Heart of a Viking

by Samantha Holt

  He circled the damp confines of the empty house. It stretched a good length, with the bed chamber divided from the rest of the building. A loose stone circle revealed where the fire pit had once been but all furniture was long gone. He would need to at least create some pieces to make it liveable and ask Ragni for some thralls for help. Perhaps he could use that slave that so disliked Keita. He could not deny he would take pleasure in putting her to work.

  For the past three days he’d watched that woman. She worked as little as she could, forcing Keita to take on many of her duties. It did not seem in the little Pict’s nature to lash out at the woman but he saw that small jaw thrust out every now and then and waited for the day she would rise up against her.

  Keita. By Odin’s blood, she was why he was grateful for the distance away from the settlement. When he ought to have been observing Ragni and his son, he found his gaze following her. His skin prickled when she was nearby and his heart tightened when he feared she might find herself in danger. As much as Ragni’s declaration that no man should touch her protected her, once his power had begun to erode, Keita would find her position eroded too.

  If anything happened to her, it would be his fault.

  Thorarin knelt and shifted the stone circle back into place. Later, he would take some slaves and an axe and find the wood he needed. He would leave Keita to her work and force himself to forget her. When his muscles were burning and sweat tinged his brow from working the wood, she would be far from his mind.

  Já, that thought appealed. Whenever he had been so eaten up by anger over Ragni’s lies, wood soothed him. When he was shaping and carving the wood, he was master. It had no choice but to obey him.

  And soon he would shape and carve this world into his own. Ragni would find out what it was like to lose everything with little idea it was he who had carved him this destiny. Not until the very end.

  He paused in the doorway and studied the darkening sky. Streaks of amber lit the horizon, skipping between the trees. the colour reminded him of the gem around Keita’s neck and how it had shimmered off her skin. This night, he could not afford to consider the fragile texture of her skin or how the necklace had been warm to the touch. Or how he wanted to see if the rest of her body was warm too.

  This night, he would begin picking apart Ragni’s life. He stepped out of the house and pushed shut the wooden door. It would be time to dine shortly and from his observations these past few nights, he knew exactly how to increase the tension between father and son. His information from Keita might have been minimal but others were happy to talk of the problems between them.

  It was as expected. Fleinn was not warrior-like enough for his father. It was unlikely anyone would ever accept him as a replacement for Ragni. The chances were, when Ragni passed into the afterlife, another man would take his place—and certainly not Fleinn. From what he had seen, Thorarin found him to be weak-minded too. Easily led and easily swayed. Not the sort of man any community would want leading them.

  Not the sort of man his father would want leading a raid.

  That was where he would strike.

  Thorarin made his way down the hill toward the settlement. The huts circled the longhouse, smoke seeping from holes in the roofs. The scent of the smoke offered a strange sense of warm comfort and familiarity. It reminded him of his boyhood.

  Ragni’s home dominated the landscape. Since his childhood, it had been enlarged to make room for a store and alehouse. The impressive triangular roof added to the dominance.

  A few of the villagers greeted him. They were getting used to the stranger in their midst, none of them aware he had once been known by a different name. Time had changed him in many ways, most certainly physically.

  As a boy, he’d been weaker than Fleinn. Trying to survive had quickly built him into the man he was today, and for that he was grateful, but he could not help regret that he had been unable to be a warrior in his boyhood. Maybe then he could have defended himself against these accusations, maybe even asking for a duel of honour.

  Instead he had been sent away with blood on his hands and no hope of return, under the penalty of death.

  But death did not await him here. He paused to eye the ferocious beasts carved into the eaves of the longhouse. Neinn, there would be only revenge.

  And death for Ragni.

  When he entered the dimly lit interior of the longhouse, his gaze immediately sought out Keita. No matter how hard he tried to avoid staring at her, she drew him in like a beacon of light. The golden glow from the torches reflected off her hair and even her plain woollen tunic could not distract from her ethereal quality. This was the sort of woman of which the goddesses would be jealous.

  She glanced his way and lowered her lashes rapidly as she dished out some stewed venison. Ragni spotted him from his position at the head of the table and waved him over. Every night since his arrival, Thorarin had been seated next to the járl. Fleinn never failed to glower at him from his spot on the other side of him. He managed to avoid smiling as that same glower greeted him when he sat.

  Little did Fleinn know he was playing his role to perfection.

  The noise of talk and laughter prevented Thorarin from having any serious conversation with Ragni until the evening wore on and the mead had taken its toll. He indulged in the drink but kept his consumption light in comparison to the other men. It would not do to lose his head to the drink—not when his position was precarious. He recalled first stepping foot in the village when Ragni had invited him to dine with him. He’d faced many a foe—armies, animals and criminals—yet his heart had never pounded quite so much as when he first laid the sole of his boot on his homeland. What if someone recognised him? His plans would be for nothing.

  But none remembered the scrawny boy who’d been accused of murdering the járl’s son.

  Thorarin curled his fingers around his eating knife and felt his breaths grow heavy through his nostrils. None remembered the boy whose life had been destroyed because he happened to witness Ragni’s brutality in person. If he had stayed, he might have been better able to protect his family. They would be alive if he hadn’t been sent away.

  A fragrance wrapped around him, drawing him from his bitter memories. It broke through the smoky air and clung its sensual fingers to him. He didn’t need to look to know where the scent emanated. A slender arm reached over and poured mead into his goblet. She smelled sweet and he had to assume she’d been creating her own perfumes or rubbing flowers on her skin. Deep down in his gut, a sea of heated desire erupted.

  Keita, picking the fragrant flowers, rubbing them along her pale skin...

  He nearly groaned aloud and through the fog of lust realised Ragni was speaking with him.

  “Forgive me, my járl. Of what is it you speak?”

  “The next raids. You will come?”

  “Já. We go when the weather breaks?”

  “Já, to Ireland.” Ragni leaned in, a finger to his lips as if departing some great secret. “You can prove yourself to me.”

  Thorarin forced a laugh. “Have I not done that already, my járl, when I saved your life?”

  “A man can prove himself in many ways. I have yet to see you in battle.”

  “Give me leadership of this raid and I shall prove my battle skills.”

  Ragni peered at him, his cold eyes narrow slits. A hint of a smile curved his lips and he tapped a finger to them. “I shall consider it.”

  Across the table, Fleinn released a sound of exasperation. Thorarin kept his expression composed but the urge to grin in triumph warred within.

  “You would have a stranger lead your men into battle but you would not let me?” Fleinn slammed down his goblet.

  “You are not ready, Fleinn.”

  “I am eight and ten. I am a man. I have been ready for several summers.”

  His father laughed. “When you speak like that, I hear only a boy.”

  “You hear what you want to hear. You refuse to see me as anything but a boy
.”

  “Fleinn, you shall be killed. You are no match for Irish warriors. I must send only my strongest and best men.”

  “And this man—” Fleinn thrust a hand in Thorarin’s direction “—is your best man? You know nothing of him.”

  The járl jabbed his knife into the table top, sending the ivory handle quivering. The laughter and talk dulled and even the slaves stilled.

  “He proved himself when he saved my life from that beast. Every man at this table had proved themselves to me in some way. What have you done, my son, except be born from your mother’s cunt? Why are you sitting at my table?”

  Fleinn’s pale face reddened. His mouth opened and shut several times before he stood. “You would deny everything to your kin and give it to a stranger. I am not Fálki. I will not be struck down by some boy. If you let me, I would prove as much but you are blind, old man. Soon, I will prove myself and you shall regret every chance you denied me.”

  The lad did not wait for a response. He snatched up his goblet and a jug of mead from a thrall’s hand and stormed out of the longhouse.

  Ragni shook his head and yanked the knife from the table. He directed it at Thorarin, motioning with it as he spoke. It would be so easy. All he would have to do was turn the knife and he could drive it into the man’s chest. While he spat blood and died, he could tell him exactly who he was. Once I was known by a different name, once you had me blamed for the violence that had taken place by your hand.

  But there would be no honour in such an act. His honour had been eroded away for ten summers. His family and land had been taken from him. It would take much to repair that and if he was to regain it all, he would have to continue to be patient.

  “You are lucky not to have sons,” Ragni said through a mouthful of meat.

  “As you say, my járl.”

  “You will want a family though, will you not? All men do. A wife and lots of children. There are plenty of women without husbands in our settlement.”

  “I have not considered it.”

  “You mourn for your wife perhaps? Mine has been dead some two summers. I have yet to see fit to replace her, though I have my son.” He snorted and bit into the meat, speaking through a mouthful. “Much good he does. His weakness comes from his mother. She was a feeble woman. Married her for her wealth, you see, but a man like yourself should raise fine sons if you chose a sturdy woman.”

  “I shall think on it,” Thorarin murmured.

  In truth, a wife and children had been far from his mind. He’d spent most of his banishment alone, sometimes sleeping with whores or comely lasses on the raids who liked the idea of a rough Viking’s hands upon her. But the rest of his time, he had moved from place to place, finding work and shelter where he could while he planned his return. There was no time for a wife.

  But what of after? Should he take a wife then or continue his life alone? He scanned the room and eyed the few women at the table. Only one woman drew his attention and he could not take her as a wife. Nor would she want to be, he imagined. Neinn, Keita wanted freedom. He could likely give that to her if she survived his machinations.

  Chapter Six

  Keita had watched the exchange between father and son while serving the food and drink. Ragni seemed oblivious to the tension now thick in the air. But then, for the short time she had been here, she’d noticed the járl was dismissive of his son. And she’d observed the increasing anger from Fleinn.

  But what of Thorarin? He was placing himself in a position of great danger and yet she felt sure he was aware of the problems between them. He might not fear Fleinn—after all a man like himself need fear no one—but getting involved with men of power was no fine idea. She had already witnessed two duels fought between men and how the Viking’s justice system worked. A small quarrel could escalate into a blood war with ease and Thorarin had only himself to rely on—no family or friends to stand by his side.

  She swiped her hands down her tunic and sucked in the fresh air while silence echoed around her. The familiar pounding of her feet failed to aggravate her tonight. In spite of Thorarin’s help, she had worked twice as hard as usual, but somehow his aid had offered her something. Perhaps it was that hope of which they had spoken.

  Hope.

  Escape. That was where her hope lay. A few male grunts echoed from one of the nearby huts, reminding her of what her position could be if she remained. But no one stopped her from walking around the settlement at this time of night. There were no chains binding her to the longhouse or shackles around her ankles. Indeed, she could walk away now.

  But where would she go? How would she survive? Was this fear fluttering deep inside her a product of her captivity or was it her common sense? To escape, she needed at least some coin and food. If she had coin, she might be able to barter for a ride across the sea.

  However, she had little idea where the sea was. she imagined if she followed the river, she would reach it eventually but that could take months. Keita had to earn some coin somehow. Then she could pay for information and help, and someone to remove the collar from her neck—the first indicator that she was a slave.

  Keita fingered the iron, aware of the sore skin underneath. She used a salve to lessen the rub but it didn’t stop it weighing on her collar bone and becoming uncomfortable as the day wore on.

  Though the day had been windy and cold, the skies had cleared to give way to a star-speckled sky. She lifted her head to eye the gems weaving their patterns across the blackness. She recognised many of the pictures they made except they were in different places here.

  Stealing a glance around, she concluded she was alone enough to take the time to wash. Most were asleep or with company. Some of the men were snoring heavily enough to break the sound of the nearby river.

  Keita picked her way down the slope of the woods to the riverside. She grasped the tree trunks to prevent her slipping and tumbling into the water. When she had first arrived, she hadn’t bathed for days, unsure of where to go or what to do. Eventually she’d discovered that the slaves bathed when they could, using the frigid river water when they weren’t working.

  Her first dip in the water had been a shock to her body but now it came as a relief. The icy coldness numbed the aches of the day. She wasn’t used to feeling dirty or bathing in cold water, even though most of her settlement had used the stream themselves. In her father’s home, she had bathed much like the Viking’s did. With heated water and the aid of servants.

  For all her problems, she had been lucky indeed. She wished she had realised that.

  When she reached the water’s edge, she eased her tunic over her head and placed it on the ground. Her feet were bare and covered in filth. They had grown hard and rough, much like her fingers. Keita shuddered when a whisper of air skated over her skin.

  She would bathe quickly. In spite of the clear skies and the gentle lap of the stream, misgiving worked its bony fingers through her—as though a storm was on the horizon. It was likely to do with the rising tension between Fleinn and her master but either way, it left her stomach coiled and her mind on edge.

  Gulping down a gasp, she stepped into the water, feeling for the stony bottom. She had no soap with which to wash so a rough scrub from her hands would have to do. She scuffed her feet against the stones to work loose the filth from her feet.

  To think her feet had once been wrapped in the finest leather. Now she owned nothing—not even the rough tunic on the riverside. Only her amulet kept her company. Upon finding out about Ragni’s superstitious nature, she told him it protected her and therefore it protected all of them. He’d allowed her to keep it.

  Keita ducked under the slowly moving water and came up with a gasp. Running fingers through her hair, she took a moment to admire the scenery. The land of the Vikings did not differ as vastly from her Pictland as she might have thought, though there were more trees. The rugged outlines of rocks and mountains reminded her of home at times. All they needed was that perfect shade of green and perhaps
she would not feel so far from home.

  Giving her body a brisk scrub with her palms, she came back to the side of the river and eased out. She let the air dry her body for as long as she could stand it. The itchy wool failed to absorb water and if she put it over wet skin, it would feel worse than ever. Then she tugged the offending garment over her head and tied the rope belt.

  She missed beautifully spun gowns and soft wool.

  A creature snuffled in the distance. She paused and urged away the shudder that wracked her. No one was about and it was just that—a creature of some kind. However, she quickened her pace as she headed back to the longhouse through the dense trees. She had no intention of being mauled by some Norse beast.

  She froze again when a twig cracked. The creature was closer than she’d thought. What could it be? A wolf perhaps? A bear? She wasn’t sure what creatures they had here but she had seen many furs from all manner of beasts. Most were likely stolen or traded. These men, she had learned, travelled farther than any Pict could dream of.

  Forcing herself on, she moved with haste. Those crawling fingers were back again, trailing up and down her spine and making her skin prick with something more than cold.

  She could see the break in the trees and the odd flicker of light that signalled the settlement. No wild animal would come near the fire or people. But she wasn’t safe yet.

  Something coiled itself around her wrist. A plant. No, a hand. She whirled and a clammy palm clamped over her mouth before she could utter a screech. Even in the dark night, it was clear who held her captive.

  Fleinn.

  He gripped her face with his hand, squeezing her cheeks so she couldn’t utter a sound. His once pale eyes seemed dark and bottomless. When she fought to tug her wrist from his grasp, he twisted her hand so that it would only take one sharp movement and it would be broken.

  “Quiet,” he told her in Norse.

  She understood the command. She’d heard it a few times though not usually directed at her. Fleinn spoke no other language than his own as far as she knew. And yet he still did not see why his father did not trust him to lead the community.