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Chapter Text

Chapter One

The rain had been falling since before dawn, a thin, steady drizzle that whispered against the stone walls of the monastery. It slid down in glistening rivulets, soaking the moss between the flagstones, pooling in the grooves worn deep by the feet of generations of nuns. A heavy fog lay thick over the land, blurring the courtyard and swallowing the view of the coast beyond the walls.

Mary sat on her narrow straw pallet, pulling her coarse wool cloak tight around her shoulders. The damp clung to her skin, the cold creeping into her bones until her fingers ached. But it was not only the weather that made her shiver.

She could still hear Sister Agnes's voice—thin and trembling—repeating words that had unsettled them all. "Men of the north… they will arrive on the back of a serpent over the sea. The world as we know it will end…"

The blind nun had been pacing the long hallways of the monastery for days, her clouded eyes turned toward the wind as though listening for something the rest of them could not hear. Many had dismissed her mutterings as the ramblings of an old mind drifting toward its final rest, but Mary had felt the hair at the back of her neck rise each time she heard them.

Lately, rumours had begun to match the prophecy. Whispers carried from passing merchants and fishermen—stories of pale-haired heathens in long, narrow ships, their prows carved like dragons. Villages burned, churches defiled, people carried off into the unknown.

Mary's fingers curled around the wooden cross hanging from her neck. She tried to pray, but the words came haltingly, as though they resisted leaving her lips. It was easy to be brave if one did not have to be brave. But when danger came close, she could feel her faith shrinking as well.

Another reason why she would never be a perfect nun.

But the monastery was a safe haven. When her uncle had started talking about marriage proposals she had searched her refuge here. And the nuns had welcomed her, loved her, as one of their own.

She would always be grateful for it.

Loving God, being a good Christian came easy being surrounded by these loving women.

If his was heaven, then her uncles court must have been hell.

She would never return, she had promised herself. Even if it meant being scared at night of a serpent that might never appear.

The rain masked many sounds, but the first scream sliced through it like a blade.

She froze.

It came again—sharper, closer—followed by a confused chorus of shouts and hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor outside her cell. Somewhere beyond the walls, there was the deep, resonant thud of something heavy striking wood, followed by a crash as if a door had given way.

Mary was on her feet, her heart pounding. She pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders and stepped into the narrow hallway, joining the swirl of movement as other sisters hurried toward the main entry.

A second scream rang out—this one cut short, abruptly swallowed by silence.

The acrid smell of smoke seeped in through the cracks in the stone, mixed with the damp chill of the fog. Mary's bare feet slapped against the cold floor as she ran toward the great oak doors.

They were already ajar. Through the gap, she could see shifting shadows moving in the mist—tall shapes bending and straightening, others dragging something heavy across the stones.

She hesitated, her breath clouding in the cold air.

A figure emerged from the fog.

The man was taller than anyone she had ever seen, his hair wet and tangled, falling to his shoulders in damp locks. His face was streaked with blue paint, the lines running down over cheekbones sharpened by the cold. His eyes—pale, icy blue—locked with hers for the briefest heartbeat. There was no mercy in them.

He stepped forward, an axe in his hand. The blade caught the light in a brief, silver flash before he swung it toward her. It was as if he had chosen her to be the one to die by his hand.

Mary gasped, stumbling back, her foot catching on the edge of the doorway.

The blow never landed.

Another man appeared, catching the first one's arm mid-swing. His face less marked, but his words were strange—harsh and guttural. Whatever he said made the warrior snarl, but he lowered his weapon.

Mary could not move. Her gaze stayed locked on the pale eyes, her breath shallow.

A strange numbness spread through her limbs, the cold and fear mingling until the edges of the world began to fade. Her knees buckled, the dim light above her spinning.

The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was the flare of her saviours breath in the cold air, and those unblinking, unsettling blue eyes watching her fall.

Floki crouched near the altar of the chapel. The rain ran down his face and dripped from the tips of his hair. His hands, long and restless, drummed on the golden coverings, fingers twitching with an energy that was never still.

He did not like the girl.

He did not like the way she lay there, wrapped in a rough wool blanket, her dark hair damp against her pale face. She was too still, too quiet, as though she belonged to another world entirely.

The gods whispered to him. They always did. But today their voices were sharper, more insistent.

She is dangerous, Floki… she is not of us. She will change the way things are. She will bring ruin.

He believed them. He had always believed them.

When Ragnar had ordered him to spare her life, Floki had tried to protest.

"She is nothing but trouble," he had told him. The Gods had told him and he could see it. He could see how she would bring in this unknown light.

This unknown God.

Ragnar had only smiled. "It's not up to you to decide who is trouble, boatbuilder. I forbid you to kill her."

Floki had felt the frown pulling at his face. "New worlds bring new troubles. She will destroy us in the end."

"Perhaps," Ragnar had said, already turning away.

And that was the end of it.

Ragnar never took him seriously. And now they would all pay the price.

She lay among them, hands and feet bound, like a curse. She smelled faintly of the monastery—of incense, smoke, and some sweet, cloying oil they must have used for their rituals.

Her scent made the Gods sick.

Floki tilted his head, watching her chest rise and fall.

Kill her, the gods urged. Before she wakes. Before she speaks her poison into his ears.

His hand slid toward the dagger at his belt.

But Ragnar's voice came again, low and certain: I forbid you to kill her.

Loyalty to Ragnar pulled one way. The whispers of the gods pulled another.

The girl stirred. Her brow furrowed, and she made a faint sound—half sigh, half moan.

Floki's eyes narrowed. His lips curled into something that might have been a smile or a sneer.

"Sleep, little lamb," he murmured, his voice thin and sing-song, almost tender. "Sleep while you can."

He wouldn't kill her now. Not yet.

But he would do it before she got her claws in him.

So then she wouldn't be able to corrupt him: the bear, their fiercest warrior.

Chapter Text

Chapter two 

Water everywhere.

It stretched out around her in all directions, cold and dark. She sat in a ship, surrounded by men with long beards and braided hair. In the distance, faint through the mist, she heard the nuns singing a psalm.

Why wasn't she with them?

Why was she on this strange boat when she belonged among her sisters?

She tried to stand, but the moment she did, a deafening thunderclap rolled across the sky. Strangely, no lightning followed.

She tried again—another clap of thunder.

On her third attempt, the men turned towards her. Their faces were twisted with anger. Slowly, they came closer, hauled her upright, and lifted her off the deck.

The strangest thing was that she wasn't afraid of them. All she wanted was to find the source of the singing, but the only thing she could see was water.

Then, without warning, they let her go. She fell—down, down—until the sea swallowed her whole, and then she sank.

She sank and sank until her feet touched the bottom.

That was when she saw she wasn't alone beneath the water. All around her floated people with their eyes wide open.

But as she looked closer, she saw they weren't really people.

They were only heads.

Gasping for air, Mary's eyes flew open. Her clothes were drenched with sweat, and her hair clung to her forehead. She looked around for some scrap of comfort, but instead the memories came flooding back: the attack, the blond intruder, and those terrible, ice-blue eyes.

She curled herself instinctively, glancing over her shoulder. She was sitting on a patch of sandy soil just outside the abbey walls. Around her sat dozens of others—villagers and strangers alike. She recognized a few faces from the nearby hamlet.

No one spoke. A few wept quietly.

The sound of a grown man crying was more terrible than anything she had imagined.

Mary's heart began to pound. What had happened to her sisters? She searched the faces of the captives for theirs, but…

Were they—?

She could not finish the thought.

A hard lump formed in her throat and refused to go down.

Her eyes caught on a small figure a little way off. She recognized the flame-red hair of Isa, the girl the prioress had practically adopted. Isa's mother had died two years before, and her father, unable to bear the loss, had turned to the bottle.

The nuns had treated the child as their own, sheltering her whenever they could.

A sharp pang of pity pierced Mary's chest.

How much more was this poor child expected to endure?

She didn't need to see Isa's face to know she was crying; her thin shoulders trembled as she smothered her sobs into her hands.

Mary glanced at the two men guarding them. They were deep in conversation, not even glancing their way, clearly untroubled by the thought of an escape. Keeping her eyes on them, she edged toward Isa.

The girl flinched when Mary laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Sister Mary!" Isa cried, throwing her arms around Mary's neck and burying her wet face against her. "They killed them all… I saw them lying there and—"

Her sobs rose into a hysterical wail. Mary pulled her closer, stroking her hair.

"Ssh," she whispered. "I know. I'm here now." She tried to keep her voice strong and calm, but she could not hide the tremor in it.

How could anyone harm the nuns? The most patient, loving, and selfless women in all of England? What kind of monsters could end their lives so cruelly—and why had she been spared?

"Be glad you didn't see it," Isa choked. "They weren't men anymore. The sisters couldn't fight them. They tried to run, but those men were faster… bigger… Be glad you didn't see what they did."

Isa's voice broke. "Where were you?" she asked softly.

"At home," Isa whispered. "My father… he tried to protect me. But the other man was so much bigger, so much stronger. He… he—"

"Don't say any more," Mary murmured, a shiver of horror running down her spine.

Poor little Isa. Maybe it was some small comfort that her father had died trying to defend her—a hero in the end, not the pitiful drunk he had become.

But the question remained: Why were they still alive?

One of the guards shouted something to the other, who laughed. Blood streaked his face.

She recognised one of them as the man who had almost killed her. He had a high, haunting laugh. It gave her goosebumps.

A slow, heavy anger coiled in her stomach.

How dared they? By what right did they invade her land, slaughter good Christians, and then laugh about the destruction they'd caused?

If we choose love, then we choose to love all people.

The prioress's words rang in her memory, but now they made her stomach twist.

"It's no longer possible to love all people," she whispered. "Some don't deserve it."

No voice answered her, but she knew the prioress would have disagreed. Even after what these heathens had done, she would have said—softly—that those furthest from God needed Him the most.

"What do you think they'll do to us?" Isa asked against her shoulder. "I'm scared, sister. What if they do the same to us as they did to the sisters?"

Mary brushed a tear from the girl's face. Isa's green eyes were rimmed red, a nasty scratch running across her nose.

"I'm scared too," she admitted. "But we must have faith."

"Faith in what?"

"In God's plan." The words tasted like ash on her tongue, her own doubt clawing at her chest. But she would not cry. She would not break. The heathens would not see her bow.

"That's what the prioress would say," Isa murmured.

Mary forced a sad smile. "I know."

Isa quieted then, though she never let go. They sat that way for hours, drawing what comfort they could from each other.

When they were finally bound and driven toward the sea, Mary kept herself close to Isa. She shivered, though the sun shone above them. Perhaps it was because the cold she felt was not in the air, but in her heart.

A prickling sensation crawled along her spine. Someone was watching her.

She looked up—and her gaze locked with a pair of blue eyes ringed in black paint.

The one with the terrible, mocking laugh.

He stared back, his gaze so dark, so full of hate, that she had to look away. Around his neck hung the ruby-studded cross that had once stood by the altar.

Her throat tightened. Was it not enough that they had spilled consecrated blood? Must they desecrate the holy relics as well?

A commotion erupted. One of the villagers had broken free and was running for the hills. He didn't get far—the tallest Northman caught him in an instant.

Isa screamed when the man's axe struck, and the villager crumpled lifeless to the ground.

The Northman turned back to his companions, grinning, his face and thick brown beard dripping with blood.

Mary turned away, disgust twisting her stomach.

"It was him," Isa whispered, her eyes wide with terror. "He's the one who killed my father."

Mary looked at her with deep pity, blinking back the burning in her own eyes.

These were not men. They were beasts.

Rollo saw her—the girl with the brown hair and eyes that burned like fire.

The fear on her face. The contempt.

He had seen both countless times before, but this time… it struck something in him.

He tried to shake it off, but again and again, his eyes sought her out among the captives.

She was beautiful—at least, he thought so. Even with dirt smeared across her face and her simple clothing torn, there was a grace in her movements.

He decided he would take her. Later, in Kattegat, or on the ship beneath the cover of darkness.

And yet… to his surprise, the thought didn't please him. His body reacted to hers, yes, but his mind… his mind wanted something else, something he didn't dare name.

Was it is mind or his heart? Those two tricksters that loved to haunt him with intense feelings and thoughts . Feelings and thoughts he did not know what to do with. Like that he would never be enough… never truly belong… never be Ragnar…

He shook his head. For now, he was a warrior, and she was nothing more than spoils of war.

And a warrior always took his share of the spoils.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Mary closed her eyes and let the sea breeze brush against her face, tugging through the loose strands of her hair. It was almost comforting, a fleeting sensation that breathed a spark of hope into the hollow chamber of her heart.

She looked down at Isa's pale little face resting in her lap and brushed a damp strand of hair from her brow. Fever had broken out two days after they left shore, and from what Mary could recall, someone had died almost every day since.

The heathens were not sentimental folk. The dead were given to the waves, wrapped in whatever cloth could be spared, lowered into the restless sea.

If she closed her eyes, Mary could still see their white faces disappearing beneath the foam.

Her stomach twisted at the thought that Isa might soon share that fate. With each hour, life slipped further from the child's fragile body.

The helplessness gnawed at her until she wanted to scream.

There had to be something she could do.

Her gaze shifted to the Norsemen gathered on the far side of the ship. Their presence had become almost familiar now, despite the horrors she had witnessed. She and the other captives were treated… not kindly, perhaps, but not cruelly either.

Each morning they were given a scrap of bread and some water and then largely ignored.

Yet the man with the dark, shadowed eyes often cast murderous glances her way, as if silently promising her doom.

Isa shivered though her skin burned with fever. If she didn't get water soon, Mary knew the child's last breath would escape before long.

"Please, God," Mary whispered, tilting her face up to the bright sky above. "Help us."

The words of Sister Bernadice came unbidden to her mind: For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of sound mind.

Bernadice had always been patient, always ready with answers for Mary's endless questions.

It wasn't the reply she had hoped for, but it was enough. Mary knew what she had to do.

Her heart pounding wildly, she rose to her feet and took a trembling step toward the heathens. The other captives stared at her in shock.

She ignored their looks, squared her shoulders, and spoke.

"My friend needs water," she said, her voice cracking. "Please—can anyone help us?"

The Norsemen turned, studying her as though she had gone mad. One shouted something in their harsh tongue, and they all roared with laughter.

"Please," Mary pressed, her head throbbing, holding fast to Sister Bernadice's verse like a lifeline. "She will die without water. Does anyone understand me?"

She couldn't lose Isa too. The girl was all the sisters had left her, her last charge, her last responsibility. She could not fail her, not again.

Her eyes stung. "Can anyone understand me?" she repeated desperately. "Please—she is very sick."

Another wave of laughter rolled across the ship. Mary's shoulders sagged. It was useless. They didn't understand her words—how could they?

"Where is she?"

Mary froze. The man with the ice-blue eyes had risen and was walking toward her. There was a playful smile on his lips, as though her plea amused him.

Something animal lingered in the way he moved, like a predator closing in on prey.

Mary forced her fear down and pointed toward Isa. "There."

He looked from Isa back to her and chuckled. "You want us to waste precious water on someone who will not survive the night?"

Bile rose in Mary's throat. She refused to believe it.

"She only has a fever," she insisted, though the end of her sentence wavered like a question. "She only needs water. Then she will be well again."

A woman with long golden hair appeared at the leader's side and asked him something in their tongue. He gave a brief answer.

The woman's eyes passed over Isa's small frame, and for an instant, Mary thought she saw a flicker of compassion.

Hope flared in her chest.

"Please," she begged. "Just a little will be enough."

The blue-eyed man turned back to his companions and spoke to them in their strange language. His words sparked loud protest. One of the men—the great brute with the axe—broke from the group and strode toward them.

Mary instinctively stepped back. She hadn't forgotten how casually he had killed before.

His entire being radiated a wild strength that frightened her more than the cold gaze of the leader.

The man barked something and laughed. His eyes meeting hers and the intensity in them made her stomach turn.

"Rollo says we should throw her overboard." The blue eyes man said.

Mary's heart stopped. Panic surged in her chest. "Please, no! I'll do anything—just let her live!"

The blonde woman spoke sharply, but Rollo only shrugged. He strode to Isa, bent down, and in one effortless motion lifted her over his shoulder like a rag doll.

"Stop!" Mary cried, rushing forward without thinking. She tried to wrench Isa from his grip but might as well have fought a mountain. He shoved her aside with a mocking grin and carried Isa toward the railing.

Laughter rippled across the deck.

Fury burned away Mary's fear. She threw herself at him again, clawing at his arms, his fingers, desperate to pull Isa free.

"Don't!" she shouted, her tears spilling freely now. "Don't!"

Her nails raked his skin. She felt the heat of his body against hers, the immovable wall of his strength. Their eyes met again- his were green, with a little brown in them and full of an emotion she couldn't quite understand.

"Please," she whispered.

Suddenly the blonde woman was between them. She spoke in a commanding tone.

Rollo scowled, but then, with almost careless ease, lowered Isa back to the deck.

Mary let out a shuddering breath and collapsed to her knees. She cupped Isa's face gently.

The child's breathing was shallow, barely there.

"My wife asks if she is your sister," came the voice of the blue-eyed man.

Mary shook her head, wiping her tears. She barely heard the words that followed; all her attention was on Isa, whose lashes fluttered faintly at her voice.

"Isa, do you hear me?" she murmured. "Stay with me, little one..."

The blonde woman crouched beside her and drew a flask from her belt. Her smile was both gentle and reassuring. With steady hands, she pressed it to Isa's lips. Slowly the girl swallowed a few drops.

Mary lifted her tear-stained face to the woman. "Thank you," she whispered.

The woman nodded and spoke a word, pointing at Isa.

"She wants to know your names," the blue-eyed man translated.

"Isa," Mary said, mimicking the gesture. Then, touching her own chest: "Mary."

The woman straightened. "Lagertha."

From then on, Isa's health improved, and it was not only because of the water.

Lagertha seemed to take the child under her wing. She brought extra food, made sure they had fresh water, even gave a blanket to keep Isa warm at night.

The woman's kindness touched Mary deeply. It softened the furious grief that had burned in her since the raid.

The blue-eyed man was Ragnar, the leader of their small band. His brother was the one with the axe—Rollo. Of all the men, he laughed the loudest, though his laughter was as brutal as his strength. Since he had tried to throw Isa overboard, he had not approached her again, though she sometimes caught him watching her intensely.

She turned away each time their eyes met. He was dangerous, bloodthirsty.

Best to pray he forgot she existed.

She had never met people like these Northmen before: so wild, so full of life, and yet capable of cruelty as cold and unfeeling as the sea.

The man with the shadowed eyes was called Floki.

Sometimes Mary woke in the night to find his gaze glinting in the moonlight, sharp and unsettling.

His presence made her long for land, for solid earth beneath her feet, for safety.

To Lagertha, the girls stirred memories of her own daughter—brave, tender, strong. Perhaps that was why she cared so fiercely for them.

She had never agreed with the practice of stealing young girls from their lands only to sell them into slavery. The tales she had heard of how some thralls were treated sickened her.

It had, of course, been Rollo who tried to assert his strength again. She had always known why she chose Ragnar over him.

Ragnar showed compassion where Rollo sought only to prove himself. Ragnar was patient where Rollo was quick to anger. Ragnar thought where Rollo only acted.

Still, even before she had ordered Rollo to put Isa down, she had seen something in his eyes—a hesitation, a flicker of restraint. As if he had already been on the verge of sparing her.

It had surprised her.

Maybe he was capable of change after all.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, land appeared on a rain-swept morning. The Norsemen shouted with joy.

Floki climbed onto the dragon-headed prow, shrieking his triumph to the skies.

On the shore, a great crowd had gathered, waving and cheering.

"Ragnar! Ragnar!" they chanted, their voices rising over the crash of the surf.

Greetings were hurled back and forth between ship and land until finally the anchors dropped, and they drew into the harbor.

Men and women rushed to embrace the returning warriors.

Mary tried not to stare. She was unused to such public affection, and it jarred against the harsh, stoic demeanor of her captors.

She caught sight of Rollo, standing a little apart, watching the reunions with a smile. Two children ran toward him, laughing—a boy of about eight, and a slightly older girl.

They leapt into Lagertha's arms, who kissed them both and held them tightly. Rollo scooped up the boy and whispered something in his ear, making him giggle. Ragnar stroked the girl's blond head before calling a man closer.

It was a thin man with brown curls, and there was something about him that seemed familiar.

Then, as one of the warriors shoved her forward onto the pier, she saw his face clearly.

Her heart leapt.

"Athelstan!"

Chapter Text

Chapter four

Athelstan's head snapped around at the sound of his name. His brown eyes widened in disbelief as they settled on Mary, standing at the edge of the dock with the other captives.

For a moment he simply stared, as though he had conjured her out of memory and she might vanish if he dared to blink. Then his lips parted, and he uttered her name with a startled breath.

"Mary?" He pushed his way through the crowd and strode toward her. "By heaven, what are you doing here?"

She gave an exhausted smile. "The heathens took me."

Athelstan's expression shifted, shadows passing across his features. He nodded slowly, as if the answer explained everything and nothing all at once.

He seemed glad to see her, yet Mary sensed something different in him, something harder.

This was not the eager boy who had once sat beside her in the cloister, devouring the monks' books with wide-eyed wonder.

This Athelstan carried weight in his gaze, the mark of a man who had seen too much.

Memories of their youth flickered across her mind.

Athelstan had been only a boy when he was taken in by the monastery near her father's lands. They had been of an age, and Mary, bold and restless, had found his serious nature a curious comfort. She had learned her letters with him, struggled through Latin hymns, whispered questions that only he would answer patiently.

They had been friends—at least as much as a cloistered novice and a spirited girl could be.

Even then he had been restless, staring out at the horizon as though it called him by name.

When he had left to travel, she had not been surprised. When he had returned with tales of far lands, she had hung on his every word, green with envy. If she had been born a man, she thought bitterly, she might have walked the same paths.

Now, irony had granted her wish. Her prayers had been answered in a crueler fashion than she ever imagined.

"I belong to Ragnar," Athelstan said quietly, his eyes flicking toward the tall Viking chief whose blue gaze missed little. "I am his slave."

Mary followed his gaze. Ragnar stood in the center of the quay, exchanging words with another warrior. His presence was magnetic, his posture both relaxed and commanding. The villagers clustered around him as though he was a God.

Before Mary could reply, Ragnar barked a command in his harsh tongue and gestured for Athelstan to approach. Athelstan grasped her hand suddenly, tugging her forward with him.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, resisting.

"Saving your life," he answered simply, and then he began to speak rapidly in the Norse tongue.

His words were fluid now, seasoned by use, and Mary felt the sting of betrayal. He was speaking about her—she could tell by the way Ragnar's gaze turned sharp and considering, the way the surrounding warriors turned to study her.

Heat rose in her cheeks. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet their stares.

"What did you say?" she whispered when there was a pause.

Athelstan turned to her, his voice calm but urgent. "I told them you are noble-born. The earl has accepted you as a gift."

The words struck her like a blow. "A gift? To whom?"

"You are the slave of earl Haraldson."

Her throat tightened. "Why would you do that?"

"Because he will treat you with respect. The others…" Athelstan's voice darkened. "You cannot imagine how the others treat their slaves. You must trust me."

She wanted to trust him, yet resentment burned inside. For one fleeting moment she had believed his presence meant safety, that he would find some clever way to free her.

Instead, he had bound her to an unknown Viking earl.

"And Isa?" Her voice trembled.

Athelstan frowned. "Who is Isa?"

Mary nodded toward the frail girl who stood trembling a few paces behind. "She belongs with me. You must promise me, Athelstan. Promise you will see that she is safe. Ask Ragnar to let her stay with Lagertha. I have seen kindness in her."

Athelstan hesitated only a moment before nodding. " I will."

But before Mary could breathe, rough hands seized her arms. The warriors pulled her away from the other captives, steering her through the bustling settlement toward her new life.

Kattegat was nothing like the walled towns Mary had known in back home. It was smaller, humbler, a scattering of longhouses pressed against the fjord where ships lined the shore like hungry beasts.

Yet it pulsed with life.

Smoke curled from chimneys, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer rang out, and children darted between the legs of warriors shouting for their fathers' attention.

Everything felt both chaotic and ordered, a place where laughter mingled with the smell of tar, where the air reeked of fish, ale, and wet timber. These people lived close to the earth, close to the sea, as if both were their masters.

At the earl's quarters a tall girl approached Mary with a cautious smile. She had dark braids and keen eyes, and introduced herself as Selva. She was Northumbrian as well and Mary immediately felt less alone.

It was Selva who guided Mary to the earls hall. Mary had expected something grand, perhaps a fortress of stone like her father's castle, but the earls dwelling was only a longhouse of timber and thatch.

Yet the space was impressive in its own way: smoke from the hearth curled up to a hole in the roof, shields lined the walls, and carved beams told stories of gods and beasts. The air smelled of pine and roasted meat.

Earl Haraldson himself greeted her with a nod but no smile. His eyes were keen, like a hawk's, and though his expression was mild there was authority in the very way he stood. Beside him sat a woman Selva introduced as Siggy, his wife.

Mary had rarely seen such beauty dulled by grief. Siggy's features were delicate, her golden hair plaited with care, but sorrow clung to her like a veil.

Selva whispered that Siggy's sons had been murdered, and that she had never recovered from the loss.

The days that followed were nothing like what Mary had feared. She was not forced into grueling labor in the fields or beaten for mistakes.

Instead, her duties were light: helping Siggy dress, carrying water, assisting in the kitchen. She found herself treated with courtesy, even respect. The earl's household was not cruel.

Selva was her lifeline.

The girl's patience helped Mary pick up words of Norse, and soon she could stumble through greetings and simple requests. The language felt rough at first, full of sharp sounds, but Mary had always been quick with tongues.

Still, fear lingered. At night she lay awake on the furs provided for her, staring at the smoke-hole above, wondering why God had sent her here.

One afternoon she carried a water jug from the village well and nearly dropped it when she saw Athelstan striding toward her. His hair had grown longer, framing his face, and he walked with ease beside a fair-haired boy she recognized as Ragnar's son.

"Athelstan!" she called, her heart leaping. She waved, and he came at once, smiling.

"Mary! You are well?"

She nodded, shifting the jug to her hip. "I am safe. What about you?"

"I am well," he said warmly. "Bjorn and I are fetching food for Lagertha. But I was looking for you. I have news."

Her pulse quickened. "What news?"

"At your request—Isa came with us. She is with Lagertha now. She helps with the household, and she plays with Gyda, their daughter. She is healthy, Mary. Happier than I have ever seen her."

Relief overwhelmed her, and tears stung her eyes. "Thank God." She whispered it like a prayer.

Athelstan grinned. "I thought you would be glad."

"I am more than glad. I am…free of fear for the first time since we left." She swallowed and steadied herself. "How do you live here, Athelstan? Truly?"

He glanced toward Bjorn, who was chasing a stray dog, then back to her. "I live by loyalty. If there is one thing these people prize above all, it is loyalty. Without it, you are nothing."

Mary tilted her head. "And are you loyal to Ragnar?"

He did not hesitate. "Yes."

Her brow furrowed. "But how can you be loyal to a heathen and to God?"

His smile faded. For a moment his eyes darkened, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of doubt. "Perhaps you cannot. Perhaps you must choose. Or perhaps survival is a choice of its own."

That night Mary lay awake, replaying Athelstan's words. Athelstan, who once had faith enough to carry both of them through doubt, now faltered. If he doubted, what hope had she?

The questions gnawed at her. Why had God let the nuns be slaughtered? Why had her home been burned, her freedom stripped, her fate tied to heathens who worshiped gods of thunder and death?

And yet…there was gratitude too. Isa lived, and thrived, because of Lagertha.

She herself was treated with dignity, given food and shelter. Was this not also God's providence?

She pressed her hands together in the darkness, whispering prayers into the smoke-stained rafters. "Lord, give me wisdom. Give me strength. Help me to be loyal to the right hearts without losing my soul."

Above her, the stars wheeled through the smoke-hole, cold and eternal.

And she did not sleep until the first pale light of dawn crept across the sky.

Chapter Text

Chapter five

Mary felt something that seemed like peace as she folded away the pale linen garments that Siggy, the earl’s wife, had worn throughout the day.

Candlelight flickered against the walls of the longhouse chamber, catching the glint of golden chains that lay draped across a carved wooden chest.

She reached for them and began polishing each link with a square of cloth, rubbing until the dullness gave way to a sharp gleam.

The repetitive task soothed her mind; it was easier to lose herself in the rhythm than to think about how her life had changed since she had arrived in Kattegat.

She had been there for weeks now, and she had gotten used to the rhythm of her new life.

Although she still prayed every night before she went to bed, her life in the monastery felt like a distant dream.

A life she had lost that maybe never had been hers to begin with.

The monastery had been a place full of unwritten rules and Kattegat was the same. And now that she had been here long enough she started to understand that in this strange place, invisibility was sometimes a blessing.

The Northmen barely looked at her when she moved about her duties. To them she was þræll—a slave, something between a shadow and a tool. Yet that invisibility also meant she heard things not meant for her ears.

It was the deep timbre of the earl’s voice that broke her concentration.

Startled, she froze, the chain still clutched in her hand, before realizing he had entered with Siggy.

Earl Haraldson carried himself with the calm weight of authority, but to Mary there was something colder beneath it, as though the air itself stiffened around him.

“There will be no more delays,” Haraldson was saying, his tone measured but final. “Ragnar Lothbrok has challenged me too often. At dawn, we strike his household.”

The words lodged in Mary’s chest like a stone. Ragnar.

She had not heard his name spoken often in this hall, but it had become one of the few names that meant safety to her.

He had shown kindness, had protected Isla and Athelstan trusted him.

To hear now that he was to be destroyed chilled her marrow.

Her breath quickened, though she tried to keep her head bowed.

Sweat prickled at her hairline.

She could not stop herself from leaning just slightly closer, as though her body refused to let her ignore the conversation.

An attack. Tomorrow morning. Ragnar’s home, his family… Lagertha, his children...

Isa.

Athelstan.

Mary’s loyalty split her heart in two.

The earl’s household had fed her, clothed her, given her duties. Siggy, though stern, was never cruel.

Yet Ragnar had saved Isa’s life, and Isa was her responsibility. The only connection she had with the young novice she had been.

Her fingers clenched around the golden chain until it bit into her palm.

“Slave!”

Mary startled violently. The chain slipped from her grasp, clattering against the chest.

Siggy’s eyes were on her, sharp and impatient.

“My husband desires water,” Siggy said, her voice smooth but edged with irritation.

Mary ducked her head quickly. “Yes, mistress.” She hurried from the room, her steps uneven, her stomach a knot of dread.

The kitchen was dim, lit only by the low glow of embers.

Selva, another thrall, looked up as Mary entered, her hands dusted with flour. “What’s with you? You look as though you’ve seen a dwarf creeping out of the earth.”

Mary forced a grimace, too distracted to invent a clever lie. “I need water for the earl.”

Selva gestured toward the table, where an empty bucket rested. “Then you’ll need to fetch it. The well’s outside. Best hurry.”

Mary seized the bucket with a murmured thanks and stepped into the night.

The cool air rushed against her flushed skin, easing the heat of panic. Stars glimmered faintly above the dark sweep of the fjord.

From nearby houses came the low murmur of laughter, the scent of roasted meat, the bark of a dog.

She paused, clutching the bucket, her thoughts a storm.

If she said nothing, Ragnar’s family would be slaughtered.

If she warned them and the earl discovered her betrayal, Isa might pay the price.

Who deserved her loyalty?

The sound of giggling drew her eyes toward the shadows near one of the houses. A young woman was pressed against the wall, a large man’s arm braced beside her head.

The moon caught his profile—thick beard, strong jaw, eyes glinting with wolfish humor.

Mary’s first instinct was disapproval, but then recognition struck.

Rollo.

Ragnar’s brother.

As if it was a sign from God Himself.

Relief surged so suddenly that she acted before fear could stop her. “Lord Rollo!”

His head lifted.

For a moment she saw shame flicker in his expression, as if he had been caught at something unworthy.

He quickly released the girl and stepped towards her.

“Slave,” he said, his tone halfway between a greeting and a sneer.

Mary set her jaw. “I must speak with you.” She glanced toward the girl and added firmly, “Alone.”

Rollo laughed, though his amusement seemed more from surprise than mockery. “You? Speak with me?”

“Yes.” Her voice shook, but she steadied it. “It is a matter of life and death.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “You speak our tongue well.”

“I am serious. Please.”

Something in her expression convinced him. He gestured for her to walk with him, and together they moved toward the well.

The village noise fell away until only the creak of the bucket rope and the whisper of the night wind surrounded them.

“Speak, then,” Rollo said, folding his arms across his chest. “Whose life hangs in the balance?”

Mary swallowed hard. “Ragnar’s. The earl plans to strike at dawn.”

The humor drained from his face. His eyes darkened. His hand caught her chin, tilting her face upward. His callused thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, not quite a touch, not quite a caress. The gesture sent fire racing beneath her skin, though fear clenched her stomach tight. She had not forgotten the bloodstains on his face, or the way he had grabbed Isla trying to throw her overboard.

He leaned closer, voice low and sharp. “How do you know this?”

“I heard. With my own ears. The earl spoke of it tonight.” She realized with a jolt how near he stood, his broad frame looming. Her skin still tingling where he had touched her.

She stepped back instinctively, though his gaze followed.

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Rollo’s jaw tightened. He gave a single, decisive nod. “Thank you. I will warn my brother tonight.”

Mary’s breath came fast. She grasped the chance to add, “Please—make sure the little girl is safe as well. Isa. She means everything to me.”

For the first time, Rollo’s stern features softened. “She is dear to you.”

“More dear than my own life,” she whispered.

He inclined his head. Then, without another word, he turned, his cloak snapping in the night breeze as he strode away.

Mary watched him vanish into the dark, whispering a desperate prayer that his warning would reach Ragnar in time.

Lagertha worked at her loom, her fingers deftly guiding bright threads into patterns that told old stories.

Beside her sat Gyda and Isa, both watching with wide, curious eyes. The clack of the loom was steady, comforting.

“What are we making?” Gyda asked, though she already knew.

Lagertha smiled. She knew her daughter’s game—Gyda loved to hear the stories again and again, testing whether her mother would always tell them the same way. “This figure is Loki,” she explained, tracing the dark threads with her hand. “He murdered Balder, the shining god.”

“And he was punished,” Gyda said eagerly.

“Yes,” Lagertha nodded. “Bound to three stones, with the serpent Jörmungandr dripping venom onto his face…”

Isa’s eyes were wide with wonder, drinking in every word.

“But his wife Sigyn stayed by him, holding a bowl to catch the poison.” Gyda continued.

Lagertha laughed softly and tugged one of Gyda’s braids. “Will you tell the tale, or will I?”

Before her daughter could answer, the door of the house burst open.

Rollo stood framed in the light, his voice urgent. “Lagertha! Is Ragnar home?”

The tension in his tone snapped Lagertha to her feet. “No. He hunts with Bjorn and the priest. Why?”

“The earl plans to attack tomorrow,” Rollo said flatly. “You must hide at once. There is no safety here.”

Instinctively, Lagertha drew Gyda and Isa close to her sides. “Ragnar will not return until morning.”

“Then you cannot wait,” Rollo said. “Take the girls to Floki, the boatbuilder. He will keep you safe. I will find Ragnar.”

Lagertha’s throat tightened with gratitude. Though she had often doubted Rollo’s judgment, she could not doubt his loyalty in this moment. “Thank you, brother.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable with her sincerity. “ Do not thank me. Thank the girl who warned me. The one that belongs with your little slave.”

“Mary?”

Something flickered across his expression as he spoke her name, something Lagertha had never seen before. “Ah, yes… Mary…”

Mary slept little that night.

Each time she closed her eyes she saw Isa’s throat under the edge of Haraldson’s blade.

She woke again and again, heart racing, whispering prayers into the darkness.

By morning her body ached with exhaustion, yet she forced herself through her duties. She lingered near the hall, straining to overhear, but no further word of the attack reached her. Anxiety gnawed her raw.

Then the whispers began: Rollo had been captured. Haraldson’s men had seized him.

The rumor spread like fire, every thrall and servant leaning close to repeat it.

Selva’s cheeks were flushed with excitement as she relayed the news. “They say the earl is questioning him now. He thinks Rollo knows where Ragnar hides.”

Mary’s pulse leapt. “Then they escaped?”

“So it seems.” Selva chuckled, eyes bright. “But do not fret. Rollo will break. He is not so hard to sway. The earl will have his answers soon.”

Mary put on a mask made of calmness, though on the inside she was burning.

Rollo might be many things, but she did not believe he would betray his brother so easily.

But then —how much pain could any man endure?

Her thoughts were interrupted by one of Haraldson’s guards.

The man seized her wrist. “You. Come.”

Mary’s stomach turned to ice, but she followed. He led her into a small chamber where the earl and his men were gathered.

The air reeked of sweat and iron.

The guard thrust several knives into her hands. “Hold these.”

Confused, Mary obeyed, clutching the blades as she edged to the side. Over the shoulders of the men she caught sight of the table at the room’s center.

Rollo lay bound upon it, his chest bare, his face swollen and bloodied. For a moment Mary thought he was dead, and her heart leapt with grim relief—dead men revealed no secrets.

But then another slave dumped a bucket of water over him, and Rollo gasped back to life. His chest heaved, muscles straining against the leather straps.

Earl Haraldson stepped closer. His voice was calm, almost gentle. “Where is Ragnar Lothbrok?”

Rollo’s lip curled, but he gave no answer.

Mary’s fingers tightened around the knives until the edges cut her palms. Lord, give him strength. Let him endure. Isa needs to be safe.

“Where?” the earl repeated, sharper now.

“He’s dead,” Rollo rasped, defiance rough in his throat.

The earl leaned nearer, studying him. “Are you certain?”

Rollo gave a harsh laugh, empty of humor.

“You said that you always tell the truth.” Haraldson continued, walking around him like a cat playing with its prey.

Mary’s heart squeezed painfully. She wanted to look away, but her gaze was caught by Rollo’s.

His eyes, bloodshot but fierce, found hers across the room.

It was as if lightening had struck.

She saw the silent battle he was fighting raging inside them.

For an instant she send him her silent plea; Don’t tell him anything.

And the reply in his gaze was an unspoken vow: I will not break.

The earl straightened with a sigh. “Your tongue seems heavy, Rollo. Perhaps I can lighten it.”

He turned suddenly, plucking one of the knives from Mary’s trembling hands.

She flinched as his fingers brushed hers. Then, before she could shut her eyes, he pressed the blade against Rollo’s face and drew it cruelly across the skin.

The sound was sickening—steel through flesh. Mary’s stomach lurched. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for screams, for confession, for the shattering of silence.

But none came.

Only the wet rasp of Rollo’s breath, the iron clink of chains as he twisted against his bonds, and the low murmur of men watching.

At last Haraldson dropped the bloody knife back into Mary’s hand. His voice was quiet, measured. “You may go, slave.”

Her stomach turned. She didn’t dare to look at the man on the table, his hot blood dripping on her fingers.

Her heart hammering in her chest, she fled the chamber.

Loyalty had a price. She knew this now.

And Rollo had been willing to pay it, however high the cost.

Chapter Text

Chapter six

Although Mary had tried her best to avoid the earl’s men, they found her and shoved her back into the small chamber, commanding her to tend the prisoner.

She felt strangely calm as she approached the table, but her throat tightened when she saw him.

Rollo, the bear, the warrior who had once seemed untouchable, lay broken.

The earl had taken his knife and cut the corners of his mouth nearly to his cheeks.

She froze. The proud figure she had known was gone; what remained was a man stripped of power, wounded, vulnerable.

And it was her hands that would decide whether he lived or died.

Her mind leapt, unbidden, to the image of Isa and him, almost thrown overboard.

He was dangerous. Cruel.

Perhaps it would be better for everyone if she pressed a pillow against his face and ended his story.

She shut her eyes and crushed the thought.

That wouldn’t be God’s way. Not the way of the sisters who had raised her.

Besides—he had kept silent, even under torture. He had protected Isa.

She dipped a rag into the bowl of water and carefully wiped the blood from his brow.

Her fingers brushed the coarse stubble of his jaw. He groaned, a sound more animal than man, and his eyes snapped open.

With sudden ferocity he seized her wrist. She gasped and lost her balance, stumbling forward until she was half sprawled across his chest. His eyes, wild and glazed with pain, searched hers with something between desperation and fury.

She could feel the heat beneath her. His muscles tensing.

“It’s over,” she whispered, her voice barely steady. “You are safe now.”

Slowly, his grip loosened. His muscles unclenching .

She pushed herself upright, her heart hammering, and forced a soft smile. “I need to clean the wounds. Otherwise, they will fester.”

“Do as you must,” he muttered, closing his eyes again. He made no sound as she worked, though every line of his body betrayed the agony he was enduring.

At last she whispered, “There. It’s done.”

She brushed away the final smear of blood that had trailed down onto his collarbone. His eyes opened again, piercing, steady.

There was something new there, something that unsettled her more than his strength ever had.

“You were there,” he rasped. “You saw what happened. But I told him nothing. He has not won.”

“That is true,” she answered softly. “He has not won.”

A weary smile tugged at his torn mouth. She could tell how much the gesture hurt him. “And they are safe. The little one, too. I know she matters to you.”

Her throat tightened. “You were noble. I must thank you.”

His gaze darkened, burning into her. “You saved my brother. I saved your girl. That is how it should be.”

Her answer was so quick, she even surprised herself. “No. I don’t think that’s how it should be. Doing good should not be a bargain. It must not depend on what someone else has done for you.”

His lip curled faintly. “So why should we do good then?”

She faltered, dropping her gaze. “We do good because it what our God wants from us. To love is to give your life for another.”

His voice came back sharp, mocking even in weakness: “Does your God’s love mend a face?”

The words stung. “Forgive me. I meant no offense. What you did was brave. Braver than anything I would have done.”

He sighed, closing his eyes again, a twisted smile crossing his torn lips. “Be at peace, girl. I know what you meant. It is well.”

Soon his breathing steadied, and he sank into sleep. Mary stayed by his side, unsure if she had the right to leave.

He might be a beast, but she could not bear the thought of him being murdered while lying down defenceless. And so she stayed, until her eyes became heavy as well.

She was shaken awake by the earl himself, who barked at her with irritation to leave.

As she slipped out, she cast one last glance back at Rollo’s sleeping form.

His wounds were raw, ugly; they would scar his face for life. She wondered if he would mourn the loss of his beauty.

Would that blonde woman she had seen him with care?

Some women prized a man’s face above all else. She hoped, for his sake, that it was not so.

“Where have you been?” Selva cried when Mary entered their chamber. “I feared the worst!”

“The earl ordered me to tend the prisoner,” Mary answered carefully, though her cheeks burned. “I must have fallen asleep there.”

Selva’s nose wrinkled. “Rollo? Better you than me. That man is a beast..”

Mary hesitated. The tone of her friend’s voice had changed. As if she knew something that was still a mused to her. “What do you mean?”

“He chases women, takes what he wants. The word ‘no’ does not exist for him. I thank the gods neither of us looks like the kind he prefers.”

She nodded. From what she had seen from him, she wasn’t a bit surprised. “And what kind is that?”

“Blonde or red-haired, slender…” Selva shrugged. “He has a type. Be glad you are not it.”

Mary thought of the way Rollo’s gaze had lingered on her, heavy as a hand. Shame pricked her skin. She had done nothing to invite it, and still she had let her heart soften toward him for what he had done for his brother and Isa.

Foolish.

He was still the brute with the axe, the man who had almost cast Isa to the sea.

She must never forget that.

“And there is more,” Selva added. “The earl once promised Rollo his daughter’s hand if he would betray his brother. The bargain was nearly struck. But in the end, Rollo refused. They say he did it for Lagertha.”

Of course. Unrequited love.

But she could not imagine Lagertha ever choosing a man like Rollo.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I needed that.”

Selva squeezed her hand. “I like you, Mary. But remember—here in Kattegat, loyalties shift with the wind. Trust no one too easily.”

“I won’t.” She promised. “And I know he is a pagan brute. I’m just worried about Isa.”

Selva sighed, sitting down on her mattress. “I understand.”

Then the room got quiet.

Mary gazed in the dark. Those greenish eyes appearing before her, even if she didn’t want it.

Days passed. Mary did not see Rollo again and forced herself not to think of him.

But the village was restless. Rumors swirled until at last they boiled into open challenge.

Floki entered the great hall, his eyes wild, and demanded trial by combat in Ragnar’s name.

Selva and Mary were pouring wine and paused, their eyes meeting each other.

“There is only one way such a duel can end,” Selva whispered in dread. “With death.”

“Do you think the earl can prevail?” Mary asked, though she already knew the answer.

Selva’s face was stricken. “Ragnar is young, swift… no…We can only pray.”

Mary nodded, guilt eating at her. For her, nothing could be better than Ragnar’s victory.

Yet Selva’s pain at the thought of losing the earl cut her deeply. She loved their masters with a conviction Mary couldn’t quite understand.

Although she had gotten used to the life as a slave, deep down she would always see them as pagans, who couldn’t be trusted.

“Perhaps they will show mercy,” she offered weakly.

Selva gave a humorless laugh. “You are still new here. To die with honor is the greatest fate. Only then may they feast in Valhalla.”

“What is Valhalla?” Mary whispered.

“A hall of glory,” Selva answered, eyes shining with longing. “Where Odin himself welcomes warriors who fall bravely. It is every Viking’s dream.”

“You believe this?”

Her friend shrugged. “It isn’t that far away from heaven, Mary. And we will never know where we go after we die, until we are there.”

Mary watched Floki walk away and thought: They believe they must die for their god. And I believe my God has died for me. 

We will never understand each other.

The whole village had gathered for the duel between earl Haraldson and Ragnar Lothbrok.

Mary felt Selva’s hand squeezing hers, as they tried to get a glimpse of the two men standing before each other.

She couldn’t see everything, due to the people standing before them but she had a clear view on Rollo. He had a confident smirk on his face, as if he knew that his brother would be victorious.

The scars on his cheeks were still fresh, looking like paint on his face.

A gasp went through the crowd.

“What happened?”

Selva looked at her, tears in her eyes. “The earl has thrown away his shield.”

The crowd started cheering.

“Ragnar opened the first attack.” Selva said, without looking at her. “But he has a limp. I think the earl makes a chance and… Ragnar broke his sword.”

Mary stomach dropped. As much as she wanted to be encouraging for her friend, deep in her heart she wished for Ragnar and his family to be safe.

If they were safe, Isa would be safe as well.

“They have thrown away their shield and swords now. They are going to fight with axes.”

Mary looked at Selva s face. She could read the anticipation in her gaze. Then she pressed her hands against her mouth, turning to her in joy. “He has hit him! Ragnar is bleeding!”

But as she turned back, the crowd went silent and the horror that appeared on her face told Mary all she needed to know.

The earl was death. Ragnar had won.

As she looked up, Rollo did the same. Their eyes met, just for a moment.

Something dark and dangerous was hidden in his gaze. It unsettled her so much that she turned her head to the other side. Flustered.

A promise she had seen. One she couldn’t understand yet.

Selva collapsed in her arms. Tears streaming down her pale face.

“It is over, Mary.” She cried, her thin fingers pressing into her shoulders and back. “Everything will change.”

Mary whispered soothing words in her ears. Promising her that everything would be well.

But in all truthfulness, she wasn’t that sure about it herself.

By dusk, the hall was crowded, every voice hushed with anticipation. Even the slaves craned their necks to see.

Mary caught sight of Rollo again, as he walked into the hall. He nodded toward her, but she pretended not to see.

She pressed herself into the shadows of the curtain behind the throne.

Silence fell as Ragnar entered with Lagertha and their children. He still limped, his face unreadable as he approached the high seat once held by Haraldson.

He hesitated. For a long moment he simply stared at the throne.

“Take it!” a voice called, and soon the chant swelled. “Take it! Take it!”

Ragnar lowered himself onto the seat.

Lagertha stood beside him, proud, fierce. One by one, men bent the knee and pledged themselves on their oath-rings.

The whole scene had something mysterious. As if fate itself had come down to reveal a destiny that no one had known about till now.

Athelstan slipped to Mary’s side.

He was thinner, hair grown out, but his eyes as sharp as ever.

“Tell me what you think?” he murmured.

“I think God has a plan,” she whispered. “That it is no accident you and I are here, in this place, at this time.”

He smiled faintly.

Then a pair of arms seized her, and she was smothered in a wet kiss. “Mary!”

She gasped, then laughed. “Isa!”

Relief flooded her as she saw the girl’s healthy face, fuller than before, her cheeks glowing.

“They are kind to me,” Isa beamed. “Ragnar and Lagertha. And Gyda, Bjorn. They treat me like family.”

Mary held her tightly. “Then I am grateful beyond words.”

“Especially now we are together again,” Isa whispered.

The hall had become quiet and with her arms still around Isa Mary tried to find the cause of the sudden change.

Every man seemed to hold his breath. At the front of the hall, Rollo stood before Ragnar.

The air thickened.

Their voices were low, but from her hiding place Mary could hear them clearly.

“You need not swear,” Ragnar said, his hand brushing the scars on Rollo’s face. “You have already paid dearly for your loyalty to me.”

Rollo’s expression hardened. “Nevertheless, I swear. I will be true to you, your wife, and your children. I wish you good fortune, always.” His voice softened as he embraced his brother.

The hall erupted with cheers.

But then both brothers turned their eyes toward her.

Mary’s heart jolted.

“Come,” Ragnar beckoned.

With her head bowed, Mary approached the throne.

From the corner of her eye she could see a dark look from Floki. But then Lagertha, who gave her a warm smile.

“My brother has told me,” Ragnar said, his voice carrying over the hall, “that I owe my life, and the lives of my family, to you. For this, I thank you. From this day, you are free to go where you will. You are known in Kattegat as a free woman from this day on and you are under my protection.”

Mary looked up. Stunned. She met Ragnar’s blue eyes, trying to discover if he was playing a cruel joke with her. But she could only see thankfulness.

Could it be true?

Gently, Ragnar took her hand and unclasped the slave-band from her wrist.

“You are free now, Mary,” he repeated softly.

At last, she believed it.

A smile broke across her face, and with tears pricking her eyes, she bowed her head and pressed her lips to his hand.

As she looked up, she saw another pair of eyes.

Dark and green, filled with a sentiment she couldn’t place.

Hunger. Frustration. Longing.

Chapter Text

Chapter seven

Earl Haraldson was dead; the great hall that had echoed his commands would now host his last rites. 
The thought of rejoicing for a corpse seemed obscene to Mary. But the population of Kattefat believed that their former leader had earned a place in Valhalla. And so the funeral had been turned into fierce, feverish celebrations. 
For a moment she wondered if the revelry softened anything for Siggy and her children. Losing a husband and father was no small grief; Mary knew this like no other. She had been a child when her parents had died from the plague, but till this day she still carried that gaping wound with her.
She had seen Siggy’s composed face falter these past days. 
Not only Siggy, Selva as well. Her precious friend ,always smiling and content, had been broken. Mary had found her the night before, eyes red and swollen. She had watched the girl fall asleep with sorrow like a weight on her chest, stroking her hair.
Words to comfort her friend had not come. 
She knew she was not supposed to be sleeping in the slave quarters anymore. But she didn’t know where else to go. She drifted between houses, unsure where she belonged. 
But now,  memory of Selva’s sobs made her stand up from her bed and decide to go out and find her, to see how she fared.

Outside, the settlement thrummed. 
Men sharpened poles, lads practiced with wooden shields, and women braided hair in a hundred quick hands. There were few faces shaped by grief, but most looked flushed, ready for a drink and a story. 
Kattegat’s funeral had the pulse of a harvest or a raid and Mary felt both repelled and helpless. As if she was a leaf in the wind, being send where nature wished.
She skirted through churned mud, holding her skirt up to keep it clean.
Athelstan and Ragnar crossed paths with her, walking on the other side of the road. 
Athelstan looked torn and pale. He didn’t even look up when Ragnar addressed her, something Mary found most peculiar.
“Can I help you?” Ragnar asked gently—more a question of habit than an offering; his tone held the easy command of a man used to having the world obey.
“I’m looking for a friend. I thought she might be helping with the funeral,” Mary said, trying to hide her disturbed feelings with a polite smile. 
“And what does your friend look like?” Ragnar asked, amusement soft at the edges of his voice. “It’s not the red-haired pet who belongs to us, I suppose?”
Mary laughed and shook her head. “No. Selva’s my age—tall, dark hair.”
Suddenly Athelstan looked up, his eyes filled with horror. Mary started to wonder what had happened to him.  
Ragnar’s brow shifted. He pointed toward a low cluster of huts. “Selva, you said? Try the last house, I think you’ll find her there.”
After thanking him she made her way to the doorway he had indicated, but as she reached for the door Athelstan suddenly stepped in front of her. His face hard, his voice urgent. “Don’t go in there, Mary.”
“Are you ill?” she asked, peering at him. “You look… not well.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, too fast. Then, softer, but pressing: “I mean it: Promise me you won’t go in there.”
Mary studied him. He seemed very serious. 
A cold taste crept into her mouth. “You scare me, Athelstan. Tell me—what is wrong?”
He swallowed; his hands found hers and squeezed as if to steady himself. “There is a tradition,” he said at last, voice low. “For a chieftain’s funeral. Ragnar told me about it.”
“What tradition?” Mary asked, though dread had already seeded itself in her stomach.
“At the funeral some of the slaves… They are asked who will join their lord into Valhalla.”
Mary’s laugh was short and unbelieving. “That’s madness! They’re not dead...”
“Not yet,” Athelstan said, and the bitterness in his tone gutted her. “But those who agree… they will die with their master...”
The sentence hung between them like a blade. Suddenly the small room loomed. Mary’s feet moved before she thought, she freed herself from Athelstan’s grip and she pushed the door open.
Selva sat on the earthen floor, swaying. Her hair had been combed and plaited by other women and her cheeks glowed with wine and joy. 
When Mary stepped in, her eyes lit as if the moon had risen.
“Mary!” she slurred, warm and bright. “I’ve found a way…I get to see him again!”
The room tilted. Mary wanted to scream that this was not what Selva really wanted—not what any of them wanted—but Selva’s eyes shone with something holy and terrible and Mary’s anger faltered in the face of it and became a gruesome fear she could not handle.
Selva reached for her, lips smiling. “You’re sad, I know, but this is my choice. You must come to watch when I go to my master.”
The words hit Mary like frost. “I can’t promise that,” she said, voice small.
Selva’s tongue clicked. “I knew you’d say that. No one but the earl loved me. Not even you.” 
She turned her face and sang, a tinny, joyous song and the thin volume of her voice grated on Mary’s bones like stone on stone.
Her chest burned with helplessness as she stood up. A hand steadied her by the shoulder, drawing her away as if leaving was the only possible solution.
Athelstan.
“You must stop her,” she choked. “She’s not in her right mind. Someone must stop her—she’s not thinking…”
Athelstan’s face folded with pain. “I wish I could. Believe me, Mary. But there is nothing we can do.”
“Is that true?” It felt as if she was going mad. “They feed her lies! She’s not going to feasting halls; she’ll burn in hell for doing this! And we should just let it happen? Are you just going to watch?”
He bowed his head. “It’s not that I want to watch, Mary. It’s that I can’t change what people want to believe.”
A solution appeared. So simple she couldn’t understand why she hadn’t thought of it beforehand. She straightened her shoulders. “You maybe can’t, but Ragnar can.”

Floki looked from the girl to Ragnar and shook his head in slow amusement. The plea sounded foolish in his ears—pathetic even. 
Did the girl expect them to ignore their laws simply because she thought it was wrong? 
He saw Rollo watching, eyes dark as a winter lake. The bear had been ogling the girl for weeks now. It almost seemed as if she had given him a love potion. 
Why Rollo hungered after her, Floki could not say. To him she was like an insect, a small thing in his way to make Kattegat great again.
Irrelevant. Unwanted. 
“The slave girl has consented of her own free will,” Ragnar said softly, with patience Floki did not posses. “No one forced her.”
“She’s broken,” the girl pleaded, voice raw. “She’s grieving and she cannot think straight. Please—do not do this.” She looked around the room, her eyes resting a little bit longer on Rollo than on the rest of them. 
Floki growled. 
Ragnar’s face was steady, an old oak that did not bend. “This is no usual request, Mary. Yet you did save my household. We will have a vote. Any who would deny the slave girl passage into Valhalla—raise your hand...”
The girl raised her hand and looked at Rollo again. 
Floki grinned. A small, cruel sound. 
She tried to get Rollo on her side using her charms. And yet, she knew too little about their warrior if she really thought it would work. There was only one thing Rollo desired more than women; for the Gods to notice him.
No one else in the room raised their hand.
“Very well,” Ragnar said. “Then it is decided.”
The voices whispered something. Something cruel and cunning that excited him. His companions always had great ideas. Twisted and tricky. 
He stepped in the middle of the great hall and spread his arms. “Ragnar, friends, ever since this girl stepped foot in Kattegat we have showed nothing but respect and kindness for her and her faith. I think now is the time that she does she same for us. She is a free woman and see needs to watch our earl and his bride sail to Valhalla. “
“No!” The girl looked at him, eyes big. “I won’t… I can not…”
“She has to.” Floki spoke, giddy. “If she doesn’t watch then they won’t reach Valhalla. Do any of us want the earl to be denied the great feast? Do you want him to miss his chance to sit down and eat with Odin? With Thor?”
Ragnar sighed. Looking from him to the girl and back. “You’re right.” He waved his hand. The gesture filled with boredom. “She will stand among my household and watch.”
The girl didn’t move. A tear making its way down her cheek. 
Floki watched her. The helplessness and the hurt. 
His heart rejoiced.
He would break her. Sooner or later all her light would be caught with his darkness.
What the Gods had decided would happen. And nothing, nothing would stop the fate that waited the family Lothbrok.
Certainly not a Christian insect.

All through the ceremony Mary’s heart kept calling aloud for God to strike down what was happening. A miracle. A sign.
But God was quiet and the crowd chanted; the fire at the shore coughing into life. 
Men brought out the small boat that would carry Selva to her master. For a heartbeat Mary could see the terrible beauty of the moment: a boat polished, a small mound of offerings, men chanting ancient words. 
Then a figure whom Bjorn called the angel of death strode forward: lank, clothed in white and the face of a demon. In its hands a blade.
Mary had goosebumps all over her body. 
Selva waddled to the boat, her gaze glued to the horizon. 
“I see him!” she screamed, eyes bright as flame. “I see my master!” 
Her face shone with an unearthly happiness, beautiful and pure. Then the blade of the angel of death kissed her throat.
Mary muffled a scream in her hand. 
Smoke and rain filled the earth. 
Selva’s body lay small and still beside the earl, arms folded as if she was sleeping. 
The boat was set ablaze, and the crowd watched as black smoke hid the earl and his companions, while they drifted into the dark mouth of the fjord. 
The flames swallowed the ship whole; the wood glowed and collapsed into the sea, the sparks lifting like stars stolen from the sky.
Beside Mary, Athelstan crossed himself. 
She could not. 
An emptiness opened in her , one she had not known since she had been taken away from the monastery.
She had thought Ragnar and Lagertha would have sympathy for her, show mercy. 
But now she saw them as all the rest: pagans who took from others and made a ritual of what they took. Her friend dead in the name of Valhalla; her freedom nothing but a new pair of chains.
She felt betrayed. Not by them alone… 
 Rollo. 
She realised how stupid she had been , thinking they shared something. Thinking he would side with her. 
“I wish you well ,” Lagertha said, appearing at her side. “I know you loved her.”
Mary could only nod.
Later, when Ragnar came to stand with them, she found her voice in a low, flattened whisper. “May I go now?”
He nodded. There was sympathy in his face but no apology. 
The absence of regret cut as sharp as any blade.
That night she cried for Selva; she cried for her home that had been burned, for the nuns who had died. 
She cried until her chest felt torn and empty and thought she might die from the ache.
Outside, the fjord swallowed the embers of the burning boat. Above, the stars coldly watched.

Chapter Text

Chapter eight

Since Selva’s death, something inside Mary had broken. The joy she once felt at Ragnar’s new earldom was gone, replaced by bitterness and shame.

She felt deceived.

Foolish.

How could she ever have believed—even for a heartbeat—that these people were different from the raiders who had slaughtered her sisters?

She avoided the Lothbrok family as much as possible, though Athelstan tried again and again to coax her back among them.

“I will go home,” she told him one day as they walked beneath the trees, a habit she had taken up after Selva’s passing. “The next time they sail back to Northumbria, I will go with them. I cannot live here any longer. I want to return to my family.”

She had never thought she would feel that way. The thought of returning to her uncles court had always repulsed her. But now everything seemed better than staying in Kattegat.

“They know no better, Mary,” Athelstan replied gently. “I understand your anger. But you cannot condemn them for living as they have always lived.”

She shrugged, sharp and stubborn.

“I do not understand why you still cling to such rage. Even after what they did to the monastery, to the nuns, you weren’t this angry...”

“You do not understand,” she answered bitterly. “Then, they did not know me. I could not take it personally. But this—this is personal.”

“Perhaps for you,” Athelstan said with a sigh. “But to them, it is no different.”

“You were not there,” Mary snapped. “They voted, Athelstan. They cast their voices for Selva’s fate. And not one— not one—spoke for me.” She swallowed, her voice faltering. “Not Ragnar, not Rollo...”

“As I said,” Athelstan murmured, “it was not personal.”

“It feels as though it was.”

“And what would the nuns say?”

She groaned and rolled her eyes heavenward. “You cannot let it rest, can you? You know well enough what they would say: forgive and forget, as Christ forgave us.”

A small, triumphant smile touched his lips. “Do not forget that, sweet Mary.”

His words echoed in her mind even later that day, when she watched Isa and Gyda playing together on the green meadow.

Forgive and forget.

How could she forgive what had happened? Was she betraying her sisters by holding on to her anger? Or was it a sin to cling to this bitterness, when Christ had taught love?

But the visions came to her still—Selva’s lifeless body, the blood staining her white gown.

Selva’s faith had been absolute.

She had given her life for her master.

She understood such devotion when it was given to God—but to a man?

No.

Men were flawed. Men lied. Men failed.

Selva had wasted her life on someone unworthy.

And perhaps she could have stopped her, long before she had decided to join him in death.

Perhaps it was her own failure, not Ragnar’s, that had cost Selva her life…

She closed her eyes and prayed—for Selva’s soul, and for her own.

For love to find a way to triumph in this dark, brutal world.

Floki watched her as she sat in the fading light, her eyes closed, her face serene.

Again, that light within her endured. Again, it refused to be extinguished.

No. He would act. The gods would aid him. Before another sun had set, she would no longer walk among them.

Kattegat was full of hidden dangers. How simple it would be for an innocent Christian girl to be torn apart by some beast in the wild.

How simple and how fitting if a bear would become the end of her.

The next morning she walked again, alone this time—Athelstan had taken ill.

Though she still kept her distance from Ragnar’s household, her anger had dulled to embers.

It was still there, smoldering, but it no longer consumed her.

Perhaps, she thought, perhaps forgiveness would one day be possible.

But not yet.

The crack of branches snapped her thoughts away. Something stirred in the undergrowth. Something vast.

A bear.

The beast lifted its head and sniffed the air. Then it turned, bared its teeth, and reared up with a deep, terrible roar.

She screamed and ran, her skirts catching on branches as she darted between the trees.

The pounding of the bear’s paws shook the ground behind her.

I will die here, she thought. In this foreign land. My bones will be all that remains.

Yet even in her terror, she was glad Isa was safe.

Her foot caught on a root. She pitched forward, tumbling through mud and leaves.

Pain lanced her side.

She could hear the beast’s ragged breath, feel the heat of it on her neck.

This is the end.

She closed her eyes.

Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…

A roar—this time human.

She opened her eyes just as Rollo came crashing down upon the bear with his axe.

Steel met flesh.

The animal shrieked, snapping at him, but Rollo was relentless.

Blow after blow, until his axe cleaved its skull. The beast staggered, shuddered, and fell, dead at his feet.

Breathless, he turned to her and hauled her upright.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, though her legs trembled beneath her.

His hand, broad and warm, steadied her back. She looked past him at the motionless beast, her relief mingling with guilt.

Then she saw the blood dripping from his hands.

Her gaze dropped to her own torn gown, the crimson spreading fast.

Her blood.

“Oh,” she whispered, just before the world went black.

She drifted between darkness and waking.

Dreaming.

Sometimes it was only sound—the rasp of a fire, the faint creak of wood. Sometimes it was touch: a calloused hand brushing against her temple, the rough edge of a cup at her lips. And sometimes—most vivid of all—those eyes. Green, streaked with gold, always fixed on her with an intensity that burned through the haze.

When she woke at last, fully, the air was thick with the scent of smoke and boiled meat.

She was in a bed, softer than any pallet she had known since leaving the convent, though the blanket scratched at her skin.

She pushed herself up slightly and realized the room was not a hall but a small, low-ceilinged house.

Rollo stood at the hearth, stirring a pot. His back was broad, his movements heavy, but there was a patience in them she had never seen before.

The bed groaned as she shifted, and he turned.

“You are awake,” a smile appeared on his face.

She nodded, shy, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she was—alone with him, with no one else in sight. She had never been in such a place, alone with a man. The weight of it pressed on her now—how small the space was, how large he seemed.

“Hungry?” He gestured toward the pot. “I made soup.”

His voice sounded enthusiastic.

It confused her.

Her lips parted as she shook her head quickly.

“You must eat,” he said firmly, his voice a low growl, more command than request. He took a bowl from a shelf and ladled broth into it. “You were close to death for many days. I thought… I thought you would not return.”

She blinked at him. Was that relief in his voice?

Rollo brought the bowl to the bed and sat heavily beside her. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, tilting her toward him. He raised the spoon.

Her pride wanted to resist, but her body was weak, trembling. And so she obeyed, opening her mouth each time he offered her a taste, though she could not bring herself to meet his gaze.

After a while he chuckled softly. “Enough. You have eaten well, little bird.”

Her head snapped up, startled by the gentleness in his tone.

Little bird.

A mockery—or something else?

His gaze caught hers then, and she felt the air thicken between them.

“You saved me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“I did what any man would do.”

“That is not true,” her voice came out sharper than she intended. “I saw you when they voted for Selva. You did nothing then.”

His eyes darkened, his shoulders tensing.

For a moment she thought he would rise, leave her, let her choke on her own anger.

But instead, he leaned closer. The scent of him—iron, smoke, sweat—washed over her, dizzying.

“I regret it,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Every day since. If I had known it would hurt you like this…”

The words shook her more than his silence had. She wanted to strike him, to call him a liar. Instead she sat frozen, her heart thundering.

He reached out suddenly, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders, his fingers brushing her collarbone. His touch burned, and she flinched as though scalded.

“Rest,” he murmured.

But when she looked into his eyes, she saw something that frightened her more than the bear had.

Hunger—not only for battle or blood, but for her.

It was the same look Ragnar gave Lagertha, the same look her niece Judith had given her husband on her wedding day.

Her lips parted, words failing.

So she turned her face away, breaking the spell.

He stayed a moment longer, watching her.

Then he rose, his shadow blotting out the firelight, and left her in silence.

She lay back, trembling. Whatever she might once have felt for him—curiosity, admiration, that dangerous spark—had died with Selva. She told herself this again and again as she slipped into sleep.

When she next woke, he was gone. She found the strength to rise, to stumble back to her own bed in the slave quarters . Breathless, drenched in sweat, she collapsed upon her bed and fell into heavy sleep.

The voices were angry. Plaging him with their mocking, with his failure.

But he couldn't have foreseen the warrior killing the bear. He couldn't have know that his plan would only have brought them closer together.

You have to do it yourself. The voices whispered. Just do it. She is weak. She is sleeping.

"I can not." He whispered. "Not as long as she is under Ragnars protection."

Then who do you serve? They asked. Do you serve the Gods or Ragnar?

He couldn't answer them. Instead he stayed seated, looking at the water, wondering if loyalty to Ragnar was worth the change this girl would bring to their fate.

Chapter Text

Chapter nine 

The sun stood high in the sky when Mary finally dared to step outside. 
Laughter of children carried across the village, sharp against the still air. 
She leaned against the doorpost for balance, lifting her face upward so the warmth of the sun might touch her skin. Her head was heavy with thoughts that spun like storm clouds.
She needed fresh water. Gathering all her strength she stumbled to the well. A stab of pain running through her hip with each step. And then she saw him.
Rollo.
He stood beneath the shadow of the great oak as if he had been waiting for her all along.
“Mary.”
It was the first time he had spoken her name. 
Something stirred in her chest, something too overwhelming to allow. She fought it with all her strength. 
She gave him the smallest nod and tried to pass him quickly, though the pain made it impossible to quicken her pace.
In an instant, his hand closed around her arm. He pulled her to him, and she found herself close enough to feel the heat of his body. The black ink across his arm caught her eye, strange patterns whose meaning she could not understand. 
His breath brushed her cheek, and heat curled deep in her stomach.
She could not allow herself to feel this. 
Not for him. Not after all she knew.
“Why did you vanish?” His voice was rough.
She forced herself a step back, desperate for air. “I did not wish to take advantage of your hospitality. I was already healing.”
His gaze fell to her hip, hard and disapproving. “You can barely walk.”
“I can walk well enough.” She lifted her chin, masking her fear with defiance. “I thank you for what you have done, but I can take care of myself.”
Rollo studied her with a long silence, his eyes dragging over her face, her body, with a weight that made her cheeks reddening. 
She wanted to turn, to run, and yet some part of her stood rooted, unwilling to break the tether between them.
“I only regret,” he said at last, “that you left so soon. I had no chance to speak the words I have long kept inside.” His tone deepened, almost pleading. “Words I do not know how to speak. I have never been in this position before, nor do I know the customs in your country. But I cannot keep my feelings within any longer.”
Mary’s heart beat painfully in her chest.
“I never thought I would find one who unsettles me as you do. I have tried to fight it. To see you as nothing. As a slave. But every time I look at you…” He faltered, the confidence he possessed suddenly stripped away. “Everything in me rebels. I am a warrior. You are nothing. If I wanted you, I could take you. That is our way. But I want more than that.” He stepped closer, his voice rough with honesty. “I do not just want your body. I want your soul. So end my torment. Be my wife.”
The world seemed to vanish beneath Mary’s feet. The oak loomed above her, the monastery rose in her mind, the voices of the nuns, Isa’s laughter, Selva’s smile. 
And always—him.
And with that memory came fire.
She saw the villager he had cut down without thought, Isa cast overboard, Selva left to die. Rage surged through her chest, burning away every other feeling.
“Of course!” she cried out. “Of course you think I am something you can own. Something to take whenever you hunger for it. That is all you people know—blood and defilement!”
Rollo flinched, yet stepped forward, desperate. “No! I do not want to own you. I want to wed you. To keep you. To love you—” His voice broke, softer now, like a man laid bare. “…I love you.”
Mary turned away, unable to face the storm of her own feelings. “But I do not love you. I cannot even bear to like you.” Her voice shook with fury. “You destroyed my home. You tore my life from me. Do you think I could ever feel anything but contempt for a heathen, a murderer, who chased women and slaughtered my sisters? Who let my dearest friend die while I begged for mercy?”
Tears burned in her eyes, but she did not stop. She faced him again, ignoring the hurt in his gaze. “We share nothing! My God, my faith—those are my life. They are more to me than the air I breathe. And you will never come close to them.”
It was as though she had struck him with a blade. His shoulders sagged, confusion breaking his warrior’s mask. He only stared at her, silent, wounded deeper than any axe could reach.
“I thank you for what kindness you did show me,” she added, her voice steadier now, cold. Her eyes traced the scars carved into his face. “But I will never care for you. And I am sorry if I ever gave you reason to believe otherwise.”
His reply came after a long silence. His voice was flat. Empty. “That is clear enough. I will trouble you no more.”
He turned from her, each step heavy, and left her standing alone beneath the oak.
Mary sank down in its shadow, burying her face in her hands, and let the tears she had held back for so long finally fall.

Floki had seen everything. Hidden among the trees, he watched with a grin as the girl crumbled beneath the oak.
He stepped forward suddenly, startling her. 
She lifted her face, wet with tears.
“Strange,” he said, tilting his head, his grin sharp. “We have had no rain in many weeks. And yet here you are, giving the earth your tears. You must care for this land more than we do.”
The fury in her eyes amused him.
“I wonder,” he went on, almost lazily, “what words passed between you and Rollo, brother of the earl? Words the earl himself might wish to know?”
The girls voice trembled, but she met his gaze in defiance. “Tell me: Why do you hate me so?”
Floki’s grin widened, though something in her boldness unsettled him. “Hate? No. I do not hate you. I despise you. I despise all you stand for. And I will not rest until you are gone from here.”
Her eyes widened, though through her tears she lifted her chin. “Is that a threat?”
“A promise.”
She sniffed, swiped her tears away, and rose to her feet. Shoulders straight. “Do not trouble yourself. Soon enough, neither you nor your friends will have to suffer me.”
He laughed, high and sharp. “Do not make promises you cannot keep. That was the only good lesson my mother ever gave me. But hear me well, Christian girl : I will be your end. Even if it is the last thing I do.”
She opened her mouth but no words came. At last, she turned and strode back toward Ragnar’s hall, her steps hard with fury.
Floki watched her go, grinning like a wolf. 
A promise was a promise. And the gods had spoken. 
And they would always keep their word. 

Rollo slammed the door of his house and kicked the pot above the fire, broth splashing across the floor.
But I do not love you.
Six words. That was all it took to bring the great warrior of Kattegat to his knees.
He had known it was madness to hope. 
She was light, he was shadow. She was angel, he was beast.
And yet, each time he looked at her, she grew more radiant. The softness of her lips when she spoke, the sudden brightness of her face when she smiled, the unyielding fire when she defended those she loved. 
From the first moment he had met her eyes—those blue depths like endless seas—he had known. 
She was the one.
Her touch when she tended his wounds, her trembling voice when she spoke of love.
She was all he had dreamed of. And all he did not deserve.
But he had seen the cracks in her mask. He had felt her tremble when he stood close.
And he had dared to hope. After all she was a woman and he was a man. 
When he thought she might die beneath the beast in the forest, when he thought she would slip away from him forever—then he had known just how much he loved her.
And now he sat on the edge of his bed, broken.
She had rejected him. 
Yet still, when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her. Her strength, her tenderness, the love she gave to others so freely. 
He wanted that love turned to him. He wanted her to choose him. 
To let him in.
He wanted to show her pleasures she had never imagined, to prove that he, too, could bring joy.
But all that remained now was the impossible.
To forget her.

Mary fled into Ragnar’s hall, Floki’s words still burning in her ears. 
She could not stay. Not now. 
Not after Floki’s threat, not after what had passed with Rollo.
“Mary.”
She turned.
Lagertha had risen from her seat, eyes bright with something like hope. Ragnar sat beside her, Gyda on his lap, his smile easy, careless.
“Can we help you?” Lagertha asked.
Mary swallowed hard. “Yes.”
“Come closer,” Lagertha urged. 
She seemed happy to see her and Mary’s chest tightened. She knew that what she was about to say would wound them.
“Earl Ragnar,” she began, turning her gaze to him. “You told me I was free. Free to come and go as I wished.”
Ragnar nodded. “That is true.”
“Then hear me. I know you will soon return to Northumbria. I have heard the men speak of it.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “And?”
“When you go, I will go with you. I will return to my home.”
A shadow crossed Lagertha’s face, but Ragnar’s remained unreadable.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
If he denied her, she would find a way onto one of the ships regardless. 
She would not remain here, she promised herself over and over again. 
With a nod Ragnar finally spoke. “So be it. You may return. We sail with the next full moon. Be ready.”
“Thank you.” She smiled. The first since a very long time. 
Home. 
She was going home. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

A Month Later

The green fields and quiet farmsteads made Mary happier than she had been in a very long time.

Home, whispered the yellow flowers along the riverbank.

Home, bleated the sheep on the hills.

Home, she thought, closing her eyes and tilting her face toward the sun. She was back — against all odds. After everything she had endured, every sleepless night and every prayer, she would soon hold her brothers and sisters in her arms again. A tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away quickly and stole a glance toward the men at the front of the ship.

No one seemed to notice her.

Her heart had nearly stopped when she’d realized that Rollo would be joining them on this journey.

He hadn’t looked at her once during the long days at sea. Had she truly hurt him so deeply when she refused his proposal? Surely by now he had found comfort elsewhere.

Perhaps her mere presence disgusted him — a reminder of his own foolish feelings.

She had to admiraal that she had said things sharper than she meant them to be. But his silence was for the best. There could never be anything between them.

“We’ll make land here,” Ragnar announced, rising to his feet and pointing to a green clearing up ahead. “We’ll set camp there.”

A few men dropped the anchor while Ragnar offered Mary his hand to help her ashore.

Her eyes filled with tears again as her boots met the soft, familiar earth. She knelt, scooping up a handful of soil and letting it run through her fingers.

“Glad to be home?” Ragnar asked.

She smiled and nodded. This was the world she knew — a world without strange customs or whispered suspicion. Here, no one wanted her dead for who she was.

Her gaze wandered briefly toward Floki, then to the others. She couldn’t wait to rebuild her life — to leave it all behind.

Especially him: the tall man with the scars, walking past her now, a bundle of wooden poles across his shoulders.

Her throat tightened.

Yes, she told herself. Especially him.

While the men set up camp, Mary did her best to help, hauling smaller items from the boat. Once, she nearly bumped into Rollo. Their eyes met before she quickly looked away. For a heartbeat, she had seen anger and frustration flash in his eyes and something deep inside her twisted.

She didn’t understand why her stomach tightened whenever he was near, why she was so acutely aware of every movement he made.

She had never felt that before. But then, he was the only man who had ever confessed his love for her — and the only one she had ever rejected.

It didn’t take long before whispers spread through the camp. Soldiers had been spotted on the horizon. Mary shaded her eyes and could just make out the royal banners of King Aelle. Sweat prickled at her brow.

So far, she had managed to keep her connection to the king a secret — and she intended to keep it that way. The last thing she wanted was to become a pawn. And she knew the king well enough to know he would not hesitate to use her if it suited him.

That night, Mary woke with a start.

The camp was eerily silent.

Her heart thudded in her chest as she rose and scanned the shadows.

From somewhere deep within the forest came shouting — distant, panicked cries. She clapped a trembling hand over her mouth. Were they attacking?

She hesitated at the edge of the trees, frozen between fear and instinct.

The cries grew louder, the clash of metal echoing through the darkness. She felt as she had that awful night long ago — alone, terrified, helpless.

Should she stay? Should she go?

And if she went, what would she find?

She straightened her back. She would not give in to fear. Not now. Not again.

This was her only chance.

She ran — branches clawing at her dress — toward the noise and the flickering firelight ahead. Breathless, she stopped at the edge of a clearing.

The scene before her was chaos — shadows grappling in the ghostly glow of burning tents, screams rising into the cold night air. Moonlight flashed on a raised axe, then fell on the back of a soldier as he collapsed.

she muffled a cry against her hand.

Not again, she prayed. Oh God, not again.

When dawn broke, the battle was over. The Vikings had rounded up their prisoners in the clearing. Hidden between the trees, Mary watched as Ragnar and his men plundered the camp.

Then her breath caught — she recognized the man being dragged to the front.

The king’s brother.

Ragnar was speaking to him, though Mary couldn’t hear the words. His tone was calm, almost casual — but his smile was not kind.

“Ragnar! Come see!” Floki called. He and Rollo stood by a pile of captured swords. Rollo split a tent pole clean in half with one heavy swing.

Ragnar hauled the king’s brother to his feet and shoved him forward, one arm draped around his shoulders as though they were old friends.

Mary couldn’t watch anymore. She stepped out from the trees and hurried toward them — just in time to hear Rollo ask his brother who the man was.

“This?” Ragnar said with a mocking grin. “This is the king’s brother. What do you say, brother — shall we pay the king a visit?”

Rollo’s mouth curved into a grin, but then he froze — his gaze locking on Mary.

Ragnar turned too, and so did the prisoner.

The prisoners eyes widened, his face drained of color.

“Mary…” he breathed. “We thought they’d killed you!”

“I’m alive, uncle.” Mary ignored the stunned looks from Ragnar and Rollo as she threw her arms around her uncle. To her shock, his shoulders shook against hers. She had never seen him cry. “I’m all right,” she whispered.

He cupped her face in both hands, voice breaking. “Mary… our sweet Mary…”

“Who is he?” Rollo growled behind her. “How does he know her?”

Ragnar answered for her — his voice quieter now, but edged with understanding. “That’s her uncle. Our little Mary,” he said with faint amusement, “is family of the king.”

The first time her uncle rode to the royal villa with Ragnar, she wasn’t allowed to come. Ragnar had ordered her to stay behind with a man wearing an eyepatch. He was kind enough, kept his distance — checked on her from time to time. She had thought about running, of course, but staying seemed safer.

At least this way, she could make sure her family wouldn’t be harmed.

Things had changed once they knew who she truly was. She had always hated being treated differently because of her family, and this was no exception.

But she had no choice.

Perhaps, now that they held two royal hostages, her uncle’s life would be spared. She could feel the shift in the air — she was no longer a guest under Ragnar’s protection.

She was a prisoner again.

The second time, her uncle stayed behind, and she was the one to go.

A small group of the king’s soldiers met them at the open city gates and gestured for Ragnar to follow. Crowds lined the streets, staring wide-eyed at the Norsemen as they passed.

Lord Eadric, King Aelle’s right hand, greeted them at the entrance to the villa. His eyes widened at the sight of her.

“Lady Mary? What are you doing here? We heard you’d gone missing after the monastery attack.”

“A long story, my lord,” she said with a tired smile. “I’m afraid there isn’t time to tell it now.”

“Then at least tell me who your companions are.”

She glanced at Ragnar, who gave the faintest nod. “This is Ragnar Lothbrok,” she said.

Lord Eadric’s expression changed when he looked at Rollo, who had stepped up beside his brother. Mary saw the same mixture of awe and unease in his eyes that she often felt herself. “And his brother, Rollo,” she added softly.

Lord Eadric nodded stiffly and gestured for them to follow.

King Aelle sat on his throne, surrounded by his advisers. The cardinal stood beside him — a face Mary knew too well. At first, the king didn’t notice her; his eyes were fixed on Ragnar with poorly concealed hostility.

“Sire,” said Lord Eadric, “this is Ragnar Lothbrok, his brother Rollo, and their companions.”

“Ah yes,” Aelle spat. “Ragnar Lothbrok. We have heard that name before. We are… pleased that you decided to speak with us.”

Ragnar stared back, silent and unmoved. For the first time, Mary saw something like fear flicker across her uncle’s face. He looked away first.

Then his eyes found her — disbelief breaking through his royal composure.

“Mary?” he breathed. “Is that truly you?”

She stepped forward, painfully aware of all the eyes upon her. “It is, uncle.”

“My God… we thought you were dead.”

“These men took me with them to their home,” she said evenly. “I returned with them.”

Her uncle blinked, struggling to process it — to understand why she was alive, unharmed, standing beside the very men who had raided his lands. His gaze darted between her and Ragnar.

Ragnar only smiled.

“Perhaps, sire,” Lord Eadric ventured, “you should invite them to dine first.”

King Aelle’s expression hardened, but he gave a curt nod.

Mary turned to the Northmen, who grinned broadly at the word dine.

She jumped when a soft hand touched her arm.

“Mary!” Queen Ealswith stood behind her, eyes red from crying. “Judith will weep with joy to know you’re alive. Come, child — you must change into something proper!”

Mary let herself be swept away, grateful — for the first time in weeks — to be among familiar faces again.

Floki had never seen anything quite like the king’s feast. It reminded him, in some ways, of the great hall in Kattegat — only stranger, stiffer, filled with people who seemed as tightly wound as that girl, Mary. Even the king’s small son, a shy little boy, already carried that same stiff, joyless air.

Floki didn’t like it one bit.

When the food was served, he attacked his plate eagerly, amused that the Christians just sat there, straight-backed and silent. Even the boy barely moved.

The king and queen dined on a raised dais, beside a priest who looked much like Ragnar’s own. The man began to shout words Floki couldn’t understand, and soon a chorus of other priests joined in with hollow chanting. The whole thing was baffling.

Only when the singing stopped did the Christians begin to eat.

Floki stared at the strange round object on his plate. It smelled like food, but when he bit into it, it nearly broke his teeth. He set it back down — and it shattered in two as soon as it hit the table.

He laughed aloud. These were strange people indeed.

Sven, across the table, smashed his own against his forehead and roared with laughter. The others joined in. The Christians did not.

“Stop,” Ragnar murmured, struggling to hide a grin. “I’m trying to be serious.”

Then, turning to the king, he said something — and the room changed.

At once, soldiers emerged from the shadows, surrounding them. Floki rose, knife in hand, his pulse quickening. He liked this part.

But to his disappointment, the king waved his soldiers back, though his voice now dripped with menace.

The conversation dragged on. Then Lord Eadric leaned forward, speaking quickly in his king’s ear. Ragnar gave a low chuckle.

“He wants one of us to become a Christian,” he said.

Floki froze. He stared from Ragnar to the king in disbelief. This was what he had feared. The Christians respected nothing — not the gods, not the old ways.

He could not imagine that anyone would actually—

“I will be Christian,” a deep voice said.

Floki’s blood boiled.

Of course.

He knew this would happen. That girl had bewitched him — why else would Rollo betray the gods so easily?

Rollo stood, pulled his knife from the table, and pointed to himself. “I will be Christian.”

King Aelle raised his cup toward him and said something that made Ragnar’s smile falter — words Rollo clearly didn’t understand.

Not that it mattered anymore. The damage was done.

Rollo was a traitor.

And that girl — that girl — was the reason why.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Ragnar watched his brother with a glint that was half amusement, half warning. The fire between them cracked and spat, throwing wild shadows over their faces.

The camp had long gone quiet, but Rollo still stood guard beside the central flames, his axe resting against his thigh. His thoughts everywhere but on the land he was suppose to watch.

“I take it you did not fully grasp what was said earlier?” Ragnar’s tone was casual, but the challenge was clear.

Rollo shrugged, feigning indifference. “I understood enough. I am to be baptized. Then we’ll get the gold the king promised you.”

“Hmm.” Ragnar’s lips curved in that wolfish smile that so often meant trouble. “So then… should I offer my congratulations, brother?”

“Congratulations?” Rollo frowned.

“On your upcoming marriage.”

“Marriage?”

The word struck him like lightning. For a moment he forgot to breathe. His heart pounded in his chest like war drums. He had agreed to the baptism only for one reason, and one name burned behind his eyes.

Mary.

Mary, who had told him she could never wed a pagan. He had hoped—foolishly perhaps—that this would change things. That she might look at him differently, might see not a beast or a barbarian but a man worthy of her love.

He had done it for her. For himself. For the desperate hope that she might choose him, that she might return with him to Kattegat.

It had been a madman’s prayer, born from longing and pride.

He would give up Valhalla itself for the paradise he saw in her blue eyes.

But no one had said a word about marriage.

Ragnar laughed softly, the sound low and dangerous. “Aye. You didn’t catch that part, did you? The king wishes to seal our alliance with a wedding.”

“So I’m to marry some noblewoman from his court?” Rollo’s tone turned sharp. “I agree to be washed like a child, and now he would have me bound to some delicate lamb for his peace of mind?”

“It’s Mary.” Ragnar’s voice cut clean through the night air. He held Rollo’s gaze, watching carefully as the words struck. “The king wants you to marry Mary.”

Rollo’s breath caught. Confusion flickered to disbelief, then to something fierce and unguarded. He had rarely known fear, but this—this made his chest tighten.

“Does she know?”

Ragnar grinned. “No more objections then? Only the question of whether your bride’s aware of her good fortune?”

Rollo glared, but Ragnar only chuckled.

“I don’t think she does,” Ragnar went on. “Things are handled differently in this land. I doubt she’s been given much say in it.”

Rollo looked down at his hands. Was it wrong to take her this way, through duty and arrangement? Would she forgive him? Did it matter?

His blood sang at the thought of her belonging to him at last. The past weeks had been a torment — seeing her and not touching her, hearing her voice and pretending it meant nothing. And now, by some strange twist of fate, the gods had granted his wish.

And all because he had chosen to turn toward her God.

“So you will do it?” Ragnar’s tone was measured.

“Yes.” The word came too fast, too hungry. He didn’t care. Once baptized, she might learn to love him. The water would wash away his sins and make him the man she could want.

Ragnar sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing. She’s not like the others, Rollo. You can’t treat her as a conquest. She’s more than a vessel for your desire.”

“I know.”

“I hope you do.” Ragnar turned, but halfway to his tent he paused and looked back over his shoulder. “You realize what this looks like to the others, don’t you? All this talk of baptism and marriage…” His eyes glinted in the firelight. “They think you’re a traitor.”

Rollo watched the flames leap higher. He didn’t care. Let them call him what they would. Soon Mary would be his wife — and that was all that mattered.

There were few things Mary had missed during her time in the convent, but a soft bed with thick pillows and warm blankets was one of them. She curled up, stretched languidly, and allowed herself a smile. She was home — free, surrounded by family once more.

It wouldn’t be long before her uncle was released as well, and then they would return home together. Her sweet uncle who had taken her in when her father had died and had treated her as one of his own. She would find another convent, new sisters of spirit, and devote herself again to God’s work — to serving others, as she was meant to.

“Milady.”

One of the queen’s handmaidens entered and bowed deeply, a gesture Mary still wasn’t used to.

In the convent, all were equal in the eyes of God. Here, she was no longer Sister Mary, but Lady Mary — almost a princess.

“The king requests your presence,” the girl said softly. “The queen sent me to help you dress.”

“How very kind of her.” Mary threw back the covers, smiling faintly. “Has there been any news of my uncle?”

The girl’s face paled. “I wouldn’t know, my lady. I was only told to prepare you.”

Soon she was fastening Mary into a gown of deep red silk, her fingers deftly braiding Mary’s hair before sliding golden earrings into her ears. The dress was cut low, trimmed with gold along the neckline and sleeves. When Mary caught her reflection in the basin of water, she hardly recognized herself. The humble novice was gone — as was the slave girl from Kattegat.

What she saw now was the daughter of a duke, and the world would see it too.

The maid led her down the corridor, where a small gathering of nobles had already assembled.

Ragnar and his men stood among them, a wall of broad shoulders and foreign eyes. Mary felt their stares but ignored them, forcing herself to walk with quiet grace. The low neckline and her pinned-up hair made her feel exposed, fragile.

And then she saw him.

Rollo.

His gaze caught hers — green and piercing, filled with something she had never seen in a man’s eyes before.

Desire.

She looked down quickly, heat flooding her cheeks.

“There you are.”

Her aunt’s voice broke through the haze. The queen’s anxious expression made Mary’s heart tighten. “How are you, my dear?”

Mary ignored the question. “My uncle?” she pressed. “Is he safe?”

“Your uncle will soon be freed, my sweet Mary,” Queen Ealswith replied gently, taking her niece’s hand. “Our king has made an agreement with the heathens.”

The word made Mary flinch. “What kind of agreement?”

“Gold for your uncle’s life. And… one of them will be baptized. Become a Christian.”

Mary turned, her eyes sweeping across the Norsemen. None of them looked like men who would bend the knee to any god but their own.

Her gaze found Rollo again, and for a heartbeat something unreadable passed between them — an unspoken challenge, a question neither dared to voice.

She turned back to her aunt, sensing there was more. “Yes?” she demanded.

The queen’s eyes flickered toward her husband. “Tell her, my lord,” she said quietly.

King Ael sighed, his tired gaze heavy with guilt. “I know you would do anything to protect your family, Mary. It is in your nature — and your duty. What I have done… I have done for all of us. You should take pride in the part you play in our salvation.”

“What have you done?” Mary’s voice trembled.

“I’ve made a pact with the heathens,” he said at last. “One that cannot be broken. One of them will be baptized, and then… he will marry a daughter of Northumbria.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to tilt beneath her.

“Smile, child,” the king said. “You are to be a bride.”

Mary’s knees weakened. The sunlight seemed to blaze too bright, burning through her thoughts.

“She’s fainting,” she heard the queen say. “Give her air!”

Strong hands steadied her, guiding her toward a chair. She fought to breathe — in and out, in and out — as panic clawed through her chest.

Had she really kept herself apart from all earthly desires only to end like this? The bride of a heathen?

It was Ragnar who had carried her from the crowd. His face, usually sharp with mischief, was now shadowed by something else — sympathy. Regret.

“Who?” she whispered, though she thought the answer would break her.

Ragnar’s eyes softened. He hesitated, then said quietly, “Rollo.”

Her breath caught. Of all the names she might have feared — his was the one she least expected.

He hated her. She had humiliated him.

“It wasn’t his idea,” Ragnar added quickly. “He only asked to be baptized. The king was the one who spoke of marriage.”

“Couldn’t he have refused?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“No.”

Their eyes met, and in that moment she knew that whatever came next, she would have an ally in Ragnar and that, perhaps, he was the only one left who saw her as more than a symbol or a prize.

“It will be all right, Mary,” he murmured. “I promise you that.”

Her aunt appeared beside them then, her voice tender. “Your uncle’s wife is coming, my dear. You won’t be alone on your wedding day. And your uncle will be freed for the ceremony. It will be a grand occasion — one people will speak of for generations.”

“Undoubtedly,” she replied bitterly.

The queen lowered her gaze, shame flickering across her face. The sight of her standing beside Ragnar — two worlds that should never have met — filled Mary with despair.

What madness had seized her uncle? To sell her like cattle in the name of peace?

“You are a brave girl,” her aunt whispered.

But Mary did not feel brave. She felt betrayed. Abandoned.

By her king. By her family.

Even by God Himself.

She stood tall beside her uncle and aunt, chin lifted, shoulders squared and forced her expression into calm composure, though inside she was screaming. Where was God now?

Across the river, Rollo waded into the water toward two priests standing knee-deep in the current. He had stripped off his tunic, his broad chest and tattooed arms bared to the morning light. She caught herself staring, unable to look away.

The priests began their prayers. Rollo glanced up, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. He looked uneasy, as though he didn’t quite understand the ritual he was part of.

Mary’s gaze drifted further back — and there stood Floki, his painted eyes dark as ink, fixed on her with loathing. A shiver ran through her. The hatred there was unmistakable.

When the priest reached to anoint Rollo, the Norseman flinched, as though the holy touch might burn him. Despite herself, Mary almost smiled. For all his defiance, he still feared what he didn’t understand.

Then, without warning, the priest pushed him under the water. A heartbeat later Rollo emerged, gasping and sputtering, his companions roaring with laughter on the shore.

Mary’s hands tightened around her skirts. To see this farce treated as sacred made her stomach twist. Baptism meant rebirth — a surrender of the heart. Rollo’s proud smirk mocked that very idea.

And yet, by the word of the Church, he was now a Christian.

And by sunset, he would be her husband.

For one desperate moment she considered running. But duty held her fast — duty to her father, her country, her people. What would happen if she broke the fragile peace her uncle had bought with her future? How many would die because of her?

The bishop’s voice thundered over the water.

“I now pronounce you baptized and born again — with the Christian name of Robert.”

He embraced Rollo, who stiffened under the priest’s touch, his jaw tight with resentment. Around them, the English nobles bowed their heads — even Ragnar, solemn for once, lowered his gaze.

Only Floki remained standing, his eyes glinting with fury. He spat into the dirt at Rollo’s feet.

King Ael stepped forward, his voice ringing with false triumph. “We have witnessed a true miracle,” he declared. Turning to Ragnar, he continued, “And as a sign of friendship between our peoples, we shall soon celebrate the marriage of my niece and your brother. You may return to your camp until the feast is prepared.”

Ragnar inclined his head.

“We shall make ready the celebration,” the king said. “Soon, our peoples will be as one.”

Mary turned away, following her uncle back toward the hall in silence. Behind her, laughter echoed across the water. She glanced over her shoulder once — just once — and saw Rollo standing on the riverbank, water streaming down his body, his mouth curved in a triumphant grin.

And she knew that her fate was sealed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

Mary ran after her brothers, clutching the small wooden sword with both hands, and tried to jab it into their sides. Marcus screamed dramatically, while Aaric laughed and urged him to run faster.

“I’ll get you!” Mary shouted, quickening her steps. “Pirates always win!”

“Pirates don’t beat knights!” Aaric bellowed over his shoulder, his fair hair sticking to his forehead with sweat and wind.

“They do now!” Mary swung her sword — certain she would have struck him if a slender, decisive hand hadn’t caught the weapon midair and pulled it firmly from her grasp.

“Maryanna! What is the meaning of this?”

Caught in the act, Mary froze and lifted her gaze to the face hovering above her — dark curls bound beneath a brocaded veil, a pair of stern grey eyes, and lips pressed into a narrow line.

“I’m a pirate, mother,” she muttered.

“A pirate?” Lady Lillibeth raised a single eyebrow. “Last I checked, pirates were bearded men, not little girls who were told only yesterday that it is most improper for a lady to run around with a sword.”

“I’m sorry, mother.”

“Sorry? You are ten years old, Maryanna — not a small child anymore. It is not fitting for you to indulge in such wild games.”

“I know, mother,” Mary said, pouting. “But embroidery is so dull. I’d rather learn to fight, like the boys.”

“A woman does not need to learn to fight with weapons,” Lady Lillibeth replied evenly. “She must sharpen her mind — that is the only weapon worth wielding.”

Mary looked up, stubbornly. “But why? I’m already better at sword fighting than Marcus and Aaric together.”

“Because it is the way of men to believe brute force solves everything. You must learn to stand your ground without needing strength.”

“But when you have a sword, people listen faster.”

Lady Lillibeth sighed and shook her head. “No, when you hold a sword, people obey you out of fear. But when you make them understand what you believe — with words — then they truly listen.”

She bent down and kissed her daughter’s forehead. Then, hand in hand, they walked down the corridor. The only thing left behind on the cold stone tiles was the wooden sword.

“Maryanna!”

Mary let herself be pulled into her aunts arms, her cheeks warmed by the soft kiss and the scent of lilacs that clung to Lady Joanna’s gown. For a moment, she forgot where she was — forgot the years between them — and heard her aunts serene voice, the one that had faded so long ago in her memory.

“I was so worried for you,” Lady Joanna whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. “We thought you were dead.”

Mary looked at her, drinking in the sight of the familiar face. Her aunt had grown older — there were fine lines beneath her eyes, and streaks of silver threaded through her dark hair — but she was still the same proud woman who never trembled, not even now, when her husband was in the hands of savages. The same woman who had given her and her brothers a home after their parents died. The same woman who had understood that she had longed for purpose and had allowed her to join the monastery.

“Oh, how grateful I am to see you safe, my dearest child.”

“Now let me embrace my sister!”

Mary turned toward the young man laughing behind her aunt’s back. “Marcus!”

Her brother enveloped her in a fierce embrace. The last time she’d seen him, he had been smaller than she; now he towered two heads above her. She touched his short brown beard and grimaced. “You look just like Father.”

“Unfortunately, you still look like you,” he teased.  There he was — the same infuriating brother she remembered. “But I’ve missed you, my dearest sister.”

“I missed you too,” she murmured — and as the words left her lips, she realized how true they were. “How are the others? Dilara — she must be so beautiful now!”

“She is,” her aunt said with a proud smile. “One of the princes of Wessex has taken an interest in her. Who knows, perhaps we shall have another wedding soon.”

Mary forced a smile. Of course her aunt would be delighted — a royal match was everything she had ever wanted for her and her own daughters. It had always stung her that Mary seemed unwilling to fulfill the role she’d been born to play.

But it surprised her that her aunt made no remark about her future husband’s lineage.

Lady Joanna had always been adamant that her children would never marry anyone beneath their station.

Perhaps the king had told her nothing about Rollo.

“I can’t wait to meet Robert,” Lady Joanna said brightly.

She was right about her aunt being in the dark. Mary couldn’t help but smile. This would be… interesting.

Lady Joanna would not take kindly to a tattooed heathen as a partner for her niece.

“And you must tell me everything,” she continued. “How you found your way here, and what happened to you after—”

“I was taken,” Mary said quietly. “By Norsemen.”

“The same who hold our uncle?” Marcus’ eyes flashed. “Then they will pay for it. I swear it.”

Mary smiled faintly. “Don’t be foolish, brother.” She stopped herself from adding that he wouldn’t make a chance against the warriors she’d come to know. “But yes — it was them. They took me to their village.”

Her aunt paled, and Marcus stared at her in disbelief. “You were among the heathens?”

“Yes,” she said quickly. “But their new leader and his wife were kind. They placed me under their protection. No harm came to me while I was there.”

“Kind?” Lady Joanna’s lip curled. “You speak of pagans, Maryanna! People without decency or God.”

“They hold our uncle!” Marcus snapped. “And you speak of them as if they were your friends?”

“They treated me with respect,” Mary answered softly. “I only meant to tell you I was safe.”

She didn’t like where the conversation was leading her. It wouldn’t be fair to act as if the pagans had been anything but honourable, but at the same time it felt like betrayal to say that she had been treated horridly.

“They tore you from your family,” lady Joanna said sharply. “And if word of this spreads, you can forget any honorable marriage. We should be thankful the wedding is tomorrow, or Robert might change his mind. These heathens are not like us, Maryanna. They think differently — feel differently. They are… less than human.”

Mary was silent. Her aunt was right. They were different. She couldn’t even imagine how life would be once she was Rollo ‘s wife. It wouldn’t be a happy union. Ragnar had made clear that Rollo didn’t know about the marriage and that it was impossible for him to refuse. They would be bound by force and honor, but she knew that her rejection had wounded him and that any feelings he had declared in the past had been wiped away by her sharp outburst.

They would be unhappy together in an alliance that neither of them wanted.

Neither? Her deceitful mind questioned. Why had she been staring at him, wondering how he felt? Why couldn’t she keep her gaze from his strong arms, his green eyes? And why did it fill her stomach with nervous excitement when she met his gaze filled with longing?

“Now, Robert,” Lady Joanna said cheerfully, forcing brightness into her tone. “Have you seen him yet? Who is he?”

“He’s the brother of an earl,” Mary replied, trying to leave her confused thoughts for what they were.

“Then he’s an earl as well?” her aunt asked eagerly. “Is he wealthy?”

“No,” Mary said slowly. “No, he isn’t. He is a warrior. But he lives in a simple house.”

“Oh.” She could see the disappointment in her eyes. “But do you know him? Is he kind?”

Mary swallowed. “I know him a little. I suppose he can be kind.”

“Do you like him?”

A long pause before she finally answered. “I do not.”

The next day passed in a blur of fabric — gowns to be fitted, servants whispering and giggling, her aunt making remarks about Robert and his noble manners.

Mary didn’t want to hide the truth from her, but her aunts happiness — that rare sparkle in her eyes — was a welcome balm after weeks of fear and grief. For one day, she wanted to play along; to pretend she was marrying a Christian nobleman who loved her, just as she had once imagined.

Lady Joanna chattered endlessly about her own wedding day, about Mary’s younger brothers and their health. For a few blessed hours, she could almost forget that she was about to marry the bear with blood on his hands.

That illusion shattered the moment they entered the great hall. The air smelled of roasted meat and spiced wine, the long tables gleamed with silver — and there, at the high table, seated beside King Aelle himself, were Ragnar and Rollo.

Rollo’s gaze found hers at once, his eyes narrowing.

Swiftly she looked away, though her stomach clenched together and her cheeks grew hot. What was he thinking? Did he think she looked odd, suddenly dressed like a gown instead of the simple dress she had worn when she had been his brother’s slave? Her hair that always had been braided, now washed and loose on her back.

Beside her,  her aunt gasped. “Surely this cannot be true! Why are those heathens seated at our table?”

Mary didn’t answer.

Together, they approached the dais and bowed before the king — or rather, Mary did. Lady Joanna stood rigid, her back straight as a blade.

“May I ask what this means, your majesty?” She demanded sharply.

The king looked up, irritation darkening his expression.

Mary bit her lip. She knew that look well — her uncle did not tolerate defiance, least of all from women. But Lady Joanna had never been easily silenced.

“This is Ragnar Lothbrok,” Aelle said tersely.

“I know very well who they are,” Lady Joanna retorted, her voice cold as winter steel. “What I do not understand is why you share a meal with the very men who hold my husband captive and who abducted our beloved niece?”

King Aelle’s eyes flicked toward Mary, who merely lifted her shoulders in a faint, helpless gesture.

She owed him no defense — not after everything he had done. It wasn’t her task to explain why her body and virtue would be sold in the name of peace.

The king cleared his throat. “Then perhaps I should introduce you to someone.”

Lady Joanna raised her chin.

“Lady Joanna,” Aelle said, gesturing toward Rollo. “May I present to you — Robert.”

“Robert,” she repeated faintly, then louder, in disbelief: “Robert?”

Her face was a storm — shock, outrage, and disbelief blending into one. Mary laid a calming hand on her arm, but she shook it off. In her eyes a fire was glistening and her hands trembled.

“Have you lost your senses, Aelle?” she shouted. “You would give your own niece to these animals? How dare you! How dare you even consider binding her to this—”

Mary flinched at the venom in her tone. She glanced at Rollo, who stood silent and bewildered before the furious woman, and something inside her twisted — pity, maybe, or guilt.

Her aunt did not know him, and though he was not the husband she would have chosen, he deserved more than insults hurled towards him like stones.

In the end he was just as much as victim of her uncle as she was.

“You want your husband back?” King Aelle roared in return. “Then sacrifices must be made! This man has been baptized. He is now a Christian. After the wedding, your husband will be released. It is the only way. Or would you rather have the blood of innocents on your conscience?”

“The only way!” Lady Joanna spat on the floor — something Mary had never seen her do. Wiping her chin, she hissed, “How could you? Mary… did you know about this?”

Every eye in the hall turned to her.

The air seemed to thin, and her head grew light. Instinctively, she sought Rollo’s eyes. He looked at her, calmly. She could see something in his gaze, something steady and familiar, something that made her breath stop trembling and made her square her shoulders.

A strange feeling came over her. As if she wasn’t alone.

“The king told me yesterday,” she said. “I wish it were otherwise, but I want to save my uncle.”

“There must be another way,” lady Joanna pleaded, gripping her hands. “I’ve only just got you back — I cannot lose you again.”

“I’m still marrying Robert, aunt,” Mary whispered. “You were happy about this marriage and my future as a wife.”

“Not now that I see Robert’s hair is longer than mine and his arms are covered in strange markings,” her aunt hissed. “I do not trust him. Do you?”

She didn’t know what to say. Especially with everyone listening intently to their conversation. Of course she didn’t trust them. They had killed people before their eyes, they had forced her to watch her only friend die and they had treated her as a prisoner as soon as they knew who she truly was. This union worked in their advantage, for now… but she wasn’t sure for how long that would last.

“Enough to say I do tomorrow.”She whispered.

Lady Joanna looked at her for a long, painful moment, then turned back to her brother-in-law. “Do not think I will forgive you for this, Aelle. Nor will my husband. Tonight my children and I will dine elsewhere.”

She walked out of the room, chin high, and gestured for Mary to follow. As they swept from the hall, Mary walked beside her — her heart aching burning with pride.

She had never loved her aunt more than in that moment.

Although she would marry the bear, she would never forget about the lioness that raised her. And she could only hope that the same heart was somewhere hidden deep inside her chest.