Page 29 of The Outlaw Viking

His eyes widened as if wondering where she ever got that idea. After all, he had only met her yesterday.

“Slave or hostage, it matters not to me,” Gorm declared with contempt, giving her another shove, this time harder. “I may just plow yer skinny arse myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Would I not? Best ye stay out of me way or ye will find out. Leastways, go to the master’s tent, or I will bind ye with the other captives ’til our lord returns.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rain countered defiantly. “I’ll do it myself.”

Rain walked proudly over to the line of prisoners and sat down at the end, tying the end of the rope about her ankles in a symbolic knot of captivity. Ubbi gasped and Gorm’s mouth dropped open, revealing one missing front tooth. Rain couldn’t help herself from feeling noble; this was like the time she and her fellow pacifists had tied themselves to the White House fence to protest increased military spending.

“Gawd! Be ye a bloomin’ halfwit?” The heavyset woman next to her moved as far away from her as the rope would allow.

“No, I’m a physician and—” The yellowish tone of the woman’s skin caught her attention then, and she asked with concern, “How long have you been feeling ill? I may be able to help you.” Rain knew the skin tone could be indicative of something as serious as a tumor or liver disease, or just a Vitamin k deficiency, easily correctable.

The woman’s eyes widened in shock. With a shriek, she tried to stand. “Git me away from her. A woman healer! Oh, Lord, she mus’ be a witch or a sorceress. Help! She prob’ly has the evil eye.”

Gorm stomped over and cuffed the woman across the head, causing her to drop weakly to the ground, where she moaned loudly.

Rain started to protest, but he wagged a filthy finger in her face. “Behave yerself, wench. Ye may pleasure the master ’til his cock falls off, but if ye do not shut yer teeth, I will truss you over the cookfire like the witch this hag accuses you of bein’.”

Ubbi was staring at her, wide-eyed with dismay. “Mistress, come back to the tent. The master will not like this.”

“No. If I’m a captive, I don’t want to be treated any differently than all the rest.”

Ubbi rolled his eyes skyward.

For about a half hour, Rain sat stiffly in sullen silence on the cold ground, shivering every time the wind blew. Even with Selik’s wool tunic thrown over her slacks and silk blouse, she began to feel a chill.

Finally, bored, her eyes began to roam among her fellow prisoners. She inhaled sharply when they came to one young Saxon man, who was slumped practically unconscious against the woman next to him. Blood oozed from a deep shoulder wound where his leather armor had been torn away.

“Ubbi, come and help this man,” she cried out in alarm. “His wound needs to be treated.”

Ubbi ignored her pointedly, continuing to saw away at the flesh of the dead rabbits. His red face betrayed the fact that he heard her and chose not to reply.

“Gorm, release that man from the rope and take him to the hospital tent for treatment.”

Gorm, the insolent bastard, flashed an ugly smile her way and spat on the ground near her feet.

Rain bit her bottom lip worriedly, unable to ignore a patient who needed her help so desperately. Finally, she stood, jarring the woman next to her, who still cowered in fear, and complained, “Well, if no one else is going to help him, I will.” She unbound the ropes at her ankles and went to the tent to retrieve her meager medical supplies.

Ubbi barely stifled a chuckle of amusement at her strange interpretation of captivity. She glared at him until he ducked his head, but not before he shook it in wonder at her antics.

Rain loosened the ropes on the young man, who looked like he was barely out of his teens, and helped him walk to the tent. Despite the protests of the hospital guard, she soon had the sword wound cleaned and stitched. It was not as bad as she had originally thought.

She tried to calm her patient by talking while she stitched the four-inch cut. “What’s your name?”

“Edwin.”

“Where are you from, Edwin?”

“Winchester,” he replied warily.

“Did you fight in the battle for King Athelstan?”

He nodded slowly, as if not sure if he could trust her.

“Why didn’t you return to Wessex with the king and his troops?”