Free Undercurrent by Michelle Griep Page B

silent men and swept Ragnar to his side with an unrelenting grip around his shoulders. “You have all heard the challenge. Ragnar is the last in Hermod the Black’s bloodline. He has every right to reign in Hermod’s place.
    “ The question is, brothers, will you have me”—Torolf released his hold and shoved Ragnar with a slap on his back—“or him?”
    Ragnar stumbled but caught himself before his knees buckled. No one looked now. Suddenly the floor seemed to be of great interest. Not even Steinn glanced his way.
    “ Who is it to be?” Torolf’s voice commanded an immediate answer, for it hurt the ear.
    First a whisper near the door, then an agreement from the left, until finally a kind of mumbled chant arose. “Torolf. Torolf. Torolf.”
    Ragnar shuddered. He’d witnessed Torolf’s cruelty in battle, and worse, the dark rituals in which he’d flayed innocent women and children. God, protect them. They didn’t know the evils Torolf would bring.
    “ It seems, Ragnar, they will not have you. Why is that?”
    Ragnar held his ground, but refused to turn around. If he didn’t engage, maybe Torolf would soon tire of this game, and he’d live to walk away. Please, Jesu.
    “ I will tell you why! You are a traitor to our fathers’ beliefs, to all we’ve held sacred for generations. You trade the mighty power of our gods for a weakling God who suffered without a fight. This Christ you serve is for women and cowards.”
    Ragnar took a deep breath. “I have heard it said King Trygvasson is returned home, a new believer in Jesu. Does anyone here brand our king as a coward?” He glanced from man to man. Some looked confused, a few stared back in open contempt, but most masked any emotion. “I tell you again, Jesu is the true way. The only way.”
    A great wad of spit nailed the back of his head. “Go serve your Jesu elsewhere, Christian. We do not want you.”
    Torolf’s boot took out Ragnar’s knees. His outstretched palms broke the fall, but the impact jarred with such force that the sound of Torolf’s laughter receded and a buzzing filled his ears. By God’s grace alone he managed to rise on shaky legs and face his tormentor.
    “ I will go, but know this.” He locked eyes with Torolf and beheld such a cavern of darkness, the pit of hell couldn’t have been any deeper or blacker. “God has numbered your days. I will return.”
     
    By the time Cassie’s great escape slowed from a side-cramping run to a steady trot, then eventually changed to an irregular plod, she realized her athletic prowess wouldn’t take her much farther. Besides which, her burning feet couldn’t sizzle more if she walked on coals.
    A glance over her shoulder showed a few random butterflies near a patch of wild pink geraniums and a dragonfly or two skittering above the creek she’d followed, but no one else.
    Good. As comforting as the man’s presence had been the night before, he attracted some unsavory friends. Getting tangled up in some kind of European hippie gang war didn’t make her top-ten list of things to do while in England. Remembering how close that axe blade came to her skull, she shuddered.
    Up ahead, an enormous half-rotted oak spanned the water—a fine perch to soak away pain and stress. A red squirrel scolded as she entered his territory, and some barbed weeds scratched her shins, but she tramped on. The trunk itself was a good three feet tall on its side and too wide to straddle, so she hiked her skirt and hefted herself up. She scooted out little more than a yard from shore and stretched her legs downward, sandals and all.
    Cool water flowed up to her ankles, saturating the linen wraps on her feet. She closed her eyes. Soothing tingles traveled up her calves. Too bad it wasn’t as easy to settle the tangled mess her life had become. Lost. Alone. And dare she admit scared? These foreign feelings made her squirm every bit as much as the rough bark biting through the thin fabric of her skirt.
    No. She would