Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (2 page)

A thought flitted
across Eirik’s mind, quick as an owl’s wing. Could this be Lindisfarne itself?
The monks had described an island monastery in the north of these lands, in a
kingdom they called Northumbria. All the wooden buildings had been burned in
that initial raid, they’d said, and even some of the stonework had been
destroyed.

Mayhap they sailed
still farther north than they intended, Eirik realized. The monks had told him
tales of the complete destruction of Lindisfarne some thirteen summers ago. As
such, Lindisfarne was not his destination. Over the months of talking with the
monks about their religion and country, he’d learned that many such monasteries
dotted the coastline, removed from villages—and armies that could have
protected them.

“Steer south!” Eirik
called to Alaric through the eerie silence created by the dampening fog. Or
perhaps it was being in the presence of the desolate and deserted monastery.
Eirik had heard the boasts of the Vikings who had captured and enthralled the
Christian monks. They’d found the monastery completely unguarded and yet had
cut the monks down like so many babes in their cradles. Some of the monks,
those who hadn’t been saved as thralls, had even been taken onto the Vikings’
ships, only to be thrown over to drown for the Vikings’ amusement.

Eirik suppressed a
sneer and a curse for such Vikings. It was dishonorable to cut down a man who
didn’t even have a weapon in his hand. Death could be honorable, and sacrifice
appeased the gods, but slaughter—nei, those men, boasting about their easy
kills, would never find glory in the afterlife.

He felt the ship shift
under him as Alaric turned the tiller and pointed them southward. They’d have
to keep close enough to the shoreline of the mainland to avoid going too far
out to sea, yet far enough not to be readily spotted. If Eirik was right, there
would be more monasteries like Lindisfarne to the south—except he wanted more
than mere treasure. His village was counting on him, counting on this voyage.
He couldn’t let them down.

Whitby Abbey

Kingdom of Northumbria

Laurel bit off a curse
as her foot
made
contact
with
the bucket and she heard the slosh of water
behind her. So absorbed had she been in scrubbing the refectory floor that she
hadn’t noticed how close the bucket was.

Sighing, she crawled
over to the widening puddle behind her and began working the stone floors with
the boar-hair scrub brush. She’d need more water to finish cleaning the
enormous refectory, but at least she could make use of the spill.

When the water had been
spread evenly and the floors were clean beneath it, she scooped up the bucket
and stood with a groan. Her back ached from so many hours hunched over, her
hands and knees had long ago gone numb, and of course there was the constant
scratch of her rough woolen dress.

Laurel had to suppress
another foul thought as she crossed through the refectory and toward the
kitchens. She had it better than some. Aye, she had to labor in the most menial
tasks at the monastery. And aye, Abbess Hilda and the other nuns and monks who
lived at Whitby Abbey never let her forget that she was an orphan, born in sin.
But she got to eat twice a day, she slept with a roof over her head, and
she
had a straw-filled mattress to lay her weary
body upon each night.

She crossed the
kitchens, which were quiet at this time of night, and stepped through the back
door toward the river. The cool grass tickled her ankles as she strode down the
sloping hillside to where the River Esk flowed. The moon was nigh full and
glinted off the slow-moving water.

She should be grateful.
Why did she rankle so much at life in the Abbey? She had known naught else. She
wasn’t owed anything. She was no one.

And yet, was there
naught else to life than back-breaking work from sun-up to sundown? Was there
naught else than the feel of coarse wool against one’s skin? Was there naught
else than to feel like an outsider, a burden, that one’s mere existence was a sin?

Laurel approached the
river cautiously so as not to slip on its shoreline and tumble in. If she fell
and drowned, no one would notice her absence until the morning. She shivered at
the thought and carefully dipped the bucket into the river. ’Twould be enough
to finish scrubbing the refectory floor, she thought with relief. She wouldn’t
have to come back to the dark, flowing waters tonight.

As she straightened and
turned back toward the Abbey, a shadowy figure moved in front of her. A
strangled noise of surprise came from her throat.

“Hush, girl, unless you
want to wake everyone in the Abbey.”

She recognized the
voice, but instead of feeling relief, her stomach dropped in fear.

“Brother Egbert, what
are you doing here?” she asked flatly.

“I was making the rounds,
extinguishing the last of the candles, when I saw you,” he said lowly, stepping
toward her. She took a half step back and suddenly halted. She was already
standing in the mud of the riverbank. Another step or two and she would be
swept off to the North Sea, which she could hear even over the rush of the
river behind her.

“Let me pass,” she
grated out.

“And waste the privacy
and the moonlight?” he whispered. “I think not.” He closed the distance between
them and took her in a rough embrace. Laurel tried to scream, but his mouth
crushed hers, muffling the sound. Panic rose in her throat. They were
too
far away from the monastery. The noise of the
river and the ocean bordering the Abbey on the north and east sides would drown
out her cries for help.

She swung the
still-full bucket at Brother Egbert’s head and heard the thunk of the wood
connecting with his skull. The bucket’s water splashed over both of them.

Brother Egbert groaned
and tore his mouth from hers, yet his grip on her arms tightened so that she
was immobilized.

“Wicked girl,” he
hissed under his breath. He pressed her down to the muddy bank, using his body
weight to pin her.

Laurel thrashed wildly,
realizing that the monk intended to do more than steal a kiss or
inconspicuously grope her in passing, as he had done for months now.

“You are a man of God!”
she choked out. “Let me go!”

One of his hands
released her arm to find the hem of her gown. “I am only a man. And you have
been tempting me for years.”

Laurel squeezed her
eyes shut, nausea sweeping her. Then she realized one of her arms was free. She
jerked her hand from underneath her and raked her nails down Brother Egbert’s
face. He howled in pain, falling to her side and clutching his face.

She scrambled to her
feet and bolted uphill toward the Abbey. Though her simple leather boots were
slathered with mud, she reached the top of the hill faster than she ever had.
Behind her, she heard Brother Egbert curse her and make his way to the Abbey.

Laurel plowed through
the kitchen and into the refectory, not knowing where she was going. Perhaps
the nuns’ quarters would be safer than her own straw mat in the corner. Just as
she turned toward the wooden door that led to the nuns’ side of the double
monastery, the doors banged open on their own and light flooded the refectory.

“What in God’s name is
going on here, child?” Abbess Hilda boomed at her, candle held high.

“Abbess, I—”

“Abbess Hilda,” Brother
Egbert interjected, stepping into the refectory. “Thank the Lord you’ve stopped
this little witch from escaping. She attacked me by the river.”

The Abbess’s cold, dark
eyes took in the scene before her. Laurel glanced down to find herself a muddy,
bedraggled mess. A quick look over her shoulder revealed Brother Egbert in
little better condition. His brown robes weren’t as muddy as her dress, but he
had four angry red lines running the length of his face, which was wrinkled in
a dark frown.

“What do you have to
say for yourself, girl?” the Abbess asked calmly.

“I—I was getting more
water to finish scrubbing the floor. It was Brother Egbert who attacked me at
the river! He kissed me and tried to—tried to…”

Laurel swallowed.
Abbess Hilda’s eyes had widened for a moment, but then they narrowed with
obvious suspicion.

Brother Egbert jumped
into Laurel’s faltering silence. “The girl is clearly lying—I have the marks to
prove it.” He gestured toward the red scratches on his cheek. Then he bowed his
head in an overt attempt at piousness. “And if I have been tempted into impure
thoughts about her…well, it must be the Devil testing me. After all, she is sin
incarnate.”

Abbess Hilda shifted
her gaze back to Laurel, and she knew all was lost now.

“Come here, child.” The
Abbess’s voice was quiet and flat.

Laurel approached
slowly, her head held steady. She would not grovel for a wrong she hadn’t
committed—either for tempting Brother Egbert or the fact that she was born out
of wedlock. When she halted in front of Abbess Hilda, the older woman’s mouth
turned down in a sneer at her audacity.

“Ever since the day
your shame-filled parents abandoned you on the Abbey’s doorstep, we have
clothed you, fed you, and tried to guide you toward God’s light.”

Laurel had heard these
admonitions before. Each time the Abbess or one of the nuns or monks who lived
at Whitby started in about her sinful origin or her ingratitude, she had
hunched a little more, bowed her head lower, shrinking inside herself.

Yet tonight, after
scrubbing the refectory floor in the dark, being attacked by Brother Egbert,
and having to stand before his lies and the Abbess’s reproofs, she felt her
spine harden. Her stomach turned to lead, her hands clenching at her sides.

“Yet despite our best
efforts, you carry sin with you—you are willful, proud, slothful, and now you
tempt a monk, a holy man devoted to God, to join you in your sin.”

Abbess Hilda eyed her
for another moment, no doubt taking in her level chin and rigid body. The
Abbess sighed and gazed heavenward.

“Yet it is our duty to
continue to set you on the right path. We cannot abandon you, as your parents
so easily did. We must cleanse you of your sins.”

At the word “cleanse,”
Laurel’s strength evaporated. “Nay,” she whispered.

“The chair,” Abbess
Hilda said calmly.

“Nay!” Laurel screamed.
Her legs suddenly gave out underneath her
,
and
she fell to the cold stones of the refectory floor.

“Brother Egbert, wake
the Abbot and tell Sister Agnes to bring the chair to the refectory,” Abbess
Hilda went on, paying no attention to Laurel.

Laurel knew there was
no point in begging not to be put in the chair. The Abbess rarely used this
punishment, but when she did, she was unyielding to pleas for mercy. Laurel
would rather take the switch than the chair—but the Abbess knew that.

Brother Egbert scuttled
out of the refectory toward the monks’ sleeping quarters. A few minutes later,
Abbot Thomas emerged, looking rumpled and cantankerous. Then Laurel heard the
scraping sound that was so often the opening to her nightmares. Sister Agnes
appeared, dragging the heavy wooden chair behind her. The
s
ister’s eyes drooped from sleepiness, but she was
ready as usual to help Abbess Hilda administer Laurel’s punishment.

Laurel bit her lip to
prevent from screaming out in terror. The Abbot and Abbess lifted her under the
arms and dragged her toward the chair while Brother Egbert reemerged with
several lengths of rope. Laurel was dropped into the chair and her wrists held
against the chair’s wooden arms. She didn’t struggle, though it took every
ounce of willpower not to. It would do little good. Both the Abbot and Abbess
had a firm grip on her.

When her hands and feet
had been lashed to the wood, the Abbot, Abbess, Brother Egbert, and Sister
Agnes lifted her, chair and all, and began shuffling toward the kitchens.
Laurel tried to control her breathing. Panicking would only make it worse, as she’d
learned at a young age. Nevertheless, her heart hammered in her ears.

The group passed
through the kitchens and out the back door, following the same path toward the
River Esk that Laurel had taken earlier that night. She could hear the river
flowing lazily below them as they made their way carefully down the grassy
hillside. The North Sea sighed restlessly to her right.

With grunts of
exertion, the group pivoted when they reached the riverbank so that her back
was to the water. Brother Egbert tied two more lengths of rope to the chair’s
arms and handed one to Abbot Thomas.

“Laurel, child of sin,
you must be purified of your wickedness,” Abbess Hilda intoned. “Let the waters
of the River Esk be like God’s light, washing you clean and humbling you.”

Brother Egbert leaned
over and placed a hand on the chair’s back, easing it backward. While his arm
and the surrounding darkness blocked his face from the view of the others, he
gave her a twisted sneer.

The chair tilted
backward toward the river. Laurel grasped the chair’s arms with sweating hands,
taking huge gulps of air. Brother Egbert and Abbot Thomas each held the rope
attached to the wooden arms. They began slowly, torturously, lowering her into
the water.

Even in midsummer, the
river was cold. It touched her lower back first, causing her to buck and twist,
but of course her bonds held fast. She turned her face to the side to be able
to predict when the water would reach her head. It was a trick she’d learned as
a girl to calm herself and avoid the shock of the water’s cold, enveloping
grasp. Despite the large moon overhead, the water around her was inky and
depthless.

Now the water was at
her shoulders, seeping up her braid and touching the nape of her neck. She took
one last deep breath before the water swallowed her completely.

If she screamed now,
she’d lose all her precious air, and who knew how long they planned to hold her
like this? She counted to ten, then counted to ten again, then again. The water
rushed around her head, clawing at her, trying to choke her.

Then suddenly she felt
herself being jerked upward. She emerged with a gasp as Brother Egbert and
Abbot Thomas pulled her up by the ropes.

“Again,” Abbess Hilda
said flatly after only a moment of blessed freedom from the swirling river.

Once again, Laurel was
lowered into the river. She willed herself to remain conscious despite the lack
of air and the strangling terror surging through her. When she broke the
surface and could take several large gulps of precious air once again, she
thought the worst was over. But the Abbess ordered for her to be plunged into
the river again and again, more than she’d ever endured before.

Laurel’s mind numbed to
the repeated dunks. The water remained just as terrifying as it always had
been—or as terrifying as far back as Laurel’s first such punishment from the
Abbess. She couldn’t swim, so deep water had naturally scared her, but it
wasn’t until the chair became the Abbess’s worst punishment that Laurel had
begun having nightmares about water strangling her, choking her, pushing her
under its weight.