Black Monastery (11 page)

Gorm appeared at his side. “No one else about.”

Asgrim nodded and sheathed his sword before hanging his shield by its strap over his shoulder, all the time keeping an eye on the woman to his front. She trembled like a frightened doe, her eyes darting about at him and his men, but there was no escape now. Even in her shock, she must have known this.

His breathing was still rushed from the prospect of battle, but it now appeared that there would be no fight. He ran a hand through his hair and looked about the faces of his men. “Where’s Knut?”

Two men, Gjuki Horse-Dick and Erp, moved up against her, and each man grabbed one of her arms, holding her tightly in place. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she looked as though she would collapse had the men not been holding her. The rest of his men came closer, smirking. They had not had a woman in weeks.

The stupid woman shouldn’t be here. What happened next was her fault, not Asgrim’s. She should have been hiding with the rest of her people, not trailing killers.

Her fault.

Knut pushed forward. When he saw the girl, his face lit up.

“Find out why she’s spying on us,” Asgrim ordered.

Knut had to repeat the question several times before she managed a halting reply, her voice shaking. Knut listened carefully, asked several more questions, and then turned to Asgrim.

“She’s from the village, all right,” said Knut. He scratched his beard. “Says her little sister was taken by the monks two nights ago, and she came looking for her, but then she saw us. She saw the other Frank, the soldier, with us and wanted to make sure we didn’t have her sister, as well.”

The image of the desecrated corpses of the women in the upper church flashed through Asgrim’s mind. This one had courage, more than the sheep from her village. And as a reward for her courage, she was about to be used and dishonored by scores of Danish Vikings.

Her one god was cruel, as cruel as his many gods.

“Captain?” one of the men asked, indicating the woman with his head, an expectant look on his face.

She’ll live through this, Asgrim told himself. Probably.

Frowning, he nodded. “Go ahead, but be quick about it. We need to get back to the ship.”

The men swarmed her, and this time, she did scream, quickly, before a harsh slap smashed her head back, silencing her. Gjuki and Erp held her in place while another of the men, Johan Horse-Gelder, started roughly massaging her breasts through her dress, spit running down the side of his mouth and into his beard. She glared at him in hatred and struggled briefly, but the men only grew more excited and laughed. Johan grabbed the side of her face in both hands, cupping it roughly, and yanked her face toward him, kissing her savagely on the lips. The men cheered and pulled closer, making a ring around her. She tried to knee him in the groin, but he was ready for her and turned his thigh so that her feeble strike only hit his leg.

“Go on,” yelled Gorm, grabbing the closest of the men and pulling them back, clearing some space. “You’ll all get your turn. Everybody wants to see.”

Johan pulled his hand back and slapped her two more times. The fight disappeared from her, and she hung by her arms. He gripped the top of her dress with both hands and yanked it down, ripping it and exposing a grey under-tunic. The men cheered and yelled encouragement, and Johan yanked away the rest of her dress, tearing and discarding it on the ground behind him. Then he gripped her under-tunic and yanked it down and off; it fell around her ankles. She was now almost completely naked, wearing only her hair cap. Despite his disdain for taking women by force, Asgrim’s lips parted, and he felt himself becoming hard as he looked at her. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? Months. Freya had been the last, but there had been damn few before that. The woman’s skin was flushed red. Her breasts were small, but firm, with nipples like cherries. She was thin—thinner than he liked—and had small hips, but her thighs were firm and muscular. Through the jostling of the men around her, he saw Johan step closer and rub his palm against her crotch. She shuddered and looked away, closing her eyes as the man put his lips around one of her nipples and began to suck at it. Another man came up behind her and began to rub himself up against her backside.

Asgrim looked away. Her fault, not his.

Gorm was staring at him, waiting for something.

“What?” Asgrim asked.

“I asked if you want me to put out sentries while the men have their fun.”

“Gods yes, man, I want sentries put out. I’m surprised you’d even ask,” Asgrim snapped, surprising himself with his anger.

Suddenly, the men cheered again, and Asgrim glanced over just in time to see them begin to lower her to the ground. But his eyes were drawn to the source of the men’s cheer—her hair. Someone had pulled away her cap, exposing her striking long red hair. He gasped, and the ground seemed to sway beneath him, as if he were drunk. Her hair was the exact same color as Freya’s had been. His heart hammered wildly, the blood thundering in his ears. Once again, he saw Freya’s dead eyes staring up at him, accusing him.

He had loved Freya; for all his other crimes, he had loved her.

He had killed her.

And now this woman—with the exact same hair…

Johan stood at her feet, unfastening the string holding his hose. Men yelled at him to hurry up; they wanted their turn.

“No,” Asgrim said, almost inaudibly. Then he repeated the word with more force, stabbing it at the men’s backs. “No!”

They paused, turning toward him in confusion. A frightening silence descended upon the woods.

“There’s no time for this shit!” thundered Asgrim, glaring at them.

Then they all began to talk at once, creating a low, angry buzzing. Someone mentioned the word “prize.” Most stared stupidly at Asgrim, their faces reflecting their sense of betrayal, as if he had just taken away something that belonged to them—and he had. When warriors went Viking, women were prizes. That was how life was and always would be. Some men went on raids just for that reason. While he never raided specifically for slaves, Asgrim had never before begrudged the men their right to have any woman they came across. Only a fool stood between men with their blood on fire and their rightful prize.

But he did so now.

“Leave her be!” he ordered, grabbing Johan by the scruff of his neck and yanking him away. Off-balance, with his hose around his ankles, Johan fell forward into the dirt.

The others, too surprised to do anything else, cleared a space around her. The naked woman sat up, pulled her knees against her chest, and hugged her legs.

“Are you going first, then, Captain?” the new lad Ham asked with an uncertain smile on his freckled face.

Asgrim ignored him. “Where’s the damned prisoner?” he said as he reached for the girl.

She tried to shrink from him, but he gripped her upper arm and angrily yanked her to her feet, holding her in place with an iron grip. Tears ran down her cheeks, and her eyes were wild, as if she didn’t believe what was happening. No doubt she expected him to take her first before handing her off to the rest of his men.

He let go of her just long enough to grab her ripped shift from the ground and thrust it at her. “Gods damn it, woman. Cover yourself before I have to kill someone.”

She may not have understood Danish, but she grasped at her shift and quickly pulled it on. The men continued their angry muttering, but he glared at them, matching their fury, and they stepped back, clearing more space around him and the woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the massive bulk of his brother Bjorn, and Asgrim immediately felt relief. No matter what was up his brother’s ass, he knew he could count on him.

“I said, where’s the Frank?”

“Here, Captain.” Gorm pushed the man forward.

Asgrim had intended to release the Frank as soon as they reached
Sea Eel
. Instead, he would let him go now—him
and
the woman. He would get them as far from his men as he could.

So far, this raid had been nothing but shit. Never in his life had Asgrim even heard of a captain who denied men their rights to captured women.

Stupid, stupid, stupid woman.

With far more force than he needed, he shoved her at the prisoner. Asgrim saw the surprise in the man’s eyes as he caught her. She peered through her loose red hair hanging over her face, confusion in her eyes.

He pointed away from them, angrily stabbing a finger into the woods. “Get out of here!” he bellowed.

Even though the man did not speak his tongue, Asgrim’s intent was clear, but the Frank still hesitated, looking about himself warily, perhaps suspecting a trick. Asgrim stalked forward, spun them both around, and shoved them toward the trees.

His trepidation gone, the Frank put his arm around the woman’s shoulders and guided her from the raiders. His men stared sullenly, disbelief still etched on their faces. The resentment would follow. It would simmer and build; they would hate him for this. Some would never, not ever, forgive him, while others back home, when they heard this tale, would shake their heads in wonder at his stupidity and his unfair treatment of the lads.

They could hate him all they wanted. He would kill any man who challenged him.

And then Bjorn rushed forward and buried his two-handed ax in the back of Amalric’s skull, splitting it to his shoulder blades.

The Frank’s body dropped. The woman, tangled up with him, also fell. Bjorn put his boot on the Frank’s corpse and yanked his ax free. As he did, the man’s glistening brains spilled out in a rush. Bjorn turned, and Asgrim’s breath caught in his throat. His brother’s eyes had turned completely black, like the creature he had seen in the crypt. For several moments, Asgrim couldn’t move and only stared in bewilderment.

Then the girl screamed, and Bjorn turned back to her, standing over her, blood from his ax dripping on her face. Planting his feet on either side of her prostrate form, Bjorn hefted his ax and then raised it up above his head. Asgrim snapped; rushing forward, he hit Bjorn from behind, ramming his shoulder into his brother’s massive bulk. He felt as though he’d run into a tree. Asgrim rebounded and fell onto his back, but he had managed to stagger the larger man and send him stumbling off balance, away from the girl.

Asgrim jumped to his feet, watching as his brother spun on him.

“Bjorn,” said Asgrim, raising his hands, palms exposed. “What are you doing?”

Bjorn lurched forward, striking Asgrim in the chest with the top of his ax. He flew back, his entire body numb with pain. He felt as if he had been struck with a battering ram. When the initial wave of agony passed, he became aware that he was lying on his back, staring up stupidly at Bjorn.

And in Bjorn’s hate-filled face, Asgrim saw no hint of the brother who had grown up with him, who had played with him as a small child, and who had always followed him as a man. This black-eyed creature was going to kill him.

His brother stepped forward, raising his Dane ax above his head in both hands. But before Bjorn’s foot hit the ground, Asgrim hooked his brother’s ankle with his own foot and swept it to the side, throwing him off balance. At the same time, Asgrim rolled to his right, away from the descending ax. The ax head buried itself a half foot into the soft earth. As Bjorn freed his ax, Asgrim jumped to his feet.

Bjorn snarled in rage with a growl that sounded more animal than man. Spit flew from his mouth as he spun back on his brother. In a blur
Heart-Ripper
was in Asgrim’s hand. His own anger flared, and he fought to control it, to stay calm. Bjorn’s ax whistled as it swept through the air. Asgrim stepped back out of the way. Only a fool attempted to block a two-handed ax with a sword. Then he darted in, slashing at Bjorn’s arms. His sword’s blade connected but slid off Bjorn’s chain mail sleeve without causing any injury. Swords—even
Ulfberht
blades—couldn’t cut through chain mail. He would need to stab the point through the links to do any damage, but there was no way he was going to kill his own brother. The two men faced off again, slowly stepping to the side as they circled one another. Someone yelled encouragement, but Asgrim couldn’t tell whom it was directed at.

His brother panted, looking like a crazed animal. Blood and spit dribbled into Bjorn’s blond beard from his mouth. He must have bit his own tongue, Asgrim realized.

Bjorn lunged again, and this time, Asgrim couldn’t step out of the way quickly enough and had to block with his sword. Sparks flew from the impact, and Asgrim’s sword was wrenched from his hands, winging off into the air. His arm went numb from the force of the blow.

Asgrim’s back hit a tree, and he stumbled to a halt. Most of the men stood back watching, too stunned to intervene, but Gorm and one other, Steiner Ghost-Foot, rushed forward, each grabbing one of Bjorn’s arms. He shrugged them both off as if they were nothing more than children, sending them reeling backward without even loosening his grip on his ax. Bjorn then turned back to Asgrim and swung his weapon at him, but the distraction provided by Gorm and Steiner was just enough to allow Asgrim to dodge out of the way. Bjorn followed him, swinging wildly as he tried to take his head off with his ax. Asgrim saw
Heart-Ripper
gleaming in the dirt, but couldn’t reach it. Screaming in senseless, animalistic rage, Bjorn advanced, his black eyes practically glowing with fury, his ax swinging in wild, uncontrolled arcs, as if he were trying to chop down a tree, not fight a man. Asgrim should have been dead already, he knew; his brother was just that good with an ax. But Bjorn’s fighting was all rage and no skill. The other man seemed to have forgotten all his countless hours of training in favor of using his ax like a club. Eventually, though, his brother would connect. His brother was going to kill him unless he did something. He pulled his hand ax from his belt and tossed it toward his brother, not intending to hit him, but merely distract him. As Bjorn swung wildly to deflect the hand ax, he opened himself up, exposing his midsection. Asgrim, seeing his chance, rushed forward to tackle his brother at his knees. If he could knock him down, he and the others could hold him in place long enough to subdue him. He smashed into the other man, staggering him, but his aim had been slightly off, and instead of knocking his brother down, he only sent him stumbling back several steps. Then Asgrim’s vision exploded into bright light as Bjorn hammered the side of his head with the end of his ax handle, smashing him down onto his back in the dirt. He shook his head, and through his now-blurry vision, he saw Bjorn rushing at him again.