The Viking's Captive

by Ingrid Hahn

  What she was trying not to feel for him was creeping back. Nonetheless, she kept her voice hard. No good would come if he thought she was softening to him. “Who said anything about fighting him?”

  “I want to fight the jarl. I need to end this. To get to him, I must go through Hrolf.”

  “And you can’t.”

  He looked at her and shook his head. “The boy is…”

  “Too much like you were?”

  “In some ways, no. Not at all. In many ways, yes.”

  “And those ways he’s like you are too important to overlook.” She sighed. “Well, that settles it, then.”

  “That settles what?”

  “How this is going to play out.”

  “How is this going to play out?”

  “You’ll go. I’ll go. We’ll never see each other again.”

  He stalked up to her and stared down. “I don’t accept that, Alodie.”

  Great, lumbering warrior though he was, she wasn’t frightened by him. He was nothing but solid muscle and brutal strength, but he’d never hurt her. Unless I ask him to.

  Not wanting to remember what they’d done, she narrowed her eyes. “I don’t need you.”

  When he spoke, his voice was more vulnerable than she could have believed possible. “But I need you.”

  “The woman who lied to you?”

  “The woman who showed more true bravery than all the men in this village combined.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Why couldn’t you have come to this conclusion earlier?”

  “I wish I had.”

  “And why couldn’t you have been the one to help me when the jarl pushed me into the mud?”

  “I’ll never forgive myself that I wasn’t.”

  Oh, this infuriating man. How could he be sincere now? “What are you going to do, then?”

  “Figure out a way.”

  “You have little time. Hrolf is taking me as his avowed wife tonight.” And she’d be gone by morning.

  “I’m doing this. For me. For you. For us. And if I have to spend the rest of my life proving myself to you, I will do so.”

  “You’re making it sound like I’m going to have to snare you like a pest and release you a day’s sail down the coast so you don’t bother me again.”

  That gave him pause. Slowly, he nodded. “You’re right. I can’t dog you forever.” He swallowed. “Very well. If I can’t prove myself worthy by the time the next day’s sun sets, I’ll leave you alone. Forever.”

  “Not good enough. You’ll sail me home and we’ll forget—” It was her turn to swallow. A pheasant-sized rock could bash her on the head and it wouldn’t dislodge the memory of the explosive night they’d shared. She raised her chin. “We’ll forget we ever met.”

  They didn’t have a chance to continue. One of the women must have whispered in her husband’s ear because suddenly there were three of the jarl’s men running into the women’s area. Thorvald turned and vanished out the door.

  Alodie stuck out a foot. The first tripped over her and tumbled down in a crashing mountain, spilling curses that would have made the Devil blush. The second crashed into him, but the third managed to leap around them and dart out the narrow doorway.

  A shock of pain ran up her leg where the first of them had tangled himself with her. He turned a ruddy, heavily bearded face to her, bloodshot eyes ready to burn her to cinders where she stood. “What do you think you’re doing, woman?”

  Refusing to answer, she gave a disdainful sniff and lifted the plate, which had survived the ordeal. Any of these warriors could say whatever they pleased. Maybe she wouldn’t always be so valuable to the jarl, but for now she was. It was an advantage she’d ruthlessly exploit. They wouldn’t dare attempt anything more dire than a few ugly threats.

  Assuming a showy air of self-possession, she swanned out into the main area of the great hall.

  Not so long ago, she’d been proud of her role. Proud of being a servant. Proud of her duties and her ability to work. No task had been too big or too small. She’d known her place in the world. Even if she hadn’t held any true control over her destiny—who did?

  The jarl would see her stripped of everything. Forced to serve. Forced to obey. Forced to wed.

  She filled Hrolf’s cup from the ale barrel, but hung back. He and the jarl were talking. The washing bowl was being passed around with a bit of linen so all those eating could clean their hands.

  “Then I’ll lead the raid?”

  The jarl cast him a sidelong glance. “You’re too young.”

  The youth’s color went high. Hot impatience inflected his tone. “I’m your best warrior. It should be me.”

  “You’re too important.”

  Alodie tried not to snort at the jarl’s blatant manipulation. She glanced to Hrolf. Didn’t he see it?

  The small muscles around Hrolf’s eye twitched as Alodie sat herself beside him, his color still high with indignation. He clearly wanted to continue arguing with the jarl, but clamped his mouth shut, his gaze falling upon her.

  With careful deliberateness, she set the plate before him, keeping her eyes lowered in a show of modesty. When she chanced to look into his face, it was plain enough what he was imagining—all the things he thought he was going to do to her tonight when they were alone.

  She was right to have put the herb in his meat. The understanding sent swift relief to her bones. At sea, he’d seemed an ordinary sweet young man, keen to please, and dedicated to his work—and incapable of hurting someone against their will. He was no doubt as much a demon in battle as any of them. One-on-one, however, it was difficult to believe that Hrolf was able to inflict pain on anyone.

  With his self-importance bolstered by the jarl’s careful grooming, who knew what the altered Hrolf might be capable of? But he’d not touch her. Not tonight. Not ever.

  He picked up a small knife. “Shall you have some?”

  She folded her hands in her lap and kept her back stiff. “I’m not hungry.”

  With a shrug, he began devouring the tainted food.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Thorvald Longsword, Son of a Coward

  A full moon spilled silver over a silent world brimming with unrest. Countless stars glinted in the sky, like the overturned jewel box of the richest king who’d ever lived.

  Thorvald stayed on the rooftop, watching men stumble from the hall a few at a time. Many would be sleeping inside. Not all, though.

  Fighting Hrolf was out of the question. At least, by choice. If he were forced to make a choice—Alodie or Hrolf’s pride—there was no question of who or what he’d choose.

  Until the time came, he didn’t have to think about it. For now, he had to stand and fight.

  This was it. By Odin’s lost eye, he would not rest until he was growing cold, bleeding out on the ground.

  What he was about to do would finally breach the critical mistake he’d been making since his father’s cowardly act so many years ago. When he’d envisioned Sigurd fighting the jarl, he’d seen all the men fighting with him. When he envisioned himself fighting the jarl, he saw himself fighting alone.

  It didn’t have to be that way.

  He stood under the moon’s disk and called out to the men below. “The time has come.”

  Bleary faces blinked in confusion and looked around, seeking the source of the voice.

  “What’re you doing up there, you stupid pig’s testicle?”

  Some of the other men jeered.

  “Jarl Erlendr has controlled us long enough. He doesn’t care about our law. He cares only about his. He hears no voices and calls no things. What treasure we take, we give to him.”

  Fasti grimaced at him. “Because of you.”

  Thorvald allowed himself to feel the full weight of his guilt. It was true. The jarl held pow
er because of him. That power had long ago become corrupt. The jarl worked in his own interest and his own interest alone.

  “It’s time to fight.” Truly, it was long past time to fight.

  “Like you did tonight?”

  A ripple of laughter rolled through the drunken men. Thorvald hadn’t seen who’d spoken and couldn’t pinpoint the voice.

  It mattered not one bit.

  “I can’t do this alone.” The admission shredded something inside of him. All this time, it’d been him, apart from all. Isolated. Trapped by the oppression of the absolute certainty that if he fought, he would do so alone. It was a prison of his own making. A wall he himself had built. Well, now he was going to tear it down. Stone by stone, if necessary, heaving them away with all his might. Working and working until his hands bled and he collapsed, unable to lift anything else.

  He raised his head and said what he never once imagined himself saying. “I need you to stand with me.”

  His words stirred no passion from the men. They stared stonily at him.

  But they didn’t leave. That was important. He hadn’t lost them yet. A chance to sway them remained.

  More men emerged from the great hall, no doubt attracted by the noise outside. Their beds were less interesting than coming outside to see what was going on.

  “Why should we join the likes of you, Longsword?”

  “You’ve only ever served the jarl.” There was undisguised resentment in the second voice.

  Thorvald rubbed his hand over his head, fighting the demons of guilt within. He wouldn’t push it away. He would claim it. It would drive him to do what must be done. “In the last few days since I’ve returned, I’ve lost some of your trust. This morning, I’ll earn it back.”

  Several voices spoke at once.

  “Standing up there like a daft pigeon, putting on airs?”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “What do you think you can give us that he can’t?”

  “You’re nothing like your father was, young Thorvald Longsword.”

  Thorvald caught the last comment. A surge of angry defiance scorched his gut.

  Before he could respond, a new face appeared. A man came around the corner of one of the buildings, out of the shadows and into the light. His face was stern and steady. Unlike the rest of the men, who would be sleeping off their drunkenness well into the afternoon, this one didn’t have the same ruddiness of skin and unbalanced stance.

  Ozrik. He stopped short at the sight of Thorvald atop the roof.

  A few more of the men he trusted emerged from the hall, blinking in confusion. They were the men he wanted by his side.

  But none more than Ozrik.

  Suddenly the significance of what Thorvald was doing assumed a new weight. This was a test. If he couldn’t admit the truth in front of a man he considered a friend, he wasn’t going to be able to face Alodie, either. If that were case, he’d already lost.

  If that were the case…

  It wasn’t.

  “No, I’m nothing like my father.” Thorvald drew himself up. He’d rather face a thousand storms at sea than do this. But he could not continue to live under the jarl’s power. “My father did not die in battle. He ran from it. He exiled himself.”

  There. Now he had nothing left to lose. Nothing the jarl could utilize to manipulate Thorvald. The invisible irons shaking his wrists crumbled to dust.

  The gaping silence that followed was big enough to swallow the sea. Above them, it seemed the moon had grown bigger, like she too was listening.

  One of the men below slowly shook his head, the look in his bleary eyes dazed—like he struggled to regain enough sobriety to absorb the news. “That means he was a…he was a…”

  Thorvald swallowed. Apparently, he had to out and out say it.

  Well, he’d come this far. “My father…” He drew one last breath before tumbling over the threshold. The next words were for the woman he loved. “My father was a coward.”

  He bowed his head a moment. If only Sigurd could have been the one to hear it first.

  Thorvald closed his eyes. Please. Let it mean something. Let them join me instead of turning away from me in disgust.

  He raised his head and dared to look in Ozrik’s direction. The man wore plain shock on his features. Then the expression melted away. He gave Thorvald a slight nod. The movement was slight. The significance resounding. Approval. Respect. Understanding.

  Acceptance.

  All those nights ago Alodie had spoken to him about acceptance. He hadn’t thought much about it since. She’d been right. A part of him had dreaded the possibility of being shunned. He did want to belong.

  The significance of his admission washed over him. An impossible force raged through his veins. Like he’d swallowed lightning. It was bigger and more powerful than anything he’d experienced, even in the last hours since he’d seen himself in his dream while he’d slept on the rock.

  Because finally—finally—he was free. Truly this time. If he won, he would win Alodie and it would mean something. If he died…well, he’d die in glorious battle, a free man.

  Thorvald raised his sword. The polished metal glinted the moon’s reflection. “Who’s with me?”

  Ozrik pushed his way to the front of the men and shouted, “I’m with you. Until the end.”

  Fasti came next. “I’m with you.”

  Then Berg. “And me.”

  Ubbi pushed his way through to the front. “What’s this about your father being a coward?”

  A few of the other men seconded the question.

  Thorvald’s resolve didn’t waver. The secret had nearly suffocated the life from him. It’d cost him far too much. “What of it?”

  “Where is he? Is he still alive?”

  “I don’t know.” Thorvald shrugged. “I don’t care. I have my own life to live. Not his.”

  “But you’re his son. And you knew.” Ubbi sneered. “All this time, you knew.”

  Thorvald nodded. “As did Jarl Erlendr. It’s how he confiscated my land and how he extracted my vow of loyalty.”

  “And you want us to follow a man willing to break a promise?”

  Again, Thorvald nodded. Part of him he’d always denied, always wished he could cut away from himself as easily as jointing a piece of meat—it was out. In full view for all to see. A secret no longer.

  There was no point in being anything but what he was.

  “I want you to follow a man who realizes this battle is the most honorable he could ever fight.” He raised his sword above his head. His voice boomed across the village. “I am Thorvald Longsword, son of Bjorn the coward. I was coerced into giving my vow of loyalty to an unworthy man. For many years I served the jarl, but not by choice. Because he threatened me with my secret. As of now, I serve him no longer. I serve no man who forces loyalty. I serve only those who earn it. I submit to him no longer. Today, I defeat the jarl.”

  Ozrik raised his sword and released a bellowing shout. “Son of a coward!”

  The rest of them followed suit. In the ruckus that broke out through the still half-drunken men, Ubbi was pushed aside.

  It wasn’t what Thorvald would have chosen for the men to shout. It pricked at an old pain, and would have done far more damage if matters at hand weren’t dire. It wasn’t what he wanted to be.

  But they were roaring in approval. He’d won them.

  Yesterday, son of a coward. Always hiding, always fearful.

  Today, son of a coward, and willing to make his own destiny.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The Fight

  The men went for their shields, adding to their advantage. They rushed back, ready, willing, and eager.

  Thorvald had no sooner jumped down from his precarious perch on the steeply pitched roof than he was marching into the hall, the m
en behind him. Swords were out. Axes raised. Spears in hand. Where a weapon wasn’t within easy reach, one was found.

  They stormed the hall. Few torches had been left to burn. The feasting was over. Even if outside, moonlight lit the world, without windows for extra light, there wasn’t much to see by.

  Not much. But enough.

  The men shouted, calling for blood. Confusion burst out over the hall once more. A few who’d slept through the commotion outside tumbled from their beds, some with women in their arms. Most without. No chance of slumber now. No chance of anything else, either.

  A few of the women shuffled wide-eyed children out while the men quickly chose sides. There were men with misplaced loyalties who’d fight for the jarl. And men who would fight for Thorvald. Only the latter mattered.

  The element of surprise was on their side.

  The fight was mayhem. All but a few were still half drunk from a night of feasting.

  Thorvald had eyes for only three faces: Hrolf’s, the jarl’s, and Alodie’s. None were in evidence.

  The jarl’s guards came first, meeting Thorvald with confidence in their bearings. Thorvald’s previous vacillations might work in his favor. They’d underestimate him. A costly mistake.

  The advantage wouldn’t last long once he’d proved what he could do. They didn’t know, but they soon would.

  He sneered at the guards. “You’re only here because of the treasure he pays you that I brought back from raiding.”

  The idea that they had oxen in their ancestry once again flashed in Thorvald’s mind—an image more than a conscious thought. The way their nostrils flared and their reddened eyes bulged from their heads. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d started to stamp and snort and scrape the ground with their feet.

  The biggest of them stepped forward. His body was shaped like a barrel and his beard was burley. “More fool you, then.” He brandished his sword. “You’ll be no better than a bloated, rotting seal carcass by the time—”

  Thorvald swung his sword. He didn’t miss. Ozrik rushed up from behind, fighting the other two when they charged. Thorvald grinned over the bleeding man who twisted in agony. He pressed his foot into the center of the man’s chest for no other reason than to infuriate him. “You can have your words. You can have your treasure, much good may it do you now.”