The Viking's Captive

by Ingrid Hahn

  And never did a word pass between them.

  The silence was preferable to the alternative.

  She hugged her knees closer to her chest. She didn’t need anyone to talk to. Better to be ignored by demons than subject to their conversations. Oh, there was chatter aplenty. Picking up vocabulary Cuthberht hadn’t included in his instruction kept her from being driven straight out of her skin.

  Farther and farther they went. The deeper north they sailed, the more lost she was. Lost forever, as easily as a glass bead dropped into the depths.

  Her old life seemed so far away. The new one remained strange and foreign, even as her ear sharpened to their language.

  One thing remained constant. The sensation that the leader watched. Not simply his men, but also her. But he watched them differently. To his men, he was in charge, fully and without question.

  To her, though… It was difficult to describe. Alodie had experienced nothing like it in all her days. The force of his protection erected a kind of invisible wall around her.

  The other demons ignored her, though it was easy to believe her fate would have been utterly wretched had the leader been indifferent. She had to be grateful for that. And she was. Begrudgingly.

  Every night, they rested together upon his cloak, his sword between them. Him on his side. Her on hers. Never speaking. Never touching. Unfailingly, her sleep was plagued with dreams of doing both. And more.

  Far more.

  …

  Alodie woke one morning to a new kind of commotion on the ship. Gulls flapped around the wooden craft, crying for an easy meal. She pushed from the makeshift bed as the men ran around the narrow deck, pulling lines and talking excitedly.

  Land had been sighted. Off the front of the prow and still far enough to be shrouded in the sea mists that muted its true colors. But land, sure enough. The cold north inhabited by these brutish demons. A foreign shore to her.

  The smudge of brownish green in the distance brought everything back in a chilling rush. How far away she was. How alone she was. How uncertain her fate. A sickly wave rolled her stomach, threatening to quickly and forcefully eject the contents. Home was now nothing but a memory.

  Instead of going straight to the coast, however, when they came close, the men went to the sails again to redirect the ship.

  The young man Hrolf caught her eye. He approached her tentatively, like a hungry dog whose natural wariness of humans was temporarily suppressed by the need for meat. “We’ll be hugging the coastline as we sail up and going ashore by night.”

  The underlying meaning was easy to discern. Now that the vast, salty sea lay between her and home, they didn’t have to keep her prisoner aboard the ship by sleeping upon it when darkness fell.

  Her whole face tightened with apprehension, not for being transparent, but with the strain of impatience to know what was going to happen. Discounting the uncomfortable sensations awakened in her body when near the demon leader, the waiting was proving to be one of the worst parts of the ordeal.

  The day passed with gnawing sluggishness. The sun seemed to go stagnant in the sky.

  But late afternoon was certain to come and come it did. Sighting a village, the leader gave the order to put in.

  Her foot no sooner touched dry land than an unexpected thought exploded inside her skull. This was her father’s home. Maybe not here precisely, but somewhere along the beaches, forests, or mountains, he’d been born, had grown into a man, then taken to the sea.

  Was he still alive?

  Thorvald took her arm as she made her way on shaky legs. She shot him a sidelong glance. Would he do the same as her father had done? Love a woman, father a child on her, then leave without warning?

  Most of the men tended to the ships. The demon leader sent a few to hunt and a few more to speak with the people who’d come from the nearby village to offer hospitality. He stayed close, watching and directing, but never moving more than ten paces from her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Pretending to Be His

  The chief of the seaside demon village was the biggest man Alodie had ever seen—not in height, but in girth. He had a rounded nose with large pores and pockmarked cheeks, but an easy smile below a bushy beard big enough for a badger to hide within.

  He greeted them on the beach with welcoming familiarity and bade them come into the great hall. “Hail, Thorvald Longsword. Didn’t expect to see you. Thought you were giving up raiding.”

  “This will be my last run.”

  “And it should be, if it’s causing you to look like that.”

  “Life on the sea has never been easy.”

  “Indeed. But you look as if you’ve been gnawed by Fenrir and drinking soured wine your men have been urinating in.”

  “I won’t thank you for putting that idea into my thoughts, old man.” Thorvald took Alodie’s arm and slipped it around his, pressing a hand on her protectively. There was something about the action suggesting that although there was friendliness between them, the demon leader didn’t fully trust the other man. Was there reason or was he simply being cautious?

  The other man scanned the shore. “No Sigurd?”

  Thorvald tensed. “No Sigurd.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. The man frowned a moment. Then the pieces must have come together, for his brows rose slightly. “Ah.” He noticed Alodie and nodded his chin to her. “Your thrall, Longsword?”

  “She’s mine and I expect she’ll be left alone, Gorm.”

  Gorm pondered for a breath or two, his enormous chest going up and down. He looked like he wanted to ask questions. Instead he turned to address his people and bellowed, “Any man who looks at this woman in a way Thorvald doesn’t like will answer to the sharp end of my sword.”

  None of the onlookers’ expressions shifted after this proclamation.

  Then Gorm looked back at them and, with a quick wave, bid them up the dirt path into the village. There were animals in pens next to the houses—a few roaming free—people watching the new arrivals, muddy children running joyfully through puddles, and stray bits of washing hung up in tree branches to dry.

  They came into the long, narrow structure constructed of heavily timbered walls, and spent the next while in the dark, smoky interior, talking over food and drink.

  The man called for wine, then turned to Thorvald with a cheeky grin. “Won’t have better than this if you suckled the sweet breasts of Freya herself.”

  A woman brought him two goblets and he handed one over to Thorvald, who sipped the drink, ignoring the comment. More people entered the longhouse, taking seats and availing themselves of the eager hospitality.

  Their host took a seat in a wide wooden chair carved with interlocking vines. Similar chairs were brought for Alodie and the demon leader.

  “What’d I tell you, eh?” Grinning again, Gorm held up his cup. A brown striped cat jumped into his lap and the man began to stroke her ears. “Took it myself on my last raid. One of those…er—vodestries, I think they’re called…where the men stay together and don’t take wives.”

  Doubtless he meant monastery, but Alodie wasn’t inclined to correct him.

  She sat stiffly. Being without the company of the familiar faces she’d known all her life was jarring. She’d become a captive in someone else’s life. She stole a glance at the man who’d made her his prisoner. What would the real princess have made of him?

  Alodie listened to every word passing between the two men. Clues—any clues—that would help her understand her situation—or these people—would be a boon.

  As they talked on, the cat on Gorm’s lap shut her golden eyes and began purring audibly. When the food came, Alodie crossed herself in preparation of giving thanks.

  “She’s one of those, I see.” Gorm wrinkled his nose. “Of all the women you could have, Thorvald, why pick one who makes her bed w
ith that strange god?”

  Alodie gave him her most hateful scowl.

  He seemed to find this funny, and laughed. “There’s the first thing you must rid her of.”

  Thorvald shook his head absently and began to speak. “I don’t think that will be nec—”

  But indignant fury was shooting sparks through her like a hundred flint stones struck at once. “How dare you—”

  “Princess!” snapped Thorvald.

  It was too late. She glared at them, those hateful pagans. “No matter where you take me or what you do to me, I will never give up my God—the only true God, and the one path to salv—”

  “Ahh—” Thorvald grabbed her hand and squeezed so hard she yelped.

  Gorm hooted with mirth and slapped his knee. “Looks like you were duped by a pretty face, Thorvald.” When the fit of humor had worn itself out, he grunted and took a heaping mouthful. “That one there”—The cat reached up a paw for a morsel and was instantly rewarded with a string of bird meat. The cat’s master swallowed and became instantly more intelligible—“has a bit of fire in her, doesn’t she?”

  “Leave it be, Gorm.”

  “She’s going to be trouble.” Their host grunted again and stretched back in his chair. “Bed the pretty ones, if you must—I know I did in my day—but marry the plain ones. The best advice my father gave me, may the gods be feasting on his liver.”

  “Gorm.”

  Gorm ignored him, waving his knife in Thorvald’s face. “That’s what I did for my sons and what I’ll do for my young one when the time comes, and all but one of them—”

  “Gorm. Leave it be.” He didn’t sound exasperated or dangerous, merely annoyed.

  “Pretty faces will be the death of us all.” The large man sighed. “Well, you wouldn’t be the first and you won’t be the last.”

  Alodie had finally had enough and spoke up. “He told you to stop. I suggest you heed him.”

  They both stared at her. Even a few of the others around them gave her a surprised look. Well, what did they expect? A meek little mouse? It wasn’t as if they could do worse to her than what had already been done.

  Thorvald cleared his throat, raised his cup, and signaled to a nearby servant that he required a refill. “Tell me more about this wine, old friend.”

  Gorm stroked his beard, thoughtful a moment. “First I must tell you about the new ship that brought us there…”

  The other man started at the beginning—the very beginning, with how he’d personally selected the trees which were eventually used in the ship’s construction. Thorvald looked attentive. Alodie’s mind wandered. She finished her prayer of thanks and ate. Bread, soft cheese, salmon, and green vegetables from a wooden plate, washing it down with ale and sweet spring water. It was fresh, warm, and surprisingly good. Far more meager fare would have been welcome, but her tongue had no complaints.

  Musicians began to play strange, sweet melodies. If the circumstance were different, she might have enjoyed listening.

  She eyed the demon leader sitting beside her. Ever since they’d come into this place, people had treated her with the unspoken understanding that she was his.

  His.

  Alodie shifted in her seat, trying to quell the unwelcome sprig of pride growing within her at the idea of being connected with him. Intimately connected with him.

  She studied his profile with a sidelong glance. His nose was strong, his cheekbones sharp as a knife. And his eyes—

  He caught her looking. Her traitorous face went abominably hot. She put her attention back on her food.

  Alodie burned inside. This had to stop. From now on, she’d be indifferent to him. If she had to cast her eyes in his direction, she would be indifferent…impervious…no, utterly numb to the beauty of his face. If he removed his tunic and pushed up the sleeves of his linen undershirt, his arms would not interest her. How the biceps moved were how they moved. If his forearms appeared cleverly sculpted, she’d be the last to notice. Nothing about him was worth a thought.

  Without warning, the demon leader removed the golden arm ring he wore and handed it over. “For your hospitality, old man. May your beard never thin and you die an honorable death.” He raised his goblet and drank.

  Gorm picked up the jewelry. “Won’t fit my arm, but it’ll look pretty on my prick.”

  He burst out laughing. Even the demon leader smiled a little. “I can think of no finer place for it.”

  The two men talked on and Gorm fed the cat bites from his plate. They weren’t saying much that held her attention. When the snows had melted… What was being planted this year… Which horses were due to foal…

  Then they started talking about the winds. The conversation turned to the storm and the demon leader’s expression hardened.

  …

  Thorvald didn’t particularly care to share the details of the storm with Gorm. Good friend though he might have been, he was more the sort to enjoy fine foods with. Gorm’s world consisted of eating, fighting, treasure, and sex—which admittedly was one more thing than the cat on his lap, but if Thorvald were to guess which of them saw the world in more subtle shades, he’d be hard pressed not to pick the animal.

  He recounted the tale, leaving aside wanting to follow Sigurd into the depths, and deciding to stay alive for the princess. He kept the details sparse.

  “But you survived.” Gorm went silent for a long time, alternating between staring into his wine cup and sipping his prized drink. He settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath and releasing it slowly. Without warning, he snorted. The cat jumped away.

  The princess narrowed her eyes at their host. “Is he…?”

  “Asleep.” It was only a matter of time. Oddly relieved, Thorvald pushed to his feet. “He does that. A bit of food, a bit of drink, a bit of talk.”

  She stood with him, still giving Gorm a puzzled expression. He was beginning to snore.

  “Come.” He took the princess by the arm. From first sighting the older man coming down from the village, he’d been wary. If Gorm had thought for even a sliver of a moment that the princess was there only to serve the men and that he might have his turn with her, Thorvald would have run his sword through the man’s belly, old friend or not. “We’ll sleep outside.”

  “Outside?”

  “It’s a fine evening and will be a beautiful night.” In truth, Gorm could be a lot drunker than he appeared. Thorvald didn’t think the man would find his way to the princess’s bed in the night and violate her—he understood she was Thorvald’s—but there was no point in taking chances.

  Thorvald led her out of the hall. His head was light. Like he could easily slip into intoxication himself, if he took more wine.

  “You shouldn’t have silenced me.”

  He didn’t need to feign misunderstanding. “Maybe not. But there are some people who aren’t worth arguing with. Even when you’re right.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the Fire

  Alodie stayed by the fire while the sun prepared to give way to the moon. Many of the men were out on the shore, having had their fill in the hall and settling in for a night with their ale and mead. Before they began drinking freely, they stood on the shore and thanked their gods.

  The trees and rocks and view of the sea were similar to what she’d known all her life, but also utterly strange. In the sand, bigger pebbles were scattered through the fine grains. The trees were different—nearly all pines, straggly and spindly.

  It did not look fertile or promising. What kept people trying to eke out a life in such an environment?

  “There’s no place to go.”

  She started at the sound of the deep voice addressing her and snapped her attention to the demon leader. Alodie bit her lip. How had her face betrayed her thoughts in such detail?

  He didn’t look up from what h
e was doing, carving little lines into the stone he’d found when they’d taken to land after the storm. It must have been a pattern of some kind that meant something to him. Maybe a token for one of his hateful heathen gods.

  “And if you try to run, I will catch you again. It will be futile.”

  Oh. He thought she was surveying the terrain in order to plan another escape attempt.

  A vision flashed in her mind—them together again in the darkness, their bodies pressed together, the scent of him filling her awareness, and the closeness of him making her know herself as a woman with animal appetites.

  It was exactly what had been haunting her dreams.

  Horrible, rotten, unholy demon of a man. She needed to put a quick end to the plague of sinful thoughts.

  “I’m not fool enough to try to flee in a land unknown to me.”

  He stopped carving for a moment and stared into the fire, words coming out with a resigned flatness. “Desperation makes fools of us all.”

  The reply sparked curiosity and her attention upon him intensified. She fought to stamp out the flames. She did not want to understand him. He didn’t deserve that. The demon had ripped her away from her life for his own selfish reasons. He was not worth her curiosity.

  “You speak from your own experience, no doubt.”

  She’d meant it as a barb, but he made no indication he’d heard her.

  No, she did not want to know anything about him. She merely wanted to cling to him and move with him as every stroke of his body within hers sent her spiraling toward rapture.

  If Eve had felt like this in the Garden of Eden, mankind had been destined to fall from the very beginning.

  Alodie ground her teeth together. She should be stronger. What could purge her of this hateful longing? She pulled herself into a ball, resting her chin upon her knees, arms about her shins, as if to save herself from drowning.

  She let go and ran her fingers through the sand. Her fingers found a pebble. She tossed it into the fire before them. The wind picked up, coaxing the flames higher.