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3. Cherine

Chapter 3

Cherine

D awn was just breaking, the sky and fields a colorless haze, when I woke to use the latrine. I’d barely slept at all, and it wasn’t because Giselle snored from too much stolen wine or because Odette kicked in her sleep. No, I spent the whole night worrying about Marc. I was scared he might tell someone of what we had done. It wasn’t like him, but he hadn’t been himself after we had sex. I felt different too, but I couldn’t place my finger on why. Part of me felt proud, like I’d done something other girls were too afraid to do, and in turn, I had awakened something in myself. The other part of me was scared, like the act of sex was going to turn my whole life upside down, that the repercussions were waiting in the woods.

What I didn’t feel, though, was shame, and that realization made a small smile stretch across my lips.

I crawled out of bed, careful not to wake my sisters, who would be rising in a few hours, and slipped on my woolen coat and cheap pigskin boots. The chill was constant in our thatched roof house, seeping in through the shuttered, glass-less windows and up through the cold dirt floor. The wood stove had gone out during the night, leaving only smoky tendrils behind. The door to my mother’s room was closed, and I briefly wondered if she ever got lonely now that Papa was dead and my brothers were gone, all serving in the King’s army. But then, I decided it didn’t matter—my mother was wicked, even when she had a house full of men.

The latrine was a long trek from our home, forcing me to cross a pale, uniform field into a clump of oak trees that stuck out like a snag on smooth silk. I knew it like the back of my hand—every rock, every patch of uneven ground. It was an inconvenient fact of peasant life, having to make these trips, sometimes in the dead of night. Still, I preferred it to the way the townsfolk used the bathroom—shuttling human waste out the windows into the open gutters below. I didn’t go to town except to feign prayer at church and deliver the occasional parcel of vegetables to the Lord, but every time I went, I was overwhelmed by the stench of sewage and all those bodies, all those leering eyes.

I stepped into the dark wooden hut, leaving the door open so I’d have some light from the waking sun. It was a throne with a view, and the dull field slowly warmed to a golden beige as the clouds lightened from the east. I could see the small, huddled shape of our home as well as the two others on the crest of the hill, where the Fornier and Duval families took care of the dairy and wheat. Behind our home, down the slope and through more shedding oak and maple, was the outline of Marc’s house. Beyond that sat the tiny fishing port with its boathouses and the modest dwellings of the fishermen.

A trail of smoke rose from Marc’s home, and I squinted at it. They were up awfully early if they already had a fire going at full blast.

Perhaps he’s having as much trouble sleeping as I am, I thought curiously. I hoped Marc would keep his mouth shut and spare his brother from the news.

I slowly stood, pulling down my linen nightshift, when a huge rumble made the door to the latrine shake on its hinges. I stopped, pressing my hand against it, hoping to steady myself as the rumble increased and the ground began to tremble.

What on Earth is going on? It felt like the cows were stampeding, but a quick glance at the fields showed me the cows were still inside the barn for the night.

An uneasy feeling squeezed my lungs, something black and ominous, like my soul had been invaded by a million crows. And that’s when I realized the smoke wasn’t coming from inside Marc’s house—it was his house. It was on fire, and in seconds, orange flames were licking at the hay roof.

Marc!

I screamed, but the words failed to make it out of my throat. I pulled my coat tight around me and started running from the trees. I was halfway across the field, the wheat whipping at my legs, when the skies filled with a symphony of noises that made my blood curdle. One of them was the anguished, desperate scream of a man dying. The others were the deep, depraved cries of warriors in battle, men prepared to kill and be killed.

The noise brought my mother and sisters out of our house, running around the corner to see the commotion. By now, Marc’s house was fully engulfed in flames, the fire spreading to the trees and dry grass below.

“Go back in the house!” I screamed, finding my voice again, but it was useless. My family disappeared, no doubt heading toward the fire to help.

Couldn’t they hear the cries? Didn’t they know what it was? I knew the king had been building a resistance against the barbaric Viking raiders in the north. That’s why my brothers and father had been called up eight years ago. My own father had died in battle out west, at the mouth of the River Seine against those same barbarians. These Vikings were slowly taking over the north of France, determined to make it their own country.

I didn’t know what to do. The warrior cries grew louder, and the metallic clashing of swords rang out. I prayed Marc was alright, ignoring the irony that we had both been relieved when the Lord decided to keep him working at sea instead of sending him to the army. Now, he was in just as much danger, and I wouldn’t let myself dwell on the thought that he might already be dead.

There was no question, however, that people were dying—fast. The ground continued to rumble as their cries rang out, and the screams filled the nearby forest until birds flew from the trees. I looked over my shoulder and saw the Fornier and Duval families emerging from their dwellings on the hill. They looked confused, brushing off their slumber—until they saw the flames. The realization of what was happening sank in.

I steadied myself and took a deep breath, turning my attention back to the fire creeping toward our home. I had no idea where my family had gone, didn’t know if everyone I knew was alive or dead. For the first time, I felt like my destiny was in my hands, and I toyed with it carefully, measuring the weight. To run toward the flames would surely mean death. I wasn’t a soldier. I was an eighteen-year old girl armed only with the muscles cultivated from years working the fields.

I didn’t know how to fight; I barely knew how to live.

I could turn and run toward the hill. I could borrow Guillame’s horse and ride to the manor to alert the Lord. The Lord was sworn to protect the serfs; that was the whole basis of the feudal agreement. We slaved for him, he provided protection. But our dwellings, so close to the shore, were unprotected, and it would take a while for the army to arrive. Could I hide until then? Or could I help the others and try to fight, even though it would be futile?

I doubted my family would extend the courtesy toward me. Maybe Odette would, perhaps even Giselle, but my mother wouldn’t.

I curled my hands into tight balls and quickly released them. It didn’t matter in the end. I wasn’t a coward, and the life I had been living wouldn’t be too sad to lose. There was also the matter of Marc—someone I couldn’t just forget about, no matter how complicated my feelings for him were.

With as much courage as I could gather, I pumped my arms, sprinting through the field until I reached our home, nearly slamming into the wall from the momentum. I spent a second gripping the hard, splintered wood, its familiarity providing a brief respite of comfort. Then, I hurried inside and looked around for a weapon.

It was obvious my sisters and mother had left in a hurry. Hay from the beds was scattered about my feet, and a knocked-over jug of water had sank into the dirt. There was a butcher knife sticking out of the wall in the kitchen area, something I’d used the night before to slice the head off a chicken. That was about it. My mind raced; I had that gnawing feeling I was missing something.

Of course! My mother’s room! I flung open the door, and there it was. Perched in the corner of the sagging wall was the dull silver gleam of my father’s old sword. It was the one possession of his that had been returned to the family.

When I was younger, my father would try to show me the sword in jest. I’d feel the cool metal under my little fingers and then giggle and run away, as though it had the power to hurt me, even when lying innocuously in his hands. Now, I could feel the sword for what it was—a heavy, long object of great power and understated beauty. I had no idea how to wield it in battle, but I had no choice.

I grasped the molded handle and held it out in front of me, my forearms straining. It would have to do. I maneuvered it out of the hut and into the open.

I had hardly been inside for more than three minutes, but in that time, the dawn had turned to dusk as plumes of black smoke filled the sky. A low hedge along the fence prevented me from seeing the full scene and provided me with a bit of cover. I crept over to the hedge and slinked along it, the branches catching at my coat.

Feeling too encumbered, I slipped my coat off until I was only in my night shift and boots. I was cold and completely indecent, but this wasn’t the time for comfort. The screams had died down, and that was both a relief and a worry. I thought I was going mad hearing them over and over, but now that they were gone, I had to wonder if anyone was left alive. My heart fluttered with the image of brutal Vikings slinking toward me, axes drawn, ready to drink blood from my skull. They could be just on the other side of the hedge, waiting for me with the eyes of madmen.

I tightened my grip on the sword, already slick with sweat from my palms, and in one awkward motion, I leaped around the hedge and out into the open.

For a few seconds, I could do nothing but stare.

It felt like an eternity.

Down by the water, a fleet of six Viking longships had beached themselves on the shore like demonic whales. Every dwelling in front of them was burning in a raging inferno, pumping smoke and flames into the sky. Bodies lay strewn along the road, some with spears sticking out of them, others smoldering with dead fire while a small army of Viking warriors easily fought the remaining peasants and set fire to the grass with burning torches.

I was far enough away that it looked like the Vikings hadn’t spotted me. That was the only good fortune thrust upon me. I couldn’t fight them all by myself.

I thought about jumping back behind the hedge and sneaking my way up the hill to the Forniers and Duvals to warn them. Perhaps I could save their lives, and together, we could make our way to the manor to alert the Lord. Surely, his army could protect us.

I was still contemplating the idea when I heard a strangled cry.

“Cherine! Run!”

Merde. It was Odette. I turned with a sinking heart and saw my youngest sister, only fourteen years old, crawling along the ground, her skinny hand outstretched. She was hurt—or more than hurt. She looked like a dying animal trying to drag itself to a dark place to perish.

The Vikings were still laying waste to the dwellings with angry clashes of sword, spear, and axe. They hadn’t looked up to see Odette struggling, or me, even further away, standing with the sword between my legs.

There was time.

Odette had told me to run, but I wasn’t about to leave her. I started sprinting down the hill, trying not to let the lip of the sword catch the ground, until I scampered to a stop near her ashen face.

I dropped the sword and fell to my knees, the cold earth sinking through my shift.

“Odette,” I cried out, trying to touch her face and assess the damage.

Odette’s forehead was slick with blood, and from the way her right leg was twisted behind her, there was no doubt it was broken. A colorless foam spilled from her lips, and I knew there was a more pressing, grave injury elsewhere. Her hands were a paste of blood and dirt from dragging herself along the road.

“Oh, Odette. Dear sister,” I whispered. “I need to get you out of here.”

Odette shook her head, panic and pain palpable in her hooded green eyes.

“Please go. They’ll kill you,” she said, pausing to spit out blood. “They killed Mama. They took Giselle… I don’t know where, but I heard her…” She choked on her words and started to cry. “I heard her screaming, and they were…they were…”

“Shhh,” I hushed her. I fought the urge to dwell on what Odette had just said; I couldn’t lose it now. I had to help my sister. She was all I had left.

“I’m going to bring you onto my shoulders, alright? We’ll go hide in the woods.”

“We can’t hide,” Odette sniffed. That was probably true, and the woods were close to going up in flames. Still, it was our only option.

“Come now,” I said. I squatted and began to pull Odette up under my arms. I kept my eyes steady on the scene down the hill, watching for that moment when a Viking’s eyes would meet mine and it would all be over.

Odette hid her cries of pain the best she could while I lifted her to her feet. It was then I saw the entire front of her white shift had turned red with blood, and she immediately clutched her chest. She had been stabbed at some point, and the wound would no doubt be fatal.

Still, I brushed that fear away and supported her weight as best I could.

“Ready?” I asked quietly. “Let’s go.”

Together, we limped over to the edge of the woods, the tall oak trees promising shelter and safety. Odette whimpered in utter agony, and I could do nothing but try to move as quickly as possible.

I was already thinking of the next plan, how far into the woods we could go, when I heard the teeth-shaking sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath. It seemed to fill the space around us.

We stopped where we were, and I cursed myself for leaving my father’s sword back on the road. It had been too much to carry both it and my sister, and now, we had no defense.

A rough, slimy voice spoke in a halting language I didn’t understand.

Odette and I exchanged a secret look of loss and defiance. We were done for, but I wouldn’t go without a fight.

We turned around slowly and saw a tall, reed-thin man in fur boots, animal skins, and a round metal helmet. One of his eyes looked as black and crazed as a wild boar’s, the other a puckering of red flesh where the eyeball had been lost long ago.

The sword he had drawn, a few feet away and pointed straight at us, was not my father’s. No, I could still see that sword, out there on the road where Odette had crawled, being picked up by a tall Viking, his fair skin splattered head to toe with blood. He turned the sword over in his hands, admiring it curiously, and I wanted to scream at him for touching it.

The Viking closest to me snarled something again and gave a grin so wicked, so disgusting, that I felt a legion of insects crawl down my spine.

Before I had time to react, the one-eyed Viking lunged forward and speared Odette right in the chest, again opening what wound she had there before.

I screamed as the sword withdrew, and Odette’s hands clutched her chest harder, red blood spilling through her fingers onto the ground. She gasped for breath, for life, and I felt nothing but the utter helplessness and horror of my sister being stabbed in front of my eyes.

“Ross!” a bellow rang out.

Suddenly, the other Viking was at our side, pushing the cyclops away. I saw my father’s sword still in his hands, and I knew that, with every last bit of strength, I would fight to get it back.

The Viking with my father’s sword yelled at this Ross again, his tone more vicious, until Odette’s assailant shrugged and ran off down the road toward the carnage.

Odette was now on the ground, struggling to stay alive, and I kept both my arms around her shoulders, as if I could keep her breathing that way. I looked up at the Viking, hoping I could kill him simply with the look in my eyes.

The Viking stared down at me, as though caught up in some internal dialogue with himself. He was tall and well-defined, with muscles that sloped away from the rough cut of his cowhide skirt. His eyes were a dead grey, like the smoke-filled sky, but something light sparked from within them. Still, I saw only a monster. A murderer. A barbarian.

The man knelt on the ground, and I tried to shrink away. Surely, this man would hurt me, rape me, then kill me. I was next. I would die painfully, just like my whole family had. And now, Odette was dead weight in my arms, her chest no longer rising.

The man didn’t say anything for the longest time. He looked between Odette’s lifeless body and my face, clearly debating something. I felt like I was having a staring contest with a lone wolf whose pack was only a howl away.

He leaned forward and, in broken French, commanded, “Go. Run. Now.”

I frowned. That he spoke French almost confused me more than the fact that he was telling me to run. It didn’t make any sense, and all I could do was grip Odette’s shoulders harder.

“Run. Run now!” he repeated roughly, annoyance flashing in his eyes.

I opened my mouth to say something, though I wasn’t sure what, when a deep voice called out from behind him, “Erik?”

The Viking’s eyes met mine again, and before I had a chance to react, he raised my father’s sword in the air and brought the handle down on my head.

Pain exploded from behind my eyes, and I slumped over Odette, joining her in the darkness.

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