Viking Hearts

by Violetta Rand

  “Bring more, woman.”

  The slave bowed and scurried off to refill it.

  Minutes later, his captain returned with his bags. “I leave the hall in your capable hands, Rutland.” He then disappeared behind the tapestries dividing the common area from his chamber.

  Made up of three rooms, his quarters were luxurious. He eyed the oversized, carved bed, the one his parents once slept on. The one he slept in alone. In order to keep his title and lands within his direct bloodline, he must sire sons. He’d choose one woman and love her for the rest of his days.

  Dropping the three leather bags on his bed, he quickly opened Mauriana’s and pulled out two dresses, a scarf, and gloves. Then he found a small pouch with three silver coins inside. The last item interested him the most. He opened the fur, finding a scroll inside. He unrolled it, eyeing the delicate script. Unlikely as it seemed, he suspected a woman’s hand had penned the story highlighting the life of a great warrior, Haakon Sigurdsson, a jarl from the Trondelag. Intrigued, he walked to his table and sat down, then continued reading.

  The great Haakon had a large family; three wives and twenty children. But the chieftain’s first wife grew more jealous of her husband’s youngest and most beloved mate. In an act of rebellion and hatred, the eldest wife arranged for her rival to be kidnapped and killed. But the man hired to murder her paid her passage to Germania as long as she promised to never return. She agreed and left the Trondelag with only a few possessions. As he looked to the next parchment, something fell from between the pages. Ivar scooted his chair back and looked on the floor near his feet.

  He knelt and picked up a stem of dried, purple saxifrage. More curious now, he put the treasure on his table and returned to the scroll. The flowers were the first thing the youngest wife’s beloved Haakon had ever given her, on the same day he professed his love. Emotions rose inside Ivar’s chest, and he looked to the flowers again, wondering how long they’d been tucked safely between the pages of the scroll.

  Known as Kora, the dejected wife found a new life amongst friendly strangers—married again, and gave birth to three more children, two sons and a daughter. Though Kora mourned the loss of her first family, she never regretted finding love again. This scroll was meant to serve as a testament to her family’s history and bloodties to Scandinavia. Her two families were listed, all her children and grandchildren. And amongst her second family’s offspring, Ivar found Mauriana’s name.

  By Odin, the girl belonged here. The Sigurdssons were a mighty family, blessed with wealth and many sons. With lands only a day’s ride from his own steading, Ivar knew Mauriana deserved to know the truth about her background. She couldn’t read or write Norse, but now he understood why she spoke it so well. Her grandmother had made sure to teach her the language of her people. He dropped the scroll on his table, then picked up the dried flowers again.

  The Sigurdsson banner included a field of these very flowers.

  Awed by this revelation, his heart broke for Mauriana. She’d not only been stripped of her freedom, she’d also been cheated of her true life. For any Viking clearly belonged in his homeland and, whether she knew it or not, the gods had brought her home. Wyrd, he said aloud. All men and women possessed a fate. Nothing could change the course the gods had set.

  Someone knocked on his doorpost and he looked up from his table to find the thrall he ordered more mead from.

  “Enter,” he said.

  She gave him the horn and he drank greedily, then wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand. “Summon my mother.”

  The slave bowed and left.

  Reclining in his chair, Ivar tugged on his beard. His future became clearer. Regardless of Mauriana’s background, after the passionate exchange they’d shared, he’d planned on offering her a new life, one closely linked to him. But this scroll changed things. Born of a noble family, she deserved the respect and honor all Sigurdssons were given.

  “Ivar?” his mother called.

  He stood and welcomed her. “Join me at the table.”

  She sat in the chair across from his. “Has something happened?”

  As much as he didn’t want to admit it, because it meant possibly losing the most courageous and beautiful girl he’d ever met, he had to share the information with his mother who would take care of all the arrangements necessary to unite Mauriana with her family.

  “Read the scroll, Mother.”

  Once she finished, she set it aside and looked at him. “All things happen for a reason, my son.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But first tell me what your heart desires.”

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, Mauriana braved venturing into the great hall alone. Everywhere she looked people were rushing about, sitting down to eat or carrying on with their work. On the far side of the room, at least a dozen women were at the looms. Mauriana could see brilliant colored tapestries taking form. At the high table, she spotted Ivar’s sisters and mother, and who she suspected were his younger brothers, for they all resembled the handsome jarl.

  No one seemed to notice her as she leaned against the wall, taking in the routine of her new home. Though she prayed to Odin to take her back to Hesse, she realized deep in the night as she lay awake that she could either fight Ivar and make their lives miserable or choose to make the best of her unfortunate circumstances. After all, the man had risked much coming to the market and taking her away. For that, she owed him respect. Because the alternative scared her—a bed slave for some filthy mongrel…

  Ivar’s mother had visited her last night, too, again welcoming her to the Trondelag, and provided her with several gowns, a comb, small mirror, pitcher of water, and linens. They’d talked quietly, the elegant woman kinder than she’d ever imagined a woman of prestige to be. And as she breathed in the sweet fragrance of incense coming from burners hanging from the ceiling, and gazed at the stone fire pits and general splendor of the hall, she indeed knew how wealthy and powerful Ivar was. A better friend to have than an enemy.

  A thrall stopped in front of her, offering her a cup of buttermilk. Mauriana took a tentative sip, having never tasted it before. Thick going down her throat, she wasn’t prepared for the sour taste.

  “Don’t like buttermilk?” Ivar asked with a smile, as he approached.

  Mauriana hid the cup behind her back, embarrassed at her reaction to the drink. “I can’t say yet,” she teased. “I’ve only just tasted it for the first time.” She then curtsied. “Good morn’, milord.” Idona had been kind enough to instruct Mauriana on how to greet her son when she next saw him.

  Ivar bowed his head slightly. “You seem more relaxed this morning.” He eyed her from head to toe. “Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  Ivar plucked the offending cup out of her hand and a thrall retrieved it. “Will you accompany me on a walk? I have a bag of food we can take with us.” He showed her the leather pack in his left hand.

  Mauriana still didn’t understand why he insisted on protecting her. Though she could think of a few possibilities, none of them seemed very real. The kisses definitely showed an attraction, but weren’t all men weak when it came to being around women? Although she considered herself fortunate enough to have pretty eyes and a bright smile, Ivar had called her beautiful. She wondered if that was just another way to warm her up to his advances.

  Another secret her father had imparted, men lie to get what they want.

  “And where shall we go?” she asked.

  “I would show you my gardens and the woods behind my house. A stream runs through the center of it—that is where I pay my respects to the gods. I thought we might offer a sacrifice to Odin together, in hope that your family is safe.”

  Mauriana’s family could only afford to make sacrifices on feast days, so the chance to implore the gods to favor her was greatly welcomed. “Aye. Thank you.”

  “One of my captains has already placed two birds on the altar in the fore
st. We need only show up and slice their throats.”

  Mauriana followed him quietly through the hall, people greeting him as they walked by. From the high table, Idona smiled down at her, and Mauriana waved—again unsure of her place in this strange land. But it pleased her to know she would be treated with dignity in this house, unlike Jarl Bodvar’s household, where hostility ran rampant.

  As they stepped outside, warm sunshine hit her face. She raised her chin, closed her eyes, and sucked in a deep breath. The fresh air always had restorative powers.

  “You like the warmth?”

  “I like anything that reminds me of home,” she said, opening her eyes and looking at Ivar.

  Dressed in leather braes and a long linen shirt tucked into his weapon belt, this was the first time she’d ever seen him without mail on. And as she imagined, his shoulders were just as broad, his arms just as sculpted without armor. His lean body made her think of things she never had before. And his tapered waist… Her hands had rested on those hips before, his heat flooded her then. Like she wanted it to do now. Quick to gaze at another part of his body before he caught her staring, she admired his soft leather boots.

  “Do you like my boots?”

  She met his eyes, which looked less menacing, perhaps even merry.

  “Aye,” she said. “I’ve never seen a finer pair.”

  “Then I will have some delivered to your room before the sun sets.”

  “Milord,” she started, touched by his generosity. “Why are you so kind to me?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “No.”

  He sighed and offered his hand. Still unsure of herself, and Ivar, she allowed him to twine his fingers with hers. They walked around the side of the longhouse and the gardens opened up—as far as she could see.

  “Beans, cabbage, peas, and onions are planted here.” Ivar walked briskly down the aisle. “Garlic and dill over there.” He pointed. Then he steered her away from the garden and across an open field where women were gathered. Several of them held baskets. “One of my greatest accomplishments in farming. See this grove of trees?”

  Mauriana counted over thirty in the area. “Aye.”

  “Apples,” he said proudly. “Some say the sweetest in the Trondelag.” He released her hand and walked toward one of the girls.

  She smiled and curtsied, and then Ivar reached inside her basket and pulled out two apples.

  Mauriana’s stomach growled with hunger. The thought of biting into one of those crisp pieces of fruit made her happy—it reminded her of home. And when Ivar offered her the yellowish-red apple, she wasted no time sampling it. She chewed in ecstasy, then grinned at him.

  “Thank you.”

  “Aye,” he said. “And what is your opinion of my apples?”

  “A little tough and tart on the outside,” she observed, taking another bite. “But so sweet on the inside.” She hoped he understood exactly what she meant.

  His dark blue eyes lost their glimmer of happiness momentarily and fixed on her lips. “The luckier I am for only tasting the sweetness.”

  His words made her shiver.

  “Let us continue to the woods.”

  A few minutes later they were sheltered by the trees, the sound of rushing water close by. A well-worn path followed the stream and Ivar set the leather bag on the ground. Hidden underneath the protective branches of a pine tree was a monument with runic symbols. Mauriana recognized the characters from things her grandmother owned, but couldn’t interpret what the inscription meant.

  “This is an ancient place,” Ivar said. “These lands have been in my family for ten generations. I am the eleventh son to claim the seat of the jarl. And my sons after me will do the same.” He turned to Mauriana. “What dreams do you have, sweet Mauriana? Do the gods ever visit you deep in the night, grant you visions of things to come? Have you ever seen the lands of the Vikings? Desired to cross the North Sea and visit the holiest of places—the very forest where some believe Odin breathed life into the first man and woman?”

  “I-I…” She had many times, especially as a young girl after her grandmother told stories around the evening fire. Those were the nights she slept the deepest, her dreams lasting for what seemed forever. The visions were incredibly similar to what she was now seeing. “Yes.”

  “Then come to me, sweetest Mauriana.”

  She edged closer, new feelings springing to life inside her. Why did she feel so comfortable with Ivar? Why did she feel safe? Why did this place seem so familiar?

  “Kneel with me,” Ivar said.

  She did, her knees padded by soft moss and leaves. “What do the runes mean?”

  “Ah,” he smiled at her. “Would you really like to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is a charmed verse from my ancestors, one that shows my family’s connection to the gods. Odin was my father; many a falls have I fared over. A wretched Norn, destined in ancient days that I should wake in water.”

  After he read the words, he pulled a flat stone from behind the monument. The white stone was stained with blood. She recognized it as an altar. And as he’d said, a cloth bag containing two purple herons waited. Ivar laid the carcasses on the altar, then unsheathed a knife from his weapon belt.

  “Give me your hand, Mauriana.”

  Together, they slit the first bird’s throat. “For our safe return,” Ivar said.

  Then he guided her hand again and they drew blood from the second creature. “For delivering Mauriana into my hands,” he started. “We beseech you Allfather to do the same with her family. Bring them safely amongst us.”

  She gazed in wonder at Ivar.

  “Now you,” he urged.

  “Thank you for your mercy, great Odin. I beg you to save my family.” Tears burned her eyes. How she longed to hear her mother chastise her errant siblings and to see her father’s smile. Nothing could replace those precious memories. “I beseech you, Allfather.”

  Ivar laid the knife aside, then turned to her. “Roll up your sleeves.”

  She didn’t want him to see her tattoo, something her parents had warned her never to reveal. “Why?”

  “I will mark your arms with blood. Look at the fourth symbol on the stone. Read alone, it means luck and good fortune.”

  She nodded and then obediently rolled her sleeves up. He went silent.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked, worried.

  He reached for her arm with the tattoo of Thor’s hammer. Calloused fingers traced the ink. “Who did this to you?”

  “My mother.”

  “And where did she learn this art?”

  “From my grandmother.”

  He asked no more questions, but smeared blood on her. Once it dried, she rolled her sleeves down again.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, moving away from the altar and climbing to his feet.

  “Yes.” She stood. “Thank you for praying on my behalf. The spirit of Allfather is strong here, much like at Thor’s holy oak…” She paused in silence, realizing the tree no longer existed. “Forgive me.” She sniffed and turned away.

  “Do not hide your sorrow from me.” Ivar pulled her into his arms and she rested her cheek against his chest. “Do not hide anything from me, Mauriana.”

  Confused by her conflicting emotions, it still felt right letting him hold her. “I miss my family.”

  “Aye,” he said, his big hands massaging her back. “If I have anything to say about it, you will be reunited, I swear it.”

  Chapter Ten

  The tattoo on Mauriana’s arm was the final piece of evidence Ivar needed to prove Mauriana’s lineage. All Sigurdssons were marked with Thor’s hammer. He watched as she nibbled on a piece of cheese, then reached for the wine skin. Though he’d only known her a short while, the time spent in close quarters on Bodvar’s ship had been enough to spark deep feelings inside him. He admired her resiliency and dedication to family. He loved her beautiful face and feminine curves, and the way she clung to him when
ever he touched her. But most of all, he looked forward to breaking through her defensive walls and finally getting her to admit that she, too, had developed feelings for him.

  “Tell me of your brothers and sisters,” he said, truly interested.

  “As you know,” she started. “I am the eldest. My sisters, Sangrida and Hilde, are only a few seasons younger than me—much like your sisters, they couldn’t be more different from each other, and constantly argue. Baldwyn, my only brother, is next. He’s the mischievous sort and very happy keeping company with women. Ebba never leaves my mother’s side. And now my mother is pregnant with her sixth child.”

  “Do you favor your father or mother?”

  “My father I think.” She stared across the stream. “He is fair and tall.”

  Ivar ran his fingers through her hair, then lifted a long golden strand and sniffed it. It smelled as sweet as wild blossoms. “Sangrida and Hilde are Scandinavian names.”

  “Yes.” She looked at him. “My grandmother named them.”

  “Good names,” he said.

  “Your sisters are opinionated,” she observed. “And very kind. I think Rakel and I could be great friends if given a chance. Syn is gentle natured and loves you the most, I think. She spoke of nothing else.”

  Ivar chuckled. “I’m afraid I’ve overindulged both—given them too much freedom. I expect Rakel to marry soon, she needs the steady hand of a husband to keep her out of trouble.”

  “You prefer to pick her future mate?”

  “If I gave her the power to choose for herself, she’d select two or three husbands and invite them all to the altar at the same time. Rakel is easily distracted and loses interest in anything quickly.”

  Mauriana graced him with a warm smile. “Girls in my village are fortunate. We are allowed to fall in love before we marry.”

  Ivar’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “A dangerous practice.”

  “Is it?”

  “How many children are conceived out of wedlock?”

  “Does it matter?” she asked. “Once a couple is betrothed, there is no shame in them bedding each other. Their children are conceived out of love and devotion.”