Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 59320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
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.