by Asa Maria Bradley, Gina Conkle, Lisa Hendrix, Anna Markland, Emma Prince, Harper St. George
The proud warrior can win any battle, but he cannot surmount the pain of losing Josian. Yet when her life is threatened, he will risk it all to come to the defense of the one woman who means more to him than his own salvation…
About Lisa Hendrix
Lisa grew up in the small towns and ’burbs of Colorado, reading anything she could get her hands on, from fantasy to history to collections of folk tales. Her ongoing Immortal Brotherhood series brings those influences together with the cursed Viking warriors in a world where history and myth collide to create love stories for the ages.
Having successfully launched two young adults into the world, Lisa lives in southern Oregon with her computer jockey husband (he calls himself a button sorter), a chubby black cat of indeterminate intelligence, and Napoleon, a wee rescue poodle with attitude.
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Discover Lisa Hendrix’s Booklist
Immortal Brotherhood series
Immortal Warrior
Immortal Outlaw
Immortal Champion
Immortal Defender
Praise for Lisa Hendrix and the Immortal Brotherhood novels
“Lisa Hendrix does Vikings right! I can’t get enough of this delicious series!”
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—Fresh Fiction
“A sizzling and engrossing romance from the pen of Lisa Hendrix, Immortal Warrior should not be missed.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Readers Group questions for all the Immortal Brotherhood books are available on Lisa’s Website.
The Messenger
by
Anna Markland
HARTHACANUTE
England, 1041 AD
“Our glorious king hasn’t bothered to summon us since we helped bring his fleet ashore,” Wulfram Sigmarsen complained to his adopted brother as they made their way to court. “What does he want with us now?”
Sandor clamped a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to halt. “Patience, little brother. Guard your tongue. These walls have ears. It’s rumored Harthacanute has spies everywhere.”
Wulfram shrugged off Sandor’s hand and resumed his brisk pace. “Ignoring us is an insult to our father. The governor of Jomsborg sends his sons to captain ships for Harthacanute’s invasion, and we’ve been stuck in England ever since without a word of thanks or leave to return home.”
Sandor sneered. “Some invasion. Canute’s son was so afraid there’d be opposition to his sitting on his father’s English throne he brought sixty-two ships from Denmark even though he’d been invited after King Harald’s death.”
Wulfram thought back. “What a sight though, you must agree, scores of Viking ships coming ashore at Sandwich seven days before Midsummer.”
Sandor kept pace. “Ja, he was welcomed then, but now the English hate him.”
Wulfram lowered his voice. “Because he’s imposed unreasonable taxes to pay for his grand fleet, among other things.”
Sandor agreed. “And though we are Jomsvikings from the Baltic, and not Danes, we are hated too.”
Wulfram shook his head. “It’s a far cry from the tales about the wise rule of King Canute that father tells.”
“Ja, you’re right. We arrived here nigh on a year ago and I for one want to go home to warm my wife’s bed and spoil my children.”
Wulfram sympathised, but felt a twinge of envy—there was no one waiting for him in Jomsborg. “I suppose when I get home I’ll have to begin the search for a wife.”
Sandor slapped him on the back. “You’ve plenty of time. I was twenty and five when I wed Inga, older than you are now.”
“Only by one year,” Wulfram retorted. “Truth is, no woman has taken my fancy.”
“You’re too picky,” Sandor replied. “Because you want what our parents have.”
“You all found the right mate. Why not me?”
Guards at the doors of the king’s antechamber scowled them to silence. Wulfram paced, pondering the notion of finding a woman he loved and who loved him in return. He decided he must be getting old. Marriage had never seemed very important, but recently he’d been thinking a lot about siring children of his own. He hoped the summons meant they were going home, but if that was the case it was unlikely he’d find a bride in England as his father had.
He and Sandor squared their shoulders when the double doors creaked open and they were ushered into the king’s presence.
It had been months since Wulfram had seen Canute’s son. The gaunt man slumped in the ornately carved chair bore scant resemblance to the confident Harthacanute who’d come ashore at Sandwich. The king was obviously ill, his skin sallow, his breathing labored. Regal robes hung on the skeletal form of a once well-muscled warrior.
“Elf-shot,” Sandor whispered as they bowed.
Wulfram didn’t believe in elves, but had to admit his disbelief had been sorely challenged by what he’d heard of the death of the king’s half-brother, his predecessor on the throne. Harald’s skin had apparently turned black. What else but elfin magic could have brought about such a thing?
Harthacanute squinted, as if he couldn’t see them clearly. “Are you the Jomsvikings?” he rasped.
Wulfram glanced at Sandor, then replied, “Ja, Sire, Wulfram Sigmarsen and Sandor Wulframsen, sons of Sigmar Alvarsen, governor of Jomsborg.”
The monarch stared at them as if trying to comprehend how two brothers could have different last names, and why the younger man spoke when usually the older brother had that right.
He opened his mouth to speak, but a coughing fit seized him. He waved away an attendant who sought to assist him, using the hem of his robe to wipe his mouth after the racking cough subsided. It was impossible to miss the blood smeared on the garment.
“Anger eats at my lungs,” the king finally croaked. “They have killed two of my tax collectors, and now they must be punished.”
Wulfram risked a glance at Sandor who seemed equally perplexed about what this had to do with them. He found it surprising only two of the collectors sent to extort the heavy taxes had been murdered, but deemed it wiser to keep his mouth shut.
Harthacanute brandished a fist, revealing a near-fleshless arm when the sleeve of his robe slipped to his elbow. “You will go to Leofric of Mercia and instruct him that Worcester is to be razed and every inhabitant slaughtered.”
This wasn’t the journey they’d anticipated, but it would be suicide to argue with a man who was obviously close to death and whose thirst for blood smacked of lunacy.
“We will do as you bid, Sire,” Wulfram replied, wondering what the chances were of surviving Earl Leofric’s outrage when he learned he was expected to destroy his priory town and the people of his own tribal kingdom.
ROSWITHA
Roswitha of Pershore hefted the last bundle of nettle-cloth onto the handcart under the watchful eye of her crippled step-father who sat on a large flat stone by the retting pond.
“Ye know I would accompany ye, if I could,” Kennald the Weaver lamented, coming to his feet with the aid of the wooden crutches he’d been obliged to use since the royal tax collectors had broken both his legs.
Roswitha knelt by the side of the pond and dipped her nettle-stung hands into the murky water. Since the untimely death of her mother, she’d been tasked with gathering the plants and retting the fibres from the stems. It was only
by the grace of God that Kennald’s loom produced a smooth durable cloth from such a noxious weed.
Resigned to a slight lessening of the infernal itching, she stood, dabbed her hands dry on the hem of her skirts and pecked a kiss on her step-father’s cheek. They’d scarcely exchanged a word prior to her mother’s demise. Deprived of his wife as the target of his temper, he’d taken to using his fists on Roswitha, and his fits of anger were more frequent now.
However, she was determined to be a dutiful daughter to a man she barely knew and didn’t like. He’d suffered terribly from the tax collectors’ beating and would likely never walk without crutches again. “All shall be well,” she said, wishing she was as confident as she tried to sound. “There is no choice but to take your fine cloth to the fair in Worcester.”
“Cursed taxes,” he replied. “Aye, Worcester is the only market where ye’ll make enough to pay the Danish king. No wonder folk hereabouts have slain two of his henchmen, hopefully the same bastards who maimed me.”
Roswitha glanced around. Her family, descended from the ancient Hwicce tribe, had lived in Pershore for generations, but a person never knew who might be listening. Theirs wasn’t the only retting pond fed by the Avon. “Don’t fret,” she reassured him, “Delwyn the Shepherd is coming with me to pull the cart.”
Her step-father scowled and hobbled away. “Aye. A simpleton.”
She winced. Delwyn had already arrived and settled his beefy arms over the handles of the cart. She hoped he hadn’t heard the cruel words. While it was true that the shepherd rarely spoke, except to his sheep, she sensed he wasn’t the imbecile folk judged him to be. He’d been the only neighbor to come to their aid after the beating. She couldn’t have considered the important journey to Worcester without his offer of assistance.
She furled her mother’s shawl around her shoulders and waved. “Delwyn. Good morrow to ye!”
He beamed his usual grin in reply and pointed to the pile of cloth in the cart.
She shook her head, thinking he might be the last person left in Harthacanute’s kingdom who remembered how to smile. “No. I’ll walk beside ye, at least for the first while.”
“Take care,” her step-father shouted from the doorway of their hovel. “The Dane will want revenge. His wrath will fall on Worcester.”
It was hardly an encouraging fare-thee-well, but she understood his rancor. However, she didn’t want Delwyn changing his mind. “The Danish king might be angry, but Earl Leofric is powerful and will protect us,” she reassured him. “He’s Hwiccan by blood and will never allow Harthacanute to harm his people.”
Delwyn eyed her thoughtfully, then shrugged before setting the cart in motion. She prayed God would forgive her for thinking that an ox couldn’t have made pulling the heavily laden cart look any easier.
All went well for a mile or two, but Roswitha soon became footsore. Delwyn helped her climb atop the fabric and set off again. “I am queen of the nettle weavers,” she cried to the four winds as they neared the top of a hill.
Delwyn looked over his shoulder to grin at her, and lost his footing in the soft earth. He made a valiant effort to keep the cart upright, but Roswitha had to leap for safety as it toppled. Most of the nettle-cloth stayed in the cart. However, as she peered up from where she’d landed on her bottom in the dirt, she feared it would all have to be unloaded in order to right the conveyance.
Delwyn babbled his upset as he hurried to scoop her up.
“Put me down,” she protested, feeling like a rag doll in his massive embrace. “I am not injured.”
He came to an abrupt halt and set her on her feet. Her heart skittered when he took up a stance between her and two broad-shouldered men in leather armor who’d approached with great stealth.
One was older, but not as old as her step-father; the other young, his long, fair hair betraying his origins. “Danes,” she whispered to her champion, fearing it might be the last word she ever uttered.
* * *
Wulfram drew his sword, ready to lop off the head of the lout who’d attacked the redheaded girl. He couldn’t abide men who preyed on women.
Sandor stayed his hand. “The ox is actually trying to protect her from you.”
“He’s an idiot then,” Wulfram replied, sheathing his sword, though he had to grudgingly admire an unarmed peasant who stood with meaty fists raised to challenge two heavily armed Viking warriors. He showed the fellow his empty palms and pointed to the toppled cart.
The girl peeked from behind the giant and something peculiar happened inside Wulfram. His heart suddenly understood the beefy imbecile’s desire to protect her, and his pik was impressed too. She was stunningly beautiful. Surely she wasn’t wed to the oaf.
But he frowned when she stepped forward and insisted, “Delwyn isn’t an idiot.”
He stared back at her, knowing he’d spent too much time in this alien land. He’d spoken their foreign tongue without thinking.
Sandor nudged him and pointed to the cart. “Apparently Delwyn has decided we’re not a threat.”
The giant was straining to right the wagon. The barefoot girl skipped over and began picking up pieces of cloth that had fallen on the path. Her hands were mottled with red welts, leading him to suspect she’d been the one to gather the nettles from which the cloth had been made.
He went to help her, satisfied Sandor’s aid would be sufficient to right the cart. “That’s it, Wulfram,” his brother called in the Norse dialect only Jomsvikings understood. “Follow your pik!”
He ignored the taunt and hunkered down next to the girl. “What is your name?” he asked, taking a bundle from her, impressed by its quality.
“Roswitha,” she murmured.
She looked up at him, fear evident in her green eyes. He wanted it gone. “Don’t worry. We won’t hurt you.”
She shook her head. “Ye are Danes. King’s men.”
It bothered him that English folk still feared Norsemen after more than twenty years of Danish rule, but having borne witness to Harthacanute’s thirst for vengeance, he partly understood it. “I am not a Dane. I’m from Jomsborg. It’s a stronghold on the Baltic.”
It was clear from her frown she had no notion of what he meant. He took hold of her hands. “They pain you,” he said, filled with an urge to kiss away her hurts.
She jerked her hands out of his grip and struggled to her feet. “The cart is righted. We can be on our way.”
He got the feeling something had happened to make her fear Danes, and she hadn’t understood his attempt to distance himself from the brutality of the current regime. Yet, he was heartsore that he couldn’t deny he was the harbinger of destruction for Worcester and its people. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Worcester,” she replied, trailing after the giant as he set the cart in motion once again.
HORSES AND SHEEP
“I cannot allow you to proceed to Worcester,” Wulfram declared, irritated when the imbecile and the girl ignored him and kept walking.
“Stop,” he bellowed.
Sandor pulled him away. “I say we retrieve the horses and be on our way. It’s not our fault if they’re heading for danger.”
It was true, but he had to stop them. “If I only save one person from Harthacanute’s folly, it will be something.”
Sandor winked. “Especially if that one person is a redheaded wench who’s attracted the attention of your pik.”
“That has naught to do with it,” he lied. “You get the horses and catch us up.”
Sandor went off, shaking his head.
Wulfram hastened to Roswitha’s side. “You cannot go to Worcester.”
She thrust her chin in the air and kept walking.
Delwyn glanced at him nervously. Maybe the oaf would listen. He stood in front of the peasant, blocking his way. The cart halted.
Roswitha stormed up to him, hands on hips. “Listen, Viking bully, we are going to the market in Worcester.”
Her defiance was almost amusing, but
the desperation in her green eyes gave him pause. “Why is it so important? Can you not sell your cloth at other local fairs?”
Tears welled. “Not enough money.”
“For what?”
She pouted mightily and studied her bare feet. “Taxes for your cursed Danish king.”
Exasperated at once again being accused of kinship with Harthacanute, he gestured to the cloth stacked in the wagon. “From all this you will make only enough to pay your taxes?”
She glared at him in response, her chin quivering. “Even this will not be sufficient. We are already in arrears.”
His heart lurched. She and the oaf were husband and wife. “We?”
To his consternation she burst into tears. “My step-father and me. They broke his legs because he couldn’t pay, and they will come back.”
Wulfram’s gut clenched. He had a suspicion what punishment the tax collectors might impose next if they didn’t receive payment. Or mayhap they’d already violated her.
Her blighted hands bore testimony to a life of harsh toil. Her step-father had evidently woven the cloth despite terrible injuries. She had undertaken a journey with only a simpleton as a companion. If he refused to allow her to enter a city that was going to be destroyed her life might be in jeopardy when she returned home without coin.
Sandor appeared with the horses.
Wulfram mounted his steed. “We will accompany you,” he told her, holding out his hand. “You ride with me.”
She backed away from Banki as if the gelding was a snorting dragon.
Sandor chuckled.
Impatient, Wulfram dismounted, lifted her over his shoulder, got back on the horse and sat her on his lap. Her squirming and squealing produced an arousal the like of which he’d not experienced for—well, he couldn’t recall. Mayhap she’d be riding a dragon to Worcester after all.
