Eirik: A Time Travel Romance (Mists of Albion Book 1) Read online

  'Eirik'

  A Time Travel Romance

  By

  Joanna Bell

  © 2017 Joanna Bell

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

  Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Author Information

  Other Books by Joanna Bell:

  Chapter 1

  9th Century

  I know at once that something is off. The light is all wrong, for one thing. I didn't know what real darkness was until I became a regular visitor to Caistley – and now there is a strange orange glow coming from the direction of the village. A few seconds later, a sound my mind shies away from recognizing fills my ears.

  Screaming.

  Fire. It must be a fire. All I can think of as I start to stumble through the woods, down paths whose changing contours and curves have become unfamiliar to me in my absence, is Eadgar and his sister Willa. They're both young and strong, I tell myself. It's the old people and the little ones who are in the most danger.

  When I come to the clearing and see that my fears are true – the entire village seems to be on fire, the flames leaping up into the black night sky as huts and storage buildings combust – I don't even think of turning back. But just before charging forward I suddenly note that the figures I see running back and forth don't all seem to be fleeing. No. A lot of them seem to be – are they fighting?

  My blood, hot with adrenaline and fear, freezes instantly as my eyes pick out the larger figures carrying weapons – using weapons. I know who attacks villages like Caistley, burning and looting and murdering. I know it because I've heard Eadgar and Willa talk about them countless times, always in hushed tones and with eyes as big as saucers. Northmen. Vikings.

  Snippets of conversation come back to me. "They kill the babies, Paige. They slaughter them like they were lambs." "They burn the fields so those they don't kill die of starvation not a few moons later." "Wulfric says they cave in your skull with a stone axe if you try to escape, and then they use your blood to decorate their faces like demons."

  I'm rooted to the spot, absolutely torn between terror for my friends and, should I decline to run back to the tree and go home, terror for myself. I have no weapons. Even if I did, I'm no match for a Viking. I can't leave them to their fate, though. I can't. I know the woods around the village better than anyone, certainly better than a party of raiders from the north. If I can just find Willa and Eadgar we can hide in the undergrowth until –

  I am suddenly hanging in the air. Literally. I paddle my legs, seeking purchase on the ground, but my feet find none.

  "What the –" I shriek, twisting my body until a grip of such finality that I might have guessed it belonged to a god falls upon the back of my neck.

  "Stop struggling girl, or I'll –"

  But I don't stop struggling, because the voice is deep and male and heavily accented and I know at once that I am in more trouble than I have ever been in before. A moment later, in exchange for my continued desperate attempts to free myself, I get blackness.

  ***

  I wake up confused, with a throbbing headache, and it comes back to me quickly that I'm in Caistley, not River Forks, New York. I'm seated on the ground beside the village well, my hands are tied behind my back and I'm not alone. Other people with their hands tied behind their backs sit all around me, some of them bleeding and whimpering, others slumped forward as if they might be sleeping. I blink, trying to focus my vision on faces, but even if there was enough light to see properly almost everyone has their hair in the way, or is bloodied to the point of being unrecognizable.

  "Willa!" I whisper, waiting to see if there is any reply, any movement or sound of recognition, before saying it again, louder the second time. No one replies, and in exchange for my trouble I feel a sudden sharp blow on my left side, right in the ribs, and turn my head to see a man standing there, aiming to kick me again. I use my feet to scramble away, toppling over in my haste, but the man catches me easily, yanking me up by the scruff of my neck and raising his hand.

  "Leave it," a voice says behind him. "Not the women, Veigar."

  I don't get a look at who's speaking but I do find myself back on the ground again, among the other captives. I stay quiet and keep my head down, listening to the sound of my own heartbeat thudding in my ears. I've never been struck before – not like that – and the casual violence is shocking. Part of me expects someone to speak up, to remonstrate with Veigar, but the other captives do as I do and keep their mouths shut.

  At some point, it begins to rain gently – the kind of soft rain I remember from many an afternoon spent playing in the woods with Eadgar and Willa. Sometimes we would even designate one of us as a 'Northman' and play a variation of hide-and-seek that involved two of us hiding and the third person using a stick as an axe to 'chop' off the heads of the vanquished when he (or she) managed to find them. But nothing about sitting in the rain with my head – and now my ribs – aching is playful. Nor do I have the luxury of it all seeming unreal, the way it would to a normal person if they suddenly found themselves confronted by an actual Viking in, say, a parking lot outside the mall.

  Soon, the light of dawn is visible to the east and two men, who I can see now are dressed in skirt-like leather garments and boots made of furs and leather bindings, approach the pitiful group of captives. I watch out of the corner of my eye, too afraid to raise my head, as one of them nudges a man with his foot and the man falls neatly to the side, clearly dead. Caistley and the part of my life that has been lived here have exposed me to many things that modern people are not exposed to. I've watched them slaughtering a pig in November – the 'blood month.' I've heard the sounds and breathed in the scents of death, and I know it's an everyday occurrence in Caistley, as much a part of life as eating or tending the crops. But I haven't seen it up close like this yet. A dead body – an older man, someone's father. Nobody else is looking at it except me and I even I turn away when one of the Vikings begins to drag it away by the ankle and the head thuds against the stones that stick up out of the earth around the well.

  I try to listen as they speak to each other but they're too far away, their accents too heavy. They seem to be making plans, gesturing at the captives. My wrists are still tightly bound, and I can feel there's no hope of escap
e until someone removes the bindings. Sooner or later, though, I know they're going to have to do just that.

  Not that there is time to plan my escape because Veigar, the man who kicked me during the night, is suddenly among us, looking around, choosing people to drag to their feet and shove towards the smoking ruins of one of the nearby huts. When he reaches for me I force myself not to resist, desperate as I am not to give him an excuse to strike me again.

  Soon, there is a group of about ten of us standing side by side, waiting to find out what we have been chosen for. I look around me and realize we are all women, all between the ages of about 16 and 35. Willa, although she's 24 and of the appropriate age, is nowhere to be seen. Maybe she escaped? She's always been smarter than her brother and I, and she has children to protect now. Yes, she must have escaped. I don't allow other, darker possibilities to enter my mind, because I can sense it's not the time to draw attention to myself with weeping or trembling or acting out. All the women standing with me are as still as statues, and as silent.

  When Veigar is satisfied, after one more perusal of the captives, that he has everyone he wants, he leads us away from the wreckage of Caistley and down the path that leads to the sea. The wind picks up when we emerge onto the beach and my hair whips around my head, stinging my bare cheeks as I squint into the morning sun. Anchored in the bay, I see four wooden ships, of exactly the type I have seen before in history books. The Vikings are taking us away. I can't allow that to happen. I don't know where Caistley is, and in all my time there neither me, nor Eadgar or Willa have ever wandered beyond the natural boundaries of the village – the woods to south, the sea to the east and the marshes to the north and west. I stop walking. I can't get on one of those boats.

  "MOVE!"

  A shout from behind me and a push hard enough to send me flying into the sand, unable to break the fall with my hands. It's not Veigar this time but a different Viking, a short man with blond hair and a broad, ruddy face.

  I cry out in shock and fear as I'm yanked immediately to my feet and the man grabs a generous handful of my hair at the nape of my neck, jerking my head back and getting right up in my face. His eyes are as cold and gray as the sea.

  "Why are you fighting, girl? You're one of the lucky ones. The Jarl is going to have his pick of –"

  But I'm not listening. I'm struggling, working my hands back and forth in their bindings, panicking.

  "No," I gasp, desperate. "No, please. I can't leave! My father needs me. I can't – I don't know how to get back here. Please! I –"

  The Viking's expression changes as I beg him to free me, from mild annoyance to amusement tinged with curiosity.

  "You've got an accent - you not from here, girl? A foreigner! And a pretty one at that. Look at those teeth. I reckon the Jarl's going to give me ten barrels of ale when he lays eyes on you."

  "No," I plead. "Please! Please, if you let me go I can give you more than ale. I can give you –" I stop, realizing I don't actually have anything to offer. But I can't give up so easily. If they take me from Caistley, and I can't get back, then I'll be stuck in the past for good.

  Just as my captor is about to turn away I close my eyes and do something that makes my mouth go dry with fear. I step towards him and press my body against his, nestling my head into his chest, half-terrified he's going to respond positively and half-terrified he isn't.

  He waits for a moment before pushing me away with a heavy sigh. "No, girl. Not until the Jarl's made his choices."

  "But –"

  "Stop talking. I won't ask again."

  I stop talking. The Viking mentioned someone – a Jarl, was it? Someone important. Maybe I can talk to this Jarl? Maybe I can make a case?

  No. If I'm taken away from here, if I get a chance to beg this Jarl to set me free, it might already be too late. The Viking's grip on me has slackened, he doesn't think I – or anyone – will dare to flee. He's wrong.

  I make my move a few seconds later, because I know if I don't do it soon my nerve will desert me. I twist out of the Viking's hands and run across the sand, back towards the path that leads to the village and the woods and the tree that will take me home. My heart is in my throat, the fear so thick it's almost difficult to breathe.

  Fifteen feet? Twenty? That's about how far I make it before being swept off my feet by the blond man, who expertly grasps my hair and pulls my head from his arm when I move to sink my teeth into his flesh. I am filled with hopelessness as the total futility of my escape attempt – and my situation – sets in. I am going to go where these men want me to go, not where I want to go. The law here is simple physical power and I am no match for a young warrior.

  The Viking makes sure I'm held at a distance, to keep himself safe from my teeth. When he spots the fact that I'm emotional, he looks inexplicably surprised.

  "They don't usually cry," he comments to Veigar before looking back at me, as if he's trying to figure me out. "Look at the others, girl. They know they're lucky to be chosen. They're going to eat better now than they ever have in their lives. And here you are weeping like a child."

  "You might cry, too."

  "I wouldn't cry, girl. As I said, look at the other women – are they crying? What high estate have you come from where anything less than death is a reason to spill tears?"

  "They're not crying because they're too afraid to cry," I say quietly, feeling a kind of recklessness rising up inside me. If he takes me away from Caistley, it's over for me. I'll never see my dad again. I'll never see Emma again, or River Forks, or my mother's grave. I'll die is what I'll do, of a minor cut or a fever or any one of the countless minor things that become life-threatening the moment you step outside of the modern world. So what does it matter if my kidnapper is annoyed by me? Perhaps if I annoy him enough, he'll decide I'm not worth the trouble and leave me behind on the beach.

  "They're right to be afraid," the Viking tells me. "And you – I can't decide if you're an idiot or if you just don't understand what's happening here. You belong to us now – to our Jarl. What do you think your King would do with us if he captured us? Would he feed us and gives us furs when we're cold? I'm only speaking to you as a courtesy and yet I see you standing there with fire in your eyes, as if I don't hold your very life in my hands."

  Veigar approaches as his friend eyeballs me and shoves me forward, angry at my escape attempt. And when I'm on one of the ships, soaked to the waist by the cold saltwater I've just been dragged through and only barely able to see the shore over the row of shields tied along the side, I concentrate on details. I've never seen Caistley from this vantage point – in fact Caistley itself isn't even visible. All I see is trees and beach.

  This probably looks like every other stretch of shoreline along the coast. There are no structures, no lighthouses. You won't be able to find your way back here!

  I force the panicked thoughts aside and search, desperately, for something to remember the scene by. The bay. We are in a small, protected bay. The beach is sandy, crescent-shaped. A sandy beach and a bay, a backdrop of trees. It's not much but, should I find myself free at any point, at least I'll be able to narrow it down a little.

  We sail north, hugging the coastline – which is a good thing for me. If we stay with the coast, then all I have to do is head south again when the time comes.

  If the time comes. Although there is a feeling of heavy dread in my chest, I cannot allow it to take over. There will be a chance to escape. There will probably be many chances. I just need to be smart and patient, I need to wait for the right one.

  The wind blows relentlessly as the ship cuts through the water and I turn my head to look at the woman sitting next to me.

  "Where are they taking us?" I ask, realizing too late that she probably doesn't have any more of an idea what's happening than I do. "Do you know Willa and –"

  The woman shakes her head at me quickly, eying one of the Vikings, and I understand she doesn't want to talk. I lean back against the sack of grain I'm propped up ag
ainst and close my eyes.

  Two irreconcilable facts:

  1. This can't be happening.

  2. This is happening.

  I've missed Caistley before, when I've been away for long periods of time. I've even felt something akin to homesickness for it – I have been visiting since I was 5 years old, after all. But as a Viking ship takes me further and further away from my only route back home, I feel for perhaps the first time the profound foreignness of the place. I don't belong here. And I certainly cannot stay for long.

  Chapter 2

  21st Century

  My mother died on February 15th, 2001, when I was 5 years old. Her illness was brief and I was told very little of it, although I later came to understand it was cancer, that it had been caught late, and that she hadn't wanted me to see her in the hospital. She didn't want me to be scared.

  And I wasn't scared, not at first. At first I was just shocked, as silent and blinking as a person who has just been hit – but not killed – by the sound-wave of a bomb as it cracks over their head and leaves a ringing in their ears. Years later, and the ringing still hasn't stopped.

  And, like a survivor of a bomb blast, I've had to deal with the bodies. My father, for one. I suppose you could say he's still alive. He breathes, he eats – every now and again he speaks to me. But his life ended that day as surely as my mother's did. I was the sole real witness to my handsome, funny, playful dad's shrinking into himself over the course of the next few years, until the drapes were no longer opened and I learned how to prepare my own meals – and his.

  Every therapist I've ever had has tried to get me to admit that I am angry at my father, but I don't think I am. It seems to me that my father is no different than one of those people you see in a video clip from a warzone – bloodied, broken, literally incapable of getting up and walking away from the wreckage. My father couldn't walk away from it, because he was it. Human wreckage.

  I might have been human wreckage too, if not for the fact of being 5 years old and possessed of the inborn resilience of a person young enough to bend and twist with the fates, like a slender green branch in a high wind.