Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (3 page)

By the time Brother
Egbert and Abbot Thomas hauled her up and the Abbess said a curt, “Enough,”
Laurel was shaking uncontrollably and seeing spots.

“Perhaps this time you
will learn,” Sister Agnes hissed as she leaned forward to loosen the ropes on
Laurel’s feet and hands. The older woman’s face was puckered in a well-worn
scowl.

“You will bring the
chair back to the Abbey,” Abbess Hilda said. “And then you will re-scrub the
refectory floors to remove the mud you tracked all over them earlier.”

Without another word,
the Abbess, Abbot, Brother Egbert, and Sister Agnes turned their backs on her
and began making their way up the hill toward the monastery. Laurel struggled
to stand, her head spinning. Once she had her feet under her, she turned the
chair around and grabbed it by its back. One dizzying step at a time, she began
dragging the heavy wooden chair up the steep hill in front of her.

She had to stop every
few steps to catch her breath and slow the spinning in her head. As she
approached the top of the hill, she was surprised to see the shadowy figures of
her tormenters standing close together. She halted behind them, listening.

“…Probably just a trick
of the eye,” Abbot Thomas was saying grumpily.

Just then, a cloud that
was obscuring the moon scuttled away. Laurel followed the others’ gazes toward
the North Sea.

Sister Agnes shrieked
at the sight before them. Laurel had to suppress a scream of her own.

Drifting toward the
Abbey, illuminated by moonlight, was a ship. But it wasn’t a fishing skiff from
a nearby village. The blood-red striped sail, the curving serpentine prow—it
was a Viking ship.

Laurel’s stomach flew
to her throat. She’d heard the rumors of the Northmen raiders who appeared from
the sea, striking unprotected monasteries and vulnerable villages with deadly
speed, and then retreating from whence they’d come. Abbess Hilda even used
tales of the Northmen to frighten the nuns and monks at Whitby.

“And the prophet
Jeremiah spake, ‘Out of the north an evil shall break forth upon all
inhabitants of the land,’ for the day of judgement is at hand,” Abbot Thomas
breathed, his eyes riveted on the ship.

Abbess Hilda was the
first to recover her wits. “Laurel, sound the bell. Sister Agnes, rouse the
nuns. Brother Egbert, do the same for the monks. Abbot, gather everyone in the
chapel. I’ll lead us in prayer.”

The others stumbled
toward the kitchen doors, with Laurel following behind them. After the first
few steps, her legs seemed to come alive again, despite the cold, sodden wool
of her gown clinging to them. She moved through the kitchens and refectory
toward the bell tower. She began shivering uncontrollably as she reached the
bell tower’s stairs yet forced herself to mount them.

Even with only the
moonlight filtering through the open belfry, she’d rung the bell enough to be
able to find the rope pulley. She jerked it down with all her might, sending
the bell tilting. The bell’s peal broke the night’s silence. She gave another
hard pull on the rope just to be sure the bell would continue to toll a warning
to the monastery’s inhabitants.

Though she didn’t have
time to waste, she peered over the belfry’s open window at the beach below. The
Viking ship had landed on the strip of sand below the cliffs atop which the monastery
sat. The moon glinted dully off metal helms as warriors poured from the ship
and onto the beach. Her chest seized. She sent up a prayer for all those in the
Abbey.

Ripping her eyes from
the terrifying sight, she forced her feet to move. She raced down the bell
tower’s stairs and made her way toward the chapel. She slipped through the
wooden doors just as Sister Agnes and another nun were pushing them closed.
Laurel helped the two women lift a large beam across the door to bar it.

Inside the chapel, the
monks and nuns were in a panic. In the candlelight that softly illuminated the
chapel’s interior, the monks looked around with wild eyes and the nuns clung to
each other, some crying.

“Silence!” Abbess Hilda
barked at the altar. All eyes turned to her, the hush only broken by a few
sniffles.

“Let us pray,” the
Abbess said with surprising calm. The monks and nuns fell to their knees,
Laurel following suit.

“
A furore
normannorum liberu nos, Domine
,” Abbess Hilda said. Abbot Thomas, who
appeared by the Abbess’s side, took up the chant, and soon the chapel was
filled with the whispered prayer.

“From the fury of the
Northmen deliver us, O Lord,”
Laurel echoed in
Latin.

Suddenly a loud thud
reverberated through the chapel. Several of the nuns broke the chanted prayer
with shrieks of terror. The thud came again from right behind where Laurel
knelt at the back of the nave. Abbess Hilda raised her calm voice over the
murmurs and gasps, but a ripple of panic nevertheless was spreading throughout
the kneeling monks and nuns.

The stones below
Laurel’s knees reverberated as the thudding persisted

“From the fury of the
Northmen deliver us—”

The sound of
splintering wood rent the air behind her. More screams rose in the chapel, and
the Abbey’s residents huddled toward the altar.

Before Laurel could
crawl forward, the door to the chapel exploded in a shower of wood shards. She
looked back over her shoulder, immobilized with fear.

A horde of Vikings
poured through the chapel’s splintered door. Their helms and weapons—swords,
axes, knives, spears—shone in the candlelight. One giant warrior in the front
of the swarm let out a bellow of glee as his eyes fell on Laurel.

The scream died in her
throat.

It couldn’t be so easy!
Eirik had assumed that the Viking raiders who’d told tales of their attacks on
Lindisfarne were embellishing at least a little. The monks he’d spent last
winter with spoke of the atrocities committed against their helpless Brothers,
but he’d believed they’d similarly exaggerated their stories. How could a place
holding such treasures be so completely defenseless?

Yet here they were,
inside the monastery’s walls, with only a ringing bell, a stone wall, and a
wooden door for resistance.

They’d had to sail for
another day and a half south from what he’d suspected was the abandoned
Lindisfarne monastery. But as the moon had risen tonight, they’d spotted a
stone structure atop a hill, bordered on the north side by a river. The Drakkar
had glided smoothly onto the sandy beach. He and his crew easily scaled the
cliffs leading up to the monastery.

One of the men had to
be boosted over the stone walls protecting the monastery, but soon enough he’d
secured a rope to a tree within the wall, and one by one, Eirik and his crew
had climbed over.

They followed the
hushed sound of chanting to the building before which they now stood. Several
men raised their axes, ready to set into the wooden door, but Eirik held up a
hand.

“Follow my orders, and
we’ll share the plunder equally,” Eirik said lowly. He looked at each member of
his crew, lingering on Grimar.

Before they’d made
landfall, he’d reminded his crew that there was no honor in shedding the blood
of unarmed, unskilled men. Any man who chose to disrespect the gods with such
actions would answer to Eirik. They’d nodded solemnly, each sailor looking
Eirik straight in the eye—all except Grimar.

“What’s the point of
raiding if you can’t take what you want—be it gold, blood, or women?” Grimar
had said for all to hear. He was testing Eirik’s authority again. Though Eirik
was this voyage’s captain, it was Grimar’s father, Jarl Gunvald, who’d ordered
the exploration and plunder of the land to the west.

Now, outside the wooden
door, Grimar met Eirik’s gaze with a smile that belied the animosity in his
pale blue eyes, which glowed eerily in the moonlight.

“Begin,” Eirik said. At
once, his men set their axes to the door in unison, striking with battle-earned
strength.

“You need to keep your
dog of a cousin on a tighter leash,” Madrena said quietly to him. “He has already
overstepped his bounds.”

Eirik didn’t respond
and instead kept his eyes on the door. He could hear screams coming from the
other side. If this was what the monks called a chapel, it would be the
likeliest place to find the riches they sought.

All at once, the axes
burst through the wood and candlelight poured from the hole they’d made. With a
shout, the men in the front surged forward into the building.

Screams of terror
filled the air as Eirik and his crew stepped through the shattered door. Golden
crosses and candle holders flickered in the candlelight. They’d done it. They’d
made landfall in these western lands, stormed an unprotected holy house, and
now would claim its treasures for Dalgaard.

As Eirik’s eyes took in
the scene within the chapel, however, he faltered. He recognized the men in
simple brown robes with bald patches on their heads as monks. Yet there were
also women here. They wore black robes much like the monks, their hair covered
in black cloth. Something wasn’t right.

Before Eirik could call
the terrified group of men and women to order, he heard a piercing scream above
the rest to his right.

Grimar was dragging a
girl in a brown dress up from the floor. He threw her over his shoulder with a
satisfied shout. Several of the men and women surrounding the girl tried to
grab her feet and pull her back into their midst. With a growl, Grimar lashed
out with his blade, slicing across the group indiscriminately.

As blood spouted from
the group of men and women, the chapel erupted into chaos. They were like sheep
who’d caught a whiff of slaughter. They clawed at each other in an attempt to
get away from the Vikings standing in the doorway despite the fact that there
was clearly no other way out. Even those who’d been wounded by Grimar’s blade
frantically crawled back.

“Hold!” Eirik bellowed
at Grimar, striding toward him. “How dare you defy me?”

“They tried to take my
property from me,” Grimar panted, bloodlust firing his eyes. “I claim this girl
as my thrall.” He nudged his shoulder to indicate the thrashing girl he
carried.

Eirik drew the sword
he’d intended not to use this night and pointed it at Grimar’s throat. “I gave
strict orders that there would be no killing or raping,” he breathed, trying to
keep a hold on his temper.

“Nei, cousin, our mission
was to plunder this land’s treasures,” Grimar replied. “I have not killed or
raped. This girl is just another prize I now possess.”

Eirik gritted his
teeth, yet a growl of rage rose from this throat. He held his blade at his
cousin’s neck for another long moment, trying to order his thoughts. If he
killed Grimar, he’d have to answer to the Jarl, and knowing Gunvald, the man
would not let the death of his only son go without rebuke, kinship or nei. And
Grimar did indeed have the right to claim a slave. Yet he shouldn’t have shed
blood, which directly flouted Eirik’s order.

“We will continue this
on the ship,” Eirik bit out. Grimar smiled, but it was more of a sneer.

Eirik turned toward the
huddled men and women at the back of the chapel. “If you cooperate,” he said in
their language, “no one—no one
else
—will be hurt.” He shot a sharp gaze
at Grimar again before returning his attention to the crowd.

The terrified mass of
people hushed for a moment, presumably awed by the fact that he spoke their
language. After a moment, an older woman at the rear of the group stood up
slowly. “What do you want, heathen?” she asked in a loud voice.

“Give us your gold,
your silver, and your jewels,” Eirik responded, internally relieved that his
training with the monks had paid off. He could understand their strange tongue,
and they could apparently make sense of his speech as well.

His crew fanned out
around him, moving to the walls and toward the back of the chapel. They
stripped everything of value they found, to the horrified murmurs of the crowd
of cowering men and women.

As Eirik watched, he
noticed something else strange about this monastery. In addition to women, he
also observed that everyone he laid his eyes on was old. The youngest he saw
couldn’t be less than fifty or so in years—all except the one whom Grimar had
claimed, but Eirik hadn’t gotten a good look at her yet.

His crew deposited the
loot in the middle of the chapel.

“Is there aught else of
value here?” Eirik asked the woman who’d first spoken.

“Nay,” she said,
glaring at him. “Take the Devil’s child with you and be gone from here,
heathens!”

Eirik narrowed his eyes
at the woman’s haughty tone. By the gods, she acted as if they were
inconveniencing her!

A yelp from behind him
drew his attention before he could respond to the woman. To his surprise, the
noise had come from Grimar. His cousin was holding his ear, blood streaming
between his fingers. The girl he’d hoisted over his shoulder earlier now lay in
a heap at his feet but was trying to scramble upright and away from Grimar.

With a curse, Grimar
raised his bloodied hand from his mangled ear and struck the new thrall across
the face. The girl went spinning, landing on the hard stone floors. Yet instead
of cowering, she raised her head to look up with utter hatred at Grimar.
Grimar’s blood left a red handprint on her cheek.

To Eirik’s complete
surprise, the girl then lashed out with her foot, kicking at Grimar’s shins.
Grimar cursed again and raised his hand to hit the girl once more, but Eirik
bolted between them.

“First you draw monks’
blood, and now you’ll beat your thrall to death,” Eirik ground out. “You
dishonor yourself in front of the gods.”

“She bit me! Besides,
she’s mine to do with as I will!” Grimar shot back, though a look of
uncertainty flitted across his face at the mention of the gods.

Eirik felt the eyes of
the rest of his crew on him. They all knew how he felt about thralls. Though it
was an accepted practice to have slaves in the Northlands, Eirik believed it
was a sign of weakness to force others to do his work for him. What was the
worth of a man who needed slaves to run his farm, tend his home, or warm his
bed?

But Grimar was right.
According to custom and law, a thrall was no more than an animal, to be put to
whatever use its master saw fit. The thought of the blood-smeared, defiant
little sprite being forced by Grimar turned Eirik’s stomach, however.

Just then the old
woman’s words came back to him, and he turned to face the girl in question. She
was on her feet and panting from fright, yet her eyes locked on him with a dark
defiance.

He had guessed right
that she was young, but more a woman than a girl, as he’d initially thought.
Unlike the other women, she wore no head covering. The dark, thick braid that
ran down her back looked to be damp. Despite her chestnut hair, however, her
skin was as pale as fresh snow on the mountains surrounding Dalgaard. Most of
the women back home were pale-skinned as well, but he’d never seen the
combination of such rich hair with such fair skin.

Her eyes, which
continued to bore into him, were as dark as her hair, almost black in the low
candlelight, and seemingly depthless. Her lips were rosy and slightly parted,
her breath coming fast. Eirik let his eyes travel further down her form, across
her slim shoulders and over the shapeless brown woolen dress, which appeared
wet like her hair. She was so small, so vulnerable looking, and yet something
about her stirred him.

“Is this the one you
call Devil’s child?” he said over the girl’s shoulder to the old woman. “How
can a tiny girl have earned such a title?”

“She is the product of
sin,” the older woman replied. “Take her and be gone.”

Eirik wasn’t sure what
the woman meant by sin, beyond what the monks had told him last winter about
the Christians’ strange views on what a person should and shouldn’t do.
Regardless, the girl was clearly an outsider here—she was at least thirty years
younger than the youngest of the other women, she wore brown instead of black,
and she stared back at him, her spine straight, while the others cowered.

“Girl,” he said,
turning back to her. “Is there aught else of value here?”

Her gaze swept over
their pile of plunder in the middle of the floor. “Nay,” she breathed,
squeezing her eyes shut.

“She is the only one
worth taking as a thrall,” Grimar said from behind Eirik. He must have sensed
that Eirik was preparing to go. “All the others look too old and frail to do
any work. And the women look dry as autumn leaves.”

Grimar spat on the
floor, causing another ripple of distress from the crowd. He stooped to
retrieve a bit of rope and stepped toward the girl.

Her gaze darted between
Grimar and Eirik, unsure what was happening. To ease her fears, Eirik spoke
quietly to her in her language. “You are coming with us. If you do not resist,
no harm will come to you.” He forced himself to speak what was likely a lie,
given the fact that Grimar was her master now. Yet Eirik felt drawn to protect
the small, fiery girl.

Her eyes widened and
she tried to step back, but Grimar snatched her wrists and bound them quickly,
leaving an extra length of rope by which to pull her.

“Nay! I will not go
with you!” the girl shrieked, her bluster and bravery from earlier ebbing into
panic.

Eirik turned his back
on her, unable to face those dark, searing eyes as she protested. He gave
orders to gather their loot and move out. As he and his crew stepped through
the shattered door and toward the wall they’d scaled, he heard the chant rise
from the chapel once more. The girl’s pleas and shouts mingled with the relieved
prayers of the others.

The sky had turned from
inky black to gray-blue as dawn approached. They made their way across the
hilltop and down the sandy cliffs to the beach, where the Drakkar awaited them.
The crew boarded with their loot wrapped in cloth and slung over their
shoulders. As each one set foot on the planks of the ship, they cheered for the
easy victory.

The last to board was
Grimar, the girl trailing behind on the rope leash. In the yellowing light,
Eirik saw her face go from frightened to downright terrified as her eyes took
in the ship. Nei, it wasn’t the ship her dark eyes were locked on, but the
water surrounding it.

“Nay, I cannot! Not the
ocean! Please have mercy! Do not make me go out onto the ocean!” she screamed,
thrashing wildly despite her bonds.

“Is the girl mad?”
Grimar asked Eirik, not understanding her words. He picked her up bodily and
threw her over the ship’s gunwale. She landed on her bottom onboard but
immediately tried to leap off the ship.