PILOT WHALES can be found in the area of the English Channel featured in the story, and have been known to beach on that coast.
SHUCKS are the massive hounds that are said to haunt Dartmoor.
BLUEBELLS
If you’ve read any of my previous stories, you’ll know I have a fixation for bluebells, and I was elated when they were suggested as a motif for this collection. In Conquering Passion I called them by a name popular in folklore, but for this tale I changed Fairies’ Thimbles to Pixies’ Thimbles to tie in with the Dartmoor legends.
DODEKA
Go to Google Translate, type twelve in the English and have it change to Greek. Click on the loudspeaker icon to hear the correct Greek pronunciation. If you’re like me you won’t be able to get it out of your head.
About Anna
Thank you for reading Banished.
If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the book, and/or on Goodreads, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.
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Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on Pinterest, or sign up for my newsletter.
I was born in England, but I’ve lived most of my life in Canada. I was an elementary school teacher for 25 years, a job I loved.
After that I worked with my husband in the management of his businesses. He’s a born entrepreneur who likes to boast he’s never had a job!
My final “career” was as Director of Administration of a global disaster relief organization.
I then embarked on writing a romance, essentially for my own satisfaction. I chose the medieval period because it’s my favorite to read.
I have a keen interest in genealogy. This hobby has had a tremendous influence on my stories. My medieval romances are tales of family honor, ancestry, and roots. As an amateur genealogist, I cherished a dream of tracing my own English roots back to the Norman Conquest—most likely impossible since I am not descended from nobility! So I made up a family and many of my stories follow its members through successive generations.
I want readers to feel happy that the heroes and heroines have found their soul mates and that the power of love has overcome every obstacle. For me, novels are an experience of another world or time. I lose myself in the characters’ lives, always knowing they will triumph in the end and find love. One of the things I enjoy most about writing historical romance is the in-depth research necessary to provide readers with an authentic medieval experience. I love ferreting out bits of historical trivia I never knew! I based the plot of my first novel, Conquering Passion, on a bizarre incident that actually happened to a Norman noblewoman.
I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.
I’d like to acknowledge Jane Wallace, Sylvie Grayson, Reggi Allder, Jacquie Biggar and Scott Moreland for their help in polishing this manuscript.
Viking Hearts
By
Violetta Rand
Copyright © 2015 by Violetta Rand
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 or reviews.
Chapter One
Northern Hesse
723 AD
Mauriana heard the commotion as she returned from the forest with a basket filled with wild berries. At first it didn’t concern her, foreigners often visited, stirring excitement. But as she watched young mothers with their newborns in their arms rushing from their cottages and headed for the center of the village, she then knew someone important had arrived. Nothing drew women from their homes at midday, unless a proclamation or threat had been issued.
When her childhood friend, Asa, raced by without a word, Mauriana stashed her basket on the closest doorstep and followed her. Central to their lives and faith was the holiest of trees, Thor’s sacred oak, which set their humble village above all others. It stood as a great sentinel, drawing people from the farthest reaches of the world on pilgrimage.
That’s where Mauriana found her kinsmen gathered. Her siblings stood with her mother and father, arms linked and singing praises to the Viking god. Other townspeople did the same, chanting Thor’s name, honoring his prowess in war, swearing by his red beard that all things were credited to his glory and benevolence. They made no judgments against the gods, for humans were irrevocably flawed, destined to rely on the mercy of the immortals for whatever good fortune and peace they found.
“Hear me people of Hesse,” a stranger’s voice boomed. “In the name of his holiness, Pope Gregory, I am empowered with papal authority to win your obedience.”
Mauriana stopped short, shocked to see the same bearded man who’d been violently chased from her town months ago. His Christ was not welcome in these lands. But it appeared the old man hadn’t taken the threats to his life seriously.
“Go away,” the people called.
“Burn him,” others offered in opposition to the priest’s claims.
“You may threaten my life, precious children of God, but I will stand here as long as it takes to convince you to listen to me.” He raised his hand above his head. “These documents prove the validity of my claim. The merciful God favors the people of this great country. Give me but a few moments and you will find absolution for your sins. The blood of Christ washes away your iniquities, giving you eternal life…”
A rock hit his head and the priest grimaced in pain. He wiped the side of his face, finding fresh blood.
“Leave!” The ire of the crowd rose with every word he spoke.
Elders of the village arrived with lit torches and surrounded the holy man. In the old tongue only men were permitted to speak, they begged Thor for guidance. Chants became louder and more volatile, but Mauriana still didn’t find the courage to join her family. She despised the Christian liars who constantly invaded her home begging her people to convert. But she hated senseless brutality even more. Striking an unarmed man with sticks and rocks did nothing to help her people’s cause.
“Violence will not frighten or sway me,” the priest continued. “As ardently as you defend your gods, so do I. The One True God. Hear me people of Hesse. If I challenge Thor to strike me down for slandering his name, will you then listen?”
Very slowly the throng settled.
“Speak your words, old man,” one of the elders said.
“I am no longer known as Winfrid, the coward who fled your village months ago. The Lord has graced me with a new title. I am Bishop Boniface, one of God’s chosen representatives.” He shook the papers in his fist a couple more times, then tucked them in his tunic. “Let this be the weapon of my God.” He now proffered an axe.
The crowd gasped.
“I hold a simple tool. Something every man uses to cut the wood he needs to warm his bones and cook his food. If Thor’s spirit truly occupies this tree, then when this axe strikes its trunk, no damage will be done.”
Boniface approached the ring of people, but they refused to grant him access.
Mauriana fisted her hands at her sides, torn between her loyalty to the gods and the desire to see the priest make a fool of himself. Instinct told her to run to the aid of her parents and position herself between the priest and tree. But her feet wouldn’t move. She watched in silent fascination as several of the elders physically removed some of the women from the protective circle.
“Let him through,” Orwin said. “What harm can come to us?”
She stared heavenward, her face pelted by heavy raindrops. “Grant me strength,” she called upon Thor. “For nothing but fear fills me now and I know with all my heart you are here with us.”
Thunder sounded overhead, and Mauriana trembled, knowing Thor had answered her directly. She again focused on the raucous crowd, where now a clear pathway to the oak had been provided for the priest.
“Agree to this trade, old man,” Orwin spoke a
gain. “Your blood for three strikes of the trunk.”
Boniface grinned with confidence. “I accept your terms.”
Orwin nodded, his own face distorted by an arrogant smile. Occasionally, the gods thirsted for blood, and human sacrifice seemed the only thing that would sate them. Mauriana now knew what Orwin intended to do with the holy man’s blood—and aged body. He’d slowly bleed while Orwin starved him, too. What better way to appease a deity of war, than by torturing one of his truest enemies?
As if he’d been invited in for a bowl of broth and bread, the priest walked past the onlookers and positioned himself next to the tree. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…”
The strange words pierced Mauriana’s heart and she covered her ears, afraid to hear more. His prayers sounded more like curses. But her eyes were helplessly fixed on his stooped form, his arms waving wildly, his bearded face as frightening as anything she’d ever beheld. She removed her hands then, overhearing more of his chant.
“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us…”
In a matter of seconds, the blade hit the base of the tree. Her heart fluttered. Boniface swung the weapon a second time and the steel cut deep into the wood. Over and over again he struck and no one moved to stop him. Awed and shocked by the damage the axe did, Mauriana could hear the leaves rustle in the breeze. Silence embraced her as the wood splintered. Her gaze shot to her parents, who were standing feet away from the oak. Her youngest sister clung to her mother’s legs.
Then emotions punched her in the gut and she found the courage to move. “Stop!” she screamed as she shot forward. “Do not let this happen…”
It was too late.
A sickening crack followed the priest’s last stroke. Mauriana stared at the uppermost branches, which wavered.
“Back!” a man nearby warned.
It all happened so fast. Screams rang in her head as someone yanked Mauriana away from the scene. She fought to stay, wishing to know what would happen after the tree fell. But the man who had ahold of her tunic wouldn’t release her.
“Come with me if you value your life,” he said.
But life wouldn’t be worth living without her family and friends.
“Please…” She attempted to twist free from his grasp.
A sharp slap stopped her.
“Listen to me.” His dark, wide eyes made her gasp. “I am a trader from the east. Show me your hut and if I find anything of value, I promise to deliver you to safer shores. This place will burn soon. The White Christ has landed with that priest and there is no hope for Thor’s followers here. A dozen soldiers are hidden in the forest waiting for the holy man’s signal to strike. Come now, or die with the others. Do you understand, girl?”
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and her whole body convulsed with fear, but she managed to nod.
“Good,” he said. “Now show me where you live.”
Although a modest home, her thatched-roof hut was larger than most. Her father was a well-respected blacksmith, the only one for miles around. Above the hearth on a shelf, her father kept a tin with silver coins. Only she and her mother knew about it. He’d always warned them to use it if anything ever happened to him—go to France where his extended family lived. She eyed the fire pit, then looked at the stranger.
“Well?” he said. “Gather your personal belongings while I search the room. Bring your warmest clothes, a cloak and gloves if you have them.”
She rushed to the room she shared with her sisters. Her only other dress and cloak were hanging on a peg by her cot. Her gloves were in a basket on the floor. She gathered everything as quickly as she could, then visited her parents’ room, where she retrieved a wool scarf and a scroll wrapped in wolf skin. An heirloom from her mother’s family she’d been instructed to safeguard if tragedy ever befell their home. Returning to the common room, she found the man counting the coins from the container.
He looked at her approvingly. “This will more than pay for your passage on my vessel. Here.”
She held out her hand, palm up, and he placed three coins in it. “Hide this small fortune in a pouch and keep it close. My men aren’t as civilized as I am.”
She did as he suggested, turned away, and deposited the coins in the small, leather pouch she kept tied to her waist.
“Now pack some food and take the fur from your father’s chair. You’ll need it where we’re going.”
Minutes later, they emerged from the hut to the smell of smoke and desperate screams coming from the village square. Again, instinct threatened to overtake her, but the man refused to let her bolt. He gripped her arm.
“Hear them gnashing their teeth?” he asked as he dragged her toward the woods. “That’s the unmistakable sound of death.”
“Please…” she wailed.
But the man was too strong and determined to save her life. When she felt her knees give out, he swept her off her feet, carrying her deep into the forest. She let her head fall against his chest, all the sorrow and despair she’d held inside freed in the form of bitter tears.
“Weep girl,” he whispered. “Better to mourn the dead in the cover of the night, than let strangers see your fear in the daylight.”
And after what seemed hours later, he lowered her to the ground, dropping her small bundle of belongings beside her.
“Rest now,” he commanded. “In the morning, we’ll join my waiting crew and flee this Odinforsaken land.”
Chapter Two
Days blended together on the longship. Once Jarl Bodvar had safely escorted her to his vessel, he quickly gave orders to his thirty waiting men to sail up River Fulda, then to River Weser, which would take them to the North Sea. Mauriana had dreamt of visiting the coast, but not with strangers, no matter how kind they were. Suffering from a sickness the jarl blamed on the continuous rocking motion of the ship, she hardly had the power to stand and appreciate the new places they were seeing.
But today the sun was gloriously warm, and a long forgotten strength returned to her limbs, the need to vomit almost gone. She swallowed her last mouthful of bread and took a long drink from the wineskin one of the men had given her. Then she wobbled to her feet, relying on the wood banister that ran the length of the ship to hold herself up. From where she stood, the flat, green shoreline met gray water. Few trees dotted the landscape, but the river widened before them, and she could see the great ocean miles ahead.
Jarl Bodvar waved her over and she walked to the bow, happy to be in his company again. He’d left her alone, checking on her occasionally when he wasn’t busy overseeing the operation of his crew.
“See there.” He pointed. “The last fjörðr before we enter the open sea. The village of Geestendorf is small, but if you need anything, you are free to explore the market. One of my men will escort you ashore. You’ve earned your sea legs, girl.”
And her broken heart. But she remembered his words from the forest, how she should weep in private and not show the world her pain. Advice she’d taken, hiding her sorrow from the men who were her protectors until she parted ways with them in Norway, the place the jarl lived.
Though she didn’t want to leave her homeland, what choice did she have? The jarl had saved her life. If she tried to run away again, he might not treat her as well as he had. The opportunity to wander in the village was the only chance she had to get information about her home. If Boniface had killed her family, word would have spread throughout her country by now.
As they anchored just off the island, several of the men jumped overboard, standing in waist-high water. It surprised her how shallow it was so close to the sea.
“Now climb over the railing,” Jarl Bodvar directed. “Ivar will carry you so you don’t get wet.”
He helped her up and she tucked the hem of her gown between her thighs before dropping into the open arms of the waiting Viking. He easily lifted her above his head and walked slowly to the shore. Then he set her on her feet and smiled.<
br />
“Thank you.”
“Aye,” Ivar said. “Now tell me where you wish to go.”
“To the place where men gather and speak of things no girl should hear.”
His dark eyebrows shot up in surprise. “If it’s company you want…”
“No,” she said. “I would hear the news from Hesse.”
He nodded. “Your family?”
“If there’s any hope they survived.”
“Come with me then.”
He walked briskly up the hill where a well-worn path cut between rows of thatched huts. Beyond the cottages stood a fortified stone structure, its wood gates open wide. Livestock and men roamed about, some gathered around a central fire.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“A chieftain lives within,” he answered. “These are his servants and the men who do business with him. Like Jarl Bodvar, many stop here before journeying home to buy supplies or get drunk a last time.”
Mauriana noticed the many outbuildings that surrounded the large dwelling, some with billowing smoke escaping through the holes in the roofs. That would explain the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread. Someone had to cook for all these people. But what caught her attention the most, was when a woman and two men emerged from another stone house, laughing and embracing each other. The girl had flowing blond hair, her gown hanging carelessly low in the front, showing too much flesh for a respected member of any family.
“And her?” She gestured at the woman.
Ivar cleared his throat. “A place of respite and comfort.”
“Perhaps we should stop there first,” she suggested, taking a couple steps in the woman’s direction.
“Wait.”
She turned around, knowing exactly what kind of place it was. Even her tiny village had a woman that provided entertainment for lonely men, though not one of them wished to admit it. And so it seemed the Norse were the same, unwilling to speak of such things, especially with her.
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