Page 2 of Ravager
I swallowed hard, my throat feeling thick. Marc wanted to run away with me? I had entertained that thought for years, the idea of escaping the Lord and finding life on my own. Marc had always humored my idea, only to bring me back to Earth, reminding me that no matter where I went, my future would stay the same. I was the lowest of the low class. Short of becominga whore, there wasn’t much I could do to live a better life elsewhere.
I was beginning to feel a bit like a whore too, and what scared me even more was that a part of me felt like that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“I have to go,” I said, my voice breaking. I couldn’t stay in the boathouse a minute longer, or I’d agree to something I’d probably regret.
I flung the rickety wood door open and burst out into the grey light. My shoes sank into the thick mud of the beach, but I pulled them out with a sucking noise and hurried onto more solid ground. In the distance, where the long, slick tidal flats disappeared into October’s waning sun, I could see the dark figures of the Lord’s fishermen coming home. Pierre would be among them, dragging along his collection of clams, oysters, and mussels, all to serve Bouchon.
I swallowed my disgust at the hopelessness of it all and hiked up my tattered dress, running all the way to the two-room shack I called home.
Chapter 2
Erik
The dragon-headed longship sliced through the dreary water like a monstrous wooden duck, its white cloth mast straining at the seams. The wind was strong for the time being, so there was no need to paddle. Each of the 20 oarsmen had drawn their oars in and sat back on the chests containing their belongings. The narrow slit of the English Channel appeared on the horizon as a faint shadow, and though it was much warmer here than the North Sea, the men pulled their animal skins and woolen blankets tight around them.
Erik the Axe stood at the front of the ship and observed the men out of the corner of his eye, amused to see how alert they were, a sure sign they were ready to do battle. He and Rolf the Walker had been part of the fleet that commandeered the Seine River five years before, leading them all the way to Paris, where they laid siege to the land with little resistance. He wasn’t sure if it would so easy this time. The rumor was, the armies in the north of France were growing, and many of the feudal lords had plucked their men away from laboring on the farms to force them into the army.
Erik brushed back his ash blond hair behind his ears, one of his few nervous ticks, and tried to bury the seed of doubt he felt growing inside. Rolf was so confident that they could claim more land for themselves and start a new colony for the people of Møre, it was almost foolish for Erik to doubt him. Still, as powerful and bloodthirsty as Rolf was, he was still young and impatient to a fault. This would be the first time Rolf led an attack so far away from home, with only Erik to lend genuine counsel and support.
“You look worried, my friend,” Rolf said from his side, snapping Erik out of his daydream.
Erik straightened his shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “I am merely preparing myself for the worst.”
Rolf rolled his dark eyes and turned their attention back to the silky water in front of them, mist rising above it like angel breath. It swirled past the front of the ship, slinking around the wooden dragon head that looked out to sea with snarled teeth and dead eyes. “The worst is that you suck on the breast of a gorgeous Valkyrie and spend eternity in Valhalla.”
How could I forget? Erik thought dryly. He was never too sure about the beliefs of his people, their utmost trust in the gods that pushed warfare as the only means to real existence. But that was something he would never dare admit, especially to Rolf, his oldest friend, his thorn in his side, his constant superior.
Rolf wiped at his broad chin and looked Erik up and down, searching for further signs of weakness. “Do you doubt me?”
Erik grinned coldly. “I’d rather die than give you any doubt, old friend.”
Rolf stared back at him, their eyes locked in silent battle, a warm-up to the real show to follow. Rolf intimidated most living men, called The Walker due to his size. It started as a joke, of course, because the 6’5”, 250-pound man of thick muscle broke many a horse’s back growing up, so many that he began walkingeverywhere instead. That was, until someone found him an English knight’s steed from a raid. When Rolf sat atop his black Shire beast, they became a monstrous pairing worthy of legend. Erik knew if Rolf could, he’d kick off a few of his men and bring his horse on the ship instead, but alas, the horse had to stay at home in Møre. The boat would probably sink otherwise.
Not only was Rolf the size of a small giant, but he also possessed a feral beauty that was part of his charm. His eyes were so dark, they seemed to swallow up time, his hair a shiny, obsidian sheet that ran halfway down his back. He refused to braid it going into battle, preferring it to cloak him like a warrior’s cape. The side of his face was marred with a deep red scar, but instead of detracting from his appeal, it only added to it. No scar could hide those prominent cheekbones or impish lips. When he smiled, which was frequently, Rolf could lull you into blanket of trust, only to slice your head off moments later.
Erik, on the other hand, had a more austere look to him. He wasn’t as tall a Rolf—though what man was—and instead of stacked warrior muscles, Erik was made of long, lean ligaments, the sculpted body of a top athlete. His hair was thick and shoulder-length, and he kept himself close-shaven, his face elegant and refined. His eyes were a cool blue grey that mimicked whatever shade the sky or sea chose that day, his lips full above his chiseled jaw. Erik never had a shortage of female attention growing up on the fjord, though the girls would always favor the flirtatious Rolf. He would seduce them—and scare them, and not always in that order.
At the sound of the mast fluttering, Rolf tore his eyes away from Erik and looked to the sheet. The longships weren’t designed for true sailing and, more often than not, they needed the oar power to propel the ship forward.
“Men!” Rolf barked, turning from his post. The men were quick to move. Animal skins were shed, and the oars weresimultaneously slammed out into the sea. In seconds, the mast stabilized, and the boat cruised forward at maximum speed.
Behind them, the rest of the ships in the fleet followed suit.
Soon, they would hit land.
And all hell would break loose.
Chapter 3
Cherine
Dawn was just breaking, the sky and fields a colorless haze, when I woke to use the latrine. I’d barely slept at all, and it wasn’t because Giselle snored from too much stolen wine or because Odette kicked in her sleep. No, I spent the whole night worrying about Marc. I was scared he might tell someone of what we had done. It wasn’t like him, but he hadn’t been himself after we had sex. I felt different too, but I couldn’t place my finger on why. Part of me felt proud, like I’d done something other girls were too afraid to do, and in turn, I had awakened something in myself. The other part of me was scared, like the act of sex was going to turn my whole life upside down, that the repercussions were waiting in the woods.
What I didn’t feel, though, was shame, and that realization made a small smile stretch across my lips.
I crawled out of bed, careful not to wake my sisters, who would be rising in a few hours, and slipped on my woolen coat and cheap pigskin boots. The chill was constant in our thatched roof house, seeping in through the shuttered, glass-less windows and up through the cold dirt floor. The wood stove had gone out during the night, leaving only smoky tendrils behind. The doorto my mother’s room was closed, and I briefly wondered if she ever got lonely now that Papa was dead and my brothers were gone, all serving in the King’s army. But then, I decided it didn’t matter—my mother was wicked, even when she had a house full of men.
The latrine was a long trek from our home, forcing me to cross a pale, uniform field into a clump of oak trees that stuck out like a snag on smooth silk. I knew it like the back of my hand—every rock, every patch of uneven ground. It was an inconvenient fact of peasant life, having to make these trips, sometimes in the dead of night. Still, I preferred it to the way the townsfolk used the bathroom—shuttling human waste out the windows into the open gutters below. I didn’t go to town except to feign prayer at church and deliver the occasional parcel of vegetables to the Lord, but every time I went, I was overwhelmed by the stench of sewage and all those bodies, all those leering eyes.