Her Viking Saviour (Lore & Love Trilogy #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

10 years later

Wynflaed shed her filthy, ragged clothing and stepped into the chilly stream in this unchosen foreign land. All she could see were tall trees and shrubbery with no signs of human life. Not even an animal scurrying away. After the torturous boat journey surrounded by a growing filth and stench, the cold, biting water was a warm welcome. Exhausted, she could muster no shame at her nudity but she was still thankful that her captors were at a slight distance, uninterested in watching them all bathe. She had no energy for modesty. Wynflaed lowered herself into the clear depths and squeezed her eyes tight as recent tumultuous events replayed in her mind.

Word had been sent that her father was dying, and she had been allowed to travel back to the small village in Northumbria where she had been born. The visit had been brief, and her father had asked her forgiveness for choosing a life of servitude as the handmaiden to the eldest daughter of a wealthy nobleman over arranging for her to marry. The icy water sluiced over her skin, and she blocked out the noises trying to invade her thoughts. Birds trilled and water burbled, but these peaceful, everyday sounds were broken by the harsh syllables of the Viking tongue. She heard some familiar words scattered throughout their speech, which suggested their captors could speak to them as equals, but she knew keeping the prisoners in the dark was another way to keep them scared. She kept hearing the word thrall and knew it meant slave. Giving her head a shake, she turned her thoughts back to the last moments she had spent with her father.

Wynflaed had given him her forgiveness with no regret. In truth, she would have been worse off if another path had been chosen for her. As a handmaiden in a wealthy household, she had been treated well. She had been fed, clothed, and housed and she had observed, and at times participated in, her mistress’s learnings and activities. If she had been married to a serf her life could have proven harsh, so she held her father's hand tightly as he drew his last breath and freely gave her blessings upon his soul for all eternity. She was not one to brood and curse unless sorely provoked, which her life experiences had not given her much cause for so far.

Wynflaed did curse the events that had led her to be bathing in these frigid waters. As her party—herself, two guards and Hilde, an older female servant—had travelled back through Northumbria, they had crossed paths with a marauding band of heathen Vikings. Raiding parties were always a concern travelling through these lands, but it had been some time since she had heard of one close to home. The barbarians had made short work of the outnumbered guards and had abducted herself and Hilde, to whom Wynflaed owed a debt of gratitude.

When Hilde had spotted the marauders in the distance, she had made the sign of the cross, pulled off Wynflaed’s wimple, thrown it to the ground, and taken a dagger to her curly, long, black hair. Wynflaed, looking in shock at the Vikings in the distance who had now spied them, had not even flinched as her hair fell to the ground. She could see no possibility of escape and had frozen, not knowing whether they should fight or set flight. The irony had not been lost on her that her journey to give her father absolution before death had led her to meet death itself.

And no wonder I am of little faith , she thought with a shake of her head.

“Come now, child, before they see you up close. You are very fair, and we need to make you less so.”

Wynflaed had nodded to Hilde as the guards had bravely taken an offensive position and the Vikings drew nearer. The Vikings had laughed and had not quickened their steps as they approached in a casual manner. Their cockiness and lazy approach had angered her, as though they knew there was no way they could lose to these helpless serfs, just two men and two women. Hilde had smudged dirt all over Wynflaed’s face and rubbed a piece of fish they had intended for their repast over her clothes. Thank God , she had thought, as the Vikings paid no attention to her after a once-over glance at her form except to note she would fetch a price. A price, as if she were a goat or chicken to be sold at the market. Not a living breathing human such as they.

The ship's journey had seemed endless as the salty waves crashed relentlessly against the hull of the boat. The captives had huddled together on the ship, with no small comforts or privacy, despite their growing stench. They had stayed huddled together in cold and fear as their captors rowed, drank, and sang songs they could not understand. The fear had slowly left Wynflaed, and anger had started to settle in. Before this, she had never questioned her lot in life, simple as it was. But this was different, something inside her had raged and quaked at the injustice, wrought upon them by these Vikings that seemed to fall from the sky onto her home soil as habitually as the rain.

Rising out of the water, she used her hands to scrub every inch of her body and hair, not knowing when she would next be afforded such a luxury. Even with no soap, the water still worked wonders, though it left her flesh momentarily revealed. The dirt and fish stink Hilde had used to mask her had reached the end of its usefulness. There was no escaping them . She stepped onto the bank and looked around at her fellow captives she had met on the ship. They had their arms wrapped around their shivering bodies and Wynflaed scanned the group for Hilde. She found her with Cynewin and Cola. Both younger than her and terrified, they had barely said a word. The other three captives were older men, and from their appearance had been serfs, not warriors. They would have had no way of fighting these Vikings and escaping. Wynflaed thought of the guards with sadness and wondered what would have been worse for them: to be dead back on home soil—becoming one with the dirt—or to be here, captured and ready to be sold.

Her morbid thoughts were broken when a rough linen shift was thrust at her chest. She looked up and came eye to eye with one of her captors who looked her up and down with a suspicious yet appreciative gleam in his eyes that soured her stomach. She was no longer in her filthy and smelly disguise and the loss of her crowning glory seemed of no import to his lust. She quickly donned it, putting a layer of protection between her body and his beady eyes. His leer held ill intent and she would rather die than allow him to touch her.

“Do not get any ideas, Hakkan. She is for sale and not for you.” The one she had assumed was their leader laughed and the rest of his men laughed with him. The leader was a very large man who reminded her of a bear. He was always smiling and laughing but she had noticed it never reached his small, dark eyes. He held no kindness in his heart. What man who dealt in the trade of human flesh could?

The one named Hakkan grinned at her as if he expected her to laugh and shoved her forward to huddle with the others. All she could do was grit her teeth and right herself. She stood tall and stiffened her spine, a simple but defiant act. Not that it would do much. Finding Hilde, she stood close to the shivering woman and waited to see what would happen next. Despite their open surroundings, she felt like she was standing in a tiny room with the walls closing in. She was afraid, helpless, and, most of all, enraged at these filthy beasts, who treated them as if they were animals to be sold at market.

I must do something . But what?