Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (8 page)

Now the noise from the
villagers was overwhelming. “Silence!” Gunvald shouted, pounding his fist on
the arm of his chair once more. He cursed internally. His son had left out any
mention of discarding the thrall. He’d only said that Eirik had taken the girl
despite his previous and rightful claim to her.

“Do you have any
witnesses to these events?” Gunvald said, trying to disguise the weariness in
his voice. If it was as Eirik said, he could never rule in favor of his son.
The groundlessness of such a decision would leave him open to criticisms from
his people, and more dangerous, to a challenge for the Jarlship.

“I saw both events,
Jarl,” the young man called Alaric said, stepping forward.

“So did I,” said his
twin sister Madrena, coming to his side. If Gunvald remembered correctly, both
were close companions of Eirik. Yet they were also well-liked and respected in
the village, as Eirik was. Their words would be hard to discount.

“Speak,” he said
tersely.

“Grimar did indeed
claim the girl as his thrall as soon as he laid eyes on her,” Alaric said in a
clear, loud voice. “But he treated her so poorly on the voyage back that she
almost died. He gave her neither food nor water and forced her to work for his
amusement.”

Those gathered made
their opinions heard. Some shook their heads in disapproval at Grimar, while
others laughed at his incompetence in tending to his thrall. Grimar’s face
flushed bright red, his hands clenched at his sides. He clamped his mouth shut
in a frown. At least he was keeping a rein on his temper—for now.

Gunvald waved his hand.
“Grimar’s treatment of the thrall matters not. She was his to do with as he
wished. What of this issue of him discarding her?”

“Everyone on the
Drakkar saw it, Jarl,” Madrena said, though she spoke to the crowd. “Grimar
said she should be drowned for being useless. I believe his words to Eirik
before he threw her overboard were something to the effect of ‘if you want her,
go and get her.’”

Gunvald pinched the
bridge of his nose. His son’s words damned any case he might have had. The
crowd knew it too. Their shouts made it clear that they sided with Eirik.

Gunvald glanced at
Eirik to ga
u
ge his reaction. His nephew’s face
remained unmoved, yet he drew the girl closer to him, shielding her from the
stares and shouts. Gunvald’s gaze traveled to his son, whose chest heaved in
impotent rage. Grimar’s icy gaze shot between Eirik and the girl. Clearly his
son longed to slice both of their throats right here and now and was barely
stopping himself. Once the longhouse had cleared, Gunvald could count on Grimar
plotting revenge.

The girl was going to
be a problem. If she remained in Eirik’s possession, Grimar’s hot head and
black temperament were sure to bring an open conflict. And the last thing
Gunvald needed was for more attention to be drawn to the tension between his
son and his nephew. It would inevitably lead to questions of the Jarl’s
succession.

A thought fluttered
soft as a feather in the back of his mind. If he could rid both men of the girl
and put the matter behind them, mayhap the uneasy balance of his power could be
maintained a little longer. The thought tickled again, growing stronger. He
would remind both the village and Eirik who had the authority to make decisions
while also appearing even-handed.

“I have come to a
ruling,” he said, still forming the idea as those in the longhouse fell silent
and turned their attention toward him.

“Grimar made a claim to
the girl first,” he began. A few people nodded in agreement, but several faces
turned down in frowns. “But Eirik also has a claim,” he went on quickly. “They
are both rightful and justifiable. Grimar apparently discarded the girl, yet
his initial claim could be thought to still hold.”

Villagers whispered to
each other, some in disagreement, some in confusion. Before they could take his
momentum, he spoke again. “It seems that the only
fair
thing to do is
disregard both claims.”

This time the villagers
erupted with their opinions. Grimar’s eyes flashed to him, and Eirik’s face
darkened threateningly. The girl, clearly not understanding what was going on,
looked around wide-eyed. Gunvald had to bang on the arm of his chair several
times to regain order.

“She is still a thrall,
and an utlending,” he said, his argument taking shape in his mind as he spoke.
“She is not one of us. We all know that having an utlending in our midst is
repulsive and upsetting to the gods. Tell me, Eirik, does this girl worship the
gods, or does she hold them in contempt?”

Eirik’s gaze narrowed.
“She knows naught of our gods, so she cannot hold them in contempt,” he said
slowly.

Before he could go on,
Gunvald cut him off. “It will displease the gods to have a nonbeliever in our
village. Should we risk their wrath over this outsider?” he said. Some of the
villagers began to nod slowly.

“She can be someone
else’s problem,” he added, drawing more nods and murmurs of agreement from the
crowd.

“But father,” Grimar
said, his eyes flaming with outrage. “I claimed her as part of my share of the
loot from the raid. You can’t simply take her from me!”

“You and Eirik will
each get your share of her worth,” Gunvald replied. Then he turned to the
crowd. “The girl will be sold at the slave market in Jutland. The profits will
be split between Grimar the Raven and Eirik, son of Arud. That is a fair
outcome. This dispute is resolved.”

A flurry of surprise
and shock filled the longhouse. It was an unusual plan, yet Gunvald had
successfully come up with a way to get rid of the girl and appear unbiased and
even-handed in a ruling involving his son. More important, his decision should
serve as a reminder that he was still Jarl. Eirik wanted something, and Gunvald
was the one with the power to take it away.

Eirik was visibly
fighting for control of his temper, yet for once Grimar seemed to have a handle
on his. Grimar shot a displeased look at Eirik and the girl yet he kept his
mouth shut. Eirik, on the other hand, growled loud enough to be heard over the
noise of the crowd.

“When will she be taken
to Jutland?” he bit out.

Gunvald stroked his
bearded chin in thought. “We were planning to embark on a trading voyage there
at the end of the summer raiding season,” he said casually. “She can be sold
then.”

Several of the people
surrounding Eirik, including the twins who’d spoken on his behalf earlier,
began to protest. To Gunvald’s surprise, it was Eirik who held up a hand to
silence them.

“She will remain with
me until then, unless anyone has objections to that,” Eirik said flatly. He
pinned Grimar with his hard gaze, then shifted it to Gunvald.

Though Eirik’s
commanding tone and bold gaze sent a slice of apprehension through him, Gunvald
forced himself to take a deep breath. He could not act rashly now. He’d tested
Eirik’s willingness to defy him, yet his nephew hadn’t taken the opportunity to
openly challenge his Jarlship. But he’d come close. He would have to acquiesce
to Eirik’s wishes in this comparably small matter. It may even make him appear
to be benevolent to those watching.

Yet Gunvald still made
a show of deciding, just to be sure that all those gathered knew who had the
power to have the final say.

He inclined his head
slightly in agreement. “Let us put this matter behind us and prepare a feast,”
he said, closing further argument. The villagers began dispersing, eager to
gossip about the unusual council meeting and the evening’s festivities.

Eirik held Gunvald’s
gaze for a long moment before turning, the girl in tow, to exit the longhouse.
Gunvald slowly let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A small
smile of victory spread across his face.

“What in the name of
Thor was that?” Grimar hissed once everyone had filed out of the longhouse. He
stepped unthinkingly onto the dais and stood towering over Gunvald’s chair.

“Shut your mouth, boy,”
Gunvald shot back. “Instead of firing off your temper, you should try to learn
something.”

Grimar slouched in one
of the smaller chairs on the dais. “Why don’t you just explain to me why you
are going to sell the girl,” he muttered.

“Because we have bigger
things to worry about without the distraction of a tug-of-war between you and
your cousin over some thrall. Would you rather have a limp, shrunken girl or a
secured Jarlship?”

Grimar sat up a little,
his eyes lighting. “You think I’m still in position to take your place?”

Gunvald snorted. “Not
yet, not by far. But think beyond your pricked pride, boy, and consider the
long game. You act rashly when what is needed is planning—and finesse. Eirik is
unhappy about my decision, but once the girl is gone and things return to
normal, we can once again continue building your claim to the Jarlship.”

“Why must I wait?”
Grimar said testily. Then a gleam came into his pale eyes. “Why can’t he just
meet with an accident, as his father did?”

Gunvald bolted to his
feet and slapped his son across the face. “Never speak so carelessly about such
things!” he hissed. He glanced around the longhouse, but thankfully it remained
empty and quiet. “The death of a kinsmen is always a tragedy. Eirik is our
blood. You risk the gods’ anger even thinking of killing him for your own
gain.”

Once he calmed himself
with a deep breath, Gunvald straightened his fur mantle and resumed his seat.
“Arud’s death, though
accidental
, still hangs over this village. The
last thing we need is for Eirik to follow his father to Valhalla and leave any
doubt that the memory of his leadership is better than your actual power as
Jarl.”

The words came out
through clenched teeth. Gunvald knew all too well that ruling in the shadow of
his dea
d
brother left him vulnerable to
critique. He wanted his son to rule—when the time came—without any pall of
doubt hanging over him. They had to do this the right—and slow—way, building up
Grimar in the villagers’ eyes and guiding Eirik away from thoughts of power. As
long as Eirik remained interested in the lands to the west, he took himself out
of the running. Besides, all manner of tragic accidents happened on raids. They
simply needed to play the long game.

“Leave me,” Gunvald
said with a dismissive wave to Grimar. “And don’t do aught about Eirik or the
girl!” he hissed to Grimar’s back. Grimar didn’t bother turning to acknowledge
his father’s command. He stormed out of the longhouse, the door banging after
him.

If only his son
understood the subtle maneuverings required of a Jarl. Grimar would never be
the beloved leader that Arud had been, or that Eirik could be. Nor would he be
as shrewd and calculating as Gunvald. Yet the time would come soon enough when
Gunvald could no longer defend his hold on the Jarlship. Whether the challenge
would come from Eirik or someone else, he would be displaced. His best hope was
to put his son, whom he could control, in his place.

Gunvald stood to retire
to his private chamber off the longhouse for some much-needed sleep before the
evening’s festivities began. He would need to be at his best to be ready for
the trials that lay ahead.

“What is happening?”
Laurel had to take two steps for every one of Eirik’s long strides. He pulled
her behind him by the wrist as he weaved through the crowds.

Though she couldn’t
understand anything that had been said during what must have been the council
meeting Eirik had warned her about, she knew from the weight of so many sets of
eyes that she had been the topic. While Eirik’s grip on her hand had loosened
somewhat partway through the meeting, by the end he was nearly crushing her
fingers. He was clearly unconscious of what he was doing, but she’d watched his
face closely and saw that his eyes were filled with hate for Grimar and the man
on the dais.

She yanked her arm
back, and though her wrist still remained firmly in Eirik’s grasp, she caught
his attention.

“Answer me—what was the
decision?”

“I’ll explain when we
get to my cottage,” he snapped over his shoulder. He pulled her forward once
more, ignoring the curious stares of the surrounding villagers.

Alaric and Madrena fell
in beside him, ignoring her. They talked quickly and quietly to each other, yet
Eirik never slowed their pace.

She tried to take in
her surroundings as they plowed through the village. The water and docks were
to her left. Steep mountains rose sharply not far behind the wooden building
they’d just come from. In the small space between the water and the mountains,
there were several wooden and stone huts, all with thatched rooves. Some
villagers entered the huts while others lingered in the open square, either
watching them or talking among themselves.

Eirik didn’t hesitate
as they passed the last of the structures. He picked up a trail through the
green underbrush on the fringe of the village, skirting the narrow strip of
flat land between the water and the steep, rocky mountains. Madrena and Alaric
fell in behind her.

When they were nearly
out of sight of the village, he halted suddenly. It was so abrupt that Laurel
ran into his broad back, bouncing off with a whoosh as the air left her lungs.
Eirik hardly noticed. Instead, he was focused on Madrena and Alaric as he spoke
rapidly to them.

When she’d recovered
her air and her footing, she peered around his wide shoulders to find a sturdy
looking if solitary cottage clinging to the mountainside. The first three or
four feet of the cottage’s base was made out of large stones mortared together.
Then tight wood paneling rose to the thatched roof, with a few fur-covered
openings for windows.

The three Vikings
seemed to be having some sort of dispute. Both Madrena and Alaric started
talking in tight voices over Eirik. But Eirik barked what sounded like a
command to them. They looked cross, with Alaric scowling and Madrena folding
her arms over her chest, but then they turned and walked back down the path toward
the village.

The apparent dispute
settled, Eirik turned to open the cottage’s wooden door and led her in.

She reluctantly
followed him into the cottage. It was dim inside. Like the larger building
they’d just come from, there was a fire pit in the middle of the room with a
gap in the thatching overhead to let the smoke out. A simple cooking station
took up one corner of the cottage. There was a table with two benches between
the fire and the rudimentary kitchen, a few wooden chests, and little else in the
single-roomed cottage.

Her eye snagged on one
other item pushed back into the far corner. She hadn’t noticed it at first, for
linen cloth was draped around it to create privacy. As her eyes adjusted to the
dimness, she realized it was a large bed. A wooden frame held a mattress piled
with furs off the ground. Her eyes widened. She’d never seen such a luxurious
bed before.

As she continued to
look around in silence, she began to notice other things about Eirik’s cottage.
The still air held a lingering smell of wood smoke, salty sea air, and
something else—something she’d detected whenever he was near. Was it his own
clean, masculine scent?

A flutter of
nervousness settled in her belly. She was suddenly aware of how intimate this
was—she was alone with him for the first time, in his home, staring at his bed,
close enough to smell his skin.

She forced her mind
from such thoughts and turned to him, reminding herself firmly of the task at
hand. She needed to know what had transpired at the council meeting, for though
she was presently in Eirik’s keeping, she sensed that something hadn’t gone as
he’d wished.

Just as she opened her
mouth to demand that he explain what had transpired, he turned to her and
pinned her with his gaze.

“I’m sure you want
answers
,
Laurel.” His eyes, normally so vivid,
were dark with unspoken rage. “Jarl Gunvald has decided…he decided that…” That
muscle in his jaw was ticking again. Eirik swallowed, his eyes hard as he
continued to look down at her. “He has decided that you will remain my thrall.
Indefinitely.”

“W-what?” Her voice
sounded distant to her own ears.

So that was it. Her
fate had been decided. She would remain a thrall to a Viking barbarian forever.

She tried to remind
herself that between Eirik and Grimar, she should be grateful that she’d been
given to Eirik. Yet to hear his words—that she was his slave, for the rest of
her life—cut deep. Aye, Eirik was better than Grimar, but why must she only
have those two options? Why did she get no say in her fate? What of her freedom?

The thought sent her
head spinning. Suddenly her legs, which already felt unsteady on solid ground,
gave out beneath her. Eirik caught her under her arms and eased her to the
floor, crouching in front of her.

“I’ve told you before
that I will never mistreat you,” he said, his voice unusually gruff.

A low moan ripped from
her throat. Had God abandoned her? She was to be a slave to a heathen Viking,
to be done with as he saw fit—forever. It was apparently her fate to suffer.
Even still, she whispered a prayer for her safekeeping.

Yet through the haze
descending on her at the news that she was to remain Eirik’s thrall, a whisper
of apprehension breathed in the back of her mind. This outcome didn’t seem to
match with Eirik’s reaction in the large wooden building earlier. Unless he
didn’t want her as his thrall. Could that be possible? Nothing seemed to fit
together. Was there more that he wasn’t telling her?

Something cracked
inside her. She was completely at Eirik’s mercy. She didn’t know his language,
didn’t have a soul to rely on, and had naught but a life of enslavement ahead
of her. A flood of hopelessness drowned out any thought of escaping this
nightmare. A sob of utter devastation shook her, followed quickly by another.
Her eyes brimmed over with tears she’d held at bay for what felt like years.

She wept for her life
at Whitby, for all the pain and fear and cruelty she’d lived with there. And
she wept for the loss of that life, for even it seemed better than to live in
this strange land, surrounded by strange people and customs, as little more
than a soulless, will-less animal.

Through the aching sobs
racking her body, she was distantly aware of Eirik lifting her in his arms and
walking toward the back of the cottage. She didn’t care what he did now. He’d said
he wouldn’t rape her, but he was also a raiding, pillaging Viking, and the
world was a cruel place. She was too deep in her own grief to fight him.

He spread her out
gently on his bed, but instead of lying on top of her, he stretched out next to
her. He pulled her against his chest and held her tight, absorbing her shaking
cries.

He began whispering
words in his own language to her, running a hand up her back and to the nape of
her neck. His hand was warm and large. He could have snapped her neck if he’d
wanted to, but instead he gently massaged the tension from her nape and scalp.
His fingers tangled in her braid. He found the tie at its tail and pulled it
free so that his fingers could weave through her hair.

Though she didn’t
understand his words, she sensed that they were meant to soothe her. His voice
was low, and it rumbled through his chest and into hers. His lips brushed her
ear and she shivered. They were so soft, a feather touch on her skin. They
trailed down to her tear-damp cheeks. Ever so gently, he kissed first one tear
and then another, barely brushing her face.

Slowly, the racking
sobs began to ebb and a numbness settled over her. She was in shock, a voice
said in the back of her mind. That explained why she couldn’t form a coherent
thought, couldn’t do aught except lie frozen in Eirik’s arms, the willing
recipient of each deliberate, soft kiss.

His lips drifted from
her cheek to hover over her mouth, a hair’s breadth away. She realized dimly
that she longed for their touch, longed for the relief they promised from the
pain and misery. She lifted her head slightly to close the distance between
them.

He inhaled in surprise,
yet she barely noticed. She was completely focused on his soft yet firm lips.
They weren’t demanding and forceful the way Brother Egbert’s had been. Eirik
recovered from his surprise and took control of the kiss, but with tenderness.
He tilted his head so that their lips met more fully. She yielded her lips to
him as he pressed more firmly against her.

She suddenly became
aware that their lips weren’t their only points of contact. She still lay in
his arms, pulled against his chest. One of his hands held her close by her back
while the other was twined in her loose hair. She realized that her breasts
were molded against his hard chest. When she inhaled, their stomachs brushed
together. And lower, she felt something long and hard pressing into her pelvis.

Her eyes popped open
,
and she gasped in shock at the intimacy of what
they were doing. But he took the opportunity to flick his tongue against hers.
A strange liquid heat shot through her at the foreign contact. Brother Egbert
had tried to shove his tongue in her mouth before, which had repulsed her, but
she had no idea it could feel like this. The heat of his tongue as it caressed
hers seeped through her limbs, pooling in her breasts and between her legs.

The door to the cottage
banged open and she nearly screamed in surprise. Both she and Eirik bolted
upright on the bed.

“Alaric!” Eirik
snapped. The sandy-haired man stood in the doorway with a large wooden tub on
its side. He deliberately looked over the two of them on Eirik’s bed and raised
one eyebrow.

Eirik barked something
else to Alaric, who casually rolled the wooden tub into the center of the
cottage, then strolled out the door, a small smile playing on his face.

“I thought you might
enjoy a bath after the…trying journey,” Eirik said once Alaric was gone.
“Unless…you aren’t as afraid of bathwater as you are of the sea, are you?” His
eyes clouded with concern.

A burst of laughter
erupted from her. Laurel quickly clamped a hand over her mouth, embarrassed at
her wild behavior, first in kissing Eirik then in laughing like a madwoman. The
ridiculousness of the question paired with Eirik’s thoughtful gesture and the
lingering feel of his lips on hers was simply too much to make sense of at the
moment.

“Nay, I’m not afraid of
bathwater,” she finally replied.

“I also asked Madrena
to bring one of her old dresses.”

She blinked at him,
even more overwhelmed than before. She didn’t have a chance to put words to her
swirling thoughts, however, for the next moment Madrena barged in just as
abruptly as her brother had. She, too, eyed them sitting on Eirik’s bed.
Without comment, she tossed a pile of clothes on top of a nearby chest and
left.

“There’s a stream
behind the cottage. I’ll need to haul the water, and there won’t be time to
heat it,” Eirik said, standing.

“I’m used to cold
baths,” she replied, finding her feet. She tried to smooth her wrinkled and
dirty woolen dress, but the poor garment had been through too much. She could
relate. What had just happened between them? Was she losing her mind in the
presence of the tall, golden-haired Viking before her?

Eirik went about
filling the tub using a wooden bucket. She stood awkwardly as he moved in and
out of the cottage, unsure of what to do with herself. Finally, when the tub
was full enough, Eirik cleared his throat.

“I suppose I’ll bathe
in the stream,” he said. His gaze moved slowly from her eyes to her lips and
lower across her body. Then suddenly
,
his brow
lowered in frustration and he spun on his heels. He snatched a random garment
from one of the wooden chests and exited the cottage without another word.

She wished she had more
time to puzzle over the events that had just transpired, but she was acutely
aware that Eirik would return shortly. Her face heated at the thought of him
walking in on her while she bathed—but it wasn’t just shame that made her
blush.

Laurel shoved the
emotion aside brutally. What a sinful idea to blush over—a Viking barbarian
searing her with his gaze, and naught between them but air.

She scurried to the
pile of clothes Madrena had deposited and found that the Viking woman had not
only left her a shift and overdress, but also a strip of linen to dry herself
with. Most prized of all, she’d placed a lump of fragrant soap on top of the
pile. She raised the soap to her nose and inhaled. It was piney, fresh, and
crisp.