by T S Florence
“Where is Torsten?” Brenna shrieked, as she looked for the red-haired viking.
“Stop watching, it will do us no good,” Rose said, taking Brenna’s hand.
“He’s taken everything from me. Grim killed my family, and now he’s going to kill Torsten,” She cried.
Men ran past their fortified building and into the fighting soldiers. English men. English men with two terrifyingly huge vikings leading them. Ragnar and Ivar. But how?
Ragnar
It was over almost as soon as they had arrived. Most of Grim’s men surrendered the moment they saw the approaching soldiers. But this time, they were not spared. Ragnar and Ivar had every one of Grim’s men put to the sword, and Ragnar took Grim’s life himself.
Jack was covered in blood, as well as his father, Elder Ragnar, when he had arrived.
“Where’s Rose?” Ragnar growled.
“In the fortified building, with the rest of the women and children,” Elder Ragnar nodded.
Rose
Rose watched, hardly believing the scene. The fighting was over almost immediately. Torsten was standing and talking to his two commanding Vikings, Ivar and Ragnar. She watched Ragnar grab one of the local seers by the scruff of his neck and drag him towards their shelter.
“Open the door,” Ragnar bellowed.
An old man pulled the heavy oak plan that barred the door shut, and let the door swing open.
“Rose,” Ragnar called.
“Ragnar?” She asked, more than said, still in a state of shock.
“You will marry me now,” Ragnar dragged let go of the man and stormed towards Rose.
“Over my dead body, I will have a say in this,” Rose said, indignation replacing her confusion and shock.
“Not today,” Ragnar took her wrist, “I’ve let you make enough decisions, and they end with me saving your life,” Ragnar growled.
“I will not be yours, just like that,” Rose clipped, as she stumbled along besides him, his hands till firmly around her wrist.
“Every man, woman, and child into the great hall, now,” Ragnar bellowed.
“Ragnar,” Rose said, seeing that he was not going to be convinced.
“You can be my wife or my slave,” Ragnar growled.
“Will there be any difference?” Rose clipped.
“You will boss me around regardless of your title,” Ragnar responded, which earned a laugh from the men.
The hall filled quickly, with people of all different races, gender, and age lining out the doors, eager to watch what was to happen. Elder Ragnar was at the bottom of the stairs.
“Wait,” Isla called, surprising Rose.
“Isla?” Rose gasped, “What on earth is going on?” She said.
“Only Ragnar can answer that. I have a priest here. He can marry you. I won’t have some scary looking viking priest marry you,” Isla said.
“A seer,” Ivar corrected her, mildly.
“A seer,” Isla repeated, correcting herself.
A priest, with all his priestly robes and gold and chains was pushed towards the stand.
“This is hardly how the Lord-” the priest began.
“I am speaking on the Lord’s behalf right now, marry them,” Isla ordered, her tone surprising Rose.
“I don’t know-” Ragnar said.
“It’s the priest or I’ll be your slave. And don’t expect me to be a happy one,” Rose clipped.
And so the priest married Ragnar and Rose. And again, Ragnar had claimed Rose as his own, with everyone to witness, for the last time.
One year later
Rose rolled off Ragnar, panting, covered in sweat. “I didn’t think it would keep getting better,” She said, between deep breaths.
“We should have been doing this instead of arguing so much,” Ragnar laughed.
A small child started to cry outside their door.
“Ash is hungry,” Ragnar said.
“I’ll go feed him,” Rose said happily, getting to her feet.
Ragnar followed her out, and took a seat at the high table. The noise of people in the nearby markets was impossibly loud. Fyrkat’s harbour had grown immeasurably since Ragnar had re-claimed the township. With Isla’s guidance from her own experience, Fyrkat had grown into more than just an oceanside fishing village, and into a large town. At the rate it was growing, it would soon be a city. The port was now a centre of trading, with numerous boats using it year round.
“The boats are almost finished,” Ivar said, without happiness.
He and Isla had enjoyed their time in Fyrkat, despite not having an option to leave. Rose was surprised to learn that they had survived a shipwreck, and had marched for two days to reach Fyrkat, all on a hunch that Ragnar had.
“Will you come visit? You won’t have to ever leave the castle, you will be safe” Isla asked, approaching Rose.
“I will come as soon as the next winter is over,” Rose smiled.
“Your men have finished loading their supplies,” Torsten walked into the great hall, with a baby in his arms. Brenna was by his side, her belly already swelling with another child.
Times were good.
The End
Slavers Bay
Baron
Rusted shackles rubbed the already raw skin of my ankles as I shuffled from the boat. My feet, soggy from the inch-deep pool of water that they had been sitting in for the last day felt strange on dry land. Sensitive. I had been fed well on the voyage, but only because I was one of the biggest men on board. Tied to an oar and forced to row for every waking minute of the journey, only to be taken to the end of the world. Slavers Bay, otherwise known as Berkeley. You can’t get much further south in this god forsaken land they call England. I only knew this, because I had overheard our captors on the boat. The muscles in my back ached with exhaustion as I stood on the wharf and watched my countrymen struggle to climb from the boat. They looked more exhausted than I felt.
A tall, lean and well-dressed man with unruly red hair approached. He, unlike the men disembarking from the boat, had not recently been in a savage battle that left wives without their husbands, children without fathers, and fathers without their sons. Sloan Mayflower, inheritor of the Mayflower empire. Though I had never seen him, his reputation preceded him and his distinctive eyes made him recognizable; one blue, one green. Word travels fast when you are well connected, and word made it to Scotland that Sloan poisoned his own father. The man was senile in his old age, and under his weakening hand, the Mayflower empire was weakening as well. Sloan did what he had to do in order to preserve his position in this cold and unforgiving world. That didn’t mean I agreed with his actions.
Men knew of how they made their money. A great mine that went hundreds of yards into the earth, pulling crude iron, with which was then turned into weapons. Profiteers of war. Profiteers of violence, yet the men who profited from war took no part in the violence themselves.
I listened to Sloan as he spoke with the captain from the boat.
“By god, some of these Scots look like they’d give the Welsh a fair go of it if they were given a sword to fight with, the damned savages” Sloan gestured towards me, specifically. “Where did you find this one,” He asked.
“I found him crying by his dead King, Lord,” the cruel captain said. The memory came crashing back into my consciousness, hitting me like a mace to the head. Iain O’Sullivan, my closest friend, to whom I had made a solemn oath that I would protect him with my very own life. His body, battered and lifeless lay in the blood-soaked field. One of Scotland’s most important men, dead. Dead, because I failed to protect him. The dislike I felt for the captain was not easily expressed in words. To put it plainly, I anticipated a brief pleasure when the opportunity to put his head on a spike presented itself. And then, I would eliminate his existence from my own mind.
“So it’s true, the King of Scots is dead?” Sloan asked.
“It’s true, I saw his body myself,” the captain responded.
“Was he a
s fearsome as they say?” Sloan asked.
“Smaller than I thought, not like this one,” the captain slapped the back of my head. The captain pulled out a dark red coat with gold embroidery. “I have his coat,” the captain boasted. The god damned coat. I had told Iain not to wear it, that it would draw unnecessary attention in battle, but he had not listened.
“Give it here,” Sloan held out his hand, “I have no doubt King Edward would greatly enjoy this token of our victory,” Sloan spoke as if he had some part in the killing of my childhood friend. Good luck keeping that coat, I’ll have it back within a week.
“So, the O’Sullivan leader, the King of Scots, is dead,” Sloan said, with a smug satisfaction that made the veins in my neck pulse, something that only happened before I took a man’s life. “The rest of the Scots should fall into line easily. We will have a steady stream of men to work the mine now, and we need them, for God’s sake, with how quickly the Welsh are killing them,” Sloan laughed.
“Aye, the Scots wailed like banshees when they saw the dead corpse. It was our luck that we were already on our way with this lot. The Scots are like a ship without a sail now that they don’t have their precious O’Sullivan, King of Scots,” the captain said.
“When shall we transport them to the Forest of Dean?” The captain asked.
“The King will be here on the morrow; we will leave at first light. I will be taking the King to see the mine; he has a great interest as to the stability of the Mayflower’s source of income before he will consider marrying my dear sister, Lillian,” Sloan gestured to a face that was still sitting inside a sturdy looking carriage.
She looked like him, but not quite. Where his features were rough, his sister’s were soft. Where he scowled, she had a mild look of pleasantness. Her features were those of a typical English lass, one who has never seen a day of hardship in her life. Living in a tall castle with a private room and a well-stocked fireplace for every cold, winter day. I could only imagine that her hands were delicate and soft, just like her temperament. She was everything I despised about the English. And here she was, being used as a bargaining chip so Sloan could secure his ties into English royalty.
Ah, the English, ever aspiring for more.
I caught Hector’s eye. Hector was one of the best warriors to come out of Strathclyde, yet he had laid down his weapon and accepted defeat at the hands of the English. I did not know if I could forgive him for that.
I nodded towards the gold-embroidered, dark red coat. Hector’s jaw twitched. Then I looked towards the Mayflower bargaining chip. Hector looked, but only so briefly that anybody else who was looking would not have noticed. I looked back to Hector, and his eyes were firmly on his bloody, shackled ankles.
Lillian Mayflower
“I heard he’s the most handsome man in court, but you don’t need me to remind you; you’ve seen his portrait,” Marjorie gushed over King Edward. He had arrived late in the night, but I was not permitted to meet my possible-husband-to-be.
“Oh Marjorie, there’s more to a man than his looks,” I said, despite myself. Marjorie, like many girls, fantasised over the excitement that the daily life of a royal would bring. I was not so sure. My happiest days were spent at our estate in the countryside, helping the servants chasing the chickens and milking the cows, and helping our horses give birth. It was real, it was messy. Not like the pristine life that royals tried to live, hiding away from the sunlight in their dark castles and under their robes that were so expensive they could be sold to feed a large village.
“He may not be impressed with our mining site” I put my fingertips to the back of my wrist, feeling my heartbeat race.
“Your family is already one of the wealthiest in England without the dirty mine, and anyway, its’s 1514, I don’t think it’s the mine that he will be concerned with. I am afeared that the King will want to take you into his personal carriage right on the spot,” Marjorie giggled.
“Marjorie,” I gasped.
“He’s well-bred. His family have done well to keep their bloodline strong by marrying cousins” Marjorie continued.
“That’s enough,” I felt my cheeks flush. It was true, that if Edward married me, I would be the first in many years that a member of the royal family had married a non-royal.
A knock at the door caused both our heads to turn.
“Your carriage awaits, my lady,” our usual guard was replaced by a royal guard. I was not surprised; for we were heading to the Forest of Dean, where the mine was located. The Forest was land that bordered on Wales, and thus proved to be a point of constant fighting. Over what? I could not understand the minds of the men who fought over such things.
I kept a look out for King Edward as we made our way to the courtyard, but he was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Sloan. I knew he would be using his velvet words to seduce Edward, an attempt to buy into the most powerful royal bloodline England had ever seen.
I stepped into my carriage, and sunk back into the soft seat, nodding to a young servant to commence fanning. It was warmer than usual, yet looking courtly required sacrifice. We passed a cart of captors. They were kept inside a cage with thick iron bars. Mayflower Iron, I thought, which was ironic.
The men looked tired, all except for one, who’s expression was one of defiance. His cheekbones were red from the sun, and on his forehead were two fresh cuts. From the battle, no doubt. A smaller cut on his top lip looked deeper, like it would leave a scar. the rest of his body was a golden brown. His dark hair made his blue eyes all the more piercing. He stood motionless at the edge, close to the iron bars; his frame too large to be in such a cage. My heart raced at the thought of facing such a beast in battle. His long, scraggly hair, his dirty hands and blackened fingernails from years of toil in untamed lands.
I looked away, and looked back, instantly cursing myself when he caught my eye. His gaze had not moved. I could not help but notice his chiseled features. He looked too rugged to fit into royal society, yet he was more handsome than the soft-skinned gentlemen who controlled our country with deals made behind closed doors. Too fearsome, too real, too damaged.
He stood, staring into my soul as if he were god himself, searching for any sins I have committed. His hands bunched into fists at his sides, and his face darkened as his brows scrunched together. I had not committed any sins, I tried to reassure myself, yet I could feel the anger and hatred exploding outwards from him, his expression more threatening than the devil himself. My hands became clammy, and I looked away again to distract myself with meaningless conversation with Marjorie, yet my mind kept drifting back to one thing, as we travelled to the Forest of Dean. The prisoner. My family’s slave.
I can feel your hatred, what did I do to you?
This man was not meant to be in a cage, and my intuition told me that this man was going to take great measures to show me exactly how he felt about it. Little did I know just how great those measures would be.
Also by TS Florence
In the next book, you will go on a journey with Baron and Lillian. This will be written in first person and may just be my steamiest book yet. Baron is a Scottish Highlander captured by the English at the end of a bloody battle and sent to work in a mining site in the early 1400s, medieval England. Lillian Mayflower is a woman accustomed to the pampered life equal to that of royalty. How will they meet, and how will it end? If this sounds like a book you’d like to read, sign up to my mailing list to be notified when I release that book here.
If you would like to join my ARC team, and read copies of my books in advance of release in exchange for a review on Amazon, send me an email at [email protected].
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