Vikings: Revenge (The Great Heathen Army series Book 3)

by Ceri Bladen

  “Guthrum,” Ubba’s low voice boomed. “We have come as you requested.” He waved his arm behind him. “Me and my wife.”

  Guthrum laughed when he noticed the small soldier step from behind Ubba. “How very clever, Ubba.” He moved forward to catch Rosfrith’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Although, now I am close, I realise she is too much of a beauty to be a man.”

  Ubba smiled at the compliment for his wife and glanced at Rosfrith, but her attention was not on Guthrum, but the servant standing to his side. He glanced at her, and his eyes widened. He sucked in a quick breath when he recognised the woman Rosfrith had pointed out to him before — her sister. He turned to Guthrum, who flicked his eyes between the two women, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Ubba stepped forward. “I think we need to take this somewhere else, Guthrum. Somewhere more private.”

  “Ay, I think we do.”

  “Then follow me this way,” suggested Ubba.

  Chapter 10

  July 878 -Dunwich Fortress

  “The Vikings are coming! The Vikings are coming!”

  Bryan sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. He must have been dreaming — he thought he’d heard a call that Vikings were coming. The loud knock at the door made him jump, waking him up even more. He covered himself but didn’t bother to conceal the woman beside him. “Enter.” He watched a young lad run into his chamber.

  “M’lord, Viking ships have been spotted arriving at our shores.” His little, curious eyes flicked to the naked bottom lying next to his lord.

  “Our shores? The ones at Dunwich?”

  “Ay, m’lord. Big ones, too.”

  Bryan’s stomach clenched. Ubba and his sister must be returning. They were the only ones to use the shores of Dunwich without permission — most ships went to the docks nearby. His heart raced as he tried to work out what he needed to do. He rubbed his clammy hands on the blanket before he slapped the woman. “Time to get out,” he commanded, then looked at the wide-eyed boy. “You, too.”

  Bryan stood in the inner ward, waiting for Ubba Ragnarsson and his party to reach Dunwich fortress. It was as if time was replaying itself – only this time, there wasn’t a skeleton staff to greet the heathen. Ubba was paying for Dunwich’s upkeep, so he made sure it was fully staffed for his comfort. He swept a hand across his forehead to get rid of the sheen of sweat. Why were they returning? Would that dimwit of a sister recognise that the man was not their father? Did they know about the falsified ledgers? Should he run now, before they arrive?

  When he heard the noise of the party’s horses near, like before, he contemplated keeping the gate closed. His lips flattened against his teeth, anger briefly overriding his fear. He neither wanted to greet either Ubba or that barbarian of a sister, but he had no choice. He would have to play along and hope that Ubba never realised his father was dead. Then he was in trouble. He recounted his last run-in with the large Viking. Ubba’s words were scorched into his brain — “While your father breathes, you will run Dunwich. But, mark my words, on hearing of his last breath on earth, you will be on countdown to yours. You will continue to run Dunwich for Rosfrith and our children, for I am taking it for her dowry. Your father didn’t have the decency to gift her one. Then, I will return. You can run and try to hide, but I will find you. Remember the Vikings rule your lands. You had your chance to live in peace, but you’ve a black heart. No one, and I mean no one, crosses me and lives.”

  A shudder went down his spine and a frown appeared on his forehead. His father was gone — buried in an unmarked grave — and only a few loyal people even knew. Ubba couldn’t be back because of his father — it must be something else. He only hoped he could get away with his charade. He waited with the rest of the crowd as they entered and hoped no one would discover how much his knees shook.

  When the metal gate rattled upwards and the large wooden gates swung inwards, despite his resolution to stay strong, Bryan felt his mouth dry. His eyebrows puckered. He was confused - both Viking and Saxon soldiers entered the courtyard. He searched the men looking for answers. No one around him seemed concerned who entered – but why would they? It wasn’t their life on the line.

  He stared at the large Viking on the prancing stallion. He was obviously the leader. He felt the tightening in his chest before he let out a short huff. Of course, one Viking would look the same to these village people — but not to him. He wasn’t sure if he should feel happy or pleased Ubba wasn’t there.

  “Where is the Lord of Dunwich?” The low voice boomed around the courtyard.

  Bryan sensed all the eyes turn to look at him. He took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Here.”

  Guthrum’s eyes narrowed on him. “Here? Here, King Æthelstan of the Danes. In future, you will address me as such.”

  Bryan ignored the chuckles around him – they were obviously revelling in his discomfort. He pushed his shoulders back. He was the Lord around here. He forced a smile on his face. “My apologies, King of the Danes.” He gave a mock bow. “I am Lord Bryan Guader of Dunwich Fortress.”

  “Ah, but you aren’t the real Lord, are you?”

  “What?” Bryan sputtered out. For a brief moment, indignation flared through him as fast as a summer fire.

  Guthrum raised his eyebrows in warning. “You will remember your place.” He smiled before circling his horse to look at those behind him. “For those who don’t know, the real Lord is lying upstairs in his bed-chamber.” He swivelled back towards Bryan. “And when he passes on to the next life, this man,” — he waved towards Bryan – “will not be your Lord. The great Viking Ubba Ragnarsson will.”

  Bryan’s lips thinned.

  “But, in the meantime, I will reside in this fortress, courtesy of Ubba and his lovely wife, Rosfrith…” He paused when he noticed the ripple of excitement at the mention of Rosfrith’s name. “Ay, your very own Rosfrith Guader, and her sister, Edeva, my partner.” He nodded towards his former servant — now his legitimate lover, despite his Christian baptism — giving her the respect due after finding out her bloodline from Ubba.

  Bryan’s gaze shot to the mousy woman on the small, dappled horse. His eyes narrowed. Is that my elder sister? How has she survived being captured all those years ago? His stomach churned and he tore his gaze away. No doubt she was like that other sister of his – a heathen – readily sleeping with the King of the Danes, Æthelstan. Like Rosfrith, she was no sister of his, if she lay with Vikings.

  “Everyone will answer to me, or” – he indicated to a blond man, seated on his horse next to him – “this man, Sir Cynebald Benningfield.” He slid down from his large horse as though it was the most docile mare. He walked up to Bryan. “Not to you.”

  Bryan felt his posture sag, unable to control the tremors in his chin. Even from far away, Ubba had a way to disrupt his life. He had to ignore the sour taste in his mouth because he was determined this man would not see the shame or worry within him. He nodded at Guthrum, grinding out, “As you wish.”

  “And now for some food.” Guthrum clapped his hands, pleased when the servants of Dunwich moved quickly.

  Bryan didn’t move. He watched Guthrum disappear towards his hall. He wasn’t going to eat with him – besides it would be embarrassing if Guthrum took his seat at the table. His eyes narrowed on his back. He would do as he was told – for now – but he would find a way to get himself out of this mess. Somehow — someday.

  Before he made his way back to his chamber, he stopped to scowl at his servants. They were too quick to serve another Lord. His lip curled. He needed to go. As he took a step forward, he stopped. Now, wasn’t that interesting? The blond man that the king had pointed out – Sir Cynebald Benningfield – was helping Edeva off the horse, his hand sliding up her spine. A little too familiar. There was little doubt in Bryan’s mind that they’d been intimate – were being intimate. He could see the signs – her lips parting, her soft expression, both reaching out to touch each other. A smirk appeared on his lips and his chin jutted
out. Just the right type of information he needed.

  Now, he just had to wait for the right time to use it.

  Chapter 11

  Late summer 878

  Joy filled Rosfrith’s heart when the cart she rode on turned a corner and she spotted the longboats waiting for their arrival at the docks. They were on their way home to Ranaricii and she couldn’t wait. They’d spent far too long in a country she no longer regarded as her own. As they neared the bustle, she spotted their ships amongst other vessels — red banners with black crows flapping in the breeze.

  She glanced down at her children. They both held tightly to her hands. She hoped it was because they wanted to, not because they sat in the bouncy cart heading and feared being thrown out. Her chest tightened with anxiety. Their fledgling relationship had been strained, so far. She’d quickly realised that the fantasy in her head of them running into her arms when they met had been unrealistic. For although she loved them with all her heart, they didn’t know her. It had pained her to see them standing behind Edeva, looking at her anxiously with wide-eyes, not wanting to leave the safety of her sister’s legs. Only when Edeva had assured them that both Ubba and her were good and kind, and that they would have a pleasant life at Ranaricii that they had come with them. After plenty of tears. Unfortunately, none of them had long to adjust to the new situation as Guthrum — or now known as Æthelstan, the King of the Danes — wanted to be on his way. He wasn’t interested in long, drawn out goodbyes.

  After they hit another bump, Rosfrith quickly let go of Brigitta’s hand to wipe away a tear. Although she was glad to be going, she still had mixed feelings about leaving. It had been difficult not to try and persuade her sister and her old maid, Edith, to come with them. But, like her sister had explained, their life was in Briton, not in a foreign land they knew nothing about. She had to accept that — difficult as that was.

  She also was fretful that they hadn’t gone to Dunwich fortress. It wasn’t that she wanted to see her father. He wouldn’t know it was her because the news she had received from there was that he was still in a vegetative state. And, she definitely didn’t want to see her brother, not after he had taken her children away from her, but to be in Briton and not to want to see your home didn’t sit right with her. She took in a long breath. It was pointless lamenting. Ranaricii was her home, and hopefully the home of her twins from now on. She looked down at them and noticed the eager look on Arter’s face when he spotted the ships — he’d never sailed before so this was a true adventure for him. “Are you excited to go on the ship and see your new home?” She asked, their answers truly mattered to her. She held their hands up to kiss each one before she felt Arter tug his away.

  “Nay,” he said, looking away from her.

  She did her best to ignore his lie and the pout that appeared on his face at her words. It was as though she’d spoiled his excitement. She ignored her disappointment at his actions and put it down to the new situation he found himself in. She tried not to wallow on things she couldn’t do anything about, yet.

  It was too soon to tell, but she hoped her son possessed Ubba’s personality, not her father or brother’s. When she’d finally met them, she didn’t know if she was happy or sad that her sister had used their parents’ names for them. Obviously, Edeva had no idea of the names she’d picked – Ragnar and Aslaug. Those were long forgotten, and besides, Ragnar could never be used — Ubba already had one son named that with Astrid. Mayhap, when they settled in Ranaricii, they could choose their own new names. She forced a large smile on her face, although the butterflies in her stomach — now they were nearing the port —were making her feel nauseous. “I’m excited for you to meet your brothers, Ragnar, Brynjulf, and baby Davyn. They will love you as much as you love them.”

  “I want to go home,” said Brigitta, dashing her hopes that at least one of them were excited. “I don’t want any more brothers.”

  Rosfrith held back a sigh when she noticed Brigitta’s little chin wobble — she was going to cry.

  “I want my mother and Edith.”

  Arter turned and pointed his chin in Rosfrith’s direction. “She said she is our mother, not Edeva.” He crossed his arms and scowled at her.

  Although they were breaking her heart, she smiled at them, trying to calm their fears. “Edeva will always have a large place in your heart; she is family. But she wants to stay here with the people she knows.”

  “I know those people, too,” Arter interrupted.

  “But, I don’t want to go to Rana… Ranar…”

  “Ranaricii,” Rosfrith prompted to help.

  Brigitta crossed her arms. “Ay, there. I want to stay here. With mother.” She narrowed her eyes on Rosfrith, daring her to say anything.

  Rosfrith glanced away before they saw that they had hit their target. She’d realised, yet again, that she’d been so looking forward to having her children back, she’d totally ignored the upheaval in their young lives. She’d never forgotten them but they had no experience of her in their six winters. It was ironic that the little violet-eyed girl was as strong-willed as she used to be. “Just give it a chance,” she lowered her voice so they could not hear her plea.

  Once the wagon stopped, Rosfrith gave a genuine smile when she saw her strong husband bound over to help her off. He was as excited as her to be taking the children home. Her heart sank a little knowing he would soon find out their opposing views on the journey. “Thank you, dear husband,” she said as her feet landed on the ground.

  She watched Ubba reach out to help Arter. He paused, arms outstretched, when Arter took a step back.

  “Ah, too big already for help from your father?” He winked at him, waving his hand for him to unload himself.

  Rosfrith noticed the determined look on Arter’s face as he scrabbled down, with most of his dignity intact.

  “Is there a lady here that would like a lift off the cart? One that doesn’t want to get her tunic dirty?”

  It was plain to see the conflicting emotion flick over Brigitta’s face. Rosfrith had to stop her sigh when Brigitta crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

  “Oh, well. Mayhap nobody needs help.” He turned away, giving Rosfrith a wink and a knowing look.

  “Wait!” Brigitta shouted.

  He turned and noticed her scowl.

  “Will you help me down?”

  “Of course,” he said as he stepped forward, arms outstretched. Before he set her down, he circled her in the air – much to her delight. “Right, you two go off with this lady here, I need to have a quick chat with your mother.” He failed to see the children’s displeasure at the use of the word.

  As soon as they departed, Rosfrith turned to him, aware that his previous jovial mood had quickly evaporated. “What is wrong, Ubba?” Something wasn’t right. He might be upset that the children were playing up, but something in her gut told her it was more than that. She felt a chill over her skin — and it wasn’t caused by the weather. When he looked away from her towards the ships, his gaze narrowed and her heart sunk.

  “I cannot return to Ranaricii, yet,” he explained in a monotone voice.

  She noticed him shift from foot to foot – obviously uncomfortable. “Pardon?” She felt her mouth dry. “What do you mean?”

  “I cannot return, yet.”

  She stiffened in shock. “Ubba, what do you mean?” she asked again when the silence stretched. She felt the emotional distance grow between them, so she stepped forward and grabbed his arms - her knuckles whitening as she clutched him. “We have our children, it is time to go home.” She felt his muscles tense under her hands.

  “I cannot go yet. I cannot let Bard get away with his actions.”

  This wasn’t happening. Her head started to spin. She had only recently found out about her brother’s and Bard’s relationship. I had made her sick to the stomach – but they were leaving both in Briton – out of their lives. “Nay, forget Bard. He cannot hurt us again. We have our children.” She didn’t want rev
enge – she wanted her family.

  He shook his head and she noticed his jaw tense under his growing beard. “It doesn’t work that way, Rosfrith. If Bard thinks me weak, he will come for us again. And this time, we might not win. Bard was a party to the kidnapping of our twins. I cannot let his traitorous act go unpunished. I must do this, Rosfrith. Please understand.”

  Her chin fell when she realised how determined he was. She let go of him and stepped back. Her shoulders slumped. “What are you going to do?” she asked, not really wanting to know.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to win this battle with Bard, I just know that I’m not going to lose.”

  “You must have plans.”

  He gave her a little nod. “Ay. I have heard that Bard has taken on an Anglo-Saxon persona,” — he stopped and gave a wry laugh — “just like we did. The rumours are that has joined with Odda, the Ealdorman of Devon. They are in Somersæte.”

  “How will you reach them? Will you, once again, pretend to be Anglo-Saxon?” Her frown fell, and she forced a smile. She needed to lighten the atmosphere as she wasn’t going to change his path. “For I prefer you as a Viking.” She reached up to touch his growing beard.

  He took her hand and turned it palm up to study it. “I prefer you like this,” – he let his gaze linger from her head to her toes – “as a Viking wife, not dressed as an Anglo-Saxon soldier.” He leaned forward to lay kisses on her palm. “I don’t like the callouses that wielding a sword has done to your hands.”