Shared by the Vikings by Isabel Dare Read Free Book Online Page A

thought they were being profoundly unfair, and he could not help feeling wounded. None of them were monks any longer, not really.
    If he shared Runolf’s bed, if he serviced his owner in other ways than the other monks did, what business was it of theirs? Was charity not one of the main virtues of their creed? And in any case, it wasn’t as though he had chosen this life. Whenever doubt struck him, whenever he felt the black weight of sin upon his shoulders, that was what he clung to.
    “I had no choice,” he whispered, glaring back at Brother Theodore. “I do what I must, just like you.”
    “Hah,” Theodore said, with a look of deep contempt. “You were only waiting for a chance to spread your cheeks for someone, slut.”
    Leo glared at him furiously, biting his tongue. If he decked his fellow monk, there would be trouble; there was no fighting allowed under the jarl’s roof.
    Theodore clearly wanted to insult him some more, but then the jarl got to his feet, raising the holy cup, and began a long speech in the strangely musical tongue of the Northmen. Even Theodore knew better than to interrupt the jarl, and he grew quiet, glaring up at the jarl from under his bristling brows.
    Leo listened to the jarl’s speech, trying to understand it. He could pick out many of the words, and with effort he could even make sense of the shorter sentences.
    It was important, he thought, to learn the language of his captors. Not that any of the other monks had ever tried it; they were content to mutter to themselves in Saxon, and learned only the simple commands their owners gave them. And yet the Norse tongue was not so strange, not to Leo’s ears; it was close kin to the Saxon, though it did not sound quite the same.
    The jarl seemed to be saying something about the grain harvest, which was coming tomorrow. Everyone would be expected to pitch in, even women and thralls like Leo. And afterwards, there would be a big harvest feast with ‘rivers of mead for any man’ as the jarl was promising lavishly.
    This news was greeted with a roar of welcome, and some of the men pounded the tables with their fists.
    The jarl went on to say something Leo couldn’t quite make out, something about ‘the old rites’, but whatever it was, it caused a riot of approval. All the men were now pounding the tables with fists and wooden platters, and some of them started singing a song that sounded very vulgar, from what little Leo could understand of the words.
    Runolf was shouting along with the song, and he suddenly looked over and caught Leo’s eye with a grin. He seemed very pleased, and some of his friends were pounding him on his back as if in congratulations.
    Leo looked back at his master with a tentative smile, but he knew he had missed his cue; he didn’t know what Runolf was celebrating, or what there was to be pleased about.
    “What are they singing?” Brother Theodore asked him, curiosity apparently getting the better of him.
    “Something about the harvest feast,” Leo said, trying and failing to follow the words.
    Then he looked Brother Theodore in the eye, remembering all the foul, vicious things this man had said to him over the past few weeks. “I think they’re saying they’re going to roast a monk at the harvest, for good luck. Probably one of the older ones, like you.”
    Brother Theodore gasped, and Leo watched with hidden glee as his face slowly turned the color of whey. It was a petty revenge, and the lie was unworthy of a monk or a follower of Christ, but it felt very satisfying all the same.
     
    ***
     
    That night, Runolf made it home from the jarl’s longhouse on his own two feet, despite the amount of ale he had drunk. He was light on his feet for such a big man, and his life-long training in sword-fighting gave him excellent balance.
    Leo followed him home, occasionally stumbling over a rock. The Viking village was pitch-black after dark, and nobody ever seemed to bother to light a torch to light themselves