The Raid

Chapter 1 – The Raid

 

“That which has a bad beginning is likely to have a bad ending.”

  

Britain – Late 800 AD

 

Einar rubbed the back of his neck, staring intently at a small, grassy incline with a chapel and monastery at the top. What was the mettle of a man who paid to have his bride killed on the eve of their joining as man and wife, he wondered? There would be no honor to Odin in what they were about to do. He pulled out an ornate sword from the scabbard strapped across his back. At this signal, Einar’s men emerged from the forest, taking on solid form in the ghostly fog. He could see craggy profiles, brows pulled into fierce intent with helmets shoved over wild sea-salted hair. 

Church bells pealed, sounding hushed in the moist air, calling the faithful to evening vespers.

All went silent.

The little hamlet of Seletun had the only church on this stretch of the River Ouse. The windows in the sanctuary glowed with soft candlelight. Quickly scanning the area, Einar saw that there was no challenge. Then, from far off, he heard something faint and growing steadily louder: a deep-throated singing—people chanting. Rolling through the humid air, their voices rose in ethereal waves.

Einar raised his hand. His men threw back the woolen cloaks that covered their leather tunics, some drawing swords while others hefted battle axes.

Time slowed as the choir's chant gave an unholy rhythm to the sounds of creaking leather and the warriors' heavy breathing as they moved out. Thick, knee-high grass, burdened with moisture, clung to Einar’s legs as he pushed through it. Sweat gathered under the slick metal of the helmet hugging his temples. His heart hammered out a quick rhythm against the building tension.

The chant ended just as Einar and his horde hit the chapel doors. Crashing into the sanctuary, he stared at the worshipers' startled faces. The monk turned from the altar and froze in fear. Women raised their hands to their mouths that had opened in screams. The faithful scrambled to their feet to escape their impending doom. With an animal-like howl, shield in front of him and his sword held high, Einar led the charge as they fell upon the hapless victims.

Terrified monks pushed over an iron-wrought candelabrum as they fled from the invaders. Flames crept up the massive tapestries hanging behind the altar, adding the acrid smell of smoke to the carnage's hellish glow. The warriors struggled and fought with any who stood against them. Their swords' bright glint was dulled with blood from those hacked without pity.

Einar's gaze swept the front pews, noting a kneeling woman. Her bowed head was covered in auburn plaits. A fur-rimmed brown cloak, held together with a large gold brooch, draped over her thin shoulders. He strode forward, catching an arm, and pulled her up, looking into fear-widened eyes. She faintly resembled a widow he knew back home, and a quick sliver of pity stabbed at him.  He would rather have been hacking at a burly opponent than this aging woman. He stared for a second at a plain silver cross that hung from her neck and then reached for the gold brooch, ripping it from her cloak. Shoving her aside, she fell to the floor with a thin scream.

He whirled, facing the cry that erupted behind him. A girl with copper-tinted hair ran past him to kneel at the woman's side, helping her to sit up. A peasant rushing the chapel door caught his attention, and a single slash by the Norseman guarding it sent the man into eternity. In the confusion, a blonde, petite woman clung to a monk. She screamed as she watched her family and friends die. Einar saw his stepbrother, Gunnar, raise an axe to quiet the blonde forever, but the kneeling redhead lurched to her feet and darted forward. Shoving the monk and the girl behind her, she glared at the warrior with her arms spread wide, protecting them. The sword hung in midair as Gunnar hesitated, startled by her defiance.

The twinkle of jewels caught Einar's eye as the cross around her neck swung with the swirl of her cloak. He grasped the warrior's axe hand, speaking roughly, "Gunnar, hold! She is the one we seek."

Glancing at the weeping blonde, Einar snapped out, "Spare them. Slaves bring good profit, and we still have room for a few more." His eyes narrowed as his gaze raked over the redheaded girl. Her breast rose rapidly with quick breaths, anger setting her face in hard lines. A tan woolen cloak, edged with gold embroidery and lined with fur, covered her small but compact frame. Without another word, Einar grabbed her arm and yanked her against him. Fingering the gold cross and staring into her wide green eyes, it came to him how to make a better profit and honor a warrior’s creed.

"Slitting her throat will lose us a ransom profit. I am taking her with us,” Einar said.

Gunnar ground out angrily, "Then I claim first rights to her."

Einar shot back, "No, she is mine. Take the other two." He watched Gunnar's brow furrow and his knuckles whiten as he gripped his axe handle before bringing it down on a bench with a dull thud, the wood splintering. Kicking at the shattered wood, Gunnar pulled the axe loose. Looking at the trembling blonde who still clung to the monk, Einar heard him grunt, seemingly unimpressed with what was left. Slipping the axe handle into a leather loop on his belt, Gunnar grabbed them and turned toward the chapel door.

The redhead beat at Einar with her fist, screaming, "Nay, nay, let me go!" He tightened his hold on her wrist, smiling grimly to himself when he heard her sudden gasp.

Heading out of the church, the warriors quickly searched the bodies lying about for anything of further worth. Einar led the horde as they made their way back to the dragon ships, going a little slower for the captives taken and the loot carried. A few Norsemen trailed behind to discourage anyone who found the bravery to get back what had been stolen. The only noise in the foggy evening was the heavy breathing of men fired up from battle and the occasional whimper from the prisoners.

A few of the monks who escaped had gone into the bell tower, and clanging tones now called for help from the village.

Impatiently, Einar tugged on the struggling girl. Breaking from the forest's edge, he almost lost his grip on the arm he was clutching. Grunting, he turned around, seeing she had wrapped her free arm around a slim tree trunk and dug her heels into the damp soil. Her green eyes had a feral gleam.

"Nay. Nay!" she cried as he increased the pressure on her arm. Suddenly, she let go of the tree and braced both feet against his calf, throwing herself back. Her move startled him, and her arm slipped in his grasp. Twisting, she kicked up with her right foot between his thighs. White-hot pain seared through his groin, the air in his pain-constricted lungs leaving in a whoosh through gritted teeth. He let go, instinctively clutching his injured manhood. She fled like a startled rabbit.

Gunnar sprinted after her, gaining a head start on him, but Einar scrambled over damp rocks, stumbling through the deadfall littering the ground until he came across a narrow path. Up ahead was a small meadow, and he watched her run across it, thinking that if he wasn't in so much pain, he might appreciate her deer-like grace. She knew the forest and had the advantage.

Still limping, he saw Gunnar gain on her. They both disappeared into the woods. His ragged breathing sounded harsh in his ears as he tried concentrating on any nearby noise. Tripping over a tree root, he muttered, "By all that is Thor's, if he does not beat you, I will!"

Suddenly, he heard a loud shriek and a muffled "oomph" as something hit the forest floor. Pushing past the pain, he started jogging. He knew his stepbrother wasn’t usually gentle with women, and he needed to protect this one. Finally reaching the forest's edge, he saw Gunnar stretched out over the girl's small frame. He had both hands imprisoned above her head as his weight pressed her flailing legs into the moist earth.

"Gnógr!" Gunnar grunted.

Einar noticed the girl's sudden stillness, and before he could call out, Gunnar shifted his weight, holding her wrists with one hand while his other hand slipped down her cheek, resting on her throat. The girl tried to move her knee to escape, and suddenly, his fingers tightened, cutting off her air. She froze again, and Gunnar loosened his hand and slid it down over her body, checking out the soft curves.

"Get off of me, you filthy lout! Murderer!" she shouted, struggling wildly again.

"Shhhh," he hissed in her ear, pressing her against the ground with his full weight to stop her from moving again.

A sudden desire to rip Gunnar off the struggling girl gripped him. "Gunnar!" Einar barked.

Looking up, Gunnar’s brow wrinkled in anger. "What? I caught her, and I have claimed her—again—since you can not seem to hold her."

Gunnar’s insistence over his claim and his crude ways with women put an edge to Einar’s tone. "I have first claim and am holding her for ransom. Get off her."

"Let me have a few minutes; then you can have her back if you can keep her." A smirk covered Gunnar’s face.

"Ekki! Let her loose now. Her ransom will cover the debt that the Angles worm owes us. Will you interfere with the jarl's profit?"

"She is mine!" Gunnar spit back.

Einar noticed the girl had stopped struggling, watching them intently. She did not cry or plead but showed more courage than most. Holding back the anger Gunnar stirred in him, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned a shoulder into a tree. Einar stared impassively down at Gunnar. "Fine. You explain to the jarl why she is no longer a maiden and why we have nothing to bargain with. I will wait here until you are finished." Finally, with a glare, Gunnar brought up his knee beside her hip, and with a rough jerk, drew her up as he stood.

"I am not conceding my claim," he said, pushing the girl toward Einar.

Pulling a length of leather from his belt, Einar quickly wrapped it around her wrists, binding her hands before her. Tugging at the length of remaining leather, he started back down the path as Gunnar walked behind, pushing if she slowed.

"You heathen swine! Give me one moment with that fancy sword on your back and I will hack you to pieces. You are nothing but thieving barbarians with pig dung for brains. Lord Allard will see to it you are food for worms."

Einar glanced back at her; one eyebrow raised in surprise. Quite a bloodthirsty little thing, he mused. Maybe this is why her betrothed wanted her dead. He could see how her fiery temper might be daunting for a worm like Cecil Allard. But Einar found her insults to be quite entertaining.

When the dragon ships came into view, the little vixen planted her feet—having caught her breath and strength—and started fighting again. Gunnar's laughter grated on his nerves. In one swift turn and scoop, he slung her over his shoulder. Putting his arm around her legs, he kept her still. She beat against his back with her bound hands and screamed, "You son of a boar! Murdering heathen! Put me down!"

Loud laughter from the warriors around the boats drifted up, only adding to her agitation. A young, lanky warrior came up alongside him. "I see you caught her. If they did not hear the bells, they certainly will hear her."

Einar grunted. With a few long strides, he reached the dragon ship. Her shifting movements and the tug on the scabbard strapped across his back warned him that she was trying to pull the sword out. Suddenly, Einar dropped his shoulder, dumping her to the ground. She took a deep breath to scream, but his large hand descended over her mouth, cutting it off. He felt her lips pull back as she bared her teeth to bite, but he pressed her head hard against the side of the boat.

"Tell her to cease," Einar said to the lanky warrior beside him.

"Why? You can speak Angles just as well as I can."

Einar glared at him. "Do it."

Stepping up, the young man spoke quietly in the girl's language. "Ladye, if you do not cease your struggles, Einar will bind and gag you."

Taking his hand away, Einar's fingers grasped her arm in a tight grip. The girl stilled, staring at the warrior who had spoken. "How is it you speak as I?"

Dagfinn pull his shoulders back and straighten. "I was born in this land and once was a slave to the Norp weg. I am now called Dagfinn, shield hand to Einar Herjolfsson, your new master."

Her eyes opened wide as she gaped at the youth for a few seconds. "I…I am no one's property! I will not be a slave. Tell your lord to slay me now." She drew herself up, squaring her shoulders, and stared into the dark holes of Einar's helmet, seeking out the eyes behind it to convey her defiance.

Einar chuckled. "She is worth more alive. Quite dramatic, is she not?"

"Ladye, Einar refuses to slay you. A dead slave brings no profits," Dagfinn said, a smile quirking at the edges of his lips.

"Lord Landis Forthred will pay him if this is about silver. I am to be married tomorrow. My dowry is substantial, and my father will meet his demands," she said, standing straighter, pushing her chin out.

Einar's intense gaze sized her up.

Gunnar joined them, leaning against the side of the boat. "If what she says is true, several Forthreds are related to the King of Northumbria. They can well afford a large ransom, but we have to meet with Roald in a fortnight, and he may not appreciate the problems she brings. Or did you think about any of that before you spared her?"

Einar shrugged. "We held our end of the bargain. She is gone—Allard does not have to marry her—but he did not hold up his end, so she will pay his debt, one way or another. You would pass up a chance for increased profit?"

"I think she would make a wonderfully obedient wife; do you not agree, Gunnar?" Dagfinn replied with a wolfish grin.

A scowl darkened Einar's face. "Boy, if your sword arm were as quick as your wit, I would not need half of my men."

Silence fell as they stared at her. The girl shifted, her hands twisting in the bindings. Einar barked out, "We need to go."

 Dagfinn translated quickly. "We are leaving. He will consider your offer."

She beat her bound hands against her skirt, the fingers laced and white as she spit out, "Did you not tell him I am to be married tomorrow? The lout can speak to my father now!"

Einar grabbed the leather lead; she pulled back against it, stomping her foot to emphasize her words. "I will not go. I must marry Lord Allard tomor…."

Turning her around suddenly, Einar grabbed a length of leather from his belt, and his brawny forearm crushed her against his chest. She started to scream, but he shoved the rough piece of leather into her mouth. He nodded to Dagfinn, who tied it off behind her head as she thrashed. Einar was amazed at her strength. A privileged landowner’s daughter should be soft, but she had a solid frame and muscles she was using well. Trying to shriek around the gag, she choked. She brought up her elbows, shoving into his gut. He caught his breath, scooping her up and pressing her against his chest, squeezing the air from her lungs.

"Move it, boy!" Einar bellowed. "I am tired of her beating me like a dog!"

Gunnar's laughter rang out as Dagfinn quickly tied another piece of leather around her ankles while she kicked, hampering the efforts. Einar lifted the squirming bundle up to several of the men in the ship, and they dumped her against the wooden mast.

Einar heard the muffled echo of wood clacking against wood in the fogged air as his men hung their shields along the gunwale of the ship. Nimbly vaulting up and into the vessel, he went to the bow, meeting the glare of the bound and gagged redhead. Seating themselves on wooden trunks, his crew set the oars on end, waiting for his signal. The captives knelt with their hands bound, their faces reflecting misery, fear, and shock in the holding area at the base of the dragon ship’s tall mast.

He raised his hand, and, as one, the crew slid the sculls out into the water. Einar watched the ghostly forms of trees moving past the dragon ship as it slipped through the fog. The mist rolled around them in a moist caress as the bow disappeared into the gray.

 

Impressum

Texte: Robynn Gabel
Bildmaterialien: Rachel A Olson, No Sweat Graphics
Lektorat: Chryse Wymer
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.01.2014

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Widmung:
To the family and friends who encouraged me to be what I am, a writer. Book Cover designed by No Sweat Graphics by Rachel A Olson