Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (4 page)

Eirik lunged for her,
wrapping her in his arms to prevent her from escaping or hurting herself. She
was so small that both arms wound completely around her body, yet she fought
against him with all her might, babbling about the water.

“Are you sure you want
to claim her, cousin?” Eirik said flatly to Grimar as his cousin vaulted
himself onboard. Grimar eyed the thrashing girl warily, and Eirik internally
felt a flood of satisfaction. Perhaps if he thought the girl was too much
trouble, he’d not take her as a thrall.

But Grimar must have
sensed Eirik’s aim, for he pulled the girl from his arms and pinned her
himself.

Standing slowly, Eirik
instructed the crew to row them away from the shoreline. As they pulled away
from the beach, the girl suddenly went still in Grimar’s arms.

“See? She’s already
learning how to be a good thrall,” Grimar said triumphantly.

But the breaking dawn
illuminated something else on the girl’s face. She was utterly paralyzed with
terror, her eyes wide, her limbs shaking, and her breath shallow.

Eirik moved to the
tiller uneasily, barking out orders to unfurl the sail. What had Grimar gotten
them into?

The ship rocked upward
on a sea swell again, and Laurel had to swallow hard not to lose the meager
contents of her stomach. Nausea warred with fear as she clung to the ship’s
mast, which was the farthest point from the water she could find. Even still,
she was only a few feet away on either side from the churning ocean.

But mayhap the sea’s
suffocating embrace would be a better alternative to staying on this ship
surrounded by Viking barbarians. Risking taking her eyes from the horizon for a
moment, she glanced around. Blessedly, the savage who’d been manhandling her
was occupied with some ropes around the sail. The other one, the one who’d
stepped between her and the Viking who’d struck her, was at the back of the
ship, yet his eyes kept tugging toward her.

Laurel swiveled her
head around to refocus on the horizon, yet even that small movement sent
another wave of nausea through her. It was all too much. In less than a day,
she’d been attacked by Brother Egbert, dunked in the chair, beset upon by a
Viking seige, and now she was their captive—how could she possibly make sense
of any of it?

And of course now she
sat in a wooden vessel, no more than forty feet long and only ten feet wide,
tossed like a toy at the mercy of the fathomless waters all around. She
squeezed her eyes shut, but then immediately regretted it as the ship rolled
lazily again.

“Try to eat something.”

Despite her fatigue and
numbness, she jumped at the deep voice right behind her. The barbarian from the
ship’s stern stepped in front of her, and despite her desire to cling to the
mast, she felt herself cower away from him.

“It might help settle
your stomach,” he said, extending a chunk of flatbread toward her.

“You—you speak my
language,” she said cautiously. She eyed him, not taking the offered bread. She
wouldn’t have recognized him as the same man who’d stormed the Abbey last
night, except for his bright blue eyes, which seemed to bore into her.

Of course, he was still
enormous and foreboding, but he had removed the chainmail shirt he’d worn last
night to reveal a simple belted tunic. And while his nasal helm had obscured
most of his face and head when he’d burst into the chapel, now she saw that he
had a mane of golden hair, held back on each side of his face with small
braids.

His bronzed skin spoke
of a life outdoors and on the open seas. He didn’t sport the thick beards that
some of the other Viking men onboard did, yet the lower half of his face was
covered in thick stubble slightly darker than his hair. His eyes, which had
been fierce and unyielding last night, were now penetrating and—could a Viking
barbarian be curious?

“Ya, I’ve learned a bit
of it,” he replied, but from what she’d already heard, he knew more than he was
letting on.

He nudged the bread
toward her once again. “Eat,” he said, but this time it was more of a command.

Cautiously, she
unwrapped one hand from the wooden mast and accepted the chunk of bread from
him. She took a small bit
e
and was surprised
to find that it had the flavor of oats and honey, far more luxurious than
anything they ate regularly at the Abbey.

“I have a few questions
for you,” he said, his eyes following the bread as she brought it to her mouth
again for another bit
e
.

She halted mid-chew.
What could the barbarian possibly want to know from her? Did he expect her to
cooperate with him in her own captivity? To betray her homeland and help him
commit more raids?

His eyes narrowed
slightly, and she realized her suspicion and wariness must be written on her
face.

“Will you refuse to
talk with me? For if you do, you’ll not have answers to any of your own
questions, girl,” he said flatly.

Other than his words
that they were taking her with them, she’d had no explanation about what was to
become of her. She needed her own answers, and this was the only man who could
give them.

Reluctantly, she
nodded. “What do you want to know?”

He leaned back on his
heels a bit, satisfied. “What was the name of the monastery?”

“Whitby Abbey,” she
replied, but then hesitated. “You know what a monastery is?”

He quirked a
half-smile, and suddenly the hard lines of his face were transformed. She felt
her eyes widen slightly, then quickly looked away. She had to admit that based
on the stories the Abbess and the others at the monastery told, she was
surprised that the Viking before her was more man than snarling dog.

“Ja, that is how I came
to learn your language. You’ve heard of Lindisfarne?”

The air rushed from her
lungs, all her surprise and curiosity about this man evaporating. “That was
you? You were the one who attacked the holy island and razed Lindisfarne?”

The bile rose in the
back of her throat, and she was sorely tempted to spit in the man’s face.
Stories of the horrors committed at Lindisfarne had spread quickly throughout
Northumbria. Even though it was nigh fifteen years ago, the outrage over the
Northmen’s attack against a peaceful, holy place still ran hot. Laurel had
heard the tales from the nuns at Whitby for almost as long as she could
remember. Could the man in front of her, the one who’d protected her from one
of his men, the one who’d left Whitby’s residents unharmed, be the same man
who’d slaughtered so many innocent monks?

A look of confusion
flitted across his face. “Nei, I wasn’t there. I only spoke with some of the
men who were.”

Why should she feel
relieved that he hadn’t done those horrible things at Lindisfarne? Mayhap it
was only because she wasn’t in the hands of those monsters.
But I don’t know
what this barbarian is capable of yet, either
, she thought with an internal
shudder.

“I learned your
language from some of the monks who were made thralls,” he went on.

Something about that
word tickled her brain. “Thrall. I’ve heard the other one say that word several
times.” She nodded her head inconspicuously toward the man who’d thrown her
over his shoulder last night. “What does it mean?”

The golden-haired
warrior’s face darkened suddenly. “I’ll explain in a moment.” His bright blue
eyes flickered to the other man, and if Laurel hadn’t known they were
shipmates, she’d have thought she saw rage in his look.

“Tell me more about
this Whitby Abbey. Why were there women there? The Lindisfarne monks led me to
believe that holy houses in your land are only for men.”

“Nay, women can have
holy houses, too—they’re called convents. But Whitby is different. ’Tis a
double monastery. It has a side for monks, with an Abbot as their leader, and a
side for nuns, with an Abbess to guide them. But they all worship together.”

He gave her a strange
look as if she were talking gibberish. “But if they all stay behind the same
walls and worship together, why do they not live together as men and women
normally do instead of having separate sides?”

Laurel surprised
herself by snorting softly in derision. “They aren’t
supposed
to live as
other men and women do, and yet the nuns used to get pregnant from time to
time.” She had never been able to voice her frustration at the hypocrisy of
some claiming to lead a holy life. Even Brother Egbert’s overt attacks had been
blamed on her.

“Used to?”

“Aye, many years ago,
pregnant nuns were such a problem that double monasteries were barred from
admitting new monastics. That way, such places would fade and die out
naturally.”

“That explains their
ages,” the man said more to himself.

Laurel nodded. It had
been a sad place to be a child. She’d been surrounded by the aging and dying,
with no one to play with. Those who were left were clinging to an old
tradition, and her presence was probably a constant reminder that their way of
life, and they themselves, were fading away.

“But why were you among
them? How did you come to be at the monastery?”

She sighed, letting her
eyes drift to the horizon. “My parents abandoned me outside Whitby. From what
little the nuns told me, I was born out of wedlock. They were kind to take me
in.” She spoke woodenly. She was tired of having to own her parents’ sin and
praise the nuns for their treatment of her.

He was silent for a
moment, presumably sensing her weariness. “Is Whitby part of Northumbria?” he
eventually asked quietly.

“Aye, it is.”

He nodded as if that
was useful information, though Laurel wasn’t sure how.

“What is your name,
girl?”

The question brought
her gaze back to him. The sky behind him was as vibrant as the pair of eyes
that pinned her.

“Laurel,” she breathed.
She only had the one name. The nuns hadn’t seen fit to give her either of her
parents’ family names since her birth wasn’t blessed by God.

“Laurel.” For some
reason
,
her gaze was pulled to his lips as he
tested the word on his tongue. “I am Eirik, son of Arud the Steady, captain of
the Drakkar.”

She blinked at the
flood of information. He was the captain? Was that why he had the authority to
stop the Viking who’d attacked her from hitting her again?

“And what is
his
name?” she asked, motioning again toward the cruel barbarian.

“He is Grimar the
Raven, son of Jarl Gunvald. He is my cousin.”

“Raven?” She looked
over at Grimar. His pale blond hair was almost white in the blinding midday
sun.

Eirik again seemed to
tense slightly. “He is called the Raven for his temperament, not his hair.”

Laurel swallowed
uneasily. “And why does he keep calling me a…thrall?”

Eirik gave Grimar’s
back a hard look for a long moment, but then he turned back to her, locking his
bright eyes on her.

“Thrall means slave.
Grimar has claimed you as his slave.”

The ship rolled down
the sloping backside of a wave, and Laurel felt the bread she’d just eaten rise
in her throat.

She was a slave. A
slave to a cruel, violent Northman.

She bolted to her feet
and in two unsteady strides
,
she was clinging
to the ship’s gunwale. Her stomach seized and she vomited into the sea.

Eirik stood to go to
Laurel’s side as she leaned over the ship’s gunwale and emptied her stomach. He
stopped himself, though, clenching his fists in frustration. Instead he strode
to Grimar’s side. His cousin glanced at him casually, yet his voice was tight.

“Why were you speaking
to my thrall, cousin?”

“Someone needed to
explain things to her,” Eirik bit out in response.

Grimar distractedly
brought his hand to his right ear, where dried blood was crusted from where
Laurel had bit him. “She’ll learn soon enough.”

Eirik felt his lips
curl back in a snarl but remained silent. As he had suspected, his cousin would
be cruel to the girl. Unlike other Vikings, thralls had no protection against
being beaten, raped, or even killed.

“Why are you so
interested in her?” Grimar said, facing him fully. He no longer feigned
disinterest but looked at Eirik with open hostility.

“I’m not interested in
her,” Eirik shot back, yet even as he spoke the words
,
his eyes darted to her small, limp form as she dragged herself back over the
gunwale and walked on shaky legs to the mast. In the bright midday sun, her
hair shone a rich chestnut brown and her dark eyes glimmered with flecks of
gold.

Eirik forced his
attention back to Grimar. “If you want your thrall to live long enough to set
foot on solid land, you’ll need to tend to her. Her gown is still damp, and she
needs to eat something.”

Before Grimar could
accuse Eirik of being far too concerned with his property again, Eirik strode
toward the tiller, where Alaric stood.

“So, you’re finally
willing to confront Grimar,” Alaric said casually as Eirik approached. “All it
took was a pair of big brown eyes and—”

“Leave it, Alaric,”
Eirik bit out. By the gods, why was he so angry? And why was he taking it out
on his friend
?

Alaric only raised a
sandy brown eyebrow at him. He stepped aside so that Eirik could reclaim the
tiller
and
stayed next to him. They both
watched silently as Madrena warily approached Laurel and handed her a waterskin
so that she could rinse her mouth from her sickness.

Laurel nodded her
thanks after she’d taken a few gulps and handed back the waterskin to Madrena.
Then she returned her gaze to the horizon, her face a detached mask.

Grimar stomped to her
side a moment later and without word or pause threw a cloak at her. She caught
it, and Eirik could see confusion on her face as she looked up, but Grimar had
already turned his back and walked away. The smear of Grimar’s blood, a vaguely
hand-shaped mark, remained on Laurel’s cheek.

Eirik cursed under his
breath, which drew another quizzical look from Alaric. Thankfully, his friend
didn’t say aught else.

“That girl has calluses
on her hands, but I doubt she could wield a weapon to save her life,” Madrena
said with disdain as she approached them at the stern.

“You’d best drop that
subject, sister,” Alaric said wryly.

Madrena swung her pale
gray gaze between the two of them, finally shrugging and rolling her eyes.

“Very well. Let’s talk
about something more pleasing—like the lands we just raided,” she said, leaning
back against the tall, carved serpent tail rising from the stern of the
Drakkar.

Alaric’s green eyes
danced. “Never have I seen a land so ripe and plentiful!”

“It was dark, and we
only saw the monastery,” Eirik said dryly.

Alaric wasn’t dampened.
“Ja, but the monastery alone was so abundant in riches that the rest of the
country must be similarly endowed.”

“I saw trees in the
distance,” Madrena added, “and open fields for grazing.”

“There is much more to
learn,” Eirik replied quietly, “but indeed, it is a land of much promise.”

“I can see why the
Jutland King hungers for as much of these western lands as he can swallow,”
Alaric said. “Jarl Gunvald will be pleased that we are doing our own
exploring.”

“Then why must we dash
home after only one raid, and no real chance to see the country?” Madrena asked
with her usual bluntness.

“You wish to be captain
now?” Eirik said with more sharpness than he’d intended. What had gotten into
him?

Madrena shrugged off
his harshness, though. “Nei, I just wish we had more time to explore.”

“Ya, so do I,” he
replied more evenly. “I’d rather not do so with Grimar in tow, though.”

“’Twould be nice to
leave him in Dalgaard for the next voyage,” Alaric said with a half-suppressed
smile. “Who knows, perhaps his little thrall will manage to throw him overboard
and we will be rid of him at last!”

Madrena cackled at her
brother’s words, but Eirik only managed a weak smile. He couldn’t allow harm to
come to his kinsmen—especially not the son of the Jarl. But nor could he
continue to allow Grimar to challenge his authority so publicly. The girl,
Laurel, was only a minor distraction, he told himself firmly. It was simply his
dislike of the practice of slavery that made his blood boil to think of her in
Grimar’s hands.

Madrena stilled,
seeming to sense the line of Eirik’s thoughts. “Be careful when it comes to the
girl, Eirik,” she said soberly. “It is clear to all that you’ve taken an
interest in her, but Grimar will like as not use that against both her and
you.”

Eirik rubbed the scruff
on his jaw, considering Madrena’s words as she and Alaric sauntered off.
Unbidden, his eyes drifted to Laurel once again. Her head was barely visible
within Grimar’s overlarge cloak. What was it about her that drew his eye?

She didn’t look like
most of the women Eirik had encountered. He’d seen thralls from other lands who
had dark hair like hers, but they usually had darker skin to match it. Of
course, the women he’d normally taken to his bed had been from the Northlands
since he refused to use a thrall for such purposes. Perhaps Laurel was of Saxon
blood, or even a descendant of the Romans whose empire had spread wide long
ago.

Whatever her bloodline,
something about her stirred him. Was he only drawn to her because he loathed
Grimar for enthralling her? Was it the contrast she provided compared to the
women of Dalgaard?

Madrena was right,
though. He couldn’t stand between Grimar and his thrall, no matter how much he
longed to free her from his cruel cousin and the bonds of enslavement. And yet,
Eirik sensed that the tension between them would snap soon. He could only hope
that Laurel wouldn’t be caught in the middle.