|
VIKING RAIDER
by
Heide Katros
© copyright January 2004, Heide Katros
Cover art by Eliza Black, © January 2004
New Concepts Publishing
5202 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
CHAPTER ONE
Hedeby, Scandinavia 845
Talon Herjolfson raised powerful arms, their bulging biceps encircled with costly silver bands, toward the heavens. "May the great all-knowing Odin grant us his blessing!" he roared from the bow of his warship Raider. "May he give us strength to distinguish ourselves on the battlefields, so when we die we may enter Valhalla in glory." Icy, aquamarine eyes briefly connected with each warrior.
"Valhalla and glory!" his men shouted in unison, their sentiment echoed by Ragnor Lodbrok’s crew, who watched spellbound from the sister ship Seadragon.
Talon waited until the warriors quieted. A wry smile tugged at the corners of his generous mouth. The fervor of both crews pleased him, but he intended to push their spirit to fever pitch. Closing his eyes, he threw back his massive head with its thick white-blond mane. The cords in his strong, sun-tanned neck bulged against the strain. Taking a deep breath, he let loose a blood-curdling war cry. Before the last note was carried away by the soughing winds, the rest of the men echoed his whoop, creating an eerie howl that rivaled the caw of the gulls overhead. Talon paused again until the din died down.
"Two days hence, as we travel ever southwest, we will go ashore in the lands of the Franks!" he shouted. "We have it on good authority that the people there are rich ... richer even than the English monks." A note of disdain crept into his booming voice. "It seems only fair that the Franks should surrender a portion of their wealth. If they refuse, we will fight for that which should be ours!" His gauntleted fist slashed through the air accompanied by a roar of approval from the warriors. "We’ll take no prisoners and we won’t leave anything of value behind. What we can't take with us, we will burn ... If you find a likely wench, take her quickly, then slit her throat." He glowered down at his crew, his massive arms akimbo and his muscular legs braced slightly apart for balance. "Let the world know that we are Vikings, warriors of the sea, and we are not to be trifled with! In time they will learn to pay homage to us and give us our due without a fight." This time the howl of appreciation from the men was deafening. Talon’s eyes narrowed to hide his satisfaction. The crews were ready. Raising his gauntleted hand, he brought it down in one fell swoop, the signal to slip the mooring.
As one twenty elite warriors leaned into their oars and the craft pulled steadily away from the dock. Once they reached the open sea, they would unfurl their solitary sail and allow the wind to catch it. Craftily mounted precisely in the middle of the ship, this single sail gave them the unique ability to travel in either direction without turning around.
On shore a large crowd of well-wishers watched in silence as the two vessels eerily silhouetted against the blood red backdrop of the setting sun sliced swiftly through the undulating waves. A raucous cheer went up when Talon's black sail adorned with a lone silver gauntlet caught the breeze alongside Ragnor's red sea dragon in a field of white. A few seagulls accompanied the two crafts; their short shrill whoops sounding as if they too were caught up in the excitement of the moment.
Only when the ships were but small specks against the darkening horizon did the crowd disburse. As they headed for their homes they were immersed in their own thoughts and fears. The warriors would be gone less than a fortnight, but since they would engage in battle, the women who stayed behind never knew whether they would still be wife or widow when the ships returned.
The second night brought the Vikings within sight of the coast of what would some day be called Normandy. Talon stood at the bow of the Raider, his keen eyes skimming the barely discernible outline of the shore against the background of the dawning horizon. They would make land before the sun was fully up. Grimly, he recalled other raids, when they had surprised their targets in the wee hours of the morning. He remembered the fear his horde of howling warriors inspired when they came charging into the towns ere the sun was up rather than attack at a later hour.
Talon chuckled at the thought of how the French would try to flee before his heavily armed men and how little chance they had of escape. A white-toothed grin split his handsome, sun-kissed features as he signaled to his second in command. Asgard came quickly to stand next to his friend and strained to identify what Talon was pointing out to him.
"It won't be long before we will have to cease all talk and the men will have to ply the oars to the rhythm of silent cadence."
"When do you want to lower the sail?" Asgard inquired anxiously, his own eyes fixed on the ship up ahead. Now that battle was imminent, the tension aboard had grown tangible as each warrior contemplated how he might distinguish himself this very day.
"I will raise my arm as soon as I see the Seadragon lower her sail. Go among the ranks and tell the men again that once I lift my arm, I expect complete silence. Only with the added advantage of surprise will we meet with the least amount of resistance."
Asgard's brow lifted slightly in question. "The men will be disappointed. They are looking forward to a good fight."
"Never fear, my friend, the French are a hot-blooded lot." Talon chuckled in wry amusement. "They will not meekly hand over their possessions like the English monks."
He saw it then. The Seadragon started to lower her sail and Talon raised his arm to follow suit with the Raider. "Tell the men that they will need to give their full attention to the oars," he cautioned. "The river Seine is said to have as many curves as a well shaped woman."
Asgard laughed into his beard at Talon's crude comparison and slapped him resoundingly on the shoulder. They were tall, rugged men and almost of an equal height, both standing above six feet. Where Asgard had a bushy beard and thick mustache, Talon was clean-shaven by choice. A choice that often garnered him vulgar jokes about the supposed lack of his manhood.
There never was any doubt about his sexual prowess, since the women back home made no secret over their feelings for him. His bed was never cold at night and he had plenty of options. Indeed, even his strongest detractors would not deny him his handsome looks.
Talon's square jaw sported several small battle scars that added to his mystique. He rarely smiled, but when he did, his wide, finely sculptured mouth would reveal even white teeth. His nose was strong and set amid high, flat cheekbones. Thickly lashed, wide-set aquamarine eyes, that crinkled in the corners from the steady squinting against the sun, and the straight slash of darkly golden brows redeemed his otherwise forbidding demeanor.
His friends, as well as his crew, merely teased him about his clean-shaven features, because it was as good a reason as any to provoke a rousing fight. When Talon had enough of their jibes, he would take their good-natured bait and either challenge them to hand to hand combat or a sword fight, which was exactly what they tried to arouse with their unfounded criticism. However, his gauntleted hand was never mentioned or made fun of. And no one was more aware of the deformity the glove hid than Talon himself.
Talon rarely thought of his given name anymore. The name Gundar had fallen by the wayside, when an accident at the smithy reduced his left hand to an ugly claw at the tender age of ten. At the time his disfigurement loomed like a pall overshadowing his future, but nothing was more painful than his sire’s rejection.
"I want no cripple for a son," Holgar Herjolfson proclaimed, when he was told of the accident. His father never found it in his heart to retract his harsh words. Not even after Talon distinguished himself in battle time and again, fighting with a vengeance to prove himself as worthy as any man with two good hands.
When the Viking ships finally crunched to a jarring halt in a sandy cove just North of the city of Rouen, the sun was still struggling to top the horizon. The sails had been furled several leagues from shore as the warriors rowed the rest of the way. It was cool. Dew sparkled on the leaves of the shrubs and trees that dotted the shoreline, but the beauty was lost to the invaders who only cared about concealment.
Not a word was spoken as the men quickly unfastened their shields from the gunwales and checked their weapons. Their battle axes at the ready, broad swords hanging from heavy belts hugging their hips and wicked wide-bladed knives tucked in the cross garters of their fur boots, they looked a deadly lot. Talon allowed his gaze to drift over each warrior before he nodded with grim satisfaction.
As his eyes locked with Asgard’s, he quirked an amused brow at his friend. "You look like a denizen straight from Hades," he quipped in a hoarse whisper. "Your hair stands away from your head in salt encrusted spikes and your clothes didn't fare much better." His shoulders shook in silent mirth when Asgard rewarded him with a baleful glare.
"And you look just as lovely as a maid on a spring day?" Asgard jeered. "You should take a gander at yourself in that river yonder. You look like old Loki himself. Your hair is frosted with salt and your wolf's skin seems to stick to you as if you had grown it on your own hairless hide."
At mention of his hairless chest, Talon's hackles rose and he stepped closer to his friend, glowering, his wide shoulders hunched in preparation of a scuffle.
"Hey, you two fighting cocks," intervened Ragnor. "Save your strength for the real enemy. The French will try to defend what’s theirs."
A muted roar of approval from the rest of the men did more to quell their urge to fight one another than Ragnor's warning. They stepped apart, rueful grins replacing their scowls.
The eagerness of the assembled warriors to attack showed plainly on their rugged faces. Adrenaline coursed through their veins and added to their brute strength as they chafed in their tracks anticipating Talon’s signal.
With Ragnor and Talon in their lead, they hacked their way through the dense brush and silently marched toward the city of Rouen, where the citizen were just getting ready to face another day. Many of them would never see another.
As the warriors approached the town, a collective murmur of satisfaction passed through the ranks. The gates were already thrown wide. Several farmers had left before daybreak to till the land, never guessing that they would be among the few lucky ones who would live to tell of the Viking attack.
CHAPTER TWO
Danielle D'Arçenau stood poised at the very edge of the cliffs that formed the Northern border of Honfleur-sur-mer, her family’s estate. Beneath her the North Sea slammed with mesmerizing regularity against the age-old granite promontory, spewing salty spray more than twenty feet into the air.
Danielle watched through tear-blurred eyes as the sea slowly receded. Rubbing her arms to ward off an inner chill, she tried to imagine if she would feel a great deal of pain, when her body hit those craggy rocks that lurked just beneath the surface. No, she could never take her own life. Somehow everything would work out. It had to. It simply had to.
Exhausted from a night of weeping and railing at her misfortune, she sank to her knees and buried her face in her delicate white hands. She still refused to believe that her brother Jean-Jacques, the third Marquis D'Arcenau, would actually go through with the plans he had divulged to her last night.
In her mind she had played the scene over and over until she was sure she would never forget that horrible moment in time. Honfleur was the only home she had ever known. Why couldn’t she accompany him to Paris? What had possessed him to choose Gaillard? The cloister was located in a desolate area, way out in the country. She balled her fists and pressed them against her mouth. Mon dieu, she would die of boredom.
Bitterly, she reflected that never in her life had she been as miserable as she was today. Not even when her beloved father died not too many months hence. And for the dozenth time she recalled every torturous detail of the evening before.
Minette had just served a dessert of warm apples with a honey sauce, when Jean-Jacques asked her to join him in the study as soon as she finished. He excused himself, declining his own serving of the sweet treat. Thinking back, Danielle reflected sourly that he had certainly not declined another goblet of wine.
Assuming he had some small diversion in mind for her, she gobbled her dessert and followed her brother down the long hallway to the room that had not so long ago been occupied by her beloved papa. She rapped her knuckles against the heavy gilt-edged door and did not even wait to be asked to enter. Undisguised curiosity and an expectant smile flitted across her delicate features as she slipped into the room.
"Here I am, brother. You wanted to speak to me?" she inquired almost breathlessly, her question ending on a lilting note.
Jean-Jacques stood by the fireplace, one arm resting negligently against the mantel, a glass of fine port in his well-manicured hand, an air of utter world-weariness about his person. His hooded gaze swept Danielle in cursory dismissal as he lifted the finely cut goblet and took a deep swallow of the dark red liquid.
His saturnine expression stopped Danielle cold in her tracks just inside the door. When Jean-Jacques continued to keep her standing, she audibly cleared her throat and then tapped her foot on the shining parquet floor in tacit exasperation. Since even that did not evoke any response from her brother, she walked boldly up to him, her hands balled into small fists at her sides.
"Jean-Jacques you asked me specifically to meet you here but a few moments ago." Her green eyes glittered with suppressed anger and her tone of voice left little doubt of her annoyance. "Either you tell me why or I am leaving this very minute." She tossed her head for emphasis and the silken curtain of midnight hair rippled in elegant waves about her small head before it settled just above her slim waist.
Jean-Jacques' fleshy lips compressed into a thin line to convey his displeasure over her impertinence. His pale blue eyes narrowed contemptuously as he tried to stare her down. Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, he motioned with his glass toward the leather sofa across from him. "Sit already, sister dearest. The lack of my asking has never stopped you before." The last was uttered with a sneer.
Danielle took Jean-Jacques' crudeness in stride. She was used to his mood swings when he was into his cups. By the look of it, her brother was definitely no longer sober, a condition that had become more obvious since dear Papa had died.
Jean-Jacques raked his pale hand through his thinning brown hair and smacked his lips. He cocked his head to one side and his gaze became downright malevolent. "My dearest sister," he continued matter-of-factly, "I have decided that it would be in your best interest, if I sent you to the cloister of the Good Sisters of the Benevolent Shepherd until such time when I have found a suitable husband for you."
Danielle gasped and her hand fluttered toward her throat to clutch at the finely wrought gold brooch that adorned the high-necked collar of her gown. She was in desperate need to hold on to something in view of that particular news and the sharp edges of the brooch inflicted enough pain to her tender palm to keep her from blurting out her innermost feelings.
"Why would you find it necessary to send me to the nuns, Jean-Jacques? You cannot mean it," she stammered in wild confusion, trying hard to stay calm.
"I cannot recall a single instance when I would have displeased you or given you one moment of trouble, since dear Papa passed on." She reverently crossed herself in memory of her father, but deep inside her a raging fury built over her brother's gross injustice. She knew she would have to think quickly or her fate would be sealed forever.
Danielle had no intention of spending her youth on her knees in some damp cloister amid some old dried-up women. Danielle had dreams of having a husband who adored her, of children and laughter, not the drone of constant prayer and doing charwomen's work. Nor did she want Jean-Jacques choosing a husband for her. No, she simply would not have any of that, she thought rebelliously.
Acting demurely and with feigned submission, she regarded her brother from beneath heavily lashed lids. She couldn’t chance to look him straight in the eye for fear that he might discover her loathing for him in their depths. Instead she hurried to apologize.
"I am sorry, Jean-Jacques, I did not mean to erupt in such an unladylike manner, but your announcement comes as a shock to me. Surely, you must have a good reason for wanting to banish me to a cloister and I trust you will tell me why."
Jean-Jacques was momentarily caught off guard, wondering if she knew something of his discovery. He hesitated, holding his breath, anticipating that she might say something more. Gripping the wine goblet, he waited.... No, she could not possibly know. She was an impulsive chit. She would have confronted him with the evidence now carefully hidden in his chambers, but in view of those damning papers he felt it best to send her away. He needed time to ponder the consequences.
Pleased that Danielle did not seem to have any idea of his real reasons, he pushed himself unsteadily away from the mantel and closed the space between them, staring suspiciously down at his sister not quite trusting that she might not know after all.
"Ah, ma petite, I am so sorry, but I feel there is little choice. I have urgent business in Paris and I simply cannot take you with me."--Why, he would never tell the chit the truth. It was imperative that he liquidated as many assets as possible before the solicitor came snooping around. Couldn’t leave it to chance that the old Marquis might have left a copy of his will somewhere. Jean-Jacques was still in a state of shock over the contents.
There had been nothing accidental about his find. He’d snooped, because he was deeply in debt. He was in desperate need to know how much he stood to inherit. The old Marquis had been a frugal man, sometimes downright miserly. Jean-Jacques was sure that he’d put away a good amount of coin and he meant to have control of it. He’d felt almost giddy when he found the parchment until he read that he’d been born on the wrong side of the blankets as the old man so glibly referred to his illegitimacy. Apparently, he was nothing more than the offspring of a night’s passion between the master of the house and a chambermaid. Why, the old Marquis even dared to question the credibility of that particular claim.
Ever since Jean-Jacques found the documents, he wondered over and over again, if their mutual father thought it a joking matter or whether it was simply his way to garner vengeance for reasons only known to him? Why did he raise Jean-Jacques as his legitimate son? Why did he allow him to believe that he was the rightful Third Marquis D'Arceneau of Honfleur-sur-mer, only to leave instructions to toss him out by the ear after his death? It made no sense. Jean-Jacques felt entitled, because his sire had raised him to enjoy the finer things of life. The devil take his soul!
Jean-Jacques interrupted his own musings, when Danielle fidgeted in her seat. Acting, as if he had never paused, he continued with a dismissive wave of his hand. "One, we do not have a suitable chaperon, Danielle, my dear. Two, I plan to ride hard and make camp along the way. None of it would be acceptable for a young woman of your breeding. Aside from that, you will only spend at most two months with the good sisters."
"Two months!" Danielle screamed in anguish, unable to contain her feigned acceptance any longer. "Surely, you can't be so cruel as to subject me to a dreary life like that for any length of time?" Crossing her arms over her breasts, she stamped her small foot rebelliously. Her mouth formed a becoming moué and the first tears gathered in her expressive eyes. "I will not go, Jean-Jacques," she stated firmly and her delicate chin shot upward in defiance. "I will not go and you can't make me."
Jean-Jacques chuckled in wry amusement. "Can't I now, ma petite? And who pray tell is going to stop me?" His brow lifted in disdainful question. By the time the family solicitor came around with a duplicate of the will, and Jean-Jacques was sure that there would be such a document, he would have secured his future. And of course Danielle would never know. She could rot in the nunnery for all he cared. She was nothing but a meddlesome female, always in the way. No, he intended to take all and Danielle be damned.
Danielle knew she had lost. She collapsed against the back of the brocade covered settee, suddenly too weak to hold herself upright. Fumbling for a lace-edged handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes. No longer did she question the fact that she was going to be forced to go. She knew no one would stop her brother. He was the rightful Marquis D’Arcenau now that papa was gone. There was no fight left in her voice, when she asked the obvious. "What is going to happen to me, in case you should not return?"
Feeling a little more benevolent now that he had victory so well in his grasp, Jean-Jacques smiled down at his weeping sister. Drinking another large gulp of wine, he elaborated further on his devilish scheme. "Ah, petite, I plan to leave a goodly sum with the sisters and instructions to allow you to leave, if I don’t return for you when the two months are up. Of course, you will not be able to come back to this estate alone, you know. I will appoint a suitable guardian for you in that case with the stipulation that he marry you in good time."
Danielle was about to protest that he could do that before his leave taking. It would be better than being shut away in a cloister. Her protest died on her lips when she heard his next pronouncement.
"I will instruct the good sisters to turn you over into the capable hands of the Earl of Montvignon."
Danielle felt the bile rise in her throat and fought valiantly against disgracing herself. His announcement left her speechless with disdain for the man who called himself her brother. She took several deep breaths and rose shakily to her feet. With all the dignity she could muster, she no longer hesitated, but looked him straight in the eye. "You are utterly contemptible, brother. It makes me ill to think that I am related to someone who would stoop so low as to choose a man who is not only older than my dear departed father, but is rumored to have the pox on top of that." She lost all control then, feeling that she had nothing to lose. So with the vehemence of all the fury and absolute contempt she felt, she spit on his polished riding boots.
Jean-Jacques was momentarily stunned by his sister's behavior. Raising his chin, he glared at her with narrowed eyes, while his nostrils flared in repressed fury. The corners of his mouth turned downward with unequivocal spite as he carefully shifted his wine glass to his left hand.
"You filthy little imbecile," he hissed, a fine spray of spittle issuing from his mouth. "How dare you soil my person in such vulgar fashion? You will pay for this insult make no mistake about it," he hissed, then slapped her face with the open palm of his hand with such force that her head snapped back.
Danielle should have seen it coming, but in all her seventeen years, no one had ever laid a hand on her. Her eyes stung with unshed tears and the pain of the vicious blow, but Danielle was beyond giving in to self-pity. Gulping several deep breaths, she held her ground. Cradling her throbbing cheek with her hand, she gritted, "This would best be your one and only time that you do me bodily harm. I swear that I will kill you, if you should ever try it again."
Danielle did not give Jean-Jacques the chance to test her mettle, but turned on her heel and ran from the study all the way to her chambers. Once there, she threw herself across the counterpane of her bed and cried until she thought her heart would break.
Danielle thought she had no more tears left, but after she replayed that horrible scene in her mind once again, she found that she could still cry.
In her wretched state of mind and the constant roar of the breaking waves, she did not hear the approaching footsteps. Emile, the old butler, was almost upon her before she noticed him. Ashamed to be caught weeping, she turned her face away. She tried, but did not quite succeed to keep the catch out of her voice. "Yes, Emile, what is it?"
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but the master would like for you to return to the manor at once." There was sympathy in his old reedy voice and it proved to be Danielle's undoing.
"Oh, Emile," she cried, turning her tear-stained face toward him, no longer caring that he should see her that way. "What am I to do? Did Jean-Jacques advise you of his plans for me?"
The old butler dropped his gaze in embarrassed silence, enough proof to Danielle that he knew all about it.
"I am sorry, Emile," she whispered, painfully aware that she had overstepped her bounds by confiding in the old servant and ever more aware that she would have nowhere to turn for help. Defeated, she slowly followed the old man down the path.
Her heart sank when she saw the family carriage waiting under the porte cochère, a small chest and a leather satchel loaded atop and the driver already in his seat. Her hand flew to her mouth to stay the anguished scream from bubbling over. She twisted her head to question the old butler, but Emile had fled into the house, unable to stay and witness his young mistress and her distress.
Jean-Jacques sauntered down the steps at that moment, a thin cigar in one gloved hand and a silver-headed cane in the other. He was elegantly dressed in fawn breeches and morning coat, his travel cape slung negligently across one shoulder.
"There you are," he exclaimed as if Danielle were a wayward child who was late. He swept her with an insolent gaze. "You look positively windblown, my dear, but that cannot be helped right now. Besides, where you are going your looks won't matter, will they?" he added maliciously.
Abruptly, he grasped her upper arm in a viselike grip that made her wince and jerked her within inches of his face. "Climb into that carriage at once, before I make you regret it," he ground out viciously from between gritted teeth.
Danielle was too stunned to even think. Fighting tears, she opened her mouth to protest his rough treatment, but Jean-Jacques' fingers only dug deeper into the tender flesh The sharp twinges of pain running up and down her arm, made her realize that any resistance on her part would prove futile. Docilely, she allowed him to lead her to the carriage. Applying pressure to the small of her back he shoved her unceremoniously into the dark interior.
Stumbling, Danielle scooted to the far side of the velvet-covered seat and pressed herself into the corner. Her eyes were wild with fear and apprehension. Mon dieu what had happened to her brother? Jean-Jacques never before displayed such a violent streak and she feared for her very life at this moment.
Jean-Jacques carelessly threw his cigar into a nearby planter before he followed his sister into the carriage. He settled himself across from the frightened girl and let out an amused chuckle. "You do resemble a regular shrew, my dear. Thanks to your unkempt appearance I won't have any trouble convincing the good sisters that they will need to keep a wary eye on you and that you are sorely in need of discipline." Again he laughed and the sound of it made Danielle cringe.
He is quite mad, she thought. She’d better not say anything more to him or it might drive him over the edge. Let him think that she was thoroughly frightened and ready to obey him in anything he asked.
"Don't think one moment that you have me fooled," he snapped suddenly. "I know you are scheming something against me, little sister. You are far too quiet."
At first, she didn’t respond. Then she blurted, "Is it my dowry, Jean-Jacques? Are you in need of the money for some reason?"
He regarded her with something akin to admiration. "I would never have credited you with having such astute ideas, little sister." He leaned closer and Danielle could see that he was clearly enjoying himself. He waved his gloved hand negligently through the air, then settled his elbow on his knee and rested his chin atop his fist. "Of course, one can never have enough money and I would not object to having the sum papa has settled on you," he drawled, "and I might still have it, if I can find the right husband for you. One who will be willing to forgo the dowry in return for a woman who is untouched."
Danielle's stomach turned in revulsion as she followed his train of thought. "Would you really stoop so low as to sell me to the highest bidder?" she bit out.
Jean-Jacques chuckled obscenely. "Oh, I would not put it quite so crudely, my dear. You see you are a little past your prime and you have to admit that there haven't been suitors knocking down our doors at any time. But, yes, there are men who are willing to forgo beauty and youth in return for being the one who, shall we say makes a woman of you?" He chortled loudly at his own jest and Danielle became more convinced than ever that he was slightly demented or deeply into his cups.
"Of course such men would prove to be older, but think of all the experience they can bring to your marriage bed, my dear." He stopped short of elaborating further, caught up in his own lascivious thoughts.
Danielle dug her hands into the velvet cushions in an attempt to keep from getting sick. In the end the swaying of the carriage, combined with Jean-Jacques lewd descriptions of what she could expect from marriage at her age, were her undoing. Before she could warn her brother, her stomach emptied itself right in front of his feet.
Shuddering, Jean-Jacques pulled his boots away from the ill smelling pool of bile and quickly reached for a small pomander of roseleaves and cloves and brought it to his nose. His pale blue eyes filled with malice. "You filthy slattern! I have a good mind to leave you to the tender mercies of the nuns forever." He grabbed for his cane and for a split second Danielle thought he would hit her with it. Instead he rapped against the top of the carriage and bade the driver to stop.
Jumping nimbly to the ground, his face a grimace of disgust, he turned back to the ashen girl. "Wipe the filth from this carriage so we may continue on our way!" he ordered.
Danielle looked helplessly about her. She had never been asked to do menial work, but she realized that Jean-Jacques might beat her if she did not clean the mess on the floor. She scrambled unassisted from the carriage and picked up bunches of dry grass. Only when she had cleaned the spot to Jean-Jacques' satisfaction, did they continue on their journey.
CHAPTER THREE
The guards at the gates to the city of Rouen blinked at the sudden appearance of some forty heavily armed ruffians, who seemed to have sprung from the very bowels of hell. The men gaped in open amazement at the grotesque shapes, which hardly resembled any human forms they had ever laid eyes on.
"Mon dieu, Davide, do you see what I see? It eez like no people I ever saw." One guard exclaimed in awe as he pointed toward the approaching horde of men. He stared at the crude garments made of animal hides and their odd cross-gartered boots, thinking that they seemed oblivious to the chill in the air, since their massive arms were bare and their tunics reached only to mid thigh.
The man named Davide nudged his partner into action. "Don’t gape, Henri. Let’s close the gates!" he screamed just as the first shrill war whoop of the Viking warriors rent the still morning. By that time it was already too late. Pitifully outmatched, the two gatekeepers defended their ground and tried to fight the invaders.
Ragnor and Talon stood side-by-side and fought one of the hapless guards, while Asgard and Leif took on the other. It was not much of a fight, but swift and bloody and served to stir up the blood lust in the rest of the warriors.
Even before the two guards were dispatched, the rest of the Vikings stormed past their leaders, their lips drawn back in a feral rictus, their urge to kill riled beyond reason.
The citizens of Rouen were still rubbing sleep from their eyes, when they heard the first gruesome battle cries dispel the serenity of the early morning. Brave husbands and fathers grabbed their weapons and took to the streets, while their wives and daughters hid under beds and inside armoires. Just as Talon had predicted, the French were no match against the onslaught of the Vikings.
The fighting lasted little more than an hour and by then the sun had scaled the horizon and shone down on the carnage that strewed the hard packed earth throughout the conquered city. The stench of blood hung heavily in the morning breeze and still the Vikings yelled their battle cries and searched for survivors.
Talon wiped the sweat from his eyes and stared down with a bleak smile as he pulled his sword from his latest victim. The smell of clotting blood clogged his nostrils, but the sight of the dead and dying evoked a sense of power in him and in sheer exhilaration he threw back his head and let out a piercing yell. Some of his men took up his chant, a terrifying sound that sent renewed shivers through those who were still hidden and hoped to escape the slaughter.
Talon climbed up on the city fountain so all his men could see him. His teeth reflected whitely against his sun-bronzed skin as he addressed them, his blue eyes sparkled.
"You have done good work! Break up into units of two and search every house. Bring all the valuables you can find and pile them right here in the middle of the town. Make sure that you are not ambushed and cut anyone down who should stand in your way! Leave no witnesses behind. When the farmers return by nightfall, they will be witness enough."
The warriors disbursed in quick compliance and once again there were screams of terror and anguish as they ruthlessly rummaged through the houses and killed those who had not hidden well enough.
The sun was standing high in the horizon by the time the Vikings finished wreaking their havoc upon the city of Rouen. Each man was loaded down so heavily with booty that their steps would falter as they made their way back to their ships. Black wisps of smoke billowed behind them as the flames licked eagerly at wooden structures. Soon all of Rouen would be on fire, creating a huge pyre for those who had died trying to defend the city.
The warriors were in high spirits when they got back to the boats. Like a bunch of wayward children they compared their plunder. "Hey, Olaf, how do you like my hat?" Leif wanted to know as he donned a delicate little bonnet that was meant for a woman.
Olaf was too entranced with a wide red sash to find any interest in Leif's devilment. The true treasures of gold and silver were forgotten in light of the unfamiliar pieces of clothing and ornaments.
"This calls for celebration," announced a jubilant Talon. "From this day forward we will inspire awe among friend and foe alike. Let's break out some of the flasks of wine and toast our good fortune."
"Hear! Hear! To good fortune! May the all-knowing Odin continue to smile upon us!" they roared as they lifted purloined tankards and flasks.
They drank themselves into a stupor; no longer worried that anyone would discover them there in that sandy cove. They had fought hard and accomplished what they had come for. The Vikings needed riches to solidify their dominance and they would not stop to raid and pillage until that goal was met.
Drunk with wine and victory, they slept most of the afternoon away. Only the rumbling of their empty bellies made them stir long enough to build a fire and roast some of the hastily slaughtered fowl. Once sated, they drank some more and lay down again to sleep the night away.
Talon was too keyed up to sleep. He had eaten sparingly and the liquor he had consumed earlier no longer seemed to have any effect on him. Even a dip in the river did not cool him down. He prowled about the makeshift camp. Driven by an inner restlessness, he casually kicked Asgard's booted foot.
"Do you feel like scouting about the area?" he whispered to his friend.
Asgard hauled himself up and braced himself on one elbow as he blinked owlishly at Talon. "What is there to scout?" he asked sourly.
Talon shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe we missed something when we headed straight for Rouen. There could be another little village nearby and we could find us some wenches."
At the mention of wenches, Asgard brightened visibly and got nimbly to his feet. "Time's a wasting, Talon! Let's go!"
|
