ground her shoulder into the
chest.
Her exertions made her
light-headed, and she slumped against the wooden sea chest for a moment as she
saw spots.
Grimar sent a hail of
angry-sounding shouts down on her. He yanked her to her feet and gave her a
shake. It was all too much for her body. The seasickness swirled with her
lightheadedness and Grimar’s shaking. She leaned over and vomited onto his
feet.
Laurel hadn’t been
aware that any of the other Vikings on board were paying attention to her, but
suddenly the ship fell silent. One tittering laugh erupted, then another. Let
them laugh , she thought with complete desolation. But when she glanced up,
she realized that several of the Vikings were pointing and chuckling—not at
her, but at Grimar.
She looked up at his
face and recoiled. He was turning a deep shade of red, whether from
embarrassment or rage she couldn’t tell. His pale blue eyes darted around the
ship, taking in the other Vikings’ derision. But what was so amusing to them,
and why would Grimar be shamed?
Before she could
consider such questions, Grimar’s grip on her arms tightened painfully. He stormed
the few steps to the bow, and Laurel braced herself to be thrown to the wooden
planks once again. But instead, he lifted her in his arms and swung her past
the gunwale—right over the ocean.
It was happening again.
He was dangling her over the rushing, swelling waters, just as he’d done
yesterday. Despite how much she detested this monster, she clung to him
desperately, trying to latch onto him so that he couldn’t get her any closer to
the water.
But nay ,
she thought dimly in the back of her mind, this isn’t like last time .
Last time he’d been laughing, tormenting and teasing her for his own amusement.
This time his face was twisted into a disgusted snarl.
All her numbness and
fatigue burned away in an instant of sheer panic. He doesn’t mean to toy with
me , she realized, he means to rid himself of me .
Her nails dug into his
back, trying to find purchase against his linen tunic. A scream tore from her
throat. She felt her heart freeze in sheer terror.
She was going to die.
She was going to drown in the cold, uncaring North Sea.
“Grimar, stop!” Eirik
bellowed. He barreled past his crewmen toward the bow. His eyes locked on
Laurel, who was overcome with panic.
Eirik skidded to a stop
a few feet away from where Grimar stood dangling Laurel over the gunwale. “What
are you doing, cousin?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
“What does it look
like? I’m ridding myself of this useless thrall,” Grimar snapped.
“Just because a few of
the men chuckled at you for having vomit on your boots?” he said lightly. “Surely
that shouldn’t bother you overmuch.”
Eirik had observed
every horrible moment of the day, from Grimar’s lack of concern for Laurel’s
basic needs for food and water to his grueling physical tasks for her. Thank
the gods they were on a ship, for otherwise Eirik was sure that Grimar would
have used Laurel’s body in other ways as well.
It was a custom as old
as the gods that physical intimacies were not to take place on the open
ocean—it was considered a disrespect to Aegir and his wife Ran, and their nine
daughters, the waves.
Even with Laurel safe
in that regard, Grimar had found every other way to be cruel and harsh to her.
Eirik had forced himself to watch, promising to intervene if Grimar overstepped
the bounds for the treatment of thralls. When he’d seen Laurel empty her
stomach onto Grimar’s boots, he’d had to grip the tiller to will himself not to
intercede. But when some of the crew snickered at Grimar for being so
ineffectual at handling his thrall, he knew something terrible was going to happen.
“She’s useless!” Grimar
shouted. Suddenly he visibly tried to calm himself. “She’s a weakling and of no
value as a thrall, except perhaps as a warm body to fill my bed.”
A voice in the back of
Eirik’s mind screamed
chest.
Her exertions made her
light-headed, and she slumped against the wooden sea chest for a moment as she
saw spots.
Grimar sent a hail of
angry-sounding shouts down on her. He yanked her to her feet and gave her a
shake. It was all too much for her body. The seasickness swirled with her
lightheadedness and Grimar’s shaking. She leaned over and vomited onto his
feet.
Laurel hadn’t been
aware that any of the other Vikings on board were paying attention to her, but
suddenly the ship fell silent. One tittering laugh erupted, then another. Let
them laugh , she thought with complete desolation. But when she glanced up,
she realized that several of the Vikings were pointing and chuckling—not at
her, but at Grimar.
She looked up at his
face and recoiled. He was turning a deep shade of red, whether from
embarrassment or rage she couldn’t tell. His pale blue eyes darted around the
ship, taking in the other Vikings’ derision. But what was so amusing to them,
and why would Grimar be shamed?
Before she could
consider such questions, Grimar’s grip on her arms tightened painfully. He stormed
the few steps to the bow, and Laurel braced herself to be thrown to the wooden
planks once again. But instead, he lifted her in his arms and swung her past
the gunwale—right over the ocean.
It was happening again.
He was dangling her over the rushing, swelling waters, just as he’d done
yesterday. Despite how much she detested this monster, she clung to him
desperately, trying to latch onto him so that he couldn’t get her any closer to
the water.
But nay ,
she thought dimly in the back of her mind, this isn’t like last time .
Last time he’d been laughing, tormenting and teasing her for his own amusement.
This time his face was twisted into a disgusted snarl.
All her numbness and
fatigue burned away in an instant of sheer panic. He doesn’t mean to toy with
me , she realized, he means to rid himself of me .
Her nails dug into his
back, trying to find purchase against his linen tunic. A scream tore from her
throat. She felt her heart freeze in sheer terror.
She was going to die.
She was going to drown in the cold, uncaring North Sea.
“Grimar, stop!” Eirik
bellowed. He barreled past his crewmen toward the bow. His eyes locked on
Laurel, who was overcome with panic.
Eirik skidded to a stop
a few feet away from where Grimar stood dangling Laurel over the gunwale. “What
are you doing, cousin?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
“What does it look
like? I’m ridding myself of this useless thrall,” Grimar snapped.
“Just because a few of
the men chuckled at you for having vomit on your boots?” he said lightly. “Surely
that shouldn’t bother you overmuch.”
Eirik had observed
every horrible moment of the day, from Grimar’s lack of concern for Laurel’s
basic needs for food and water to his grueling physical tasks for her. Thank
the gods they were on a ship, for otherwise Eirik was sure that Grimar would
have used Laurel’s body in other ways as well.
It was a custom as old
as the gods that physical intimacies were not to take place on the open
ocean—it was considered a disrespect to Aegir and his wife Ran, and their nine
daughters, the waves.
Even with Laurel safe
in that regard, Grimar had found every other way to be cruel and harsh to her.
Eirik had forced himself to watch, promising to intervene if Grimar overstepped
the bounds for the treatment of thralls. When he’d seen Laurel empty her
stomach onto Grimar’s boots, he’d had to grip the tiller to will himself not to
intercede. But when some of the crew snickered at Grimar for being so
ineffectual at handling his thrall, he knew something terrible was going to happen.
“She’s useless!” Grimar
shouted. Suddenly he visibly tried to calm himself. “She’s a weakling and of no
value as a thrall, except perhaps as a warm body to fill my bed.”
A voice in the back of
Eirik’s mind screamed
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