears staining her cheeks and prayed Modor did not suffer. They should have fled when they had the chance. By now, each family could have made their homes elsewhere. Other villages dotted the countryside. Villages full of Norfolk, men who could fight, leaders who could take care of everyone, chiefs who could make all the decisions.

  She wanted none of those responsibilities.

  She choked back a sob. It broke her heart that Rolf would not be coming to her rescue. Her foolish adulation had proved unwarranted. He had used her, taken her as his slave. Worse - she had given herself freely. Please, God, make him save Wulf. She had to hold onto to that one thread of hope or risk forsaking what little faith she had left.

  She sat down next to the door. She peered through the tiny cracks in the wall, but could only make out shadows here and there. She could not see Wulf, but the vision of him splayed between those stakes remained clear in her mind. After so many years of acting as caretaker for her family and friends, she wallowed in her helplessness. She stayed awake for a long time but eventually succumbed to the fatigue and heartache she had earned that day. She curled up against the wall and fell asleep.

  It seemed she had no sooner closed her eyes, when she was awakened by a commotion outside. Pressing her ear to the wall, she could hear muffled voices, many of them growing louder in anger.

  “Where’s the boy?”

  Her heart fell to her stomach. She did not recognize the man’s voice.

  “Dead and buried.”

  With a strangled cry, she covered her ears. That voice she knew only too well. On hands and knees, she crawled to the door and, finding it unbarred, pulled it open. In the dim light of dawn, she could see the stakes from which her baby brother had dangled only hours before. His tethers now hung limp, the shredded ends wafting on the morning breeze.

  Boddi emerged scratching his crotch. His big mouth opened wide with the yawn of a man just rising from slumber. He had dressed for battle and proved a menacing sight. “What goes here?”

  Toothless glared at Rolf. “We had sport readied to rally the men to victory. But this worm-infested, mangy dog…” he spat at Rolf… “has deprived us.”

  “I but spared the boy a miserable death,” he growled back at the man. He turned to Boddi. “I slit his throat and buried him in the forest.”

  With a cry of pure hatred, she shoved to her feet and ran at him, screaming like a myling. None was more shocked that Rolf. He managed to turn and face her just as she propelled herself against him, flailing her arms wildly, beating at any part of him she could reach. His chest, his face.

  When he had regained his composure, he grabbed her, twisting her arms behind her and holding her at bay. “If I had a weapon, I would kill you,” she said.

  By now, the others were laughing at her. “Got yerself quite a berserker there, Bloodhands.” The bastards roared their amusement at her despair.

  “Enough!”

  The men grew silent at Boddi’s command. “We march to Axning.” He glared at Rolf. “Lock those prisoners away. We will take a hostage, but not that one. One who is more docile, who will do as she’s told.”

  “I will take my woman. She is compliant and will do as I tell her.”

  She craned her neck to see who had spoken. It was Wray.

  Kaylla renewed her struggle. “No!” Rolf kept his meaty hands in a tight grip around her wrists and hauled her toward the hut. Those inside had been peering through the doorway but now backed away at their approach.

  Rolf hauled her over the threshold, shoving her among the others before turning away. Undeterred, she followed him, relentlessly beating her fists against his back, begging him to reconsider and calling him every foul name she could think of. “Take me instead.” Tears flowed freely down her cheeks. She could hardly speak for the sobs clogging her throat.

  He ignored her feeble attempt to sway him. He stopped at the door and turned back to her. For an instant, she thought he would heed her. His eyes softened. He glanced at her mouth. Visions of such a look, just before he claimed her, rushed back to her. Bile churned in her stomach. How could she have given herself to this heathen, this man who had no honor?

  Then the longing left his eyes. Wrapping one beefy hand around her throat, he pushed her to arm’s length.

  “Do not follow or your mother will be killed.”

  Kaylla heard a choked cry from someone behind her but did not look away. He leaned forward, hesitated. He slid his hand around behind her neck and then crushed his lips to hers. His kiss seemed desperate, almost as though he might never again kiss a woman.

  When he pulled away, she spit her hatred at him. But he had already slammed the door behind him.

  Bright sunlight slipped through the untended cracks in the walls, casting a soft glow to the inside of the hut. The lot of them stood broken, dejected. Outside, the Viking warriors marched away from the village, their footfalls fading into silence.

  “We must go after them.”

  “Do not be an idiot, Kaylla.” Mae pushed her way forward. “They will not hesitate to kill Edlyn. If we await their return, she will be
unharmed.”

  “We cannot put any faith in such a promise from that merciless traitor.”

  “What other choice do we have? Run off to Elmham and become whores? We proved we do not make the best warriors.”

  “Think you will make a better slave, Mae?” Kaylla looked around at the disheartened faces and realized if she went after her modor, she would go unaided. After all the times she had fed them, tending the sick, sacrificed her own comfort, she remained alone.

  When no other sound could be heard from outside, she made her way to the door, pulled it open, and peered into the courtyard.

  The Vikings had left the village deserted.

  She pulled the door fully open. The sun’s rays burst through the gap to bathe the interior. “I for one will not wait around to be made a slave,” she said aloud. She did not look back but left the door open when she set out.

  Her first stop was her family’s home. She entered slowly, not looking forward to facing the single room where she had grown up, helped tend her dying siblings, spent happy as well as sad times with her family.

  Where she had bargained her soul and lost most egregiously.

  Where she had given herself to a blood-thirsty brute of a man like a common harlot.

  Shame swept over her, but she could not deny her broken heart at sight of the rumpled bed linens. Had he slept there after he’d thrown her out into the cold? Had she meant nothing to him except a sheath to encase his mighty cock?

  She crossed to the bed and lifted the coverlet to her face. She could still smell his strong, earthy scent. The lingering aroma of their coupling remained, as well. Hot tears, angry tears, stung her eyes. She wadded up the thing and threw it onto the cold ashes in the hearth.

  With a cry to strike fear into even the bravest of men and all the strength she could muster, she heaved the bed frame onto one side.

  Her surge of strength, no doubt fueled by anger, startled her. The bed rolled over again, landing upside down, the supports sticking straight up in the air.

  To her dismay, a small cache of weapons had been hidden underneath. Piled against the wall, she found a handful of swords and a huge war axe. Squatting next to the heap, she laid them out one by one. The axe was almost too heavy to lift. She ended up dragging it into line with the others before standing up to survey her store.

  These were no ordinary weapons. The blades gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the door. Swords, pikes, spears, hammers – huge ones. Each one honed into a vicious killing apparatus.

  Rolf must have collected them from the Viking’s supplies and stashed them away. Why had he put them here? The Vikings had made it clear they would return for their slaves. That was why they had taken her modor hostage. But she could not guess why he would leave so many weapons behind when he and his brethren marched off to do battle.

  They would indeed be a force to reckon with if they had such a surplus of weaponry. If only they had had these yestermorn, mayhap they would have been more successful against the invaders.

  She leaned down and grasped the handle of one of the Viking swords. Even with both hands, she could barely lift it. The blade alone was longer than her arm. She dropped it back among the others and tried a different one, with little more success.

  It was then she realized, one weapon among them was the short sword he had taught her to use. She squatted down and stared at it. The blade was still encrusted with the blood of the man she had killed. She thought of that man for the first time. Wondering about his family as she had at the moment she had taken his life. Had he truly been little more than a ruthless devil. Or was he simply trying to provide for a family back home the only way he knew how?

  She waited for that ever present feeling of guilt to wash over her. Sorrow for the life she took, the lives she changed, in the taking.

  Guilt was a feeling she was well acquainted with.

  She had not been much younger than Wulf when Claennis had died. Her modor had been distraught, of course. It must be a terrible thing to lose a child. She had tried to comfort her. They all had. And her modor had let them.

  It should have been her. For her modor, the loss of her youngest girl would have been sad, but Edlyn had depended on Claennis, her first born, to help with the others. Her worth was so much greater, her loss devastating.

  She had tried to make it up to her. Despite her young age, she took on many of the caregiving chores left by Claennis’ passing. She had cared, not only for her younger brothers, but the older ones as well. She prepared their meals while her modor helped the other women tend their precious sheep. She kept their hut clean, performed the backbreaking work of washing their clothes and bed linens. She kept the youngest ones out of trouble and provided the older ones whatever they needed to ensure they were free to perform their own chores, most days performing those duties for them so they were free to practice their manly skills.

  She hadn’t minded. She prided herself on her ability to take care of such a large family, even at her young age. She acted as caregiver for her family because she loved them, and it felt good to have others rely on her.

  Then John had died. And after him, Rinan. Their modor slipped further and further away until she found a new babe in her belly. At last, a happy occasion to help cope with the loss of so many. Kaylla seemed to be the only one who recognized that the babe would be yet another mouth to feed, but the added hardship was forgotten the moment Lenore was born.

  She had been so excited for a sister. Memories of growing up the younger sister filled her with bittersweet feelings towards the baby. But the instant she held the tiny bundle, she vowed to ensure Lenore led a happy life, to be the older sister she missed so much.

  Lenore had not survived her first winter. Edlyn grew even more distant after that. The boys felt her loss more than any other. Her modor would not even be roused to care for Anson or Dalen when a sickness took them both the following year.

  Even though she had still had sons, Hugh and Wulf, and the daughter she relied upon so heavily, Edlyn acted as though she had no remaining children. Wulf felt her absence the most, leaving Kaylla to fill that role for him as best she could.

  A choked sob broke forth at his loss. She had been unable to protect him when he had most needed her. She had cared for her family for as long as she could remember, yet had failed everyone in the end.

  She hugged her arms around her belly and wailed, her very soul being wrenched apart. She wept until no more tears would come, and her breath caught each time she tried to inhale.

  No guilt for the dead Viking was forthcoming.

  Laying the short sword aside, she retrieved a bucket that sat near the door, half filled with water, and set it near the cold hearth. Shedding her clothes, she stood naked in the center of the room. The frigid air bit into her skin, raising tiny bumps all over her body and striking her with painful pricks. The biting cold served to intensify her resolve. Dipping a cloth into the bucket, she scrubbed away the stench of Rolf Bloodhands.

  Soon, she was shivering with cold, but instead of donning her old smock, she went to the chest of clothes that had been worn by so many of her brothers. She rummaged around inside, pulling out each article she hoped would fit and tossing them onto the floor next to her. Satisfied she would find something to wear among the pile, she sorted out the most practical of the garments.

  A deep sense of melancholy enveloped her as she held each piece up for inspection. She and her modor had each sewn a gown for Lenore before her birth. She had not lived long enough to outgrow them. The little girl had been buried in the one her modor made. She held the other to her face, inhaling the lingering baby smell and suppressing the sadness she felt at the memory. Laying it gently aside, she pulled a pair of breeches from the pile.

  She recognized them as Anson’s. He had been large for his age and looked to be of an adequate size. She pushed to her feet and lifted one to slide it into the leg of the breeches. Her foot got tangled in the seam and she hopped around on the other one until
she lost her balance and fell over. She sat up, rubbing her bruised backside, and shoved her foot out the opening at the bottom. Still sitting on the floor, she did the same with the other leg.

  She found it more difficult to stand with the waistband around her knees and a biting ache in her arse, but holding onto the wall for balance she managed to plant both bare feet on the floor before pulling it up over her ample backside.

  What a strange sensation. She wiggled her arse around inside the breeches, adjusting the seam from where it cut into her woman parts. When she decided she was as comfortable as she was going to be, she returned to the pile for something to cover her bosom.

  As she laid aside the other breeches, she felt something heavy sewn into a seam. Ripping the seam open, she found the wooden rosary Hugh had carved for Lenore. She thought they had buried her with it.

  She slipped it over her head. The cross dangled below her breasts, swaying back and forth as she leaned forward to rummage through the pile.

  She found a shirt she had made for Rinan and put it on. A perfect fit. She noticed a stain at the hem. Upon further inspection, she recognized it as blood. ‘Tis the shirt he wore the day he died!

  She nearly tore it over her head and threw it across the room. She took deep breaths, fighting to swallow the sob in the back of her throat. When she had calmed, she sifted through the pile and pulled Claennis’ smock from within. It was tight, hugging the curves of her body all the way to her knees. Fearing hindrance, she cut around the bottom, shortening the thing to the middle of her thigh.

  She let herself venture to the fur-lined vest Rinan had made to wear hunting in the coldest months. After a thorough inspection, she put it on with the silky fur against her body. It cradled her neck in luxury. She wiggled her shoulders, rubbing the softness against her chin

  She used John’s belt to cinch the vest around her waist. She knew it was his because he had made a great show that he carved his own name into the leather. Anything to distinguish himself from Anson.