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The Viking’s Promise

Don’t forget to check out the rest of my novel. The full list of chapters can be found here. Bi-weekly uploads.

Chapter Five

Her muscles ached. It felt as if Odin himself was stamping his feet on her body. She knew neither up from down, darkness from light, everything was just pain and confusion.

Her eyes flickered open. A dark figure loomed over her, but she couldn’t focus and his features blurred together in one dark mass.

“Frea,” he murmured.

Esben.

“It’s going to be all right.” He tightened his arms, pulling her closer to his chest. They were moving. He was carrying her. “I’m take you away. Somewhere safe.”

Safe. She tried to form the word but her lips wouldn’t move. Where? She tried to reach up and touch his check but her arm wouldn’t respond.

“Somewhere safe,” he repeated, lowering his head to brush her temple with his lips.

Her eyes flickered shut. Finally, her Norseman was taking her to freedom.

"The poison was in her food," confirmed the healer. "Thankfully she didn't eat enough for there to be any lasting damage. Just temporary paralyse and it's already beginning to wear off."

She stepped away from the bed but Esben didn't respond. He'd rushed Frea from Alf's longhouse back to the safety of his isolated hut. She was resting in his bed, her face deathly pale and her limps stiff with inactivity. He sat by her side, gripping her hand in one of his. It was a small, fine boned hand but still the hand of a thrall. The skin was roughened with work, and her fingertips slightly chapped. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her palm and she murmured softly in her sleep.

How could anyone want to harm her? He clenched his teeth. She was a thrall. She owned nothing and hadn’t harmed anyone. She certainly hadn’t done anything to provoke anyone. This appeared to be a crime of pure spite.

On the windowsill, Tyra ruffled her feathers. The healer glanced nervously her.

“Ah…thanks,” said Stein. “If that’s everything—" He opened the door and the healer left, her eyes on Esben's hunched form.

The moment the door, Esben straightened. "Was it Dalla?"

Stein shook her head. "Dalla what?"

"Who tried to kill Frea, of course."

Stein shrugged. "Why her? She gets that privilege in a couple of days time at the funeral. Remember." He rested a hand on Esben's upper arm. "What's got into you? The thrall is going to be fine."

"Not Dalla then." He tapped his knee with his free hand. Stein was right. Dalla didn't want Frea to die before the funeral. She'd made her delight of Frea's impending sacrifice very clear. He tapped faster. Gerd? She hated Frea with a passion but she'd had no opportunity to poison the food.

"I get that it was a slight against your honour," continued Stein, "I just don't think you should worry—"

Esben raised a hand, silencing him.

The poison had been in Frea's food, and nobody else's therefore whoever had poisoned her must have come into contact with the food after it had been served.

He jumped to his feet—that left only one person. The thrall who'd served their meal had ample of opportunity. He remembered Frea speaking to her, but the woman hadn't replied.

"Stein," he said, throwing open his trunk and buckling on his weapons' belt. "Watch her. Don't let anyone in, and lock the door behind me."

"Captain, what are you going?"

Esben crossed to the door, throwing it open with such forced it hit the outside wall and bounced back. "Seeking justice."

"For Thor's sake, Esben. Frea didn't die, you're honour's intact."

"She was under my care." He raked a hand through his hair. He could hardly keep his thoughts in order. It was as if the heat of battle was upon him and he needed to act. The axe at his hip sung, crying to be put to use. "I never should have taken her back to the village. It's my fault. I need... I need—" He needed to punish the thrall who'd hurt Frea!

He stepped outside, and Stein grabbed his shoulder, trying to pull him back. "You need what?"

Esben wrenched himself free and stormed down the hill. "Protect her with your life."

The blood was pounding in his ears. This had nothing to do with his honour and everything to do with Frea. She’d almost died and he’d almost lost her forever.

Surprise rooted him to the spot. Where had that thought come from? True, he'd already admitted there was a connection between them but this was different. This was something else, something stronger. His heart thumped against his chest.

“This is an honour mission," he said, as if saying the words aloud would make them true. “I’m sworn to protect her, that’s why I seek justice. The thrall woman insulted me when she threatened my ward.”

He burst into Alf’s house. The table had been cleared and only a few people remained—Gerd, Dalla, Bersi, Tue and a handful of thralls. “Where is she?” he barked. “Where’s the thrall who served at table?”

Tue stepped forward, Gerd just half a step behind him. “You behave beyond your rank, Captain. You have no authority here.”

Esben grimaced. Tue was one of his crew but it seemed that in this blood was thicker than water. “I swore a blood oath to protect her, that’s all the authority I need. Whoever harmed her will be caught and punished by my hand.”

“You can’t—”

Gerd laid a hand on Tue’s arm. “You’re right,” she conceded, meeting his stare with a challenge. “The girl is here. Do as you see fit.” She pointed towards the fire and the thrall stoking the coals looked up.

Her eyes widened. “I didn’t...”

He pushed the blade against the woman’s throat. A necklace of ruby red blood droplets coloured her pale skin.

“Why?”

Her mouth opened but she didn’t speak.

“Why?”

“She’s a sorceress.” He pulled her closer, gripping her wrist and she recoiled. Her eyes darted to Gerd then, “She always got Alf’s favours. He pampered her. And now she’s been treated like a queen. Good food, drink, her own place at the council table.” She tossed her head, her voice rising. “It should have been me. I’ve been here for fifteen winters, I deserve a place in Valhalla.”

“You superstitious fool.” He gritted his teeth, ready to strike.

She stared back at him with eyes full of fear and a thick, iron collar clamped around her neck. He  dropped his arm—he couldn’t do it. She’d poisoned Frea, and his blood boiled to think of Frea harmed, but this woman was a thrall too.

Uskit’r. A few days ago he would have killed this woman without a second thought. Now all he could see was the fear in Frea’s eyes. It was as though the walls and furnisher of the longhouse were lost behind mist and the only reality was those eyes—big and dark.

He pulled back.

“Weakness,” hissed Gerd. Then she nodded at Tue who pushed forward and buried his dagger in the thrall’s heart, silencing her forever. With a sigh, she collapsed against Esben. He tried to catch her but blood soaked her dress, and she slipped from his grasp, crumpling on the ground at his feet.

“It wasn’t you place to kill her,” he barked at Tue. “She wasn’t your thrall. Or yours,” he snapped at Gerd.

“Dalla will understand.” Gerd sat back down on the chair by the hearth and picked up the white shroud she was working on. “Dalla trusts my judgement.”

He opened his mouth, a string of curses on the tip of his tongue, then stopped. A thought was niggling at his mind—everything was beginning to fall into place. Gerd had manipulated the thrall, somehow convincing her to poison Frea. “If Frea died while under my care, the village would have lost faith in me”—however little—“giving you the perfect excuse to take away my command, my crew and my ship,” he theorised.

She pursed her lips, not saying anything.

“You were trying to discredit me,” he confirmed.

He wrinkled his nose. Why would she want to do that?

Power. He owned the allegiance of thirteen strong sea-warriors. And Gerd saw him as a threat.

He sheathed his sword, rubbing his hands down his breeches to clean them of blood. He had worked too hard to let Gerd undermine everything. “I wasn’t weak” he said, glancing down at the seat thrall. “Just compassionate.”

She shook her head. “A warrior shouldn’t know feelings of compassion. You are weak.”

“Alf didn’t think so.”

“Alf—” The word seemed to burst from her mouth. She started again. “He was a born leader. He kept the settlement safe, protecting us from our ambitious neighbours. I’m proud to be his mother.”

“But not everything he did was to your liking.” Like promoting him to raid commander.

She stared at him, and the loose skin around her mouth sagged a fraction. “Your mother... We were friends, even though she was a few winters younger than me”

He let out a short, sharp breath. Friends? Thor’s blood they weren’t. This was just another scheme to discredit him.

“I always knew there was something not quite right. She didn’t respond as other people did. She angered quicker and tried faster.” She took a step back, sinking behind Tue. “You look a lot like her.”

“Why hasn’t anyone told me this before? I don’t remember you being friends. You never came to visit. You didn’t even come to the funeral.”

“Your mother died long before her body left this earth.” She straightened. “I’m tired. I’m in mourning. You can leave now.”

Dalla and Bersi emerged from the shadows.

Esben gritted his teeth. Gerd had to be lying; trying to enrage him into violence. But he wouldn’t respond. Tue and Bersi were ready to cut him down if he acted out of place and if Esben attacked first, they be fully justified.

He looked them up and down. They overestimated themselves, he was more than a match for them. Tue’s bottom lip stiffened as their gazes met. Did he hope to inherit Alf’s position? Perhaps.

He signed. It seemed he had the allegiance of only twelve sea-warriors.

Her eyes fluttered open. Shadows covered the world and the low glow of embers cast a soft, flickering light over the figure hunched in the chair beside her bed. Between his hands, he clasped a ceramic cup.

Esben. No, Stein.

She shifted and her insides screamed. Everything ached.

“You’re awake.” Stein straightened. “Esben was worried. Just for a moment,” he added, as if it wasn’t quite possible for a Norseman to worry all that much about a thrall.

“Is this awake?” she asked, her words slurring. She tried to push herself into a sitting position but her arms gave way. “What happened?”

“You were poisoned. We think it was snake venom.”

“P-poisoned?” Had she heard right? “I don’t understand.”

His eyes softened half a shade and he lend in closer, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. “I’m not really sure what happened exactly, but it seems the poison was in your noon-meal.”

“My meal—” She’d eaten at Alf’s house and Mildburg had been there. And now... She glanced around: Esben’s house. Her heart sank. He hadn’t taken her to freedom at all. Nothing had changed. But she’d been so sure...

God, what a stupid thought. Of course he wasn’t going to save her. He was her guard, her jailor, her killer, but never her rescuer. It had been a hallucination, not a true thought.

Stein ran his hand over his head, a gesture very similar to Esben’s frustrated twitch. She blinked. Where was he? Was the thought of her death so unimportant that her poisoning provoked such a small reaction?

“How long was I out for?”

“All afternoon and most of the night.” He took a sip from his cup.

“And Esben?” She tried to sound casual but the question caught in her throat.

“He brought you back here then left again.” He tensed. “He hasn’t returned yet.”

Another night had passed. Only eight days left. She was running out of time.

And Esben cared nothing for her.

She needed to escape. Now.

Her eyes darted around the room, searching for inspiration. What she really needed was a distraction so she could sneak passed Stein.

“I’m not feeling so well,” she murmured. “Perhaps a little drink?” Straightening, she pointed to Dalla’s flask still resting on the small table.

“Oh, right.” He passed it over and she pulled out the stopper, bring the lip to her mouth and pretending to drink.

“Thanks.” She relaxed against the bed-board and it creaked.

He watched her for a moment longer then settled back in his chair.

Silence resumed.

She wiggled her toes and clenched her fists. Everything ached, but the agony was subsiding. She could walk. She would have to walk.

“I’m a little cold,” she murmured, glancing towards the dying fire.

He didn’t move.

“I’m sorry,” she nudged, her heart hammering in her mouth. If Dalla heard her speak this way to a Norseman she’d be whipped. Then again, Dalla was going to plunge a knife into her heart. At least Stein appeared to care a little. “I don’t mean to be a nuisance,” she said, playing on his sensitivities—if he had any.

“No, it’s fine.” He put his cup on the ground, turned in his chair and stoked the fire.

Quickly, she lent over the edge of the bed and tipped some of the ceremonial wine into his cup. She straightened just as he turned back.

“That better?”

“Yes, thank you.” She settled back down, watching him through her lashes. He downed the liquid in a couple of sips, then crossed his legs on the small table and lent back in the chair.

Time passed. His eyes drifted shut and his deep breaths filled the room. She pulled back the reindeer skins, watching him intently. Had it worked? How deeply did he sleep? If he woke while she attempted to escape she’d surely be punished.

Tyra lifted her head out from under a wing, her blackest-black eyes piercing the semi-darkness.

Don’t, she silently willed the raven to stay still.

She turned her head, watching Frea, but didn’t move from the window sill.

It’s time, Alf would have nudged. Don’t fear, you’ve done this once before, you can do it again.

She scuttled from bed on unsteady legs, pulled the knife out from under the mattress, and pushed the door open. A cold wind rushed in and she shivered. If she was going to survive she needed more clothes.

Stein’s cloak was hanging on a hook by the door. She pulled it around her shoulders, then paused. “Alf?” she whispered, her eyes searching the hut for any sign of him.

Go.

It suddenly felt as if he was dying all over again. She couldn’t go through the pain of losing him again. She couldn’t leave him, not for eternity!

Frea. Please. It wasn’t a suggestion, authority laced his words. Now.

The blood was pumping in Esben’s ears, sweat rolled down his back and in one hand he grasped his battle-axe. Before him, a disarmed Wodan doubled over, his hands resting on his knees.

“Here.” Esben sheathed his dagger and offered Wodan his hand, pulling his crewman upright. “Good fight.”

They were standing in the training yard to the east of the settlement. Kormak lent against the wooden railings surrounding the open area, squinting at them through the evening gloom. Wodan wiped his hands down his tunic then retrieved his sword from the ground.

“You fought well, Captain.” His voice faulted.

“But what?”

“But nothing.” Woden shook his head.

Esben signed. He knew exactly what. He’d let his emotions interfere with his training. He glanced towards his house, invisible in the darkness. Frea was up there, her body fighting against the poison’s hold. He looked towards the village where Gerd planned his ultimate downward spiral back through the ranks.

He’d been so distracted by Frea, he’d almost missed Gerd’s attempt to disempower him. How could he have been so foolish? Winters of work almost destroyed by a moment of attraction.

A moment of attraction to a thrall. If that wasn’t weakness, then he didn’t know what was. Where had his self control gone?

“Esben,” called Kormak, jumping the fence. “It’s too dark to keeping training. Lets call it a night.”

He ignored Kormak, tightening his grip on his battle-axe. He couldn’t finish the training session like this, he needed to prove to himself he hadn’t lost all sense of discipline. “Wodan, again?”

He nodded and Esben smiled. Wodan was an older man but up for pretty much anything. He was also a deadly fighter, extremely skilled in close weapons combat.

Kormak backed out of their way, dragging his feet.

“Salute.” Esben touched the hilt of his weapon to his chest. “Guarding stance.” He slipped his left foot back, centring his weight. “Begin.”

Wodan lunged forward, cutting towards Esben’s neck. Esben stepped to the side, slashing at Wodan’s ribs. The sea-warrior scuttled back and Esben’s axe just missed his hip.

Esben took a deep breath and began circling Wodan, his eyes never leaving his opponent’s face. This was better. The carefully controlled movements of battle were beautiful in their logic and calculability. Calm washed through him.

Wodan cut the distance between them in half, thrusting his sword against Esben’s axe. They grappled, muscles tight, and Wodan’s eyes narrowed, his grip slipping.

The inevitability of victory made Esben’s heart leap. This was how the world was supposed to work; with an opponent before him everything else began to fade away. It was as if Frea had never existed.

Frea.

Thor’s hammer! He broke contact. How dare Gerd attempt to poison her! How dare Gerd attempt to undermine his command! His hands shook and heat flooded his face. He re-engaged, meeting his opponent blow for blow. Metal resounded as their weapons clashed.

Everything was out of control. When Alf had lived, life have been hard but everyone knew their place. His death had thrown everything into mayhem. Gerd was trying to discredit him and kill Frea. And she had Dalla, Bersi and Tue on her side.

Tue. Rage tore thought him as he continued the fight. Tue had been his crewman, they’d fought side by side, defending each other from their enemies’ attack. And now he’d been abandoned. Did Tue think so little of him after all their time together? What had Dalla said to change Tue’s mind?

Of course, Gerd’s mistrust of him was the result of his mother’s madness. She didn’t trust him because his mother’s blood flowed through his veins. A battle cry tore from his lips, and he was dimly aware that Kormak was yelling. How could a woman he remembered so little have affected his life so greatly? And what was all that nonsense about Gerd and his mother being friends?

“Esben!” Kormak’s voice sounded very far away. He blinked, clearing his vision. Wodan lay on the ground, his sword several feet away. Esben lent over him, knees pressed against each of Wodan’s sides, and his axe against his throat. What had happened? He couldn’t remember.

“W-what...” He scrambled back. “I’m sorry Wodan.”

Wodan touched his neck, wiping away a thin line of blood, then rose to his feet. “You lost control.”

Esben pushed his axe into his belt, the weapon suddenly an unwelcome weight in his hand. “I’m don’t know what happened— We were grappling...” And then he’d though of Frea. Again. And it had all gone down hill from there. It really was as if he’d been bewitched by her. His mind seemed unable to comprehend any other thought with clarity.

Neinn. He didn’t believe in magic or sorcery, just human emotion and frailty. What had happened here had been all his own fault. He’d lost control of his mind and body, almost killing one of his crew. He closed his eyes. Only the most dishonourable warriors evoked the berserker fury. It had never happened to Esben before.

“Don’t worry about, there was no serious harm done. You’re just a bit out of sorts.” Kormak clapped him on the back. “It’s understandable. Alf was your best friend. The two of you were close.”

Esben looked at Wodan. Would he forgive Esben for putting his life in unnecessary danger?

He shrugged, weariness fading from his eyes. “I remember when my brother died. It was about a month before you started raiding with us. I was so angry and distracted—” He pulled back the collar of his shirt to reveal a jagged scar beginning at his shoulder and disappearing beneath his shirt. “It happens to us all. We just have to make sure it never happens twice.”

Esben pursed his lips. It shouldn’t have happened. He should never have put his men at risk like that. If Woden had been injured or worse, Esben would have nobody to blame but himself.

There was nothing else to it: in the morning he’d relinquish his position as Frea’s guard. Dalla would gloat but at least life would return to some sort of normality. He never wanted to experience the berserker fury again. It would mean failing his promise to Alf and he’d never forgive himself but it was a price he was willing to pay for the sake of his men and his sanity. Nothing was worse than losing control.

“Yes?” pressed Woden.

Esben nodded. Wodan and Kormak’s loyalty was invaluable. They still respected him, despite the fact he was several winters younger and still, it seemed, had a lot to learn.

“Call it a night?”

“I guess.” Esben sighed. “I’m am sorry Woden about—”

“It’s fine.” Woden clamped him on the back and strode from the training yard, Kormak at his keels.

Esben turned his face towards the wind and let the cold rush over him. He didn’t want to return home right away. Frea was up there and she was probably waiting for some answers. He’d have to tell her about Gerd and the poison and how it had all been because of him.

He gave a humourless laugh. At least that would soften the blow of his abandonment. Nobody wanted a guard that got them poisoned. She’d probably be glad to get away from him.

His stomach tightened. His house could seem very empty without her.

He hit his chest with a fist. He had to stop thinking like that. He felt nothing towards Frea. Nothing more than lust and simple physical attraction.

Tomorrow she’d be gone from his life.

It was better that way, he needed to focus on his own problems. Gerd and Tue, Dalla and Bersi.

“Esben,” Stein called, stumbling through the dark towards the training yard. “She’s gone.”

Shock held Esben ridged for a moment then his mouth dropped open. “What?” He broke into a run, charging up the hill, back towards his house. “Where is she?” He threw the door open, glancing left and right. The bed was empty and the house deserted.

“I don’t know.” Stein followed Esben inside. “She drugged me. I’ve only just come round.”

“She drugged you?” Esben could hear the words but barely comprehended their meaning. Frea. Gone. He rounded on Stein. “I ordered you to protect her, not let her escape.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Get out.”

“But I can help. We can go after her together.” Stein raised a hand imploringly towards Esben. “She can’t have gotten very far, she’s still recovering from the poison.”

“Neinn! Just go. I’ll deal with you later.” He banged his fist against the windowsill and Tyra ruffled her feathers indignantly. How could he have been so stupid? He’d known how unhappy she’d been, he just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself. When he’d taken her outside that morning and she stared at the ocean with such longing, anyone should have been able to guess her thoughts.

He’d have to go after her, she wouldn’t survive outside the settlement by herself. Somebody would eventually find her and he’d seen enough sea-warrior brutality to know she’d be better off dead. He grabbed his cloak, then paused. It wasn’t the first time Frea had done something like this. She was of Celtic blood, but ten winters ago she’d wondered into the settlement all by herself. She had to have been a run away thrall, even before Alf had found her. There was no other way she could have travelled across the sea to Scandinavia. And, if she’d survived in the wild once before, she could do it again.

A strange sense of pride tingled in his chest. He’d known there was a fighting spirit in her still. He dropped his cloak. She’d be fine without his help. There were settlements up and down the coast, she’d seek refuge in one of them. And they’d take her in gladly, nobody would turn away free labour. She’d still be a thrall but at least not a sacrificial victim.  

Not everyone was as kind as Alf.

He slumped into the chair by the dying fire. Perhaps not, but that wasn’t his concern. She was no longer in his care and her future was now beyond his control.

His only concern need be Gerd’s reaction to his failure. He’d sworn a blood oath to protect Frea until the funeral but now it had been broken. She could use this against him. The village already mistrusted him but with this black spot against his name, it might just convince his crew he wasn’t the right man to lead them across the sea. Already today he’d lost the allegiance of Tue.

He signed. They’d have to set sail tomorrow morning. If he left with his crew for a few months raiding hopefully this would all blow over by the time they returned. True, he’d miss Alf’s funeral but that was little when compared to his broken promise.

He closed his eyes. It was turning out to be a really crappy night.

Promise me. Protect her. No matter what.

Outside, a dog howled.

Esben tensed. Surely not. They wouldn’t—

Somebody shouted, more dogs barked, a thundering of horses, then silence.

They were hunting her down! He gripped the chair arms so tightly his knuckles whitened. Stein must have told Tue about Frea’s escape and the bastard had set his wolf hounds on her. She’d be mauled and killed.

Protect her.

He flung open the door. Tyra took off, the tip of her wing just brushing his check as she swooped outside.

To hell with everything. There was no way he was letting anyone harm Frea!

[thevikingspromise-blog]

[thevikingspromise-blog]

The Viking’s Promise

Don’t forget to check out the rest of my novel. The full list of chapters can be found here. Bi-weekly uploads.

Chapter Four

Silence screamed between them.

Frea could barely move. She knew they thought of her as less than human but this was a hundred times worse. In their eyes she was now an object to be given away. She wanted to stamp her feet and bang her fists against the grass. Esben had no hold over her—she wasn’t his to give.

“That’s enough, Stein,” growled Esben. He rose to his feet in one swift motion.

Stein backed down, dropping his gaze to the ground. “Captain,” he amended. “I didn’t mean—”

“Enough.” Esben voice boomed again. He towered over Stein, his large frame taut. “You know nothing of what you speak. Next time, say nothing at all.”

She blinked. It was the first time she’d seen Esben really take command of his crew. Before, they had bantered as friends, now they regarded him with undisguised respect. And it was all because he was ashamed of her. It was one thing to desire not to be owned ,and a completely different thing to be rejected. This proved it conclusively: he cared nothing for her.

Esben pulled Frea to her feet. She released his hand as soon as she was standing, but he could still feel her skin against his. She watched him with hooded eyes, whether scared or angry by his outburst, he couldn’t tell.

Shamed, he bit down a curse. He shouldn’t have reacted as he did, but when Stein had voiced Esben’s very thoughts he couldn’t stop the reprimand bursting from his mouth.

He was giving Frea away, and it was quickly becoming the hardest thing he’d ever done. There was so much life in her. Her spirit was broken but not completely destroyed and with a little time, she could have healed. He could have healed her.

A knot tightened in his stomach as he finally admitted the truth to himself. Frea fascinated him. He couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to know everything. Where had she come from? What had her life been life before Alf? And he desperately wanted to punish the man who’d hurt her almost to the point of no return.

She stood just a foot away, but it could have been a hundred yards. She was beyond his reach because she was destined for Alf’s death journey. Frea could never be his.

“Look,” said Kormak breaking the silence and blissfully changing the subject, “you can just see the funeral ship from here.”

They all turned, staring in the direction of his pointing finger. Esben squinted down the hill towards the settlement, trying to distract himself from his unwelcome thoughts.

Alf’s longhouse was the largest building at the very centre of the settlement. From that point radiated a number of small streets and a handful of houses. Much like Esben’s family home, they were also made of wood and turf. He let his eyes wonder from building to building. At the furthest edge of the settlement was the shipyard. The ground was blackened from the fire that had eventually claimed Alf’s life. Among the ruins was the skeleton of a longship around which people were gathered.

He turned a small circle. To the west was the endless ocean, big and wild, and to his other sides, rocky countryside, not a tree within a five hundred yard radius. He squinted into the east. Somewhere, beyond the hills, was his old sister and younger brother. He hadn’t seen them in winters, not since their father’s death when she had married into another settlement.

“It looks as if they’ve just started,” said Tue, his eyes still on the shipyard. “I think it going to be a Drekkar. It’s grand enough.”

Esben studied the ship. Although incomplete, there was already an elegance to her. Like Frea. And both destined for the flame.

Stop! It had barely been a night and a day but already Frea appeared to have pushed her way into his mind and he couldn’t shake her.

He needed a greater distraction.

“Come on,” he huffed. “Let’s take a closer look.”

They strode down the hill. Esben grasped Frea’s right shoulder, his large hand firm and his thumb just brushing the skin of her exposed neck as if he believed she might try to escape. She did nothing to dissuade him—she couldn’t escape in the middle of the day anyway.

Ahead, the settlement was nearing. Her feet slowed. She didn’t want to return. The last day, as Esben’s promised, had been peaceful. On the top of the hill, she’d remained out of sight with nobody to order her around. She missed Alf, but she didn’t miss his mother, or Dalla. Or the other thralls, jealous of Alf’s affection for her. And she certainly didn’t miss the endless hours spent spinning smelly, oily wool.

Esben didn’t force her to sped up; his own feet seemed to slow. She glanced at him. His profile was haloed by a ring of early afternoon light as the sun travelled across the sky.

He refused to look at her, instead his eyes focused on the settlement. She bit her lip, it was disconcerting to be so close to a person and not know what they were thinking. His face was dispassionate and unreadable. It was the face of a warrior who didn’t want his enemies to know his emotions.

They passed the outer houses, skirting around the village.

Frea’s leather-souled shoes crushed against the burnt ground as they entered what remained of the shipyard. Before her stood the skeleton of a massive ship, held steady by temporary scaffolding. Several man worked large saws, cutting timber planks to size, while a carpenter chiseled away at the bow.

Esben paused, his hand slipping from her shoulder.

Even with her limited knowledge, Frea knew this was going to be a beautiful ship. She curved, from one end outwards and back into the another, her lines sleek and smooth. Almost instinctively, Frea took a step closer to lay her hand against the ship’s side. At it’s highest point, it was twice as tall as her and its prowl seemed to reach up into the sky.

She remembered little of Odin’s longship. The bells had only just began to toll a warning before the attackers where on them. All the men had been killed before they’d even drawn their swords, Frea’s father and brothers among them. Then, just as Frea thought she too would be killed, Odin had taken a fancy to her long hair and dark eyes. She’d been clapped in iron manacles and taken aboard. How much time passed, she didn’t know—she’d had spent the entire journey sitting at Odin’s feet, watching his body move with the motion of the ores.

She blinked away the memory. Before her, the carpenter selected another chisel from his belt, and continued to scrap back the wood in a downwards movement. Clouds shifted across the sun casting shadows over the shipyard and she saw the outline of a great dragon-like creature emerging from the wood. Its tongue swirled from its mouth, its ears pointed forward like sharp horns and, as she watched, the craftsman began carving the intricate scales.

This was a ship worthy of a great leader. A Norse chief.

“It’s—” Beautiful. But she couldn’t say the word aloud. Its beauty would crumble as the flames consumed its body, taking Alf and herself into Valhalla. Its creation was her death.

The carpenter’s cloak lay on the ground by her feet. It was a thick, woollen garment with a fur collar and would be the perfect tool to aid her escape. She just had to bend down and pick it up.

“Addled brain,” someone yelled and their voice echoed through the shipyard.

Frea jumped, looking around for a sign of the man who’d spoken. All the builders had their heads down, their eyes on their work.

Had they yelled at her?

She glanced at Esben and paused. His lips were pursed and redness travelled up his neck to colour his cheeks. There was a vulnerability about him she’d never seen before.

Not her, him. But why? He’d been Alf’s most trusted captain and from what she’d seen, his crew clearly adored him. She eyed the shipbuilders with renewed interest. What did they know about Esben that she didn’t?

Beside him stood Stein, Kormak and Tue. Each wore a grim expression and their hands rested on their weapons.

“Who said that?” called Kormak.

“Said what?” The carpenter shrugged, glancing innocently at the other builders.

“You heard,” hissed Stein.

But Esben raised his hand and they fell silent. “Frea.” He motioned for her to return to his side.

She hesitated, the colour had drained from his face, and he was wearing his warriors expressionless mask again—a look she was quickly associating with obstinacy. But she also recognised a command when she heard one and hurried back.

“I’m hungry,” he grunted. “Let’s get out of here.”

They turned, heading into the village.

“Son of madness,” another voice called.

Esben tensed but he didn’t respond. Frea peered behind—the shipbuilders watched them walk away, their eyes full of distrust.

They moved through the centre of the village. A huddle of wooden buildings were grouped together with a stone sheep pen to one side and a wooden table with chairs on the other. Ducks searched for food, their bills skimming through the fine dirt that covered the ground. Stein and Kormak waved to their mother, a large woman sitting on her front step weaving a length of woollen cloth.

The largest longhouse had been decorated with strips of black mourning cloth hanging from the windows. In the doorway stood Bersi, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He eyed Esben with undisguised malaise.

“Horrible man,” Kormak muttered.

“Ignore him,” ordered Esben. “He’s nothing but trouble.”

Bersi glanced in the direction they’d come from and smiled. “Taking the seiðr for a look at the ship.” His eyes flickered to Frea. “I bet you liked that. Very grand, isn’t it? The perfect eternal resting place.”

She glowered but her hands started to shake.

Esben took half a step towards her, his arm grazing hers. “Why don’t you come over here and say that?” He was so large and furious looking she was surprised Bersi didn’t back down immediately.

Strangely, she wasn’t afraid. His anger wasn’t directed at her, rather it acted as a shield, protecting her against Bersi’s snide remarks. She shifted ever so slightly, letting her elbow rub more firmly against his arm. To stand so close to a Norse lord and know he wasn’t going to hurt her—it was a strange feeling. A little exhilarating.

Bersi’s smile widened, but he didn’t move closer. “I see she’s bewitched you, too. It didn’t take long.”

Esben growled and the sound rumbled through his body.

“Captain,” Stein took a step towards Bersi, “you want me to—”

“Neinn.” Esben said, barely moving his lips so Bersi couldn’t hear. “That’s what he wants. He’s not a common man anymore, he’s your equal, and you’d be punished by the council if you attack first. And he’s beyond my jurisdiction because he’s not a member of my crew.”

She peered at Esben, unable to prevent herself from drawing comparisons. Esben was infinitely superior to Bersi in masculine grace and manners. While Bersi was short and weaselly, Esben was tall and his very presence commanded attention.

Dalla stepped around Bersi to stick her head out the door. “Why don’t you come in? We’re just about to eat our midday meal.”

“Dalla,” Esben acknowledged. “That’s very...unexpected.” It appeared that he couldn’t lie to be polite, or perhaps he just didn’t care very much.

“You’ve important goods in your care, and she looks hungry. Have you even broken your fast yet?” She motioned for Frea to enter the house.

Frea swallowed. Dalla cared nothing for her health, but was suddenly acting as if it was of great concern.

The Carrier of Death fingered the sacrificial dagger hanging from her belt. “Come.” It was an order, not a suggestion.

They followed Dalla inside, Esben not removing his hand from Frea’s back. As they passed Bersi he sighed and hot breath washed over her skin. Frea flinched.

“Get out of the way,” snapped Esben and he stepped between her and Bersi, blocking the older man from her sight.

The room was covered with shadows; the black fabric over the windows blocked out the pale afternoon light. Frea squinted through the darkness and smoke. The rest of Alf’s inner circle and the Council of Elders were already seated at the long table while Gerd sat on a chair by the hearth. Her head was bent over a length of white cloth but she glanced up as they entered, her eyes narrowing.

“Mistress, you’ve started the shroud already,” said Stein, surprise touching his voice.

“No point putting off the inevitable,” she snapped, bending back over her work.

Even from across the room, Frea could tell it was going to be an ornate piece with small glass beads sewn down each edge.

Somebody shuffled in behind them and Esben stepped to the side, letting them pass. It was the blacksmith and he placed a silver circlet at Gerd’s feet. “A gift for your son’s journey into Valhalla,” he said, then backed out again.

Frea stared at the ground around Gerd. It was littered with small offerings—bowls, grain, weapons of daggers and arrows, jewellery and linen.

Stein and Kormak each withdrew a handful of silver coins and placed them on the ground too. Then they sat on the bench beside the rest of their crew, who shuttled up to make room for Esben and Frea. Esben guided Frea onto the bench, seating her between himself and Stein.

She looked towards the far wall. The curtain was pulled closed over the doorway leading into the private quarters. Was Alf’s body still there, his face pale with death? Her hands shook and she clenched them tight in her lap.

She didn’t want to be here. Everything reminded her of Alf—the chair by the fire where he used to sit in the evening, Frea by his feet, and the weapons’ rack on the wall proudly displaying his sword collection. Unable to endure the direction of her thoughts, she turned her head, examining the table.

Gerd had put down her sewing and taken her place at the centre of the table. Beside her sat Dalla, their faces turned towards each other in a private conversation. Tue had moved away from Esben to take a seat on his aunt’s other side. He looked up and his eyes briefly met Frea’s.

She averted her gaze. Slaves, even pampered ones, were forbidden to watch their superiors. But then again, she’d never been allowed to sit at the table with the freemen. She touched a hand to her chest where her heart lay. She could feel it pounding against her palm. The feeling was surreal, as if everything she’d known was slipping from her grasp. Death knocked on her door, but for the moment she was being treaded as a guest in Alf’s house.

A thrall placed at plate on the table before her, and Frea glanced up. It was Mildburg, one of Dalla’s own slaves. She watched Frea through her dark eyelashes.

“Thank you,” Frea mouthed but Mildburg turned away without recognition, her expression cold.

A lump rose in her throat. Mildburg’s neck was red beneath her slave collar. Alf had never made Frea wear one, but Dalla was particularly partial to the manacles. Frea had never resented the other slaves’ jealousy of her, Alf was the kindest of all masters, but today she felt like screaming. You take my place, she wanted to yell at Mildburg. Give me your collar and you can go to my death!

“Esben took Frea to see how the building of the death ship progresses,” spoke up Bersi, seated at the other end of the table.

Both Dalla and Gerd looked up, their eyes snapping to Esben’s face. “And how did she find it?” asked Gerd. Her upper lip curled displaying her true indifference to Frea’s opinion.

Esben clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth. Beside him, Frea stared down at her lap, her hands clenched into fists. Was this why they’d been invited in? They wished to torment Frea with talk of her impending death. His arms arched to pull her against his chest and shield her from the room.

He briefly closed his eyes. What, he demanded his traitorous body, happened to forgetting his desire for her? “Does it matter?” he called, feigning disinterest. Perhaps, if he pretended hard enough not to care the feelings would fade.

“I’m glad to see it doesn’t. Bersi was afraid—”

“What?” he snapped. “That she’d bewitched me? Have you no faith in your men to remember their duty? Isn’t honour the first thing every sea-warrior learns?”

“Honour?” Gerd raised her eyebrows. “Já, but it is stronger in some than others.”

He rested his hands flat on the table to dissuade himself from grasping his battle-axe. Then he remembered: he’d left his weapons' belt back at the house. “With you, why does everything come back to my mother?”

“Not just me. I hear there was a disagreement at the shipyard,” a smile tugged her lips.

That news had travelled fast. He wasn’t surprised. The people of this settlement loved gossip, especially when it involved his family. “The builders lack discipline.”

“Perhaps.” Gerd shrugged. “But when they speak their mind, it’s you they talk of.”

“And you would be swayed by their opinion? The chief’s mother, listening to craftsmen.” Anger spurred his words.

Gerd eyes narrowed, but didn’t respond. Instead, she motioned for the thralls to bring forward the midday meal. With well practiced precision Mildburg and two others scooped thick stew onto everyone’s bowls.

A tension filled silence fell across the room. Bersi speared a chunk of meat on the end of a small dagger and bit into it, gravy running down his chin, clearly at ease with everyone else's discomfort.

“We sent word to your sister of Alf’s passing,” spoke up Wodan, another of Esben’s thirteen crewmen.

He nodded his thanks.

“She knew he was injured,” interrupted Gerd, “but she didn’t return.”

“Vivi’s expecting again, she can’t travel,” he said, but it was useless arguing, Gerd would never change her mind about his family. He grabbed his spoon and picked moodily at his stew.

Frea shifted anxiously, her hip gently bumping him. She was warm; a shield against Gerd’s harsh words. What did it matter if Gerd thought badly of him, he had other, more important matters to contemplate.

It matters, muttered a mutinous voice at the back of his mind. He’d spent his entire life living in his mother’s shadow, striving to overcome everyone’s suspicion of his family. For winters he’d doggedly led his crew into uncharted waters, endeavouring to return with more and more extravagant wealth. Why else had he risked his life more times than he could count raiding? If he gave in now, all those conquests would have been for nothing.

He shifted across an inch, moving his body from Frea’s.

She turned her head to look at him, he could almost feel her gaze heating his skin.

“Eat,” he huffed. “You’re too thin.”

Her pupils contracted a fraction—she was obviously displeased with his masterful tone but she picked up her spoon. His raised an eyebrow. In only two days she’d already grown more confident. Think what she’d be like after a month in his company.

Neinn! That thought was forbidden.

“Please,” he amended.

Frea sighed. Esben was confusing. One moment he seemed to care nothing for her, then the next he was protecting her from Bersi and urging her to eat. She picked up her spoon and took a bite.

Her lips and mouth burnt. The spoon slipped from her fingers. Everything blurred, and convulsions shook her limps.

“Frea. Frea!” Esben’s hazy profile floated before her eyes. She dropped her hands, reaching for the table, but her arms wouldn’t respond. She couldn’t move. Her body tipped and darkness descended.

[thevikingspromise-blog]

-Ernest Hemingway

[thevikingspromise-blog]

The Viking’s Promise

Chapter Three

He was there, behind her. She could feel his eyes watching her back and his fingers twitching to wrap around her throat. She turned to face him, her gaze dropping to stare at the ground by his feet. He was a giant man, three heads taller than her, and almost as wide as the doorway. The top of his head brushed the turf roof, and a light scattering of dirt settled on his black shirt.

“This had better be right.” Odin plucked the small glass vial from the hands of a much younger Frea, and held it up to the light, examining the liquid contents.

“I-it will work, my lord,” she said, her tongue thick with the unfamiliar sounds of the Norse words. She locked her hands behind her back to hide the shaking. If he suspected she lied and had added the wrong ingredients to his hallucinative tincture... She shuddered to think how he’d punish her.

He pocketed the vial then roughly grabbed her chin, tilting her head back so he could stare into her face. “Good thrall, Brietta,” he purred, and his warm breath stung her checks. The sound of her birth-name spoken in his low, malicious voice caused a chill to run up her spin. She resisted the urge to pull back. Fear was something she was only just beginning to learn to live, and she didn’t want to provoke him further. Besides, he must believe she was too timid to ever consider disobeying him.

“You’re learning quickly. I must be an excellent teacher.” He looked passed her to stare at the crumpled form of his other slave.

A sound escaped her closed lips. The Irishman had been lying there for three days—he wasn’t dead because she could feel a pulse in his neck, but he hadn’t regained consciousness since Odin’s beating. Bruises marked his face, and his lips were cut.

She trembled. That would be her if Odin ever found out what she’d done. “Yes, my Lord.” She didn’t have to fake fear now. Her legs shook, and she thought she might collapse at his feet.

He tightened his grip on her chin, pinching her jaw so her mouth was forced open. “Across the sea, I once saw a woman who could swallow an entire sword. She just had to tip her head back”—he pushed until she was staring up at the roof—" and down it slid. I wonder...” He released her kirtle to finger his sword. It was widener than her arm and longer than her torso. The largest sword she’d ever seen.

Her insides seemed to freeze, and her heart missed a beat. He was a monster in human form. The devil himself.

She woke with a start. Tears stung her eyes and a light sheen of sweat coated her body.

“It’s all right.” Esben lent over her, his face just inches away. “There’s nothing here to harm you.”

Frea pulled back, pushing herself against the wall, glancing around the room as her eyes adjusted to the dark. A small part of her expected to see Odin, his giant hands grasping his broad sword and his eyes full of fury. But there was nothing. Just Esben and his exquisitely tattooed body.

She struggled to sit, but he pushed her back, and she sunk onto the mattress.

“It’s all right,” he said again, his deep voice gentle. “It was just a dream.”

“J-just?” she spluttered. No, it had been real. Fact.

The bed sunk another inch as Esben sat beside her, his leg grazing her thigh through the reindeer skins. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move. There was something strangely comforting about his closeness. Even now, in the gloom of the night, he was the fieriest warrior she’d ever seen. Odin had been much larger, but there was something almost mystical about Esben. It might have been the sharp lines of his profile in the darkness or his straight back and square shoulders. She couldn’t decide.

She released a shaky breath. Esben wasn’t Odin. For the moment, she was safe.

“Yes,” she confirmed. It had been just a dream.

A log on the fire collapsed, and a flash of light filled the room so, for a second, his face was illuminated. His bottom lip was plump and pink. The sight of his mouth was unbearably...inviting. Was he going to kiss her again? The corner of her eye tingled; she could still feel the memory of his kiss against her temple. She wanted him to do it again. Surprised by the direction of her thoughts, Frea’s stomach rolled with anticipation.

She frowned. Normally she hated men touching her. But when Esben had pressed his lips to her temple an unexpected thrill had rolled down her spin. She bit down on her lip.

He crossed his arms, something about her expression obviously concerning him. Her face flooded with colour, but he only asked: “What were you dreaming of? Alf?”

She picked at a loose hair on the reindeer skin—she couldn’t tell him the truth. She hadn’t told anybody of Odin; the memories had been too fresh when she’d first stumbled into this settlement, and Alf had never demanded an explanation.

“Yes,” she lied. From the corner of her eye she caught sight of the flask, still resting on the trestle where she’d left it. Maybe she could use this to her advantage. If she could just convince Esben that Alf never wanted her dead, maybe he’d let her escape. “He was sad, he couldn’t understand why—”

Esben stood abruptly. “I don’t need the details. It was just a dream.” He ran a hand through his hair, his face suddenly reserved and the empathy that had been there a moment ago all gone.

She rolled over, turning her back to him. He wasn’t Odin, but he was still a Norseman. How could she ever have thought differently?

The stress and grief of the last few hours had muddled her thinking, it was the only explanation for her body’s reaction to his nearness. And this attraction was obviously one side—he’d vaguely attempted to seduce her earlier that night, but it couldn’t have been anything more than a moment of temptation on his part. Norsemen didn’t develop feelings for their slaves, especially not the ones about to be sacrificed.

What type of life was this?

It isn’t one, she answered immediately. Not when she was going to be murdered in ten days time.

Esben sat on the edge of the chair, his eyes on Frea’s still form. Her unsteady breathing told him that she was still awake, even though she pretended otherwise.

She’d lied to him about her dream, he’d seen it in her eyes. Something had terrified her, but it hadn’t been a vision of Alf. Didn’t she trust him to keep her safe?

Of course she didn’t. In a couple of days he was going to strangle her. He clenched his fists, imagining the rope between his fingers. It was a disgusting thought. He was a killer, yes, but he’d only ever faced armed opponents, and he’d most certainly never killed a innoenct before. He hadn’t thought this plan through with the clarity it deserved. When he’d volunteered...demanded to be her guard he’d thought of nothing more than her safely. He’d never considered the logistics of the matter.

Alf had understood the lore as well as anyone. He’d known exactly what he asked of Esben. But why? Alf surely knew Esben would have trouble committing the murder of an innocent, no matter what tradition demanded. He thought back to their conversation. They’d been huddled in Af’s longhouse, his family and thralls in the room next to them.

“Promise,” Alf had demanded. “If I die, you’ll protect Frea.”

“Frea?” Esben had loured.

“My thrall. She’s...”

“What? You’re not—” in love? But he couldn’t bring himself to ask. Alf, his chief, couldn’t have fallen for a thrall.

“She’s not like the others.”

“What do you mean?”

“Quietly.” Alf had glanced towards the door. A light breeze tickled the curtain covering, and the voice of his mother floated in. “Just promise me. Protect her. No matter what.”

Esben shook his head. “No matter what? You’re not planning something stupid, are you? Why are we even talking about this? You’re not going to die.”

“You’re not taking this seriously.” Alf grasped Esben’s elbow and stared into his eyes. He appeared very determined.

“You’re serious?” Esben swallowed, not understanding but accepting. “All right. I promise. No matter what.”

And they’d shaken hands, Alf’s gaze never leaving Esben’s face.

Esben lent back in the chair, closing his eyes. It had been three winters since the promise and today he was only just beginning to realise why Alf had cared so much. Frea really wasn’t like the other thralls. Her spirit was broken, but there was a flicker of her old-self buried deep and when it surfaced, even for a second, it was a wonder to behold. He’d seen it in her face when she’d stood up for herself against Dalla’s teasing and again when he’d kissed her.

But that still didn’t explain why Alf had been so insistent. Gerd had confirmed Alf and Frea hadn’t been lovers. ‘Adopted’ had been the word she’d used. Like a younger sister?

Uskit’r! He wanted to hit himself for not remembering sooner. Alf had once had a sister, but she’d died years ago.

Frea must have seemed like a godsend when she’d stumbled into the village during the dead of the night. Alf had probably taken one look at her terrified eyes and granted her a place among his household.

It also explained Gerd’s hatred of Frea. Alf’s mother obviously suspected Alf’s motivation behind his kindness but couldn’t bear to face it. She’d rather claim the attachment gad been the result of sorcery than replacement.

He glanced at Frea. Her shoulders had slumped and her breathing was much deeper now. She’d finally fallen asleep again.

Did she know about Alf’s dead sister? Had Alf realised what he’d done? Maybe not, but if she’d made him happy, what did it matter?

And she’d continue to make him happy; their souls would soon be bound together for eternity.

Frea’s eyes fluttered open. Weak sunlight filtered in through the window. It was still early, but she was suddenly wide awake. Nine days left. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed. It’s fine. Nine days was plenty of time.

Before the dying fire, Esben slept in the chair. His hands rested on his chest, and his feet on the small trestle.

She quickly pulled on her kirtle, smoothed the reindeer skins back into place, then took half a step towards him. His face was peaceful and the ghost of a smile played with his mouth. She lent in closer, fascinated. This near, it was apparent just how close the scar had come to his eye. The redness bruised the outer edge of his left eyelid. He was very lucky his eye remained undamaged.

She touched the small burn on her temple. She had also been lucky, despite Odin’s best efforts.

Focus.

Frea stepped back, her knees bumping into the bed behind her. She had to keep her eyes on the target. She had to escape, and she still needed supplies. Surely there was something useful in this room that she could steal. But Esben would notice if she started rifling through his belongings.

She bit her lip. He was sleeping too soundly to be easily woken, and if she cleaned as she searched he mightn't guess her true motives. She grabbed the cleaning cloth from her kirtle pocket, and her hand brushed against Alf’s hunting knife. If the weapon was found on her, she’d be punished. It had to be hidden until it was needed. She pushed it between the mattress and the wooden bed-frame. Unoriginal, but she didn’t think Esben was one for poking beneath beds.

Then she dipped the cloth into the water bucket and polished the bed-head, moving towards the chest. It was still locked.

Frea paused. This was ridiculous! There was nowhere else to search; just the bed, trunk, trestle and chair. She wanted to throw the cloth on the ground but her hands still itched—she needed to do something. “Idiot Alf!” she cursed softly, scrubbing the windowsill with a ferocity she hadn’t felt in winters.

Really Frea? he would have scolded.

“Don’t. Unless you’ve come to tell me how I’m supposed to get out of here, just leave.” A lump formed in her throat and she rested her forehead against the wooden wall. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it.” She never wanted him to leave. He’d been a brother to her, kind with his words and generous when she’d had nowhere else to go.

There was a knock at the door, and Esben stirred, struggling to straightened.

Had Dalla returned to gloat? But three men poured inside, and with a cry of welcome they shook Esben’s hands and thumped him on the back.

He turned bright eyes towards Frea. “Some of my crew,” he said proudly. “You know Stein already, and this is his brother Kormak.” He pointed to the twins with bright blond, shoulder-length hair and matching smiles. There were closer to Alf’s age than Esben, maybe thirty-something. “And you probably know Tue.”

Frea nodded. Tue was Alf’s younger cousin and had spend every winter at the longhouse with the chief's family. He nodded his head in her direction but his eyes narrowed suspiciously and, in that moment, he looked a lot like his aunt Gerd.

She blinked as heat flooded her face. She should be used to such attention, she’d heard the rumours and knew what everyone thought of her, but still she felt frustrated. She had no more sorcery in her than Dalla.

“We’ve brought you something, my lord” said Kormak, and he pulled the door open as wide as it would go. A dark flash swooped inside, circled the room and landed on the arm of the chair.

Frea gasped and covered her head with her hands. Stein laughed. “It’s only a raven.”

She straightened. The raven regarded her with black eyes that seemed to absorb the light. It had the longest beak she ever seen, and thick, sharp claws.

Esben brushed a finger down its shinny feathered back. “Tyra,” he murmured, then turned to the men. “Thanks for looking after her. With everything that happened yesterday—”

“It’s fine,” reassured Kormak, the smile slipping from his face. “It was a shock, for everyone.”

Silence fell.

Esben looked from Frea to the window and back. “You cleaned?”

She nodded.

He raised an eyebrow.

She shrugged in what she hoped was an inconsequential manner. “Habit. I guess.”

“You didn’t have to. I’ve told you already, you’re a guest.”

Stein snorted.

“Of sorts,” Esben amended. He stepped closer and tugged the cloth from her hand, tossing it into the fireplace. “You’ve ten days of peace. You don’t have to work ever again.”

“Nine,” she said but her voice was drowned by Kormak’s laugh.

“Once a thrall, always a thrall,” he said.

Stein shook his head. “Not necessarily, not in my experience.” He glanced between Esben and Tue, his eyes completely skipping over Frea as though she didn’t exist.

His brother laughed again. “Neinn, not Brian. He tried to run away three times before we finally killed him.” The Celtic name was thick on the Norseman’s tongue and his accent was difficult to understand.

Then suddenly she remembered and stumbled back a step. Brian. He’d never come to terms with his capture and transportation. He’d spent every waking moment talking of returning to his family in Ireland.

“He was one strange man,” continued Kormak.

“I don’t think I ever met him,” said Esben, his voice light as if it was of little relevance.

“Já, you did.” Stein playfully punched Esben’s chest. “You captured him. We brought him back...two winters ago?”

Kormak nodded.

“Three,” said Frea very softly.

The others didn’t seemed to hear and continued talking, but Esben turned his head to look at her. His brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

She opened her mouth but Tue spoke up, oblivious to her distress, “He was the exception to the rule. In general, they accept their lot in life. It’s the best way really because there’s no going back.”

She pursed her lips. She was fading into the background again; not really a slave in the trustiest sense anymore, but never a viking. Never an equal. Alf might be dead and her life forfeit but nothing else had changed. Esben touched her arm, and she jumped. “You’re very pale,” he said. “I think we should go outside. Come on.” He pushed Stein towards the door and the men stumbled outside, their banter turning into a friendly tussle.

“I’m not sure...” she began. He was looking at her as if he could read her thoughts, and it was unnerving.

“Come on.”  He led her outside.

It was cold; a light, autumn breeze skimmed along the ocean and up the cliffs. She shivered.

She watched the other men striding towards the cliff’s edge, their arms swinging confidently by their sides. They talked of Brian as if he was less than human. Did they see her that way too? Was that why they were so keen to sacrifice her? In their eyes she was a nobody.

Beside her, Esben stared out to sea, his mouth set in a firm line. He glanced down at her. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he ordered, his voice insistent.

She bit her lip. She couldn’t tell him the truth—he wouldn’t understand. Even though he was staring at her with large, concerned eyes. He was a Norse, he’d captured and enslaved many people. While he appeared to care for her, it was only because he was her guard, and it was his duty to protect her.

She struggled to think of something to fill the silence. “The raven. She frightened me.”

“Right.” Esben sat, his hand leaping to his hip where his weapons' belt usually hung. It was still locked in his trunk, and he regretted leaving it behind. He felt strangely naked without his sword and battle-axe.

She sat next to him and picked at a blade of grass. Her hair had begun to escape its braid and strands framed her face.

If he was being completely honest with himself, he knew she was lying. The raven had given her a scare, but it was more than that. When he’d scolded her for cleaning, he said she had ten days of peace and she’d answered with a single word. ‘Nine.’ He’d pretended not to have heard. The time passing fast. Already the midday meal was approaching and then in another couple of hours there’d be only eight days. Then seven. Six…

She glanced from his house, to the men gathered a few feet away, to the path leading towards the settlement. What was she really thinking? Was she planning to escape?

Promise me. Protect her. No matter what.

He pushed the thought from his mind—of course she wasn’t going to run. There was nothing that would save her now.

“My raven won’t harm you,” he said eventually.

Frea tossed the blade of grass away. “I wouldn’t give it that chance,” she said, her eyes darkening in a flash of her fiery, defiant self. He could see now why she’d been named after the Norse goddess Freyja—she was everything he associated with beauty and love and death.

“What do you think, Captain?” Kormak sat down on his other side, breaking the spell.

“Sorry?” Esben looked around. He had almost forgotten the others were there. “What do I think of what?”

“Your gift.”

Esben shrugged, signalling his confusion.

“You didn’t hear anything we were saying?” Kormak turned from him to Frea. “We’ve all decided to gift Alf with something of our own to take with him into Valhalla. I’m going to give him my sword.”

“And I’m thinking of Herdis,” said Tue, naming his favoured hunting hound.

“Stein?” Kormak tugged his brother down onto the ground beside him.

“I’m not sure. Nothing seems good enough when compared with the captain’s gift.”

“What do you mean?” Eshan frowned.

“Well,” he explained, “You’re giving Frea, isn’t you. And what greater gift could there be than the life of a slave?”

[thevikingspromise-blog]

A Viking romance—seriously, what more could you want?! 

The Viking’s Promise

Watch this and be blessed, fam. 

[thevikingspromise-blog]

[thevikingspromise-blog]

The Viking’s Promise

Chapter Two

Esben strode outside. Mourners were already beginning to gather by the door to Alf’s longhouse. They were people Esben had known his whole life—Haakon the blacksmith, who made the finest weapons, and Hege his apprentice, with shipbuilders Leif, Inga and Ode.

Hege moved aside to let Esben pass. Today, they didn’t seem like friends, more like strangers. He’d spent the past ten winters at sea, returning home for a scant two months each winter.

Stein raised a hand in greeting but Frea, standing beside him, kept her head bowed.

“Thanks,” muttered Esben to his crewman. “You’d better get back inside, they’re already planning his funeral.”

Stein hurried away, and Esben focused on Frea. She didn’t move, it was if she’d turned to stone, grief freezing her body. “Let’s get out of here,” he grunted and pulled her away from the other mourners.

“Where are you taking me?” Frea stumbled behind. “I can’t leave him. I have to prepare the b-body. Alf would have wanted—”

He glanced behind. Bersi had followed him out, and his eyes were boring holes into Frea’s back. “Not here.” He sped up, marching her through the small settlement, towards the cliffs. He wanted to get her out of sight before Dalla’s right hand man decided to try using force again.

Beyond the houses he paused. Forty yards below waves smashed against the rocks, sending sea spray flying. A cold wind pulled at his clothes and he drew a deep breath. Alf’s house had been constricting, he preferred the freedom of the outdoors.

Beside him, Frea shifted uneasily.

“Christian or of ancient custom, it makes no difference,” he said, breaking the silence. “In ten days, Alf’s funeral prier will be lit and you’ll be on it.”

"Typical arrogant Norse," she whispered, the words barely louder than the wind.

He stared down at her with a sardonic gaze. She had more spirit than the average thrall. He was impressed, despite himself. ”Watch your mouth. I'm more lenient than most, but I'll not be insulted."

“My lord.” She bobbed her head, obediently, almost mockingly.

He released her hand, and it fell lifelessly to her side.

“It’s not all that bad,” he muttered. She was a thrall and therefore the perfect candidate to accompany Alf into Valhalla. There was nothing else to it. “You won’t have to work between now and then. You’ll be waited on hand and foot. The finest food and drink, and then...”

Tell your master that I did this because of my love to him, he silently quoted the sacred line.

“Here.” He moved along the cliff’s edge, heading further up hill towards a small building. “You’ll stay here for the next ten days.”

“But...” She shook her head. “That’s your house.”

He turned his attention to the building with its low, turf roof and simple wooden walls. It had been his father’s, set away from the rest of the village because of his mother’s illness. Some said she'd been insane but the little he could remember of her was all kindness and love. He gritted his teeth and sped up, suddenly desperate to be inside. He’d been at sea for less than a year when his father died, and hardly returned home since.

They drew closer—the turf smelt a little mouldy and the wood was weatherbeaten. Everything had a disused feel. He kicked the door open and they stumbled inside, squinting in the sudden darkness. It was a single-roomed house with a bed, a small trestle table and chair, a weapons’ trunk, and a cold hearth.

He bent down to check the lock on the weapons’ trunk hadn't rusted with age. He didn't really think she would try sometime stupid, but there was an element of fight in her that other thralls didn't possess, and he didn't want to take any unnecessary risks.

The lock held, and he straightened. "Everything you need is here," he said, sweeping a hand through the air, indicating the bed and hearth.

Frea didn't move, just stared down at her feet again.

He suddenly wanted to shake her. She was doing an honourable thing. Devoting oneself entirely to their chief for all of eternity was the greatest gift a person could give. Her life was Alf’s life. Her soul his constant companion.

The moment she'd arrived at their settlement, she'd been Alf's favoured thrall. If she'd thought that exempted her, she'd been terribly wrong. "Surely the other thralls warned you of what would happen if the chief died? It was always inevitably you."

“Alf didn’t—” She froze.

“What?”

She shook her head, her mouth clamping shut.

He clenched his fists. He didn't have time to worry about the feelings of thrall. He just needed to make sure she was healthy for the funeral. “Sit,” he growled, pointing to his bed. She did. "Stay." He hurried outside to the firewood stacked along the side wall, and pilled logs into his arms. Inside, he dumped them by the hearth.

Frea hadn’t moved from the bed although she’d tucked her hands into the pocket of her dress. She looked so small, so helpless against the swelling tide of events. “Um…” He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “I'll get you something to eat.” And left, shutting the door shut behind him.

Frea took a deep, shuddering breath. Everything was moving too fast. She could hardly keep up with anything. Alf. Dead. And she was to be sacrificed. The promise.

Esben.

She didn't know how to act around him. He wasn't like the other Norsemen she'd met. His power was unmistakable. He moved with such confidence; the sword, dagger and battle-axe hanging from his belt seemed a part of him, as though he could draw them at any moment and they would become an extension of his arm. And yet, when he looked at her there was a faint hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

Frea shook her head. That couldn’t be the case. He clearly believed in the ancient lore with more conviction than Alf, and certainly more than herself.

He wanted her to die for his chief.

If only he hadn't returned she might have escaped. There was still time. She jumped to her feet and leapt across the room, but the door wouldn't open. Esben must have barred it from the outside. Next, she tried the window shutter, it opened easily but the window looked rather small. She measured the width of her hips against the width of the window then banged her fist against the wall. There was no way she could fit, even if she stripped bare.

"Really?" she asked the room angrily. She wanted to cry. No, she wanted to yell.

To run. To fly.

She jammed kindling into the fire, desperate to do something, anything, and scrapped her hand against the rough wood. Sitting back on her heels she buried her face in her hands. “Why did you have to get yourself killed?”

I didn’t do it on purpose, he would have said.

“I know. But now everything is so messed up.”

You knew this might happen. From the corner of her eye she could almost see Alf, his shoulder-length hair untied, his hands locked behind his back.

“I didn’t know Esben would return early and lock me in his house.”

It is tradition to keep the sacrifice under lock and key.

“Not like this. Not him.” She couldn’t explain it, even to herself. He just rubbed her the wrong way.

She glanced out the window. The sun was beginning to set, and streaks of golden light lit up the sky. The fire was still unlit. She picked up Esben’s flints, but it suddenly seemed such a huge effort to create a spark.

“Ten days,” she murmured, trying to cheer herself up. Esben had promised her ten days, and each day would be a new opportunity to escape. He couldn’t leave her locked up here forever.

“Leave at dark, travel south to Helgi. Find Egil,” she repeated. “Egil will shelter you.” Alf had worked out all the details years ago, and had taught Frea the plan until she could recite it word perfectly. Just in case anything happened to him. But she’d never thought for one moment that it would actually come to pass.

She gnarled her lower lip. Reciting the words and actually carrying out the plan were two very different things.

I know you can do it, he’d said time and time again.

She breathed out a deep sigh. If only she believed in herself as Alf had.

A lump formed in her throat as she suddenly remembering Alf’s last words. You have more allies than you believe. I’ve made sure of that. But what had he meant? She had no friends in this world but him. She shook her head. Alf was gone. She had no friends at all.

Frea dropped the flints and grasped the handle of the small hunting knife she’d taken from Alf’s trunk. It was a small start but she still needed some food, a drinking container and another cloak if she was to get very far. Winter was on its way and a chill crept across the land each night. Without more warm clothes, she’d freeze before the first night was over.

There was a thump and the door opened. Esben stepped inside quickly followed by Dalla.

Frea jumped to her feet, bowed her head and scurried into the corner of the room. Dalla, Carrier of Death, preferred her thralls to remain subdued or punishment was swiftly issued.

In one hand the old woman held a short knife, the blade thicker than an ordinary dagger, and in the other, a large flask. Frea swallowed. The sacrificial knife. Dalla carried it with her everywhere, even though it was used but rarely twice a lifetime.

Had the ten days passed already? Since the moment of Alf’s death everything seemed to have passed in a blur.

“Here, girl.” Dalla held the flask towards Frea and she hurried forward to take it, then glanced left and right, searching for cups. It was strange for the visitor to have brought her own wine, but Dalla had always done everything her own way.

“Neinn, girl,” she snapped. “It’s for you.”

Frea blinked. Nobody ever gave her anything. She’d spent the last ten winters surviving on scraps from Alf’s kitchen, eating the food none of the freemen wanted.

Dalla sighed as if she was explaining the basics to a slow-witted child. “It’s special wine, brewed especially for the sacrifice. You’re to drink it everyday and it will give you visions of the death journey into Valhalla.”

“Valhalla?” The Norse word felt heavy on her tongue. Could somebody’s spirit travel to an afterlife they didn’t really believe in? She fiddled with the stopper, running her finger around and around the cork.

Dalla pulled it from her hands, ripped out the stopper and pushed the flashed back into Frea’s grasp. “For Valhalla’s sake thrall, drink. It’s your right.”

Frea took a small sip and the liquid burnt down her throat. It was like nothing she’d ever tasted before. It had been intoxicatingly sweetened with honey and cranberries. The world spun faster.

“All right.” Esben pulled open the door and tried to sweep Dalla outside. “You’ve said your piece, now get out.”

“Not so fast. I’ve got to prep the girl. She needs to know what is going to happen.”

“I’ve already checked. She knows.”

Frea looked between them. Esben obviously didn’t want Dalla in his house, but Dalla didn’t want to relinquish her rights so soon. She didn’t think Dalla actually cared about her, the old hag just wanted to have her say and to feel she’d contributed.

“Do you?” Dalla demanded.

“I...” They wanted her to say it? Out loud? She opened her mouth but nothing happened. She tried again. “I’ll be killed. And my body will be placed with Alf’s on the funeral pier and b-burnt.”

Dalla rolled her eyes, pushed her way back passed Esben and sat on the only chair. “But it’s so much more than that. You’ve been chosen to fulfil a very special role. You will serve Alf in the otherworld for the rest of eternity. And your role for the funeral is much more than just a sacrifice, you’ll be expected to join in all the festivities and then—”

“She gets the idea,” barked Esben, still holding the door open.

“It’s a great honour, she should be proud.”

“She is. But it’s been a long day, and it’s getting late.” He sounded so sure of himself even though he was talking with the Carrier of Death, the most powerful ritual adviser in the settlement. But why? It couldn’t be that he cared for Frea and wanted to spare her feelings. There had to be another reason. Maybe it was just Dalla; Esben looked like a hound with his hackles up. Frea couldn’t blame him, Dalla and her loyal follower, Bersi, were slimy creatures.

She raised her chin. That might be the case, but Esben didn’t need to stand up for her. Frea might be a slave but that didn’t mean she’d completely lost her own voice. “If it’s such a great honour, why don’t you volunteer?” she snapped, the words out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

Punishment would be issued, but again, nothing happened. Rather, Dalla’s eyes sparkled. “I have another job, one of great significance. I get to send you into death.” She touched Esben elbow, and he pulled away. “He will hold onto the rope around your neck, strangling you, as I plunge my dagger into your heart.”

Frea swallowed, her eyes jumping to Esben. Her killer. Her murderer.

He stared back at her and there was a flicker of uncertainty in his blue eyes. Just for a moment, then it was gone, replaced by nothingness. Frea bit her lip—how could somebody be so emotionless after what Dalla had just said? Did he really feel nothing towards her? No sympathy or pity?

Dalla rose, a smug smile playing around her lips. “I’ll leave you two.” She took a step towards Esben and laid a wrinkly hand on his arm. “I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you. She doesn’t look too pleased.” And she left.

Esben closed the door behind her then placed some bread on the table. “Eat,” he ordered.

Frea took the bread, suddenly hungry and pushed a piece into her mouth. Chewing, Frea peered down at the flash in her other hand. Good food and wine in the same day. It was a rare treat and all because she was to be sacrificed.

The bread seemed to turn to ash in her mouth. She swallowed, nauseous.

Esben shook his head. “You’re really going to drink that?”

Frea shrugged. There wasn’t much else she could do, not when the door was locked and escape seemed all but beyond her grasp.

He turned his back on her, knelt before the hearth and kindled a spark. His shoulders tensed and his movements abrupt.

She’d upset him. Good. He’s upset her too.

Then again, an angry Norse lord didn’t bode well for the safety of a slave. “Why, don’t you think I should?” she asked, a little harsher than intended.

He didn’t answer and Frea was sure she’d finally overstepped the mark, then, “There’s no honour in drink. Wouldn't you rather die with honour?”

“Honour?” She should have guessed. The Norse were always talking of honour, but it was a system she didn’t understand. Forcing innocents into slavery wasn’t honourable in her opinion.

He grunted. “Fine. Don’t listen to me. It’s your right, as Dalla said.” His shoulders dropped and he stoked the fire, throwing on larger pieces of wood, slowly building it up until the whole room was cast in golden shadows.

His large, strong-looking hands worked the fire with practiced patience. His muscles were tense and the curve of them was clearly visible through the tight fabric of his shirt sleeves. She thought back to the moment in Alf’s rooms when she’d tried to run and he engulfed her in his arms, pulling her against his broad chest. It had been like battling with the iron bars of a cage: unescapable and indestructible. But at the same time, he’d taken care not to harm her.

But in ten days, those same hands would grasp the rope around her neck and pull, slowly cutting off her air supply. A dullness settled over Frea. Her limbs felt heavy with inactivity. She wet her lips, but no sounds beyond a gasp escaped them. This was the end. Her life...her worthless life was over.

No, she couldn’t think like that. Alf had a plan and she at least had to try fulfilling it.

Esben straightened, wiping his hands down the side of his breeches and leaving a streak of blood behind.

“You’re injured.”

“It’s nothing.” He didn’t turn.

“Alf always said ‘a clean wound is one to be proud of’.” She sighed. Alf had almost always been injured, in one small way or another. When he hadn’t been fighting the neighbours, he’d helped the farmers plough the land or butcher the cattle. And she’d always been the one to tend to him. It had pleased her to care for him as he’d cared for her.

“I remember,” Esben snorted, a hint of amusement lightening his words, but then his voice dropped a note, falling back to its usual seriousness. “How did it happen, Frea?”

He knew her name. Her eyes widened. They'd barely spoken in ten winters, he'd barely even acknowledged her existence, and yet, he knew her name. A thrill ran up her spine.

"Well?" he demanded.

Frea nibbled her lip. To talk of Alf’s injuries so soon after his death was a new type of torture. She looked up—Esben watched her closely. His large, blue eyes were framed by soft, pale lashes. His lips were pursed, as thought this time he was having a little more trouble hiding his emotions. Esben had been Alf’s greatest friend; despite her own reservations towards him, he deserved to know.

“It was an accident,” she said, slowly. Esben took half a step closer so she continued, “Lightening hit one of the trees right next to the shipyard. Everyone ran outside to help but the wind changed suddenly and Alf caught fire. He rolled on the ground and put it out quickly, but the damage was done. He had burns across—” She rubbed a hand across her stomach indicating the place where Alf had been most injured.

Silence fell.

Esben ran a hand through his hair, standing it on end. “That’s...” He seemed lost for words and she felt a sudden urge to comfort him. They’d both lost a dear friend today. Despite all their differences, they’d shared Alf.

“All right,” he said eventually. “There’s supplies under the bed.”

It took Frea a moment to realise what he was talking about, then she remembered the cut on his palm. She hurried to the bedside and knelt on the ground. Reaching underneath, her fingers touched a small, wooden box. She pulled it out and selected a bandage.

“Water?” She glanced around the room but didn’t see any.

“There’s a well outside. I’ll get it.” He left, locking the door behind him. She frowned—did he know that she was planning to run away?

She took a deep breath. The scent of mouldy, uncared-for turf filled her senses and for a moment she couldn’t draw a new breath. She wanted to follow him outside and feel the fresh air on her face. To feel free.

Frea closed her eyes, listening closely. The distant sound of waves smashing against the cliffs filtered in under the crack beneath the door. She loved the ocean, even in Ireland, she’d lived by the water. It was vast and beautiful. It cared nothing for her, but the ocean cared about nobody. Maybe that’s why she loved it so much—no favouritism, no slaves and no mistreatment. Just water and waves and beauty. And freedom.

The door opened, and Esben returned, carrying a bucket half full of icy water. He put it on the ground and sunk onto the edge of the bed.

She knelt at his side, but he pulled her up beside him. “You’re living in luxury now. No more work for you.”

She imagined the huge warrior leaning over the fire, stirring the stew pot and it was such a conflicting view she smiled. “So you’ll be cooking my breakfast?”

He laughed and the sound was strong but quiet. “I guess. I certainly don’t think we can tempt Dalla back here to do it for us, not after the way I treated her.”

Frea dipped a washcloth into the water, the cold stiffening her fingers. Dalla had probably never cooked anything in her life. She had many of her own slaves, although none of them were treated half as kindly as Alf had treated Frea. “Alf could never stand her,” she said, dabbing the cloth on Esben’s palm, gently washing away the blood. “Whenever she came visiting Gerd, he’d hide and get me to say he wasn’t home.” She shrugged. “Dalla always knew I was lying.”

“I kind of got the impression she hated you.” Esben gently nudged Frea with his elbow.

She stiffened. “It’s not that. I...” Her voice faded. A new tension filled the room and their moment of shared companionship faded too.

He rubbed a finger along the neckline of his leather armour, remembering. When he’d returned to the settlement seeking food for Frea, he’d met Bersi again. The older man had appeared from behind a building as thought he’d been waiting for Esben to return.

“You can’t trust her,” Bersi had called.

Esben halted. “Are you talking to me?” He’d raised his eyebrows, staring down at Bersi. The man disgusted him. He was a weasel who spent his life trying to avoid a day’s work. He was also Dalla’s mouthpiece whenever she wanted to intimidate or punish.

“Nobody knows where she came from,” Bersi continued.

“What do you mean? She’s a Celtic thrall. She came from out there.” He pointed towards the ocean.

“You don’t know.” Bersi smirked, drawing out the words as if enjoying the power a little knowledge gave. “Neinn, of course not. It was about a month after your father died and you’d left for your first raiding season.”

Esben ground his teeth, clenching his jaw as an inkling of the truth tickled his mind. If the raiding party had been at sea when Frea arrived then who had brought her to the settlement? He shook his head, dismissing the accusations. Alf could have easily traded for her, or maybe she’d been captured during a local war with another settlement. He side-stepped Bersi and headed down an alley between two houses.

“You must have heard the rumours,” called Bersi after him.

“Must I have?” Esben kept walking, but slowed his pace. The weasel obviously thought the information was worth something. “Get on with it then.”

“I’m not sure—”

Esben turned and withdrew his battle-axe in one smooth move. “Perhaps we’d better continue this discussion in a more civilised manner.”

Bersi touched a hand to the hilt of his sword, his eyes wearily taking in the largeness of Esben’s weapon. He was out matched and they both knew it.

He raised his hands to show he held no weapon but his eyes sparkled. “Nobody really knows the whole story, but I gather she arrived in the middle of the night, barely a scrape of clothing on her, and by morning Alf had welcomed her as his own household thrall.”

“It was dark magic,” said Dalla. She’d appeared as if from nowhere. “She’s a seiðr.” Sorceress.

The word seemed to reverberate around Esben’s mind. He blinked, pulling himself from the memory. Frea still held his hand in one of hers and he longed to pull it from her grasp, but she was wrapping a bandage around his hand, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth in concentration.

He signed. What was he thinking? Bersi was an idiot and Dalla was power hungry. Until he saw actual proof of Frea’s supernatural abilities, he was going to give her the benefit of the doubt. He owed her that much, she was about to be sacrificed.

Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back, leaning against the wall. It had been a long time since he’d slept in this bed. Hell with that, it had been a long time since he’d slept in any bed. He loved his life on the ocean but the bow of a longship wasn’t the same as a mattress. He peaked through his lashes, contemplating the roof. If he could remove the turf it would bring the outdoors in and he could experience the best of both worlds.

Then everyone really would think he was mad, just like this mother.

Frea’s hands tickled the sensitive skin along the inside of his wrist and his breath caught. It had been a long time since he’s sat beside a woman. A flush of heat flooded his blood, sending his heart pounding.

He wriggled on the bed, suddenly uncomfortable, then opened his eyes to stare down at her. Frea had no idea what she was doing to him, she was completely absorbed in her work and for the first time she seemed to have momentarily forgotten her predicament.

Bersi might be an idiot but he’d been right about one thing. Esben didn’t really know anything about Frea. She’d arrived in the village after he was at sea and they’d barely spoken on his return visits.

He studied the lines of her face, marvelling at the fact that he’d never really looked at her before. How could he have missed such a beauty? Her hair was dark, like most people of Celtic heritage, but her eyes were big and green, almost hazel. She blinked, and her long, black eyelashes flickered. The heat from the fire had caused a light flush to colour her face in a rose gold glow. He swallowed audibly as his eyes were drawn to the collar of her woollen kirtle. Her sleeve had slipped to the side, revealing a slither of creamy white shoulder. But then the fire spluttered and the light caught the hollows in her cheeks. She was too skinny, he realised, too under-fed.

As though she’d read his thoughts, she looked up and caught sight of his stare. He couldn’t look away and the shadow of a smile crossed her lips. That fleeting movement gave him a glimpse of the woman she must have been before the sea-warriors snatched her away. Considerate. Passionate. Feisty. Beautiful. Extremely beautiful. His mouth went dry and he lent in closer, his face almost touching hers. There was a small indent on her temple, about the size of freckle although it was more like a burn and dangerously close to her eye. Had she been injured when Alf had caught fire?

He brushed the imperfection with his fingertip, revelling in the silky-softness of her skin. She froze, but didn’t pull back. Unable to help himself, he lent in and touched his lips to the corner of her eye.

Her lashes fluttered, and it was like the kiss of an otherworldly being. She could have been a decent of the gods.

“Freyja,” he murmured against her cheek, trailing kisses down her jawline.

She seemed to melt into his touch and she pushed her cheek more firmly against his mouth. He smiled against her skin, lightening his touch, teasing her into submission.

“I’m not sure—” She suddenly pulled back, her face reddening. “We shouldn’t... I shouldn’t have—” She scrambled to her feet, moving to the far side of the room. Just as Frea had begun to show her wild, fiery side, she’d withdrawn.

Suddenly, he furrowed his brow. What was he thinking? He was supposed to be acting as her protector, not seducer. There wouldn’t be a next time. There couldn’t be.

“Bersi seems very friendly with Dalla these days,” he commented, trying to change to the subject to safer ground.

“He’s part of Alf’s inner circle.” She swallowed. “Was part of.”

“Bersi?” he spluttered. Alf had distrusted Bersi as much as Esben did. “When did that happen?”

“Right after the fire. He made the announcement a few weeks ago. Everyone was pretty surprised, except for maybe Dalla. Bersi’s her sister’s son, or something. Everyone seems to think she persuaded Alf to promote Bersi.”

“Is that what you think happened?”

She looked up at him, surprise written across her face. “I guess. Although...it was very sudden. And like I told you, Alf hated Dalla, he hardly talked to her so I don’t know when she had the time to convince him. My lord.” She added.

Esben tapped the head of his battle-axe. It didn’t make any sense. What had Alf been trying to accomplish? Bersi was a useless warrior and by no means an ideal confidant, so Alf must have been appealing to Dalla, for whatever reason.

He narrowed his eyes, examining Frea but she didn’t seem to be keeping anything back from him. Whatever Alf had been up to, he’d kept it to himself.

He tapped faster, beating out an uneven rhythm. Death was no mystery to the sea-warriors, everyone had experienced it one way or another, but he couldn’t help wishing Alf hadn’t died. There was so many things he wanted to ask about Bersi and Dalla. And Frea. Where had she come from? Why was she so timid when it was obviously not in her nature?

He sighed. It was more than that. Alf had been the one person Esben had trusted completely since his father’s death, and Alf had trusted him in return, despite the rumours of his mother’s illness.

When Alf’s older brother had been killed and Alf was promoted to chief of the settlement, he’d given Esben command of the raiding fleet. Even though Esben was seven winters Alf’s junior and had been one of the youngest and least experienced warriors, Alf had seen something in him worth believing in.

He rose, stripped off his weapons' belt and locked it in the trunk. Now Alf was gone the least he could do was keep his word. He’s sworn to protect Frea and he would, until the day of the funeral.

“Here,” he said, motioning for her closer. “You take the bed.”

“I...” She glanced out the window, staring up at the rising moon as though surprised night had fallen already.

Was she scared of him? Did she think him such a barbarian? He wanted to curse. “I’ll sleep in the chair,” he confirmed.

He sat and Frea approached. She hadn’t slept in a proper bed in ten winters, her position in Alf’s household hadn’t granted her that particular luxury.

She peaked at Esben, his eyes were closed and his head was tipped back against the headrest. One thing she’d learnt over the winters was that Norsemen could sleep through anything and at anytime. They probably had a lot of practice spending so much time at sea.

Quickly, she striped to her shift and folded her woollen kirtle. Leaving it at the foot of the bed, Frea climbed under the reindeer skins. Even under the covers, she felt exposed without her clothes but it was the only dress she owned and she wanted to preserve it for as long as possible. Slaves weren’t often given new clothes and if they got frost-bit during winter... Well, that was their own problem.

Alf had protected her from the worst of the cold, but new clothes each season was another luxury she hadn’t been allowed to indulge in. In some aspects, she really was not different from all the other slaves.

Still, they’d always resented her special treatment. They were all probably relishing in her death. A few days’ rest and strong drink didn’t make up for the fact that she was going to be killed.

She closed her eyes, but even in the darkness of her lids she could still see the locked door, barring her from freedom. Did Esben know what he was doing? Surely he could see her desire to live shining from her face each time he looked at her. Maybe not, she panicked. There was a small part of her that wanted to follow Alf, whatever the death journey might bring, whether it be Christian Heaven or Viking Valhalla, what greater gift could there be?

Frea, Alf would have warned if he could have heard her thoughts. You have a life of your own. Live it.

And she drifted into sleep.

[thevikingspromise-blog]

His men went to battle without armour and acted like mad dogs or wolves. They bit into their shields and were as strong as bears or bulls. They killed men, but neither fire nor iron harmed them. This madness is called berserker-fury.

Ynglinga Saga by Snorri Sturluson, ~1225 AD

[thevikingspromise-blog]

[thevikingspromise-blog]

The Viking’s Promise

Norway, AD 853

Chapter One

“It’s not neat enough.” Gerd flicked the spinning whorl in Frea’s hands, dismissing her work with a shake of her head. “Start again.”

The tension in the room tightened. A couple of the other slaves glanced her way, then quickly turned back to their own tasks.

“Mistress.” Frea discarded the length of thread and picked up a new clump of wool from her basket. She cared nothing for spinning. She only had thoughts for Alf. Please let him be safe, she prayed.

The healer poked her head around the door, a sheen of sweat glistening across her forehead. “A moment please, Gerd.”

Frea glanced between the healer and Alf’s mother. Gerd paled, but straightened her shoulders and followed the healer back into Alf’s private room.

Silence filled the longhouse. Nobody dared speak. Nobody seemed to know what to say, not the slaves, or the Council of Elders seated to Frea’s right.

She swallowed, twisting the whorl between her callused fingers. She could almost hear her own blood pumping through her body and her breath catching in her throat. The moments slugged by, each more painful than the last. Not knowing what was happening was almost as bad as knowing.

The curtain covering the door twitched. Frea jumped.

The healer reappeared, head bowed. “There’s nothing else to be done.”

Frea’s heart leapt into her mouth. What do you mean? she wanted to yell. You can’t let him die! She shifted in her seat but didn’t speak, pursing her lips to keep the words from spilling out.

Gerd stepped back into the main room and the Council of Elders rose to their feet, their eyes fixed to her face. “My son asks that we remain calm. He—” Her voice halted. “He’ll not be in this world for much longer.”

The spinning whorl slipping from Frea’s fingers, skidding along the floor.

“Frea.” Gerd’s voice snapped across the room and all eyes turned to her.

She rose and bobbed at the knees. She opened her mouth but no sound came out.

Gerd jerked her head towards the door. Her short, greying hair fluttered a little and she ran hand impatiently over her head. “Hurry up, girl.”

She crossed the room and her hands started shaking so her clutched them behind her back.

Gerd grabbed her elbow, pulling her passed the curtain covering the door. “He’s asking for you,” she hissed, keeping her voice low so nobody else could hear.

Frea leapt across the room, pulling free from Gerd’s grasp. She knelt by Alf’s bed, touching his hand. The sweetness of burnt flesh filled her senses and she clenched her jaw. Wet sheets had been spread over his chest and legs, cooling his burnt skin, while his white blond hair was scorched. Tears threatened to cascade down her cheeks but she clenched her jaw, determinate not to cry. She didn’t want his last few moments to be one of tears and regret.

“Alf,” she whispered. “It’s Frea, I’m here.”

His eyes fluttered open, slowly focusing on her face. “Are we alone?” he asked, rasps marring his beautiful voice.

She glanced over her shoulder—his mother still stood by the door, her eyes narrowed on Frea. “Not quite. Gerd’s here.”

“Ar,” he breathed, as if saying ‘I should have guessed’. “Mother, leave us.”

“I don’t think—”

“Now,” he ordered, his voice barely more than a croak.

“All right, but you need rest.” And she left.

Alf gripped the front of Frea’s tunic with frail hands and pulled her closer. “You know what I want. You have to promise me!”

“Alf,” She moaned. Even when he was dying, he was thinking of her. She leaned further over his deathbed, her forehead almost touching his. He was like her brother; her only friend in this foreign land.

“Promise me.”

She shook her head and the baby-fine hairs along Alf’s hairline tickled her forehead. How could she promise what he asked when it meant they’d be separated for the rest of eternity? She loved Alf and never wanted to be parted from him. Even if it means dying?

“Frea,” he warned and a touch of his old commanding self laced his words.

“I don’t know.” She pulled back an inch to look at him imploringly, but there was a sudden hardness to his eyes.

“We knew this day might come. We’ve talked about it before. You know I don’t believe the lore, not really. No enough to risk—”

He clenched his side as a spasm of pain convulsed through his body. “Promise me!”

“Yes.” She buried her face in his shoulder, wishing she could take away the pain. He couldn’t die now. He was still so young with much to live for. And the village needed him. He was their clear-headed, thoughtful chief who’d do anything to keep them safe. Her whole world would collapse without him. “Anything.”

He grunted. “That’s my girl. Now, recite the plan.”

She closed her eyes and forced the words from her mouth. “Wait until its dark, then head for the river. And then—”

“Walk through the water so the hounds can’t follow your scent.”

“Yes,” she nodded. He squeezed her hand and she continued. “Travel south, across the Trondhjem Plains until—” she faulted. This wasn’t right. She couldn’t leave him.

“Until Helgi,” he encouraged naming a Norse town. “There you’ll find Egil. He owes me a big favour and will shelter you.” He drew a shuddering breath. “It will be hard, Helgi is a long way from here, but I know you can do it.”

She bit her lip. She didn’t want to do it. She’d run away once before and it had been the hardest journey of her entire life. She didn’t want to go through all that again.

Alf stared up at her, a small smile touching his mouth. “You are braver than you think. And you have more allies than you believe. I’ve made sure of that.” And the last breath left his body.

Time seemed to disappear. She could have been sitting there for only moments or whole days. Nothing seemed very important anymore. Not without Alf.

She pressed his cooling fingertips to her lips. He’d given her hope when she’d had none. The very least she could do for him now was keep her promise. No matter what.

Frea tugged at the end of her long braid as panic surged through her body. Beyond the door, covered by nothing more than a curtain, was his family. They might burst in at any moment. They didn’t trust her and didn’t want her near Alf.

She should tell them. Your son. Your leader. He’s dead. They deserved to know, but her feet wouldn’t move. As soon as they knew, her life would be forfeit and she’d just promised Alf never to let that happen.

She didn’t have much time. She dropped to her knees, pulled open Alf’s trunk and frantically rifled through his belongings. There had to be something useful inside; maybe something she could use to escape. She pushed aside pairs of worn breeches, the shirts she’d sewn for him last winter and pieces of finery—silver plates and jewellery—loot from many successful raids. At the bottom was an old hunting knife. She grasped the bone hilt, running the blade along her finger. It was too blunt to draw blood.

The curtain covering twitched. Her heart leapt into her mouth and she stuffed the knife into her dress pocket as somebody entered. More than a head taller than her, his shoulders and arms were thick with muscles, and clearly visible through the thin fabric of his sleeves. A new scar cut through his eyebrow, just missed his eye and continued down his cheek. The flesh around it was red and tender. His light hair was worn short so a hint of the tattoo covering his head was visible. Hanging off his hips was a weapons' belt holding a dagger with matching sword, and a large battle-axe who’s blade shone, even in the dull evening light. His torso was covered with sleeveless leather body-armour, a white shirt beneath. The collar was open displaying a light scattering of hair over a tanned chest. The legs of his breeches were tucked into his calf-length boots, the toes of which were scuffed.

“Thrall.” The warrior glanced from the open trunk, to her flushed cheeks, to Alf’s still body. As he turned, she glimpsed dark ink marks swirling down the back of his neck and disappearing beneath his collared shirt.

Esben Káre. An unmistakable, if unusual sight. Although only a few winters older than her, he was Alf’s most trusted warrior, preferring to spend his time at sea. Each year, he lead a crew into uncharted waters and brought back previously unimagined treasures.

He studied her with an unblinking gaze, as if trying to read her thoughts. His blue irises were haloed with silver flecks. One hand fingered the hilt of his battle-axe in a manner that was relaxed, almost subconscious. He was obviously used to carrying such weapons. She swallowed. Did he intend to harm her? He could overpower her in a heartbeat.

“He’s gone,” Esben said, his deep voice mellow.

“Only a moment ago, my lord.” Frea stepped away from the chest, her eyes darting to the open door behind him. If she could just get free before he raised the alarm she might get a few moments head start. The knife pressed against her stomach: a small comfort.

“You understand what this means?” Esben folded his arms across his chest, muscles tense. “You were his favourite thrall. You’ll be expected to follow him to Valhalla.”

Viking Heaven. “Your beliefs are not mine.” The words slipped from her mouth without thought and she gritted her teeth against the beating her disobedience normally evoked.

Nothing happened. She chanced a glance in his direction. He didn’t look particularly offended. His had tipped slightly to one side as though in thought, then he said, “I forgot. You’re a Christian.”

She touched the base of her neck where her cross had hung. That was, until a Norseman snatched it away, greedy for silver.

“I’m still waiting for your answer.” He contemplated her with narrowed eyes.

Frea pursed her lips. Esben’s reputation preceded him wherever he went and in that moment she was willing to believe anything. Power rolled off him. He stood straight with his shoulders level, but there was an ease about his body that gave the appearance of supreme confidence and self-assurance. “W-waiting?” She didn’t know what he expected of her. His chief was dead but he seemed in no hurry to spread the news.

“You understand what this means?” he repeated. “You know what will happen to you?”

“I—” She chocked back the words. Alf had tried to explain Norse rituals but she’d been so convinced nothing would ever happen to him she’d hardly paid attention to his lectures. All she really knew was that the chief’s body would be burnt, along with everything he’d need in the afterlife, including his favoured slave. It was a tradition that was centuries old, dating back through Norse lore to the very beginning of mans’ creation.

But Alf had wanted more for her. He’d made her promise to live, even if that meant running away. Again.

She could suddenly feel the blood pumping through her body as though wild fire seared through her veins. She couldn’t let them kill her! She had to escape. The world rocked and the wooden floorboards reared towards her.

“Are you all right?” Esben took a step forward, his brow creased.

“I’m—” The door was now unguarded, and Frea stumbled around him on legs that barely supported her weight.

“Neinn, you don’t.” Esben wrapped a solid arm around her waist, pulling her against his chest.

She struggled against his hold, flaying her arms but he caught her hands in his, pressing them against his shoulders. A fission of awareness ran down every nerve. Disturbing. Frea hated men touching her.

Esben raised his eyebrows—she was stronger than he’d expected. Winters of servitude had obviously strengthened her muscles. Still, she remained petite, the top of her head just grazing his shoulder. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a very Celtic style braid, while her skin was sallow from spending long hours working in-doors.

“Let go,” she spluttered, but her words lacked force. Perhaps she was just not used to giving orders; slaves were taught to obey, not make demands.

She resisted for another moment then fell slack against him, her face buried in his leather armour.

He caught sight of Alf over the top of her head and his heart sank. His fearless chief and great friend. Dead.

Esben had returned home the moment he’d heard of Alf’s accident, hoping the worst wouldn’t come to pass. But he’d been too late. There hadn’t even been time for him to say his farewells.

Frea tensed and he stepped back, keeping a firm hold of her fists. Tears glistened in her eyes and her jaw was clenched tight against the on-flow of emotion. He sighed—the last thing he needed was a crying thrall. The news still had to be broken to Alf’s family. He frowned. Why had Alf treasured Frea so much? There didn’t seem to be anything special about her. Just another Celtic thrall. Still, a promise was a promise.

“Stein,” he called, turning his head towards the curtain, “Come here a moment.”

His crewman entered, his face falling as he caught sight of Alf’s body. “Captain?” he queried.

“Take her outside, I’ll follow.”

“Right,” Stein wrapped an arm around Frea’s shoulders, guiding her from the room. She glanced back, her eyes searching Alf’s face.

In the main room, several women were gathered around a fire preparing dinner, while a cluster of elders huddled against the back wall. To one side, the rest of Alf’s inner circle sat slumped at a long, wooden table. Thirteen had just returned from sea with him, but had agreed to wait in the main chamber until Esben had taken stock of the situation.

“He’s dead.” Silence met his words. He looked at each of his crew in turn and they stared back with hollow eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Captain.” Kormak, Stein’s twin, stepped forward and clapped him on the back. “Did you manage to speak to the chief before he died? Did he say anything to you?”

Esben paused. If Alf had said something what would it have been? Sacrifice Frea? “Neinn.” He shook his head. “The thrall was the only one with him when he died.”

“My son insisted on speaking with her alone,” an old woman with greying hair called from the back and the hall fell silent. “She bewitched him the moment she came here. He never favoured any of the other slaves before her.”

“Gerd.” Esben nodded his head in respect to Alf’s mother but she turned away in a rejection of his welcome. He took a slow breath, trying to ignore the insult. Apparently not everything had changed.

“Where is she now?” asked Kormak. “Where did you send her?”

Gerd’s eye snapped to Esben’s face, her mouth a thin, disapproving line.

“She’s outside, Stein’s watching her.” He looked towards the Council of Elders seated against the far wall before the health. They watched him with hooded eyes, their distrust an almost palpable thing. He ignored the anger clenching his stomach into a tight knot. “She’s in shock, she isn’t thinking clearly. Therefore, I plan to keep her at my house until the ritual. I’ll act as her guard and make sure nothing happens to her before the funeral.”

“Neinn,” Gerd called. “That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Alf wouldn’t have—” she began.

“Alf trusted me. He made me captain of my own ship. I have proven my worth in battle a hundred times over. Haven’t we returned year after year with silver treasures?” Esben waved a hand towards the inner circle, indicating the rest of his crew and giving credit were credit was due.

“Your mother was mad,” said Gerd. “Possessed even. We can’t trust you with the thrall, you might let her escape. She might kill you in your sleep.”

“This has nothing to do with my mother,” Esben growled, glaring at Gerd. “And I can handle a girl. The men will testify to my abilities.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his sleeves pulled tight over his muscles.

Kormak nodded but the others didn’t move, apparently not eager to cross verbal blades with the chief’s mother moments after her son’s death.

“My son was a great and just leader but we all know he didn’t always make sound choices when it came to his friends. He practically adopted the thrall girl.”

Another elderly woman rested a hand on Gerd’s arm. She stood straight backed and her beady eyes studied Esben through the thin layer of smoke issuing from the fire with a clear gaze.

“Dalla,” Esben sighed. She was a great friend of Alf’s mother and held a highly respected position in the community. She was the Carrier of Death and, when the time came, she would thrust the knife through Frea’s heart, binding her soul with Alf’s forever.

“Káre,” she said, addressing him by last name only, “It’s not yet winter. You and your men should return to sea. If you don’t bring us fresh wealth and slaves the other settlements will consider us weak and attack.”

“Neinn!” The rest of his crew exclaimed in protest, they didn’t want to miss the funeral. And they had every right to attend—they were some of Alf’s closest friends and allies.

Esben raised a hand, silencing them. She wouldn’t rid the village of him so easily. “We can’t leave before the funeral. Nobody, even our neighbours, would expect that of us. Besides, I promised Alf, long ago, if anything should happen to him, I’d care for Frea.”

All eyes in the room snapped to him and his hand drifted towards the hilt of his sword for comfort. He was telling the truth. A few winters ago, when he’d returned for winter, Alf had pulled him aside. “Promise,” he’d demanded. “If I die, you’ll protect Frea.” And Esben had promised, he’d never been able to refuse his chief anything.

“He never mentioned anything like that to me.” Gerd frowned.

“He’s lying,” snapped Dalla. “His mother lied. He lies.”

“That’s all you can think of saying. Well, it seems like a feeble argument to me.” Esben shook his head, grasping his hilt so tightly his knuckles whitened. Gerd flinched but Dalla removed a short blade from her belt, brandishing it before the elders. Esben was sick of everyone associating him with his mother’s illness. It had haunted his life for as long as he could remember.

“I have been blessed by Death, as my mother was before me. This funeral is my domain and I have full authority concerning the sacrifice. You”—she pointed the ceremonial dagger towards Esben’s chest—" will return the thrall into my keeping.”

“Neinn.” Esben shook his head and withdrew his battle-axe. He would not be threatened by anyone, not even his spiritual leader, and certainly not when it meant turning his back on Alf’s promise.

“Bersi!” Dalla yelled and a man in his mid-thirties stumbled forward, pulling his own weapon free.

“Do as you’re told,” Bersi cried, rushing Esben.

Esben stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the blow. He stared at Bersi and the older man hesitated for a fraction of a second.

It was all Esben needed. Quickly, he stepped back and swept the sharp edge of his axe lightly across the palm of his own hand, the sign of a blood oath. A thin trickle of blood ran down his wrist, staining the sleeve of his shirt. “I promised Alf I’d protect Frea and I’m swearing to you now, nobody will go near the girl. Not until the day of the sacrifice or Thor help me, I will kill them.”