Captive Of The Viking. Juliet Landon

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       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Epilogue

       Author Afterword

       Extract

       Copyright

Chapter One

      The year 993—Jorvik, now known as York

      Even at that early hour of the day, a dense pall of smoke lay over the thatched rooftops of Jorvik like a grey blanket filtering upwards into the haze of dawn. The furnace was already roaring from the blacksmith’s workshop, from the glassmakers and potters, the bakers and the moneyer, whose task was no less exacting than the swordsmith’s. The Lady Fearn and her young maid, Haesel, kept to the path on the outer edge of the city and soon came to the river from where, for safety, the merchants’ ships had been moored upriver well away from the main wharves and the warehouses. They rocked gently on the brown water as the ferryman pulled his boat into the bank just as the two women reached it.

      ‘Morning, lady,’ he called. ‘You not taking the bridge, then?’

      The bridge over the River Ouse was close by the wharves, now deserted in readiness for a fleet of Viking longships that had been reported entering the Humber Estuary two days ago. The merchant ships would be an obvious target. Fearn chose not to answer him. ‘Can you take us across, Gaut?’ she said. ‘We’re bound for Clementhorpe.’

      Last evening, she and Haesel had put the last few stitches into a pile of linen smocks for the invalids at the little nunnery where frail and elderly townsfolk were nursed through their illnesses by twelve devoted Benedictine nuns. As the foster daughter of Earl Thored of Northumbria, Fearn did not intend an imminent Viking raid to prevent her acts of charity.

      * * *

      The nunnery at Clementhorpe was little more than a cluster of thatched huts, animal sheds, a larger infirmary and a church with a shingled roof situated on the very edge of Jorvik. The dense woodland sheltered pigs beyond the plots where two cows and their calves grazed, where an orchard, herb garden and neat rows of vegetables were tended by soft-spoken women in serviceable long kirtles of undyed wool. Their noble birth counted for very little here, all of them being known as ‘sister’ except Mother Bridget, the founder of the nunnery.

      ‘Welcome, my dears,’ she said, taking the bundles from them. ‘This is so kind of you. I hope, my lady, the Earl doesn’t mind your coming here so often.’ Her voice held an Irish lilt that set all her words to music.

      Fearn smiled at her concern. Earl Thored had been baptised as a Christian, but found it difficult to shake off the advantages offered by his former paganism, believing that to call on the services of several well-tried-and-tested gods was of great help in times of emergency. The priest had done what he could to explain the meaning of sin, but so far without an unqualified success. ‘He doesn’t mind at all, Mother,’ Fearn said, following the nun into the warm interior of one of the larger houses. A fire glowed in a central hearth and two nuns stood over by one wall, working at a large upright loom taut with white woollen threads, their hands working in unison, lifting, beating, passing the shuttle. ‘He has other things on his mind,’ she added. ‘Messengers are reporting to him day and night since the Danes were sighted.’

      ‘He’s sure they’re Danes, then? Not Norse?’ She indicated cushioned stools and went to a bench from where she poured buttermilk into three earthenware beakers. Handing one to Fearn, she could not help but look directly at Fearn’s beautiful features: the thick black curls escaping from the white veil and gold circlet, at the black eyelashes and brows that framed her most unusual feature, her eyes, one of which was a deep mossy green, the other as blue as a bluebell. She would have been uncommonly lovely even without this strangeness, but with it, her beauty was like a magnet that held the gaze of anyone who looked on her.

      Mother Bridget had hoped she would come this morning, having spent the night in prayer for her safety. One look at the woman would put her in mortal danger, for the Vikings, Danes and Norse, were renowned for their unbridled ferocity towards women. Fearn and Haesel would stand no chance against them.

      ‘Sure to be Danish,’ Fearn said after a sip of the cool liquid. ‘Swein Forkbeard’s men. Coming for another pay-off. He’ll not damage Jorvik again when more than half the city is made up of his own people, will he? I doubt they’ll be doing much raiding this time, Mother.’

      The Reverend Mother put her beaker to one side, only her years of discipline preventing her from showing her fear. She had, after all, lived close to fear for most of her life. ‘Fearn,’ she said, as emphatically as her musical voice would allow. ‘Listen to me.’

      ‘I always do, Mother.’

      ‘Yes, but this is especially important, my dear. Whatever these men are coming for, we women are in some danger and you more than any of us. You must know what I mean. It’s taken our little community years to recover after the last time, but I refuse to run away, for then what would happen to those we care for? But if you’re right about them coming only for payment to cease their raiding, then I still believe the safest place for you and Haesel would be out there in the woods, hiding until they’ve gone. Once you show your faces in the Earl’s hall, they will want you as well as money. Stay here out of the way, I beg you.’

      It was difficult for Fearn not to be moved by Mother Bridget’s concern. Such fear for her welfare was rarely shown these days, particularly not by Fearn’s husband, Barda, one of her foster father’s chosen warriors. A boastful, swaggering bully of a man, he had adopted the new Christian religion only in order to marry her, not for any other reason. Yet Fearn used his name now in the hope of persuading her blessed hostess of a better protection, knowing how he would put up a fight to protect anything that was his. Even his horse. ‘I am grateful to you, Mother. Truly I am. But I will not hide like a fugitive when there are so many of the Earl’s men to protect me. And Barda. He would not allow them to take me. Whatever else he is capable of, he would prefer not to lose me. Please stop worrying.’

      Even as she said his name, all three women’s minds turned to what else he was capable of. Violence towards his wife, for one thing. Mother Bridget had seen the weals on Fearn’s body when she’d come here for treatment. Love was not something Fearn had ever felt for a man and Barda did not know the meaning of the word.

      A reluctant sigh left Mother Bridget’s wrinkled lips along with a shake of her head. ‘Well,’ she said, softly, ‘I didn’t really expect you to agree, my dear. Is there nothing I could say that might persuade you?’

      ‘I could leave Haesel with you, being so young.’

      ‘Thank you, but, no!’ Haesel said, suffering two surprised stares. ‘I’m sorry, mistress, but I shall not leave you. The Reverend Mother must know that.’

      ‘Of course I do, child. Lady Fearn knows it, too. Let’s just hope her possessive husband is as loyal as you are. Does he know you’ve come here? Last time, you were in some trouble, I remember.’

      Fearn smiled, ruefully. ‘The Earl sent him off with two others to find out what they could. They’ll be following the river up towards the coast. They may even have returned by now with some news.’

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