The Viking's Conquest Page 2

  I swallow fearfully and yet refuse to allow the emotion to dominate me. “I have done what is necessary to defend Donrose.”

  He looks over at me and there’s almost a smile on his lips. “You must fight well then? You women of Donrose?”

  I raise my head to him, straining in the candlelit corridor to get a better view of this man—my enemy—who has undoubtedly just saved my life.

  “I cannot speak for all women, but I was taught to fight by my brother.”

  He nods at me, before swinging Aurora into one of his many weapon hold-alls.

  “Magnus The Strong,” he says, addressing his kinsman now, “remember my words and do as I have commanded.”

  “Yes, My Lofðungr,” promises Magnus, bowing low as his prince strides away. He appraises me, a mixture of irritation and adrenaline coursing through his features.

  “So now—are you going to fight me still whilst I bind you?”

  He produces a small length of rope and takes a small step toward me. I splay like a trapped animal and consider my options. I realise there is little point in attempting to escape when I know already that he can easily outrun me. With resignation I grimly accept my fate and for the first time since the invasion, I stop fighting.

  Magnus slips and twists the large coarse rope around and between my small wrists, binding them together in front of me. I try not to make eye contact and yet I can see that despite his order, he is desperate to manhandle me further. With my arms now restrained, he attaches a second piece of rope, ties it to the bonds at my wrists and holds the other end, tugging it hard to move me forward.

  “Since I am now to be stuck with you, I’d appreciate your cooperation in moving whenever I do,” he smiles by means of explanation at my enquiring looks.

  “I will not cooperate with you!” I say, my voice full of defiance.

  “But, of course you won’t!” he smirks in response, and then pulls another item from his pocket, this time a dirty white piece of fabric. “If you will not cooperate then I will not need to hear anything further from you!”

  He is behind me before I even have time to muse on his words and has stretched the long fabric out across my mouth. Instinctively I open my mouth to protest and in doing so, I simply aid his job, allowing the material to slip between my teeth. I feel him tying it in a tight knot behind my hair as I struggle behind the new confines.

  “How dare you!” I try to say, but without consonants, my words are merely a humiliating string of sounds. Magnus completes his circle of me, appraising his handiwork and then has the audacity to actually laugh.

  “That is much better!” he concludes out loud and then moves off, dragging my bound arms behind him. His strides are long, and I have to sprint to ensure I do not fall behind and lose my footing. We round a corner by the armoury, encountering another group of Viking invaders.

  “Bjorn, make haste!” yells Magnus to his comrades. “We must win this battle—our prince wishes to depart and take his prize with him!”

  With this he yanks the end of the rope between us with force and my body lurches forward and into view.

  “Hail, Freya!” calls one of the other intruders as he assesses me. “Perhaps our Lofðungr will share his prize?”

  Magnus laughs and pulls the rope tighter. “If that is so then I will be the first in line!” he shouts back.

  Magnus’ men are already marching over to where we stand as he speaks. They too are infinitely large, wearing metal helmets that cover most of their foreign faces.

  “Magnus!” calls the one named Bjorn. “Let’s taste the prince’s dessert now before the battle ends. His highness need never know?”

  He appraises me as though I am a piece of meat and I swear I see him lick his lips at the prospect of having me. I squirm, physically recoiling from this new oppressor; disgusted by his words. Magnus’ bondage however effectively keeps me in place and I am forced to remain, listening to the insults. Their dark laughter fills up the passageway as they consider Bjorn’s plans. Finally, after what feels like forever, Magnus stops chortling and shakes his head.

  “It’s a good plan, my friend, but I have explicit instructions from our Lofðungr about this one.”

  He nods his head in my direction as he speaks.

  “Why would that be?” asks the unidentified man, looking again in my direction. “What is so special about this one?”

  “I have no idea,” agrees Magnus, “but he was very clear about it, so I intend not to displease him on this matter.”

  I stand here, gagged and bound, watching these brutes discussing my fate. My heart pounds against my ribs at their words, as though it too is searching for an escape even at this late hour. When it becomes apparent that none is forthcoming, my attention returns to the Vikings before me. Seemingly reconciled that I am not theirs to enjoy, they lead me on through the castle. We move as a group, the Nordic savages on the prowl for more of my men as we go. The pursuit seems endless as we pass through the large expanse of the fortress. Bjorn and the others search each new room and granite corridor they encounter for those who may be seeking refuge, and as time passes, I slip into despair, stumbling behind the invaders as if in a bad dream. It seems we have fought for nothing. Donrose is doomed to fall and there is nothing I can do halt the suffering.

  At length we leave the castle walls. Light begins to break from the horizon and with the morning sun comes the terrible reality of the raid. I struggle past bodies strewn here and there, trying desperately to identify each one and yet never given the time to do so. Overwrought with grief and exasperation as we reach the outer walls, I come to a virtual standstill. I allow Magnus to drag me forward, but no longer do anything to assist him. After a few steps he notices the extra effort and spins to confront me.

  “Walk, woman!” he orders.

  With tears of frustration spilling into the material clogging my mouth, I shake my head—outright refusing to do anymore to help in my own abduction.

  He rolls his eyes beneath his helmet and moves toward me. I automatically flinch as he approaches. “I asked for your cooperation. If you will not cooperate then you will be carried!”

  With no further warning, he pulls the large pieces of armour plating from my body. Two huge plates from my back and chest come away in his hands with ease, before he yanks at those on my legs. I watch in horror as he discards the metal, and leaves me standing in the thin layer of doublet fabric. Then wordlessly he picks me up and drapes me effortlessly over his left shoulder—my face, hair, and bound wrists falling down to his back. He holds me there with his left arm and continues onward. I hear the men laughing at my unfortunate position and yet I am so shocked by this treatment that initially I do nothing to protest. Then, realizing that he indeed intends to carry me this way, I begin to thrash and kick against him, using my bound arms as a weapon upon his back. He ignores me for a time, and then presumably once the kicks become more than just an irritation, his right arm raises and to my horror comes smarting down on my upturned backside!

  “That’s enough!” he scolds in a mocking tone. “Any more of that and I’ll strip you down and carry you naked to the prince! Do you want to be presented to him in all of your nudity, woman?”

  I am horrified, feeling my cheeks burning red at my public chastisement and I pause my kicking immediately.

  “That’s more like it,” he says, laughing again and smacking my ass rather more playfully this time. “You can be a good girl—with the right encouragement!”

  I squirm over his shoulder, frustrated by my utter helplessness and yet ashamed by the growing feeling of arousal I am experiencing from it too. Never in all of my years have I been treated this way! I am a princess of Donrose—the king’s daughter—loved and well-respected by all. And now, bound, gagged, and tossed over this brute’s shoulder I am completely disregarded, aside from his impromptu spanking of my upturned backside. I am half terrorised and half excited by my predicament—a fact that terrifies me in its own right. Now upturned over Magnus�
�� shoulder, I try to push down the strange swell of emotions that are threatening to consume me.

  Chapter Three: The Onward Journey

  The journey over Magnus’ shoulder seems endless. From this ridiculous angle it’s almost impossible to see where we are, but I strain my neck north and can just make out the edge of the castle battlements away to my left. It’s then I realise that these men are literally about to take me away from my ancestral home, and the thought makes the knot of anxiety in me tighten into a painful ache in my belly. The panic inside of me increases as I hear the growing sounds of men and horses from behind me. Magnus must be approaching the rest of his kin and whatever awaits me beyond Donrose is now about to begin.

  “Magnus The Strong!” A voice from our left breaks through the noise, and my captor spins on his heel to greet the unknown speaker.

  “Eric!” Magnus’ voice booms from next to me. “How are you, my warrior?”

  “Clearly not as well as you, my liege!” laughs the stranger. “It seems you have brought yourself a keepsake from the battle?”

  Both men laugh at this and I squirm over his body at this latest indignation.

  “This is not mine,” replies Magnus, slapping my rump theatrically. “It is for our Lofðungr—I am merely tasked with her safe travel to where he awaits.”

  “Ah,” says Eric from somewhere way to my left. “And what a task it must be!”

  Magnus laughs, apparently agreeing, but adds, “Certainly I have had less pleasing orders from the prince and yet this one has an aptitude for defiance and disobedience.”

  In my peripheral vision I see the other man for the first time. He walks slowly around the back of Magnus to my bound body. Although I cannot make out his face, I can feel the weight of his stare drilling into me.

  “I am sure that you are more than capable of delivering the prince’s prize, my friend. He left some time ago for his pavilion—perhaps the ride there will help to quell her waywardness?”

  “Let’s hope so,” says Magnus, striking my upturned behind again. “For I am already weary of it!”

  I moan into my gag at the impact, feeling the dampness between my thighs. I cannot understand my own body’s reaction to my abduction. Why do I seem to be relishing this outrageous treatment so much? As I muse on my own responses, the sound of another person approaching draws my attention.

  “Your horse is fed and ready, my liege.”

  “Good,” says Magnus, striding onward again. “I will ride soon, but first I must take a drink before I leave—bring me a cup of mead, my good man!”

  “Yes, Magnus,” comes the reply as the servant scuttles away.

  He strides forward, before finally setting me back on my feet in front of him. Feeling a little queasy, I blink up at him as the blood rushes from my head. He removes his helmet, revealing a mane of light brown hair, and watches me as the smaller man returns, holding a large wooden cup.

  “Your mead, my liege,” he says, dipping his head slightly.

  As Magnus takes the cup, the young man’s eyes dart in my direction, eyeing the swell of my bosom beneath the thin fabric of Bowen’s old doublet. Seeing his interest, Magnus laughs before taking a long swig of the drink.

  “Thank you, boy—you may depart!”

  The younger man hesitates, but concedes as he slowly backs away. With the servant gone, Magnus’ attention returns to me.

  “How are you feeling, my pretty thing? A little less naughty, I wonder?”

  I eye him severely, sending him daggers with my scornful expression, but wisely choose not to try to answer from around the gag. Somehow the indignation serves only to amuse him further.

  “We still have some journey to reach my Lofðungr,” he says, taking another drink, “and since I do not trust you, you shall have to ride with me.”

  I listen to his words as I watch him drink. My head is still cloudy from my rather undignified transfer from the castle and somehow I can’t process the journey to which he speaks. Wherever his intended destination I have no desire to leave Donrose and yet I know any further resistance will no doubt be met with repercussions. I shift my weight awkwardly as I recall his threats earlier about stripping me and delivering me to the prince naked.

  “Are you going to behave?”

  His question cuts through my inner monologue. I nod, not wishing to aggravate him further if I am to be forced to travel onward with him from here.

  “Good,” he says, moving toward me with lightning speed.

  Instinctively I tense, all too aware that only hours earlier he would have happily slain me if not for the word of his prince. Now just a few inches away from me, he reaches his hand toward my face and pulls the material out of my mouth. I stare at him in shock as I feel the soggy fabric hanging limply at my neck.

  “There are several hours of riding to be done,” he says, taking my bound hands and forcing the wooden cup between them. “Take some fluid now whilst you can.”

  His instruction sounds rather more like an order than a suggestion, and so I raise my hands tentatively, gazing down into the murky liquid in the wood. Set against the backdrop of the light wood, the mead looks bronze in colour. I wave the wood under my nose, taking in the waft of alcohol and regretting it in an instant as my belly lurches at the prospect.

  “No, thank you,” I whisper, my eyes darting north to meet his.

  He smiles, moving just a fraction toward me and presses the wood up to my lips. “That was not a request,” he insists.

  I hesitate, still not wanting to drink the unappealing liquid and yet unwilling to provoke him for the time being. Ignoring my delay, Magnus tips the cup, sending the mead falling toward me. “Open,” he commands, eyeing me intently.

  Our eyes connect again and after a moment, I do as he asks, parting my lips and conceding as the fluid passes between them and into my throat. I drink a small amount, swallowing it fast so that I do not have to taste it. Despite my best efforts the flavour lingers in my mouth, coating the back of my throat in a bitter, earthy taste. I can’t hide my disgust as the trace of the drink lingers and Magnus laughs heartily at my expression.

  “Is our mead not to your liking?” he chuckles.

  I say nothing, swallowing hard to try to push away the hint of the mead altogether.

  “More,” he says, pushing the wood back toward my mouth.

  I shake my head more defiantly. “Please—no,” I say, imploring him with my eyes. “It makes me feel quite ill.”

  He watches me, still smiling before finally relenting and taking the wood from my grasping hands. “Well, we can’t have you unwell now, can we?”

  He finishes the mead with one large gulp and discards the wood over his shoulder. Regarding me one final time, Magnus reaches for my bound wrists and drags me forward toward a group of magnificent-looking horses away to our right.

  “Let us depart,” he says as we approach a brown steed, bridled and waiting. The animal turns and watches Magnus as we move closer, obviously excited by his presence.

  “This is Agneta,” he says, more to the horse than to me. “She will take us onward. You are an unexpected addition to her load, so any bad behaviour and I’ll have you trotting behind us.”

  He turns to me as he speaks, forcing me to look up into his eyes. “Do you understand?”

  I drink in his formidable gaze and understand all too well—he is attached to this mare and values her more highly than me.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  Magnus nods, believing that we have reached an accord, before he drops my wrists and turns, mounting his mare in another moment. For the time being his attention is lost on Agneta. He adjusts her bridle, lengthening the slack before petting the side of her face with genuine affection. I watch from the ground, suddenly aware that I am unsupervised for the first time in hours. My eyes dart around me, and I consider whether I could make a dash for it and where I could go. I realise with resignation that I am surrounded by these foreign Vikings, and with my wrists still bound I am vir
tually helpless. A dull stab of disappointment fills me as I accept that my fate is sealed. I am going to have to allow this man and his mare to take me from my homeland.

  “I assume you ride?” Magnus asks from above me.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  He leans toward me, reaching down one of his long, muscular arms. “Then foot in the stirrup and up you come,” he says.

  With a heavy heart I step forward, assessing the metal stirrup in front of me. I take his arm with both of my bound hands and slide my left foot inside it. Then using most of my remaining energy I push myself north. With his help I am forced in front of him on the large saddle, my bottom pulled into his groin and his open straddling legs. The exertion reawakens the pain in my left side, caused by my clash with Magnus earlier. I wince at the sudden hurt, drawing in air through my clenched teeth as he manoeuvres me on the saddle. All at once I find myself pressed right into his body, his two muscular arms circling my frame as he makes final adjustments to Agneta’s reins.

  “Keep your hands against the lip of the saddle,” he instructs me, the heat from his breath tickling the right side of my neck. “If you move them, I will tie you to Agneta’s harness.”

  I say nothing, but it appears my acknowledgement is not necessary. Magnus kicks my left foot from the stirrup, replacing it with his own and slides his left arm around the middle of me, like a steel chain. I realise that this arm is now the only thing keeping me in place on Agneta, and so despite my reluctance to be this close to him, I accept that I have little choice. Falling from a mare this size would have severe consequences, especially with my side already in some discomfort. His right hand seizes the reins in front of me and the horse moves off at an even pace.

  “Hold tight now,” he says from behind me as he taps Agneta. We move into a canter and then gradually our speed increases.

  With a heavy heart I watch the landscape of my home pass before my eyes. The woods of Donrose spread ahead of us and we’re soon riding fast into its shady confines. Agneta, now running at quite a pace, stays to the path and avoids the ancient roots of the trees with relative ease and yet I can’t help but imagine what would happen if she were to trip over such a hazard. I grip the leather of the saddle with my bound hands, knowing it would serve little purpose if we were thrown from the horse. As though he senses my anxiety, Magnus’ arm tightens at my waist and pulls me even closer into his body. The back of my doublet now sits directly against his groin and for the first time I am aware of the Viking’s excitement at my predicament.