Enslaved by the Viking

Chapter Three

Merewyn tried to make her mind cooperate and think of some way out of her captivity. It wouldn’t accept what had happened, even though she sat in the back of the boat, her gown sodden with seawater and her hands bound before her. There was nothing she could do short of throwing herself over the side. Froth formed as the oars churned the blue-grey water, each stroke taking her farther into the unknown, but a watery grave held no appeal. So she gave up looking at the water and sat with her knees drawn up to her chest and her face buried against her bound and shaking hands. Anything to stop herself from looking at him.

She hated her growing fascination with the man who had taken her, and had been stunned when she realised she’d done nothing but watch him from the time he put her in the boat. He was the clear leader of these men; even the men in the other boats seemed to obey him. He stalked gracefully up and down the centre aisle between them as they rowed, shouting commands, heedless of the treacherous sway of the boat as it rode the waves. Power clung to him like the crimson cloak that flapped in the breeze with his every turn. Even with her eyes closed tight, she saw him. She could still feel the press of his chest at her back.

The crew gave a shout and she opened her eyes to the dark red sail rising above them. The sail flapped in the breeze until it was fully extended and caught the wind, causing the ship to lurch as if an invisible string had been picked up and was pulling them along. They were out on the open sea now; the land had long faded to a tiny blight on the horizon. The old string, the one that connected her to home, had been broken.

Merewyn turned and took one last look towards the land, but it was impossible to make out. She was lost. For the first time in her life she was set adrift on her own, moving away from everything she had known and the people who cared for her. Blythe had refused to look at her when the Northman had brought her back inside. The others had followed her lead and turned their eyes away, but in sadness and shame more than disdain. It was as if she had already been cut from their lives.

She hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to Sempa, her old nursemaid, who had been out in the forest. If only Alfred hadn’t been called away. He would have protected her. But she couldn’t stop herself from wondering if he would be angry with his wife or if he would agree with her actions. Yesterday she would have thought he’d feel sorrow, but now that her world had been turned on its head, she didn’t know what to think. He had seen the bruises left from Blythe’s blows before and done nothing.

For the thousandth time she wondered what could have made the woman so quick to give her away. Had the loss of grain really meant starvation? Nay, it would be more than the grain. A sick thought, one that she had tried to banish, bloomed inside her and began to twist its bitter roots through her heart. Alythe was approaching the age of betrothal. Getting rid of Merewyn would eliminate competition, would make it that much easier to ensure she had the pick of bridegrooms and a sizeable dowry. Just before he’d left, Alfred had promised to see Merewyn married in the New Year. Had Blythe been so desperate to secure her daughter’s future? Had she been such an impediment to that plan?

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, but it brought about tears that she forced herself to blink back. Despite Alfred’s intention, Merewyn didn’t care about finding a match that would see her in the king’s company. She didn’t want that life. She wanted the quiet life of running a manor; she wanted the care of an attentive husband and the time to devote to her family. Blythe would have known that if she hadn’t spent her days thinking up ways to make life miserable for her.

A shrill whistle drew her attention across the water until it fell on the red-haired Northman who had carried her from the cellar. He was hard to miss standing near the prow of his ship, with his hair glistening in the sun. He was staring at her with a furrowed brow and sharp eyes. Though he was at least the width of five ships away with no hope of immediately reaching her, those eyes still had the power to ignite a chill within her. She remembered how he’d looked at her when he’d pulled her out of the cellar.

She jerked her face away before anyone could see the tear that had slipped down her cheek. She refused to cry before these heathens, no matter how much they frightened her. Her gaze landed directly on the giant who had taken her, the one the men called Eirik. The chain mail he’d worn was gone now, but his size hadn’t diminished for the lack of it. His was a brawny strength, not the sinewy slimness she was used to in the men of her acquaintance.

Eirik’s eyes narrowed, and he glared at her as he made his way down the narrow aisle between the men on his way to her. Her heart threatened to thrum out of her chest, and with the fear came anger. What had she done to deserve such a look? Why had she gone with him so easily?

* * *

Eirik dropped into a squat in front of the girl. Her eyes were seething with anger as she watched him, but her cheeks were pale from fear. He was glad to see it. That terror would do her well on their journey. It would make her less likely to fight or do something equally stupid. He’d learned from his years of fighting that fear was the finest binding, far more effective than hemp or sealskin. It kept men in their place and he assumed it would work on women. The girl needed to hang on to a healthy dose of it in order to stay safe on the crossing.

‘What is your name, girl?’ He slipped into her native Northumbrian tongue.

She spat in his face instead of answering.

It was an admirable and unexpected gesture. A corner of his mouth twitched up in what might have become a smile of appreciation had he not been so irritated at her exchange with Gunnar. His brother had been a rival since birth, and he knew the whole ship speculated that a fight between them was imminent. But it would happen after their father’s death, when the next jarl would be decided. Eirik refused to allow it to happen over something as paltry as a woman, and a slave at that.

He let her stew while he wiped the spittle away with the back of his hand. She chewed her bottom lip, possibly regretting her impulsive response. The girl should be reprimanded for her disrespect, but Eirik knew it for the distress it was. There would be time for punishment if she didn’t come to heel on her own. ‘Without a name, I’ll have to call you slave.’

‘You could return me and we wouldn’t have to bother with social niceties.’

He had to swallow back the urge to smile again. Amazing, given that just moments ago he’d been ready to toss her back to shore with the strength of his anger. If only Gunnar didn’t want her, too. She was too pretty. She had the delicate face of a woman who had been taken care of. Her skin wasn’t creased or roughened from working in the sun or the dry, winter wind. Her brow was finely formed above eyes as wide and dark as chestnuts. Ivory skin was smooth over defined cheekbones and a narrow chin. But it was her lips that ultimately held his gaze. Whether they were red from the cold or if it was their natural colour, he didn’t know. But they were lush and soft and he had the peculiar urge to know their taste.

He took a deep breath and forced his mind away from such thoughts. His instincts had won on land, but on the sea, he had to maintain control. He grabbed her bound wrists harsher than he intended, but she only winced without muttering a sound.

‘My brother is the lord of that manor. He’ll pay you for me if you take me back now.’

He’d guessed that she was of noble blood, given her hiding spot with the family and the clothes she wore. The dark blue gown was of a fine-spun wool no peasant could afford, and he guessed the amber piping along the hem of the sleeve and shoulder to be silken velvet. It was no surprise her brother was lord.

‘And what would he buy you back with, slave? I’ve taken everything.’ Eirik didn’t even bother to point out that if the man’s own wife had given her away, he’d be unlikely to bargain for her.

He didn’t have to. The doubt was written clearly on her face. Just before she looked away, Eirik got a glimpse into those deep eyes and saw just how hurt and alone she felt. The knowledge twisted something deep inside him and made him angry in a way he couldn’t grasp. He cursed it as he withdrew his knife from the sheath at his boot. She gasped then and tried to pull away, but his fingers tightened and held her immobile.

‘The sea is there.’ He pointed with the knife. ‘And Gunnar is there.’ Her wide eyes darted in his brother’s direction before settling again on Eirik. ‘If the water or a sea monster doesn’t claim you first, he will.’ He paused, allowing the significance of those words to sink in before continuing, ‘If you attempt to harm one of the men, you’ll be at their mercy. Do you understand? There is no escape.’

‘Aye.’ The word came out harsh between her clenched teeth. Eirik welcomed the fire that had returned to burn fierce in her eyes. Her anger, he could understand.

When her hands relaxed, he set the knife to the hemp binding and began to saw through it. His pace was fast and efficient, because already her close proximity was beginning to weaken him. The air was being squeezed from his chest, causing his breaths to become more frequent, and his limbs felt wrong. Heavy near the ends and alive with sensation. She unbalanced him—a dangerous state for a warrior—and it made him angry that someone so insignificant could hold so much power over him.

He was Eirik, son of the jarl Hegard. He had amassed a fortune raiding and trading while leading his men to victories in the lands south of the North Sea. He would one day be called jarl in place of his father. When the day came that he, too, went to take his place in Asgard, the skalds would write verses of his heroic deeds.

Who was this girl? She was no one. She’d probably never been more than two leagues from her home and knew only the coarse words of her own Northumbrian tongue. She had no right to have any effect on him.

When the bindings fell away, he threw them into the water and meant to leave her there in the stern of the boat. He would have, except that when he moved to rise, the red welts the rope had left on her wrists caught his attention. And when he looked at her face, he noted the ivory skin and knew from experience that it wouldn’t stay that way with the sun and wind beating down on it.

He left her to return to his chest at the bow of the boat. Some of his men watched him, but he ignored them and their speculative looks as he dug through the chest for the ointment. He refused to ponder why he cared so much about her welfare. Leather pouch in hand, he returned to once again kneel before her. She regarded him suspiciously as he untied the opening and dipped his fingers inside. The moment he withdrew his hand with his two fingers piled high with the oily, fishy-smelling goo, she pulled back in disgust.

‘Ugh! What is that?’

Eirik ignored her and grabbed her hand in his. He couldn’t help but notice how soft her skin was compared to his callused palm. He wanted to stroke it, to luxuriate in the satin texture, but he forced the thought out of his mind and rubbed the ointment on the scrapes, first one wrist and then the other. When he grabbed her chin to repeat the process on her face, she wasn’t so docile. Her arms came up to knock him aside and even managed to loosen his grip. She grabbed his forearm and would have forcibly pushed him away, except that he lurched forward and wrapped his hand in her hair to pull her across his lap.

The brief skirmish ended to the cheers of the men nearest them when his arm closed around her, holding her chest tight to his. Eirik’s breath came harsh and fast as he looked into the dark depths of her eyes. He tried to tell himself that it was from the fight, but he was a seasoned warrior who didn’t wind easily. Besides, a tightness had begun in his groin. It was her. The darkness in him that had been appeased by her capture was awake again, bringing with it a desire that he despised.

‘Take me back,’ she whispered, her eyes wide and pleading. She must have felt the tension within him, because she sat stone still atop him.

‘You are mine!’ The words ripped from him with such vehemence, she startled. ‘Even if your lord brother sent two boats laden with gold, I would not sell you back.’

The words shocked her into silence. She didn’t protest when he rubbed a coat of the ointment over her face, just stared at him with those too-big eyes that made him want to reassure her. To stop the things she was making him feel, Eirik needed to get away from her. He moved to his feet so fast that he dumped her none too gently on the deck and didn’t bother to look back as he made his way to the bow of the boat. The girl was dangerous to him. He vowed to stay away from her lest she weaken him.

Chapter Four

There came a time, over the next several days, when Merewyn would have welcomed death as the only escape from the constant rocking of the boat. It made her stomach roil in protest. Even the thoughts in her head seemed to rock and shift with the movement of the vessel. They floated from anger to fear to despair and back again as if a wave had pitched them around. The men on the boat didn’t seemed to notice that constant moving and walked around as if on land. She’d glared at them at first, but soon her physical discomfort had turned her thoughts inwards so that she barely noticed them.

And they barely noticed her, a small favour for which she was eternally grateful, since she spent a good portion of the first couple of days retching over the side of the boat. But after she became too weak to move, it happened where she lay. By then her retching was dry heaves and the water forced on her; it mixed nicely with the seawater that constantly sloshed around the bottom of the boat, soaking her gown and freezing her to the bone. It felt as though she would never be dry again, and was caked in a layer of salt and grime that she feared would be fused to her skin for ever.

She didn’t even know how long she’d been on the cursed boat, only that the light became dark in a nauseating cycle she couldn’t keep up with. Every morning when the sun broke over the side of the boat to touch her face, the boy named Vidar, who’d been told to watch over her, offered her smoked fish. It tasted awful. The boy couldn’t be but a few years younger than her, probably the same age as Godfrey, Alfred’s eldest son. But he seemed much older, leaving her to wonder if these people only produced giants.

He was the one to supply her with water, but after she refused Eirik had been summoned. He appeared every time her thoughts turned to death and despair to stand over her with that ever-present look of disappointment. Apparently, she wasn’t as well behaved as a good captive should be. Perhaps she wasn’t supposed to be sickened by the constant motion. He never reprimanded her, though, only spoke to her in quick commands to eat or drink, but she could never get much of the smoked fish down. Not even after the nausea had subsided.