Captive Of The Viking. Juliet Landon
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torn between relief that Kean would be hers for at least another year and guilt that, as a result, the Lady Fearn had lost what little freedom had been hers, accompanied the women outside. Recognising Haesel’s bewilderment, she whispered words of comfort to her, reminding her to look out for her lady’s welfare, above all else. She would have spoken similar words to Fearn, too, but such was the lady’s calm dignity that she felt words might have been unnecessary, though she could not have guessed that the show of self-possession was taking every ounce of Fearn’s concentration.
Without appearing to look, Fearn saw him giving orders to his men, well in control of the volatile situation in which at any moment they might be ambushed and slaughtered, his longships set on fire. He had emerged from this debacle, Fearn thought, if not with honour then at least with success and certainly without the disgrace brought down upon Thored’s head. He was taking away with him the Danegeld he’d come for and her, too, to show the mighty Earl of Northumbria how his strength should not be underestimated. She was now sure that, despite his insults, his only motive for taking her was revenge, for it was not in her gift to appease his relatives, but Kean’s, Thored’s son. Her fears now concerned the Dane’s intentions towards her, for pillaging Vikings were not best known for their honourable treatment of captive women and she need not expect any special concessions for being an earl’s daughter. She had not been mollified by his concern for her warmth in an open longship: he needed her alive, not dead. As for riding instead of walking, any attack before they reached the boats would be easier to repulse from a horse.
Her ribs still ached from the steely strength of his arms as he’d countered her struggles with ease. He had been fearless in his dealings with Thored, too. But as a pagan, would he treat her as Barda had done, with little respect for her person, her wishes, or her beliefs? Had she, in the space of one day, been released from one man’s tyranny only to fall into another man’s? The questions found no reassuring answer as she watched him accept his helmet from one of his men, a terrifying iron construction similar to those the Earl’s men wore, fitting low over the face with spaces for the eyes and a long guard over the nose. On top of Aric’s helmet stood a huge rampant silver boar, the age-old symbol of man’s courage and virility. His eyes appeared to challenge her through the shaped openings, taking on the aspect of a warlord demanding obedience. The hair on her scalp prickled as she lifted her chin in defiance with a show of confidence she was very far from feeling.
He came towards her and took hold of the fur-lined sheath at her belt, slipping her knife into it and adjusting its leather-bound hilt. She felt the warmth of his knuckles through the woollen kirtle. ‘Don’t ever draw it on me or my men again,’ he warned, ‘or you’ll be eating your meals without it.’
‘You have given your word,’ she said, ‘to return me to Jorvik after one year. Go back on your word, Dane, and I shall do whatever I can to kill you.’
He stepped even closer so that she could see in detail the gold embroidery on the band round the neck of his tunic. ‘I have said I will come back here to reclaim my nephew. If I tire of you before then, I shall send you back sooner, on your own, without my protection. Yes, woman, I can do that. The subject is now closed. I have more important matters to think of.’
His words washed over her like a cold deluge, giving her nothing to cling to and everything to beware of. Had it not been for the unexpected appearance of Mother Bridget standing just beyond the Danish warriors, she might have lost her self-control in a flood of tears. The two of them fell into an embrace that muffled their cries and stilled each other’s trembling. ‘I have never left Jorvik before,’ Fearn said into the nun’s homely gown. ‘Is it a long way to Denmark? I do not know any of these people, Mother.’
‘Yes, you do,’ Mother Bridget said, holding Fearn by the shoulders. ‘Jorvik is full of them. They’re not so different from us. This will be an adventure, my dear. We shall pray for you night and day. Make yourself useful to whoever you live with. You have many skills, remember. Now, come along, the Dane awaits you.’ With a tender kiss to both cheeks, the gentle nun gave Fearn a smile and a push towards the horse and rider. Fearn knew what she must do. Hitching up her skirt, she grasped Aric’s wrist and placed her foot on top of his as it rested in the stirrup, felt his strong pull and was hoisted up on to the pillion pad behind him, landing with a thump on the horse’s back. Aric spoke to her over his shoulder. ‘Put your arm round my waist,’ he commanded.
Though it was the last thing she wanted to do, she obeyed, knowing that she was in danger of falling off without him to hold on to. But now she was close against his broad back, feeling his warmth, breathing in his male scent, moving as he moved and clinging to him as she had never wanted to cling to any man, particularly not this one. She grasped his silver belt buckle, her other hand clasping the harp in its bag, making it impossible to wave to the two kindly women whose concerns meant so much to her. Taking a last look at the great hall as they passed through the gates, she saw that Earl Thored had appeared just inside the doorway, his face crumpled as if to avoid the low glare of the sun. Except that the sun was setting the sky aflame behind them like a portent of more burning villages in the future.
Several times on the ride through Jorvik’s empty streets, Fearn looked behind her towards Haesel, but could see only one arm of her holding the rider’s waist. She recalled Haesel’s foretelling and now knew it to mean that there was no way of escaping her destiny, even if they had known it would be decided by Danish Vikings.
There were, however, some details Haesel had not been shown—for instance, the sheer size and scale of the four Viking longships tied up against the wharf at Jorvik. Neither she nor Fearn had seen anything like them, the merchants’ vessels being about half their length and ugly by comparison. These long, sleek craft were like predatory sea monsters with fierce dragons’ heads carved on prow and stern, and with more men on one ship than they had ever thought possible. No wonder, Fearn thought, that the Earl did not want to engage the Danes in battle when his own trained warriors would be so outnumbered.
A small crowd of Jorvik men, many of them of Danish ancestry, had gathered to watch the ships being loaded with sacks of silver, to see how quickly the men took their oars and settled into their respective positions once the mighty oars were in place. Some of the crowd were brave enough to shout their disapproval of Fearn’s presence there, but Aric made sure she was given no chance to exchange words with them by lifting her down off the horse, making his ownership quite obvious by keeping her close to him and demanding the promise of good behaviour he had not yet been given. ‘It’s up to you, lady,’ he said. ‘Either I have your word, or I have you trussed up like a chicken. It’s not a comfortable way to travel.’
‘If you mean, shall I throw myself overboard or try to seduce your men, you have my word I shall do neither. But don’t expect me to look as if I’m enjoying this, Dane,’ she said, haughtily. ‘I have no liking for your company.’
‘It was not for your company I’ve taken you from the Earl,’ he replied. ‘Your likes and dislikes don’t concern me. Come. This one is my ship. Walk on up the plank. We need to get moving.’
Looking back on this, as she did many times, it was more like a dream than reality to step down into the wide belly of this monster and to feel the instant rocking motion as men moved about, many of whom would take over the oars as the first rowers tired. The deck thudded and vibrated beneath their feet as she and Haesel were hustled past them to a slightly raised platform in the vee-shaped prow where they would be out of the way. A kind of shelter had been erected for them from a heavy double-thickness wool smeared with tar and foul-smelling fat to resist the water, stretched across the space. Open at the front, this gave them a view of the rowers’ backs, though the men were denied the luxury afforded to the two passengers of a pile of furs to sit on. So far, they could not grumble about the comfort, but the strong winds of Haesel’s vision were not very far from their minds as they sat cross-legged and subdued, aware of the utter helplessness of their predicament. Fearn placed her arms around her maid, who was visibly shaking and close to tears. It was a new experience for her, too, as were the stares of men who had not seen their wives for two years. ‘Where are they taking us?’ she whispered, clinging like a limpet.
‘To Denmark, eventually,’ said Fearn, ‘but first they’ll