KingOfNowhere
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"The King No More: A Viking Tale"
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KingOfNowhere
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Heading for Fredilig Gård
We are not writing this anymore.
We are not writing this anymore.
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CutiePie1997
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It was a beautiful, early autumn morning as Becca walked aimlessly through the marketplace. She stopped at stands selling dried fish, freshly cut meats, wild mushrooms, thick ales, woven clothes, leather goods, and more. The market here in Crîsten Heofon, or "Christian Village", wasn't nearly as large or accommodating as those back in Winchester, of course. But for a village of less than 100 people, it provided a great many products from both the farm, ranch, sea, river, and forest.
Becca received very respectful attention from the merchants, of course. She was the eldest daughter of Lord Marston of Ostend, who was this village's overlord. Lord Marston kept a small, stone house here, a structure that dated back to the original settlement of the area by Danish heathens. The story as Becca had learned it went something like this: that there had once been a thriving Christian village here; that the Vikings had invaded, raping the women, killing the men, and enslaving the children; that the few unfortunate souls who'd survived had been forced to labor in slavery on the land; and that after continuing their raids on the land day after day, year after year, the heathens had only left when the King of Wessex's army killed all the warriors in a great battle and exiled the women, children, elderly, and injured back across the sea.
She'd asked her father about the house's construction again and again, curious that it was different than anything else in the village. He'd finally sent his pesky inquisitor to an Elder, who supposedly had lived here in the village decades earlier. And this man had told her that the odd construction was a combination of traditional ideas from the heathen, primitive Viking masters and their more intelligent English slaves who had done all the work.
Becca didn't know that the truth she'd learned was entirely a fabrication. But that's what was in her mind when she heard a scream from the edge of the nearby woods and looked up to see villagers fleeing her way from the fields with Vikings following close in behind. Oh, Becca didn't immediately realize that they were Vikings. She'd never seen one, even though the raids of the English coastline had continued from Wessex to Northumbria. But she was from Winchester, where no Dane attack had ever occurred.
It didn't take a genius to know that the men -- and women? -- coming her way were murderous heathens, though. A pair of male villagers working near the straw piles rushed the invaders with pitch forks, only to be quickly dispatched in the most horrific way Becca had ever seen a man die.
"Find shelter! Find shelter!" she hollered to the people near her. She wanted to tell them to head for the woods or for the shore, but as she looked about herself, Becca thought she saw the attackers coming from every direction. All she could do was cry out again, "Find shelter, hurry! Run for your lives!"
Becca herself ran for her father's house, hoping that after reaching it she could hide in the earthen root cellar in the home's basement. She reached the house and cellar, and quickly arranged some teetering bales of wool such that when she closed the door, they fell across it, hiding it a bit and making it less obvious to the approaching Vikings.
Then, she just waited.
Becca received very respectful attention from the merchants, of course. She was the eldest daughter of Lord Marston of Ostend, who was this village's overlord. Lord Marston kept a small, stone house here, a structure that dated back to the original settlement of the area by Danish heathens. The story as Becca had learned it went something like this: that there had once been a thriving Christian village here; that the Vikings had invaded, raping the women, killing the men, and enslaving the children; that the few unfortunate souls who'd survived had been forced to labor in slavery on the land; and that after continuing their raids on the land day after day, year after year, the heathens had only left when the King of Wessex's army killed all the warriors in a great battle and exiled the women, children, elderly, and injured back across the sea.
She'd asked her father about the house's construction again and again, curious that it was different than anything else in the village. He'd finally sent his pesky inquisitor to an Elder, who supposedly had lived here in the village decades earlier. And this man had told her that the odd construction was a combination of traditional ideas from the heathen, primitive Viking masters and their more intelligent English slaves who had done all the work.
Becca didn't know that the truth she'd learned was entirely a fabrication. But that's what was in her mind when she heard a scream from the edge of the nearby woods and looked up to see villagers fleeing her way from the fields with Vikings following close in behind. Oh, Becca didn't immediately realize that they were Vikings. She'd never seen one, even though the raids of the English coastline had continued from Wessex to Northumbria. But she was from Winchester, where no Dane attack had ever occurred.
It didn't take a genius to know that the men -- and women? -- coming her way were murderous heathens, though. A pair of male villagers working near the straw piles rushed the invaders with pitch forks, only to be quickly dispatched in the most horrific way Becca had ever seen a man die.
"Find shelter! Find shelter!" she hollered to the people near her. She wanted to tell them to head for the woods or for the shore, but as she looked about herself, Becca thought she saw the attackers coming from every direction. All she could do was cry out again, "Find shelter, hurry! Run for your lives!"
Becca herself ran for her father's house, hoping that after reaching it she could hide in the earthen root cellar in the home's basement. She reached the house and cellar, and quickly arranged some teetering bales of wool such that when she closed the door, they fell across it, hiding it a bit and making it less obvious to the approaching Vikings.
Then, she just waited.
KingOfNowhere
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CutiePie1997
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Becca slapped her hand over the mouth of the child sitting with her in the root cellar. She'd found the three or four year old crying alone on the path near the house and had brought with her. Now, as the little girl continued to sob into her hand, Becca realized that her act of kindness may have been a fatal mistake. Amidst all the screaming and crying out beyond her stone home away from home, there was a new sound much closer. Footsteps. They sounded near, perhaps coming up the stone path passing alongside the home. Then, a noise that was frightening similar to a door creaking open. Then more heavy boot falls on the home's wooden plank floorboards. She'd hoped the toppled bales of wool would hide her location, but the sounds sneaking out from the frightened child were betraying her.
There was a ruckus outside the door, the bales being pushed aside. The door began jiggling and then flew open. And there was one of them was standing before Becca, sword drawn, blood on its blade, blood on the his clothes. Becca moved the crying child behind her and thrusted before her the dagger her tutor had taught her to use. It was a fourth the size of the man's weapon. But it was all she had and, honestly, it was all she knew how to use.
"Stay back, you heathen! Don't touch me!" Becca challenged. She continued, "I am the daughter of the Lord Marston of Ostend, Lord of these lands, first cousin to his grace, the King of Wessex, and niece to the King of Mercia. Touch me … lay a filthy hand upon me you … heathen … and the wrath of two kingdoms shall fall upon your head!"
Becca's rant might have been more convincing if the man before her spoke English. If she had had time to consider it, she would have doubted that the ignorant, illiterate, barbarian could understand a language of civilization. He did, of course, which (assuming he spoke to her at all) was going to surprise her to no end.
There was a ruckus outside the door, the bales being pushed aside. The door began jiggling and then flew open. And there was one of them was standing before Becca, sword drawn, blood on its blade, blood on the his clothes. Becca moved the crying child behind her and thrusted before her the dagger her tutor had taught her to use. It was a fourth the size of the man's weapon. But it was all she had and, honestly, it was all she knew how to use.
"Stay back, you heathen! Don't touch me!" Becca challenged. She continued, "I am the daughter of the Lord Marston of Ostend, Lord of these lands, first cousin to his grace, the King of Wessex, and niece to the King of Mercia. Touch me … lay a filthy hand upon me you … heathen … and the wrath of two kingdoms shall fall upon your head!"
Becca's rant might have been more convincing if the man before her spoke English. If she had had time to consider it, she would have doubted that the ignorant, illiterate, barbarian could understand a language of civilization. He did, of course, which (assuming he spoke to her at all) was going to surprise her to no end.
CutiePie1997
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She been given the name Ming-yue upon her birth aboard a Chinese Junk as it sailed through the Riau Archipelago. Her father had been an At-Large Ambassador of the Tang Dynasty, not unlike her new master's friend, Ahmed, had been for whatever Arabian Peninsula dynasty he'd come from. Her father had been traveling south and then west through vast bodies or water and narrow passageways that more often than not didn't even have names. They would one day, of course: the Yellow Sea, the China Sea, the Taiwan Strait, the Qiongzhou Strait, the Gulf of Thailand, the Malacca Strait, the Andaman Sea, and the Bay of Bengal.
Their ship had been set upon by pirates in what would one day be called the Palk Strait, off the northern coast of Sarandīb, or "serendipity". That island would one day also have a new name: Ceylon, and then Sri Lanka. Ming-yue's family and escorts were killed or enslaved. She and three other little girls were separated from the others and sold as a batch. Eventually, they would even be separated from one another, sold once more.
Ming-yue had been 6 years old at the time.
Her first captor was mean, but the man to whom he sold her was kind. He called her China Doll, which ultimately became only China. He, like Ahmed, had come from Arabia. China had been learning his language. She'd concluded that she was to become an honored servant to one of his many wives. But that never happened. She was with him for four years, making an unhurried return to his homeland, when his ship like China's father's vessel had been set upon by pirates in what was already known as the Arabian sea.
China was now 11 years old and once gain on her way to an auction house.
She was sold to a woman who would take her to a magnificent city called Jerusalem. That woman would die of disease, though, and China would be sold again. Her new master was a pilgrim who took her to an equally magnificent city called Rome. But upheaval, civil war, and invasions would see China taken hostage in the middle of the night. Her captors took her north and then west, into a land called Francia. There, China -- now 14 years old --would find herself cursing her body, for her new master planned on making her his bedroom play thing as soon as her body betrayed her with that bloody sign that she'd entered womanhood.
But good fortune would smile on her for the next three years. Her master's daughter, of all people, helped hide the arrival of China's menstruation for almost a year. Then, her master went off to war and returned with an injury that prevented him from becoming aroused. He'd planned on selling the still-pure gold mine of a girl, but his wife and daughter had prevented it, protecting China with literal threats that their patriarch not awaking the morning after the girl from the East was shipped out. In addition, the two women had forced China's master to give her indentured servant status, as opposed to outright slavery.
China -- now just weeks from turning 18 -- began to believe that she just might live a somewhat normal life after all. And then came the Northmen! The Vikings raided the countryside and town, and China was kidnapped and taken away for yet a third time. She'd been in a small village on the Danish coast for a month when yet a second force of Northmen attacked the first force, slaughtering nearly every one. And for a fourth time...
And now she found herself a slave again, in a land called England. China had begun her life over from scratch so often, and now she feared she would have to do it again. But there was a candle burning in the night this time around. One of the Vikings wasn't a Viking at all. He wasn't a Dane; he was an Arab. China had seen the way he dressed, and although he spike the language of her captors, she had also heard him speak some words of her first real master's language. She had tried to gain his attention and speak to him, but he'd been on a separate boat for the crossing of the sea. When they'd landed here, she'd been shackled to a tree too far from him. And now that she was finally allowed up and about to perform work, he was no longer here. China hoped desperately that he would return soon. She couldn't bear having to reinvent herself yet again.
Their ship had been set upon by pirates in what would one day be called the Palk Strait, off the northern coast of Sarandīb, or "serendipity". That island would one day also have a new name: Ceylon, and then Sri Lanka. Ming-yue's family and escorts were killed or enslaved. She and three other little girls were separated from the others and sold as a batch. Eventually, they would even be separated from one another, sold once more.
Ming-yue had been 6 years old at the time.
Her first captor was mean, but the man to whom he sold her was kind. He called her China Doll, which ultimately became only China. He, like Ahmed, had come from Arabia. China had been learning his language. She'd concluded that she was to become an honored servant to one of his many wives. But that never happened. She was with him for four years, making an unhurried return to his homeland, when his ship like China's father's vessel had been set upon by pirates in what was already known as the Arabian sea.
China was now 11 years old and once gain on her way to an auction house.
She was sold to a woman who would take her to a magnificent city called Jerusalem. That woman would die of disease, though, and China would be sold again. Her new master was a pilgrim who took her to an equally magnificent city called Rome. But upheaval, civil war, and invasions would see China taken hostage in the middle of the night. Her captors took her north and then west, into a land called Francia. There, China -- now 14 years old --would find herself cursing her body, for her new master planned on making her his bedroom play thing as soon as her body betrayed her with that bloody sign that she'd entered womanhood.
But good fortune would smile on her for the next three years. Her master's daughter, of all people, helped hide the arrival of China's menstruation for almost a year. Then, her master went off to war and returned with an injury that prevented him from becoming aroused. He'd planned on selling the still-pure gold mine of a girl, but his wife and daughter had prevented it, protecting China with literal threats that their patriarch not awaking the morning after the girl from the East was shipped out. In addition, the two women had forced China's master to give her indentured servant status, as opposed to outright slavery.
China -- now just weeks from turning 18 -- began to believe that she just might live a somewhat normal life after all. And then came the Northmen! The Vikings raided the countryside and town, and China was kidnapped and taken away for yet a third time. She'd been in a small village on the Danish coast for a month when yet a second force of Northmen attacked the first force, slaughtering nearly every one. And for a fourth time...
And now she found herself a slave again, in a land called England. China had begun her life over from scratch so often, and now she feared she would have to do it again. But there was a candle burning in the night this time around. One of the Vikings wasn't a Viking at all. He wasn't a Dane; he was an Arab. China had seen the way he dressed, and although he spike the language of her captors, she had also heard him speak some words of her first real master's language. She had tried to gain his attention and speak to him, but he'd been on a separate boat for the crossing of the sea. When they'd landed here, she'd been shackled to a tree too far from him. And now that she was finally allowed up and about to perform work, he was no longer here. China hoped desperately that he would return soon. She couldn't bear having to reinvent herself yet again.
KingOfNowhere
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CutiePie1997
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(Oh! I like the way you used quotes to show my previous dialogue. I'm going to do that, too.)
Becca's eyes widened a bit in surprise. He was speaking her language. Perhaps these weren't Northmen at all. Perhaps they were some other barbaric heathens. Could they be from her own land? The Scots, the Welsh, the tribes Strathclyde? Becca had seen and sometimes met men and women from these areas, traders or even battle field prisoners. She had heard them speak her language. But she'd always been told that it was a foreign language to them. They'd learned it to conduct trade with her own countrymen or converse with spies.
Becca found herself unsure of what to do as the man moved into the root cellar to retrieve her. She shook the knife before her, as if to slice him. But he only snatched her wrist, disarmed her, and practically hurled her out the door. She struggled as best she could, but she simply was no match for this man. She kicked and screamed and even tried to bite his ear off once when his head got to near. She'd gotten a mouthful of dirty, salt-tasting hair for her trouble. In no time at all, she was trussed up like a deer about to be slaughtered.
When he warned her about the girl, Becca begged the little one to be quiet. She reassured her all was well. It wasn't, of course. But Becca had little doubt that the invader would kill the little girl and then deflower her. Oh, how tragic that would be. She'd been betrothed for three years now to a man for whom she felt far more lust than her father would have liked. On several occasions, their passionate kisses and sinful groping had nearly led to them ripping off their clothes and committing a beautiful sin. But, Becca had managed to resist, saving herself for that blessed bridal night. And it had all been for naught as she was about to feel this horrific human being slamming and emptying his manhood deep inside her.
And yet, somehow, Becca couldn't help but wonder whether she would enjoy the rape as much as the heathen did.
The man ripped through the home, filling a deer skin bag with anything and everything of value. Then a second man arrived. He was very different from the first. It took Becca a moment to place his clothing and his appearance. She'd seen in Winchester such ambassadors and traders, from a land on the other side of the world, from beyond Rome and from beyond even the Holy Land. He made a gesture with his hands, combined with a slight bow. It would have made her giggle if she hadn't been trussed up to a pole, about to be raped. She didn't understand his first words, but the next ones she understood very well.
Becca looked to the first invader as he laughed. King? He didn't look like any King she'd ever seen. Of course, she'd only seen English Kings before, those of Wessex, Mercia, and Northumbria. The Eastern World raider spoke in a foreign tongue to his King and received a response in the same language that used a word Becca had heard before: Arab. The two men looked to her and the blonde invader said in English...
Becca opened her mouth to object to being said she was for anyone! But the two men were talking back and forth again. They used English, and they spoke of slave girls and ownership of such. And witchcraft! Becca's mouth was hanging open in shock. The Arab departed, carrying the bag of pilfered goods with him. The first man took a position against a table before her. He looked at her with hungry eyes.
Becca had heard that name before, of course. It was the name of the Viking village that had predated Crîsten Heofon. Suddenly, she found herself untied and being led forcibly out onto the path. The Viking told her...
"You were born here?" Becca asked with obvious surprise. "You were born in Crîsten Heofon. I mean, Fredi-- Fredilia--"
She looked to him for help with the name, unsure of whether or not she'd get it. She went on, "Why have you returned? Are you here to rape and kill and burn again, as you did the first time you came here? Have you no decency? Have you no God?"
If he spoke on the topics of destruction she'd mentioned, Becca wouldn't hesitate to speak on the lessons she'd learned regarding the Vikings. And if he responded with the truth as he knew it, which of course was the truth, Becca wouldn't for a moment believe him and would argue the facts.
"Please, don't rape me," she pleaded as he manhandled her off toward the village's center. She struggled to look back to the house. The little girl had followed them to the door, then to the path. "Come with me! Follow and stay close!"
Becca's eyes widened a bit in surprise. He was speaking her language. Perhaps these weren't Northmen at all. Perhaps they were some other barbaric heathens. Could they be from her own land? The Scots, the Welsh, the tribes Strathclyde? Becca had seen and sometimes met men and women from these areas, traders or even battle field prisoners. She had heard them speak her language. But she'd always been told that it was a foreign language to them. They'd learned it to conduct trade with her own countrymen or converse with spies.
Becca found herself unsure of what to do as the man moved into the root cellar to retrieve her. She shook the knife before her, as if to slice him. But he only snatched her wrist, disarmed her, and practically hurled her out the door. She struggled as best she could, but she simply was no match for this man. She kicked and screamed and even tried to bite his ear off once when his head got to near. She'd gotten a mouthful of dirty, salt-tasting hair for her trouble. In no time at all, she was trussed up like a deer about to be slaughtered.
When he warned her about the girl, Becca begged the little one to be quiet. She reassured her all was well. It wasn't, of course. But Becca had little doubt that the invader would kill the little girl and then deflower her. Oh, how tragic that would be. She'd been betrothed for three years now to a man for whom she felt far more lust than her father would have liked. On several occasions, their passionate kisses and sinful groping had nearly led to them ripping off their clothes and committing a beautiful sin. But, Becca had managed to resist, saving herself for that blessed bridal night. And it had all been for naught as she was about to feel this horrific human being slamming and emptying his manhood deep inside her.
And yet, somehow, Becca couldn't help but wonder whether she would enjoy the rape as much as the heathen did.
The man ripped through the home, filling a deer skin bag with anything and everything of value. Then a second man arrived. He was very different from the first. It took Becca a moment to place his clothing and his appearance. She'd seen in Winchester such ambassadors and traders, from a land on the other side of the world, from beyond Rome and from beyond even the Holy Land. He made a gesture with his hands, combined with a slight bow. It would have made her giggle if she hadn't been trussed up to a pole, about to be raped. She didn't understand his first words, but the next ones she understood very well.
Becca looked to the first invader as he laughed. King? He didn't look like any King she'd ever seen. Of course, she'd only seen English Kings before, those of Wessex, Mercia, and Northumbria. The Eastern World raider spoke in a foreign tongue to his King and received a response in the same language that used a word Becca had heard before: Arab. The two men looked to her and the blonde invader said in English...
Becca opened her mouth to object to being said she was for anyone! But the two men were talking back and forth again. They used English, and they spoke of slave girls and ownership of such. And witchcraft! Becca's mouth was hanging open in shock. The Arab departed, carrying the bag of pilfered goods with him. The first man took a position against a table before her. He looked at her with hungry eyes.
Becca had heard that name before, of course. It was the name of the Viking village that had predated Crîsten Heofon. Suddenly, she found herself untied and being led forcibly out onto the path. The Viking told her...
"You were born here?" Becca asked with obvious surprise. "You were born in Crîsten Heofon. I mean, Fredi-- Fredilia--"
She looked to him for help with the name, unsure of whether or not she'd get it. She went on, "Why have you returned? Are you here to rape and kill and burn again, as you did the first time you came here? Have you no decency? Have you no God?"
If he spoke on the topics of destruction she'd mentioned, Becca wouldn't hesitate to speak on the lessons she'd learned regarding the Vikings. And if he responded with the truth as he knew it, which of course was the truth, Becca wouldn't for a moment believe him and would argue the facts.
"Please, don't rape me," she pleaded as he manhandled her off toward the village's center. She struggled to look back to the house. The little girl had followed them to the door, then to the path. "Come with me! Follow and stay close!"
KingOfNowhere
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CutiePie1997
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Becca was getting tired of being manhandled. And the ropes hurt her wrists. And the barbarian smelled, of sweat, sea, and now blood. But she was too frightened to do anything other than groan and grunt at his rough behavior. She was listening to all he had to say. Fredilig Gård … Peaceful Farm. Even though she'd recognized the name, Becca had never known what the words meant. She didn't like what he had to say about her people at all! The English would never have simply wiped out a village of supposedly peaceful people, would they? Becca was thankful to hear from the man that he wasn't going to rape her. She didn't know if she believed him, but, at least he'd said it.
Again, she was being manhandled. But Becca's face revealed a bit of her surprise and confusion when the man showed her a carving on the oven's stones and the matching carving on the rock about his name. He was certainly from Crîsten Heofon. Or, Fredilig Gård, she corrected in her mind. But, as he was thinking himself, that didn't mean that his people hadn't been the ruthless instigators of murder and destruction. Becca needed more proof than that. She needed to speak with her father.
The brute was leading her away again, this time into the Chapel. It hadn't originally been built to be a Chapel. It was supposed to be the new Lord's Manor. But there had been some sort of falling out between the Church in Winchester and the builders here in Christian Village. The money to build the real Chapel had been cut off. And Becca's father had had to move into the stone house that, ironically, had once been this very heathen's childhood home.
Becca searched the crowd for her father. She'd assumed he would be here, with his people. She suddenly feared that he'd been killed in the attack. The heathens had murdered her father! Becca's fears only got more blackened when the Viking repeated his question and people began looking to her.
"She is," one of them said with a meek voice.
"My father is the overlord of this village," Becca repeated to man. She looked to the villagers and asked in a rising panic, "Where is my father? Where is your Lord? Has he been killed?"
"He is gone, my lady."
"Killed...?" she asked again, desperate for an answer.
"No, my lady," one villager answered, with a second clarifying, "He had fled, my lady."
Becca went silent. A confused expression filled her face. "What do you mean he fled?"
"My Lord had fled, my lady."
Becca couldn't believe what she was hearing. Four or five villagers confirmed one another's stories. Her father had mounted a horse and, with a two guard escort, fled for the deep woods. How could he do this to me? she wondered in shock. How could he just abandon me to these … these … heathens!
The Viking asked her to clear the air about her father and who was in charge. Becca turned to him, wrestling her wrists from his grasp with an annoyed expression. She took a couple of steadying breaths. "As I told you earlier … my name is Becca … daughter of Lord Marston of Ostend ... Lord of these lands, first cousin to his grace, the King of Wessex, and niece to the King of Mercia."
She thought about it for a moment. Her claim could have been misconstrued. She clarified, "My father is first cousin to his grace, the King of Wessex. I am his cousin once removed. And my father is obviously not the niece of the King of Mercia … I am the niece of the King of Mercia. He, the King … of Mercia, not Wessex, if my sister's-- no, my mother's brother."
Becca wasn't sure whether or not she'd cleared any of that up. But it really wasn't the most important thing on her mind. What was filling her thoughts was that her father had left her behind and fled to save his own ass.
"Please, do not harm my people anymore than you already have," Becca pleaded with the man. She suddenly recalled what he'd said in the stone house. "Rolf, right? King Rolf. Please … do not harm these people … my people, apparently. They are innocent and not responsible for anything that might have happened to your own people so many years ago. Please … take whatever it is that you came for and leave. We will not resist you."
Becca suddenly realized that what they'd come here for might be a who: slaves. But she'd already said it, and they would simply have to see what the Vikings did next.
Again, she was being manhandled. But Becca's face revealed a bit of her surprise and confusion when the man showed her a carving on the oven's stones and the matching carving on the rock about his name. He was certainly from Crîsten Heofon. Or, Fredilig Gård, she corrected in her mind. But, as he was thinking himself, that didn't mean that his people hadn't been the ruthless instigators of murder and destruction. Becca needed more proof than that. She needed to speak with her father.
The brute was leading her away again, this time into the Chapel. It hadn't originally been built to be a Chapel. It was supposed to be the new Lord's Manor. But there had been some sort of falling out between the Church in Winchester and the builders here in Christian Village. The money to build the real Chapel had been cut off. And Becca's father had had to move into the stone house that, ironically, had once been this very heathen's childhood home.
Becca searched the crowd for her father. She'd assumed he would be here, with his people. She suddenly feared that he'd been killed in the attack. The heathens had murdered her father! Becca's fears only got more blackened when the Viking repeated his question and people began looking to her.
"She is," one of them said with a meek voice.
"My father is the overlord of this village," Becca repeated to man. She looked to the villagers and asked in a rising panic, "Where is my father? Where is your Lord? Has he been killed?"
"He is gone, my lady."
"Killed...?" she asked again, desperate for an answer.
"No, my lady," one villager answered, with a second clarifying, "He had fled, my lady."
Becca went silent. A confused expression filled her face. "What do you mean he fled?"
"My Lord had fled, my lady."
Becca couldn't believe what she was hearing. Four or five villagers confirmed one another's stories. Her father had mounted a horse and, with a two guard escort, fled for the deep woods. How could he do this to me? she wondered in shock. How could he just abandon me to these … these … heathens!
The Viking asked her to clear the air about her father and who was in charge. Becca turned to him, wrestling her wrists from his grasp with an annoyed expression. She took a couple of steadying breaths. "As I told you earlier … my name is Becca … daughter of Lord Marston of Ostend ... Lord of these lands, first cousin to his grace, the King of Wessex, and niece to the King of Mercia."
She thought about it for a moment. Her claim could have been misconstrued. She clarified, "My father is first cousin to his grace, the King of Wessex. I am his cousin once removed. And my father is obviously not the niece of the King of Mercia … I am the niece of the King of Mercia. He, the King … of Mercia, not Wessex, if my sister's-- no, my mother's brother."
Becca wasn't sure whether or not she'd cleared any of that up. But it really wasn't the most important thing on her mind. What was filling her thoughts was that her father had left her behind and fled to save his own ass.
"Please, do not harm my people anymore than you already have," Becca pleaded with the man. She suddenly recalled what he'd said in the stone house. "Rolf, right? King Rolf. Please … do not harm these people … my people, apparently. They are innocent and not responsible for anything that might have happened to your own people so many years ago. Please … take whatever it is that you came for and leave. We will not resist you."
Becca suddenly realized that what they'd come here for might be a who: slaves. But she'd already said it, and they would simply have to see what the Vikings did next.
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Becca's eyes widened a bit at the suggestion. "Staying...? For how long?"
Almost before Rolf continued, she knew the answer: forever.
She just stared at him in silence for a long moment. Then she looked about the English sitting on the floor. "And what will happen with these fine Christians … King Rolf? What will happen to them? Will you kill them all? Will you banish them? Crîsten Heofon … what you call Fredilig Gård … is their home?"
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Shanna was one of those Crîsten Heofon villagers about whom Lady Becca was speaking. She was huddled in the far corner of the Chapel trying desperately to appear inconspicuous. She knew what men could be like. She knew what they could do to a young, pretty woman for whom they had no care or concern. If she was raped today by these heathens, it wouldn't be the first time she'd been violated.
But she understood what was going on here better than did Lady Becca. She knew the history of Fredilig Gård better than most of the other villagers. Shanna's grandparents had been trading partners with the Danes of the village they knew by its English name, Peaceful Farm. Her grandfather had been a farmer who'd traded grain to the Danes for goats and fish. Her grandmother had traded cooking and baking secrets with several Danish women and, with other English, had come to the village's rescue when a strange illness surged through it, incapacitating nearly half the population for days, in some cases weeks, and ultimately killing 22 people.
That proximity to the people of Fredilig Gård became far more intimate when you considered the generation between Shanna and her grandparents, though. Shanna's father had fallen in love with a Danish maiden and had conceived a child with her: Shanna. As close as her grandparents were to the Danes, though, they weren't close enough to accept a Viking daughter-in-law or grandchild into their lives. So rather than bring his soon-to-be wife and child into his parent's world, Shanna's father instead left their home and went to live in his wife's world. He had it rough at first, still following his Christian ways in private while participating in his wife's religion publicly. But he was making it work.
Then, four years later, Fredilig Gård was set upon by the new King's army and destroyed. Shanna's father was spared, being a Christian. Shanna had survived the attack as well, but her mother had taken up arms against the invading English and been killed. Under the circumstances, Shanna's grandfather accepted her and his son back into his home. The Spring after the attack, the overlord of the lands, Lord Marston of Ostend (Becca's father) unveiled plans to resettle Peaceful Farm as Christian Village. Shanna's father, by then remarried to a widowed mother of two, was one of the first to return to the new Crîsten Heofon. He returned to farming, and the now Christian-educated Shanna was back home where he felt she belonged.
And now the Vikings were back. Her mother's people were back.
And Shanna, who had been raised with the full knowledge of her past, found herself scared … and excited.
But she understood what was going on here better than did Lady Becca. She knew the history of Fredilig Gård better than most of the other villagers. Shanna's grandparents had been trading partners with the Danes of the village they knew by its English name, Peaceful Farm. Her grandfather had been a farmer who'd traded grain to the Danes for goats and fish. Her grandmother had traded cooking and baking secrets with several Danish women and, with other English, had come to the village's rescue when a strange illness surged through it, incapacitating nearly half the population for days, in some cases weeks, and ultimately killing 22 people.
That proximity to the people of Fredilig Gård became far more intimate when you considered the generation between Shanna and her grandparents, though. Shanna's father had fallen in love with a Danish maiden and had conceived a child with her: Shanna. As close as her grandparents were to the Danes, though, they weren't close enough to accept a Viking daughter-in-law or grandchild into their lives. So rather than bring his soon-to-be wife and child into his parent's world, Shanna's father instead left their home and went to live in his wife's world. He had it rough at first, still following his Christian ways in private while participating in his wife's religion publicly. But he was making it work.
Then, four years later, Fredilig Gård was set upon by the new King's army and destroyed. Shanna's father was spared, being a Christian. Shanna had survived the attack as well, but her mother had taken up arms against the invading English and been killed. Under the circumstances, Shanna's grandfather accepted her and his son back into his home. The Spring after the attack, the overlord of the lands, Lord Marston of Ostend (Becca's father) unveiled plans to resettle Peaceful Farm as Christian Village. Shanna's father, by then remarried to a widowed mother of two, was one of the first to return to the new Crîsten Heofon. He returned to farming, and the now Christian-educated Shanna was back home where he felt she belonged.
And now the Vikings were back. Her mother's people were back.
And Shanna, who had been raised with the full knowledge of her past, found herself scared … and excited.
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Becca
Becca couldn't help but notice when one of Rolf's men questioned his call to let the English remain. Had he not discussed this with them already? Or had he changed his mind? She simply couldn't know. She was happy that the current residents could remain. But there was still that little issue of Christians and Pagans, English and Danish, living in the same little village together.
Could Crîsten Heofon and Fredilig Gård exist at the same time in the same place?
Becca found herself glaring at the man. She feared he would be chastised, or struck, or even killed for his outburst. She tried to intercede with a softly spoken, "Please...!"
But then Rolf pulled out coins and began to talk of compensation. The man who'd spoken out, as well as others, looked to Becca. I'm not in charge, she wanted to tell them. My father is your Lord. But, hadn't Becca's father abandoned his role as overlord by fleeing with his tail between his legs? Fleeing without his daughter!
Becca looked to the pouch before him. It wasn't a large purse. But if it was filled with more of the gold coins he'd already withdrawn, it was still a relatively rich purse. If its contents were as Becca hoped, it was worth more than this entire village's productive value for a year. What she couldn't do with such wealth! Oh, it didn't compare with her father's wealth, of course. But then, he was a Lord with Royal ties. And as she had an older brother who would inherit all her father owned upon the latter's death, what this Viking was holding in his hands was more gold than she could ever hope to have to herself.
But then again, it wasn't meant to be her gold, was it?
Becca's eyes widened with even more surprise. The English were looking to her for guidance. She was just a young woman, not even yet 20. She was the daughter of their overlord, but still. And now this Viking King was putting the decision in her hands as well. It was almost too much to contemplate. As the looked between Rolf, the purse, and the villagers, questions were raised about their religion and its furtherance. Rolf reassured them...
Can he mean that? Becca wondered. The two religions (if you could call Paganism a religion, she had often thought even before today) had never coexisted in close proximity. But maybe. Then Rolf shocked Becca even more than he had thus far.
Becca could literally feel the blood rushing from her face. "Stay here? For … how long? As … as a hostage?"
She knew very well that this was the way many adversaries negotiated. History was full of tales about Kings and Queens and high ranking Nobles sending their loved ones or chief advisors to the enemy camp while negotiations were held. She asked how long she would have to remain here. The Viking's response was vague.
"How will I be treated?" she asked with a challenging tone. "I won't be kept in a cell. I won't have … men watching over me all hours of the day."
She hesitated a moment. In barely over a whisper, she asked, "Will you promise that my virtue is protected. Will you promise me that, King Rolf?"
Shanna
Shanna couldn't help but smile at the Dane's commitment to letting her and her people remain in Crîsten Heofon. Like many, she couldn't imagine having to uproot their lives and move away. They would leave with nothing to their names other than the clothes on their backs.
In contrast to Becca, Shanna understood what the Dane was saying in his own tongue. Secretly, without even her grandparents knowing, Shanna's father had taught her the Danish that he'd learned from his wife. Her father had been nearly fluent before her mother's death. And Shanna was nearly as fluent as he. She listened to the rest of the conversation between Rolf and Becca. She craned to hear what her Lady was whispering as well but failed.
"I'll stay!
Rolf, Becca, and most of the others turned at Shanna's pronouncement. She stood slowly to her feet, careful not to alarm the nearest armed Viking. She repeated, "I'll stay."
In rapid succession, others began either saying that they, too, would stay. Still others tried to talk them out of it. Shanna saw members of the same family on opposite sides.
"I would like to stay, my lady," Shanna said speaking over the din directly to Becca. "But I, like the--"
She wasn't sure how to address the man. Luckily for her, one of the warriors informed her, "King Rolf."
Shanna nodded respectfully to both of the men. Then, slowly, cautiously, Shanna began stepping her way through the crowded villagers. "Like you, King Rolf … I have a condition. My father died last year of the flu. My mother … my step mother … inherited the family farm and remarried--"
A woman sitting near the edge of the cluster of villagers growled, "Sit down and shut up, you impudent waif."
Shanna only glared at her step-mother. She continued as she looked back to Rolf, "And now my step father owns our land and animals and all my true father worked so hard to build--"
Her step mother again warned her to sit. But Shanna only glared at her and continued, "--and then forces himself between my thighs because my step-mother cannot fulfill his needs!"
Shanna stared the woman down, then looked back to Rolf and Becca. Her heart was pounding with fury. As she continued, Shanna began lifting her dress upwards with one hand. She revealed her dirty boot, then a bare calf, a knee, and finally some thigh. Near her, eyes began to widen at the lurid display.
"I will stay, my King, but I ask of you--" Her tone took on a bit of a desperate tone. "No! I beg of you … træne mig til at være en Skjoldmø, min konge."
Shanna watched Rolf's reaction to her speaking nearly perfect Danish. She wasn't entirely certain she'd made her request correctly. And she wanted Becca and the others to know what she'd said, too. Shanna repeated in English, Train me to be a shieldmaiden, my King."
Still moving cautiously, Shanna pulled a throwing dagger from a sheath strapped to her thigh. She'd begun wearing it after the last time she'd been raped. It had turned out to be a wise choice. She'd been attacked by a man from the village while foraging for mushrooms in the woods. Shanna had gotten the blade out just before he penetrated her and stabbed him in the groin. He'd bled out there in the undergrowth. She'd buried him in a shallow grave atop of which she pushed a rotten old log. The other villagers had barely even noticed the degenerate's absence.
Shanna was very aware of the blades and axes ready to cut her up if she threated the King. She flipped the dagger over in her hand to hold it by the blade. Then raising her hand, she threw it through the air. It made a solid thunk as the tip sunk into a wood support of the home.
"I wish to be a shieldmaiden, my King," she said, letting her dress fall again to hide her bare leg. "As was my mother … Lagga … daughter of Bjorn of Rithik … son of Viik of Rithik..."
Shanna smiled broader as she threw out what she was sure would change her life forever, "...son of Enrik the Mad … King of the Eastern Isles."
Becca couldn't help but notice when one of Rolf's men questioned his call to let the English remain. Had he not discussed this with them already? Or had he changed his mind? She simply couldn't know. She was happy that the current residents could remain. But there was still that little issue of Christians and Pagans, English and Danish, living in the same little village together.
Could Crîsten Heofon and Fredilig Gård exist at the same time in the same place?
Becca found herself glaring at the man. She feared he would be chastised, or struck, or even killed for his outburst. She tried to intercede with a softly spoken, "Please...!"
But then Rolf pulled out coins and began to talk of compensation. The man who'd spoken out, as well as others, looked to Becca. I'm not in charge, she wanted to tell them. My father is your Lord. But, hadn't Becca's father abandoned his role as overlord by fleeing with his tail between his legs? Fleeing without his daughter!
Becca looked to the pouch before him. It wasn't a large purse. But if it was filled with more of the gold coins he'd already withdrawn, it was still a relatively rich purse. If its contents were as Becca hoped, it was worth more than this entire village's productive value for a year. What she couldn't do with such wealth! Oh, it didn't compare with her father's wealth, of course. But then, he was a Lord with Royal ties. And as she had an older brother who would inherit all her father owned upon the latter's death, what this Viking was holding in his hands was more gold than she could ever hope to have to herself.
But then again, it wasn't meant to be her gold, was it?
Becca's eyes widened with even more surprise. The English were looking to her for guidance. She was just a young woman, not even yet 20. She was the daughter of their overlord, but still. And now this Viking King was putting the decision in her hands as well. It was almost too much to contemplate. As the looked between Rolf, the purse, and the villagers, questions were raised about their religion and its furtherance. Rolf reassured them...
Can he mean that? Becca wondered. The two religions (if you could call Paganism a religion, she had often thought even before today) had never coexisted in close proximity. But maybe. Then Rolf shocked Becca even more than he had thus far.
Becca could literally feel the blood rushing from her face. "Stay here? For … how long? As … as a hostage?"
She knew very well that this was the way many adversaries negotiated. History was full of tales about Kings and Queens and high ranking Nobles sending their loved ones or chief advisors to the enemy camp while negotiations were held. She asked how long she would have to remain here. The Viking's response was vague.
"How will I be treated?" she asked with a challenging tone. "I won't be kept in a cell. I won't have … men watching over me all hours of the day."
She hesitated a moment. In barely over a whisper, she asked, "Will you promise that my virtue is protected. Will you promise me that, King Rolf?"
[][][][][][][][][][][][]
Shanna
Shanna couldn't help but smile at the Dane's commitment to letting her and her people remain in Crîsten Heofon. Like many, she couldn't imagine having to uproot their lives and move away. They would leave with nothing to their names other than the clothes on their backs.
In contrast to Becca, Shanna understood what the Dane was saying in his own tongue. Secretly, without even her grandparents knowing, Shanna's father had taught her the Danish that he'd learned from his wife. Her father had been nearly fluent before her mother's death. And Shanna was nearly as fluent as he. She listened to the rest of the conversation between Rolf and Becca. She craned to hear what her Lady was whispering as well but failed.
"I'll stay!
Rolf, Becca, and most of the others turned at Shanna's pronouncement. She stood slowly to her feet, careful not to alarm the nearest armed Viking. She repeated, "I'll stay."
In rapid succession, others began either saying that they, too, would stay. Still others tried to talk them out of it. Shanna saw members of the same family on opposite sides.
"I would like to stay, my lady," Shanna said speaking over the din directly to Becca. "But I, like the--"
She wasn't sure how to address the man. Luckily for her, one of the warriors informed her, "King Rolf."
Shanna nodded respectfully to both of the men. Then, slowly, cautiously, Shanna began stepping her way through the crowded villagers. "Like you, King Rolf … I have a condition. My father died last year of the flu. My mother … my step mother … inherited the family farm and remarried--"
A woman sitting near the edge of the cluster of villagers growled, "Sit down and shut up, you impudent waif."
Shanna only glared at her step-mother. She continued as she looked back to Rolf, "And now my step father owns our land and animals and all my true father worked so hard to build--"
Her step mother again warned her to sit. But Shanna only glared at her and continued, "--and then forces himself between my thighs because my step-mother cannot fulfill his needs!"
Shanna stared the woman down, then looked back to Rolf and Becca. Her heart was pounding with fury. As she continued, Shanna began lifting her dress upwards with one hand. She revealed her dirty boot, then a bare calf, a knee, and finally some thigh. Near her, eyes began to widen at the lurid display.
"I will stay, my King, but I ask of you--" Her tone took on a bit of a desperate tone. "No! I beg of you … træne mig til at være en Skjoldmø, min konge."
Shanna watched Rolf's reaction to her speaking nearly perfect Danish. She wasn't entirely certain she'd made her request correctly. And she wanted Becca and the others to know what she'd said, too. Shanna repeated in English, Train me to be a shieldmaiden, my King."
Still moving cautiously, Shanna pulled a throwing dagger from a sheath strapped to her thigh. She'd begun wearing it after the last time she'd been raped. It had turned out to be a wise choice. She'd been attacked by a man from the village while foraging for mushrooms in the woods. Shanna had gotten the blade out just before he penetrated her and stabbed him in the groin. He'd bled out there in the undergrowth. She'd buried him in a shallow grave atop of which she pushed a rotten old log. The other villagers had barely even noticed the degenerate's absence.
Shanna was very aware of the blades and axes ready to cut her up if she threated the King. She flipped the dagger over in her hand to hold it by the blade. Then raising her hand, she threw it through the air. It made a solid thunk as the tip sunk into a wood support of the home.
"I wish to be a shieldmaiden, my King," she said, letting her dress fall again to hide her bare leg. "As was my mother … Lagga … daughter of Bjorn of Rithik … son of Viik of Rithik..."
Shanna smiled broader as she threw out what she was sure would change her life forever, "...son of Enrik the Mad … King of the Eastern Isles."
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In response to what her status would be, Becca was told by Rolf...
She wasn't sure how to respond. Becca would have assumed Rolf would take the stone house. It was old and drafty and falling apart in places. But it was still the only all stone-walled structure in the village. The villagers called it the Lord's Manor, though, sometimes Becca thought that was more tongue-in-cheek than honored reverence.
Plus, it was the home in which Rolf had been raised.
Regarding the future of her virtue, Rolf assured her that she would never have to fear either him or one of his men. She found that comforting. Yet she was already telling herself that she wouldn't let herself be found alone in the dark or even in an isolated location alone during the daylight. She'd heard too many stories about the heathen Vikings and their lust for young women to simply take Rolf at his word.
The woman Shanna entirely caught Becca off guard. She'd known of the girl who was about her age, but she couldn't remember having ever spoken to her. To find out that she was the child of a Danish woman was simply incredible. How had her father kept that a secret all the girl's life? And... to be a relative of King Rolf's, albeit rather distant? Unbelievable!
Rolf told the young woman...
The young woman reaction was of such honor and commitment. Shanna moved up to within arms reach, dropped to a knee, grasped Rolf's hand, and kissed it. For his part, Rolf showed no surprise. Becca assumed he was used to this as a Viking King. The English did something similar, of course, but this! A presumably English woman reveals she is a Danish King's relative and is told she is to become a Viking warrior...? It was like a fairy tale.
After Shanna thanked Rolf, rose again, thanked the King yet again, and backed away a step...
Becca hesitated before answering. She'd already made her decision, for the benefit of the English who would remain. But she didn't want Rolf to think her a push over. "There are a great many little details that need to be considered and agreed upon, King Rolf … before I make a long term commitment to remain in Crîsten--"
She caught herself, smiled, gave Rolf a respectful nod of her head, and continued, "Fredilig Gård … but … I believe I will stay … for the mean time."
Becca turned and looked upon the villagers. She talked to them about how she believed this could work, about how it would take commitment to live alongside people so different than themselves, and how if someone felt they couldn't make it work, they should make the decision to take the gold and depart.
"May I have a moment alone with my people, King Rolf?" she asked.
She wasn't sure how to respond. Becca would have assumed Rolf would take the stone house. It was old and drafty and falling apart in places. But it was still the only all stone-walled structure in the village. The villagers called it the Lord's Manor, though, sometimes Becca thought that was more tongue-in-cheek than honored reverence.
Plus, it was the home in which Rolf had been raised.
Regarding the future of her virtue, Rolf assured her that she would never have to fear either him or one of his men. She found that comforting. Yet she was already telling herself that she wouldn't let herself be found alone in the dark or even in an isolated location alone during the daylight. She'd heard too many stories about the heathen Vikings and their lust for young women to simply take Rolf at his word.
The woman Shanna entirely caught Becca off guard. She'd known of the girl who was about her age, but she couldn't remember having ever spoken to her. To find out that she was the child of a Danish woman was simply incredible. How had her father kept that a secret all the girl's life? And... to be a relative of King Rolf's, albeit rather distant? Unbelievable!
Rolf told the young woman...
The young woman reaction was of such honor and commitment. Shanna moved up to within arms reach, dropped to a knee, grasped Rolf's hand, and kissed it. For his part, Rolf showed no surprise. Becca assumed he was used to this as a Viking King. The English did something similar, of course, but this! A presumably English woman reveals she is a Danish King's relative and is told she is to become a Viking warrior...? It was like a fairy tale.
After Shanna thanked Rolf, rose again, thanked the King yet again, and backed away a step...
Becca hesitated before answering. She'd already made her decision, for the benefit of the English who would remain. But she didn't want Rolf to think her a push over. "There are a great many little details that need to be considered and agreed upon, King Rolf … before I make a long term commitment to remain in Crîsten--"
She caught herself, smiled, gave Rolf a respectful nod of her head, and continued, "Fredilig Gård … but … I believe I will stay … for the mean time."
Becca turned and looked upon the villagers. She talked to them about how she believed this could work, about how it would take commitment to live alongside people so different than themselves, and how if someone felt they couldn't make it work, they should make the decision to take the gold and depart.
"May I have a moment alone with my people, King Rolf?" she asked.
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Inside the chapel, Becca engaged the villagers in a serious conversation about their future. At times, it was very respectful; at others, it became a literal shouting match. Religion, to king and country, and the remembrance of friends and family lost to Viking raids were highlights of the fight. When it was obvious that all that could be said had been, Becca literally asked the people to separate to opposite sides of the chapel.
"I thank you for taking this chance," she told those on the staying side. Looking to the other, she said, "I understand and respect your reasons for leaving. God bless you, and remember that you can always return. This is your home. You will forever be welcome here."
She went outside for Rolf, who came in to speak to the villagers one last time before they emerged. Becca shared hugs and farewells with those who would speak to her. Some didn't, feeling betrayed by her. She hadn't caused this event, of course. But somehow, many thought she could have and should have caused a different outcome. She distributed the Viking's gold a bit more liberally than Rolf had suggested. The departing were leaving their entire lives behind; Rolf wouldn't let them return to their huts for treasured possessions or even take a goat or sheep.
No sooner had those leaving vanished into the woods than those staying behind were put to work. Rolf's warriors did double duty, both supervising the villagers' work and working just as hard if not harder themselves. Becca had never seen fortifications like what the Vikings were building. They surrounded the entire village with sharpened poles set vertically outward to stop charging horses. They spread straw out beyond those fortifications which Becca supposed was to create a conflagration. They fashioned simple arrows of wood without metal or stone heads at a speed that simple baffled Becca. Spears were laid out by the dozens, maybe hundreds, made of saplings and occasionally limbs.
At one point Becca heard raucous calls from the Vikings and turned to see even more. The reinforcements Rolf had been awaiting appeared from the direction of the sea as had Rolf and his mean earlier in the day. The new Vikings included women and what Becca would come to realize were slaves. The male of the latter labored hard and fast while their female counterparts mostly hurried about with pitchers of water and wooden bowls of food. They fed and watered the Vikings, but they fed the English as well.
Rolf introduced Becca to a hulk of a man named Gunnar. This Viking scared her more than any of the others she'd met thus far. He was the tallest and most muscular man she'd ever met in her life. She was certain he could pick her up in his arms and simply crush her in his strong hands.
Occasionally Becca found one of her people not working with enthusiasm. She approached them and spoke to them with sympathy. More often than not, her encouragement included some form of If we don't help them and we are attacked by the English, MOST of US will die in the fight, killed by who knows which side. It typically worked.
The best conversation she had during the day was with the women Shanna. They talked about her amazing ancestry and the even more amazing way in which she'd and her father had kept it secret all her life. "Was your step mother ever tempted to expose you?"
"She didn't know, my lady," the young woman said without slowing in her digging of holes for the fortifications' supports. "My father told me never to trust my secret with anyone."
"But you trusted it to Rolf," Becca pointed out.
Shanna stood to stretch out a kink in her back and looked off to where Rolf was also working hard. She smiled and said with pride, "He is my King. He always was. My father was an Englishman. But his love for my mother never died, even after she did. I grew up with stories of Fredilig Gård … of my mother's Danish heritage … of my mother's King … first Enrik the Mad … then Rolf of Fredilig Gård. I never knew whether my father was telling me truths about King Rolf or stories he wanted me to believe about him."
She laughed, asking, "How would my father know what was taking place in Denmark? How would he know what was happening with Enrik the Mad or King Rolf? But I listened … and I remembered … and I believed. And even though I lived with and amongst the English … the Christians … deep in my heart, I always knew I was a Danish Viking."
"And a Pagan?" Becca asked quietly, not wanting anyone else to hear either the question or the answer. "Do you believe in their Gods … or our God?"
Shanna contemplated her answer for a moment, then answered with laughter, "I do not know."
As the sun was dropping behind the hills to the west, Becca caught movement on the road coming into town. She saw 8 villagers being escorted by 2 of Rolf's men. She went out to meet them just beyond the opened gate of the new defenses. Two of them were a couple who had left the village with the others. The other six were people who had escaped earlier in the day. They'd met the departing group and learned that they had family who'd remained behind. They wanted to return to Crîsten Heofon. The couple had been on the fence and said they would escort them back.
Now, the English population was up to 30.
"Did you see my father?" Becca quietly asked the men as they headed into the village for food, water, and rest. She was told they had seen him and some of the others in a small hamlet on the road. She almost didn't want to ask but did. "Is he coming back?"
The man was just as hesitant to answer Becca's question as she had been in asking it. "No, my lady. He and his escort rode for Tottingham … to seek help from the Earl."
Becca was crushed. Her father should never have abandoned the village this morning. And now he wasn't coming back until he had sufficient forces. Rolf had been correct: Coward.
It was beginning to get dark. The people were exhausted. Becca asked Rolf to allow the women and children to call it a day. They began preparing a community meal out before the Chapel in a large fire pit the Vikings had built. A goat had been slaughtered as had a dozen geese and rabbits. Becca politely complained to Rolf that too many stock animals had been killed. The village couldn't support such cost in livestock. Soon, everyone was being fed.
"King Rolf, may I speak with you?" Becca asked when she got a chance to sit quietly with him. "The English are concerned. They fear that if my father or one of the other Lords attack in the night, that they might not be very safe in their homes. They fear that the hatred for the Danes might lead to the English soldiers striking first … without knowing for certain that who they are attacking are indeed Danes."
Becca argument was sensible. But truth be told, she had more concern for what the mostly male Vikings might do to the mostly female English once night fell and their entry into the individual huts was less conspicuous. She continued, "I would like to ask that for tonight … and until we know what the response from the English might be … that we be allowed to sleep in the Chapel."
"I thank you for taking this chance," she told those on the staying side. Looking to the other, she said, "I understand and respect your reasons for leaving. God bless you, and remember that you can always return. This is your home. You will forever be welcome here."
She went outside for Rolf, who came in to speak to the villagers one last time before they emerged. Becca shared hugs and farewells with those who would speak to her. Some didn't, feeling betrayed by her. She hadn't caused this event, of course. But somehow, many thought she could have and should have caused a different outcome. She distributed the Viking's gold a bit more liberally than Rolf had suggested. The departing were leaving their entire lives behind; Rolf wouldn't let them return to their huts for treasured possessions or even take a goat or sheep.
No sooner had those leaving vanished into the woods than those staying behind were put to work. Rolf's warriors did double duty, both supervising the villagers' work and working just as hard if not harder themselves. Becca had never seen fortifications like what the Vikings were building. They surrounded the entire village with sharpened poles set vertically outward to stop charging horses. They spread straw out beyond those fortifications which Becca supposed was to create a conflagration. They fashioned simple arrows of wood without metal or stone heads at a speed that simple baffled Becca. Spears were laid out by the dozens, maybe hundreds, made of saplings and occasionally limbs.
At one point Becca heard raucous calls from the Vikings and turned to see even more. The reinforcements Rolf had been awaiting appeared from the direction of the sea as had Rolf and his mean earlier in the day. The new Vikings included women and what Becca would come to realize were slaves. The male of the latter labored hard and fast while their female counterparts mostly hurried about with pitchers of water and wooden bowls of food. They fed and watered the Vikings, but they fed the English as well.
Rolf introduced Becca to a hulk of a man named Gunnar. This Viking scared her more than any of the others she'd met thus far. He was the tallest and most muscular man she'd ever met in her life. She was certain he could pick her up in his arms and simply crush her in his strong hands.
Occasionally Becca found one of her people not working with enthusiasm. She approached them and spoke to them with sympathy. More often than not, her encouragement included some form of If we don't help them and we are attacked by the English, MOST of US will die in the fight, killed by who knows which side. It typically worked.
The best conversation she had during the day was with the women Shanna. They talked about her amazing ancestry and the even more amazing way in which she'd and her father had kept it secret all her life. "Was your step mother ever tempted to expose you?"
"She didn't know, my lady," the young woman said without slowing in her digging of holes for the fortifications' supports. "My father told me never to trust my secret with anyone."
"But you trusted it to Rolf," Becca pointed out.
Shanna stood to stretch out a kink in her back and looked off to where Rolf was also working hard. She smiled and said with pride, "He is my King. He always was. My father was an Englishman. But his love for my mother never died, even after she did. I grew up with stories of Fredilig Gård … of my mother's Danish heritage … of my mother's King … first Enrik the Mad … then Rolf of Fredilig Gård. I never knew whether my father was telling me truths about King Rolf or stories he wanted me to believe about him."
She laughed, asking, "How would my father know what was taking place in Denmark? How would he know what was happening with Enrik the Mad or King Rolf? But I listened … and I remembered … and I believed. And even though I lived with and amongst the English … the Christians … deep in my heart, I always knew I was a Danish Viking."
"And a Pagan?" Becca asked quietly, not wanting anyone else to hear either the question or the answer. "Do you believe in their Gods … or our God?"
Shanna contemplated her answer for a moment, then answered with laughter, "I do not know."
[] [] [] [] [] [] []
As the sun was dropping behind the hills to the west, Becca caught movement on the road coming into town. She saw 8 villagers being escorted by 2 of Rolf's men. She went out to meet them just beyond the opened gate of the new defenses. Two of them were a couple who had left the village with the others. The other six were people who had escaped earlier in the day. They'd met the departing group and learned that they had family who'd remained behind. They wanted to return to Crîsten Heofon. The couple had been on the fence and said they would escort them back.
Now, the English population was up to 30.
"Did you see my father?" Becca quietly asked the men as they headed into the village for food, water, and rest. She was told they had seen him and some of the others in a small hamlet on the road. She almost didn't want to ask but did. "Is he coming back?"
The man was just as hesitant to answer Becca's question as she had been in asking it. "No, my lady. He and his escort rode for Tottingham … to seek help from the Earl."
Becca was crushed. Her father should never have abandoned the village this morning. And now he wasn't coming back until he had sufficient forces. Rolf had been correct: Coward.
It was beginning to get dark. The people were exhausted. Becca asked Rolf to allow the women and children to call it a day. They began preparing a community meal out before the Chapel in a large fire pit the Vikings had built. A goat had been slaughtered as had a dozen geese and rabbits. Becca politely complained to Rolf that too many stock animals had been killed. The village couldn't support such cost in livestock. Soon, everyone was being fed.
"King Rolf, may I speak with you?" Becca asked when she got a chance to sit quietly with him. "The English are concerned. They fear that if my father or one of the other Lords attack in the night, that they might not be very safe in their homes. They fear that the hatred for the Danes might lead to the English soldiers striking first … without knowing for certain that who they are attacking are indeed Danes."
Becca argument was sensible. But truth be told, she had more concern for what the mostly male Vikings might do to the mostly female English once night fell and their entry into the individual huts was less conspicuous. She continued, "I would like to ask that for tonight … and until we know what the response from the English might be … that we be allowed to sleep in the Chapel."
KingOfNowhere
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We are not writing this anymore.
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CutiePie1997
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Becca listened to all Rolf had to say about his concerns for the people of Fredilig Gård. He seemed sincere, not just about his Danes but about her English as well. She looked him in the eyes. And she believed him.
"He isn't coming," Becca told him. She explained what the men had told her. "My belief is that he will ... that he is on his way to Winchester. He will ask for help from the Earl ... and the Earl will ask for help from the King. And then ... when he is surrounded by men with swords..."
That was Becca's way of once again calling her father a coward.
She continued, "Then, he will come."
Becca looked around herself, to the Vikings, and back to Rolf. With true concern, she warned with a tone of respect, "Your grace, the King will attack with more men than you have. Many more men ... five, ten ... even twenty times as many."
She gave Rolf an opportunity to respond if he wanted, then said firmly, "You have to use me. When they arrive ... you have to threaten to kill me."
"He isn't coming," Becca told him. She explained what the men had told her. "My belief is that he will ... that he is on his way to Winchester. He will ask for help from the Earl ... and the Earl will ask for help from the King. And then ... when he is surrounded by men with swords..."
That was Becca's way of once again calling her father a coward.
She continued, "Then, he will come."
Becca looked around herself, to the Vikings, and back to Rolf. With true concern, she warned with a tone of respect, "Your grace, the King will attack with more men than you have. Many more men ... five, ten ... even twenty times as many."
She gave Rolf an opportunity to respond if he wanted, then said firmly, "You have to use me. When they arrive ... you have to threaten to kill me."
CutiePie1997
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Jun 22, 2016
- Posts
- 1,319
Becca listened to all Rolf had to say about his concerns for the people of Fredilig Gård. He seemed sincere, not just about his Danes but about her English as well. She looked him in the eyes. And she believed him.
"He isn't coming," Becca told him. She explained what the men had told her. "My belief is that he will ... that he is on his way to Winchester. He will ask for help from the Earl ... and the Earl will ask for help from the King. And then ... when he is surrounded by men with swords..."
That was Becca's way of once again calling her father a coward.
She continued, "Then, he will come."
Becca looked around herself, to the Vikings, and back to Rolf. With true concern, she warned with a tone of respect, "Your grace, the King will attack with more men than you have. Many more men ... five, ten ... even twenty times as many."
She gave Rolf an opportunity to respond if he wanted, then said firmly, "You have to use me. When they arrive ... you have to threaten to kill me."
"He isn't coming," Becca told him. She explained what the men had told her. "My belief is that he will ... that he is on his way to Winchester. He will ask for help from the Earl ... and the Earl will ask for help from the King. And then ... when he is surrounded by men with swords..."
That was Becca's way of once again calling her father a coward.
She continued, "Then, he will come."
Becca looked around herself, to the Vikings, and back to Rolf. With true concern, she warned with a tone of respect, "Your grace, the King will attack with more men than you have. Many more men ... five, ten ... even twenty times as many."
She gave Rolf an opportunity to respond if he wanted, then said firmly, "You have to use me. When they arrive ... you have to threaten to kill me."
KingOfNowhere
Really Experienced
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- 111
OOC: So, if you have been following out story, CutiePie and I have decided to start fresh with a different thread and a different direction. You can't stop reading this thread.
