We Roam The Seas

by Theresa Marguerite Hewitt

  We Roam The Seas

  Book 1

  The Viking Dreams Series

  By:

  Theresa Marguerite Hewitt

  Copyright ©2013 by Theresa Marguerite Hewitt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

  This book contains mature content and may not be suitable for anyone under the age of 17. Violent situations, harsh language and Viking loving abound.

  All characters are fictional.

  Copyright ©2013 Theresa Marguerite Hewitt

  Edited by Genevieve Scholl of Big Bang Book Services

  Cover design © Arijana Karčić, Cover It! Designs

  To My Readers:

  Thank You!

  I will never be able to say it enough. The support and guidance every single one of you has given me is tremendous. I love it! You all make me a better writer every day.

  To Mike Marlinksi AKA The Shoe God:

  Thank you my friend for supporting me no matter what I am doing. Letting me blab continuously to you has helped me hash out more things than you will ever know. Your comical friendship is cherished. Rock on!

  As always a BIG thank you to:

  Samantha Baker

  Cherie Williams

  Jodi Avecilla

  Valerie Gaston

  And so many others!

  To my STREET TEAM:

  You guys are awesome sauce! Thank you for your undying support. I hope I never let you down.

  A few notes from the Author:

  As you read you’ll notice some words that aren’t in our everyday vocabulary. Keep in mind this is a period romance, set in Viking times.

  Jarl: Viking Chief or King

  Bladder: bladder of a sheep/goat; cured into a leather product and used to carry water or ale

  Fire-born: a red haired individual; it was said that in some tribes children with red hair is seen as good luck and in others it is bad luck

  Also, since this is the first book in the series, I’ve tried to pack a lot in here. Where you see *** it indicates a switch of POV. I wanted to convey as much as I could from both POV’s through this life altering journey.

  Table of Contents

  We Roam The Seas

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  Enjoy the Vikings

  CHAPTER ONE:

  CHAPTER TWO:

  CHAPTER THREE:

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  CHAPTER FIVE:

  CHAPTER SIX:

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  CHAPTER NINE:

  CHAPTER TEN:

  CHAPTER ELEVEN:

  EPILOGUE:

  Connect with Theresa Marguerite Hewitt

  About the Author

  Other titles By This Author:

  Enjoy the Vikings

  CHAPTER ONE:

  The warm late summer breeze meets her face as Freya stands on the edge of the cliff; her eyes closed, enjoying the feeling. Her home of the Shetland Islands main isle was beautiful in summer and she loved to spend her days like this; walking with her best, and most trusted, friend Eska.

  “Your father will kill me if he knows I let you that close to the edge, Lass.” There is an edge of fear in the young man’s voice and Freya turns her green eyes on her friend, seeing his slightly taller frame standing with his arms crossed over his bare muscular chest. She just gives him a smile and shakes her head, turning her face back out to the sea and watching the waves crash into the grey stone of the cliffs.

  Her father was always over protective of her, but even more so since she was twelve and her mother died of the fever. That was twelve summers ago, and Freya was still working on getting her freedom from her Chief father, Ivan the Good, and her five older brothers. The thought of her mother and brothers makes her frown and her outstretched arms fall to her sides, swishing in her already dirty, simple brown dress with her favorite green apron holding in the young apples she had gathered.

  Two of her brothers, Folkvar and Hoakon, helped her father rule the main isle with little villages of their own posted on the northern and southern points while the other three brothers, Lund, Rune, and Arik, held posts on two of the outlying islands; a first line in defense if they should be attacked. Their islands have been peaceful since before Freya was born, and since her mother’s death, her father has let priests from the east introduce Christianity to his people; mingling the teaching with those of their traditional Gods.

  She takes a long look out over the waves, taking in the salty smell and the everlasting call of the seagulls, smiling to herself as she turns to her friend. “My father will be fine because what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right Eska?” She smiles, lightly slapping him on the shoulder as his brown eyes track her movement past him.

  ***

  Being a son of former slaves in England, Eska was only a toddler when Ivan had taken his parents from their home and brought them back here on the last of his raiding trips. He carries the slight Scottish accent that his parents passed down to him, along with the blonde hair from his mother. As he smiles and shakes his head, following his friend as she walks down the path away from the cliff, he takes in her scent as the wind blows it slowly to him.

  Being of lower birth, Eska should not love her, but he does. He has loved her since the day he first saw her cuddled in a bear skin playing with a doll in the great hall, at her father’s feet. They have been inseparable since. His parents have told him numerous times to move on and marry a girl of his own status; a nice farmer girl- one from the village. But, he doesn’t want any of the plump, already deflowered girls. He wants the petite, yet curvy, strong willed, red haired daughter of the Chief and has asked Ivan for her hand in marriage twice over, being turned down apologetically each time.

  “I’m sorry, Son, but she is not ready to be married. Her soul still sails in the wind and roams the waves,” Ivan had told him both times, his massive worn hand on Eska’s shoulder, squeezing it lovingly like a father. He has treated Eska’s family well, giving them a home and throwing work at his father when they needed the help. Ivan is a good leader, but Eska wishes that he would see that he too, could be a great man and husband to his daughter.

  “Eska!” The urgent sound of his name brings him from his musing and mindless following of the one who holds his heart, and he casts his brown eyes up, his chin length blonde hair sweeping across his face as he finds Freya standing on her tip toes, looking over the edge of a stone wall.

  “What is it, Lass?” He asks, coming to stand at her side and seeing her eyes cast out over the waves once more. Yellow and blue striped sails catch his eye and he sees the longboats docked on their beach with men mingling around them. His eyes narrow and his ears strain, trying to hear what they are laughing at, but the wind carries it away.

  ***

  “My father didn’t say anything about expecting a landing today?” Freya questions as a slight fear settles in her heart. The men on the beach have swords at their waists and battle axes strapped on their backs. Their shields line the sides of their boats, four boats in total, and as they unload supplies onto the stony beach of her home, her heart stutters.

  She turns her green eyes to her friend, her long hair blowing across her face as she sees Eska’s head shake. That was the only sign she needs; pushing herself from the stone wall as the fear and adrenaline mixes in her veins, sending her heart racing. Her legs propel her forward as she picks up her dress, not wanting to trip as she runs down the worn cart path.

  As Eska tries to tell her she doesn’t have to run, Freya breaks up a gaggle of geese crossing the path, sweeping her hand in front of her face to shoo away the loos
e feathers kicked up by the frantic wing flapping of the angry birds. Keeping a firm grip on the front of her dress she gives it all she has and leaps over a low lying stone wall, keeping the stout ponies in, almost tripping.

  Eska grabs her arm. “Lasses shouldn’t be hopping walls,” he says, slightly out of breath, and Freya huffs at him, her chest heaving in and out from the effort of her sprint. He always likes to beat her at races, rubbing it in her face for days, but this is different; Freya is running in fear, not in fun.

  Eska sees the difference in her expression and tightens his grip on her arm, surging forward and pulling her along. She is keeping up just fine, her shorter legs struggling only a few times as he pulls her behind him; taking them right into their little village and heading for the great hall, knowing Ivan would be there at this early in the afternoon.

  Tugging her arm from his grasp, Freya finds a new wind and rushes past the people milling around in the street, tending to their pigs and chickens. The stone and wood structure of the great hall loom before her, the doors propped open as they always are in the summer months and she can see unfamiliar men lingering just outside, their shaggy beards and metal chest plates make tears sting her eyes.

  Not bothering to say anything, she runs right between two of the men as they joke about something and she ignores their angry stares as her feet hit the wooden floor of the hall. Her lungs are screaming, but she shoves the need for air aside and yells, “Father?!”

  With her chest pounding and her eyes blurring from fear, she tries to spot her father among the familiar face of his friends and advisors. Then she spots the unfamiliar, frowning, heavily bearded faces. She releases the hem of her dress that she had grasped so tightly, letting the airy brown material fall and brush against the tops of her bare feet. The sound of arguing comes from behind her and she spins to see Eska with his face only a breath away from one of the men at the door, his hand on his short sword at his side.

  “Eska, stand down boy!” The loud, deep voice booms from the front of the hall and Freya snaps her head back to see her father make his way into view. Ivan is a tall, broad man, looking like a bear to most who don’t know his golden heart. Her heart skips to see that her father is safe and she runs to him, her feet barely making a sound on the wood planks but the eyes of the unfamiliar men stay glued to her, making a chill run over her skin even in the warm day.

  “Father, the ships?” she asks in as hushed a tone as she can manage, still trying to catch her breath. Her father’s golden hazel eyes wash over her face and take in her frantic state and he lets out a huff, placing his hands on her shoulders as he towers over her.

  “I know there are ships, Daughter; calm yourself. We have some very important visitors.” His large hand sweeps toward the men standing off to the side- the ones that have been staring at her since she burst in- and Freya is afraid to meet their gazes.

  Ivan can sense his daughter’s hesitation and he squeezes her shoulder, pulling her slightly into his side. Tossing his graying, blonde braid to rest over his shoulder he lets out a loud, earth shaking laugh. “Please, everyone! Leave this frantic feeling behind and calm yourselves.”

  As he pulls Freya up onto the dais with him, she can’t help but sneak a look at these strangers standing before her father. Her father sits in his large, hand carved chair turning his attention to his brother- Freya’s uncle- Holden, but she doesn’t hear what they are saying as she’s too busy trying to secretly study the men.

  One older man- she guesses around the same age as her father due to the graying hair- is standing at the front of them with his hands clasped in front of him waiting patiently. His beard is dark brown with streaks of gray showing through the braid it forms. The wrinkle lines around his eyes make her think that he must like to laugh, as her father has the same and he says it is because he laughs too much.

  Four others stand beside and slightly behind him and Freya thinks that most likely they are his sons, all looking slightly related and one being an almost carbon copy of the older man. The older man turns and the younger ones bend in to keep their conversation secret and Freya notices the large battle ax strapped to the old man’s back, gleaming in the bright sun light from the window.

  “Daughter.” Her father’s hand on her arm startles her from her studying of the men and she jumps, turning her face to see her father’s caring eyes with a slight smile on his kind face. He is laughing at her and Freya knows that he can tell she was studying the men. A soft blush runs over her skin and she smiles back. “Please sit, Freya; we have a lot to talk about.”

  The way her father says it makes her wonder, but she kneels down on the bear skin covered pillow beside her father’s seat and she folds her hands in her lap; content to sit closest to her father rather than take her chair an arm’s length away. Ivan winks and gives her a slight smile, which she returns as he says something else quietly to his brother. Then, he addresses the now crowded room.

  “Please, everyone, sit! Take a drink,” he says as he waves his hand to the servant girls and they carry in trays laden with mugs of ale and mead.

  Freya watches as one giggles and smiles at the table of men gathered closest- the ones she had been studying- and she rolls her eyes, scoffing at the girl’s giddy laugh. Ivan sees her reaction and taps her lightly on her shoulder, reminding her to act like a lady in front of guests and she straightens her back and facial expression.

  As her father takes a mug from one of the trays, Freya spots Eska moving along the wall fending off the onslaught of flirts from his number one admirer, Helga. She can’t help but giggle to herself as she watches her friend push the girls hand away from the waist of his britches. She just doesn’t get why Eska doesn’t give the girl what she wants. True, Helga has been with more men than most women their age, but she is pretty enough and she would be a good wife. She watches as Eska shoves the grabbing hands away once more and her eyes follow Helga as she stomps away, coming back to rest on her friend’s brown eyes as he grins at her.

  Turning her attention back to her father, she smiles. Seeing the mead dribble down his chin, she reaches her embroidered handkerchief up and dabs it away for him as he smiles, patting her hand. She has always taken care of her father and she loves it.

  “Let me introduce our guests,” he tells the crowd, his boom of a voice quickly quiets the low murmur in the room. The five men from before stand, still drinking from their mugs and Freya inspects them one by one as her father says their names.

  “Halvard the Hammer,” she has to stifle a gasp as the name echoes in the room, the older man nodding at her father and taking his seat once more. The name causes visions of smoke and blood to fill Freya’s mind, the stories of his many battles floating in her head. He is said to be a ruthless killer and king to his people, his will never being bent or tested.

  Why is he here? she thinks, listening to her father thank the man for coming and the man giving his pleasantries in return.

  “With him, are his warriors, come to show companionship to our people, which I gladly accept. Among his warriors are his sons; Herlof.” The spitting image of Halvard nods, sitting beside his father and running his hand over his slightly hairy face. His blue eyes flicker from Ivan to Freya, staying only for a second before saying something to his father and both men laugh low.

  “Keir,” her father says and the next one nods, his tall broad stature being similar to his father and brother before him. His eyes skirt over the room as he raises his glass, his waist length, braided blonde hair swishing behind him as he turns back and winks at Freya, making her stomach flip. “Raghnoll.” The shorter, dark brown haired man smiles, clinking his wooden mug among his brothers’ and taking his seat, leaving the final brother to stand alone.

  He is the tallest of them, his dirty-blonde hair to his shoulder in a single braid as tight braids line his scalp on each temple. He is not a small man and as Freya takes in his broad, muscular chest through his shirt she feels a slow heat rolling over her skin. When her eyes meet
his, she is pierced by the ice blue color as it pins her to her spot, her body feeling as if it is paralyzed.

  “And Asgar,” her father says, finally, after what seems like days.

  The sound of his name and the way he holds her gaze makes a hot blush burst forth from somewhere inside and Freya lowers her eyes, trying to regain her composure. She hears him clink his mug with those around him and the wooden bench creak as he sits, but she can’t bring her eyes from her hands in her lap. Nor, can she keep her heart from racing.

  “Why are they here?” A voice calls from the back over the murmurings and she finally picks her face up to see one of her father’s friends, Linder, standing at the end of one of the tables; his gut hanging over his pants, as usual, and mead dribbled on his shirt. The sight of the jolly man makes her smile and he nods at her, giving her a kind wink as he usually does.

  ***

  Ivan clears his throat, waving for his longtime friend to sit, and takes another drink from his mug. He needs the fermented beverage to give him strength as he knows what he says next will bring a wrath upon his head. Placing his hand on Freya’s shoulder, he waits for her to turn and look up at him with her sweet, innocent smile and, for a second, his resolve falters. He pushes it away just as quickly as it comes and squeezes her shoulder as she pats his hand.

  “They are here to celebrate with us,” he says as Freya looks up at him expectantly, her green eyes reminding him so much of his beloved Dagny.

  How would she see what he is about to announce? She would side with him after many arguments, which is usually how their love worked. She would concede, after hearing about the horrifying stories of raids in Scotland by an unknown tribe. This was what was best for everyone. It gives his island a little extra protection and muscle and makes sure his precious Freya is away if something is to attack.