Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (5 page)

Laurel bolted upright
with a start. She must have drifted off to sleep while still clinging to the
mast, for she had been slumped over it a moment ago. Blessedly, the seas felt
calmer now, and the boat only rocked a little. She glanced up at the sky to
find that it was late evening. She’d been with her Viking captors for nigh a
day.

She tried to swallow,
but her mouth was dry and her lips were cracked. Besides the few bites of bread
the one called Eirik had given her, she’d had naught to eat for a day and a
half. Nor had she had more than the swill or two of water the female Viking had
offered. Laurel had been surprised at first to see the warrior woman among the
others, but everyone seemed to treat her like she belonged there. What
outlandish customs these pagans had.

Her head still spun
from seasickness, but she found her way to her feet to search for something to
drink. Presumably they hadn’t taken her this far just to let her die of thirst.

As she stood on
unsteady legs, she looked around the ship to get her bearings. Some men moved
about, pulling on various ropes to adjust the sail, but most sat atop wooden
sea chests or on the deck itself. They talked and laughed quietly among
themselves, seemingly uninterested or unsurprised by her presence.

Lining the exterior of
the ship were wooden shields, the same ones the Vikings had been carrying when
they’d stormed the Abbey. They were painted a variety of colors, but the most
popular seemed to be blood-red, like the stripes in the sail.

She turned toward the
ship’s stern and started again when she realized that Eirik was watching her
intently from the tiller. The sleeves of his tunic were turned back, revealing
tanned forearms corded with muscle. His hand clenched on the tiller, causing
the muscles to jump under her gaze.

She looked away
quickly, disconcerted by the intensity of his stare. Yet it wasn’t the
lecherous look Brother Egbert used to give her, nor was it the malevolent sneer
so often plastered on Grimar the Raven’s face.

Her
master
.

Her throat tightened
even to think the word. Nay, she was no man’s slave. She’d been little more
than a slave at the Abbey all her life. She would not be degraded further as
some Viking animal’s property.

But of course, what her
Viking master could do to her was likely far worse than anything she’d
experienced at the monastery. She shivered when she remembered the look in
Grimar’s eyes when he’d first burst into the chapel. His bloodlust had been
replaced with simply lust at seeing her, a young woman among aging nuns and
monks. He’d handled her coarsely, with no care for her at all. Would he…would
he…?

As if the Devil had
risen at her thoughts, Grimar stepped before her.

“I need water,” she
croaked, placing a hand on her throat to show her meaning.

He frowned and said
something in the strange, guttural language these Northmen spoke.

She shook her head.
“Water,” she said again, hoping he’d understand eventually. For good measure,
she made a drinking motion and then pointed to the sea surrounding them.
“Water.”

A slow grin spread
across his face. “Wa-ter,” he said haltingly.

“Aye, I need water,”
she replied, relief flooding her.

Suddenly Grimar
snatched her up and carried her to the gunwale. She shrieked in terror as she
looked down to find her feet dangling above air—air and the ocean.

She clawed at him,
trying to latch onto him so that he couldn’t throw her overboard. He leaned
farther out, his arms lowering her closer to the sea.

“Water!” he shouted.
Despite her desperate attempts to fight her way back onto the safety of the
ship, she was nothing compared to his strength and size. He laughed as she
screamed again.

All at once, she was
jerked backward and the ship’s deck reappeared beneath her feet. Before she
could say a prayer of thanks, however, she was torn from Grimar’s grasp and
tossed to the deck.

Shouts erupted all
around her. She scrambled back from the cacophony, only to bump into someone’s
legs. A circle had formed, and she was in the middle of it.

She looked up and
realized that actually two men were the center of attention within the
circle—Grimar and Eirik. Eirik shoved Grimar hard, his eyes blazing and a
string of shouts coming from his mouth. Grimar stumbled backward from the force
of the push, but as he came forward again, a blade flashed in his hands.

Everyone around her
fell instantly silent at the sight of the dagger flashing in the light of the
setting sun. She saw Eirik’s face harden and his fists clench, yet he didn’t
draw a weapon, despite having a dagger at his belt. The two exchanged words once
more, but this time they both spoke levelly. Slowly, Grimar lowered the dagger
and re-sheathed it. The crowd began to dis
per
se,
the men returning to their tasks, yet the air was taut with unspent energy.

The female Viking
materialized at Laurel’s side, inconspicuously handing her the waterskin she’d
offered before. But this time, after Laurel had taken a long, greedy pull, the
woman refused to take the skin back.

“Keep,” she said in
heavily accented version of Laurel’s language, pushing the skin back into her
hands. Laurel nodded her thanks, unsure of what to make of the kindness of some
of these barbarians.

“Be-ware,” the woman
whispered as she moved to stand. But instead of pointing to Grimar, she leveled
her finger at Eirik, who was approaching them.

Before Laurel could ask
the woman what she meant by warning her against Eirik, she dissolved back with
the rest of the crew.

Eirik crouched before
her, his face hard. “Are you all right?” he asked tightly.

“Aye,” she said
shakily, taking another swig of water to soothe her throat and settle her
stomach.

“Why are you so afraid
of water?” Eirik’s look seared into her, searching, possessive.

“I-I cannot swim,” she
breathed. “And the nuns used to hold me underwater as punishment.”

A look of anger,
followed by sadness, flitted across his features. Before he could say more,
however, a shadow fell across where they crouched on the deck.

Laurel looked up to
find Grimar looming over them. He said something in his language to Eirik, and
Eirik’s brow lowered. He stood and stepped back from where she sat.

Grimar wrapped a hand
around her arm and yanked her to her feet. When she struggled to get out of his
grasp, he twisted her arm behind her back painfully, forcing her to follow him.
He stepped toward the ship’s bow, the farthest point from where Eirik stood as
he resumed his grip on the tiller.

She watched the
golden-haired warrior over her shoulder as Grimar dragged her after him.
Eirik’s hand clenched and unclenched on the wooden tiller until his knuckles
were white. She could still see his bright blue eyes, blazing with unspent
rage, until Grimar tossed her down on the deck.

Grimar lay down in
front of her and acted like he was going to sleep. His large body cornered her
into a narrow triangle of deck at the bow, giving her barely enough room to
curl up on her side without brushing against him. She pulled his giant cloak
over herself to cut the cold wind coming off the water.

Her stomach was empty,
her throat dry, her head spinning from the rolling ocean that enveloped them.
And yet she could still feel Eirik’s gaze trained on her. The heat of it
kindled something strange deep in her belly.

Eirik was a fool—a fool
and a madman to openly confront Grimar about the girl. Yet when he’d heard her
screams of terror and saw her wild fight against his cousin, he’d flown to her
side without thinking. To hear his cousin laugh at her torment had been the
breaking point.

He couldn’t simply
order Grimar to treat her as a freewoman—she was his thrall, and there was
naught he could do about it. Yet at least he could maintain order as the ship’s
captain. That was the only argument that had cooled Grimar’s blood enough to
avoid an all-out battle right there on the deck.

But even as Grimar had
re-sheathed his seax, Eirik had seen a light of recognition in his cousin’s
eyes. Eirik cared for the girl’s wellbeing too much—and now she could be used
against him.

Eirik wasn’t sure when
the animosity between his cousin and him had begun, for they’d played together
as children often enough. Yet even as a boy, Grimar had enjoyed being cruel,
taking an extra swing at Eirik’s ribs after their play-fights were over, or
using farm animals as practice for his sword work instead of a wooden post.

But it hadn’t been
until Eirik’s father, then the Jarl, had died that Grimar seemed to turn truly
spiteful toward Eirik.

When Eirik had been a
boy, all in the village remarked on how much he looked like his father. Both
were golden-haired and strongly built, but it was more than that. Even from a
young age, Eirik had demonstrated the level-headedness and strong sense of
honor that had earned his father the title of Steady. The Jarlship wouldn’t
automatically be passed on to Eirik when the time came, but it was widely
believed that he would be just as good a leader as his father.

But when Arud had died
unexpectedly while on a raid in a neighboring village, Eirik had still been too
young to take his father’s place. Instead, his uncle Gunvald, Arud’s brother
and Grimar’s father, had stepped into the position, assuring all in Dalgaard
that it would make for a smoother transition that way.

Of course, it had
remained the assumption around the village that when Eirik was of age, he would
take his uncle’s place as Jarl. Yet the timing was never right, or at least so
said Gunvald. Eirik hadn’t minded, for he was more interested in the summer
raids and planning this voyage to the west. But Grimar seemed to have grown
increasingly sour at the idea that Eirik would take his father’s place. And
worse, while Eirik was praised as the likely next Jarl, the village remained
silent when it came to Grimar’s worthiness.

Eirik didn’t see
himself as Grimar’s competition, but he also didn’t lust for the Jarlship the
way Grimar seemed to. It had been a blow to Grimar’s pride to be sent by his
father on a mission led by Eirik. Though Grimar couldn’t challenge Eirik as the
captain, he’d found a way to hold something else over Eirik—Laurel.

Eirik cursed himself
all over again for involving himself. Nei, that wasn’t exactly it. If he had to
do it over again, he would still protect Laurel from Grimar’s cruelty. He only
wished that he hadn’t revealed how much the girl affected him, how much power
she had over him—and now how much power Grimar had as a result.

He motioned for one of
his men to take the tiller for the night so that he could get some rest.
Normally the rocking of a ship at sea could put him to sleep in a matter of
moments. Not so tonight. Every time he closed his eyes, Laurel’s pale,
delicately sculpted face swam before him. He’d stared at her enough to be able
to perfectly picture her wide, unguarded eyes, the soft curve of her cheeks,
and her full, rosy lips. His chest pinched, and he felt a stirring between his
legs.

It was going to be a
long sennight’s voyage back to Dalgaard.

Laurel scrubbed the
back of her forearm over her brow, trying to keep the sweat out of her eyes.
She rolled her neck from side to side to ease the ache, but moving her head
like that only brought on the seasickness again.

She’d slept uneasily last
night, though she was grateful to get to rest unmolested. Grimar hadn’t made a
move toward her during the night, which was a small blessing in these otherwise
nightmarish conditions.

When he’d risen and
kicked her legs to wake her, however, the blessing seemed small indeed. He’d
put her to work all morning and throughout the hot afternoon.

First he had her drag
his sea chest to the bow, which was now their apparent residence on the ship—as
far away from the stern as possible, where she spied Eirik standing so
frequently at the tiller. The sea chest was so heavy and large that she’d had
to get on her hands and knees and push it with her shoulder one painful inch at
a time. Of course, this had drawn chuckles of derision from her master.

Then he’d forced her to
polish each and every last piece of loot he’d stashed in the chest. With
trembling fingers
,
she’d scrubbed the golden
candlestick holders and bejeweled crosses that had once adorned Whitby’s
chapel. When a particular spot wouldn’t come out of a silver platter, Grimar
had snatched it from her and spit on it. She’d had to hold back tears of rage
and frustration at the sacrilege of his actions. Her tears would do her no
good, however, so she bowed her head and forced them back.

Now she was on her
knees yet again, but this time to scrub the deck at the bow. Grimar had guided
her roughly to the middle of the ship and indicated that she get to work
cleaning the deck, but then he and Eirik had exchanged words that crackled with
animosity. Apparently Grimar couldn’t order her to clean the entire ship, just
the corner he’d been banished to at the bow. So he’d had her scrub the small
triangle of decking over and over for what must have been hours by now.

The hot sun beat down
on her unprotected head, and she swiped her arm over her face again. She’d long
ago finished the water skin that the female Viking had given her, and besides
the heel of flatbread Grimar had tossed her that morning, she’d had naught else
to eat. Despite being on this accursed ship for nigh two days, her body still
rebelled at the motion of the rolling sea. She’d already dry-heaved once today,
and she could feel the bile rising in the back of her throat once again.

Suddenly a shadow
blocked out the sun overhead. Laurel’s relief was short-lived, for when she
glanced up, she saw Grimar looming over her.

He said something to
her in his language. She shook her head, uncomprehending. He pointed to his sea
chest, which sat a few feet away, then pointed to the middle of the ship where
she’d pushed it from that morning.

“Nay,” she said, her
heart sinking. “Not again.”

Grimar’s frown deepened
and he pointed once more to his sea chest, barking out what sounded like a
command.

Laurel dropped the rag
she’d been using to scrub the deck and crawled to the chest, too exhausted to
resist him. She was used to hard work, and to taking orders from those above
her, yet never in her life had she been treated like this—like less than the
lowliest of farm animals. But when she tried to fight him, he was quick to knock
her to the deck, kick her, or twist her arm until she yelped in submission.
This was as low as a human could stoop—this monster used her weakness, her
pain, and her fear to enslave her.

She put her shoulder to
the side of the sea chest and pushed it with what little strength she had left.
It nudged forward a few inches. She took a deep breath and pushed again, this
time gaining only an inch. Bracing herself, she ground her shoulder into the
chest.

Her exertions made her
light-headed, and she slumped against the wooden sea chest for a moment as she
saw spots.

Grimar sent a hail of
angry-sounding shouts down on her. He yanked her to her feet and gave her a
shake. It was all too much for her body. The seasickness swirled with her
lightheadedness and Grimar’s shaking. She leaned over and vomited onto his
feet.

Laurel hadn’t been
aware that any of the other Vikings on board were paying attention to her, but
suddenly the ship fell silent. One tittering laugh erupted, then another.
Let
them laugh
, she thought with complete desolation. But when she glanced up,
she realized that several of the Vikings were pointing and chuckling—not at
her, but at Grimar.

She looked up at his
face and recoiled. He was turning a deep shade of red, whether from
embarrassment or rage she couldn’t tell. His pale blue eyes darted around the
ship, taking in the other Vikings’ derision. But what was so amusing to them,
and why would Grimar be shamed?

Before she could
consider such questions, Grimar’s grip on her arms tightened painfully. He stormed
the few steps to the bow, and Laurel braced herself to be thrown to the wooden
planks once again. But instead, he lifted her in his arms and swung her past
the gunwale—right over the ocean.

It was happening again.
He was dangling her over the rushing, swelling waters, just as he’d done
yesterday. Despite how much she detested this monster, she clung to him
desperately, trying to latch onto him so that he couldn’t get her any closer to
the water.

But nay
,
she thought dimly in the back of her mind,
this isn’t like last time
.
Last time he’d been laughing, tormenting and teasing her for his own amusement.
This time his face was twisted into a disgusted snarl.

All her numbness and
fatigue burned away in an instant of sheer panic.
He doesn’t mean to toy with
me
, she realized,
he means to rid himself of me
.

Her nails dug into his
back, trying to find purchase against his linen tunic. A scream tore from her
throat. She felt her heart freeze in sheer terror.

She was going to die.
She was going to drown in the cold, uncaring North Sea.

“Grimar, stop!” Eirik
bellowed. He barreled past his crewmen toward the bow. His eyes locked on
Laurel, who was overcome with panic.

Eirik skidded to a stop
a few feet away from where Grimar stood dangling Laurel over the gunwale. “What
are you doing, cousin?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

“What does it look
like? I’m ridding myself of this useless thrall,” Grimar snapped.

“Just because a few of
the men chuckled at you for having vomit on your boots?” he said lightly. “Surely
that shouldn’t bother you overmuch.”

Eirik had observed
every horrible moment of the day, from Grimar’s lack of concern for Laurel’s
basic needs for food and water to his grueling physical tasks for her. Thank
the gods they were on a ship, for otherwise Eirik was sure that Grimar would
have used Laurel’s body in other ways as well.

It was a custom as old
as the gods that physical intimacies were not to take place on the open
ocean—it was considered a disrespect to Aegir and his wife Ran, and their nine
daughters, the waves.

Even with Laurel safe
in that regard, Grimar had found every other way to be cruel and harsh to her.
Eirik had forced himself to watch, promising to intervene if Grimar overstepped
the bounds for the treatment of thralls. When he’d seen Laurel empty her
stomach onto Grimar’s boots, he’d had to grip the tiller to will himself not to
intercede. But when some of the crew snickered at Grimar for being so
ineffectual at handling his thrall, he knew something terrible was going to happen.

“She’s useless!” Grimar
shouted. Suddenly he visibly tried to calm himself. “She’s a weakling and of no
value as a thrall, except perhaps as a warm body to fill my bed.”

A voice in the back of
Eirik’s mind screamed that his cousin was trying to bait him. He forced himself
to take a breath before he did something unthinking like lunge for Grimar’s
throat and strangle the miserable life out of him.

“But if you throw her
overboard,” Eirik ground out between gritted teeth, “you’ll never know if she
can be of use to you after all.” The words sickened him to say. Taking a thrall
to bed was no better than taking a sheep—neither one had any say in the matter.

Grimar eyed him
calculatingly. “She’s not worth the trouble. She can’t carry much, she has no
sea legs, and she’s far too willful. She’s a runt—a runt who should have been
drowned a long time ago.”

Grimar shifted so that
Laurel was completely over the water that flashed alongside the swiftly moving
ship.

“Wait!” Eirik
exclaimed. He cursed himself a moment later for the urgency in his voice, for
Grimar glanced at him with a sideways smile.

“Mayhap…mayhap I can
take her off your hands for you, if she is such a burden,” Eirik said slowly.
“I could buy her from you.”

“And what would you pay
for such a useless thrall, cousin?” Grimar said, his sly smile widening.

Eirik swallowed,
feeling his crew’s attention focused on the scene at the bow. “I’ll give you my
share of the loot from the monastery we just raided.”

Several murmurs of
surprise rose behind him.

“Eirik!” Laurel cried,
her eyes locked on him. “What is happening? Please help!”

Eirik forced himself to
ignore Laurel’s panicked cries. He couldn’t show any more weakness to Grimar,
lest his cousin exploit it for his own sick play at power.

Grimar made a show of considering
the offer. “Nei, I think not. ’Twould be unfair of me to sell you something so
worthless,” he said, the smile returning to tease around the corners of his
mouth.

Grimar shifted again,
and Laurel screamed, clawing frantically at Grimar as she was tilted closer
toward the rushing water.

“Double it, then!”
Eirik shouted, no longer able to think straight. It was as if he could see
naught but Laurel’s small frame clinging desperately to Grimar, tears streaming
down her dirty cheeks, eyes wide in terror.

A whoosh of air left
Grimar’s chest. Eirik’s eyes flickered to him, and he cursed himself. Grimar’s
whole body had relaxed. He wore the same smile, and now his eyes blazed again
with the light of recognition.

Grimar knew.

He knew as well as
Eirik that Eirik had lost and he had won. Eirik had shown his weakness, and
Grimar had outmaneuvered him to deliver a blow.

“You truly want her
badly, don’t you, cousin?” Grimar asked, play-acted sympathy dripping from his
voice.

Eirik could only nod.
He didn’t even have the words to explain to himself why he was so taken with
the girl, why he’d acted so foolishly since the moment he’d laid eyes on her.
Nor could he explain why Grimar hungered so badly to hurt him. All he could
make sense of at the moment was that he had to protect Laurel.

“Very well,” Grimar
said softly, lifting Laurel slightly in his arms.

Eirik reached out a
shaky hand, careful not to spook Grimar. Laurel’s dark brown eyes fell on him,
widening in desperate hope.

“Go and get her!” With
one hard thrust, Grimar tossed Laurel overboard. Her scream cut off sharply as
she hit the water.

In one step, Eirik
launched himself over the gunwale after her. Grimar’s laughter turned to a
surprised shout at Eirik’s unhesitating move. Alaric bellowed something from
the ship’s stern, but it sounded distant and small.

As the frigid water
enveloped him, all sound
s were
muffled. He
kicked and stroked his arms as hard as he’d ever done before. He had to reach
her.