Ease The Dawn

Chapter 2

In the shade of a canopy and upon a carved wooden chair, Ivar sat like a king. With a horn full of mead, he sipped away surrounded by members of his army, The Great Heathen Army. Careful not to scratch the skin of his forehead with his leather cuffed hands, he wiped away beads of sweat forming from the heat of the English summer. The excitement for his plans of taking the King's sister was distracting him, momentarily, from the sharp ache in his braced legs. He almost felt giddy and, for once, in a mood for entertainment other than raiding and running his blade through the heads of Christians.

The returning party moved toward the head of the crowd where Ivar, their leader, sat waiting. At the front of the group was Hvitserk, looking angry and dragging along a whisper of a cloaked form followed by Ivar's warriors, Gussr and Loni. The bloodied cloth wrapped around Hvitserk's arm was not missed by Ivar, nor the heavy cloak worn in the intense heat by the captive.

Ah, he thought, an attempt to hide her body. These Christian women were so chaste, he chuckled to himself. Yet the long blue garment did little to deter his men from whooping and yelling obscenities at her, grunting and wriggling their tongues between their fingers, pretending to hump the air. Joyously, Ivar laughed along with their crude mockery.

Stopping in front of him, Hvitserk flashed a look of annoyance but said nothing, waiting for Ivar to address them.

"Hvitserk... did you have difficulty with her men?" he clicked his tongue and jerked his head as if to taunt. "Looks like your lack of training is causing you strife."

"It was not the guard. This one proved feisty," Hvitserk replied, shoving her forward to make his point.

Whipping her arm away, she attempted to pull free from his hard grip on her elbow but stilled quickly realizing she was surrounded by dozens of armed men. Without question, there was no escape for a captive there.

Raising his eyebrows, Ivar pursed his lips in surprise. "This might prove more delightful than I thought." Straightening on his chair, he lifted his chin just enough to maintain his look of arrogance. "Release her," he nodded.

Leaning in, Hvitserk pressed his lips to the side of her cloaked ear. "Do not be foolish pretty one."

Dropping his hand, she took a step away, seemingly to shake off the feel of his touch.

Raising his palms to the air, Ivar addressed his men theatrically in Norse, "Well, let us take a look at her."

She did not move. Stood motionless, causing a chorus of whistles and laughter to erupt from the heathen audience. Dropping his chin slightly, Ivar's expression hardened and he narrowed his eyes.

"Take off your cloak!" he barked in her native tongue.

"I have lost my marital headdress. I will keep my cape on, thank you," she replied in a surprisingly even tone.

At that, Ivar's head shot back and his eyes widened; not expecting the clear voice that replied from the small frame before him. He should hit her with his ax, he thought, teach her a lesson in front of his men but he was too amused by her boldness. Feigning a sensitive tone, he translated her response to his men which was met, again, with roaring laughter and guttural cheers. Ivar continued, patronizingly, in English.

"I do understand Princess, but I assure you, I will not be offended or report this break in your custom," he grinned to the men on either side of his chair.

Exhaling slowly, her small hands begun to untie the string at her neck. Bowing gently, she pushed the blue garment off her head. It slipped past her shoulders and she caught it, holding it under one arm. Looking up, she faced Ivar's scrutiny.

Not expecting such a face, he immediately sobered, straightening his back, his expression becoming serious as his eyes skipped over her features. Standing before him was no Viking. With warm ivory skin and a delicate nose, she had a face shaped like a heart with perfectly plump, peach colored lips. Her unfaltering eyes were a soft blue framed by long lashes darker than her hair. Her hair! Unlike he had ever seen on any woman in Kattegat. It was kissed with the tone of a strawberry, giving her fair locks a copper hue under the direct sun. It hung over her shoulder in a single loose plate, nearly hitting her waist and the tousled curl gave her otherwise controlled and refined appearance a libertine air. She was beautiful, elegant, even enchanting. And tiny! The smallest grown woman he had ever seen.

Swallowing, he clenched his teeth together, aware of his kindled response but unable to prevent his eyes from wandering over her petite form. But standing before him, she did not falter and he could not be seen to either.

Pushing himself up from his chair, he handed his drink to the man next and slipped his crutch under his arm, taking a few steps toward her. Her eyes lowered to look at his braces and a surge of irrigation shot through him.

"Do you know who I am?" he snapped, not prepared to play nice.

"I do, My Lord," she replied quietly.

A zing ran down his spine being addressed in such a way; he had never been called that by anyone. Prince Ivar and Master, of course, but this was new. All of this was new. Glancing at the thick silver cross hanging around her delicate neck and resting just above the hint of her breasts, he was surprised by the deep cut of her dress. For such a poise Christian, he expected more modesty.

"And tell me, Princess, how do you know me?" he asked proudly, loving how quickly his reputation was spreading.

"We have met before, My Lord. I watched you play chess with my brother."

Again, unprepared, he became serious and looked up to the sky, searching his memory. He had no recollection of her. How was that possible, he wondered? She would have been young when he had been there as a captive. He, himself, had been young, barely sixteen at the time and she was surely three or four years younger. What a difference eight years can make he all but marvelled, taking in a deep breath, becoming aware of his men's attention.

"Leave me. We are done for now," he commanded in Norse, turning away and moving toward his chair.

Stepping back to her side, Hvitserk grabbed her again by the elbow. "Come, my pretty, we have a special tent set up for you," he sneered, his voice low and threatening, clearly not over his injury.

"Wait," Ivar barked. "No." He swivelled back to address them. "Take her to my tent. The Princess is too...." he paused, "fetching...to be left to you wolves." Adjusting his crutch under his arm, he raised a finger, pointing at his brother. "She must remain unharmed, Hvitserk, to be of any value in negotiations."

"And you will not harm her?" Hvitserk scoffed, clearly amused.

"Hvitserk, do you think me an animal?" Ivar preened, flashing a toothy smile.

Aethelswith's eyes shot wide at his startling expression. Subtly, she scanned the animated brutes surrounding her, feeling their hungry, salacious eyes. Looking back to Ivar, she lifted her blue cloak, crossing her arms and squeezing it tightly to her chest. Lowering her gaze, she stared at the ground.

"Good girl," Ivar chided before letting out a high pitch laugh.