Chapter One
Taken
They took the women first. Burly, bearded men
with round shields and gleaming blades poured through the village,
a rising tide of destruction and mayhem. Eliza huddled in the
hovel, listening to the roars and the screams. If she could only
make herself small enough, only hide well enough, maybe they’d miss
her.
A faint hint of smoke hung in the air. It was
heavier than the little cook fire where the fish stew she’d been
preparing for her father hung in its pot. The pale skinned, blond
raiders had been sailing further and further up the Seine. She
hoped beyond hope that they’d overlook her. Well, that they’d
overlook her and that they’d overlook her father’s fishing raft,
wherever it was.
The reed and mud door of the hut slammed open
and a Viking strode inside. The wooden floor shook beneath him. He
was big, blond and impossibly muscled.
He poked through the crockery, but didn’t
disturb the herbs stored inside. It felt like an eternity before he
turned back to the door. Eliza held her breath afraid to even
breathe. He took a single step toward the light, then stopped. He
peered into the gloom of the hut, then approached the bed.
Eliza held perfectly still, praying he
wouldn’t see her.
It didn’t work. “Up,” he said, in French.
Eliza gulped, too scared to even move. Her
knees rattled together.
He tugged the pallet away, revealing her
hiding place. Then he smiled. A rough hand grabbed her by the arm,
pulling her to her feet.
“Father!” she screamed, her face wild with
terror. “Anyone! Help me!”
He led her to the door, her struggles
worthless against his strength. Outside in the light, she caught a
better look of him. He was more handsome than she thought. And
younger. Only a few years older than her.
The village burned around her, the acrid
smoke stinging her eyes. Two Vikings hauled a bearded man, Gruyere
the Elder, she realized, toward the edge of the village. More of
the blond devils dragged another woman, fire-headed Aldith. She
didn’t fight, though Eliza soon saw the bloody splash matting the
hair on the side of her head.
The grip on her arm tightening, her captor
moved faster, nearly pulling her off her feet. She had a feeling he
wouldn’t have a problem dragging her like his fellow raider dragged
Aldith.
Where are the men? She looked between
the huts, to the palisade, thinking someone would come. Her father
would save her. They had to!
They rounded the log wall on the far end of
the village, and her heart stopped. Bodies lay scattered and
bloody. The men of the village. Dead. A pall of smoke hung over
them. Gruyere was on his knees before the bodies, the Viking behind
him with an axe raised high.
Eliza looked away, knowing what was coming.
Gruyere’s pleading stopped abruptly.
A great Viking ship with curved bow and
square sails sat beached on the riverbank beyond. Two more ships
floated behind it, their great oars slapping the water like
waterbug legs. A cheer went up from one of the boats as it passed,
making its way further up the Seine. Blond haired men lined the
gunwales, shaking their shields and axes at her village.
“So many of them,” she whispered. Her father
had said their village was safe so far from the sea. The raiders
had never come so far, nor in such numbers. The Seine was turning
into an easy path of plunder, and she was the one being
pillaged.
Eliza shuffled forward, her bare feet
squelching in the mud of the riverbank. She tripped, fell to her
hands and knees, coating herself in the muck, but twisting away
from the Viking in the process. Before she could clamber to her
feet and try to run, strong arms wrapped under her, and lifted her
free.
He carried her then, like a maiden on her
wedding day. The clammy hands of fear that gripped her heart had
little resemblance to a maiden’s anticipation. She’d spent enough
time with the women of the village to know that. No, those
squeezing fingers, that crone’s grip, they were
Taken
They took the women first. Burly, bearded men
with round shields and gleaming blades poured through the village,
a rising tide of destruction and mayhem. Eliza huddled in the
hovel, listening to the roars and the screams. If she could only
make herself small enough, only hide well enough, maybe they’d miss
her.
A faint hint of smoke hung in the air. It was
heavier than the little cook fire where the fish stew she’d been
preparing for her father hung in its pot. The pale skinned, blond
raiders had been sailing further and further up the Seine. She
hoped beyond hope that they’d overlook her. Well, that they’d
overlook her and that they’d overlook her father’s fishing raft,
wherever it was.
The reed and mud door of the hut slammed open
and a Viking strode inside. The wooden floor shook beneath him. He
was big, blond and impossibly muscled.
He poked through the crockery, but didn’t
disturb the herbs stored inside. It felt like an eternity before he
turned back to the door. Eliza held her breath afraid to even
breathe. He took a single step toward the light, then stopped. He
peered into the gloom of the hut, then approached the bed.
Eliza held perfectly still, praying he
wouldn’t see her.
It didn’t work. “Up,” he said, in French.
Eliza gulped, too scared to even move. Her
knees rattled together.
He tugged the pallet away, revealing her
hiding place. Then he smiled. A rough hand grabbed her by the arm,
pulling her to her feet.
“Father!” she screamed, her face wild with
terror. “Anyone! Help me!”
He led her to the door, her struggles
worthless against his strength. Outside in the light, she caught a
better look of him. He was more handsome than she thought. And
younger. Only a few years older than her.
The village burned around her, the acrid
smoke stinging her eyes. Two Vikings hauled a bearded man, Gruyere
the Elder, she realized, toward the edge of the village. More of
the blond devils dragged another woman, fire-headed Aldith. She
didn’t fight, though Eliza soon saw the bloody splash matting the
hair on the side of her head.
The grip on her arm tightening, her captor
moved faster, nearly pulling her off her feet. She had a feeling he
wouldn’t have a problem dragging her like his fellow raider dragged
Aldith.
Where are the men? She looked between
the huts, to the palisade, thinking someone would come. Her father
would save her. They had to!
They rounded the log wall on the far end of
the village, and her heart stopped. Bodies lay scattered and
bloody. The men of the village. Dead. A pall of smoke hung over
them. Gruyere was on his knees before the bodies, the Viking behind
him with an axe raised high.
Eliza looked away, knowing what was coming.
Gruyere’s pleading stopped abruptly.
A great Viking ship with curved bow and
square sails sat beached on the riverbank beyond. Two more ships
floated behind it, their great oars slapping the water like
waterbug legs. A cheer went up from one of the boats as it passed,
making its way further up the Seine. Blond haired men lined the
gunwales, shaking their shields and axes at her village.
“So many of them,” she whispered. Her father
had said their village was safe so far from the sea. The raiders
had never come so far, nor in such numbers. The Seine was turning
into an easy path of plunder, and she was the one being
pillaged.
Eliza shuffled forward, her bare feet
squelching in the mud of the riverbank. She tripped, fell to her
hands and knees, coating herself in the muck, but twisting away
from the Viking in the process. Before she could clamber to her
feet and try to run, strong arms wrapped under her, and lifted her
free.
He carried her then, like a maiden on her
wedding day. The clammy hands of fear that gripped her heart had
little resemblance to a maiden’s anticipation. She’d spent enough
time with the women of the village to know that. No, those
squeezing fingers, that crone’s grip, they were
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