NORTH OF THE STARS (In Love and War #1)

Two-2

“No!” I scream, pummeling his perspiring, bare chest with my tiny fists.

But my cries are in vain.

“Scream, little maiden. I love it when they scream.” That voice is the same as the one that called me over. I was stupid to fall for his lies as I should have known the Northman would never beg for mercy.

The way he stood in line amongst the prisoners was a sure sign he didn’t believe in clemency. This is my error, and now I will pay.

“Unhand me!” I flail wildly, kicking my legs in hopes of throwing him off balance.

When he attempts to press his mouth over mine, I rear up and bite his nose. A warmth coats me, and when I realize his blood squirts down my throat, I spit it out, gagging uncontrollably. I want no part of him inside me.

But when he rips my undergarments, making it clear I may not have a choice in the matter, I know I’ll need a miracle to set myself free.

With all my might, I fight him, but he’s so strong, and the violence fuels the bloodlust. “I’ll be gentle with you, Princess,” he mocks, indicating he will be anything but.

Tears spill from my eyes because I am defeated. He knows I am the king’s daughter, but he doesn’t care. However, the fact that I am the king’s daughter has me refusing to surrender. I refuse to prove to my father that I am what he says—a feeble little girl.

Frantically searching my pockets for a weapon, my fingers come in contact with the key I stole from the guard. Without thought, I retrieve it, and just as the man readies himself to take my maidenhood, I ram the key into the side of his throat.

His eyes widen before I am showered with his thick, warm blood. My vision is nothing but red as I shove him off me, desperately scrambling backward. Wildly wiping my eyes, I watch in horror as a pair of hands extend from between the bars and grip the man.

Those hands then slam his head once, twice against the metal bars, splitting open his skull as brain matter spurts from the wound. The man collapses onto the floor but is still strung up to the wall by one arm. He is twitching violently as the hands behind the bars let him go.

Only when the man stops jerking do I realize what I’ve done.

“Forgive m-me, Lord,” I sob, shakily getting onto my knees and interlacing my bloody hands. But the sight contradicts the purpose of praying.

My soul is tarnished. I am a sinner.

“I killed a man,” I cry, rocking backward and forward, turning my hands over and over. “Strike me down, Lord, for I deserve your wrath. I am a s-sinner. I must repent.”

Hysterically wiping myself clean, more blood takes its place because no matter how hard I scrub, I can never clean my soiled soul.

“I killed a man,” I whimper over and over, peering at the now lifeless man feet away. But when I hear a calming voice, I wonder if God himself has pardoned me from my crimes.

“He was no man. He was a vámr. You didn’t kill anyone. I did. Your conscience is clean. You’re still in favor with your God.”

“But…but,” I fumble over my words, refusing to accept this pardon.

“But nothing. His death is my doing, not yours. It’s all right, hugrekki.”

A calm overcomes me, just as it did when I last saw him. “Skarth the Godless?” I question softly, sniffing back my tears.

When he doesn’t answer me, I crawl toward his cell, ensuring I keep my eyes focused on him and not the corpse that lies between us.

He shifts into the light, allowing me to see it’s him, and the candlelight illuminates him in a way that presents him as holy. He is my savior because if it wasn’t for him, I’d be polluted forevermore.

He is filthy, but the dirt doesn’t look out of place on him. It hardens him in a way I don’t understand. He doesn’t belong in riches or armor. He is a warrior.

He grips the bars, watching me closely, and I instantly avert my eyes, for staring at a strange man is ungodly.

“My name is Skarth,” he says, hinting his sobriquet isn’t one he cares for.

“I’m Emeline,” I reply, still peering at the ground. “Gramercy for your bravery.”

“Do not thank me for morality.” His comment isn’t unkind, but it’s blunt, which has me realizing Skarth could have allowed the man to r**e and defile me as he owes me nothing, but he didn’t.

He acted how any decent person should. He acted how a pagan would not.

“You’re to be executed,” I state, waiting for the shock to overcome him. It doesn’t, however. “But I will not allow it.”

“Thank you, my lady, but I fear the decision is already made.”

Cocking my head to the side, I take a look at this “heathen” because he certainly doesn’t behave how I thought heathens would. They are rumored to be uncivilized, savage, and cruel, but Skarth speaks with grace.

“No, I swear it. I will save thee, just how you saved me.”

“I am indebted to no one. No one will ever own me,” he snarls. It’s clear he’d rather be dead than owned. “I belong to no one.”

I feel his admission to my very core.

“You will not be indebted to anyone. Your reputation is infamous, and I plan on using that to save you.”

“How?” he asks, watching me closely as I devise a plan which will not fail.

“You are called Skarth the Godless for a reason, and I’m guessing it’s because you are an exceptional warrior?”

He doesn’t reply.

“Well, my brother, the king’s firstborn, is not. But you can change that. Teach him how to fight. How to be the most feared warrior in all of the kingdom, and I swear it, you will live.”

“I don’t fight with Saxons. I fight against them,” he spits, gripping the bars on his cell. “They are the reason my kin are dead.”

Gasping, I clutch at the crucifix around my throat, sickened to know my people could do that to Skarth’s family. “Then don’t allow their deaths to be in vain. You have a chance to live, taketh.”

His jaw clenches as he clearly doesn’t like being given orders. Something we have in common.

“If I can convince the king to spare your life, will you accept?”

His silence encourages me.

“Will you accept?” I press harder, refusing to surrender.

Something passes over him, something I can’t place. There is so much I want to learn from him.

“Yes, Princess. I will accept…only because I plan on taking your father’s head, as he did to mine.”

My heart threatens to burst free, but I will my nerves to calm. “Then it is settled. There is no time to waste. I will send word soon, Skarth the Godless.”

He continues looking at me, an expression of confusion plaguing him. “Why would you help me when you know what I am? I am a Northman. You are a Saxon. We are enemies, and nothing will ever change that.”

His words of warning only straighten my spine. “Because there is one thing I want from you.”

He licks his bottom lip in contemplation before nodding.

“I want you to teach me how to fight. Not with wooden swords but with real steel.”

“Why would a princess need to learn to fight?”

“Because like you…no one will own me. I belong to no one.” I don’t elaborate further, but if this marriage to Aethelwulf is to occur, then I won’t walk into war without being prepared for battle.

Something passes between us, something which will secure Skarth into my life evermore. “All right. I will teach you. But come the time, I promise you, your father’s life will be mine.”

Extending my hand, I slip it through the bars, meeting Skarth halfway. The choice is now his.

He peers down at it, his astute blue eyes studying me like I’m a mystery he can’t decode. Regardless, on an exhale, he takes my hand in his, and we shake, cementing our destiny in bloodshed.

I’ve just condemned my father because I know Skarth will be the one who takes his life.

Slipping my hand from his, I reach into my pocket and offer him the bread I stowed away. He doesn’t accept, however. Instead, with eyes still locked on mine, he reaches between the bars and rips the key from my attacker’s throat.

The noise makes my stomach turn, but I don’t let Skarth know how it affects me. If he is to make a warrior out of me, then I need to harden up. He offers me the key—an exchange, as Skarth doesn’t want to owe anyone anything. And for that, I respect him.

I accept the key while he accepts the bread.

“Anon.”

He nods, tearing into the bread with bloody hands. He is savage, and God strike me down, he intrigues me more than he should.

With the key in hand, I come to a stand and make my way through the dungeon, leaving this hell on earth a changed girl. My cloak conceals the atrocities I committed, and I walk past the guard undetected. The moment I’m free, I break into a dead sprint, a sense of freedom lapping at my heels.

I was almost r***d by a monster and then watched that monster be slain by a pagan. The reality of what I witnessed should weigh me down, but it doesn’t. I only run faster.

My chamber door is still unmanned. Again, I read this as the Lord intervening. I slip the bloody key into the lock and enter my room with a sigh of relief. Quickly disrobing, I clean myself up and slip into a new tunic.

The clothes I wore are covered in blood, so I toss them into the fire that warms my chambers.

As I sit, watching them burn, the door groans open, and I wonder if the king has changed his mind. When I see Aethelred, I think he must have. Otherwise, why is my brother here?

“I heard you are sick. You look fine to me. I told them you were only doing it to trick them.”

Rolling my eyes, I continue staring at the fire as I’d prefer to look at it than my idiotic brother. When he doesn’t leave, though, I decide to implement my plan. I’d rather speak to Father first, but he won’t listen to me.

Yet he will to Aethelred.

He walks to my window and peers outside. “Do you like watching me?” he asks, back turned.

“Yes, I rather enjoy watching thee be knocked to your arse.”

He snickers, and I wonder why he would ask me this. It’s not interested him before.

“I heard Father talking,” he says while I hold my breath. “He said there’s something wrong with you. He said you’ve not bled yet.”

I don’t know whether to be relieved or horrified that we’re discussing this instead of where I’ve been.

“I cry your mercy! That’s no business of yours,” I snap, reaching for a poke to ensure no scrap of evidence will be left.

“It is my business. You have one job—marry Aethelwulf and bear his sons. If you cannot, then the fate of this kingdom lies solely on me.”

“Lord help us then,” I mutter under my breath. “The way you fight, Northumbria is condemned.”

He storms over, gripping my shoulder and forcing me to look at him. “You will not speak to me that way.”

“I will speak to you any way I wish,” I argue, ripping from his hold. “Maybe if you were a better fighter, you’d have not only my respect but also the respect of the entire court.”

He is seething, his cheeks blistering a bright crimson. “It’s not my fault Lord Robert is a useless arse.”

This is my opportunity, and I take it. “What about—” I soon stop, however, shaking my head. “Never mind. You won’t want to hear it.”

“Tell me,” he orders, placing his hands on his hips as he attempts to assert his dominance, just how I knew he would.

“What if you had another teacher?”

He arches a dark brow, indicating he’s listening.

“Father has captured the most feared warrior in all of England, and he’s going to execute him? Seems rather wasteful to me. Why not exploit his knowledge? Unearth their fighting strategies so when another battle arises, Father’s men will be able to fight back using the Northmen’s own methods to conquer them.

“He would be a hero in all the kingdoms. And so could you.”

Aethelred listens closely as he knows what I share makes sense.

“If the Northman taught you to fight, you would be unstoppable. You would go into battle with Saxon and Northman training. Not to mention, I am certain the Northman has knowledge that would prove useful to you and Father.

“He knows his people, while we are simply guessing. Father has a subject, one which he can study and use for his gain. But instead, he’d rather kill him because he is afraid. The Northman can be an ally, not a foe.”

My chambers suddenly become smaller as Aethelred steps forward. He towers over me as he’s had a growth spurt, and the way he looks at me turns my own cheeks scarlet.

“Aethelred—”

But it’s too late.

He strikes my cheek with an open palm. “You will not speak of Father this way. He isn’t afraid. He is the king! How dare you speak otherwise!”

Stepping back, I cup my cheek, surprised he struck me because he’s never done so before.

“Father is right; you do not know your place. Maybe you need reminding. On your knees.”

“Wherefore?”

But he doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he grips behind my neck and forces me to the floor. I don’t have a chance to fight because he’s torn the back of my tunic, exposing my flesh.

“Aethelred!” I cry in horror, clutching the front of my garment as I don’t wish for my brother to see any more of my flesh.

But my screams are in vain because I hear the slice through the air before I feel a sharp sting across my back. I don’t actually believe he’s whipped me with his belt until I feel the sting once again. I try to scamper away, but he shoves me onto my stomach, where he presses his boot into the small of my back to keep me pinned down.

He then continues to whip me over and over again.

I count fifteen lashes when my body and soul admit defeat.

By lash twenty-five, Aethelred tires and the belt drops to the floor with a thud. “We are Saxons. We do not make friends with Northmen. Never speak on matters that your tiny brain cannot comprehend.”

I don’t cry. I simply stare into the fire, wishing I was burning alongside my clothes.

Aethelred crouches beside me and whispers into my ear, “Otherwise, next time, it will be your arse I take…sweet sister.”

Shock stuns me into silence, and I remain quieter than a mouse. He has instilled the fear of God into me, and I cannot stop my tremors.

Aethelred snickers as he comes to a stand. I wait for more punishment, but instead, he spits on my back and is out the door.

I lie on the cold floor for what feels like hours as my body has gone numb. I just want to slip into a slumber and never wake because I’ve never felt so defeated before.

“Princess!” Hilda’s voice awakes me from the safe place I transported myself to, the place which helped me cope with what just transpired. “Can you rise?”

The truth is, I don’t know.

She gently helps me stand, ensuring my modesty is covered as she retrieves hot water and some herbs. She then cleans my wounds, hissing at the mess my brother left behind while I remain perfectly still.

“Princess, I fear these may leave scars.”

A betrayal tear trickles down my cheek, one which I tried so hard to keep at bay. I wipe it away furiously as crying won’t solve a thing.

I don’t reply because the scars inflicted on my soul are far worse than any physical wounds. Peering at the crucifix on the wall, I wonder if He is forgiving, after all.