Chapter One

Frisia, 850 A.D.

 

It could be an omen, thought Thorvald Stronghawk as he gazed at the timbered Frisian keep stained a deep crimson by the afternoon sun. Crimson. The color of blood spilled in battle. Whether it was a good omen or not remained to be seen. He glanced beside him to gauge the reaction of Arni, his second in command.

“The gods guide us well this day. The manor sits like a plump fowl ready for plucking.” A satisfied smile curved Arni’s lips and his brown eyes gleamed with avarice beneath the frizzed blonde fringe. “The peasants in the fields are fat, the cattle sleek. Doubtless the lord has many riches to feed them.”

“I don’t know,” Thorvald muttered. “It’s late. We’ve travelled far today and the men are tired.”

“Nonsense,” Arni said. “The battle promises to be a fine one. Odin himself smiles upon us by bringing us here.”

Still unconvinced, Thorvald squeezed the hilt of his sword with one scarred fist. “Things are not always as they appear. Aye, the keep appears rich but something feels off to me. It’s too quiet, too peaceful, as if the Frisians have nothing to defend. And if our men are disappointed, it could be a long journey home and nothing to show for it.”

“Nonsense,” Arni repeated. “Besides, we can’t call off the battle now. If the Frisians have seen us, we’ve lost the element of surprise, so we may as well attack.”

As if to underscore his words, a creak and a thump signified the group’s arrival with the crude two-wheeled cart holding an arsenal of weapons—bows, arrows, spears and shields.

Thorvald slid off his horse and strode to the edge of the woods. He squatted, rubbing his thighs. By the gods, horses were not to his liking. Nay, give him instead the sleek lines of his longship Sea Queen rolling beneath his feet and the fresh scent of sea air in his nostrils.

He inspected again the keep, a scant thousand yards away. A calf bawled for its mother; the breeze carried the humid smell of freshly tilled land. Perhaps Arni was right. Perhaps the keep’s occupants would yield not only a brisk battle, enough to slake his men’s thirst for fighting, but also enough silver so Thorvald could finally quit this dank land and return home to Agdir to clear his name. Despite his misgivings, excitement shivered down his spine.

He rose to return to the assembled Norsemen. They numbered perhaps thirty; not a grand army but enough to subdue their intended quarry. In a matter of minutes, all stood armed and ready for battle.

Thorvald mounted his horse to lead the charge and adjusted his helm, pulling it low over his eyes and nose. With a final prayer to Odin, he raised his arm and gave the order.

“Attack!”

As he galloped towards the keep, a handful of people burst from the palisade and sprinted across the furrowed fields towards the distant forest. One in particular caught his eye.

A young woman, with blonde hair glinting in the sun.

He noted the direction she ran. She would not escape that easily.

 

* * *

 

Faint, frenzied shouts drifted through the great hall of Falkenstead. Terror rippled through the room, touching Gisela as surely as if someone had run a feather down her arm.

She glanced up from her loom to see her father, Reginhard, skin pale and cheeks hollowed with fear, burst through the door. He darted towards her and her younger sister Martinga, who sat beside her with her mending.

Dread tickled Gisela’s stomach, crept up her back, prickled her scalp. She knew what had frightened him, for she, too, heard the sentry’s cries. Falkenstead, so long a safe haven, had come under attack.

“The Norsemen,” he shouted. “Run, daughters, run as if the devil himself has come for you.”

Both girls sprang to their feet, the spindle dropping from Gisela’s lap to clatter away over the stone floor. Martinga’s mending fell into an untidy heap beside her.

“Father, what of you?” Gisela wailed. She pressed one fisted hand into her midriff to quell the tremors; with the other she clutched Martinga’s arm.

“I will fight to save our home from the northern heathen.” Reginhard’s words were bold, meant to reassure. He managed to squeeze out a smile. “Go and don’t worry for me. We’ve known Falkenstead would be discovered sooner or later. You know what to do.”

“Fare-thee-well, Father.” Martinga spoke in a voice edged with tears. She grasped Reginald’s hand in both her own and raised it to her lips.

“There is no time for farewells. Go.” He thrust away his youngest daughter so firmly she stumbled a few steps before catching herself upright. “You to the west, Martinga, and Gisela to the east. You’ll have a better chance of escaping if you separate.” Then he shoved Gisela towards the door, too.

The action astonished her. Her father was never rude, never unkind. It galvanized her to action.

Taking Martinga’s hand, she ran through the confusion in the great hall, dodging benches and pushing through wailing serving maids and grim faced men at arms. The two burst from the keep and pelted down the hill, through the putrid stench of fear and the pandemonium of squealing pigs, barking dogs and screaming peasants milling about in the log-walled bailey.

Just beyond the gate, Gisela stopped and pulled Martinga up to clasp her in a quick embrace. Tears spilled down her sister’s cheeks, mingling with the tears on Gisela’s.

“I don’t wish to go.” Eyes dull with shock, Martinga sank to her knees. “There’s nowhere to run. Everyone knows that. The Norsemen will hunt us down and kill us without mercy.”

“Then at least let us give them a difficult chase.” She pulled her sister to her feet. Odso, this was not the time for her sister to be stubborn. “Go.”

Fresh tears trickled down Martinga’s cheeks at the harsh tone in Gisela’s voice. Quelling the guilt at her sister’s obvious hurt, Gisela pushed her away from her. “Run.”

Distant shouts grew louder, accompanied by the crash of weapon on weapon. There was no time to waste. If Martinga would not run, then Gisela must harden her heart and leave her. Father had commanded them to run, and so it must be. To her relief, Martinga picked up her skirts and dashed away.

“We meet in two days at the mill.” Gisela shouted after the retreating figure of her sister before picking up her own skirts to run. Away from the keep she sprinted towards the far-away line of trees that promised sanctuary.

But she couldn’t run from Martinga’s words still echoing in her ears: The Norsemen will hunt us down and kill us without mercy.