The Viking's Captive

by Ingrid Hahn

  There were too many questions. Things she could never dare ask.

  Another servant entered the princess’s chamber, claiming everyone’s attention. His face was worn, the papery skin more pale than usual, fear radiating from him like an unholy aura.

  The princess met him with her chin stubbornly high. It was a rare sign that she too might have been fighting fear, and Alodie loved her all the more for it. The princess spoke without the presence of niceties and seemed to expect none. Such things meant little when death stood ready. “They’ve come?”

  “They’ve stolen horses, my lady.”

  “That wasn’t terribly unexpected, was it?”

  It was unclear whether the princess meant their arrival was unexpected or the horse thieving. The demons came every so often, but usually they preferred to pilfer the abbey a ways to the south. The princess was learning their language, but only because one of their kind had stayed behind and eventually settled here. She thought it might prove useful one day. And her father had allowed it, believing the knowledge would make her a more valuable bride.

  She paused, studying his grim face. “Is there something else?”

  He swallowed. “Yes, my lady. They’re demanding to speak with you.”

  Alodie gasped and covered her mouth.

  The princess gave a slow nod. “Very well, I shall—”

  “No.” The cry tore from Alodie’s lips before she could restrain herself. “No, please. I pray you.” She climbed to her feet. “Please don’t meet with them.”

  If anyone was going to chastise Alodie for speaking out of turn, it would have been Cyneburga. But when the woman turned her face to the princess, concern softened her normally haughty expression.

  There was a long pause. Alodie could barely breathe. At last, the princess spoke with the air of making a final pronouncement. “I love all of you dearly. It is my place to guard you and protect you. I accept this responsibility, and all it entails.”

  The solemn words drew renewed bursts of tears from several of the ladies. Some of the elder among them remained stoic, though pale. Alodie swallowed. Those women were the ones who told tales of bodies strewn about fields, throats slashed, guts spilled, their mortal remains picked over by carrion birds while the living hastily dug burial pits before the corpses could turn putrid under a relentless sun.

  An idea mushroomed in Alodie’s mind—a kind of madness springing fully formed in the clawing desperation of their situation. She made her way through the room toward the princess, unwilling to contemplate the scheme, lest she lose her nerve, her throat clogging with fear. She hadn’t risen this morning thinking this might be her last day drawing breath. She should have been prepared because every prayer always asked the Lord to take them should they be about to die. One never knew where death lurked or for whom, but she’d never had reason to believe it might be shortly coming for her.

  Fear or no, there would be no living with the unbearable shame she’d suffer if she didn’t speak. “Let me go instead. Please. Let me go as you.”

  Cyneburga sneered. “You?”

  Undeterred, Alodie stretched out her hands for the princess’s inspection. “I’m clean, my lady. If I wear your clothes, they won’t know. And you can stand to the side watching and listening to everything. Safely. I’ll make no decisions on your behalf, you have my word. I’ll merely give them the audience they desire. And if they have treachery in mind…” She inhaled a shaky breath, relying on the appearance of courage rather than courage itself. “They’ll have me and you’ll be safe.”

  The princess was looking at Alodie like she’d never seen her before. “You’re cleverer than I knew.” Then she softened. “But I would never ask this of you.”

  “But they could slay you on the spot.” Alodie’s panic turned cold at the gruesome image in her mind—that of the princess lying dead before them, throat cut, eyes blank, a pool of blood around her body. She didn’t want to die, but it would be far worse for everyone if the princess were slain.

  The room broke out in a wild din as all the people began talking at once.

  The princess held up her hand and uncharacteristically raised her voice. “She’s right to say so because it’s the truth. They might have such a plot in mind. Doing so would inspire terror in the rest of you.”

  Ladies held one another for comfort, sniffing and shaking their heads.

  Alodie straightened, standing tall and willful against the impulse to run away. She had no gold, no silver, and no finery to sacrifice to the demons. No object of value to incite them to leave.

  What she did have was her life.

  In the eyes of God, souls were equal. Here upon earth, however, people were sharply divided. Those in the upper strata were more important than the rest. Was it right? Alodie didn’t know—and now wasn’t the time for pondering those questions. Fact was, the princess was important to a vast number of people. Alodie was consequential to nobody. If her life were all she had to give…

  Cold terror gripped Alodie’s bones.

  No, she would not submit to fear. She would do what she must. She would.

  She spoke with words far braver than she felt. Her insides shook, but dread was no excuse for weakness. “Then they’ll have killed the wrong person and you’ll be safe.”

  “Alodie, I won’t ask you to do this.”

  “Forgive me, princess, but you’re not asking me to do this. It is I who am asking—nay, begging you to allow me this boon.”

  One of the women stepped forward. She gave Alodie a sorrowful glance before turning her attention to the princess. Her voice was thin and a little unsteady. “I think she’s right, my lady. Let her.”

  Cyneburga’s mouth puckered. “Doesn’t she have their blood in her veins? How do we know she isn’t part of a conspiracy?”

  Alodie’s stomach twisted. ’Twas true, that. It was what she hated most about herself above all else. Her father had been one of them. He’d come to raid, of course. But then he’d fallen under the spell of her mother’s deep-set gray eyes and thick fall of unusually colored hair. He’d married her.

  Several years later, he’d tired of his wife and child. Without warning, he’d abandoned them both. Faithless, hateful louse. Alodie didn’t have a single memory of him, and thank the Lord for that. His departure had broken her mother. Would that Alodie could, she’d burn any trace of him from her blood.

  The princess remained calm. “That’s hardly fair. Alodie has done nothing but work admirably for years. In asking me to grant this request, she has shown me remarkable loyalty.”

  Cyneburga tossed her head. “That will make her inevitable betrayal all the worse.”

  The princess held up a hand. “It’s all right, Alodie. I don’t believe for one moment that you are capable of such a thing.” She raised her head to address the ladies together. “Come. Quickly now. We’ll help her dress.”

  Chapter Three

  I’ve Come for You, Princess

  Wearing unimaginably soft fabric that fell elegantly about her legs, Alodie stepped into the open space before the walls. The demons were waiting, though there were fewer than expected. It seemed that the whole world should be packed with the ugly lot of them, like the earth had opened and they were swarming straight from the mouth of hell. As vile as a hatch of flies.

  There were many of them, make no mistake. All heavily armed. Though it was daytime, two carried torches.

  The sun had burned the morning clouds to nothing. The true princess hid in plain sight among the ladies flanking Alodie.

  Would the demons see through the deception? The princess was calm and regal. It felt like the world pulled toward her in never ending graces. The sun shone brighter on her face. The soft sighs of the swaying tree branches and rustling leaves bowed in deference to her.

  All Alodie had to do was remain calm. They would not be able to read the signs, and wou
ld have no reason to believe she was not the princess.

  The demons had the look of creatures who fed on some unholy force. They towered over all. Their arms were bulky, their necks corded. Their strength was unknown this side of heaven.

  The sun should have been warm upon Alodie’s face. But everything was cold. As if the whole world solemnly awaited the slaughter.

  The translator stood at the ready, but he was a mere showpiece for Alodie. Cuthberht—born Cnut—was the one instructing the princess in the demon tongue. Alodie was among those learning, in fact, strange as it seemed. When the princess had discovered Alodie possessed a quick ear, she’d bid her to join the lessons, to have someone on pace with her with whom to practice.

  The demon leader stepped forward. Alodie’s mouth went dry. He should have been hideous. Revolting. Twisted and broken, with boils, scars, and a skin condition so bad, dogs would cower in fear.

  Instead, he was tall, with an intricately embellished strap across a broad chest and an axe upon his back. A tunic of blue wool covered him almost to his knees. On one arm circled by a golden ring, he held a shield, the surface pock-marked and splintered, as if it had seen battle. In his other hand, he held a sword. A sign of his wealth, perhaps, for swords were difficult to make and extremely expensive. He could easily have taken it as bought it. Or even killed for it.

  Instead of leaving the bristles on his face to grow in a wild tangle, his thick beard was well-tended, and decoratively shaved in places. Black lined his eyes and gold stranded his light brown hair, the locks twisted and plaited elaborately. Set in his eyes were two shining disks stolen from a summer morning sky.

  In short—he was beautiful. And she noticed. For that, she would deserve it if he raised his sword and struck her down instantly. Not if she lived into her eighth decade could she atone for having seen him as anything but the demon scourge of the earth that he was. The secret might lie buried in her heart, but she would know. The knowledge would be a burden.

  Never did the leader’s gaze leave her. There was power in his stare.

  His beauty and strength put her internal footing on unsteady ground. She forced herself to speak, her voice quaking. “Tell us what it is you want.”

  Cuthberht translated.

  A small smile touched the leader’s lips. Calm. Cool. And—confirming everything she knew of his kind—wholly without mercy. He wore the sort of confidence that bespoke eager violence should they dare to defy him.

  He raised a hand and gave a signal. The two demons holding the torches tossed them, one into a rubbish pile and the other at a dilapidated animal shed. Women screamed and a few men charged forward to tend the flames before they caught, but demons held them back.

  Smoke began to curl. It was too damp for real concern, although fire was never to be treated lightly. Most everything was built of wood.

  But it wasn’t about damage, was it? It was a warning. In the tense atmosphere, a rush of panicked outbursts rang out from those gathered.

  The leader held up a hand. The din quieted. When he spoke, his words needed no translation for her practiced ears. They struck in the center of Alodie’s heart. “I’ve come for you, princess.”

  Chapter Four

  Thorvald’s Torment

  Thorvald Longsword did not have time for self-loathing. He would do what he came to do because that was the only thing that mattered. Fourteen long winters he’d been waiting for this chance. Since he’d been a hapless boy of twelve, suddenly stripped of everything he ever thought the world to be.

  The assembled people represented what he understood of the tiers of their society. Holy men, of course, most in plain garments with odd circles shaved into the tops of their heads. The highborn and the lowborn, each clustered in their separate ranks, distinguishable at a glance by which groups were cleaner and more finely groomed than others.

  Among the faces, it was the princess who stood out. As she should, probably, but also because there was something about her face he didn’t want to stop studying. There was every feeling that had she been a mere bystander in a much larger crowd, she’d still have caught his attention.

  The entire voyage, he’d sworn to himself he’d stare straight into the princess’s eyes and feel nothing. He’d do what he had to. That’s all there was to it. He was sure he was deadened to feeling, more so now than ever. This was what he wanted. What he strove for. One final task in the jarl’s name and all his years of waiting and suffering would come to a swift end. All he had to do was remain aloof. Not care. And he’d told himself again and again he wouldn’t.

  That had been his intent.

  Staring into huge gray eyes, one thing became abundantly clear: he needed a new plan.

  He turned toward an unexpectedly familiar face among the gathering. Cnut. For now, Thorvald would refrain from calling the man traitor. Everyone had believed Cnut dead. Seeing him for the first time must have been what seeing a ghost was like. Later, Thorvald would have a detailed conversation with the man. There were questions needing answers. “Tell them we want none of their auðr, treasure. All they must do is hand over the princess and we will leave.”

  Cnut listened, then turned to the grouping of women, flanked by aged menfolk, the creatures looking like animals cornered by hungry wolves, puffing themselves up in a vain attempt to look bigger. It was sad, in a way.

  The king was away hunting—a stroke of luck in Thorvald’s favor. Unfortunately, it remained to be seen whether or not he would be saved the trouble of spilling blood to see his task completed.

  All things considered, he’d rather not. There were battles where honor could be won even if they ultimately lost. Conversely, battles could be won and he could still leave the field without any honor whatsoever.

  When the women were finished conferring, the princess spoke and Cnut translated. “The princess says she has much gold and silver to offer you.”

  The man at Thorvald’s side—Sigurd Bonecrusher, friend, cousin, and a powerful warrior in his own right—nudged him. Sigurd’s flaxen locks were tied back from his face. His blue-green eyes were so intense, it was a wonder they couldn’t light fires when he grew angry. On a chain around his neck he wore an amulet of Thor’s hammer.

  Sigurd gave Thorvald a dark look and muttered under his breath, “Seems like a better idea to me.”

  Thorvald set his gaze back on the princess and replied in equally low tones. “It’s not what the jarl wants.”

  “Then let him eat a pile of sheep droppings.”

  “I gave my word.” His word. It was Thorvald’s ever-ready response—and resoundingly true. Despite that, the words had become hollow. A vow to a man was a vow to the gods. No matter how Thorvald might regret his promise, he’d given it. Unless the jarl himself gave Thorvald his freedom, he was bound, as surely as he’d been tied in knots. Sigurd had no such constraint.

  If the jarl was to be overthrown—and for the love of the gods, let the day come—it would be Sigurd who led the rebellion. Not Thorvald. It would be the worst thing he could do, for as a frightened boy under significant distress, Thorvald—clinging wildly to what he now knew had been false hope—had sworn fealty to Jarl Erlendr.

  Look where it had brought him. That promise had cost many long winters lost to mental anguish—pain he could neither share nor release. If the princess was the price of his freedom, then the princess he would pay.

  “Then break your word.” Sigurd spoke offhandedly. Like doing so wouldn’t crack Thorvald in two and twist him into everything he hated.

  Together, they’d picked through a version of this conversation too many times to make meaningful headway now. It was a powerful subject, yet it evoked nothing from either of them. They’d engaged more passionately about rowanberries.

  They were never going to see eye to eye. Sigurd would never understand…partially because Thorvald would never tell him.

  Thorvald would
split open his own skull for his cousin. But never could he unburden the secret that kept him locked in the jarl’s control. Not to Sigurd. Not to anybody. He couldn’t stand seeing how they’d look at him if they knew. “I never turn coward.”

  Sigurd grunted, clearly uninterested in pursuing that line of discussion.

  The women finished conferring. The princess spoke and Cnut translated. “Under no circumstances will we give you the princess.”

  None among Thorvald or his men had expected the people to agree. Not readily anyway. Even if they’d hated the woman, she was still theirs.

  However, what he saw told him they didn’t hate her. Neither did they revere her, though. Actually—he narrowed his eyes as he glanced again through the faces—the way they looked at her was strange. He couldn’t puzzle out what they might be thinking.

  Didn’t matter. He wasn’t here to probe or evaluate them.

  Thorvald raised his sword and wound two interconnected loops through the air. The women screamed and clutched each other and the men surrounding them raised their own weapons, ready to fight, ready to die, for it would be certain death. They knew it, too.

  If Thorvald signaled his men to fight, there would be no challenge. The battle was not worthy of the name, certainly not worthy of any true warrior. Thorvald’s men were strong and well trained. Their men were tottering and old, bent from a lifetime of toil, more accustomed to wielding wooden shovels as they moved animal muck than wielding blades.

  Thorvald lowered his sword. He could paint the ground red before a bead of sweat formed on his brow. Fighting these people wouldn’t even leave him hungry. It would be a slaughter. Such were not the scenes of which legends were cast and songs were sung.

  And when it was over, then what? He’d take the princess and they would sail on the next tide. Every time he looked at her, he’d see her remember what he’d wrought. Her face would hide no emotion. The idea that she’d relive the event each time she looked at him made Thorvald want to crawl out of his skin. She was already going to hate him forever.