Shieldmaiden - A Viking Romance

By Simone Leigh

Is Freedom What You Think It Is?

 

You were free.
You were taken and enslaved.
If you earn back your freedom, is that enough?

 

A Viking Romance

 

Approx 33,000 words
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simone Leigh Publishing
• Release date: Apr 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393486763

Simone Leigh

Simone Leigh is English but has lived in Spain for the last few years. She divides her time between working on her tan, decorating her beautiful villa, writing erotica and swimming naked in her swimming pool. According to one internet troll, she is 'beyond redemption'...

Book preview

Shieldmaiden

A Viking Romance

––––––––

Author: Simone Leigh

Copyright © 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, mechanical, electronic, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing.

Simone Leigh Publishing

An Imprint of Simone Leigh Ltd

13, Park Avenue,

Dover,

CT16 1ES

www.simone-leigh.com

A Word From The Author – Caveat

The following novella was originally published at part of the anthology ‘Once Upon A Pirate’ (now no longer available).

If you purchased ‘Once Upon A Pirate’, then this is not a new story for you. You may wish to check your Kindle library

Contents

Chapter One - Invasion

Chapter Two - Prisoner

Chapter Three – Slave

Chapter Four – Victory

Chapter Five – Manumission

Chapter Six – Daughter

Chapter Seven – Training

Chapter Eight – Freedom?

Chapter Nine – Bride

Chapter Ten - Raider

Chapter Eleven - Attack

Chapter Twelve - Battle

Chapter Thirteen - Traitor

Chapter Fourteen - Aftermath

More From Simone Leigh

Chapter One - Invasion

Mercia

The sky is a pure blue dome and I wipe my forehead against the trickling sweat that stings my eyes.

Sheep slice at the turf, already close-clipped, which clothes the hillside, stretching down and around craggy outcrops and then on to the pebbled shore. Far below the surf rolls; a million bubbles foaming, popping and reforming as it sweeps in. And beyond, a swell of blue-green glints under a bright sun.

Here, high above the water, the bare whisper of a breeze strokes my cheeks. In air that hisses with bees and heat, I move from one low shrub to another, squatting low to gather the berries.

It’s hot, hard work, picking the tiny fruits, but it is better than being trapped indoors with the spinning and the weaving, and my mother’s despairing Tuts as she examines my work.

You’ll have to do better than this, Mercia, or your family will be walking in their skins when you’re older.

"But I hate spinning."

One of the old aunties plucks at my thread; uneven and lumpy, too thin in some places, bulky in others. And what am I supposed to do with this when it’s time to weave the winter cloaks?

Eventually, I am ejected from the hut, escaping into glorious freedom. My mother thrusts a basket into my hand. And take Jeffrey with you...

So small as they are, the whinberries, purple and plump with juice, fill my basket slowly. But it’s a task I enjoy, and the berries are my favourites; a late summer treat. And perhaps my mother will let me have a little cream with the berries if I bring home a good haul, enough for everyone to enjoy.

I regard my ‘assistant’. You’re supposed to be helping.

Jeffrey looks up at me, his freckled face purple-stained around the mouth. It's so hot. He kicks at a bush. All the other boys went hunting with the men. This is girl’s work.

"Being girl’s work hasn't stopped you eating the fruit. Have you collected any at all? I head-point the leather bag flapping loose from his shoulders. Or have you eaten everything you’ve picked?"

He grins, displaying gappy teeth. They’re so good but so little. How can you pick enough for other people too?

That’s what we’re here for. And if you can’t do girl’s work, how do you think they’ll trust you to go with the older boys?

His lower lip pushes out and he traces a pattern in the turf with a finger-end. You could give me some of yours. Then I could show them my bag when we get back.

Ha! Forget it. I wave a hand towards him, maybe a bit over-dramatically. I didn’t go to all this effort so you could get the glory... Then my eyes follow the line of my hand... and arm...  out over the sea, glittering far below.

My eye caught something. But my head didn’t make sense of it.

What was it?

There is something... Out by the headland.

The sun is so bright, and the reflection from the water dazzling. Heat and light bathe my face in equal measure. As I turn, now looking squarely out to sea, the bare breeze flutters over my face, cooling my overheated forehead and neck; a mild relief only.

What...?

A hand raised against the sun, I squint out over blue and white dazzle, out beyond the grey shadow of the promontory

A flicker of colour...

It darts and dances against sparkling water, difficult to make out. A flash of red. I struggle to focus.

Then I see it.

The sail; red and white striped... The sail they always warned about.

My breath tightens. I can’t find enough air. Swallowing hard, I suck at my cheeks, trying to draw moisture into a mouth suddenly dry.

Jeffrey... Panic wars with my thoughts, fighting to control my voice...

Stay calm...

... Jeffrey, get your things. We’re going home.

That pout again. Mama said we could stay all afternoon.

"Jeffrey! Get your things. Right now."

He screws his face to protest, but then his gaze follows mine out to sea. He whimpers. It’s them. His eyes are round; his mouth too.

Yes, it’s them. We have to get back home. They won’t be able to see the ship from there...

Can the Sea Wolves see the village?

I try to map it in my head, drawing the line between the ship and the cluster of buildings which is most of what I have known in my life.

The vessel is still far away. And the spit of land which makes a natural shelter and harbour for my home, right now, hides it from the invaders.

No, not yet. They can’t see them...

My mother...

My father...

My family...

The villagers...

The village, with its hall and huts, sheds and barns, its scatter of fields for grazing the stock or growing the crops, is out of sight for now...

But as I look across the hill, thin spirals of white smoke rise, tall and straight, signalling to any who look that we are here...

"Run, Jeffrey. We have to run. We have to warn them."

He’s ahead of me, panic stark on his boy’s features, racing back to our home. Picking up the hem of my skirt, I tug it free of snarling furze. Then, as I dash after him, the basket impedes my movement, snagging on my clothes and knocking me off-balance. Without a thought, I toss it to one side, sprinting freely now.

Running. Running hard. Running until my lungs burn and black spots dance behind my vision. My feet skitter and slide over dry slippery turf as I race down the hillside, Jeffrey just a little ahead of me.

I risk a look over my shoulder. The red sail is drawing closer. I can see the men in the ship now; black specks, some standing upright, looking forward. Some seated.

Oars pull, water spilling over the blades as the men heave. And the breeze, so sparse here over the land, fills the sail, propelling the ship over glittering waters and towards my people.

Occasionally, the sunlight glints on something; metallic, flashing bright.

Helmets?

Swords?

How many men?

Can I outrun them? Give the warning?

Jeffrey is too young, his legs too short to carry him quickly. He’s well ahead of me but overtaking him, I scoop him up, carrying him with me.

Slower now under my burden, cresting the hilltop, I look down on our settlement, with its homes and barns and sties, and the great hall, with its traitorous smoke coiling skyward from the exit-hole tucked into the thatch.

Chickens scratch in the earth. Pigs work through dirt, food-leavings and fallen leaves, snouts down. Geese graze, flapping wings at any foolish enough to approach their almost-grown offspring. It has been a good summer...

... until now...

... Our stock, well fed, are fat from succulent eating; it would have been a fine Yuletide come the dark months...

Would have been?

A group of the smaller children play some game with one of those inflated pig’s bladders, watched over by an old uncle. And Cedric, who was a great warrior in his day so they say, before a boar stole his right leg below the knee, is teaching archery to a group of the older boys.

The protecting stockade encloses the huddle of buildings; stout timbers, well-sharpened, facing outward.

Will that be enough?

And my sinking heart says it will not. The stockade will keep out wolves and bears, boars and foxes; but seasoned fighting men? Able to think. Able to plan. To use fire.

How many?

A score of men?

A score and ten?

More?

A shape stoops over the well, drawing water, Acca, my father’s brother. I'm screaming and waving.

Look at me...

So is Jeffrey, cradled in my arms, in his shrill boy’s voice.

Look at me... Look at me...

Acca glances towards us, then straightens up as we pelt down, yelling and pointing out and back across the bay.

And now, clearing the headland, the red sail hoves into view of the village.

Acca stiffens, raising a hand over his eyes as he stares seaward then, shouting and calling, he dashes into the hall. Moments later, chaos erupts; men and women spilling out, running this way and that.

Aealdwine, my grandmother’s brother, races for the gate, opening it wide, gesturing madly as we race down and past the woodland edge, over the open grass.

Others are snatching up the livestock, urging them indoors. Cedric, leaning on his crutch, is lining up the boys with their bows.

A few of the men have real swords and shields. Others are snatching up boar spears or axes. But most are arming themselves with whatever is to hand; hunting knives... staffs... One boy-almost-man carries the switch he uses to drive the oxen in their ploughs.

Farmers...