Viking For Hire (Vikings Saga Volume 1)

by Grafford, Jo

  “Your b-brother?” the bishop stuttered. “Nay, ’tis not possible. William the Conquerer has only two brothers. Odo, the Bishop of Bayeux, and Count Robert of Mortain. To make such a claim borders on treason. You, sirrah, are an imposter, and I will personally see to it that—”

  “Throw them in.” Eirik’s voice was icy with finality as he addressed his men. “I’ve a sudden hankering to watch the bishop cool his righteous arse in the sea.”

  Without hesitation, the sailors hauled their two captives at a dead run to the end of the pier and launched them howling with rage into the deep.

  “All aboard!” Eirik bellowed. There was a raw edge of excitement to his voice. “Each man to the ready. Bo’sun?”

  “Aye, sir.” A hulking man in a leather helmet straightened to his full height and offered a two-fingered salute to his master. His dark eyes drifted over Branwyn in consternation.

  “Set sail this brig whilst I interrogate the witch.”

  Witch? The hope Branwyn had tasted after Eirik so casually brushed aside her brother’s warnings turned bitter in her mouth.

  “Aye, sir. Your cabin is ready, sir.”

  Eirik whirled viciously. “If you address me as sir one more time, Sven, I shall be tempted to break that pretty nose of yours.”

  Sven grinned in response and offered another salute. With one last worried glance at Branwyn, he took charge. The ship shoved away from the pier, and the rowers picked up speed.

  Branwyn searched the lengthy deck in the moonlight but could see no cabin, only a single makeshift tent tied between the mast and the side of the ship.

  Eirik hauled her to the tiny tent, pulled aside the opening flap, and yanked her inside. A single lantern lit the snug interior as he secured the canvas. Thick furs lined the floor. With the singsong chanting of the men’s voices rising around them, ‘twas a truly private meeting. For the first time since leaving the tavern, Eirik let go of her. Branwyn quickly scooted away from him and wrapped her arms around her middle to tamp down on the ever-surging desire for physical contact with him.

  He tossed her sack of herbs down between them. “There. As promised, I have provided you safe passage from Exeter. Now I have need of some assistance in return — assistance of a magical sort. Do you know a spell to break a spell?”

  She recoiled at the question, knowing what he asked but having no intention of incriminating herself by openly practicing her magic. “I know not of what you speak,” she protested with vehemence.

  “Your brother called you a witch, and I witnessed you mixing a potion that rendered his knights useless in their pursuit of you. Then, I found this in your sack.” He drew out her wand, a stick of red elder wood. It bore a curved handle carved with symbols of peace and power.

  “Byron is a superstitious oaf,” she cried, “I am not a witch but a healer. Any number of my patients will vouch for me...not that they are near enough to question at the moment.” At the cold blue anger pooling in Eirik’s eyes, she stammered. “About th-the potion you saw me drink, I-I mix tonics all the time to ward off sickness. That piece of wood is my, er, stirring rod.”

  “Call yourself whatever you will, Branwyn. Your powers do not scare me. In truth, I sought you out a-purpose in the hopes you would heal me from the effects of a spell. ‘Twas cast on me by a most wretched sorceress.”

  Fearing another trap, Branwyn stared at the ground. “Methinks you mistake me for another. I am naught but a lowly healer, cast off by an overzealous brother in a fit of religious fervor. Wh-why do you ask me such things, m’lord?”

  “Very well,” Eirik snapped and dropped her wand back into the sack. “If you wish to indulge in games, at least choose one that gives me equal pleasure. By Thor, I’ve been long without a woman.” He closed the distance between them and hauled her into his lap.

  THE JOURNEY

  BRANWYN keened at the electricity of his touch. The pads of Eirik’s fingers caressed her nape and traced their way down her spine. With his other hand, he pulled off his leather helmet. She gasped at the sight of his entire face. ‘Twas perfectly formed. Why, the man was as handsome as a Greek god! And his hair was not so dark as she originally thought it to be. ‘Twas a sun-burnished brown with streaks of blonde that swept from his brow and tumbled past the neckline of his tunic. His sideburns were well groomed and ran along a squared jaw line. His mouth was framed with a well-clipped beard that tapered to a point blow his chin. Best of all, sheer male interest filled his gaze which was entirely focused on her. She’d never before felt so female, so utterly desirable, so wanton.

  With a cry of wonder, Branwyn cupped his face. She was a maid whom most men feared for practicing her art. Thus, she was unaccustomed to being the recipient of such unadulterated admiration and was fast falling drunk with the pleasure of it. Her fingers traveled over perfect cheekbones and plunged into Eirik’s hair. Fisting the silken threads, she tugged on his head and sighed as he bent and settled his lips on hers, hot and ready. She whimpered at the fury of the storm he released in her with his questing mouth.

  When her lips parted, Eirik arched her over his arm and thrust his tongue against hers in a wild mating. Branwyn had never experienced anything like it. She wanted to laugh and cry and scream all at the same time. Her skin heated to an almost unbearable level everywhere he touched. Her emotions leaped and swirled in a tangled array, clouding her ability to think. She could only feel, and even that was not enough. She wanted, nay needed, more of him.

  Tugging the laces of his tunic open at his throat, she dipped a hand inside to trace the hard planes of his chest and cried out in alarm when Eirik abruptly shoved her away. His breath sounded as a ragged as hers. “Such is my curse, Branwyn O’Tyre. Every woman I touch is forced to lavish her affections upon me. What I would not give for one genuine response from thee.”

  She blinked in shock, only to discover the dampness of tears on her face. She dashed the back of a hand down one cheek. “What sort of game is this?” she whispered. “I do not feel like myself. ’Tis as...as if...” Her eyes widened in horror. “I am bewitched.”

  “Exactly,” he snarled. “This is the curse I am trying to explain. A year ago on my twenty-third birthday, I rebuffed the advances of a beautiful young woman whom I did not love. Alas, she turned out to be a sorceress. She repaid me by casting a spell that forces every female I touch to fall into a frenzy of lust.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “Thus she robbed me of one of mankind’s greatest gifts — the ability to seek and find true love.”

  “Does the curse wear off?” Branwyn asked, rubbing her arms to combat the sudden chill in the tent.

  “Nay. It only grows stronger. An afflicted barmaid recently followed my ship on foot into the sea and drowned in her efforts to reach me.”

  “How awful!”

  “Sven accompanied me to dinner at the inn where she worked. I did not so much as speak to the lass, but she made the unfortunate mistake of patting my shoulder when she delivered my ale.”

  Branwyn’s thoughts raced. “When you grabbed my hand at the tavern,” she accused. “You knew what would happen when you touched me. Why ever did you—”

  “Because you were in danger,” he retorted. “I could not just stand there and watch the bishop and his guard haul you away in chains.”

  “Nay, not when you had such desperate need of my services yourself,” she answered sharply. “Better to enslave me to your bloody worship than allow me to return to my peaceful existence.” Branwyn bit her lip to keep from wailing in despair. She had experienced sheer ecstasy in Eirik’s arms, more powerful than any magic she’d ever known. For a few brief moments, she had felt the emotion that bards and minstrels sing of. To hear him now call what they had shared a curse was almost more than she could bear.

  “Peaceful?” Eirik’s lip curled. “You call your life peaceful? By Thor, wench, I did my research before I hunted you down. According to my sources, you were living in the streets and running from men with pitchforks on a regular basis. Nay, I’l
l not be apologizing for rescuing you from such a life. Not now. Not ever.”

  When he leaned towards her to emphasize his point, Branwyn shrank away. “Stay back,” she warned. “If you want my help, you must promise never to touch me again. I cannot form a single, blessed thought when you do.”

  His eyes glinted with humor and something more. “Never is a long time, Branwyn. Did you find my kisses so abhorrent then?” The man actually sounded wounded.

  Her eyes flew to his, thinking he mocked her, but his expression was difficult to read. “You know I did not,” she said dryly. “Such is your curse and mine for the moment. And I’ll be having that promise before I assist you. ’Tis my only assurance that you and your men will allow me to go my own way unharmed when this ship lands.”

  “Unharmed? Blast you, Branwyn. I may steal a few kisses now and then, but I am no animal,” he snarled. “I would rather fall on my sword right now than to stand by and watch my curse claim the lives of any more innocent women.” For emphasis, he drew his hunting knife from its scabbard at his waist.

  “Very well. I believe you.” She shuddered at the cold intent in his gaze. “Put away your blade, Viking. You should know better than to tempt the Fates so foolishly.”

  Eirik tapped the flat of the blade against his palm. “Perhaps if some misfortune befell me, ‘twould free you all the sooner from my curse.”

  “Is that so?” Branwyn’s hands tightened into fists. She pressed them to the flare of her hips. “I hate to disappoint you, but the first oath my mother made me take before teaching me the ways of a healer is ‘Do no harm.’ I am in the business of repairing people — not disassembling them — so please put away your weapons. They are making me twitchy.”

  “I like your methods of fixing the bishop’s knights. Blasted cone heads.” Eirik’s answering grin shot straight to her soul. He sheathed his knife and took a knee before her. “As Jarl of New Dorset, I’ve another transaction to propose between us now that you freely admit what you, er...are. In exchange for reversing my curse, I will pay you enough coin to transform you into an independent woman. No more living in Cheapside.”

  She made a scoffing sound. “As we both will benefit from the reversal of your curse, I see no need to charge you.”

  Blue eyes raked her person. “No wonder you look so close to starving, wench,” he muttered. “Ye’ve no head for business whatsoever.”

  “I’ve a good head for my craft, and that is all that matters,” she said tartly. “’Tis your lucky day, Jarl. All I’ll be needing from you is an iron cauldron filled with water, a few sticks of oak, a bowl full of salt, and a bit of mistletoe.”

  “Mistletoe?” He frowned. “You cannot be serious. We’ve plenty of herbs and spices aboard ship, but mistletoe is not even edible. Will nothing else do?”

  “Nay. The spell to reverse your curse clearly calls for mistletoe.”

  “Pity for you, lass, as we are a week or more from our next port call. I’ll speak to Sven about procuring it. In the meantime, you must resign yourself to a few more days of camping out with my men.” Shaking his head, he exited the tent.

  Branwyn stared after him, a bemused smile curving her lips. What a strange man! For the first time in a very long time, however, she felt safe. Utterly and completely safe. That knowledge combined with the gentle rocking of the ship and the chanting of the seamen penetrated her tired limbs with a magic of their own. ’Twas the dead of night, and she was exhausted. One more glance at the thick furs beneath her, and she was powerless to resist. On a sigh, she sank into their warmth and curled into a ball.

  * * * *

  Branwyn awakened to a blast of sunlight. She stretched within the layers of fur blankets and stared up at the ceiling, puzzled by the narrow confines of her sleeping chamber. At sight of the rippling canvas overhead, she groaned aloud and remembered Eirik the Viking and his bloody curse. Where in the blazes was the dratted man? Surely he’d procured most of the supplies she’d requested by now. She would seek him out and demand an update on his progress.

  She sat up and attempted to smooth the wrinkles from her green linen dress and white pinafore. Her hair was so snarled within the beaded snood, it took several not-so-gentle yanks to pull it free. That was when she noticed the ivory comb glittering with emeralds lying near the door of the tent. Next to it — glory of glories — rested a porcelain chamber pot. ’Twas painted in a complex swirl of gold and black dragons in flight against the backdrop of a rain swollen sky. Branwyn knew without asking these items were precious in value. She’d venture to guess they’d been procured somewhere in the Orient.

  With no further ado, she made use of the chamber pot and straightened her hair. Neatly folding the furs, she laid the comb atop them and pulled aside the tent flap. Over a dozen pairs of eyes swiveled to greet her as she stepped onto the belly of the ship. Men ate and groomed, repaired fishing nets, and adjusted the sail. Several paused in their tasks to assess her.

  No stranger to strangers, Branwyn raised her hand and smiled. She knew a bit of their Norse tongue. “Godan morgin,” she announced briskly and scanned their ranks for their leader. Unless a man was crouched behind the many crates and barrels strapped to the deck, there was little place to hide on this long and slender vessel. When she did not immediately spot Eirik, her shoulders slumped. “Where is he?” she whispered to herself.

  “Morgin,” several of the men rumbled back and dipped their heads.

  “Velkomin,” one teenaged lad called by way of welcome.

  Branwyn rolled her shoulders and forced another smile. “Pakka.” It was their word for thanks. “You are most kind, my good men. May the winds fill your sail today, granting Godspeed to your travels.” Wherever we are heading. She still had no idea of their destination.

  “A good morning to you too, lass.” Sven hurried forward to press a mug of ale into her hands and bade her sit on the deck with him. The long, smooth planks were damp and cool beneath her.

  “Pakka, m’lord,” she murmured and drank her fill.

  A shadow passed across his features at her words. “Nay. I am but a Karl and bear no titles. Just call me Sven.” He reached over to exchange the mug for a bowl of steaming porridge. His eyes were a kind silver-gray set in a wide round face. Long hair — brown with less blonde in it than his jarl’s — swept his shoulders. A full beard did not quite hide the scars marring both cheeks. They were too symmetrical to be anything short of deliberate.

  Branwyn choked on a mouthful of porridge. When Sven pounded between her shoulder blades, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the scene taking shape in her mind. Someone in a black hood had tortured this man with a branding iron and marked him for life. Gray walls of weathered stone rose around him and muffled his groans of agony. Some sort of fortress? She cleared her throat and shifted further away from Sven to sever the connection. “Pakka,” she murmured and took another bite, but the disturbing images had stolen her appetite.

  If Sven was a karl, that meant he was a free peasant. It also explained his friendly subservience to Eirik, his Jarl. The jarls comprised a class of people equivalent to nobility within the Viking social structure, whereas their lowest class of people were referred to as thralls, or slaves. Branwyn wondered uneasily where she fit into their system as both a fugitive and accused witch.

  “Your eyes are bursting with questions,” Sven noted.

  “Indeed,” she sighed. Where to even begin? “Where do we travel?”

  “We make stops in Scotland, Iceland, and Greenland. Then we head to New Dorset.”

  “I’ve heard Eirik speak of it. Where exactly is this New Dorset?”

  “Just outside the gates of Valhalla,” he replied with a flirtatious wink.

  Her eyes widened. Valhalla was a mystical place to the Vikings, a heaven of sorts to the fierce warriors who died in battle. Sven could not be serious. It must mean he did not wish to divulge their final destination. Worry tugged at her gut.

  * * * *

  Over the next week,
Branwyn was careful to keep a safe distance from Eirik, though she could easily sense his location wherever he stood on the longship. The closer he was in proximity to her, the stronger his magnetic pull on her emotions. It did not help that he constantly worshipped her with his eyes and lavished gifts upon her. Brooches and chains, rings and bracelets. To what purpose? She would never have occasion to wear such finery.

  When she protested the stash of growing pirate treasure in her tent, he reminded her of his promise to secure her financial independence in exchange for ridding him of the curse. “Besides,” he assured with a grin, “it gives me untold amounts of pleasure to watch you squirm and blush.” For a woman unaccustomed to courting, ’twas a most discomfiting state of affairs to find herself the object of so much male attention from someone as handsome and teasing as Eirik.

  She knew it was nothing more than sorcery, but she could not suppress a sigh each time her gaze met his. The blue in his eyes seemed to deepen into something more that reached all the way to her soul. If only she could find some fault with him, ‘twould be easier to fight the blasted curse. She scrutinized his every move as he directed his men. They respected him, and followed his orders without question. She studied his sailing, and he seemed at one with the capricious sea. Sighing in defeat, she turned her attentions to his men.

  She fell into the routine of shadowing each of the Vikings at their various tasks in the attempt to distract herself from her constant ogling and pining after Eirik. They allowed her to help sew and mend nets and taught her the ins and outs of sailing — how to handle the wheel and control the rudder, how to help raise and lower and tack the sail. The oars, however, proved too heavy for her to maneuver with much success.

  They were a jolly bunch, quick to swap jests and break into song and even quicker to tip up the bottle to lighten the tedious hours at sea. ’Twas hard to imagine them as the vicious, pillaging mob they were reputed to be — except, perhaps, on occasion when they sharpened their knives and axes. They handled their weapons with the same ease that she breathed air.