Read Online Viking's Prize by Tanya Anne Crosby - Free Book Online Page B

lay unmoving.
    “Nay! Oh, nay!” Panicking, Elienor felt for a
pulse at Clarisse’s neck, and finding it fragile, breathed a shaky sigh of
relief. With trembling hands she fumbled for the skin of water behind her. It
was the fever, she was certain. If she could but cool her somehow. She found
the skin instantly, but the moment her fingers lit upon it, the ship listed yet
again, sending the skin flying behind her. She turned to catch it and was
startled to find Red-Hrolf awake, watching them. Grinning balefully, his boot
came down upon the skin, halting its slide across the planking. Fearful to
retrieve it on her own, Elienor held out her hand for him to return it, hoping
against hope that he would.
    His grin only widened, and Elienor’s heart
twisted. Nevertheless, knowing Clarisse had need of the water, she dared to
reach for it now, uncertainly at first, keeping her gaze on Red-Hrolf. Yet to
her alarm, before she could grasp it, the ship listed once more, this time
violently.
    Chaos erupted.
    With a terrified shriek, Elienor rolled atop
Clarisse, striking her hard enough that she rose up only to bounce down upon
the planking, her head landing with a sickening smack that Elienor could hear
even above the sound of the wind and the waking shouts of the crewmen. To her
horror, Clarisse’s body began to convulse beneath her, bucking as though
possessed. Elienor screamed, taken aback by the sight and feel of Clarisse
twisting and writhing beneath her.
    And seeing Clarisse, Red-Hrolf began to shout. He
jumped to his feet in revulsion. “She is afflicted!”
    “Nay!” Elienor denied, “she is but ill!”
    Clarisse continued to buck and twist. Elienor couldn’t
stop her. Her tongue lolled limply from her mouth, and her eyes opened and
crossed, the sight appalling enough to terrify even Elienor.
    “’Tis a plague from Hella!” Red-Hrolf shouted. “We
will all perish! Shrivel away to bones!”
    Fear clawed at Elienor’s heart. Before her eyes
she saw again her mother’s accusers, heard their chanted convictions: Witch! Kill the
witch! God’ll strike us dead for her sins! Kill the witch!
    She closed her eyes to ward away the bitter vision
and prayed for strength. Merciful heaven. She must remain strong!
    “Pitch the whore to the sea!” someone shouted.
    Kill the witch! Aye! Kill them both! The daughter’s a filthy witch,
too! Send them both to Hades from whence they came!
    “Nay!” Elienor shrieked at the memory. “Nay!
Please! Please!”
    “Pitch them both to the sea!” another echoed in
French, glaring at her.
    “Nay!” Elienor shrieked, wild with terror now.
“Nay! Nay! Have mercy—I beg of you! Sweet Jesu! Have mercy!” She rose up,
clinging to Red-Hrolf’s tunic, begging. “Jesu Christ—please!”
    Red Hrolf thrust her away in revulsion. “Filthy
Fransk whore!” He lifted up his oar to frighten her away.
    Frantic now, Elienor rose up with him, pleading
incoherently with fear. “Please, please, leave her be—oh, please!”
    There was no time to avoid the blow, even had she
been aware of it.
    She screamed as the pinnacle of an oar struck her
head. Her eyes widened at the sound of her flesh ripping, so loud it seemed to
come from within her.
    Oh, God… had her visions been so wrong?
    Was she to die as well?
    Something wet and warm blanketed her temple,
blood, she thought vaguely.
    Blood.
    Before her eyes a hazy blackness settled in, and
it seemed an eternity passed as she fought the inevitable. A hollow ringing
shrieked in her ears, blocking out all other sound.
    And then silence.
    The silence of her mother’s grave.
    In that instant, she felt as though she would
retch, so violently ill did she become. She opened her mouth to call for aid,
but the words never formed.
    Who did she expect would aid her? No one, a little
voice sneered. “No one,” she whispered weakly, her vision fading swiftly to
gray.
    To her shock, the face that swam before her in
that instant was not her uncle’s, not her