Sandra Hill - Viking II 01 - Truly, Madly Viking (v1.0)

by Truly, Madly Viking (v1. 0)(lit)

  Truly, Madly Viking

  By

  Sandra Hill

  * * *

  Other Love Spell and Leisure books by Sandra Hill:

  THE LOVE POTION

  THE LAST VIKING

  FRANKLY, MY DEAR

  THE TARNISHED LADY

  THE BEWITCHED VIKING

  THE RELUCTANT VIKING

  LOVE ME TENDER

  THE OUTLAW VIKING

  SWEETER SAVAGE LOVE

  DESPERADO

  * * *

  A LOVE SPELL BOOK®

  July 2000

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  276 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10001

  Copyright © 2000 by Sandra Hill

  ISBN 0-505-52387-6

  Printed in the United States of America.

  * * *

  This book is dedicated to my good friend, Katie Raiser, who died in the course of my writing this book. Katie's unfailing courage inspired all of us who were privileged to know her. She was an aspiring romance novelist whose dreams were dashed by the ravages of a deadly disease. Here's hoping Katie is sitting on a cloud somewhere, finally pain-free, polishing off a splendid manuscript. Better yet, wouldn't it be nice if Katie were the angelmuse working through the fingers of some budding novelist out here today? God bless you, Katie.

  * * *

  "Most men are within a hairsbreadth of being mad."

  —Diogenes, 412-323 B.C.

  "I have weathered huge waves willingly and fought winds through many sea milesto make this visit to you."

  —Egils Saga, circa 13th century

  * * *

  Prolog

  998 A.D., Summertime in the Norse lands

  Jorund Ericsson stared blankly at the huge grave mound. It was large enough to hold a longship and all the personal belongings necessary for the occupant to lead a good life in the afterworld.

  A year and more he had been gone to the East lands, fighting the wars of the emperor of Miklegard. A lifelong warrior-for-hire, he had been part of the elite Varangian Guard, made up of handpicked Vikings from many nations. On the journey home, he had idled time away by standing under the banner of the Norse king Olaf Tryggva son, who was on the offensive again in Britain, spreading sword dew in his wake like a bloody wave. For Olaf, who happened to be Jorund's paternal uncle, this represented but a brief respite from the ongoing territorial struggles with the Danish king, Sven Forkbeard.

  Some said fighting was a Viking way of life. 'Twas true.

  With no apologies, Jorund acknowledged being a lord of swordplay... a mercenary, but not without principles; he stood only with those chieftains whose goals and standards he shared. Following this life path, he saw death as a constant companion and had long since lost count of the bodies that had fallen under his sword, or those of his comrades who now resided in Valhalla.

  Still, he had never expected to find this upon his return to his homeland.

  In his distress, his eyes darted here and there about the grave site, soon catching on the burial stone, where sticklike runic symbols spelled out:

  Here lies Inga Sigrundottir,

  Wife of Jarl Jorund Ericsson of Vestfold, Daughter of Jarl Anlaf of Lade.

  She lived but twenty and three winters. Died she in the great famine,

  In the year nine ninety-seven.

  Jorund choked back a gasp. There had been no great love betwixt him and Inga these six years since their forced marriage. Nonetheless, grief and great shame overwhelmed him at her death eight months past. A man protected those under his shield, lest he be a nithing, a man devoid of honor. He should have been here to safeguard her welll being, whether from the dangers of man or nature.

  But then his gaze moved to the left, to the two small conjoined grave markers that read:

  Greta and Girta Ingadottir,

  Firstborn twins,

  Beloved daughters.

  They lived but five years.

  May Freyja hold them to her eternal bosom.

  Jorund dropped to his knees and put his face in his hands. He was not an emotional man. Once, amid the din of battle, he'd cleaved a man to the teeth with his battle-ax and ne'er felt a moment of remorse. He could not remember the last time he had yielded to the woman-weakness of crying— mayhap as a child when one of his brothers had hurt him in rough play—but tears welled in his eyes now.

  The thought of Inga lying in the cold earth brought him regret that one so young should journey from this earth before her time. Regret... that was all. He was the one who had suffered most from Inga's renowned machinations, which had led him reluctantly to her marriage bed, but he bore her no ill will. She had not been a bad woman at heart.

  Thoughts of his daughters, on the other hand, brought fierce pain to his chest and constriction to his throat. He had not wanted marriage. He had not even wanted children—but, oh, when he'd held them for the first time, bloody and blue with wrinkled skin, after they emerged from their mother's womb... well, he'd loved them on first sight. Seed of his loins they had been, but so much more than that.

  The last time he'd seen his girls, they'd not yet celebrated the fourth anniversary of their birthing day. His longship had been pulling up anchor in the fjord in front of his vast homestead. Inga had been standing at the bank, along with his father and mother Jarl Eric and Lady Asgar; his brothers, Rolf the Shipbuilder and Magnus of the Big Ears; and the family retainers. Greta and Girta had come dancing down the hillside at the last moment, their blond braids swishing back and forth, their hiked-up gunnas wrinkled and dirty from some youthling game or another. And they had been giggling. Odd that he should recall that now. But then, he reminded himself, was there a sound more heart-touching in the whole world than that of a giggling child... even to a hardened warrior such as himself.

  "Don't forget to bring me ribands, Father!" Greta had called out to him... as if she hadn't reminded him enough times the night before amid sticky kisses and little-girl hugs. "All the colors of the rainbow... please." That last word she'd added upon seeing her mother frown down at her for the girl's lack of politeness. Inga, daughter of a high jarl of Lade in northeast Norway, had placed great importance on courtly.

  "And silk slippers from a harem," Girta had added gaily ducking as her mother reached out to swat her with an open palm for her impertinence.

  "A harem, indeed!" Inga had snorted, but then she hadn't been able to help herself and grinned at the child's outrageousness. Girta had been known for her saucy tongue.

  Jorund smiled to himself at the sweet memory, even as a strangled cry escaped his closed air passes.

  "My son."

  Jorund jerked upright as he felt a palm on his shoulder. Standing, he turned to see his father.

  "I need your help, Jorund. Yours and that of your brother, Magnus."

  "This is not the time," he choked out, waving a d to indicate the burial mound.

  "There is no better time," his father said wearily. "There is naught you can do for Inga and the girls now. Nay, do not scowl at me. 'Tis true."

  Suddenly Jorund noticed how much his father had aged in the time he'd been gone. Was it the famine and all the human losses? Or something else? He furrowed his brow in question.

  "Your brother, Geirolf, is missing and feared dead."

  "Oh, Father! He's probably just delayed on one of his voyages." Rolf was a shipbuilder who often tested his vessels on extended journeys before selling them to high-placed nobles from many lands.

  "Not this time," his father insisted. "Whilst you were gone, I sent him on a quest th
at I hoped would end the famine here in Norway, but then his dragonship sank after a violent sea battle with that misbegotten cur, Storr Grimmsson. His body was never found." He paused, then added, "I need to be sure, one way or another."

  "You think Rolf may still be alive?" he inquired, suddenly alert, though still stunned by this latest news.

  "Some seamen from Storr's crew told us, under torture, that Geirolf was last seen in the waters... alive. " His father shrugged with uncertainty. "You and Magnus must travel to Iceland and mayhap even beyond that to Greenland... the region where Geirolf was last seen alive."

  "Iceland!" he exclaimed. This was no small favor his father beseeched of him. "No!"

  "But—"

  "Nei yöir nei," he practically shouted. Then, more softly, "No is no."

  His father merely stared at him, making him feel like a child again... a selfish child.

  Jorund was torn. Should he stay here in Vest fold and suffer penance for his failing of Inga and his daughters? Or should he leave his homeland to help his father, and perhaps expiate his guilt?

  "I beg of you, my son. Put aside your sorrow for now and grant me this boon. 'Twas I who sent Geirolf into harm's way. The guilt is weighing me down so, I can scarce think or speak."

  Jorund knew exactly how his father felt. Soon he nodded.

  This was a mission he could not refuse.

  Autumn, 998 A.D. Beyond Iceland

  "Look, Jorund, look! There she blows... again. Hmmm. Mayhap that is the fair Thora's way of blowing kisses at you. Dost thinks..."

  "Magnus," Jorund Ericsson warned his brother with a disgusted shake of his head.

  "I have heard more than enough of your nonsense today. I suggest you go take a seat at one of the oarlocks and row off some of your excess vigor."

  He was standing at the rail of his longship, Fierce Warrior, honing the blade of his favorite sword, Bloodletter. Magnus was standing next to him, honing his tongue. Unless Magnus had a plow in his hands, or a mead horn in his mouth, or a wench in his bed, he tended to think it was his mission in life to bedevil his brother. It was no exaggeration to say that Magnus had an opinion on every bloody topic in the world.

  "Now, now, do not be overmodest, little brother," Magnus advised, puffing his chest out, which was a sure sign he was about to expound at length... on some triviality. His long, blond hair was pulled off his face with a leather thong tied at the nape, which drew attention to his uncommonly large ears. For years, Magnus had claimed that his large ears were a sign of other... well, attributes that were equally pronounced, but Jorund could hardly credit that.

  And what did he call me? Little? In truth, he and Magnus were of the same immense height, though Magnus was bullish in stature, being a farmsteader by trade, while Jorund carried the leaner-muscled body of a fighting man. And they were a mere nine months apart in age. So little hardly applied. For the love of Odin! What importance is there in whether my brother deems me big or little? My mind must be melting in this unseasonably hot sun. And that is another thing... who would think the sun could be so hot in Iceland? Perchance we have strayed farther than—

  "One and all can see that the fair Thora has developed a passion for you,"

  Magnus blathered on. "And not just the blowing of kisses. You must admit she has been following you about for a sennight and more. Wagging her tail at you like a Hedeby whore. Besotted she is, for a certainty."

  He sliced a glare at his brother. "What makes you think she is blowing kisses?"

  He knew that it was a mistake to react to any of Magnus's jibes. Still, he blundered on, "Mayhap she is just blowing air."

  "Like breaking wind? Now there's a thought."

  Magnus grinned. "Mother always told us when we were growing up that females do not break wind, leastways not in public... just old men and bad boys. Ha! I suspect Mother was laughing behind our backs with that mistruth. Either that, or I warrant she was never in close quarters with Fat Helga, the goatherder, after a night of eating gammelost." He tapped his chin with exaggerated pensiveness.

  Jorund groaned. When will I ever learn? I can predict what he is going to say now.

  "Do females make a habit of trying to attract you with farts?"

  I was correct. "What a ridiculous notion!" Jorund snarled, then realized that Magnus was chuckling under his breath. "Aaarrgh!" he said. Carrying on a conversation with Magnus was like talking with one of his dumb cows. His coarseness knew no limits, his earthiness coming, no doubt, from his dealing so much with... well, earth. Not that Jorund was unaccustomed to coarseness, being surrounded as he was by soldiers whose every other word was apt to be an expletive of the foulest nature. He'd uttered a few himself.

  But, really, his brother had fallen into the most annoying habit of late—teasing him. Holy Thor! Who ever heard of grown men engaging in such youthful games? Life was too serious—and fleeting, as he well knew—and their mission was too important for frivolity. It was probably boredom, or frustration at being lost at sea. Well, not quite lost, just a mite off course.

  Ignoring his brother's smirking face, he looked off into the distance, where the magnificent killer whale the sailors had named Thora was indeed performing her ritual dance. It was to her that Magnus had attributed blowing kisses, of all things.

  Just now, her sleek black-and-white shape leaped into the air with a spectacular flourish, a maneuver that had come to be known among seafarers as breaching.

  The whale, at the height of her impressive leap, gave the false appearance of standing on her tail fins on the surface of the water for several long moments.

  Then she twisted her sleek body into a perfect arc with an agility remarkable for her size and dove back into the salty depths to swim swiftly beneath the waves she had created. If she followed her previous routine, she would be repeating the performance another two or three times, ofttimes varying the act with backflips, all accompanied by boisterous squeals and chirps and rapid clicking noises, before swimming off a short distance to watch and follow their sailing vessel.

  There was no escaping the killer whale. They had tried to elude their unwelcome companion by rowing fast with a strong wind at their backs, and still she kept up. Surely the killer whale must be the fastest animal in all the oceans.

  They knew it was a female because of her comparatively small size to the male of the species, though this friendly beast was still nigh as big as his dragonship.

  Well, perhaps that was an overstatement. At the least, she had to be four times his body height from mouth to tail.

  There was no question in Jorund's mind—though he would never acknowledge it to his brother—that it was himself the animal had developed an affection for. The whale had been shadowing them for more than fourteen days, coming closer and closer. But that wasn't how Jorund knew that the whale was following him. He knew because the whale was talking to him.

  Amazing as that sounded, even if oddly to his own ears, Jorund had taken to communicating with a killer whale. He talked to the whale in his head. And the whale talked back to him.

  Languages of other countries had always come easily to him. And not just Norse and English, the language of the Saxons, which were very similar. He was also fluent in the tongues of Frankland, Byzantium, Baghdad, Rome, and Cordoba. But never had he been known to speak with animals. No one did, that he knew of, except perhaps the gods. And he was no god.

  Where did this voice in his head came from? When it was late at night and his men were asleep, he would stand at the prow of his long ship and converse with a killer whale, of all things. Good thing Magnus was unaware of this insanity, or he would really have something to tease him about.

  Was he going mad? Were the events of the past year too much for his brain to bear? Or was it the cumulative effect of years and years of bloodshed finally crushing down on him? Stronger men than he had gone berserk.

  How can this be? he had asked Thora yestereve. It was an indication of his sorry state that he sought advice on his mental conditio
n from an animal.

  Click, click. Squeal, squeal. Click, squeal, click, squeal, the whale had answered him in ever changing patterns. In other words, Men question too much. Listen with your heart; speak with your heart, my friend.

  I ask for help, and you give me riddles, he'd wailed silently. I don't understand. He need not speak aloud for the whale to hear him—another amazing happenstance.

  With her usual clicks and squeals and chirps, Thora had told him, You will, you will. Then, just before the whale had swum off, she'd added, Open your heart, man. Only then will there be no barriers of country or animal... or time.

  Time? What has time to do with this?

  "Jorund, has your mind gone awandering again? Are you all right?"

  Jorund blinked and reined in his thoughts. His brother's big paw of a hand was resting on his shoulder with concern.

  Am I all right?

  Nay, I am not all right.

  "I'm fine," he said.

  But he was not fine, he soon found out.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  "Blöd hell!" he and Magnus exclaimed at the same time, then repeated, "Bloody hell!" A number of his sailors, who followed both the Christian and Norse religions, were making the sign of the cross on their broad chests. All of them stared gape-mouthed out to sea.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Thora was using her huge tail fins to whack the far side of the longship.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  She must be playing with them—some kind of strange killer whale game—for it was clear she was not employing full force; otherwise the vessel would have tipped over. Even so, the impact of the powerful tail hitting the wood sides was enough to set the boat rocking side to side. A little harder and the wood might splinter.

  Jorund tried to listen in the way the whale had taught him. There was a loud, grinding noise in response, almost like a rusty door closing, and he thought he heard her say, It is time, Viking.