I am very sorry about the gap between conversations. Real life can have its complications which sort of drain the emotional energy out of one. And then – well I basically got stuck. I am hoping to get one more chapter up before the US start of S3 and then I have two-three more.

Wow – there are a lot of you following (and with my sporadic uploading it is quite sensible) – I would love to hear from you about what you like about this – reviews are fuel.

This chapter is a bit longer than others – it is sort of 1 ½ conversations.

Conversation 5

He was not being gentle: who 'he' was she had no idea: she had lost count sometime during the night and the faces were starting to blur into a sameness of lust and disgust – which really didn't make much sense. If they were so disgusted by her, why were they here? The answer came in Mother Superior's voice because men are not often guided by the brain that the good Lord gave them in their head. The thought tugged at the edges of her lips.

"What are smiling about Christian?" he demanded in a rough voice, his hand punctuating the question with an almost vicious squeeze of her breast.

She focussed her eyes on him – he was actually quite a handsome man. Girls were probably lining up to be with him.

"Nothing," she said clearly and contemptuously.

His face twisted and he grabbed her shoulder, reefing her around so that her face was all but buried in to bedding. One of his hands took her around the neck and then she was being violated again, his body ramming up against her over and over until she thought she was going to break. She would have screamed but his grip was getting stronger and stronger and there was no air – she couldn't breathe. Mother Mary.

Marion sat up suddenly, gasping for breath. The cabin was quiet, the fire glowing serenely in the hearth, needing only a bit of breath and some more fuel before it would be crackling away. The first light of dawn, her internal clock was suggesting it was earlier than she was used to, was creeping through the openings in the wall. She was alone – the young woman that had helped her bathe and tend to the marks on her body and skull was gone. These had been many, from fist, boot, sword and knife and she had been ashamed to show them, ashamed because they were only the visible wounds, that there were internal wounds that no woman should have. The woman Thorunn had been gentle though, understanding even and with Bjorn conspicuously on the other side of the sturdy door, separating her from the raucous celebrations outside, she had felt safe when she had lain down to sleep.

It was a new day.

The dawn was beautiful, pink and red hues reflecting off the water and the surrounding cliffs, magnifying in intensity and painting the mist that was rolling in off the water. There was more noise in the city than she was used to, but it was a muted sound of people waking to start their chores for the day, the bleating of goats and the snuffle of horses welcoming those coming to feed them. The dawn had not yet realised the horrors of the night before nor the grim reality of the clean up that would occupy the city's inhabitants for the majority of the day. No-one paid any attention to the slave girl as she walked down towards the docks.

Her prayers were less the familiar routine of Lauds and more an open hearted keening for what had happened, and for what might still happen.

Today she had a new master.

She had tried to have Floki killed and she knew that he knew it. She wondered if he was forgiving, that he would understand her actions from her point of view, that he had invaded her home and threatened the safety of her family. She had been surprised to mark him amongst Ragnar's men, and even more so (in the time after Matins when she had been able to coldly analyse it) that she had been given to him. From what she had been able to see about this culture that she was now surrounded by, the ownership of slaves was a status indicator. To be given a slave was, she thought, a high honour indeed. And yet she remembered Floki as being Horik's man in England. Perhaps he was a traitor? She wrinkled her nose: Horik and Erlendur had left the cottage in full battle gear well before any noises of battle had been noticeable; Gunhilde had been readying herself before the noises had started so it was obvious to her that Horik had been the aggressor – although she didn't know what provocation he may have been responding to. If Floki had given away their plans it would explain his status with Ragnar – for as soon as Lagertha had burst through the doors Marion had known Horik's plan had been exposed. But it wouldn't explain his popularity with everyone else she puzzled – traitors were treated as a necessary evil, men and women of honour would often shun them even when they agreed with or profited from the traitor's actions. A double agent? she wondered – Ragnar's man pretending to be Horik's man? How does one ever trust a man like that?

She could run and yet the same problems presented this morning that were there the night before. While she at least had clothes and a full belly, she didn't speak the language and she didn't know where she was. To go off by herself now was merely to invite death to her bedside. And so? wondered a voice. She had not lied to Ragnar – she wasn't afraid of death. She had seen Death, and while sometimes He took children too young or took men and women in their prime, He was also the one that released the suffering from their pain when she could not help them further. She did not consider Death her friend, she would fight Him at every turn, at emotional and physical cost to herself, but she did not consider Him her enemy either. But to knowingly send herself to her death? Her faith told her that was a sin. There may be semantics involved with the definition of suicide, but she knew that to walk away now would be to kill herself. Or worse.

"Excuse me Sister," said a soft voice and she started up from her knees, spinning before she had comprehended that the language had been her own.

He was a young man, smaller than most of the Norsemen that she had seen – he was smaller than some of the Norsewomen even – and despite the axe and dagger on his hip he stood in an unassuming manner, his hands clasped together in front of him. His eyes held a gentleness in them that she had not seen in men for a long time.

"My name is Athelstan," he continued, staying at a peaceful distance from her and allowing her to relax slightly. "Brother Athelstan."

"Brother?" she repeated doubtfully, looking him up and down. There was no trace of Englishman in the figure she saw in front of him.

"I was a monk at Lindisfarne," he explained.

She gasped, crossing herself in reflex. "You have been here since then?"

He smiled slightly. "No, I spent the first year at Lord…. King Ragar's farm with he and his family. Then I came with him when he became Earl and lived in Kattegat. Then I went to England and I was captured. King Ecbert saved me."

At the name she flinched and he seemed to take a slight breath.

"Why did you not say his name?" he asked sadly.

"You should not listen to idle gossip Brother Athelstan," she retorted with somewhat of a bite in her tone.

He gave a soft smile and walked towards her, his sleeve brushing against hers as he walked to the edge of the dock, gazing at the channel. "King Ecbert placed me in charge of a room of great treasures – not gold and silver, but books and statues and artefacts of great men who had been here previously. He had me deciphering scrolls, re-writing them so their wisdom would not be lost. Sometimes I would ask him to come so I could show him something I had found, sometimes he would come himself to see what I had found or to tell me a new theory and see whether I had found anything which would either prove or disprove it. And sometimes he would come, not to see me," his eyes were pointed to the horizon but Marion thought they looked even further. "But to just be there, amongst the remnants of these great people. Those times he would barely notice I was there, if at all, and sometimes he would talk. Not to me, maybe to himself, maybe to the spirits of the others in the room – I don't know. One time though he mentioned a young woman whom he wondered whether she had forgiven him, whether she had been reconciled with her fate and found happiness. Or whether she had cursed him for the damage that he had done to her…. and their daughter."

Marion drew in a breath, turning to stare at the water – but not seeing it, rather seeing moments from her past.

"He spoke of that daughter too – one with an inquiring mind much like his own and unsuited to one of her gender, with a spirit that would be more at home in a warrior than a girl. One whose beauty shone from an endless heart, but whose actions were tempered by a shrewdness and acknowledgement of human behaviour. One that he loved to the depth of his being."

Marion blinked back a tear, his gentle tones ripping wounds in her being that the Norsemen hadn't been able to. "And yet if he loved her so, why did he abandon her?"

"Did he abandon her?" asked the Norse-monk.

"He may as well have," she bit out. "He replaced her mother with another woman, despite his protestations of love, because she was not suitable – because she didn't have enough money or position to further his ambition. So his daughter was then awkward for him – a reminder of a previous life, of bad decisions made, a bane in the life of his new wife such that she could not feel confident in her position. So he pushed the child to the side, gave her the best education, everything she could have wanted except himself. And then there was another child – a boy who would be able to take over his legacy far better than a lowly daughter could and his wife pointed to her and said that she was jealous, that she couldn't be around the new child. He allowed her to be separated from him – so she went further."

"He thought you were dead," said Athelstan sadly. "The attacks on the farms, on the lesser keeps he could have overlooked. But the attack on the convent – your disappearance – his spies could not see you amongst the prisoners in the camp – that he had to avenge."

"The battle," she whispered.

"Yes," he nodded. "That was for you."

Marion closed her eyes. "It was pride," she answered his initial question. "When I left I vowed that I would never look to him again. That I would trust only God and myself." Her face twisted. "But if I had truly trusted in God I would have sent for help sooner – and he would have come, I know that. But by the time I realised that I was wrong – it was too late."

His hand wrapped around hers and she looked over at him. "It is never too late."

She snorted, withdrawing her hand to wipe at her eyes and nose. "We are hundreds – thousands of leagues away. How could he possibly help me here?"

"King Ecbert?" The Norse-monk shook his head, his tone only the mildest of reproofs. "God."

She turned back to him and saw his hand extended. She hesitated a moment, but then held her hand out. The object was heavy and her hand dipped as it was placed in her hand. He withdrew his own and she stared at Mother Superior's crucifix – a jewel encrusted silver cross as large as the span from her middle finger to her wrist. The chain was beaded with pearls and rubies for each prayer of the Rosary – worn smooth by Mother's fingers.

It was the only bit of home that she had. She looked up at him, not bothering to try to hide the tears welling in her eyes. "Thankyou," she whispered.

He smiled, taking her face between his palms and placed a kiss on her forehead. "Be brave Sister – God has not abandoned you. It is just that you have not deciphered His plan for you yet."

"What was His plan for you?" she asked, pulling back and almost reverently placing the chain around her neck, tucking the crucifix under the bust of her dress.

"Me?" Athelstan smiled slightly. "I do not know yet either."

"And yet you believe it is here?" she asked. "You came back?"

He nodded. "Ragnar asked me to," he said simply.

"But these people – they are barbarians," she exclaimed.

"Yes," he nodded. "They can be. I have seen much death, brutal death since I have been with them. But I have seen peace as well – love between families, loyalty in ways that cannot be bought, contentment with the gifts of God, true and complete faith in their gods. You have I know only seen the worst of them – but I ask you to trust in the Lord, leave your heart open. And you will find acceptance, total and absolute acceptance for you, for who you are in yourself on your own merits."

Marion stayed silent, dwelling on his words as the water moved gently in front of them, the rigging of the boats behind them moaning slightly in protest. "Do you know my new master?"

"Floki?" Athelstan nodded. "I have known him from the first day that I left England."

"What type of man is he?" she asked.

Athelstan appeared to hesitate. "Unpredictable," he said finally. "Much like the god whose name his own so closely mirrors. He enjoys life – finds the joys in the small things and using the gifts he was given. He has his own code – fiercely loyal to those that he commits to but above everything else to the gods."

"Will he treat me well?" she all but whispered.

Again Athelstan appeared to hesitate. "He will not hurt you," he said. "Not physically. He is though fiercely loyal to the gods – he does not accept our God exists."

Without conscious thought her hand went to the place where the crucifix rested against her skin.

"But Floki is not your master," Athelstan's voice almost startled her. "His wife Helga – she is your mistress."

"It's the same thing," she replied with some distain.

"Normally yes," Athelstan didn't seem offended by her tone. "And if there were ever two souls bound to each other it is Floki and Helga. But in Norse society a Norse woman is an independent being, able to take on land and property under her own right. Obedience if not required. Floki will take you to Helga because Rag….. King Ragnar has ordered him to do so. And Helga is a gentle soul – if you serve her truly and faithfully, she will keep you safe."

Marion took a breath – she could do that. Serving had been something she had done for many years and she had found a form of peace in it, even if there had always been a small part of her being that had wished for some excitement in her life, something that, while not involving others that were happy in their life, would allow her to show her worth. Well she had had her excitement and it had not been what she had hoped: a life of gentle servitude would be a blessing after what she had endured.

"Priest."

The derisive word made them both jump, Marion recognising the shortened form of her title only before her new master continued. She glanced sideways at the Norse-monk – he didn't seem overly perturbed by what sounded like a sneering reproof but was rather looking back to the Norseman with a slight smile. His own answer, also unintelligible to her, was consolatory and Floki snorted, turning away and tossing the couple of sacks that he carried into a boat.

"Floki is ready to go," Athelstan turned to her. "He has a new baby that he is eager to get home to."

Marion accepted that, knowing that it wasn't a direct translation. "I am ready," she said simply. She had nothing else to take.

Athelstan walked with her the short distance to where Floki was busy stowing equipment, muttering as he ducked underneath the yard arm. It wasn't a large boat, much smaller than the one she had arrived on, but it was of the same sleek design. Made with love she realised, watching Floki almost unconsciously stroke the side of the boat as he walked back to where the ropes secured the boat to the dock. He said something to the Norse-monk; again Athelstan replied placidly and then turned to her.

"God Bless you Sister, don't lose faith."

She smiled, touching the crucifix through her tunic. "I won't Brother Athelstan. May the good Lord reveal His plan for you."

Athelstan smiled and held out his hand to assist her into the boat: she landed with less than dainty grace and Floki gave her a dirty look before rattling off something to her. She looked in confusion to Athelstan.

"He wishes you to attend to the tiller

"But I don't know how to steer a boat," she protested.

Floki said something else snidely: either he spoke more English than she realised or he had been able to interpret her tone.

"He asks whether you would like to row the boat instead," translated Athelstan and Floki giggled at her expression. "It will only be until you are away from land and the wind catches the sail," he added in reassurance. "He would never risk his boat."

Somewhat reassured, Marion made her way to the tiller, taking a firm stance as she had seen Ragnar do and gripped the timber handle. She nodded once to Floki and he slipped the rope off his anchorage. He took an oar and pushed against the dock, Athelstan assisting by pushing at the figurehead until the gap was too large. Floki settled into the middle seat and picked up the second oar and with a powerful stroke the boat surged forward.

Marion glanced over at Athelstan; he lifted his hand in farewell and she lifted hers to reply. A sharp word came from Floki though and she dropped it, turning her attention back to the front.

He was not being gentle – Marion winced as there was a gasp and a thump from the small alcove that served as her new mistress' and master's bedroom. Then neither was she observed Marion's brain as there was a distinctly male yelp followed by a female giggle.

The little boat had seemed to fly over the water and once Floki had dismissed her from the tiller she had made her way to the front of the boat, enjoying the freshness of the air and the occasional splash of the water on her face. At first she had been scared of the sight of strange creatures swimming in the bow wave, their finned backs curving up into the air every now and again however Floki's mocking laugh had stiffened her spine (Pride Sister Marion Mother Superior's voice had reproved in her ear). When the animals hadn't flown out of the water to attack her she had been able to relax and had watched them for a while, fascinated by the wonders that the Lord had made, before the animals grew tired of their sport and disappeared. Breakfast had been a crust of bread that Floki had thrown at her and while it was nothing compared to the rich stew that Bjorn had brought her the night before it was on par with her convent fare and she had merely offered Floki a quiet word of thanks before closing her eyes to thank the Lord – his next words to her some time later were terse and she worried that she had offended him, however a look at his face showed him looking intensely at the cove that they were entering. With the use of many words that, simply by repetition, she was starting to understand, she had guided the boat against a small pier outside a shack at the base of a hill.

"Helga!" he had yelled, standing up in the boat. "Heeelllllggggaaa!"

"Floki?" had come back a call from out of sight further up the hill.

"Helga!" he had jumped out of the boat and for a horrified moment Marion had thought she was going to be capsized. Despite much rocking that didn't happen, but the boat did start to move away from the pier. It had crossed her mind that she could just let it go – drift back out into the ocean and let God have a direct hand in her fate, but her courage had failed her and she had jumped to the pier herself, pulling the boat back in and tying it with more caution than skill.

She had opened the door of the little cottage carefully, unsure of whether she should have waited with the boat – not that she would have been much of a guard to the treasures in it if there was indeed another soul within a league. The interior was dark and it had taken her a moment to equalise her eyes – by which time the blond woman Helga – her new mistress had been looking at her with astonishment. She had then turned to her husband and spoken in his name with such a tone that he had seemed to shrink in on himself, his eyes opening almost comically wide before a look of disgust that in another situation would have made Marion laugh crossed his face. She had held her breath as the woman who was now in total control of her life all but snatched her baby away from her husband, obviously equal parts hurt and outraged, and he in turn scrambled to explain the situation. It took a few minutes but Helga's expression had relaxed and she had walked over to her, still carrying her baby – a girl approximately a month or so old Marion guessed.

"Priestess," she had said in a soft voice, looking her over.

Marion had shaken her head and pointed at herself. "Marion."

Helga had considered for a moment and then smiled. "Marion," she had repeated cautiously, trying out the new word. Floki snorted but Marion had nodded and Helga had repeated her name, as if anchoring it in her head.

The rest of the day had been busy with unpacking the boat, carting it up the hill and stowing the riches which included gold, silver and iron as well as food and cloth within the cottage. Marion was no stranger to physical work and was used to walking between the convent and the village a number of times each day, but the trials of the last few days had sapped her strength and she tired sooner than she should – making Floki mutter under his breath as he passed her on the way up the hill. Helga had then handed her a bucket and pointed to the small shelter attached to the back of the cottage; here she had found a couple of goats and a very large sow with a number of growing piglets as well as a number of chickens. She had put the bucket to good use with the goats and Floki's snort had maybe not been as derisive as it might have been. She had helped prepare the vegetables and then the hare that Helga brought inside, again with a pragmatism that seemed to surprise Floki and met with Helga's approval. She would have held Angrbođa when Helga passed the baby to her, however Floki intervened and took the baby himself. Uncertain as to who he was and unsettled by the tenseness in his frame (Marion didn't think that he had held many babies before) Angrbođa cried and fussed until Helga was able to take her back again.

Her sleeping place was a pile, thankfully a generous one, of furs and skins on the ground near the fire slightly to the side of the bedroom. Floki had pointed her to it as soon as she had finished cleaning up their plates as Helga was feeding Angrbođa. It had taken a little bit of gesturing and repeating of words and Helga's intervention but she had been allowed to go outside to perform some ablutions and offer a quick (and slightly out of time) Compline prayer before returning inside. She had crawled amongst her blankets and had fallen asleep almost immediately. She wasn't sure how long she had slept before the noises in the other room had woken her.

There was another grunt and she flinched again, the noises triggering responses in her that couldn't be controlled by her brain. She carefully pushed back her covers and eased her way to her feet. She had not undressed and didn't worry about her shoes as she crept towards the door. It creaked once as she opened it and she froze, but there was no yell from the bedroom and she quickly slipped through and pulled the door closed behind her.

The night air was cold and she shivered, wrapping her arms about herself. There was a slight murmur as the goats stirred, perhaps thinking that there was food coming despite the fact that the moon was still high and the stars were bright. She turned downhill to minimise the disturbance to them, strolling to the water and just enjoying the peace of the Lord's nature at night. The water lapped gently at the pier, boat and the shed, its base sound highlighted by an occasional splash out further out and the conversation between two distant birds.

It truly was a beautiful place she thought touched by God. She pulled up her dress a little and knelt, extracting Mother Superior's crucifix from her bosom. She held it reverently and kissed it once.

"Hail Mary," she said it softly, just above a whisper, "full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus." She prayed with her eyes open, gazing out into the open water which was lit up with the reflection of the moon. "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death."

"Mother – I do not know why I have been brought here. Is there something that I need to do here? Some task that the Lord has set me?" Or have I been abandoned? Is this punishment? "Mother I ask that you guide me, give me strength."

"Lord – I ask forgiveness for my sins – for my pride. I ask that you bless Aubreda, that you reward her faith with a place in your presence. I ask that you keep Mother Superior and my Sisters safe, look over Byram and ….. my father."

"Lord – I ask you to bless Angrbođa and my mistress Helga – may their paganism not be taken against them when they are faced with You for they know You not. I ask too that ….."

Too late her brain deciphered the sounds that had been approaching as footsteps. Her eyes widened and she gave a slight scream as she was hauled to her feet by a large hand wrapped around her throat, briefly brought off the ground before landing with a thump with Floki's enraged face thrust against hers..

His words were unintelligible to her – except for one – 'God'.

His hand came up and grasped the crucifix – with one sharp motion he snapped it off her neck, holding it in front of her eyes.

"Please," she managed in a breathless voice, reaching out her hands to him.

He released her and took three steps before hurling her crucifix towards the water. It arced through the air, the chain trailing behind the cross, the jewels reflecting the moonlight in tiny sparkles until it landed with a splash and disappeared.

"No!" she screamed and ran to the water, falling to her knees at its edge and staring helplessly out to where the splash had disappeared, as far beyond her reach as Mother Superior herself. She turned her head back to Floki, glaring down on her. "Why?" she asked dully.

"Du er her nå," he said distinctly. "Din gud er dǿd."

She turned back to the water, her hope – raised briefly – now completely obliterated.

"Come," she recognised that word and the tone. Dispiritedly she stood and turned back up the hill, Floki following her.

.. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ..

I have used Google's translation of Norwegian for the purpose of Floki's language. "You are here now. Your God is dead."