Taming the Barbarian

England, Late Autumn 851 AD…             Dax watched the English coastline as the skuldelev approached the bank. The residents of the village were turned in for the evening. The dim candlelight from the windows acting as the only illumination in the night. The air was thick with the smell of rain, the stars hidden by the black clouds that gathered above, offering the Norse warships the cover of darkness. They would reach the bank soon. There was little sign of skilled resistance. The land appeared to be occupied mainly by merchants and townsmen. The buildings lined the walls of a large manor, an English Lord an Earl he supposed, either way, the booty would be much.           Securing his weapons to the thick leather belt around his waist, Dax lifted his conical horned helmet from the magnificently carved figurehead of a sea monster that dressed the stem and pulled it down over his head. He gripped his double-bladed battleaxe in his wind burnt hand and braced his large body against the planks of the longship. The waters had been rough for hours; the storm would be upon them in moments. The caw of a raven drew his eyes upward.             “Odin smiles on us.” The man beside him observed the bird circling above with a wide rotten-toothed grin. “We will be victorious,” Helom said proudly patting Dax on the shoulder. He lifted his sword. “Take what you will…” He began.             Dax tapped his battleaxe against his comrade’s blade. “…burn everything else.”             ***                                The rain had begun to come down in heavy walls of water, chilling the stone walls of Lord Barmen’s bridal chamber. The fire burned and crackled fighting off the cold of the night. The middle-aged, stout Lord huffed as he chased his reluctant young bride around the furnishings. He waved the bronze key in his podgy fingers as the new Lady Barmen struggled with the door.    “This does not need to be unpleasant, my dear. Just come to the bed and let me warm that silken flesh of yours.” He huffed, out of breath from the tiring ordeal of chasing his bride. “Had I known you would require this much effort I would have had my steward tie you to the bed before I dismissed the lad for the evening.”             “Do not touch me.” Tess snapped and bolted for the window; maybe she could jump and run away. If she could get to Lord Raymond’s home, she would be safe. He had asked for her hand before Lord Barmen could ask for her hand. Her father’s way of settling a great debt owed to the ageing Lord. But Lord Raymond and she were in love; he would protect her.             “Now Tess, it is my god-given the right to bed my wife. Your father gave you to me to settle his debt, and if I cannot claim what is mine, I will go after him.”             “Be my guest.” She spat at him. Tess hated her father for so easily discarding her. For selling his only begotten daughter as though she was a pot or a horse. She heaved herself up onto the window ledge and looked down, feeling dizzy she dropped back into the room, her bridal dress wet from the rain. It was too high, the fall would most certainly kill her, or worse it would break her legs, so she could not run away, and Lord Barmen would have her dragged back to his bed and had his way regardless of her injuries. She stared helplessly out the window as the last hope of escape flew from her grasp.             Then in the distance, through the rain and the night, she could make out the shape of sails against the night sky. Square white sails on the banks below. An eerie calm filled the air, then came the screams. Loud, frightening bellows of warriors emerging from the docking ships, followed by the screams of the townsfolk below fleeing their homes. Tess stepped aside as her husband abruptly pushed in front of her to see what was going on. His land was under attack.             Tess could hear the sound of metal on metal as some of the guards and residents tried to defend their homes and families. The crying of women and children made her shiver with fear, and for the first time that night Tess was happy to be locked away behind the thick, sturdy oak door of their bridal chamber.             “Damn salt-water bandits.” Lord Barmen exclaimed as he ran to the wall and pulled a sword from the crest that hung above the fireplace. Even armed, he looked ridiculous to her, standing only in his white cotton breeches with his flabby gut hanging out. How did he expect to pose any threat to the invaders presently sacking his land? The fires from the fight below flickered light through the windows and Tess could feel the heat on her face. The violence below had grown closer; it would not be long before the invaders penetrated the Lord’s manor. With all of his guards mostly dead or fighting for their lives, there would be little effective resistance. The men and women of service that populated the manor would be no more than a herd of meek sheep lined up for slaughter.             In what seemed like mere moments, their attentions were drawn to the door as the screams of the guards and servants filled the halls on the other side. The invaders had made it inside quickly. Tess had heard the stories from what few survivors that had lived to tell about it. The north men had been terrorizing the coastal territories of England for months. Raiding and plundering, destroying the homes and lands of those who populated the coast. They had even massacred a monastery just last month. They were known for mayhem, and those they did not kill they sold into the white slave market in the heathen lands.               Outside the thick oak door, heavy footsteps and screams grew closer. Tess’ heart is pounding in her ears Tess took cover under the bed, gathering up the skirt of her bridal gown so none would poke out from under her hiding spot and give her away. Furious and stupid, Lord Barmen stalked to the door and jammed the bronze key into the lock; foolishly he was bent on driving the intruders from his land.             Just as the lock clicked, the door flung open, knocking her clumsy husband onto his fat round bottom. As he scrambled for his dropped weapon, a demonic figure loomed on the threshold of the chamber door. The light of the fires dancing over the towering frame of the barbarian that now stepped inside. His long strides in closing the gap between him and the cowering English Lord.             Dressed in a dirty blood-soaked tunic and hide breeches, the invader lifted his double-edged battleaxe, the fur cloak that draped his body falling back off his strong arms and over his broad shoulders. The muscles in his arms are flexing under the woollen fabric of his tunic as the man swung the heavy weapon high over his horned helmet. The air made a whooshing sound as the battleaxe cut through it on decent lopping off Lord Barmen’s head with one clean, effortless blow. The head made a sickening thud as it hit the ground and rolled across the floor, stopping just short of the bed where Tess hid. The severed head lay on its side, eyes wide with fear and staring straight at her. Tess could not help but scream, instantly closing her fingers tightly over her mouth to muffle the sound, but it was too late.             The enormous man tilted his head with intrigue, his piercing ice-blue eyes peering out from under the layers of dirt and wild facial hair from beneath the shadows of his helmet. His eyes locked on the shadows under the bed, but he remained motionless for a long moment as though he were listening for the rapid pounding of her heart in her chest.             Then he moved.             The loud thump of his heavy leather hunting boots was the only sound she could hear, the anxiety drowning out the sounds of the battle raging outside. Tess held her breath as she watched his feet stop at the foot of the bed. With one foot he kicked Lord Barmen’s head aside, and a large tanned hand reached under the bed. Tess screamed and backed out from under the bed, removing herself from her attacker’s reach.             Scrambling to her feet, Tess ran for the door. Strong fingers closed around her arm and jerked her back, spinning her around; the barbarian closed his arms around her pinning her arms under his brute strength. His embrace was overpowering, yet strangely gentle. He held her, so she was unable to move, but the force was not painful or uncomfortable.             Frightened, Tess began to sob. Would he kill her? Would he defile her and mutilate her body? She had heard horrific tales of ruthless Norsemen with brutal vices. They killed mostly everyone they raided and those they took as slaves were better off dead. She felt the blunt surface of the large battleaxe against her back. The drenched furs he wore, allowing the wet and cold they were saturated with to seep through her dress. Surrendering Tess bowed her head and stopped struggling, she did not wish to be taken, but she feared death too much to oppose her captor further.             The Norse lifted the skirt of her dress, bunching the fabric in one hand as he restrained her with the other. Tears slid down her cheeks; he was going to take her. Suddenly with one forceful tug, he tore the hem of her skirt. Using the log torn piece of fabric to bind her wrists, the Norseman threw Tess over his shoulder, holding her legs so she could not kick him.             He carried her through the corridors and out into the rain, past the dead and the bloody warriors looting the burning surroundings. The rain beat down on them. Her dark hair clung to her neck and face. The wet fabric of her bridal dress adding to the chill of the night.             He brought Tess aboard a docked longship. With a cautious movement, he placed her on the deck of the ship. He spoke loudly in a language she could not understand, raising his voice to be heard above the weather and battle. They were speaking of her, she decided, as the men from the ship glanced back at her a few times. Then the smaller of the men stepped toward her, taking her by her bindings, he lifted Tess to her feet and dragged the petite English woman down into the ship’s hull.             The ship’s hull stunk of horses and ales. He pushed Tess onto a heap of straw, and the waterlogged Norse barked orders at her in his native tongue. Tess struggled to move as far from him as she could, coming against the barrier of the wooden hull of the ship, her bound hands held high above her head in fear. He turned and stomped up the wooden steps to the deck above and closed the hatch. Tess was abandoned, left with the horses in the dark; alone, frightened, and shivering from the cold.