Mary thrashes in the men's hold as they drag her down the dark hallway. The ground under her bare feet is ice cold, her arms are hurting from the iron grip of the guards, and when they drag her down a flight of stairs, she starts biting out every insult she can think of.
Imbecile, maggot, barbarian.
The longer they ignore her, the crasser she becomes. Asshole, motherfucker, Cunt.
Now, usually, Mary thinks of herself as a generally positive person, who can see the upsides to any situation, but after coming up for air on strange shores, only to be shamed, dragged and almost left to die, her patience is wearing thin. Scratch that, her patience is dead and buried somewhere in that white chapel near the coastline.
While she is very thankful for the pastor there, who had given her warm soup and offered her a dry change of clothes, she cannot help but hold him responsible for her current predicament. When she had stumbled into his church, she had been clad in the same short sleeved Tee and pair of shorts she had worn during her unfortunate fall into the Riven Avalon. And yet, once she returned dressed in the long, high collard dress he had loaned her, he had someone found out about the tattoo that sits on her left ribcage.
After that, the decidedly unchristian peeper of a pastor had declared her mark – and in association her – as holy and immediately set out to bring her to the very castle she is currently held in.
The bishop – a balding man with a sour expression – had been less convinced of her alleged holiness and had gripped her chin painfully tight as he turned her face form one side to the other as if he was looking for a seal of authenticity.
He brashly ignored any questions she asked, instead turning to the pastor who had brought her in and informing him that the King was currently away on urgent business but was scheduled to return soon.
Listening with a half an ear, she gazes around the enormous stone hall she is standing in, the stone – marbel? – masterfully crafted into high domes. It's pretty, even if the lack of windows makes the place somehow oppressive.
"Aye," the pastor nodded, "I heard that there is trouble by the coast."
"You will understand why we must take all the necessary precautions then," the bishop had nodded, sparing a glance in Mary's direction. "At least she does not look like one of the Barbarian women."
She isn't sure if she should take that as a compliment.
"Oh, she speaks out tongue, my Lord," the pastor had spluttered, "I would not bring her to King Ecbert if it was not safe."
It had been that line that drew her attention because less than a week ago she had stood in the centre of Kingston and read a plaque about King Ecbert and his once impressive castle that had stood in that place.
Back in the year 800 that is.
"Excuse me, what?" she had interjected only to be, once again, ignored.
She had gathered some more, seemingly impossible information from the rest of their conversation and when the pastor left – face flushed from the bishop's false praises – she felt a headache coming on.
Maybe she had hit her head. Maybe, this was a hallucination of her dying brain as her body slowly washed down the river.
A hundred maybe's come to mind and only the very last one is: Maybe this is real.
If so, then…. Then she knows who landed on the English shores.
"Are you talking about the Vikings?"
The words are out of her mouth before she can really think about them, and they earn her a dark glare from the bishop.
"What do you know about the Barbarians?"
She doesn't answer his question, instead mumbling to herself as she tries to recall that plaque she had read in Kingston. "King Ecbert is the first king of Wessex, which means… Ragnar Lothbrok?"
"Do not speak that name, woman."
The bishop's palm connects with her cheek a mere second later and Mary holds her now throbbing face with a fearful squeal.
It had stunned her into a momentary silence as her brain tried to adjust to the thoughts of swords, and kings, and Vikings legends. But she also has to admit that part of her, the obsessively curious part that came out with a good book or a newly discovered passion, had marvelled, maybe hoped that it was true.
She can't quite recall what had happened in the throne room after that, remembering only flashes of the bishop talking to her before calling for two guards to come and accompany her. The older one had been as bitter and mean as the bishop himself, while the younger had offered her at last the hint of a smile before gently tugging at her upper arms.
What had brought her out of her stupor had been the realisation that their grips were a bit too tight to be guiding and that they path led them past the kitchens, the servant's quarters and down towards the dampness of what can only be described as a dungeon.
"Let go, of me!" she screeches at them, "Are you not men of faith?"
It shouldn't have surprised her that this is how dark age Christians treat an alleged holy woman. Just look at what they did to Joan of Arc.
The younger one, she thinks his name is Beecher, glances down at her and eases his grip on her arm, while his companion simply scoffs something about witches and trickery under his breath and tightens his fingers until she grimaces in pain.
Their destination is a wooden door to the side of the corridor, before which they come to an abrupt halt before tossing her inside. Mary, who has never been tossed before, jamps back to her feet in an instance, driven by adrenaline and anger, and throws herself against the door.
"Let me out, you pigs!" she screams at their retreating backs, finally having run out of insults.
"Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries" she screams, in a last-ditch effort. Beecher turns around with a hurt frown.
"Not yours," Mary reassures him before they both disappear back up the stairs.
"Who are you?"
The voice comes from behind her, and she spins around to find a man – boy. Man? - sitting on the small cot of the cell. He is dressed in dark, frayed clothing, and his sun tanned skin is even more dirt than her own.
Everything here is just so dirty, she thinks to herself. There is a single chair sitting in the corner and a wonky table with three legs, and even they look dirty somehow.
Thankfully the stranger, now staring at her with clear suspicion, seems to be the only other occupant of the cell. Even though, she realises with dismay, she probably wouldn't stand a chance against him should he decide to make trouble for her. There is no denying that he is strong, stronger than most people she knows, and the rough calluses on his knuckles tell her that he his muscles are not just for show.
She swallows hard.
Sure, the guards would never actually hurt her, too afraid of their god's wrath should she turn out to be a holy woman, but this man is sitting in a prison cell, which doesn't speak highly of his morals.
With no other ideas, she falls into a rather wonky imitation of what she thinks might be a curtsy and introduces herself, "I'm Mary."
He looks at her with what can only be called the most condescending stare Mary has ever received but stays silent as the seconds slowly tick by. Ten and her smile drops; fifteen and she pulls on the sleeve of her dress; thirty and she is done being ignored.
"I thought the men here are supposed to be chivalrous," she huffs in annoyance, crossing her arms and blowing a stray strand of her out of her eyes. "Good Christian values and all."
"I am not a Christian," the stranger scoffs, his tongue rolling in a thick accent that she cannot quite place.
With no indication as to what she should do, Mary decides to just drop the whole spiel and she falls unceremoniously onto the wooden chair, drawing her feet up to protect them from the cold.
Her sudden lack of composure seems to amuse him as he asks, "What is a woman doing in the King's dungeon?"
"Waiting for the King to see me and decide if I am a holy woman or a witch," she answers with a lopsided grin.
He does not look convinced.
"You do not look like a holy woman. And you certainly do not speak like one."
Mary's grin only widens, "Why, thank you."
"So, are you a witch then?" he asks, cocking his head to one side and looking her up and down as if trying to decide what to make of her. Mary hopes that her overall state of grubbiness means that he won't take too much of a liking to her.
"No," Mary shrugs, "But apparently I know some things they don't want me to know."
He leans back against the wall, propping himself up on one elbow as he cocks his head at her. "What do you know?"
There is something off-putting about the way he is staring at her. Curious and amused, and something else she cannot put her finger on. Something that makes her feel like she is standing on a stage with a spotlight on her face as he waits for her performance, even though he already expects failure.
Unfortunately for him, after spending the day being dragged around like a ragdoll, she is itching to regain some of her won pride. With a sly smile, she uncurls her legs and leans forward, keen to watch that arrogant grin fall off his face.
It doesn't escape Ivars's notice; the way the girl sits across from him, smiling openly at him, daringly. He cannot remember the last time anyone, least of all a woman, had not been tense in his company, ready to jump and flee at any moment. Even his brothers rarely relaxed around him, though they rarely relaxed around anyone who wasn't a warm body in their beds, so Ivar doesn't take it personally.
The girl sits up and plants her feet firmly on the ground, leaning forward on her knees in a distinctively self-possessed gesture, and when she speaks her voice is conspiratorial, and her eyes watch him intensely as she talks.
"I know that the earth revolves around the sun, I know that there are 7 more planets besides our own in this galaxy. I know that humans descended from apes, I know that there is a continent across the ocean that will be discovered in -" she stops from a second and thinks "six hundred years, full of gold and people and I know how they will all be oppressed and hunted by the English, the Spanish, the French. I know about all the wars that will come in the next one thousand years. I saw the biggest clash of nations to ever be, with weapons more deadly than anything you can ever imagine, where more people die in a day than you will see in your entire life."
Ivar's eyes grow wide at her words, some of which he cannot even understand even as they feel heavy with significance. She tells him things that can only be fantasy, yet her face is so full of impish amusement that he feels drawn to her, nonetheless. Feels compelled to believe every word that falls from her lips.
"I know how sickness works inside your body," she goes on, "I know how the plague will kill a third of Europe. I know what we humans are made of, I know about atoms and cells and I can tell you how we think, what makes us cry and laugh. And I can tell you how King Ecbert will die, I can tell you how King Aelle will die, I can tell you how Ragnar Lothbrok will die."
He shoots up at her last words, his eyes wide and his throat suddenly much too dry. His tongue darts out to lick across his lower lip and he leans forward as well, mimicking her posture until their faces are only inches apart. She is still grinning, oblivious to the pounding of his heart and the cold sweat at the nape of his neck.
When he speaks, his voice is raspy. "Tell me."
Mary smiles at his reaction. While her speech had been speckled with half-truths and hyperboles – she does not actually know how the human body works beyond the basics – she feels an immense satisfaction at the way his eyes grow wide and his brows furrow.
He is still looking at her expectantly, his breath hard on her face and his eyes determined. She is tempted to pull back, leave him his questions, when something flickers behind his eyes. Something akin to… fear?
She is taken aback by the vulnerability that crosses his face, but there is no taking back what she had already said.
"King Egbert will die in the year 839." God, she hopes she hasn't mixed up the dates, "Ragnar Lothbrok will be killed by King Aella, who in turn will be killed when the Great Heathen Army, lead by Ragnar's sons, invades England."
The last few words are barely a whisper as the young man before her seems to crumble, his shoulder sacking and his head hung low in defeat.
She stares at him in alarm, her chest filled with regret even if she doesn't know what it was that had brought this on. Helplessly, she tries to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, feeling the urge to do something – anything - only to have her wrist be snatched out of the air and used to forcefully pull her closer.
She falls to her knees in front of him, eyes wide as she looks up at him only find his face contorted in fury.
"Don't touch me," h snarls and she swallows hard but doesn't move, frozen to the spot.
The silence is only broken when the door screeches open and two guards step inside.
Mary barely notices them as she cradles her throbbing limb against her chest. "Who are you?"
Her question is answered not by him but by one of the guards, who huffs out a sardonic laugh as he steps around her and forcefully grips the stranger by his upper arm.
"He is Ragnar Lothbrok's crippled son."
The man in question doesn't say a word when they heave him off the cot and out of the door and Mary is left kneeling on the cold ground long after their footsteps disappear.
Ragnar Lothbrok had many children, but only one of them could not walk.
This was Ivar Ragnarsson. Ivar the Boneless. Leader of the Great Heathen Army, Viking King.
And she had just told him that his father was going to die, probably very soon.
Fuck.