The Fifth Lost Tale of Mercia: Alfgifu the Orphan by Jayden Woods Read Free Book Online Page B

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women. Their dresses were ripped, their hair disheveled, and they
were so weary and hopeless that they were not even tied up. They
were guarded by men who reached out and fondled them, and before
her very eyes one of the Vikings pulled one up and dragged her
away.
    Alfgifu stared after them curiously a moment,
then turned her eyes ahead once more. They were nearly to Canute’s
tent.
    Before they entered, the housecarl stopped
her forcefully and searched her with his hands. She gritted her
teeth and endured it. For another rare moment, she felt grateful
for possessing a body that most men found unattractive. His hand
struggled to find her small breasts, and then it did not linger.
When he was done, finding nothing of interest beyond her small
table dirk, he released her and said, “Go on in.”
    It was strangely calm inside the tent, and
she paused at the entrance to let herself adjust. The air was thick
and stuffy with smoke and old wood, but this was softened by the
aromas of warm bread and meat, and what appeared to be fresh, clean
rushes covering the floor. Nonetheless she felt enveloped by an
uncomfortable heat as she continued moving forward, and she
wondered if she imagined it, along with the unnatural red glow that
seemed to cover everything. The fire in the hearth was low and
calm, hardly a source for such a hellish visage. Altogether the
hall was very quiet, though occupied by at least a dozen men and
women: jarls, housecarls, and the best of the female captives, she
suspected.
    Alfgifu felt unexpectedly jealous as she
watched these women sit on the men’s laps, whispering in their ears
or listening to their conversations. These captives had settled
more comfortably into their new roles than the ones outside. They
were also beautiful, and clean, and had even been given nice linens
to wear. But did any of them realize what power they possessed by
being here, in this hall? How easily it had come to them, not even
of their own will, and yet they wasted it, doing what was expected
of them until the time passed. They probably cried themselves to
sleep at night, wishing they were back on their old farms tending
cows and chickens. Her jealousy turned into resentment, and then to
complete hatred. Fools, all of them! They deserved to go back to
their little lodges and live the dull, isolated lives from which
they’d been plucked. But they would never be able to recognize what
was reward and what was punishment, for they were all idiots.
    Then, quite unexpectedly, she saw Canute.
    She doubted her instincts at first, because
he sat all alone, and he looked even younger than she’d imagined.
He was not yet twenty years old, if even nineteen yet. He was thin
and lanky, though his shoulders were of a sturdy width, and it
looked like he would stretch to be quite tall when he stood. But
all that was difficult to determine as he was hunched over the
table, gripping a gilded goblet, staring through his own mess of
thick, jagged hair. Almost everything about him, she thought, was
jagged: from the edges of his joints, to his jutting chin, and even
to the corners of his eyes, narrowed and squinting as he peered
through them.
    When he turned to look at her, she struggled
not to tremble with fear.
    His intensity amazed her, and frightened her,
and excited her all at once. In a sense he did not look at all as
she’d expected him to, but at the same time he seemed everything
she could have hoped for. He was not handsome in the typical sense,
for he had a somewhat long, hooked nose, and his eyes were so high
and narrowed. But from those eyes, a gaze shot from his youthful
face like barbed arrows, transfixing her. He seemed to her like a
hawk, peering far into the distance, seeing further than anyone
else could see.
    He looked her up and down, and her skin
bristled with bumps as she wondered what he saw in her.
    “You,” he said. His voice was somewhat
high-pitched and soft, but it rang through the room like a bell.
“You’re