Heart of a Viking
Samantha Holt
Copyright 2016 ©Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organisations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by www.lovelustandlipstickstains.com
Edited by Em Petrova
Proofed by Destini Reece
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Epilogue
Prologue
Pictland, 839 AD
The palisades would protect them. They had to. Keita came onto tiptoes to peer over the wooden walls, and her throat tightened. She gripped the wood until it bit into her fingers and forced herself to take a breath.
She’d never seen Vikings before, never thought they’d come this far inland. Tales of their brutality rang through her mind. Of men and women killed, tortured, maimed. Women raped and stolen, never to be seen again. These warriors appeared capable of carrying out everything of which she’d heard tell.
The sea of invaders in front of their settlement moved and rippled. She felt the tension thick in the air, like early morning fog. It wouldn’t be long before they made their move and those shields, spears and axes would come crashing against their walls. That ocean of strong bodies could well turn their wooden defences into driftwood.
Keita’s palms grew clammy and she turned away, pressing them down her woollen gown. The cries of women and children seemed like a distant sound as she peered around the settlement. The men readied themselves, prepared to defend their king and his family with their weapons. Yet these men, who usually appeared so strong and bold to her, looked no match for the enemy. Those large axes would carve a path through them to her father with ease. The sickening stench of sweat and defeat already wrapped about her.
The walls had to hold. Or else all hope would be lost.
“Father says we’re to move to the hall.” Seva, her half-sister told her siblings. She glanced at Keita. “Not you. Stay here.”
Keita scowled in her direction but didn’t question her. As an illegitimate daughter of the king, she’d never been truly welcomed into the family after her mother’s death. Her father took her in because she had been too young to look after herself but it was only a matter of time until he cast her out—perhaps marrying her off to someone who wouldn’t mind that she was only half royal.
Her sisters made their way back to the hall. She watched the wooden doors close and the men place a blockade across the door. What did her father want of her if she wasn’t to stay with her sisters? She twisted to peer over the wall again. Sunlight gleamed off conical helmets and the points of the spears aimed in their direction might as well have been jabbing at her.
Pain throbbed in her heart and worked into her muscles, making her body stiff. Keita lifted her gaze to the cloudless skies and offered up a prayer to her goddess but her prayers had gone unanswered ever since the death of her mother. Deep down, in her churning gut, she knew something awful was going to happen this day.
With several men following, her father approached. She peered up into those stony grey eyes—so similar to her own yet so harsh and cold in comparison to what she saw in her reflection.
“I have spoken with their leader. They will leave our settlement if we pay a ransom.”
The tension left her body. Perhaps her instincts had been wrong after all. Maybe her goddess has been listening. “You will pay it, will you not?”
“Aye. We cannot match their strength. They will slaughter us and take all if we fight them.” He nodded to someone at her side and a firm set of hands clamped around her arm. “I have offered them you, Keita, along with some of our jewels and coin.”
She blinked several times at the man who had sired her. No emotion wavered in those eyes, no thickness sat in his voice. He might as well have been offering them his least favourite trinket. That stabbing pain came back to her chest.
“Father...?” The word was but a harsh whisper.
Disbelief clamped her throat tight. She tugged on the hand holding her arm, then harder when it didn’t release her. Another of her father’s men came to her side and between them they held her captive.
She wriggled. “Father!”
“You must do your duty. You are a princess. Save your people. They will be thankful to you.”
He turned from her, his furs swaying about his shoulders. Keita gaped at his back and screamed to him again. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even pause. Her father had abandoned her.
“Nay,” she begged when the men began to draw her down the steps to the front gate. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks. The villagers merely watched while she was dragged, crying and screaming, ever closer to her doom. “Please,” she tried. “They’ll kill me. Rape me. Please.”
But the men would not go against their king. She knew that much. An illegitimate daughter of the king held far less sway than the man himself. Not even her tears could save her.
A slipper came loose as she tried to dig her feet into the ground. Dirt and stones tore at her bare foot. Keita grappled to cling onto the men’s clothing, pressing her nails into their skin and tunics. She was no more than an insect to them—her slender body useless against their might.
The door was pulled open and the Vikings that awaited her sent a new dart of horror through her. Dots shimmered in front of her eyes and she pushed her heels into the ground again, ignoring the pain in her right foot. Words bubbled from her— pleas of mercy—but they went unheard.
In the eyes of the Viking men, she saw no mercy either. Cold, hungry gazes swept over her. The grip on her arms loosened. The scent of sweat and another foreign smell enfolded her. Keita twisted from her fellow Picts but the clamp of a stronger, harder hand around her arm brought bile rising up her throat.
She glanced up into the eyes of the Viking holding her. He nodded slowly and touched a finger to her chin. Though her body tried to force her double, such was the pain in her stomach and the need to retch, he kept her pinned with one mere hand upon her.
As she stared into his pale blue eyes, she understood the truth. She was his now. A Viking’s slave. Her life would never be hers again.
Chapter One
Ale flowed freely. Laughter rang about the longhouse. Thorarin smiled and laughed, and toasted the járl. The deception was easy enough. After all, he had not waited ten summers to give himself away from the first moment he returned home.
Of course, none recognised him. He’d come a long way from the scrawny boy he’d been when he had been wrongfully banished. Ragni, the járl of a place he’d once called home, turned his attention to their exalted guest. Thorarin dipped his head in acknowledgement of his lifted goblet. Saving the chieftain from the wolf he’d held captive for some time had not been luck or fate.
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It had been carefully planned to ensure he found a place at Ragni’s table. He had been welcomed back into the fold—and yet none knew who he was. None realised he was the same boy who had been banished all those years ago.
He allowed his smile to widen. To others it might seem it was brought on by the acknowledgement of his deeds, or perhaps the free flowing ӧll. The bitter tang worked into his body and eased muscles that ached from having battled with the beast who had targeted Ragni.
“You will stay here,” Ragni declared. “My home is yours. Partake in my food, seek comfort with my slaves. Nothing shall be denied you.”
Thorarin lifted his gaze to the one woman who had been occupying his attention since his arrival at Ravndal. She wore the collar of a slave yet her pale, almost white hair was uncut, unlike the other slaves. His heart gave a jolt when she passed by, barely sparing him a glance.
Head lowered, she went about her business of serving them. None of the men touched or acknowledged her. He scowled. Why that was, he knew not. He had not seen a face as fine as hers for many moons.
If ever.
“What of her?” he jerked his head in the slave’s direction.
“Ah, Keita. The Princess. I took her from Pictland some two moons ago.” Ragni motioned for her to approach and she did so, head bowed.
Close up, Thorarin was able to appreciate the slender grace of her body. She wore a necklace of amber—visible under the slave collar about her neck. He had the oddest urge to see that pale neck completely bare. Arched and ready for a man’s lips. His lips perhaps.
“Why princess?” he asked Ragni.
“She is indeed of royal blood.”
Thorarin lifted a brow as he eyed the older man. The pale eyes he’d once remembered as terrifying and savage were now crinkled at the corners. Grey hair edged his mouth and he kept his hair shorn close. It was likely the járl was balding. He had, however, maintained his stature.
Not that he’d be a match for Thorarin. But it would not be enough to simply go up against the man or murder him in his sleep. How could he regain his honour with a revenge so simple?
Neinn, he would bide his time. Slowly, Ragni the Vicious would find his world crumbling down about him. Not even his beautiful Pictish Princess would be by his side at the end.
“How is it you captured a princess?”
“Her people did not want her. They offered her up.” He touched a finger to her chin, forcing her gaze up and onto him. “And who would say no?” Ragni’s expression grew serious. “She, however, is not to be touched. I owe you much, Thorarin, and I would have no one say I do not stand by my honour and reward those who have been of service to me, but Keita is pure. And she will stay that way until I say otherwise. No man touches her but me.”
The slave turned her gaze on him. Just briefly. Long enough for him to see haunting grey eyes. They seemed to reach down inside and pluck at his inner spirit. Colour rose on her pale cheeks and she lowered her fair lashes.
Ragni waved her away and leaned in. “No one touches her but me,” he repeated.
Thorarin nodded slowly and affected an air of disinterest in the girl. Hot desire was already threatening to beat in his heart like Thor’s hammer, but it mattered little. He could slake his need with a willing woman easily enough. No ambatt was worth destroying his plans for, and it was essential he maintain Ragni’s trust.
“I hope that you shall put me to use,” he told the járl. “I have long laboured alone since my wife and child died. I travelled north with the intention of finding a use for my skills.”
“What are your skills? You can fight, I’m sure of that.”
“Já, I can fight and raid. I am also a skilled carpenter.”
Ten summers of living alone had ensured that. No wife or child had kept him company. No loss had existed in his life apart from that of his community and family that fateful night when he had been a young man.
“You wish to make your living here?”
“If you can use me, já.”
Ragni pressed a finger to his lip. “You will stay here for now. There is an empty farmstead to the north-east. If you can work the land and rebuild the house, it is yours. In return, I will have work for you.”
“You are gracious, my járl.”
The words burned in his gut. Grace had little to do with Ragni’s actions all those years ago. Thorarin only managed to spit out the words by reassuring himself all was going according to his plan. Once he had gained Ragni’s trust, he would tear apart his world, bit by bit until he had nothing left. Then, and only then, Thorarin would deliver the death blow.
“As I said, I reward those who are loyal to me. Prove yourself and you shall not regret coming to my aid. However—” his eyes darkened and Thorarin remembered that same look from his boyhood “—do not mistake my generosity for leniency.”
“Never, my járl.”
A smile quirked on the man’s lips. “I think we shall get along well, Thorarin.” He clapped him on the back and the járl’s son sent a narrowed look his way.
Thorarin held his gaze. If there was already tension between Ragni and his son Fleinn it would work well to his advantage. The man was some four summers younger than he if he recalled correctly and was small for a Norseman. Rumbles of tension between father and son had already reached his ears but it wasn’t until now that Thorarin realised he could use it to his advantage.
He would start with the son. Soon enough, his revenge would be complete.
Chapter Two
Keita’s hands trembled as she removed the empty platters from the table and avoided meeting any of the Viking’s lusty stares. She didn’t think she’d ever stop shaking when surrounded by them all. Her position was so precarious, protected by one mere detail—the fact she was a virgin. She doubted that had saved many women, but being a princess, combined with her pale looks had apparently persuaded Ragni she was worth protecting. According to the other slaves, who usually spat their disgust at her, he thought she brought him luck.
But if that luck ran out, so too would hers...
She carried the dirty wooden platters outside and added them to the pile to be washed. Ardith, a girl several summers younger than her and so skinny she looked as though she would blow over in the wind, sat by the wooden tub and scrubbed away the filth from the carved dishes. The girl glanced her way and gave her a cold stare.
Keita held back a sigh. She’d find no friend in any of the slaves. Most were too fearful of their masters to attempt conversation anyway, but her status as a protected slave created more of a gulf between them. Though she had begun to learn some Norse, no Viking would converse with her except to bark orders at her.
When she returned to the longhouse, that same flutter of fear resided in her body. It came in waves. Sometimes she managed to simply function and it subsided to a dull roar. Other times it made her palms clammy and her movements jerky. If a Viking noticed, he would often move closer, or try to make her chores harder.
She clenched her jaw. She hated them. Hated them all.
Even that one who had stared at her. There’d been desire there, she thought. But something else too. For the first time since her journey across the sea, a Viking had looked at her and not made her shiver with horror.
Ragni motioned for more ale or ӧll—one of the few words she recognised—forcing her to grab a pitcher and come to the head of the table. Behind the large carved chair the járl occupied was a fire pit. Fingers of warmth curled around her and beckoned her close. Weariness ate into her bones and begged her to drop down to the floor and sleep away the evening in front of that golden glow.
But protected or not, Ragni would beat her if she didn’t work as hard as every other slave. They rose with dawn and rested well after dusk. She couldn’t recall the last time her feet didn’t hurt or fatigue didn’t linger behind her eyes. The scars on her back seemed to itch as a reminder of exactly what fate would greet her should she decide to do anything other than what was asked of her. Her
master hadn’t wished to scar her too severely, so used a branch to beat her in the early days of her captivity.
Keita held back a bitter smile as she poured ale for Ragni and his guest, the man they called Thorarin. She had learned her lesson quickly, particularly after seeing the beatings the other slaves endured. Outwardly, Keita tried her hardest to be the perfect slave—and to maintain her pureness. It would be all too easy to lose when surrounded by men who thought of her as no more than a commodity. However, what kept her strong were her thoughts of escape. She refused to resign herself to this life forever.
The guest glanced her way. She kept her gaze lowered but looked at him through her lashes. She shouldn’t. But how could she resist? His eyes were green—the sort of green that reminded her of home, of lush, grassy mountains. Deep in her chest, a flutter made itself known.
It had to be the reminder of home that had done it. She shouldn’t find anything about this man remotely attractive—not the firm line of his jaw, the slightly crooked nose, the golden hair or the soft texture to his beard. Vikings were all alike and a handsome face wouldn’t make any difference. Ugliness often hid behind beauty and she’d do well to remember that. Her sisters and father had been the same. No amount of finery could hide their ugly souls.
Keita cringed when a female slave was pulled into the lap of a Viking. No one else noticed, or even cared. His large palms were upon her, tugging her clothes, toying with her as she tried to push his hands away. He laughed, she cried. Keita glanced away.
When she’d first arrived, she might have protested the girl’s treatment, perhaps even come to her defence. But she’d learned her lesson now. The other slaves didn’t want her help. To them, she was as bad as the Vikings. She could not understand their suffering—not when she was protected by the járl.
When she went to move away from Ragni and his guest, the Viking grasped her wrist. “Leave the öll.”
Shock turned her bones to iron. It rooted her feet and forced her lashes up so she had to look at him face on. Fire branded her wrist...nay, not fire. It wasn’t painful or terrifying. It tingled, like the brush of a butterfly dancing over her skin. How could his strong, work-worn palm feel like that?
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