Vaenn

Chapter One

For what must've been the hundredth time that day, Lady Vaenn of Giseldone circled the solar, her ever quickening footsteps kicking the floor's dried rushes into a dusty cloud of chaff.

Where the sod was Preck?

In a siege of aggravation, she picked up the woolen skirts of her russet kirtle and stomped to the open portal. After flicking her white coif out the way, she peered down the long length of the tower's dimly lit corridor.

Empty.

Fie on her weakness, anyway! Giving into impatience was a fool's game. Had Preck indeed been headed in the direction of the solar, his approach would've made itself known from a furlong away. The pompous arse did so enjoy making the grand entrance. Wherever he went, be it day or night or somewhere in-between, a minimum of six trumpeters would follow after him, each blowing sycophant heralding his every step, even if that every step landed him in a steaming pile of wild boar dung.

She could only wish.

Regardless of the prestige Preck enjoyed in his combined position of castle physician/embalmer his lateness was inexcusable. She'd summoned the Council's most esteemed member early that morn. 'Twas now late afternoon and he'd yet to make an appearance. His disrespect for her position as the overlord's lady wife amounted to an unspoken warning if ever there was one:

Vaenn's continued authority here was drawing to an end.

Not unexpected.

A castle's walls were two-stone thick, very nearly impenetrable to an invader's slings and arrows. Within its torch-lit hallways, however, news traveled as fast as a cat's piss. By now, everyone within the keep would've heard of her beloved's passing. Even now, revolt was most likely in the air.

A brewing insurrection would explain the embalmer's delay. Verily, if his brazen disrespect for her position was any indication of things to come, she'd be done for this very day. Unfortunately, packing her traveling chest and beating a hasty retreat from the land was out of the question:

She had a promise to keep. Her beloved had expressed a different destiny for her and she was duty-bound to observe his last edict.

And Thor help her, what an edict he'd put forth.

For now, though, she must attend to Lord Reynard's final resting place. As a Viking, she would've preferred to observe Norse tradition and order the construction of a ceremonial pyre. Something truly grand, built either on the land or floating upon the sea. In a glorious bonfire befitting a hero, the brave chieftain she'd wed would've sought out his reward in Valhalla...

That was not to be. In this land, custom dictated otherwise. Here, the castle physician in charge of embalming would remove the overlord's entrails, treat them with medicinal plants and salt to prevent decay, and then place them in a metal coffer for future ceremonial viewings. The empty shell that remained would get buried in the dirt.

So bloody cold! And to think her folk were called uncivilized pagans...

If only her beloved husband was alive to see her vexation. He'd laugh at her slipped composure. How many times had he complained: "Milady, you are as guarded as a dungeon! Never do I know your true thoughts."

He'd spoken the truth. Her warrior parents had taught her to keep all her feelings - especially fear - locked away inside. Not a peep did she make during enemy raids on her fishing village. Silence increased odds of survival.

Hand-to-hand combat was another matter. Then, she'd swing her battle axe whilst spewing the saltiest of oaths, vulgar epithets worthy of a barbarian swine-herder. Slash! She'd split an adversary's belly wide and then smear his gushing blood all over her face, coating her lips until crimson stained her teeth.

Praise Thor! Oft did she miss those days of old.

Ten years after her longboat landing here much had changed in her adopted country. Vikings like herself no longer raided as once they did, not since William, Duke of Normandy, conquered the land. Now moat-encircled fortresses acted as deterrent against such invasions. On the roads, royally assigned sheriffs enforced the new Norman law.

My, my, my! The list of advancements went on and on. 'Twas sodding difficult to keep track of them all. As for herself, Vaenn had become a proper lady of twenty-one years, the wife of a much revered noble. At least for now, she called a splendid keep built high on a cliff overlooking the sea her home.

Thor only knew where she'd reside in a twelvemonth. Perchance under a lichen-covered rock with the trolls somewhere...

Footsteps out in corridor! Old battling habits did die hard and so Vaenn took her well-honed dagger in hand. A wait-and-see approach first, then she'd let the blade fly.

Or not. Her course of action was dependent upon the visitor and the nature of his business with her.

At any rate, there was no reason for haste. Her aim was true and unfailingly directed at an adversary's heart.

Lisim entered the solar. As if she hadn't just come within a hair's breadth of the afterlife, the buxom servant casually displayed the pile of neatly rolled linen bandages carried in her beefy arms. "See here, milady - for wrapping the corpse's remains."

Vaenn swallowed her gasp. Corpse?

What a horrid thing to say! Shocking enough to think the word to herself without having to hear it spoken aloud by someone else. 'Twas much too soon to talk of Lord Reynard in such a manner as that.

She'd not even sewn a black mourning coif to cover her head yet. And why would she have done so? The last she'd checked, his flesh was still warm to the touch, proving her husband was hardly dead at all.

"Ye be a widow now, milady. Ye must plan ahead. Life goes on."

The servant's voice grated. 'Twas too loud. Loud enough to wake the dead. Though not loud enough to awaken Lord Reynard, still lying stiff and still on the bed.

Disbelief squeezing her heart, Vaenn sheathed her blade within her woolen hose. "Hearken to my words here, Lisim - I am no 'milady' anymore. Lord Reynard's death marked the end of my title."

"The very reason ye must plan ahead, milady. Amongst the nobility - be they castellan, count, duke or earl - there be a move afoot to evict you from this tower."

Vaenn nodded. "Who is to take charge?"

The servant's strident voice fell to a hush. "Until the next overlord be decided upon, a temporary steward appointed by the King's Council will oversee the running of this keep."

And Lisim would know. Neither scurrilous nor malicious nor a spy with her ear pressed to every portal, the servant simply was in the position to be in the right place at the right time to overhear matters of some delicacy. Above such petty manipulations as bribery or threats, Lisim's habit was to pick and choose who to pass the information she gleaned onto.

For some reason, Vaenn had Lisim's ear. And the servant's frankness...regardless of how harsh.

"As a childless widow, ye'd have no part to play in future governance here, milady. And what is worse..."

Vaenn held up her hand. "I know. I know. I am naught but a captured Viking thrall. I've heard it all before. Many, many a time. As a former Raider and a female too - I have no worth."

'Twas not so where she came from. Women had worth in her homeland. Down through the ages, the Danes had been seafarers, explorers to the very core. When they returned to their ice-capped homeland, they'd eke out a living trading bear furs and such. Eventually, an expanding population and a limited diet of oats and rye and cabbage drove the villagers to take up weapons and do battle for additional farming land elsewhere, preferably in a warmer clime. Within a single generation, her clan had earned a reputation for pillage and plunder. Watching babes die of starvation year-after-year will do that to even a peace-loving folk...

Although just a girl at the time, Vaenn acted as scout for the raid upon Giseldone, a simple timber settlement overlooking the water back then. Alas, as her clan scaled the rocks by the sea, archers picked them off, one-by-one. She alone survived the assault. With a spear lodged in her ankle, she clung to life. 'Twas Lord Reynard, himself, who found her lying in a pool of her own blood and tended to her wound right there and then. Afterwards, as if she were precious cargo, not the whelp of the universally despised raiders, the overlord scooped her up into his arms and carried her to his motte-and-bailey.

Regardless of his gentleness, she'd hated him back then.

And why would she not?

The overlord had not only killed her immediate kin, he'd wiped out the whole of her clan.