said simply.
The angry man opened his mouth again to protest, but he was cut off.
“I say—-"
“—-Do you wish to challenge me, Føde?” the leader’s words were almost inaudible.
Someone gasped.
Ragnor stopped peeling the apple. A silver ray of moonlight glinted off his wicked, jagged knife.
“Any weapon, Føde, you choose,” Ragnor said.
Silence.
“Or no weapon at all, you decide. Hand to hand.”
Elizabeth looked at Ragnor, then at the man, and back again. The man was much, much bigger than he was. Yet everyone seemed to know something about Ragnor that she didn’t.
The other man shook his head, and sputtered
“Do you wish to challenge me for the girl?” Ragnor repeated.
“No, my liege,” the man said, stammering.
“Then ‘tis finished,” he bit into the apple.
The other man bowed, and backed away.
“And no more ale this night for you, Føde.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Does anyone else wish to challenge me?” Ragnor came to his feet.
No one spoke. He waited a long moment.
“Very well. The girl is mine,” he proclaimed loudly. “I will hear the matter no more.”
Ragnor took Elizabeth’s hand, and lead her to the tent.
People began to chant. “Ragnor! Ragnor!”
They thumped their shields noisily with their fists and swords.
The throng moved in rapidly around Føde, and he disappeared. The feast resumed, as if on cue, and the agitator was absorbed into the merry, drunken crowd.
Just like that, it was over. Her fate was sealed.
She was the Viking’s woman.
Chapter Six
I nside, the tent had been transformed. A hempen tarp covered the floor, except around a small fire, where a circle had been cut around it. The fire glowed inside a copper brazier in the middle of the room, settled safely upon a pile of rocks, inside a ring of stones. An overturned wooden barrel formed a table that it held a candelabrum, stolen from the convent, Elizabeth noted, along with some candles that also looked suspiciously familiar.
Ragnor’s sword and shield had been laid out meticulously next to the bed, along with his various other accoutrements of war.
Additional candles had been lit and scattered about the room, forming a radiant circle of pinkish light. To the right hand side, a luxuriant pile of furs – literally a fortune’s worth - made a lavish bed, and to the left was a wooden chair with an embroidered cushion. Elizabeth recognized it as the abbess’ special seat, the only one in the priory where a pillow was permitted. No one was allowed to touch it.
From now on that would be her special chair, Elizabeth thought with glee. She apologized instantly to God for her avarice. It was a sin.
In the back of the tent stood her laundry tub.
The oversized tin trough was filled with warm water, and rose petals floated on the surface. A kettle of steaming hot water sat patiently beside it, along with a plush pile of drying towels. The tree stump had made a perfect side table, and a jug of mead was waiting atop it.
In that moment, she felt like the most pampered and spoiled woman ever to live.
“Thank you, my lord,” she mumbled.
Ragnor led her to the improvised bathing tub, and pointed for her to get in. Elizabeth shook her head. She couldn’t take off her clothes in front of him. Then she would be naked, and all alone in a room with a man. A strange man. He was not her husband, and she was still under a vow of chastity. Forever.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I can’t. I mean...”
Shrugging, he went to a leather satchel that lay beside the bed, and retrieved a long length of rope. He pulled it out of his bag, and wound it, casually, around his hand. At the same time, he took off his leather belt, doubling it over in his other hand. He peered at her darkly, and strode directly towards her.
Elizabeth watched him warily.
She would be damned if she would let him tie her up again. She would run through the camp naked screeching like a harpy if she had to, but she would not
The angry man opened his mouth again to protest, but he was cut off.
“I say—-"
“—-Do you wish to challenge me, Føde?” the leader’s words were almost inaudible.
Someone gasped.
Ragnor stopped peeling the apple. A silver ray of moonlight glinted off his wicked, jagged knife.
“Any weapon, Føde, you choose,” Ragnor said.
Silence.
“Or no weapon at all, you decide. Hand to hand.”
Elizabeth looked at Ragnor, then at the man, and back again. The man was much, much bigger than he was. Yet everyone seemed to know something about Ragnor that she didn’t.
The other man shook his head, and sputtered
“Do you wish to challenge me for the girl?” Ragnor repeated.
“No, my liege,” the man said, stammering.
“Then ‘tis finished,” he bit into the apple.
The other man bowed, and backed away.
“And no more ale this night for you, Føde.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Does anyone else wish to challenge me?” Ragnor came to his feet.
No one spoke. He waited a long moment.
“Very well. The girl is mine,” he proclaimed loudly. “I will hear the matter no more.”
Ragnor took Elizabeth’s hand, and lead her to the tent.
People began to chant. “Ragnor! Ragnor!”
They thumped their shields noisily with their fists and swords.
The throng moved in rapidly around Føde, and he disappeared. The feast resumed, as if on cue, and the agitator was absorbed into the merry, drunken crowd.
Just like that, it was over. Her fate was sealed.
She was the Viking’s woman.
Chapter Six
I nside, the tent had been transformed. A hempen tarp covered the floor, except around a small fire, where a circle had been cut around it. The fire glowed inside a copper brazier in the middle of the room, settled safely upon a pile of rocks, inside a ring of stones. An overturned wooden barrel formed a table that it held a candelabrum, stolen from the convent, Elizabeth noted, along with some candles that also looked suspiciously familiar.
Ragnor’s sword and shield had been laid out meticulously next to the bed, along with his various other accoutrements of war.
Additional candles had been lit and scattered about the room, forming a radiant circle of pinkish light. To the right hand side, a luxuriant pile of furs – literally a fortune’s worth - made a lavish bed, and to the left was a wooden chair with an embroidered cushion. Elizabeth recognized it as the abbess’ special seat, the only one in the priory where a pillow was permitted. No one was allowed to touch it.
From now on that would be her special chair, Elizabeth thought with glee. She apologized instantly to God for her avarice. It was a sin.
In the back of the tent stood her laundry tub.
The oversized tin trough was filled with warm water, and rose petals floated on the surface. A kettle of steaming hot water sat patiently beside it, along with a plush pile of drying towels. The tree stump had made a perfect side table, and a jug of mead was waiting atop it.
In that moment, she felt like the most pampered and spoiled woman ever to live.
“Thank you, my lord,” she mumbled.
Ragnor led her to the improvised bathing tub, and pointed for her to get in. Elizabeth shook her head. She couldn’t take off her clothes in front of him. Then she would be naked, and all alone in a room with a man. A strange man. He was not her husband, and she was still under a vow of chastity. Forever.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I can’t. I mean...”
Shrugging, he went to a leather satchel that lay beside the bed, and retrieved a long length of rope. He pulled it out of his bag, and wound it, casually, around his hand. At the same time, he took off his leather belt, doubling it over in his other hand. He peered at her darkly, and strode directly towards her.
Elizabeth watched him warily.
She would be damned if she would let him tie her up again. She would run through the camp naked screeching like a harpy if she had to, but she would not
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