Ragnar: A Time Travel Romance (Mists of Albion Book 2) Read online

  "What is this?" I asked, and at once I felt a number of pairs of eyes on me.

  And just as quickly as the attention had focused on me it was swept away, and onto a new target when someone walked in through the leather flap behind me. The girls bearing bread and strange drinks immediately bowed their heads respectfully, followed by the other prisoners. All except me, because I still hadn't been in the past long enough to learn the reflexive social niceties of the place. I turned around, shielding my eyes from the bright morning light and saw, silhouetted in the doorway, a broad and familiar figure. Ragnar.

  "It's ale, girl," he said, taking the mug from my hands and draining it before handing it back to one of the servant girls with a nod to fill it again. "And if you knew what was good for you, you'd take your sustenance before questioning its bringers."

  "Ale?" I asked, confused. "For breakfast?"

  Were the Vikings trying to get the prisoners drunk? And if so, why? I'd thought we were going to be used to work, but how could we work efficiently if we were all stumbling around wasted? These questions and more ran through my mind, distracting me from the fact that there was a new tension in the air. A few moments later, as the Jarl sternly declined to answer my question, I looked around to discover that everyone was staring at me.

  "What?" I asked, mildly annoyed. "I just asked a question. I was just wondering why –"

  "COME WITH ME!"

  Before I even realized what was happening, Ragnar had clamped one of his enormously strong hands onto my arm and whisked me out into the chilly morning.

  "What are you doing?" I protested, trying unsuccessfully to twist my arm out of his grip as a natural anger at being hauled away like a misbehaving toddler rose up in my chest. "Let me go! What the fuck are you – I just asked a question! ALL I DID WAS ASK A – OH! Oh my GOD!"

  Ragnar, leader of this freezing and godforsaken camp, seemingly beloved and respected by his people, had plunged my face full-on into a fresh snowdrift. And now he was standing back, trying not to laugh at me as I panted and clenched my fists with the shock of the cold snow.

  Like my mother, I don't lose my temper often. There are people who have known me for years who have never seen me lose it. But when I do - again, just like my mum – I really do. And nothing infuriates me more than people who seem to think it's fine for them to treat others in a way that, were the same treatment meted out to them, would make them start ripping off heads. What right did Ragnar have to shove my face in a snow-bank? What universal set of laws allowed him to humiliate me like that for asking a simple question?

  "Oh my God," I whispered a second time, when my ability to speak returned. "Did you really just rub my face in the snow for asking a question, Ragnar? Did that really just –"

  I felt my head suddenly jerked back, then, and a sharp pain at the nape of my neck. The Viking had a handful of my hair clutched tightly in his hand, and he was leaning in very close to my face now, close enough so I could see the individual strands of dark copper-colored stubble on his dimpled chin.

  "Jarl," he whispered to me, and I could see from the look on his face that he was no longer amused in any way by what was happening between us. "You will address me, girl, as Jarl. Do you understand that you have no status here? That whoever you were where you came from, you are no longer that person here, with us? You're not even a thrall here! You're a prisoner, of no more value than a pig. Less value, I reckon, as we can't make tasty hams out of you. Many a Jarl would have killed you for speaking to me the way you just spoke to me in that –"

  I made a sound then, halfway between a laugh – because it was all so absurd, and a sob – because I could tell the Jarl wasn't joking, not even a little. My anger was aimed as much at myself as it was at him and his manhandling. I needed to get home. I was in the 9th century. I should have been passive, acquiescent, waiting for my moment quietly and without giving any of the Vikings a hint that I even wanted to leave.

  "I'm sorry," I said, flicking my eyes down so as not to seem so confrontational. "I didn't mean to offend you – or anyone. It's just that we don't drink ale for breakfast where I'm from and I, um –"

  "You should be grateful for the ale –"

  "Yes, I'm sor –"

  "Even as you apologize you speak over me!" Ragnar shouted, exasperated. "The water isn't always good here, girl. The ale saves us the upset bellies, sometimes worse. It's daytime ale, light and less prone to making a man sleepy or wayward. Do you think we spend our days drunk?"

  "No," I shook my head vigorously. "No of course not. I – " I paused, because that actually was what I'd thought. I remembered some of my studies, though, as Ragnar told me the ale they drank in the daytime was weak. People in the past had drunk mildly alcoholic drinks over plain water, because the process of turning them mildly alcoholic tended to kill off the bugs that caused illness. I knew none of the Vikings would be able to tell me precisely why the ale was safer to drink than water, but they knew it was and that was all that mattered.

  "I'm sorry," I repeated. "It was my mistake. I didn't understand. I'm sorry, Ragnar."

  "Jarl. You must address me as Jarl, girl, it's as it is."

  It's as it is. I'd heard one of the men on our trek back to the Viking camp the day before use the odd phrasing. "Yes," I said softly. "Yes, Jarl."

  As hard as I tried, though, it was impossible for me to keep the fact that I was deeply offended by what had just happened entirely out of my body language. When Jarl Ragnar loosened his hand on my hair and helped me to stand up straight again there was a stiffness in my body that I just couldn't force away.

  "You're so angry, Emma," he commented, and I saw that his own anger seemed to be gone. Perhaps the freedom to shove the person who made him angry into a snowdrift helped with that? "I don't know that I've ever met a woman so willing to spit fire at such small things."

  Small things?! I wanted to shout. No, I didn't want to shout. I wanted to suddenly develop the strength to drag his ass out of a roomful of people and chuck him into the snow. Then we'd see how 'small' he really thought those things were.

  "Look at you," he laughed, touching my cheek – gently that time. "Your cheeks burn pink. Even as you speak softly, I see the truth in your face. You're beautiful."

  It took me a few seconds to understand that Jarl Ragnar had, in fact, just thrown in a casual 'you're beautiful' at the end of his comment. It threw me off balance, too. That melting sensation came over me the way it does when someone – especially an attractive male someone – pays you a compliment. I didn't want to feel that way about a man who'd just rubbed my face in the snow.

  "Oh," I said, and then coughed because I didn't know what else to say right away. "Um. Well –"

  He laughed again and again there was a maddening softening somewhere inside me at the sound of it. "Willing to fight a Jarl in the snow, but not willing to hear herself called beautiful?" He smiled. "Perhaps you're no woman at all?"

  "It's just odd," I said. "For you to call me that – what you just called me – after I thought you were going to rip my head off."

  Ragnar removed a large, dark fur from around his shoulders, revealing another one directly beneath it. "Here," he said, wrapping it around me. "I brought this for you. Are you hungry, Emma? I can't offer much, not during this season, but we have some dried fish in the feasting hall, and some salted pork left over from the feast last night. Would you like some?"

  I looked up – because everyone had to look up to Ragnar, the man was insanely tall – and tried to figure him out. Was he toying with me?

  "What is it?" He asked as he began to lead me to the feasting hall. "You need to learn to take a gift when it's offered, girl."

  He was right. I did need to learn how to do that. We weren't far from the tree, but I had no idea how many days it was going to be before I could get back to it – I needed to keep up my strength.

  The feasting hall was a sturdier building than the one in which I'd spent the night, long and narrow and built of logs no
t more than 3 or 4 inches in diameter. It was gloomy inside, the way all the Viking dwellings were without electrical light, and lit with the chunky, slightly off-smelling candles that dripped a greasy substance onto the earth underneath them.

  The Jarl sat me down at a long wooden table and signaled to a woman standing near the door. "Bring her what she wants," he said. "Bread, dried fish or pork. And ale," he grinned down at me. "The girl loves ale."

  And with that, he left. Make no mistake, I was genuinely grateful for the opportunity not just to eat but to sit in a warm-ish building (a fire blazed in a stone fire-pit not ten feet away from me), but it wasn't until Jarl Ragnar left that I realized I'd been expecting him to eat with me.

  "Aye," said the woman who had been instructed to bring me what I wanted. "He's a pretty one, isn't he? Don't look so sad, he never does this – not even with the Northwomen!"

  "Is that true?" I asked, annoyed with myself for feeling so pleased.

  The woman nodded. "It is. Our Jarl has taken a shine to a prisoner – it is the talk of the camp this morning! Now – do you want bread and butter, too?"

  Pleased or not, I ate with one thing on my mind and that was getting back to 2017 and calling my friends and family, who by now would surely be convinced something terrible had happened. Jarl Ragnar was gorgeous, and it was impossible not to be taken in by the sense of natural authority he effortlessly projected, but flirtation could not be my priority. As I tentatively chewed on one of the dried fish the Viking woman brought me, I resolved to spend the rest of the day scouting the camp. I didn't know the exact route back to the tree, but I knew it was close – and I knew that the Vikings weren't just going to let me go. Which meant I had to learn a little about their routines and just how secure their encampment was.

  The second I stepped outside of the feasting hall, though, I was met with a stout, barrel-chested man who, after I brushed past him, began to follow me closely. I picked up my pace – he matched it. I took a sudden turn down a path worn into the frozen grass – he took the same sudden turn.

  I spun around then, eyebrows raised. "What?"

  "Jarl Ragnar says I'm to watch the prisoner," he replied, and something about the slow pace at which the words left his mouth told me he might not be all there, "and make sure she doesn't run away. I am Kiarr."

  I sighed. But I kept walking. So far, Kiarr had followed me. Perhaps I could still get a sense of the boundaries of the Viking settlement, and the paths that led away from it, with my new companion on my heels.

  No such luck. The minute I left the tight arrangement of dwellings and headed away, Kiarr grabbed my wrist and stopped me. He wasn't going to negotiate, either, I could see as much on his face. His Jarl had given him a task to do and he was going to do it.

  "Well what am I supposed to do?" I asked him. "Where am I supposed to go? I was only trying to go for a little walk after break –"

  "No walking."

  "OK," I agreed. "No walking. Fine. So, as I said, what am I supposed to do?"

  Kiarr shrugged at that and held his ground. It didn't matter what I did, as long as it didn't involve stepping outside the boundaries of the settlement. If that was the case, I wanted to be somewhere close to a fire. Winter's cold fingers were already creeping underneath my tunic and caressing the back of my neck.

  As it was obvious Kiarr wasn't going to be any help I just turned around and headed back to where we'd just come from, hoping to find the prisoner's sleeping quarters again, hopefully with a roaring fire inside. But none of the buildings had markings or signs of what their function was, so I mostly just wandered around, not even having to pretend I was lost, and kept my eyes and ears on full alert for information.

  It was as passed one of the larger dwellings that I came to a sudden stop when I thought I heard a certain word being spoken inside it.

  "Eirik."

  Eirik. I knew that word. I knew that name. The Viking who fathered Paige's baby, the reason she came back to this place. I pretended to be examining my foot so I could lean in closer and try to hear more. And upon doing so I realized that the voice I could hear belonged to Jarl Ragnar.

  That was all I needed to know. I strode to the leather flap that functioned as a door, pulled it back, and walked inside.

  "Rag – uh, Jarl?"

  It was not well lit inside the little dwelling, but I could see two figures, one sitting on a wooden chair, the other sprawled out on a pile of furs. The second figure was unmistakably Ragnar, as no one else was that size. As for the second, I had no idea. And both were looking at me.

  "Kiarr!" The Jarl shouted and at once my companion entered, lowering his head in Ragnar's direction.

  "Yes, Jarl?"

  "Why is she in here? Did I ask you to let her into my private –"

  Jarl Ragnar didn't even have to finish his sentence before Kiarr was dragging me away.

  "Wait!" I screeched. "Just wait! Hold on! I know the person you're talking about. Eirik. I know Eirik!"

  I didn't know Eirik. I didn't even know if they were talking about the same Eirik I had in mind. But if they were, then there was a chance, perhaps, for me to hear news of my friend.

  "Stop," the Jarl commanded Kiarr, who immediately did just that. "What is it you say, Emma? You know Jarl Eirik? But you're not one of us, how is it that you know –"

  "I know his, uh, his wife. Yes, his wife – Paige, she is a very close friend of mine. We –"

  Ragnar held up one of his big, scarred hands, shutting me up, and turned to the man sitting next to him. "Did Jarl Eirik marry? Do we know who?"

  I didn't actually know if Paige and Eirik were married, but I suspected that the Vikings would be confused by a term like 'baby daddy.' Marriage made it sound more serious, and even if they hadn't married, I needed to say whatever I could to increase the likelihood of hearing from – or maybe even seeing – Paige. I missed her – quite a bit more than I was willing to admit. I wanted to apologize more fully than I had done for disbelieving her when she first told me about Caistley. Also, I wanted her advice and maybe her help to get home. She knew this place and its people far better than I did.

  The man sitting with Jarl Ragnar – smaller by quite a bit but with an air of seriousness about him – nodded. "At the end of the summer, I believe. She's given him a baby, a –"

  "A son!" I broke in, desperate to prove I wasn't just making things up. "A boy, Paige had a boy. His name is Eirik, too."

  Ragnar looked to the other man again and he nodded.

  "Yes, I believe it was a son. And Eirik, same as his father. How is it that you know these things, girl?"

  I saw something in Jarl Ragnar's body language when his companion addressed me casually. A slight blanching, maybe? Whatever it was, the other man saw it, too, because he immediately straightened his back and asked me again, more respectfully the second time.

  "Please tell us how it is you know Jarl Eirik."

  "This is Fiske," Ragnar told me, getting to his feet and leading me to a second chair. "One of my closest advisors. Now please, tell us of your relationship with Jarl Eirik."

  "I – uh, well the truth is I don't know Jarl Eirik. It's his wife I know. Paige. We're from the same, um, place."

  "I heard Jarl Eirik married a foreigner," Fiske weighed in. "Not one of the East Angles, either – a real foreigner. I seem to remember some talk of her being from the south, across the sea. Perhaps even the southeast."

  "The southeast?" Ragnar replied, chuckling. "Across the sea to the southeast? It's impossible. But what you say about the south could be truth – this one is not an East Angle herself, nor a Northwoman. She hasn't been forthcoming on the point of her homeland."

  Fiske glanced up at me again, and now my eyes had adjusted to the low light I could see the penetrating intelligence in his gaze. I was being appraised, judged to be trustworthy – or not. "Are you and this Paige from the same place, then, is that it?" He asked quietly.

  I knew where the questioning was going, but I had to give the an
swer I did, because I needed to see Paige. I needed Ragnar and his advisors to believe it was important.

  "Yes," I replied.

  "And where is this place?"

  "It's – it's quite far away," I stammered, before latching onto something Fiske had said. "The south, as you said. Across the sea. Yes, the south."

  "Why do you sound like you're just repeating what I said a moment ago?" He shot back. He wasn't speaking loudly or aggressively, but I knew I was being interrogated all the same.

  I coughed and swallowed, forcing the breath slowly out of my lungs, trying to gather myself. "I'm not repeating you," I responded a few seconds later. "I am from the south, across the sea. So is Paige."

  Fiske stared at me, saying nothing. He stared at me for so long I started to fidget with discomfort. Eventually he seemed to have gleaned something about me that provided him with a measure of reassurance and he gave me a quick nod. "Well then, perhaps we'll be able to check your story soon, as Jarl Ragnar is to travel north to meet with Jarl Eirik."

  I bit my lower lip and closed my eyes briefly, refusing to show how happy Fiske's words had just made me. I knew one thing, as the Vikings told me of their upcoming journey and I tried to react casually: if I couldn't find my way back to the tree before they left to go north, then I had to go with them. I had to see Paige.

  "You're going to meet with them?" I asked, to make sure I wasn't misunderstanding something. "To meet with Eirik – and Paige?"

  "Aye, girl," Ragnar started, but just as he was about to continue Fiske coughed pointedly.

  "Jarl, perhaps it's best if we leave discussion of your plans until later?"

  The man was small and pale next to Ragnar – his mousey-brown hair thin on his scalp and his hands and fingers delicate and fine, like a woman's. It's not that I thought Fiske hostile, not exactly. It's that I sensed an utter focus on the tasks at hand – a focus I did not quite sense from Ragnar himself – not when I was around, anyway.