Heart of a Viking
Authors: Samantha Holt
Heart of a Viking
Samantha Holt
Copyright 2016 ©Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by
www.lovelustandlipstickstains.com
Edited by Em Petrova
Proofed by Destini Reece
Pictland, 839 AD
The palisades would protect them. They had to. Keita came onto tiptoes to peer over the wooden walls, and her throat tightened. She gripped the wood until it bit into her fingers and forced herself to take a breath.
She’d never seen Vikings before, never thought they’d come this far inland. Tales of their brutality rang through her mind. Of men and women killed, tortured, maimed. Women raped and stolen, never to be seen again. These warriors appeared capable of carrying out everything of which she’d heard tell.
The sea of invaders in front of their settlement moved and rippled. She felt the tension thick in the air, like early morning fog. It wouldn’t be long before they made their move and those shields, spears and axes would come crashing against their walls. That ocean of strong bodies could well turn their wooden defences into driftwood.
Keita’s palms grew clammy and she turned away, pressing them down her woollen gown. The cries of women and children seemed like a distant sound as she peered around the settlement. The men readied themselves, prepared to defend their king and his family with their weapons. Yet these men, who usually appeared so strong and bold to her, looked no match for the enemy. Those large axes would carve a path through them to her father with ease. The sickening stench of sweat and defeat already wrapped about her.
The walls had to hold. Or else all hope would be lost.
“Father says we’re to move to the hall.” Seva, her half-sister told her siblings. She glanced at Keita. “Not you. Stay here.”
Keita scowled in her direction but didn’t question her. As an illegitimate daughter of the king, she’d never been truly welcomed into the family after her mother’s death. Her father took her in because she had been too young to look after herself but it was only a matter of time until he cast her out—perhaps marrying her off to someone who wouldn’t mind that she was only half royal.
Her sisters made their way back to the hall. She watched the wooden doors close and the men place a blockade across the door. What did her father want of her if she wasn’t to stay with her sisters? She twisted to peer over the wall again. Sunlight gleamed off conical helmets and the points of the spears aimed in their direction might as well have been jabbing at her.
Pain throbbed in her heart and worked into her muscles, making her body stiff. Keita lifted her gaze to the cloudless skies and offered up a prayer to her goddess but her prayers had gone unanswered ever since the death of her mother. Deep down, in her churning gut, she knew something awful was going to happen this day.
With several men following, her father approached. She peered up into those stony grey eyes—so similar to her own yet so harsh and cold in comparison to what she saw in her reflection.
“I have spoken with their leader. They will leave our settlement if we pay a ransom.”
The tension left her body. Perhaps her instincts had been wrong after all. Maybe her goddess has been listening. “You will pay it, will you not?”
“Aye. We cannot match their strength. They will slaughter us and take all if we fight them.” He nodded to someone at her side and a firm set of hands clamped around her arm. “I have offered them you, Keita, along with some of our jewels and coin.”
She blinked several times at the man who had sired her. No emotion wavered in those eyes, no thickness sat in his voice. He might as well have been offering them his least favourite trinket. That stabbing pain came back to her chest.
“Father...?” The word was but a harsh whisper.
Disbelief clamped her throat tight. She tugged on the hand holding her arm, then harder when it didn’t release her. Another of her father’s men came to her side and between them they held her captive.
She wriggled. “Father!”
“You must do your duty. You are a princess. Save your people. They will be thankful to you.”
He turned from her, his furs swaying about his shoulders. Keita gaped at his back and screamed to him again. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even pause. Her father had abandoned her.
“Nay,” she begged when the men began to draw her down the steps to the front gate. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. The villagers merely watched while she was dragged, crying and screaming, ever closer to her doom. “Please,” she tried. “They’ll kill me. Rape me. Please.”
But the men would not go against their king. She knew that much. An illegitimate daughter of the king held far less sway than the man himself. Not even her tears could save her.
A slipper came loose as she tried to dig her feet into the ground. Dirt and stones tore at her bare foot. Keita grappled to cling onto the men’s clothing, pressing her nails into their skin and tunics. She was no more than an insect to them—her slender body useless against their might.
The door was pulled open and the Vikings that awaited her sent a new dart of horror through her. Dots shimmered in front of her eyes and she pushed her heels into the ground again, ignoring the pain in her right foot. Words bubbled from her— pleas of mercy—but they went unheard.
In the eyes of the Viking men, she saw no mercy either. Cold, hungry gazes swept over her. The grip on her arms loosened. The scent of sweat and another foreign smell enfolded her. Keita twisted from her fellow Picts but the clamp of a stronger, harder hand around her arm brought bile rising up her throat.
She glanced up into the eyes of the Viking holding her. He nodded slowly and touched a finger to her chin. Though her body tried to force her double, such was the pain in her stomach and the need to retch, he kept her pinned with one mere hand upon her.
As she stared into his pale blue eyes, she understood the truth. She was his now. A Viking’s slave. Her life would never be hers again.
Ale flowed freely. Laughter rang about the longhouse. Thorarin smiled and laughed, and toasted the
járl.
The deception was easy enough. After all, he had not waited ten summers to give himself away from the first moment he returned home.
Of course, none recognised him. He’d come a long way from the scrawny boy he’d been when he had been wrongfully banished. Ragni, the
járl
of a place he’d once called home, turned his attention to their exalted guest. Thorarin dipped his head in acknowledgement of his lifted goblet. Saving the chieftain from the wolf he’d held captive for some time had not been luck or fate.
It had been carefully planned to ensure he found a place at Ragni’s table. He had been welcomed back into the fold—and yet none knew who he was. None realised he was the same boy who had been banished all those years ago.
He allowed his smile to widen. To others it might seem it was brought on by the acknowledgement of his deeds, or perhaps the free flowing
ӧ
ll
. The bitter tang worked into his body and eased muscles that ached from having battled with the beast who had targeted Ragni.
“You will stay here,” Ragni declared. “My home is yours. Partake in my food, seek comfort with my slaves. Nothing shall be denied you.”
Thorarin lifted his gaze to the one woman who had been occupying his attention since his arrival at Ravndal. She wore the collar of a slave yet her pale, almost white hair was uncut, unlike the other slaves. His heart gave a jolt when she passed by, barely sparing him a glance.
Head lowered, she went about her business of serving them. None of the men touched or acknowledged her. He scowled. Why that was, he knew not. He had not seen a face as fine as hers for many moons.
If ever.
“What of her?” he jerked his head in the slave’s direction.
“Ah, Keita. The Princess. I took her from Pictland some two moons ago.” Ragni motioned for her to approach and she did so, head bowed.
Close up, Thorarin was able to appreciate the slender grace of her body. She wore a necklace of amber—visible under the slave collar about her neck. He had the oddest urge to see that pale neck completely bare. Arched and ready for a man’s lips. His lips perhaps.
“Why princess?” he asked Ragni.
“She is indeed of royal blood.”
Thorarin lifted a brow as he eyed the older man. The pale eyes he’d once remembered as terrifying and savage were now crinkled at the corners. Grey hair edged his mouth and he kept his hair shorn close. It was likely the
járl
was balding. He had, however, maintained his stature.
Not that he’d be a match for Thorarin. But it would not be enough to simply go up against the man or murder him in his sleep. How could he regain his honour with a revenge so simple?
Neinn,
he would bide his time. Slowly, Ragni the Vicious would find his world crumbling down about him. Not even his beautiful Pictish Princess would be by his side at the end.
“How is it you captured a princess?”
“Her people did not want her. They offered her up.” He touched a finger to her chin, forcing her gaze up and onto him. “And who would say no?” Ragni’s expression grew serious. “She, however, is not to be touched. I owe you much, Thorarin, and I would have no one say I do not stand by my honour and reward those who have been of service to me, but Keita is pure. And she will stay that way until I say otherwise. No man touches her but me.”
The slave turned her gaze on him. Just briefly. Long enough for him to see haunting grey eyes. They seemed to reach down inside and pluck at his inner spirit. Colour rose on her pale cheeks and she lowered her fair lashes.
Ragni waved her away and leaned in. “No one touches her but me,” he repeated.
Thorarin nodded slowly and affected an air of disinterest in the girl. Hot desire was already threatening to beat in his heart like Thor’s hammer, but it mattered little. He could slake his need with a willing woman easily enough. No
ambatt
was worth destroying his plans for, and it was essential he maintain Ragni’s trust.
“I hope that you shall put me to use,” he told the
járl
. “I have long laboured alone since my wife and child died. I travelled north with the intention of finding a use for my skills.”
“What are your skills? You can fight, I’m sure of that.”
“
Já
, I can fight and raid. I am also a skilled carpenter.”
Ten summers of living alone had ensured that. No wife or child had kept him company. No loss had existed in his life apart from that of his community and family that fateful night when he had been a young man.
“You wish to make your living here?”
“If you can use me,
já
.”
Ragni pressed a finger to his lip. “You will stay here for now. There is an empty farmstead to the north-east. If you can work the land and rebuild the house, it is yours. In return, I will have work for you.”
“You are gracious, my
járl
.”
The words burned in his gut. Grace had little to do with Ragni’s actions all those years ago. Thorarin only managed to spit out the words by reassuring himself all was going according to his plan. Once he had gained Ragni’s trust, he would tear apart his world, bit by bit until he had nothing left. Then, and only then, Thorarin would deliver the death blow.
“As I said, I reward those who are loyal to me. Prove yourself and you shall not regret coming to my aid. However—” his eyes darkened and Thorarin remembered that same look from his boyhood “—do not mistake my generosity for leniency.”
“Never, my
járl
.”
A smile quirked on the man’s lips. “I think we shall get along well, Thorarin.” He clapped him on the back and the
járl’s
son sent a narrowed look his way.
Thorarin held his gaze. If there was already tension between Ragni and his son Fleinn it would work well to his advantage. The man was some four summers younger than he if he recalled correctly and was small for a Norseman. Rumbles of tension between father and son had already reached his ears but it wasn’t until now that Thorarin realised he could use it to his advantage.
He would start with the son. Soon enough, his revenge would be complete.