Wild Viking Princess

What Readers Are Saying

"5 stars and two thumbs up to "Wild Viking Princess", the third book in The FitzRam Family series. Rich well developed characters including Ragna FitzRam, daughter of Caedmon. Anna writes an incredible story weaving plotlines and settings so real you feel as though you could be there. I just loved this book, I think you will too." Lois Lavrisa, bestselling author, LIQUID LIES.

“The story line was great. I loved how the author brought the two different customs together and that they could adapt to each other’s ways. Also she kept the passion going between them. I love that about Markland’s books.” Nancy
Burt

“A good interesting read...kept me reading and moved along quickly through the story.”

Karen Heinrichs

A note to my readers—

Wild Viking Princess
is the third book in the series entitled
The
FitzRam Family.
These stories grew out of
The Montbryce Legacy Series
. If you have read the Legacy books you will be familiar with many of the characters in this book. If not, you will enjoy meeting them for the first time. This is the story of Ragna FitzRam, daughter of Caedmon and Agneta (
A Man of Value
), sister to Blythe (
Carried Away
), and Aidan (
Sweet Taste of Love
). There’s a helpful Family Tree at the end, but don’t sneak a peek yet!

Also at the end is a glossary of names and places, followed by a lexicon of foreign words and phrases used in my books.

I hope you come to love my characters as much as I do!

Cover Art by Steven Novak

Start Reading

Dedication

Other Books by Anna

Contact Information

Glossary

Lexicon

Family Tree

Copyright Information

“Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed.

Maybe they just need to run free

till they find someone just as wild to run with them.”

~Sex and the City

Dedicated to Vikings and their descendants

Strand Island, Denmark,

February, 1124 AD

Reider Torfinnsen swayed on unsteady legs, gaping in disbelief. He clutched a half-empty tankard, his innards twisted in knots. His father lay dead at his feet, Gorm’s dagger in his back. Torfinn was dead before his body slumped to the wooden floor, but he had not uttered a sound. The simple gold circlet, symbol of his kingship, had slipped from his head to clatter against the boards.

Reider had imbibed too much ale, but this was supposed to be his betrothal feast—a man about to wed was expected to get drunk. Belatedly, he thought to save Margit from whatever further treachery his step-brother planned. He dropped the tankard, spilling its contents, and reached for his dagger. It was wrenched away and strong arms forced him to grovel before his father’s body. A knee pressed heavily into his back.

A voice dripping sarcasm penetrated his pounding head. “Now a real man will rule here, and I will be his consort.”

Reider looked up, narrowing his bleary eyes. Margit? He blinked, not believing the sight before him. Why was his betrothed’s arm draped over Gorm’s shoulder, her breasts rubbing against him? Gorm sneered triumphantly, tightening his grip around Margit’s waist. They shared a brazen kiss, then the usurper bent to retrieve his dagger. He turned Torfinn’s body over with his booted foot, picked up the crown and grimaced when it proved to be too big.

Reider
dared not look at his father’s beloved face, now contorted in a grimace of shock. He swallowed the bitter truth that the assassins had planned carefully. He wasn’t the only one well into his cups. His father’s entire royal guard lay dead around him. The stench of blood filled Reider’s nostrils. Armed thugs—he recognized them as his step-brother’s cronies—had herded the loyal subjects of Strand against the wall of the Great Hall. Few had brought weapons to the festivities and those who were armed had been quickly disarmed. Women sobbed quietly in the protecting embrace of their husbands, men whose scowling faces betrayed their outrage and powerlessness.

Sobering quickly, Reider struggled to be free of Gorm’s henchmen. Words stuck in his throat, so great was his heartbroken rage. “He was your father, Gorm. He loved you.”

Gorm smirked, the crown of Strand perched askew atop his head, and spat out a chewed fingernail. “He was my step father. You are the son he loved. Now I will have what was to be yours. Get him out of my Hall.”

They dragged Reider out into the frigid night and along the beach. The crunch of boots on pebbles sounded his death knell. He felt the cold bite of a dagger at his throat and swallowed hard, waiting for the end. He would not cry out. For his father’s sake he would die well.

Suddenly there was a scuffle. He vaguely heard voices barking urgent commands. His captors slumped to the ground beside him with a grunt. Strong arms hooked his armpits, and he was half carried, half dragged, unable to make his legs work. The wet warmth trickling down his thighs was strangely comforting. He must still be alive if he had pissed himself. Hurled into a longboat, he hit his head on the decking and succumbed to oblivion.

~~~

He came to his senses at dawn, braced against the crosswale. A blanket covered him, but the wool smelled damp and the wind bit into his flesh like a whetted knife. He peered over the side. There was no sign of land.

His friend and comrade, Kjartan Eldarsen, stood at the tiller, his tight jaw and tense stance confirming that the grizzly events of the night before had been real. Reider put his hand to his neck. It had been bound with linen, but his body stank of urine and the sweat of fear. A thirst for revenge welled up in his throat. He quickly closed his eyes and leaned over the side to retch, pressing a hand to the binding.

Kjartan beckoned another shipmate to take the tiller, then strode over to Reider, bracing his legs to the movement of the boat. He put his hand on Reider’s back. “Retching won’t help your wound. Not like a master mariner to be seasick.”

Reider wiped his mouth and looked up at his friend. Kjartan’s gray eyes held a glimmer of amusement and Reider smiled ruefully. He opened his mouth to agree, but no sound came out. Kjartan frowned as Reider struggled to speak, his heart racing. His friend again put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. They intended to cut your throat. Rest your voice. It will return.”

Reider came to his feet on shaky legs, hugging the blanket around his shoulders against the biting wind. He touched his pounding head and winced when he discovered a goose egg over his eyebrow. As if the hangover wasn’t enough! Grief and anger clouded his thoughts and made him dizzy. He clutched the side of the boat. Though he stood beside Kjartan, if he’d had a voice, he would have been obliged to shout over the wind and the snap of the full sail. His thoughts were in turmoil.

Gorm’s treachery against a man who loved him like his own son cut deep, but Margit’s actions were unfathomable. If she had married him, the rightful heir, she would have ruled anyway, in time. He had been content for his father’s sake to agree to the arranged marriage with the chieftain’s daughter from Heide. She had hidden her cunning nature well.

Kjartan shrugged one shoulder, his face sour. He divined his friend’s thoughts. “I’ve often said women are not to be trusted.”

Reider shook his head, embarrassed to admit to his confirmed bachelor friend that he had fancied Margit in love with him. All the while she had thirsted for Gorm!

He would swear off women and ply the trade routes with Kjartan. Never marrying would mean no heirs, but what did it matter now Gorm had stolen the peaceful island principality off the Danish coast?

Nej!
He could not turn his back. He must avenge his father’s death and regain his birthright.

Kjartan’s voice broke into his thoughts. “We head for Husembro. We can hide in the cove. It will give us time to plan.”

Reider felt guilty he had lain in a stupor while his friend and ally effected their escape. He mouthed a question. “Pursuit?”

Kjartan shook his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I made sure they couldn’t follow.”

Reider put his hand on his comrade’s shoulder, and drew him into his embrace. He wanted Kjartan to know how grateful he was.

His friend only nodded, but a loud cheer erupted from the crew. Reider turned to look at the men who had helped save his life. He thrust his fist into the air, struggling to yell a battle cry. Blood rushed to his head. His feet felt like lead weights. His belly churned. He prayed he would not retch again.

The men exchanged confused glances, then Kjartan led the rallying call. “For Strand,” he bellowed, raising his fist.

“For Strand,” the men echoed.

“For Torfinn!”

“For Torfinn!”

“For Prince Reider!”

“For our prince!”