Thankyou so much for you beautiful people who left me a review on the first chapter – it really makes my day when I get a positive review and helps me with the rest of the fic. Thankyou also to those who have hit that follow button, letting me know you are interested in this. I didn't intend for this Conversation to take so long to get you, I will try to get the others out on a quicker schedule.

A warning that you will get the impression that Marion isn't treated nicely at the end of this chapter.

Conversation 2

Holy Mary, Mother of God, watch over me, give me the strength to face the future.

Marion sighed and opened her eyes, staring at her toes. She had faith in Mother Mary but she knew she needed direct divine intervention to get herself out of this situation and she doubted the good Lord would stir himself for such an unworthy soul as her. Pride was a deadly sin and, as Mother Superior had predicted, it was pride that had finally been her undoing.

The dawn had been beautiful, pink and red hues blanketing the horizon and painting the mist which hugged the ground, a gentle breeze wafting her skirts and goospimpling her skin with its cool touch. There had been a special sort of silence over the fields, that singular moment in time when Creation drew breath before embarking on the day and the tinkle of the goats' bells around her complemented the silence rather than disturbed it. It had always been her favourite time of the day, when the day still held promise of things to happen beyond the drudgery of reality.

The screams had been faint, it had taken a while for them to intrude on her consciousness and she had frowned, though more in confusion than any real fear. The first thought, that there had been a shipwreck, was discounted due to the mildness of the previous night and morning. The second thought, that there had been an accident with livestock, still seemed doubtful in her mind but she had started walking towards where the pathway from the village crested the rise at the edge of the convent lands, the goats trailing behind her. The first sight of Rhett running up the sand, his normally placid face distorted in fear and babbling about giant strangers arriving on ships from the coast carrying axes and swords had shaken her to the core.

She had sent Sister Githa inside to inform Mother Superior, directed Rhett to return to help his family and ran, goats still following, to the barn. She found Byram in the process of mucking out the stalls and he ran with her to the chapel, threading through the confused nuns and the first of the villagers, ignoring those who called out to her. She had barely offered an obeisance to the altar as she ran towards it, Byram taking a moment to realise what she was trying to do before laying his own weather beaten hands next to hers and heaving. The heavy timber piece though had stood there longer than both of their years added together and it didn't even pretend that they had a chance of moving it. After several moments they both subsided, defeated.

"What now Sister Marion?" had whispered Byram, his face full of fear.

Guide me Mother Mary, she had thought. "Go," she had said and then crawled underneath the altar, her back grazing the cross bar as she had pulled the first trapdoor up. The second trapdoor had taken longer to pull and she had been panting in exertion by the time she had pulled it. "Go," she had repeated as she came back. "Prepare the way."

He had wanted to; she had seen that in his face. But he was a brave lad and he had protested. "How will you follow?"

"The Lord will provide," she had smiled and cupped his face briefly. And the Lord had provided she thought with a wry smile in the form of burly Vikings who had pushed the altar away so that the nuns could escape down the tunnel.

They were safe; the thought gave her first some comfort and then some hope. She was wrong to despair and she straightened slightly, pushing back at the fear which had driven the warmth from the core of her being. The Lord would provide, but she had to be ready to receive what assistance He sent her way and she lifted her gaze to assess her situation.

The ship was quiet, quieter than she thought it should have been given the amount of gold, corn and jugs of mead piled in the bow. The majority of men were rowing silently, exchanging only short phrases in a language that she couldn't understand, the sail only fluttering slightly in the gentle breeze of the middle of the day. Most she didn't recognise from the attack and she gave them a cursory glance only. The man who had held Mother Superior, Torstein, was on one of the middle benches, his muscles clenching with each stroke. His face held a suggestion of levity about it; while he had been all business at the convent and not at all dismayed at the thought of killing, she wondered perhaps if he was a bit of a joker in day to day life. Across the aisle from him sat the brother who had so callously – and with so little burden to his soul – killed Sister Aubreda, his own muscles clenching in time with each stroke and skin glistening from the seawater and sweat. His face was broody, his intense gaze fixed on her and she supressed a shiver, turning away. Of the vows she had given, obedience had always been the hardest for her to follow and Mother Superior, being a wise woman had allowed her enough freedom outside of the convent walls so that the struggle to maintain her vow had never been too much for her to overcome. From that experience she had seen a lot more than the sequestered nuns. She had seen what men could do to women, what weapons they had in their arsenal, and she knew what had happened to the monks at Lindisfarne. In his gaze she could see that horror.

King Horik was the least foreign looking to her, his hair and beard similar to that of some of the villagers, only his weaponry alien to her eye. His face was almost kindly as he looked contemplatively at the shoreline they were passing but she had seen the anger on his face when he had realised that he had been deceived and she knew that he would be no friend to her. She bit back again at the fear that tried to surge through her; he held a rope in his hand, the other end of which was looped around her neck – she was his slave.

The shieldmaiden, Lagertha, sat on a stool at the bow of the boat, fiddling idly with some gold chains amongst the loot stolen from the chapel. She looked fierce, the braids which Marion thought were probably more for practical than aesthetic reasons taking away any softening effect that the natural curls would have created, her leather tunic and leggings simultaneously showing off her feminine figure and taking away any hint of softness. It was her eyes though that Marion looked at, they were soft and while she wasn't sure whether the shieldmaiden could or would defend her, she didn't think any harm would come from her.

Floki the boat builder, and she winced inwardly at the thought, was also at the bow of the boat but he wasn't looking out over the water. His gaze was fixed on him, Earl Ragnar, and she was confused, unable to determine what it was in his eyes, whether it was suspicion, hatred or perhaps some sense of glee. His eyes suddenly snapped up and caught her looking at him; his eyes narrowed until almost obscured by the dark makeup he wore around them and she looked away quickly. She had no idea how to even make an assessment of him. His mocking giggle floated down to her and she felt herself flush slightly.

"What did your mother deny you forgiveness for?"

The question made her start and she looked up to where Ragnar was contemplating her. He was looking relaxed, leaning against the mast and chewing on something. His blue eyes almost glowed. "Pardon?" she blinked, acutely conscious that King Horik had turned and was now looking at her.

"You asked your mother for forgiveness back at the church," Ragnar elaborated, pushing off the mast and walking towards her. "She said 'no'. Why? Was it because she knew you were going to try and kill us?"

Marion smiled and shook her head. "No, that she would have forgiven me for."

"She would not forgive you for failing?" he frowned, propping himself against the side of the boat opposite King Horik.

"She would not forgive me for getting myself killed," she explained.

Ragnar frowned again. "You would have died a good death." He moved his hand in her direction. "You would have died for your family."

Marion smiled lightly again. "Mother Superior would say that such a decision is not mine to make."

"You believe that your life is fated?" Ragnar's voice intensified.

"No," she shook her head. "The Lord gave his children the choice of free will."

Floki's voice floated from the end of the boar, his tone holding a hint of mischief and she watched Ragnar turn to look at him. King Horik then spoke, a bite to his tone, and Ragnar turned again, his eyes flicking over to his brother before to the king. His answer, unintelligible to her, was calm but what she thought was a slight tinge of condescension in his tone. Marion tensed a little but King Horik merely snorted, replying only with a derisive phrase.

"What is that word that you keep saying?" she asked after there was silence for several moments, tentatively trying it out.

"Priestess," Ragnar translated for her.

"I am not a priestess!" she said indignantly.

"Are you not a holy woman?" asked Ragnar.

"No," Marion was aghast. "Although I try to be as holy as I can. I am a nun, a Sister, a bride of Christ."

"A bride of Christ?" he repeated. "You are married to your God?"

Marion nodded, her thumb automatically going to where the copper ring encircled her finger. It had not always sat comfortably on her finger, physically or figuratively, but she had long since accepted its place and she found some comfort in its presence.

"What does he look like, your God?" he asked curiously.

She blinked and looked up at him. "I have never seen Him," she replied.

"Well what does he feel like?" he asked, leaning in slightly.

Marion stared at him blankly.

"When he comes to you at night?" he continued.

Comprehension came in a blinding flash of mortification and Marion blushed, ducking her head and crossing herself. Mother Mary she thought protect me from these savages.

"Does he not come to you?" Ragnar frowned slightly as he took in her reaction. "He goes to one of his other wives?"

"It's not like that," Marion burst out. "We do not ….sleep," she didn't want to use any other word, "with our God."

"You sleep with the priests then?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head, her face flaming red.

"You sleep with the monks then?" he pressed.

"No!" she exclaimed. "We don't do that," she continued before he came up with an even more scandalous suggestion. "We give a vow of chastity."

"Chastity," he repeated the word. "I do not know this word."

Mother Mary Marion closed her eyes briefly. "It means that we vow not to marry or to engage in …acts with a man."

"Never?" he blinked.

"Never," she confirmed.

"Hmm," he tipped his head slightly to the side. "The priests – they make this same vow?"

Marion nodded.

"The monks too?" he persisted.

Again she nodded. "Hmm," a slight smile crossed his lips, obviously engaged in some internal thought.

Again Horik spoke and this time Marion recognised the word 'Christ' in Ragnar's translation. Horik turned to look at her and asked a question.

"King Horik wants to know what it is that you do for your God," said Ragnar.

"I devote myself to Him and His people," she replied. "I read His works and strive to understand them so I can be a better Christian; I spread his Word by what I say and by what I do."

"And what is it that you do?" he pressed and again waved his hand in a small circle. "Tell me about your day."

"My day?" she blinked, surprised. It wasn't that exciting. "After Lauds I go outside…"

"Lauds?" interrupted Ragnar.

"A religious observance," she replied. "Prayers and hymns." At his nod she continued. "I take the goats out into the fields to graze, for an hour and then bring them back in for milking. Bertram and I clean out the stables and feed the animals, then I go in for Prime – another observance," she noted as his eyebrows rose. "The other sisters and I break our fast and Mother Superior addresses us, then we attend to some chores around the convent, cleaning and such. We attend Terce and then I head down to the village to trade some goods for some fish and attend any villagers that need assistance before returning to Sext. There are more chores, or perhaps some more villagers to attend to, some quiet study, and then we celebrate None. Then it is time to take the goats back outside for some grazing, muck out the stalls and feed again before having our evening meal together before Vespers. After Vespers there are some chores to finish from the day or to prepare for the next day and we ready ourselves for bed. We celebrate Compline; I have a last check of the animals and then retire for the evening. We wake again to celebrate Matins at midnight and then return to bed until Lauds before dawn. (1)"

"That is a lot of prayer," Ragnar observed and she smiled slightly she wouldn't tell him about the feasts of the saints in which she wouldn't rise off her knees between Prime and None as he provided a translation for the rest of the crew. He looked at her for a few moments and then pushed off the edge of the boat and returned to his position at the mast, looking forward.

The silence returned to the boat, the only noises the rasps of the oars against the side of the boat, the splashes as the blades hit the water and the occasional words spoken between the men. The tongue was like nothing she had heard before and Marion was not able to recognise any of the words. She sighed and closed her eyes, running through the Terce prayers and hymns from the memory of a thousand mornings.

It was the change of motion that roused her and she looked up to see the Vikings pulling in the oars. Horik, noticing her, gestured to his side and she stood, her muscles only slightly protesting after the long period of inactivity it was nothing on a night of penance and stepped beside him.

The beach was closer than she had thought possible and there were other boats, sleek low lying forms similar to the one she was on, anchored in a staggered fashion, their sails furled in tight bundles at the top of their masts. There was a shout from the shore and then another and another; several figures appeared on the top of the crest, pausing for a moment before starting down towards the shore with other figures appearing and following behind them.

Horik raised his hand, giving a shout and one of the figures lifted his own hand in response. Horik turned a smile to her, speaking a short phrase.

"He's telling you that is his son, Erlendur," said a soft voice above her shoulder and she started, looking up at him briefly. She turned back to the shore to examine the Prince, the ship's anchor splashing into the water and pulling the ship to a stop with a jerk. He was a slender young man, fresh faced with tousled hair and a winning smile. Popular with the young ladies she thought with an internal smile. But not her thoughts continued as her eyes travelled to the figure next to him, nearly as popular as him. The second figure might not have been significantly older than Erlendur, he might even have been younger, but he looked much more of a man with his almost rakish haircut and smattering of hair on his face. His figure was much fuller as well, with broad shoulders and developed muscles. Even at this distance his eyes were piercing and even before he spoke, she knew who this was.

"My son, Bjorn." There was no doubting the pride in Ragnar's voice.

Some of the smile in Horik's face hardened and he spoke another short phrase in a harsh tone. Ragnar's response was light but Marion thought she heard an edge to his tone and tensed slightly – feeling very small between the two Vikings. But Horik merely snorted.

The Viking men leapt over the edge of the boat smoothly and Marion felt a twinge of envy as Lagertha did the same. Her own disembarkation was far less graceful and Horik had to almost carry her through the waist (for her) deep water, the heavy fabric of her habit dragging at her strength reserves.

There was a crowd awaiting them as they made solid ground (Marion offered a short prayer of thanks), Ragnar standing with his son and several of the crew to one side, Floki stood to the other side with the remainder of the crew and a ghost of a smile on his lips and in his eyes.

Horik's first words made her jump, a ringing announcement – of victory she thought based on the rest of the Vikings' response. Great victory she thought bitterly over fishermen and nuns. Horik's speech continued and this time she recognised the word Christian – she supposed they had no actual word in their native tongue. She was grasped by the arm and pushed forward, Horik's words identifying her as a 'priestess'. Mother Mary she thought as the Vikings in front of her roared again, something akin to fanaticism in some of their faces. One of them called a question; Horik's answer was somewhat amused and with a sudden jerk Marion felt her veil and wimple dragged off her head. It had been a couple of weeks since she had cut her hair and there was a raucous burst of laughter as the Vikings beheld the spiky fuzz over her skull. Marion snatched at the fabric but it was whisked out of her reach. She made another attempt and Horik simply lifted it above his head – even without her hands tied she wouldn't haven't been able to reach it and rather than accord the Vikings more amusement, she submitted, lowering her head and blinking back tears. Horik threw the fabric into the water behind him and said something else. His tone confused her slightly and she looked up; a pair of hands took her habit's neckline and ripped. She screamed and reached for the edges, but a second rip shredded the seam and her habit fell from her shoulders, pooling around her lower legs and bound wrists and exposing her simple shift to the Vikings' gaze.

"Please no," she begged to Horik.

His tone was cold as he said something to her and then reached out and shoved her. She stumbled backwards and would have fallen but then there were hands on her shoulders and arms stopping her fall. Horik's lip curled and he turned away – and then there were hands in other places where they had no right to be. "No!" she screamed at the men. ""Holy Father – protect me," she called out as there was another rending tear of her clothes.

There was no answer to her prayer, nor to any of her other prayers during the remainder of the day and the night.

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(1) My source was Wikipedia and I will quite happily accept that there may be errors associated with my incorporation into this time.