something
altogether different. Something altogether more frightening. This
man that carried her was taking her. Claiming her. And dragging to
some far land from which no woman ever returned.
Eliza let her terror take her then. Let the
wails that that been building in her chest burst forth. She
screamed, she begged, she pleaded. Her legs kicked and her nails
scratched.
It had no effect. Her captor was implacable,
marching to his ship, his treasure in his arms.
The Viking carried her up the plank and set
her, still blubbering, on the far side of the ship alongside
Aldith. More women were lined up along the gunwale, all bound
together, a shivering mass of tears and snot and heaving backs. He
stooped over her, his frightening sword dangling behind him, and
bound her hands and feet, then secured her to the rope that held
the rest.
Eliza rubbed her hair from her eyes with her
shoulder, and turned to the other girl. “Will anyone come for
us?”
“Who?” Aldith asked. “They’re dead. All
them.” Her eyes had a vacant stare, as if she’d already given up
any hope.
“No one comes back,” a gray haired crone
said. Cordith, her name was. Aldith’s aunt. “Never. The blond men
come, they pillage, they take what they want.”
“But why do they want…” Eliza trailed
off.
“Us?” Cordith asked.
Eliza nodded.
“Sea wives.” She looked Eliza over, eyes
lingering on her full breasts. “Keep your head down, girl. Your
best hope is that one of them claims you for himself.”
“Or what?” Aldith asked.
“Or they’ll all have you, and none too gentle
I would think.”
Eliza’s eyes grew wide. “They mean to wed
us?”
Cordith snorted, no trace of amusement
reaching her eyes. “No, not wed us, child. To lay with us.”
Eliza’s shoulders slumped. There it was.
She’d known what Cordith would say. Known what the Vikings meant to
do with her, but there was a vast river between knowing of a
possibility and having one’s hands and feet tied to the gunwales of
a longship. She let herself collapse forward until her forehead
pressed against the rough wood, let the impossibility overwhelm
her, let the tears flow. From the sounds of it, she wasn’t the only
one.
Chapter Two
Captive
The Vikings crowded back onto the ship, their
weapons in their fists and their faces screwed up with anger. They
set down blankets, and knives and cook pots. One of them even had
Gruyere’s wooden chest, the lid hanging askew.
“They didn’t find enough plunder,” Cordith
whispered. “Better hope they don’t choose you.”
Leather-booted men shoved the girls aside as
they grabbed the oars stored alongside the gunwales. One of the
biggest men, wrapped all in furs and metal, roared something in a
strange language. Two of the others began untying the girls at the
front of the line.
“What are they doing?” Eliza asked.
Cordith shrugged and hunkered down, her eyes
not meeting any of the men’s.
Eliza couldn’t help but watch. Part of her
was hopeful. Hopeful that they were taking another girl and not
her. Shame followed quickly on the hope. Her pa had taught her
better than that.
Thoughts of Pa brought a fresh round of tears
to her eyes. He’d been on the river fishing. If the Vikings didn’t
get him, he’d be coming home to find his village destroyed and his
daughter taken. She wasn’t foolish enough to think her Pa would
come rescue her. He was just a poor fisherman, about as far as a
man could be from a warrior. Besides, no one ever came. No one ever
got rescued.
Her own mother had been taken from a village
much like this one when she was but a babe. Somehow the raiders
hadn’t seen Eliza sleeping in her basket. When her father returned
from fishing that evening, he’d gathered his squalling babe and
sailed inland, far from burned husk of his village, and far from
the coast where the Vikings came to raid.
He hadn’t sailed far enough.
Her eyes followed the Vikings. They weren’t
taking the girls for
altogether different. Something altogether more frightening. This
man that carried her was taking her. Claiming her. And dragging to
some far land from which no woman ever returned.
Eliza let her terror take her then. Let the
wails that that been building in her chest burst forth. She
screamed, she begged, she pleaded. Her legs kicked and her nails
scratched.
It had no effect. Her captor was implacable,
marching to his ship, his treasure in his arms.
The Viking carried her up the plank and set
her, still blubbering, on the far side of the ship alongside
Aldith. More women were lined up along the gunwale, all bound
together, a shivering mass of tears and snot and heaving backs. He
stooped over her, his frightening sword dangling behind him, and
bound her hands and feet, then secured her to the rope that held
the rest.
Eliza rubbed her hair from her eyes with her
shoulder, and turned to the other girl. “Will anyone come for
us?”
“Who?” Aldith asked. “They’re dead. All
them.” Her eyes had a vacant stare, as if she’d already given up
any hope.
“No one comes back,” a gray haired crone
said. Cordith, her name was. Aldith’s aunt. “Never. The blond men
come, they pillage, they take what they want.”
“But why do they want…” Eliza trailed
off.
“Us?” Cordith asked.
Eliza nodded.
“Sea wives.” She looked Eliza over, eyes
lingering on her full breasts. “Keep your head down, girl. Your
best hope is that one of them claims you for himself.”
“Or what?” Aldith asked.
“Or they’ll all have you, and none too gentle
I would think.”
Eliza’s eyes grew wide. “They mean to wed
us?”
Cordith snorted, no trace of amusement
reaching her eyes. “No, not wed us, child. To lay with us.”
Eliza’s shoulders slumped. There it was.
She’d known what Cordith would say. Known what the Vikings meant to
do with her, but there was a vast river between knowing of a
possibility and having one’s hands and feet tied to the gunwales of
a longship. She let herself collapse forward until her forehead
pressed against the rough wood, let the impossibility overwhelm
her, let the tears flow. From the sounds of it, she wasn’t the only
one.
Chapter Two
Captive
The Vikings crowded back onto the ship, their
weapons in their fists and their faces screwed up with anger. They
set down blankets, and knives and cook pots. One of them even had
Gruyere’s wooden chest, the lid hanging askew.
“They didn’t find enough plunder,” Cordith
whispered. “Better hope they don’t choose you.”
Leather-booted men shoved the girls aside as
they grabbed the oars stored alongside the gunwales. One of the
biggest men, wrapped all in furs and metal, roared something in a
strange language. Two of the others began untying the girls at the
front of the line.
“What are they doing?” Eliza asked.
Cordith shrugged and hunkered down, her eyes
not meeting any of the men’s.
Eliza couldn’t help but watch. Part of her
was hopeful. Hopeful that they were taking another girl and not
her. Shame followed quickly on the hope. Her pa had taught her
better than that.
Thoughts of Pa brought a fresh round of tears
to her eyes. He’d been on the river fishing. If the Vikings didn’t
get him, he’d be coming home to find his village destroyed and his
daughter taken. She wasn’t foolish enough to think her Pa would
come rescue her. He was just a poor fisherman, about as far as a
man could be from a warrior. Besides, no one ever came. No one ever
got rescued.
Her own mother had been taken from a village
much like this one when she was but a babe. Somehow the raiders
hadn’t seen Eliza sleeping in her basket. When her father returned
from fishing that evening, he’d gathered his squalling babe and
sailed inland, far from burned husk of his village, and far from
the coast where the Vikings came to raid.
He hadn’t sailed far enough.
Her eyes followed the Vikings. They weren’t
taking the girls for
Similar Books
