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Quickly, I grabbed my scarf and wrapped it around my ankle in the hopes that it could help ease the strain. I'd remembered to elevate it as much as I could, and the swelling was reducing noticeable but walking was still unlikely.
I reached for a stick that sat in the corner opposite me, and held it close to my chest as my only form of weaponry. If I was going to die here, at least I could die fighting. That's what I'd always thought would happen to me, anyway.
"When the Vikings attacked York, the Anglo-Saxons had no time to prepare. They were defenseless. Most were killed, some became thralls, their religious leaders were tortured brutally - as their beliefs went against much of what the Vikings believed. Some of the women of York decided that the Vikings made more suitable partners than their own husbands and ended up marrying them, so not everyone was killed. But those that looked weak, as though they wouldn't have a use, were killed almost instantly and without remorse." My father explained as we walked.
Slowly, I clambered to my feet, gripping the wall for support. I held the stick firmly, as I'd been taught to hold a sword many years before in fencing. When they entered, I'd fight. Either they'd kill me, or spare me long enough so that I could prove I was useful.
I could hear them outside, the carnage as men and women were killed. Part of me wondered whether or not my father was right. Perhaps we were all doomed.
But if this was real, if I had truly traveled back in time to 865 from my own time in 1965, then surely there was more to it than just my death. If I'd truly defied all odds and travelled over a thousand years, it couldn't end here. Surely my story was only just beginning. Surely there was more to it than this.
When I heard a body bash against the prison door, I began to shake nervously. My mouth was dry, my heart pounding so loud that I could hardly hear the banging on the door. But it was there, and I couldn't forget it. My time was now. I had to prove myself or face certain death.
The door crashed open, making me jump slightly. Still, I remained strong as I tried to ignore the pain in my ankle. In the doorway stood a man much taller than myself, his long hair in a braid down his back and a sword in his hand. I didn't know him, so I was unsure why he felt familiar, but it seemed that momentarily the same effect dawned on him.
He looked at me curiously with vibrant blue eyes, and I could vividly see the conflict behind them. Perhaps I didn't have to fight him. Perhaps if I could calm myself enough, I could talk to him. If I was correct, and these people were truly Vikings, then speaking Old Norse would be nowhere near as difficult as trying to converse in Old English.
"Heil?" I greeted in Old Norse, not really knowing what else to say to this stranger. I'd already said everything I could to the Saxons and they'd condemned me to death... And this man had a sword.
The man furrowed his brows at me, true intrigue evident in his features. "Ubbe Hvat's wranger? vér haftilr líða." Behind him, another man spoke up.
Upon hearing his name, my irrational mind began to panic more. Of course, Ubbe wasn't an exactly uncommon name among Vikings. But here, now, attacking York? My mind went straight to the Great Heathen Army, and specifically one of the Ragnarssons that led them.
It was clear that he noted the recognition in my eyes, and the look I received in return did nothing but affirm my suspicions. There, stood right in front of me, was a son of Ragnar Lothbrok. A man that my father had spent his life studying. A man that I'd done a bloody speech about in primary school! And all I'd managed to say to him was Hi.
"Vætki." He answered calmly, still looking at me as I now began to waver in my confidence. "Ek munu sjá þú þar." In the background, I watched as the other man left and I wasn't sure whether I should be relieved or petrified. "Hvat er þinn nafn?" 'What is your name?'
I kept shaking, but I could feel myself slowly lowering the stick I'd been clinging to as I became oddly more comfortable around him. "Iris." I answered nervously.
"Hví eru þú hí?" He questioned, and from my many long lessons with my father I knew that meant 'why are you here'. "Þú're eigi saxonr." 'you're not a Saxon'.
I nodded, holding back the tears that welled in my eyes as I thought about what I could possibly say. In the end, I settled for informing him that they believed I was a witch because I didn't share their faith in God, which of course wasn't true but I supposed it would help me if I told them I was a heathen too. I wasn't Christian, but the Saxons didn't know that.
He nodded understandingly, looking outside as if checking that the coast was clear, and motioned for me to follow him. I wasn't sure why, but I felt the safest that I'd done since I got here while following. Those that saw me instantly looked away when they noticed precisely who I was following. For the briefest moment, I felt like I'd made it and that everything was going to be okay.
Little did I know that the hardest test was yet to come. There was someone that I hadn't met yet. Someone that I'd spent so much of my time talking about for so many years, never really expecting that I'd ever meet them.
