The Viking's Captive

by Ingrid Hahn

  He placed her at the far end and stood nearby at the prow ornamented with a fantastical creature. “All right, men. Time to sail.”

  Alodie studied the carved wood. The skill and decoration were neither of them mean feats. The styling was both familiar and foreign. One troubling question crawled over her skin. What exactly did it depict? Their heathen god? A creature of the far north? Something they believed demanded a sacrifice and it would be her?

  A line of hulking demons on either side of the longships ran the vessels out past the waves.

  Alodie’s heart began beating wildly in the hollow cavern of fear that had become her interior self. In difficult parts of her life, she’d thought she’d felt like she was adrift at sea, alone and at the mercy of wind, weather, and tide. When she’d told the blacksmith she wouldn’t marry him, for example. Right after they’d…

  Whatever she’d felt then was nothing like this. Nothing. Now she was truly alone. With demons. In a ship following the motions of the waves…on a fast and fathomless sea.

  Not since her mother’s untimely death had the fragility of life been so patently obvious. Each person balanced on a slender thread of fate as delicate as spider silk. And her thread had snapped.

  There was no bed to return to. No princess to watch and try to emulate. No duties or work to keep Alodie occupied so she could stop her thoughts from wandering.

  More than that, she’d been wrong earlier about the nightmare deepening.

  The nightmare was only beginning.

  Chapter Eight

  Thorvald Struggles with His Conscience

  With the princess safely on board, Thorvald worked as hard as any of his men to get the vessel upon the winds that would carry them home. The questions he’d wanted to ask Cnut played at the back of his mind. But getting the princess and moving on toward home as quickly as possible had been far more important than indulging curiosity.

  For practical reasons, sleeping on land by night was always preferable to spending the night on the waves, but the route home left them no choice. By land, the princess could—depending on how confident she felt in an unknown place—make an escape. It was unlikely she’d ever left home before now. He’d take no chances.

  Sailing at night presented different problems. After years of taking to the sea for raids, he was confident reading the stars, but always took great care in checking himself. Confidence led to arrogance and arrogance led to mistakes.

  Second was the matter of the men themselves. Most could be trusted. But not all.

  Thorvald would have to stay vigilant and close. The quarters were cramped and there was always work to be done aboard ship. But people looked for small moments in which to act, when least expected. Thorvald couldn’t let down his guard.

  Sigurd was among those taking a rest from rowing while the men who were fresh and ready took the oars. There was probably something else he could have been doing. But, not being the lazy sort, he didn’t need Thorvald to invent work for him. He’d not neglect his duties.

  “The boy Hrolf.” Thorvald nodded his chin down the length of the ship to indicate the person in question. He needed a distraction from the thoughts pestering him about what he’d done to the woman on his ship. “How do things go with him?”

  Hrolf was like Sigurd and himself. Fatherless. He was in that transition stage, one summer away from his twentieth—very nearly a man, but still a boy in many ways. When Thorvald had been his age, he’d have pulled his sword on anyone who dared to suggest he wasn’t fully a man. In retrospect, however, that feeling had come from all the doubts he still held about himself. Doubts he would die to hide rather than admit.

  Fortunately, young Hrolf carried nothing like Thorvald’s burden. Hrolf’s father had died of illness. Not the way a warrior wanted to see his way to the other side, but a tragedy all too common.

  Hrolf was a good young man. Hardworking, hard fighting. Thorvald had liked him even before Sigurd had taken responsibility for guiding him gracefully into manhood. Sigurd had trained him and talked with him, and Hrolf had taken to him. In the eyes of the young one, Sigurd could do no wrong.

  “As you see, Hrolf is eager to please and quick to learn. Wants to go raiding and have songs written about him, but can neglect his training.”

  Once, Thorvald had been as excited to raid and amass treasure as Hrolf. The thrill was long gone. Fine things held little meaning if one’s belly couldn’t be filled. Land was what mattered. Working it, caring for it and the animals that depended on it—that was what he wanted. The last time he’d been truly happy. He might play the part of a warrior to great effect, but it wasn’t who he was or what he wanted to be.

  The only part he liked anymore was the sailing. The ships were beautiful, the sea dark and mysterious, more dangerous and less forgiving than one man pitted in battle against a thousand brutal warriors.

  Thorvald glanced down and caught the princess’s glower. Precisely what he wished to avoid. Nothing to be done about it now. The choice had been made.

  He glanced back to Sigurd.

  An undercurrent of awareness ran between the two men. They both knew the topic they wanted to speak of—the princess—but avoided.

  Thorvald pressed on. “He’s strong.”

  Every time Thorvald watched Sigurd train Hrolf, he was newly impressed by his friend’s abilities. If there was one among them born to raise the men up against the jarl, it was Sigurd.

  Sigurd made a sound of acknowledgment. “And what are you going to do about her?”

  And just like that, the ice broke with a jarring crack.

  It was a relief, really. Thorvald wanted to talk about her, but hadn’t wanted to be the first one to mention her. Now that he could, he had to bite back all that he wanted to spill from his lips. He wasn’t usually one to say much, but it would be easy to reveal more than he wanted anyone to know.

  “Exactly as I planned.” Nothing more. Nothing less.

  “Seems a cruel fate. And you’re not a cruel man.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “No. You’re not.”

  The ships rocked over swells, bespeaking wind. Men grunted and strained, but wouldn’t have to much longer, not once they could use the sail. Shirtless in the late morning sun, their skin shone with sweat from the exertion. The sky was clear. They could see no land, but weren’t yet so far as to have lost the birds, some of which swooped and dove at the ship, having learned there were sometimes scraps to be had from fishing boats.

  “It’s not my concern.” Thorvald stared out at the endless expanse of water. Traveling the whale road was what it was sometimes called in poems. The phrase had captured his imagination when he was a boy and had made him eager to go to sea. But as much as he’d loved his time on the ships, he’d wanted to return to his land more. The jarl well knew the depths of Thorvald’s need to be restored to the place of his birth. How neatly Erlendr had exploited him. “The jarl asks. I deliver.”

  Truth be told, everything done in the name of Jarl Erlendr was without honor. Thorvald would be a goat’s ass if he were ever caught surprised on that point.

  Silently, Thorvald repeated to himself what had kept him from acting on his impulse to defy the jarl—a vow to a man was a vow to the gods. On his own merits, the person who held Thorvald in thrall meant nothing. But the promise did.

  “I think he’ll be surprised to see you.”

  Thorvald gave Sigurd a measured look. “You think this was a test of my loyalty?”

  “I don’t think anyone can doubt your loyalty, cousin.” A hint of sourness tainted Sigurd’s tone.

  Truth be told, the situation troubled him in exactly the manner Sigurd had voiced. It didn’t make sense for this to be a test of loyalty, though.

  Did it? Thorvald was one of the jarl’s finest warriors and, thanks to the fetters of the ill-begotten promise, the most loyal of men. He was also o
ne of the best raiders. Gold. Silver. Beautiful stones. Metals worked with such magnificent skill, it was difficult to believe they were the work of men. Fabrics so unthinkably fine, they were fit for the gods. The garments he wore and the precious Ulfberht sword were proof of what he’d accomplished. He had no land to work and no woman to weave. Without the raids, he’d be destitute, wearing old gray castoffs of moth-eaten wool.

  He drew the line at taking people. Or had. He’d said he never would often enough. When the jarl had first told Thorvald what he wanted from him, Thorvald had thought the jarl to be testing his loyalty. The jarl had made a liar of him.

  It was important to remember that the princess wouldn’t be held in thrall, not in the true sense. That was important, wasn’t it? The distinction had to matter, though he was going to hand her over to the man he hated most in the world.

  Thorvald glanced back at his captive.

  Their eyes met. Instantly, unwanted heat shot through his prick.

  She was huddled on the planks in the depths of her cloak and stared right back at him, venom in her eyes. With those eyes so dark and fierce and huge in her face, she roused something in him. Something unnamable…uncomfortable…and more than a little dangerous.

  Such distractions were dangerous. More dangerous yet was the sense he’d be a fool to deny—that this woman held power over him. How soon until she awoke to the knowledge? When she did, she could easily attempt to exploit him.

  Sigurd came closer and kept his voice low. “You’re going to have to live with yourself for this.”

  Thorvald scowled. “As we both shall.”

  Sigurd curled his finger around the end of his beard.

  Thorvald gave his cousin a sidelong glance. “Or are you thinking of changing your mind?”

  They were going to farm Thorvald’s land together. It was what they’d always planned, from the time they were boys after the first battle when Thorvald had sworn to himself he’d reclaim what the jarl had stolen.

  “I will miss the sea.” Sigurd’s expression turned forbearing. “It’s bittersweet, isn’t it? Leaving something you love for what it is you’ve waited your whole life to return to?”

  Thorvald leaned his forearms over the edge, not trusting himself to speak his agreement aloud. Sigurd leaned next to him. “All I’m saying is that no man who’s about to get all he’s wanted since he was twelve ever looked so glum.”

  Inadvertently, Thorvald glanced back to the princess again. She was quiet and still. But there was nothing meek about her. Nothing biddable. She was every inch a princess. Even in the humble garments and in her current predicament, she radiated the sort of dignity Jarl Erlendr could only dream of. Sooner or later, a woman like that was going to be trouble.

  Quickly, Thorvald looked away. “I’m already picturing it.”

  “Victory?”

  The wind they’d been expecting picked up suddenly, whipping loose strands of hair about their faces. The oars were pulled in, the sound of wood knocking heavily against wood as the men worked, and the sail manned.

  “My land. So yes. Victory. Freedom.” The last word came out in a rough whisper.

  When he had his land back, he was going to marry a woman with a bright smile. They would do what they would do and have as many children as she would cheerfully agree to give him. So many, he hoped, their hearts would be full to bursting. He would work his land, resume his duties as a warrior when he was obliged to, and never, ever give his children cause to feel the stinging pain and humiliation of being ashamed of their father.

  Thorvald stared harder into the surface of the sea, willing visions of fields nestled among the trees to appear in his mind. As a boy, he’d risen early this time of year, with his father. The sun would be up, the world awake. The birds could be deafening at times, the way they sang with the whole of their feathery beings.

  He and Sigurd used to trail behind the man they’d worshiped like Odin, each of them puffed up with importance as their elder explained animals and plants and let them help with the ceaseless repairs required of the various structures around the farm. When he was older, Thorvald had felt manly for having his own responsibilities. One of his tasks had been to bring the goats in and milk them at the same time every day. He’d moved the goat platform close to the door of the house where, adjacent but on the other side of the wall, his aunt kept her loom. He’d milk to the soft rustle of her weaving and light melodies of her singing with the rhythm she set in her work.

  Then his father, the old fool, had betrayed them all. The world believed Thorvald to be the son of a man now dead.

  If only that were true. How he still wished for it, with a boy’s uncomplicated ferocity.

  Do this for me and I will do this for you. That had been their agreement that day. The jarl had put his hand on Thorvald’s shoulder when he spoke. Sometimes, Thorvald could still feel it there. Ghostly and skeletal.

  His gaze wandered back to the princess. The person he’d taken.

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Thorvald raised his brows and Sigurd glanced between him and the princess with a significant look. Thorvald frowned. No use in pretending he didn’t understand. Most people couldn’t guess what Thorvald was thinking, but Sigurd usually came fairly close.

  He feigned dispassionate reserve. “Nothing can tempt me away from my land.”

  “You should have rested with a woman before we left.”

  “Maybe.” Thorvald shrugged. Getting comfortable between a woman’s legs sounded appealing, and he was usually up for it, so to speak. That said, he was also more difficult to convince than many of his comrades. When he had a woman, he wanted it to be very good. Not much resting, in other words, and something far more exciting than what he could do to himself with his hand.

  More than once, the men had called him “choosy,” flinging the word in his face as if it were an accusation. But they couldn’t rile him because he had no shame for being so. Sigurd, on the other hand, loved women in his bed. He was as fond of mannsongr as Freya herself.

  For Thorvald, claiming that a quick rut would have staved off the strange air of desire brewing would have been easy enough. Was it true? The sensation wasn’t quite like the stirrings he’d experienced in the past.

  It didn’t bear thinking about. She was destined for the jarl. Forbidden to Thorvald. What he felt was irrelevant.

  There was a pause.

  “Are you ever going to tell me?”

  An uneasy sensation rode Thorvald’s spine. “Tell you what?”

  “What keeps you loyal to the jarl?”

  Sigurd was broaching the subject now? Thorvald’s stomach heaved like he were experiencing his first trip at sea all over again.

  “Keep your voice down.” Nobody was supposed to know. No. Nobody knew. His secret was safe. Even from Sigurd. It had to be. So many winters couldn’t have passed without them speaking of it if Sigurd knew something he oughtn’t to have known. “I’m loyal to him because he’s our jarl. That’s the way things are.”

  “Dogs bark and fleas bite—that’s the way things are. This is something else. I’ve tried to be patient with you, waiting for you to come around in your own time. But now this witless frolic”—tossing his head dismissively, he spat the word with poisoned cynicism—“has me growing weary.”

  “Then why don’t you do something about it?”

  “What do you think I’m talking to you about?”

  “I can’t do anything, but you can. You know you can.” Thorvald lowered his voice further and leaned close. There was nothing more valuable than his promise or his land. Sigurd was encumbered of neither. “You can lead these men.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Thorvald caught Ubbi moving closer to the princess. Pulling himself to his full height, Thorvald turned. “Leave her be and don’t make me tell you again.”

  “She needs to be
tied up.” Ubbi raised the length of rope he carried. “She’ll get in all manner of trouble—”

  “She knows nothing of ships or sailing and is piteously outnumbered.” Thorvald had freed her of bindings once the ships were clear of the shore. “If she attempts anything, she’ll be the worse for it.”

  “What does she care?”

  “By every evidence of her actions, she values her life.” If she were going to be trouble, it would be on dry land. Ubbi’s face gave no evidence of understanding. Thorvald was wasting words on the man. Again. He wasn’t worth the effort. “You’re a stone in my shoe. Get back to work.”

  “She’s making a fool of you.” Ubbi sneered. Flies on dung had more charm.

  “Is she? Well, she’s so damn subtle about it, I can’t say I much care.”

  Unthinkingly, Thorvald glanced at her. For the briefest of instants, there was something in her countenance that said she understood.

  Shock rattled Thorvald’s bones. She couldn’t. Could she? No, he must have imagined it. They’d been at sea since the morning and the sun hadn’t yet hit its zenith. If she were exceptionally bright, she might have already gleaned the meaning of a few words. But comprehension was impossible. Most likely, by watching body language, expressions, and paying attention to how the unfamiliar words were spoken, she had no more than a strong sense of what was playing out.

  Ubbi tried again. “She needs to be tied up.”

  “I should toss you into the sea and have done with it. The few who would miss you can follow you to the black depths, for all I care.”

  Ubbi proceeded as though Thorvald hadn’t spoken. Rage rose in his blood and leaked into his bones. “You defy me.”

  The other man said nothing, but bent and roughly grabbed the princess’s arms, forcing them behind her back. She looked wild with terror.

  With sickening awareness that fundamentally he was no better than Ubbi, Thorvald moved. Sigurd stood at the same time and together they stepped over the planks. Ubbi must have been handling her with an excess of roughness, for she winced.