Victorian Maiden by Gary Dolman Page B

Albert.”
    An image of a baby, a perfect, tiny baby seared a burning trail through her mind like the fiery path of a sky dragon.
    â€œThey’re coming; the Vikings are coming,” came a breathless cry from the darkness, “A furore normannorum libera nos domine.”
    â€œWhat did you say?” Sarah shouted back. 
    â€œIt’s a prayer the Anglo-Saxon monks used to say,” John replied earnestly. “It’s Latin and it means: ‘From the fury of the Northmen deliver us, O Lord!’”
    She wiped her eyes and smiled through the tears of the worst memory of all. Trust John to know all of that. Then she looked out across the sea and saw that John was right. Beyond the blackness of the rocks, beyond the lapping waves, there was a shape, darker than the night around it, and the gentle splash of what might have been oars.
    Then she heard her uncle’s voice over the whisper of the sea, strident and clear in the still night air: “From the fury of the Northmen, God deliver you!” 
    Even though he had said, even though he had promised it was just a game, and in spite of the muggy warmth of the Northumbrian evening, Lizzie shivered.
    Then the boat was there, caught on the sand in a slough. The men, great, horned helmets on their heads and black cloaks billowing behind them jumped heavily onto the beach, scattering sand and pebbles as they began to run. 
    Sarah squealed, her cry a cry of excitement and delight.
    â€œNuns, virgins, monks, there on the beach!” bellowed Uncle Alfie. “There’s enough for every man. In Freya’s holy name, capture them!”
    There was the sound of fast-crunching pebbles and as if in slow motion, Uncle Alfie and Mr Price pounded towards them. Their faces under their helmets were lit by the moon and twisted grotesquely into vicious masks of cruelty and lust. Lizzie knew that expression well and her legs turned to lead.
    â€œRun, Sarah,” she hissed, “Run as fast as you can. They want to hurt us; they want to really hurt us. It isn’t a game.”
    Sarah screamed.
    And then in their fury, they were on them. Mr Price ran bodily into her and bore her brutally to the ground. Pebbles pressed viciously into her back as she fought to push his suffocating, crushing weight off her. She felt his sharp teeth biting into her neck like needles, felt his hands pulling at her, pawing her. This was no game. He was too big, too strong. Mr Price was going to punish her. He was going to hurt her, here, now, on this beach, in front of Sarah, in front of her mama looking down from Heaven.
    Sarah screamed. But, oh, thank you, Lord Jesus, it was a scream of terror and not of pain. Lizzie opened her eyes. Across the sand, she saw Uncle Alfie pinning the little girl to the beach. Both of her tiny hands were gripped in one of his impossibly large ones and his other hand was clutching her face. His mouth was inches from hers, framing the words, those words, the words she feared above all others: “In my experience, little girls who beg for mercy…”
    â€œStop there! Come back here, you little bugger.”
    It was the disembodied cry of Mr James coming from everywhere in the blackness. 
    â€œRoberts, Price, help me here, the little beggar’s getting away!”
    And then the great weight was off her and instead there was only a light, warm breeze playing around her naked thighs as she lay, panting in shock. She dared to open her eyes, dared to look up. 
    â€˜Oh, thank you, Lord Jesus, thank you, Mama, thank you, Papa.’
    There were her Uncle Alfie and Mr Price running away across the inlet towards the direction of the cry.
    Sarah was crying. 
    â€œI don’t care for this game,” she sobbed, “I hate the Holy Island and I hate Vikings.”
    They huddled together on the lonely beach for what seemed like hours in the blackness of the night, silent except for the comforting murmur of the waves