by T S Florence
Skald’s plan paid off. Just two nights later, Gregor came to their camp with news.
“We know of Freya’s location, and we also learned some news of you, Skald the Heartless,” Gregor said, eyeing him carefully.
“Well, tell me the good first, and the bad after,” Skald clipped, keeping emotion from his face, which wasn’t difficult.
“We heard that Freya is with the MacKenzie clan. They are Highlanders close to the Northern Shore, which means we will need to ride through most of Scotland to reach them. And secondly, we heard from other Northmen that have raided with you that you are incapable of feeling. That words and actions from others have no effect on you, that you have never shown the ability to care for woman or man, during death, love, or sorrow,” Gregor said.
“Well the news of me is correct. So we can assume the news of Freya is also correct. We leave tomorrow morning,” Skald said, his lips curling up in anticipation of finding the bewitching valkyrie shieldmaiden bow kona. Freya, the Goddess of Death. And there you go again, Valkyrie, causing my heart rattle in its icy confines, wanting to jump at your name. What do you have that I need so desperately? Will I need to fight for you? How did you captivate me so before I had ever laid eyes on you. Is it simply a desire to kill? A desire to love? Or is it simply lust that drives me, like so many other men?
“They say the land is treacherous to travel by horse, with the many clans who would relish killing us all,” Gregor said, uncertainly.
“If you’re not up for a fight then go back to Norway,” Skald clipped, causing Erik and Haaken to laugh, and Gorm to reach for his hilt.
“I fear no battle and no man,” Gregor growled, “and I would prove it by taking your head.”
Skald ignored the comment, pleased he had found Gregor so easy to provoke. Emotions caused too many problems, maybe I am better off feeling nothing.
“We will travel by ship,” Skald said, turning over to sleep.
The next morning, after some asking around at the local markets they found a man who took care of horses for men when they travelled. The man maintained a large stables near the docks.
“We do not need to pay this man, if he doesn’t keep our horses we will kill him when we return,” Gregor laughed, saying it loud enough for the elderly man to hear him.
Skald did not say anything, but slipped two gold coins to the old man as they left the stables, which was enough to keep their horses for the next two years.
The boat was magnificent. It had a wide belly, and a high bow. It was a Viking boat, built by the best carpenters in the lands, as far as Skald could tell. The Scottish weather was grey and cold more often than not, but Skald noticed that on that day, the sky was blue and the air was crisp, keeping his senses keen.
“I fucking hate boats,” Gregor said, as he walked down the gang plank.
Skald ignored the complaint as he observed the boat, and the men who would be rowing. Most of them were slaves, weak and docile, so Skald ordered Erik and Haaken to take up an oar each, with Ragnar and himself also voluntarily taking oars, which caused a laugh from Gregor, and a scowl from Gorm.
“Why row when you have these slaves?” Gregor asked.
“Because we are vikings. Vikings row. Vikings sail. Vikings fight. I have no proof you do any of these things, yet,” Skald said, eying him disdainfully.
The trip took them all day, and they arrived close to the Northern coast by nightfall.
“Where have we docked?” Skald asked the captain of the ship.
“This is Sutherland clan land,” the man said, leaning against the ship’s mast, as he pointed toward a great grey castle, “And that’s the Sutherland Chieftan’s castle. There’s three brothers of significance that ye should ken. Lucas Sutherland, Campbell Sutherland, and Logan Sutherland. Logan is their Chieftan, and he keeps his brothers in close confidence. I dunnae what business you have here, but if you treat those brothers with respect, they will treat you kindly in return. Logan Sutherland is a fair man,” the ship’s captain said.
Skald gave the man a gold coin and started toward the castle. There were many warriors stationed near the castle, and it didn’t take long for the six vikings to be questioned as to their presence on Sutherland clan land.
“I’m here to discuss your relationship with the MacKenzie clan,” Skald said.
“What business do ye have with the MacKenzie’s,” one of the men growled.
“None, yet.” Skald said.
“The MacKenzies are filth, and if ye plan to fraternise with them, then you’ll not be earning any Sutherland friends,” another man said.
“Fraternising is not the word I would use to describe my intended relations with the MacKenzie clan,” Skald said, growing impatient. “Take me to your chieftain.”
“He’ll not take kindly to being bothered by men wishing to deal with MacKenzies,” the man said.
“I’ll take my chances,” Skald began walking toward the castle without waiting for a reply.
Skald was surprised at the level of civility that went on within the castle. Women were well dressed and the men were gentle with their women and children, which was a far cry from the savage Scotsmen he had faced and killed in battle.
“And who are you, coming into my lands and asking about my enemies?” A tall, red haired man, with a wild look in his eye, walked toward Skald.
“Skald,” Skald said.
“Skald the Heartless?” The man asked?
“Yes,” Skald said.
“I ken men who’d pay a pretty penny for your head, lad” the man said.
“Are you the chieftain?” Skald asked.
“I’m his brother. What do ye want with him?” He said.
“To talk, about a woman the MacKenzies have,” Skald said.
“Verra well. It sounds like this may work to our favour. My name is Lucas,” the tall Scot said.
The inside of the castle was rich with tapestries and bustling with giggling maids and children running between their legs. The rich smell of cooking stew and baking bread filled the air. On the roof of the castle, they found a huge man, at least a head taller than Lucas. He had tangled red hair, and was younger than Skald had expected, being no older than 21 years old.
“You have guests,” Lucas said to his older brother.
“Welcome,” the man said, looking over the grassy expanse, under a blanked of stars, lit by the moon.
“My name is Skald, and these are my men, Ragnar, Erik and Haaken,” Skald said, feeling a similar presence of his leader, Ivar.
“Vikings?” The man asked.
“Yes,” Skald said.
“And what of the other two,” the man asked.
“We are Gregor and Gorm,” Gregor interjected, speaking too loudly as he stepped forward, to make himself more noticed.
“I’m sure you’re aware that I am Chieftain Logan Sutherland,” Logan said, looking to Skald.
“Yes,” Skald said.
“And what business do ye have coming onto my lands?” Logan asked.
“I have come in search of Freya, Goddess of Death,” Skald answered, waiting to weigh the mans reaction.
His brow furrowed, and for the first time since their arrival, he turned to give Skald his full attention.
“Do ye ken we are not on good terms with the MacKenzies?” Logan asked.
“I do. I thought we might come to a mutually beneficial agreement regarding their housing of Freya and her men,” Skald said.
“What men? Freya suffered great loss to your leader, Ivar the Cruel, and as such she found her way back to MacKenzie land with only one other man,” Logan said.
We hurt her more than I realised. What condition is she in? Surely she will no longer be partaking in any battles, Skald thought to himself, processing the significant news.
“How do you know this?” Skald asked.
“We have our ways,” Logan said, looking back out to the fields. “I’m guessing it’s revenge you’re after, but I’m curious, what would I get in r
eturn for allowing you to stay here while you hatch your viking plans?”
“Gold,” Skald stood beside Logan, the rest of the men silently standing behind them.
“And if I took your gold, anyway?” Logan asked.
“This is Ivar the Cruel’s Gold,” Skald replied.
“Verra well, we have a deal,” Logan said, shaking Skald’s hand.
Ah, Ivar, your reputation never fails to demand respect. If only Logan knew how little you cared for all the gold you have acquired.
20
Freya
8 years earlier
“You are now a young woman, my beautiful daughter, and as such, for your thirteenth birthday, I want to gift you a bow that I have been working on,” Freya’s father revealed a bow that he had been hiding from her. The long sleek piece of wood had been carved and polished, and it glistened in the sun.
“Father, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Freya gasped.
“Then I will get you a mirror for your next birthday, because nothing matches you, my sweet daughter,” her father said, his eyes glistening with pride.
“Oh father, don’t cry,” Freya said, wrapping her arms around him.
“You’re already a great bow kona, better than any hunter I know,” her father said.
“As long as you do not use your this to kill unnecessarily, but only to provide yourself with food and to protect yourself from harm, then you shall life a safe and fulfilled life,” her father said.
But, unfortunately for Freya, life could not be so simple. For only a year later, shortly after her eleventh birthday, her father grew sick and died. Anticipating that men would take advantage of her, she went to her Uncle, a man known in their village for having been in many battles.
Within a two years, by thirteen, she was a bow kona for a group of hard men, who went raiding to feed their families.
8 years later - current day
At just twenty one years old, Freya had almost seized the opportunity of a lifetime, to sell a princess back to her loving family for an amount of money that would allow her to retire in such a great wealth she would never need fear for her life or going hungry again.
Finding that princess had turned out to be a curse, and caused Freya to lose everything she had worked towards since she was just eleven years old. And now, she was alone and vulnerable in a strange land, kept safe only because one of the Mackenzie men wanted to lay with her.
Rising out of bed was suddenly a challenge, like nothing she had ever felt. The jokes told at the dinner table were no longer funny, and the skies seemed a more gray. People seemed a little less friendly and her heart beat a little more quiet. Freya had lost everything. She was responsible for the deaths of over 100 men.
She was not born to lead men. She was not a great warrior. She was just a silly girl who had been taught how to use a bow exceptionally well. Now, not even her father’s gift to her brought her any joy. The well worn bow, now over 8 years old, felt like an old friend in her hand, but the old friend could no longer cheer her damaged soul.
Freya could sense the unease of the Mackenzie clan, due to the Sutherland clan’s interest in her being there. A viking and an Englishman in the same clan’s castle was not a good look amongst highlanders. She was running out of time, but she had nowhere to run. No one to save her. Freya had never felt more alone in her entire life. Even when her father died, she knew she could turn to her father; but now?
She was alone in a strange land, with strange people, who she could barely understand. She could feel the hungry eyes of men undressing her in their minds, as she walked the hallways of the castle.
Jack Ashborn
He could sense her sadness. He could see it in her eyes. With such a reputation, it was easy to forget that Freya the Goddess of Death, was barely a girl out of her teens. Her Charcoal hair reminded him of his Blacksmith father, always covered in black dust. And her piercing blue eyes reminded him of the cold, sad, English oceans.
“They say a trading ship comes through here once a month,” Jack stood in the doorway, looking at Freya as she lay in her bed, staring at the wall.
“That’s good, thankyou Jack,” she said, her mind clearly elsewhere. She had barely spoken since their retreat after Ivar the Cruel’s attack.
He had not seen a woman fight like Freya, and he had not seen a leader feel the death so deeply of each and every one of their warriors. He had never heard a woman cry herself to sleep every night, muffled by her furs, in an attempt to go unnoticed. But Jack noticed.
“We can go to Newcastle, I have a place you can stay,” Jack said, hopefully.
“Thank you, Jack,” Freya said, looking over to him for only a second with a small smile, before staring back at the wall.
Freya
Like clockwork, since every morning that had passed after the slaughter of her men, Freya jerked awake, out of the nightmare she had experienced night after night. The nightmare that Ivar the Cruel had imposed with his men on hers. As she loosed the arrow, she watched the great man, Magnus the Mighty, fall to the ground. Every time, after he fell, there stood the same dark haired cruelly handsome man behind him, his cold piercing eyes, his emotionless face, his heartless gaze.
It was another bleak morning. The sky was blue, the air was warm, and children were playing. Yet Freya only saw shades of grey. She picked up her bow and went out into the courtyard, where highlanders were sparring with blunt swords and archers were practicing their aim.
“Good morning, lass,” Dougal said eyeing Freya’s legs as she walked to the standing mark.
“Good morning, Dougal,” Freya said to the Chieftan’s cousin, ignoring his wandering eyes.
“Twas a cold night last night, eh? Ya ken I could always help keep ye warm,” Dougal said, moving closer than Freya felt comfortable with. But this was her normal. Men always pushed their boundaries with Freya. It had been worse since her downfall. The Scotsmen were always looking at her like a piece of meat, like they would take her innocence if they didn’t know she could pierce an arrow clean through their heart.
“I found the night to be warm. Too warm, in fact.” Freya said.
Dougal laughed, “I find it hard to imagine a cold lass like you finding any warmth in her nights, for I’ve seen dead bodies that looked more warm than you.”
Freya flinched at the comment. Dougal was a rough man, and he did not care for the feelings of those around him, yet barbed comments like that left Freya doubting the choices she had made in her life up until this point. Am I really this cold, is this how the world sees me? Am I nothing more than my reputation, Freya the Goddess of Death?
Dougal reached out to touch her behind, which earned him a slap on the face.
“Don’t think I won’t pierce your heart with an arrow, simply because you’re a MacKenzie,” Freya said, sounding less panicked than she felt, due to the years of practice at hiding her emotion from her warriors.
“And don’t you forget whose hospitality you’re using, viking,” Dougal scowled at her before walking off.
Freya loaded her bow, and took aim at the target that was standing 40 feet away. She hit the centre of the target, the arrow going half way through the board.
“What’s wrong?” Jack asked, surprising her, by moving out from behind her in the shadows.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Freya snapped, feeling embarrassed.
“It’s normal to feel unsettled after what Dougal just did. We’ll be out of here soon, and you’ll have plenty of time to get better” Jack said.
“There’s nothing to get better from,” Freya felt frustrated at Jack’s ability to see her frustrations and pains.
“Of course, but you know, it would be more strange for someone to be unaffected after everything you went through,” Jack said.
“Why are you being so nice after I captured you?” Freya snapped.
“Well, you saved me as much as you captured me. Ivar would have taken my head; I’m sure of it. And as far as captors go, you
’re not so bad,” Jack shrugged his shoulders.
Now even my captives don’t fear me. They pity me. And part of me doesn’t care. Part of me doesn’t want to be the feared warrior anymore, but what else is there for a woman like me? If men don’t fear me they will take what they want from me, regardless of whether I give it or not.