Fear of the invading Vikings, which had always simmered below the surface of cool indignation assumed by my father's court, had finally erupted into hysterics. Servants scrambled to gather up what valuables and supplies they could salvage from my room, moving with such fervor that their fingers fumbled on the smaller items. Rings and bracelets were dropped, though few stooped to retrieve them for fear that those previous moments would cost them the chance to evacuate with the rest of the villa.
The steam rising from a small teacup at my bedside eventually drifted off, as did those in the villa. Within the span of a few moments it had been successfully evacuated and only the sound of the fire crackling kept me company. Even the birds had fallen silent, their practiced melodies now forgotten in the deafening silence of a ghost town. From my window I could see the edges of the courtyard, as well as the broad field and forests that surrounded the villa. All was still like the eye of a tempest.
My grey eyes drifted to the now cold concoction in the cup as particles of dust settled on its surface like miniature snowflakes. I missed the stark beauty of winter, how it drained the life of every living thing and forced the trees into remission. It always drew out the worst in my ever-present cough, but nothing could dampen the peacefulness of the dead of winter.
Still, I feared the inky liquid in that petite cup that seemed so unassuming. An ignorant soul might think it was an evening cup of tea left too long, though lacings of arsenic suggested otherwise. My skin had grown pallid and hands clammy from the thought of never laying eyes on another winter again, but the needles of pain in my lungs begged for a swift end.
I had heard arsenic was a painful yet quick way out, and still I feared it. I thought I was ready, but the unwillingness of my fingers to clasp the shallow cap proved otherwise.
"What are you waiting on, Orlan?" Queried the familiar voice behind me. My gut immediately tensed at the gentle resignation in my father's voice, though the words might have seemed harsh. I turned my head slightly and let a curtain of limp hair cover my stained cheeks.
My mouth was unbearably dry and I struggled with the words, "Forgive me, Father. I was only waiting for the tea to cool."
An ironic smirk drew across his face at the remark, seeing through the obvious lie. It seemed the shallow niceties ran in the family and still seemed to amuse him to a degree. His shallow set eyes looked through the window of my room that held a lovely view of the summer fields. In the distance we could see dark shapes emerge from the distant tree line like dark, eerie spectres. From what my weakening eyes could make out, it appeared a horse-drawn chariot was leading the procession.
I felt my breath hitch in my throat.
"Well, daughter, you'd better get on with it before the Northmen arrive," he said with a lack lustre voice that tapered off towards the end. I turned to look him in the eye, but he had already dropped them to the ground.
The castle was unnervingly silent and so we were left in our own strangling silence. Father opened his mouth as if to say something, but not a sound left his lips. So he patted the doorframe and left with a weak nod, briefly looking over his shoulder as he did so.
"I shall be in the throne room with bishop should you need me," he muttered over his shoulder before slinking off to the throne room, taking the faint stench of alcohol with him.
Perhaps I should have accepted his offer and drowned myself in wine before consuming the concoction that would end it all. End it for me, that is. The world would go on without me; summer would fall, winter would rise; new life would be brought forth, and the elderly would die. No, the world would not be any better or worse without me. Aethulwulf was rightfully king, and his ill, un-married little sister would be forgotten as a minor martyr of Wessex.
If that.
I turned my attention back to the window to watch the Northmen advance, their once blurry figures coming into focus as they drew near to the villa. I stepped closer to the window to watch them pour into the courtyard, like muddy rainwater into a ditch. My legs felt weak and shaky from my recent leaching, so I lent against the broad window sill, staring down. A few wielding spears entered the secondary walls and emerged with shouts and howls.
"De har flyktet!" One of the men donning yellow bellowed, followed by shouting from the remainder of the heathen army.
It took my mind a few moments to process the words, and could only translate 'they have', as the final word was foreign to me. Though I could assume he meant 'left'. Father had bid Aethulwulf and I to learn Norse, and in spite of my older brother's adamant refusal to even hear the language, I had little else to fill my time with. I did not admire their culture, fashion or food, for it was boorish and somewhat plain. Now the Spaniards were a civilisation worth admiring for their colour and sweet-smelling spices, and the way their language rolled off their tongue like spoken poetry. Norse was guttural and harsh, so unlike anything I had heard before.
Nonetheless some of my tutoring remained, even if I would not be around long to use it much.
I suppose it was then that I should've had the common sense to simply drink the tea in one go before they could breach the villa itself, but rather I found myself unable to even look at it. It would be painful to die under a sword, though at least I would not have to commit the act myself. That was too much to ask of someone not quite yet on their deathbed. Although on occasion my coughs brought up blood, I hadn't accepted my death.
They set fire to the barricades and stables, and I flinched as they brought down the main doors to the villa. Smoke drifted up from the fires of the courtyard and briefly obstructed my view.
When it cleared, my dull grey eyes were immediately drawn to the hulking chariot in the middle of the courtyard that dwarfed all else around it. The white horse pulling it was muddied to the chest, presumably from the battle my brother had lost and returned from in similar state.
He had protested my remaining at the villa, though was convinced when it was revealed I would likely not survive the journey.
Slouched over the front of the chariot was a looming figure that sullenly fiddled with an axe. His dark hair was sleek and tussled from the battle, hiding his eyes as he stared down at the axe. With his mouth drawn into a tight line, clearly deep in thought an uninterested in pillaging the villa, it was obvious to me this young man was one of the more intelligent Northmen, rather than a mindless follow. Beside him stood an equally sullen-face older man with a long, blonde braid and defensive stance. His gaze was commanding and broad sweeping.
Yet it was still the young man seated in the chariot that drew my attention in the taught way his armour seemed to fall neatly over the broad expanse of his back. He could not have been much older than me, and yet he seemed to hold the confidence of the king.
Then, as if sensing my hawkish gaze peering down at him, he raised his head to reveal a pair of startling indigo eyes glaring back. A nasty smirk emerged from his frown and once again I felt the air rush from my lungs. The intensity burning in his eyes were deathly familiar, as if I had felt that murderous gaze on my back once before.
It dawned on me, in that moment, that the boy captured alongside King Ragnar and subsequently released, had returned. He looked older, and his face far more drawn than when we had seen him off while his father remained and awaited his execution. His eyes lingered with that cruel grin that made my stomach knot and skin grow cold, indicating he had not forgotten me as I had him.
The man straightened up and sat back haughtily, using the sharp tip of the axe to pick at his fingernails while staring up at me. My mind fooled me with thoughts of mercy, or perhaps an easy end to my suffering. Though the more I stared the greater my heart ached to be anywhere but here.
The smell of smoke wafted in through the open door alongside tendrils of dark grey miasma. They had begun burning Father's ancient texts like the barbarians they were, though the destruction of the villa gave me hope that they did not intend to occupy it. Fools, they were.
The young man's gaze was interrupted by a gathering crowd of Northmen, moving around a solitary figure I immediately recognised as my father. I pressed my body up against the window, suddenly unable to breathe around the anxiety of watching numerous swords being pressed against his body. One man nocked his bow and drew it, only to be yelled at by the older blonde man.
"Opphøre!" He bellowed. "This is King Ecbert!"
I held my breath as the two quietly conversed before the younger man seemed to interject, speaking a few sharp words and gestured to himself with his axe. And then to me. Father turned to see where he had pointed and his face shifted from drunken stupor to mortified as the blonde man translated. He attempted to compose himself before turning back, and the young man stared up at me with a false smile that promised something cruel.
He seemed to bark some orders, and two Northmen disappeared into the villa. Within minutes their rough hands coiled around my waist and one threw me over his shoulder. I tried to kick and wriggle from his grip, but my muscles were weak from my attempted recoveries. I eventually went slack and tried to stop the tears that leaked from the corners of my eyes.
"Good girl," he hissed in a low voice. The hallways were thick with smoke and littered destroyed artifacts my father had spent a lifetime collecting. Large Northmen brushed passed us and occasionally stopped the two warriors, speaking too quickly for me to decipher, though one word in particularly seemed to be mentioned in every reply they gave:
Ivar.