Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  The little girl gasped in dismay.

  The woman, still with her back turned, interrupted the story. “Well, they obviously didn’t use a strong enough chain,” she muttered, resuming her chopping.

  “Then what happened?” Kimbery asked.

  He smiled slyly. “The gods decided they needed a stronger chain.” He saw the woman’s shoulders rise and fall with an irritated sigh. “So Thor promised he’d work harder this time and make a chain that could never be broken. He hammered at his forge for three days and three nights. When he was done, the chain was so heavy that even mighty Thor could hardly lift it. This time, Fenrir was not so willing to be bound. But the gods praised his great strength and assured Fenrir he could easily break that chain as well. So he finally let them put the chain about his neck.”

  “Did he break it, too?”

  “He gave a great shake of his head,” he said, demonstrating, “and a forceful bound, and he broke free of even that chain.”

  The woman stabbed her knife into the block with a loud clunk, clearly displeased with the direction the story was taking. But he didn’t care. He had a point to make. No Pictish woman was going to get the best of him, trying to keep him leashed like Fenrir.

  “Then what happened?” Kimbery asked.

  “Thor was very discouraged, and the gods didn’t know what to do. Finally, Frey, the god of summer, said he would ask the dwarves who lived deep in the earth to forge a chain, for though they were small, they possessed powerful magic. Surely they could make a chain strong enough to hold Fenrir.”

  The little girl was enthralled now. She sat with her chin in her hands, leaning forward as far as possible. Her mother had begun chopping another batch of seaweed, but he noticed she was doing so quietly. No doubt she was hanging on his every word as well.

  “It took them two days and two nights, but the dwarves fashioned a chain out of the six strongest elements they could find. They used the roots of rocks, the spit of birds, the footsteps of cats, the beards of women, the breath of fish, and the sinew of bears. They presented the chain to the gods, and though it was fine and light, the dwarves assured them the magic chain was unbreakable. Of course, by this time, the gods knew Fenrir was too clever to allow them to bind him a third time. So they invited him to join them on a voyage to a beautiful island, where they would play games together and demonstrate feats of strength.”

  “What’s an island?”

  He frowned. The little girl lived on an island. Didn’t she know that? “Land surrounded by water.”

  “Like my house?”

  “Aye.”

  “Nay,” the woman countered, “it isn’t the same, Kimmie. We only live beside the ocean.”

  “You live on an island,” he told her.

  “We do not,” the woman said, turning to him with a scowl.

  “It’s a large island, to be sure, but—“

  “We don’t live on an island.”

  He arched a brow in challenge. “Really? How do you know? Have you ever sailed the seas?”

  The woman gave him an affronted sniff and turned back to her work, clearly upset by this revelation.

  Avril was positive the Viking was wrong. She’d traveled for days—north, south, and west—and never run into the sea. But the marauders of the North sailed great distances. If anyone knew the oceans, it was a Northman. The idea that she might live on an island was disconcerting. The idea that he knew her home better than she did troubled her greatly.

  “Then what happened?” Kimmie asked. “Then what?”

  “The gods brought out the chain, and they all tried to break it, but none could do it, not even Thor, who said it was so strong that surely only Fenrir could break it. Fenrir was too proud to refuse their challenge. He allowed them to place the chain around his neck on one condition—that one of the gods put his right hand in Fenrir’s mouth while they did so as an act of faith, to prove they didn’t mean to imprison him.”

  Kimbery gasped.

  “The gods, of course, did mean to imprison him, so no one wanted to put a hand in Fenrir’s mouth. But loyal Tyr stepped bravely forward and placed his hand between the wolf’s sharp teeth. They put the chain around Fenrir’s neck, and Fenrir tried to break it, but the more he lunged, the tighter the chain became. When he found he couldn’t get free, he snapped his jaws in anger and bit off Tyr’s hand.”

  “Oh, nay!” Kimbery cried.

  Avril turned to address her daughter. “Which is why, Kimmie, we don’t go near dangerous chained beasts.” She lifted a smug brow at him.

  He returned a smug brow and replied, “Which is why we shouldn’t keep ‘dangerous beasts’ chained.”

  “Did Tyr die?” Kimmie asked.

  “Nay, he didn’t die,” the man said. “He became a hero in Asgard because of his bravery.”

  “Mama, I want to go to Asgard.”

  Avril gave the Viking a long-suffering glower. He smiled in return.

  “Kimmie,” she said, “come help me wash the sloke.”

  Kimbery skipped over and plopped down on her stool while Avril brought her a bucket of fresh water. The little girl pushed up her sleeves and thrust her arms into the water, stirring vigorously as Avril dumped the chopped seaweed into the bucket.

  The Viking’s story had been completely absurd, of course. There was no such place as Asgard, no god with a hammer, no dwarves who forged magical chains. Still, the tale had been entertaining enough, and it had kept Kimmie occupied.

  The man had been right about one thing, however. Avril did harbor the fear that Kimbery’s Viking blood might be stirred to life one day, that she would become enthralled by the mysterious world of her Viking father, and that Avril would somehow lose her Pictish daughter to the marauders of the North.

  She could feel the Viking’s ice-blue eyes on her as she coaxed the fire to life and added more wood. His attention was quite disturbing. But then there wasn’t much else for him to look at, she supposed. She was tempted to blindfold him, but that seemed unnecessarily cruel. If only he wouldn’t watch her every move...

  “That’s good, Kimmie. We’ll put it on to boil now and go milk Caimbeul.”

  It could do no harm to leave the Viking alone at this point. He seemed adequately trussed up. They’d be gone only a short while, long enough to milk the ewe and turn her into the pasture.

  Chapter 5

  The instant they closed the cottage door, Brandr began struggling at his bonds, praying for Fenrir’s strength. The way he saw it, eventually the woman would tire of having him in her cottage. But she wouldn’t just set him free. She’d turn him over to someone who knew what to do with a captive Viking. The last thing he wanted was to force her into a hasty decision.

  He strained with all his might against the leather collar. With his arm splinted, it was even more useless now. But if he pulled hard enough, he might be able to work the iron ring out of the wall. Once that was done, he could reach the knot to free his ankles. Then he’d flee. And he’d take that magnificent sword with him.

  Where he’d go, he didn’t know. It wouldn’t be easy for a tall, blond, blue-eyed Northman to hide in this land of dark-haired dwarves.

  The leather rubbed his throat raw, and he nearly choked himself more than once, but he couldn’t dislodge the ring. When they returned, he was no closer to freedom. The woman, however, suspected something, for she gave him a sharp look as she set a bucket of milk on the table.

  “You’re sweating,” she said.

  “I’m beside the fire,” he replied.

  She frowned dubiously and opened her mouth to speak, but Kimbery interrupted her. “I milked Caimbeul,” she announced proudly. “Her name’s Caimbeul because she has a crooked mouth, like this.” She made a comical sneer. “Have you ever milked a sheep?”

  He shook his head.

  “Indeed?” her mother asked with a sly lift of her brow. “I’ll have to teach you how when your arm heals.”

  He narrowed his eyes. Teach him to milk a sheep? Did
she plan to enslave him? The idea was absurd. He was the son of a noble, a warrior. And unless she meant to keep him tied up, he’d easily fight his way free. A featherweight wench and her four-year-old daughter were no match for a Viking.

  But this was good news. Without the imminent threat of death and with the benefit of time, he could easily lull her into a false trust. Then, when she least expected it, he’d manage his escape.

  “Want to see my picture?” Kimbery asked him. She didn’t wait for an answer, galloping into the bedchamber and returning with a square piece of slate.

  He turned his head to look at it. “Is that me?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you draw it?”

  She nodded again.

  “What does it say?”

  “Kimbery,” her mother interrupted, “don’t bother him.”

  “I’m not.” Then she pointed to the letters, confiding to him in a loud whisper, “It says Da.”

  He couldn’t help but smile at that. The little girl certainly was bullheaded.

  Her mother, obviously eager to end their conversation, asked, “How is the sloke doing, Kimmie?”

  Kimbery set the slate down and peered into the clay pot nestled amongst the coals. “It’s bubbling, Mama.”

  “Good. Don’t stand too close to the fire.”

  The little girl took a dramatic step backward and started idly twirling her braid between her fingers. Her gaze slid over to him, then to the floor, and she wrinkled her forehead in concern. Following her eyes, he saw he was crushing her cloth doll beneath his hip. He moved aside as much as he could, which wasn’t very much.

  “Mama,” she said plaintively, “I want Maeve back.”

  The woman clucked her tongue. “You shouldn’t have given her to him.”

  Kimbery’s bottom lip trembled.

  The woman sighed softly. “Very well. You stay back. I’ll get her.”

  She approached carefully and crouched beside him. She smelled fresh, like sunshine and sweet grass. Her underdress was still untied, and when she bent forward, he could see the upper crescent of her breast, as pale and smooth as cream. A surge of lust rose in him, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that she began rummaging under his buttock for the doll.

  His uneasy grunt alerted her to what she was doing. Suddenly mortified, she seized the doll and yanked it out, unfortunately tearing its arm in the process.

  Naturally, Kimbery began screaming in horror at the sight, and it took several moments before her mother could placate her with the fact that the doll could be easily repaired.

  Meanwhile, Brandr was glad his hands were bound over his lap, for the sight of his rising desire would undoubtedly upset them even more. It certainly upset him. He’d lost his wife less than a year ago. It wasn’t right that he should be aroused by this strange woman.

  Eventually order was restored, though the woman had to pause in her other chores to stitch the doll’s arm back on. When she was finished, the little girl studied her handiwork intently to be sure it was correct. Apparently satisfied, she took the doll into her bedchamber, chattering to it all the way.

  The woman was busy the rest of the day. He’d never seen anyone work so hard. Even the thralls of his country were allowed to rest. But she labored from sunrise to well after sunset, keeping the fire stoked, preparing supper, milking the sheep, laundering linens, making cheese, mending clothes, even teaching her daughter to read and write. No wonder she wanted to make a slave out of him.

  The seaweed pottage was remarkably tasty, especially after she added the fresh sheep’s milk, smoked fish, and wild onions to it. It might not be the succulent roast pig he preferred, but he had to admire her ability to make delicious fare out of what was at hand. Indeed, if he’d come to Pictland for pillage and prisoners, he would have considered himself lucky to take such a resourceful woman home as a slave.

  At the end of the day, the woman heated water for Kimbery’s bath and undressed her. As the little girl streaked through the cottage naked, squealing that she didn’t want a bath, Brandr had to bite back a smile. Eventually, her mother caught her and plopped her into a makeshift tub of a split ale cask. After a bit, the little girl’s protests subsided, and she began playing in the water, singing and splashing. By the time she was scrubbed clean, her mother’s kirtle was drenched, and Kimbery now didn’t want to get out of the tub.

  She kicked and screamed as her mother picked her up. Brandr, amused by the wicked little sprite’s antics, couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

  Avril turned in surprise. The Northman was grinning. His eyes sparkled like the sunlit sea, and his teeth flashed as white as snow. But it was the low rumble of his laughter that took her breath away. She didn’t realize how much she’d missed that sound. She hadn’t heard male laughter in four long years.

  Then Kimbery, wet and slippery, taking advantage of Avril’s distraction, slid out of her grasp and began tearing around the cottage. She dodged the linen Avril held out until Avril finally gave up, figuring the little girl would dry herself off with her running.

  The Viking’s smile turned bittersweet then, and a faraway look came into his eyes. Avril knew at once that he must be remembering his own daughter.

  She forced her gaze away, dabbing at her damp kirtle with the linen. It wasn’t her concern. His people hadn’t cared whose children they slaughtered when they’d raided Rivenloch. Why should she care what had happened to his daughter? And yet, against her will, words fell softly from her lips. “What was your daughter’s name?”

  He glanced up, as if surprised she’d read his thoughts. “Asta.”

  “It’s a pretty name.”

  “She was a pretty...” He choked on the words. “A pretty lass.”

  She shouldn’t feel sorry for him. The Vikings killed pretty Pictish lasses all the time. But there was a deep sorrow in the Northman’s eyes that pulled at her heart.

  “Who’s Inga?” The words tumbled out of her mouth unbidden, mortifying her. She should never have asked him that. He probably didn’t remember calling her by that name or kissing her anyway.

  His gaze shot straight to hers.

  “You...spoke her name in your sleep,” she explained.

  He frowned. “I dreamt she was alive.”

  “Your wife,” she guessed.

  He nodded.

  He must have loved her well. That kiss had been full of tenderness and desire. As odd as it was, Avril envied the dead woman. His fortunate Inga had known the love of a devoted husband. Avril had only experienced the mindless lust of a Viking berserker and a handful of men for whom she felt nothing.

  Just then Kimbery went galloping past. Before Avril could catch her, the wee lass dove at the shocked Northman. She plopped herself into his lap and captured his gold-stubbled face playfully between her hands.

  “Da!” she cried.

  Avril’s heart leaped into her mouth. Tiny, pale, bare Kimbery looked so vulnerable against the Viking’s broad chest. Lord, he could bite off her hand with one snap of his jaws, just like that wolf in his story.

  She glanced up in horror at his face. But he looked far more rattled than she was. No doubt he was unused to strange naked children leaping into his arms.

  “Kimbery!” she barked. “Get away from him!”

  Kimbery clambered down, looking guilty. She probably hadn’t intended to disobey. She’d only been caught up in her play.

  Still, Avril didn’t dare let her think it was acceptable to traffic with Vikings. “Go to bed. Now.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Now!”

  The little girl began to weep, which made Avril feel awful. After all, she’d been so happy a moment ago. But Avril couldn’t afford to let down her guard. Kimbery’s life depended upon it.

  Tears of heartbreak streamed down Kimmie’s face. She started sobbing in earnest and shuffled sadly off to the bedchamber.

  Avril bit her lip in remorse. It was hard being a mother. Sometimes she thought she would have had an e
asier time commanding the army of Rivenloch than she did watching over one wee lass.

  But the horrible memory of the berserker hurling his ax into the child’s back would never be far away from her thoughts. Kimbery’s sobs might tear at her, but at least she was alive to sob.

  By the time Avril cleaned up the bath, Kimmie’s crying had subsided to sniffles. “Mama?” she called tentatively from the bedchamber. “Come tell me a story.”

  Avril was tempted to tell her a story about vicious invading savages from the North, to cure her of her misplaced affection for their captive. But she supposed that would give the lass nightmares. Instead, she told her the story of the time she defeated all four of her brothers in combat.

  From the next room, Brandr listened in rapt fascination. The woman was telling a grand, typically Pictish tale to her daughter about a warrior wench who’d disguised herself as a man and fought against her own brothers. It was a good story, like the sagas of his people—full of excitement, adventure, and retribution—and the woman had a pleasant voice, lilting and dramatic.

  “The first brother, Eldred,” she told the little girl, “was very arrogant and boastful.”

  “Arrogant?” Kimbery asked.

  “Like this,” she said, and Brandr heard her striding about the room, probably with her arms crossed and her nose in the air. “Anyway, Eldred had never been defeated in battle. So when this new warrior challenged him, he accepted, saluting his foe with a cocky flourish of his blade. They began to fight, exchanging blows back and forth.”

  Brandr could hear her scuffling about and grunting as she recreated the battle with an invisible sword.

  “But Eldred was so sure he would win,” she said, “that he started to grow careless. And when he relaxed his guard and wasn’t paying attention, his sister ducked underneath his arm. With the hilt of her sword, she delivered a hard jab to his chin and knocked him flat.”

  Kimbery cheered. “What about the other brothers?”

  “Grimbol, the second brother, had a nasty temper and was quick to anger. Once he saw Eldred defeated, he immediately drew his sword and rushed in. He meant to slay the warrior who’d dared to humiliate his older brother.”