Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (7 page)

His eyes pinched again.
“Some villagers will likely look upon you with disdain for being an utlending,
though most will be more curious than anything. They will expect you to be
deferential, even to other thralls. They will expect you to obey me without
question.” The words seemed to strain against his throat. “But I will not treat
you cruelly or…or force myself on you.”

She could feel her eyes
go wide at his last words. “Why?” she blurted out without thinking. “I mean…I
had assumed…” she fumbled, her face growing hot.

She took a breath and
started over. “I had assumed that as a thrall I would be subjected to…such
abuses. Yet Grimar never touched me, and you say you won’t take me against my
will.” It was humiliating to speak of such horrors so frankly, yet she’d been
required to do many things in the last several days that she otherwise never
would have.

“No intimacies of any
kind can take place on a ship,” Eirik replied. “It is considered an insult to
the gods of the sea. Only the threat of the gods’ wrath stopped Grimar.”

“And when we land?” she
said shakily.

“I find such acts
abhorrent. A man who takes women by force has no self-control and therefore doesn’t
deserve respect.” His blue eyes flame
d
brightly for a moment, revealing just how strongly he felt about his words.

The smallest tendril of
relief soothed her ragged mind for a moment. Eirik wouldn’t abuse her, and if
his words could be believed, he wouldn’t rape her either. But only if she
remained his thrall, she reminded herself with a sinking feeling. If Grimar
could convince his father, the Jarl, that she should be passed back to him…

Sickness that had
naught to do with the gently rolling seas rose in the back of her throat. Her
position was so tenuous that she dared not hope to remain under Eirik’s
protection. Yet she couldn’t deny to herself that he was preferable over
Grimar.

More than preferable
,
a voice whispered in the back of her head. Something about his presence both
comforted and disquieted her—not because she feared him, as she did Grimar, but
because he made her very aware of his largeness and her smallness, of his
strength and her weakness. Even the feel of his gaze on her sent little threads
of unfamiliar heat through her body.

Something shifted in
the air between them as he continued to crouch before her on his heels. His
gaze moved over her and his eyes flickered with a fleeting look of…could it be
called anything but hunger? She shivered again despite the warmth under the
shade of the awning.

He leaned back so that
he was clear of the awning and then stood. “We’ll make landfall on the morrow
if the winds stay behind us,” he said, his tone controlled. “Ready yourself.”

As the fjord sheltering
Dalgaard came into view, a shout of joy erupted from the crew.

Eirik wished he could
share in their unfettered merriment. He thanked the gods that the Drakkar had
returned home safely and that none of his crew had been harmed in their raid.
But the dark eyes watching him from under the woolen awning bore into him. She
tried to hide her fear of what lay ahead, yet her wide eyes darted anxiously.

He ducked his head
under the awning. “We are almost home.”

The words were strange
to say, considering her home had been the monastery from which his cousin had
stolen her. Yet Dalgaard would be her home now, and no matter how much Eirik
wanted to make this easy on her, she’d have to face the village sooner or
later.

Several men lowered the
sail while others began passing around the wooden oars that were stored until
needed. The familiar sound of the oars being fitted through the oar holes and
making contact with the water calmed Eirik’s nerves somewhat. He passed the
tiller off to one of the men and sat on his sea chest to take up an oar
himself. He wasn’t too proud to row alongside his crew. Besides, he needed to
burn off some of the tension in his shoulders and back.

He fell into the
pulling rhythm of the oars with the others, relieved to occupy himself with
something besides thoughts of Laurel. Her pale skin, dark eyes and hair, and
small form had increasingly plagued him
during
the journey home. The only way he could explain her strange power over his body
was that he hadn’t been with a woman in a while, so preoccupied with preparing
for this voyage had he been.

He leaned back with the
oar firmly in his grip, digging it deeply into the fjord waters. She was too
small, too boyish in the nigh-shapeless brown woolen gown she wore. She was
nothing like the tall, buxom, fair-haired women who populated Dalgaard—and who
occasionally caught his eye. Yet even the comely village women had never
stirred him the way Laurel did. He was beginning to feel a bit sore between the
legs from his sleepless nights and wandering thoughts.

Sweat broke out on his
brow and between his shoulder blades as he plowed the oar through the water
again and again. He gritted his teeth as he admonished himself for his own
bodily reaction. If she had been a free woman, he’d approach her and see if she
was interested in sharing a bit of pleasure with him.

But she was his thrall,
his property. To bed her would be no better than rape, for no true free will
could exist for her. He would not put her in such an impossible position—for even
if she acquiesced to his desires, he could never be sure if she hadn’t felt
obligated or coerced.

He let his gaze travel
down the length of the fjord in search of Dalgaard’s docks. In the distance, he
spotted a smattering of wooden houses fitted snugly in the narrow strip of land
between the water and the mountainsides that rose sharply above the fjord’s
termination. The docks were a speck that grew larger with each pull of the
oars. Now Eirik could make out the village longhouse, which stood nestled against
the steeply sloping mountains above the docks.

As the Drakkar drew
nearer, figures began gathering on the docks in anticipation of their arrival.
No special woman in the village awaited Eirik’s return. He’d occupied himself
too much with raids to have time for a wife and family. And his closest friends
were on board with him already. Even still, his chest pinched oddly at the
thought of having someone to love and care for him—and someone for him to love
and care for in return. Perhaps he would need to consider a wife soon after
all.

He pushed the thought
away with another stroke of the oar. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
Unbidden, an image of Laurel’s face flitted across his mind.

As the Drakkar drifted
into Dalgaard’s docks, another cheer from the ship went up, to be echoed by
those on land. Ropes were tossed across the gunwale, and Eirik’s crew began
leaping onto the docks and into the waiting arms of their loved ones.

Madrena and Alaric
clasped arms, their faces wide in playful grins, as was their tradition
whenever they returned successfully from a voyage. Then they jumped onto the
dock, happily making their way through the crowd of villagers. Eirik also
caught sight of Grimar slipping from the ship to make his way with purposeful
strides toward the village longhouse. He was likely wasting no time in plying
the Jarl’s ear about the events of the journey.

Eirik ducked his head
under the awning in search of Laurel. She was pressed as far back against the
stern as possible, her eyes wide with fright.

“I’d have thought you’d
be more eager to get your feet on solid ground, girl,” he said, trying to ease
her fear.

To his pleased
surprise, her eyes widened even more, and then one corner of her mouth quirked
in what threatened to be a smile.

“Come,” he said more
seriously. “There is nothing to fear, for I will be at your side.”

She nodded, all hints
of lightness vanishing. She crawled toward him, her face surprisingly composed.
What could have taught this little wisp of a woman such strength in her short
years?

He helped her to her
feet and guided her to the gunwale. He leapt over, landing with a thud on the
wooden dock. The villagers cheered heartily at his victorious show. But then he
reached up and wrapped his hands around her waist. He lifted her up and over
the gunwale and lowered her to the dock. By the time her feet brushed the wood,
the crowd had fallen silent.

“Our voyage to the
western lands was successful,” he called out in a loud, steady voice. “We have
many treasures to show for it, and none of our people were harmed.”

The crowd cheered, but
it was laced with murmured questions about the girl standing at his side.

“This is Laurel, a girl
from the monastery we attacked,” Eirik went on. “She is
mine
.”

More confused whispers
filtered through those gathered on the docks at his brusque words. He didn’t
want to leave any doubt in their minds that Laurel was not to be trifled with.
Yet most of the villagers knew that he didn’t keep thralls and didn’t approve
of the practice. They would never expect him to claim an utlending as his
thrall—it went against his very nature. At least that was how Eirik felt now as
the owner of a thrall.

A little boy darted
through the crowd and skidded to a halt right in front of Eirik. “Jarl Gunvald
calls a council meeting,” the boy panted. Clearly he had just sprinted from the
longhouse at either Gunvald or Grimar’s command. “He wishes to discuss your
voyage, and the thrall girl.”

More surprised murmurs
swelled in the crowd, but Eirik paid them no mind. Truly, Grimar had wasted no
time, but mayhap it was better this way. The matter needed to be decided once
and for all.

He took Laurel by the
hand and began weaving his way along the docks toward the longhouse, which
stood a long stone’s throw away and slightly up on the banks of the fjord. His
crew, along with the villagers, followed him.

As he stepped inside
the longhouse, he had to blink several times to let his eyes adjust to the dim
interior. He could feel Laurel’s hand tense within his own at the scene. In the
middle of the longhouse stood an enormous stone fire pit, where flames burned
year-round. The smoke trailed out a hole in the thatched roofing. Wooden tables
and benches lined the longhouse’s walls, to be pulled out for the next
community meal.

On the back wall stood
a raised dais. An ornately carved chair took up most of the dais, though
smaller chairs also stood at the ready for honored guests.

Eirik’s eyes sought out
a flicker of movement at the base of the dais. His cousin and uncle stood
talking quietly, Grimar’s pale blond head nearly touching Gunvald’s gray-white
one. Then Gunvald’s attention jerked to the villagers filing in all around
Eirik and Laurel. He straightened away from his son and mounted the steps
leading up to the dais. With all the command of his title, the Jarl seated
himself in the large chair and banged a fist against the chair’s arm.

Silence fell over the
gathered crowd within the longhouse.

“Welcome home, nephew,”
Gunvald said, his icy blue eyes, so like Grimar’s, narrowing on him. “We have
much to discuss.”

Gunvald took in the
scene before him, forcing himself to keep his gaze neutral as it swept over the
girl at his nephew’s side.

This must be the girl
over whom his son was nigh incensed. He’d expected some great beauty, but
instead the girl looked small and weak cowering next to Eirik. Her dark braid
was mussed, her skin pale in the dim light, and her frame thin and hunched in
fear.

Gunvald suppressed a
snort of derision. This was the girl his son had been babbling furiously about
a moment ago when he’d burst into the longhouse and demanded that Gunvald call
a council meeting?

Yet Grimar could not be
dissuaded when he set his sights on something. It would be useless to try to
talk him out of his claim on this utlending girl. Silently cursing the weakness
of his son’s temper, Gunvald adjusted the thick animal furs he wore over his
shoulders.

He would have to make a
point of following procedure, of course. He couldn’t simply take the girl from
Eirik, who stood half in front of her protectively, and give her to Grimar—too
many in the village would see that as unfair favoritism. It could raise
unfavorable comparison between their current Jarl and Arud the Steady—and
Arud’s level-headed son.

Instead of starting
with the girl, however, Gunvald would test Eirik’s amenability with a safer
topic.

“You have been
successful in your voyage to the west?” Gunvald said loud enough for those in
the back of the longhouse to hear.

“Ja, Jarl,” Eirik
responded just as loudly. “We reached the western lands and have brought back
many treasures to show for it.”

Eirik turned and
motioned behind him. One of his sailors stepped through the parting crowd with
his sea chest hoisted on top of his shoulder. The man set the chest down with a
loud thump in front of the dais and opened the lid.

Gold, silver, and
jewels glinted in the firelight. The crowd gasped and a ripple of excited
whispers spread through the longhouse. Gunvald leaned forward, making a show of
inspecting the sparkling loot.

“That is just a small
portion of what we recovered,” Eirik went on, never taking his eyes from
Gunvald. “My crew and I would like to give you a share of the loot, to honor
you as our leader, and to give thanks for your foresight in sending us on the
voyage.”

Gunvald’s head snapped
up to level Eirik with a narrowed stare. Without doubt, that had been a veiled
jab at him.

It had been Eirik who’d
insisted that Gunvald send a ship to the west. He’d adamantly claimed that
others, especially in Jutland, would soon stake all the land and its wealth for
themselves. While Gunvald had thought it safer to keep raiding closer to home,
Eirik had convinced most in the village that their future lay to the west. When
it had been clear that public opinion had turned against him, Gunvald had
ordered Eirik to sail west, as if it had been his decision. Was Eirik
attempting to remind the others of this?

Gunvald slowly placed a
hand over his heart and ben
t
his head.

“You have made the Jarl
of Dalgaard proud,” Gunvald said, giving an extra breath of emphasis on his
title. The crowd cheered their approval of Eirik’s gesture and their Jarl’s
gracious acceptance.

At least Eirik was
still willing to acquiesce to Gunvald in the symbolic gesture of sharing their
takings. If he hadn’t played his part in this little ceremony, the issue of the
girl would have been moot. Yet even now Gunvald had to proceed carefully. If
Eirik’s firm grip on the girl’s hand was any indication, he may not be so
willing to part with that particular piece of loot.

“Before we feast in
honor of your success—” Gunvald began. The villagers gave a titter of
anticipation for the promised festivities. “—there is another matter we must
settle.”

Eirik’s hardening gaze
was visible even from the dais, but Gunvald went on. “It has come to my
attention that you’ve also brought home an utlending thrall,” he began loudly
for the villagers’ benefit. “There seems to be some dispute about who is the
rightful owner of the girl.”

Just then, Grimar
stepped out of the crowd so that he faced Eirik at the base of the dais. Though
his son’s face was smooth, it was obvious to Gunvald that he worked to keep his
temper in check.

“I was the first to see
the girl when we raided the western monastery,” Grimar said to the crowd. “I
claimed her as my thrall in front of many witnesses.”

Those gathered in the
longhouse murmured among themselves for a moment.

“Then why is Eirik, son
of Arud, now holding the girl?” someone shouted from the back.

Eirik stepped forward,
bringing the cowering girl along with him. “My cousin did indeed claim this
woman as his thrall,” he said levelly. Several in the crowd muttered their
confusion. “But Grimar discarded her. He said she was useless and threw her
overboard on the voyage home. I retrieved her and claimed her for myself.”