“Tis nothing to be ashamed of,” she said. “My father explained many things to me growing up. He often told me the outside world was no different. Our needs are the same as yours.”
Again the bearded giant smiled, his dark eyes had provided much needed comfort on the ship when she was sick. “For your sake, I hope your father survived. He sounds like a man I would break bread with.”
“Aye,” she said with a smile. “Many people admire my father.”
“Once we enter the gates, stay with me. Speak little, if at all. Since the spread of Christianity in the south, people here are highly suspicious of anyone from your region. Death follows in the wake of the White Christ. These men worship Odin and Thor as we do. If we are to find out anything, I will be the one they speak to.”
Mauriana understood. The new religion had wreaked havoc on her country, turning brother against brother. What villages remained loyal to the old ways were in constant jeopardy. Men like Boniface had not only razed whole towns and killed needlessly, sometimes they crucified pagans or sold them into slavery to force families to convert. But not her. She rolled her sleeve up, finding comfort in the tattoo on her upper arm—Thor’s hammer. Like her father and mother, once she came of age, she accepted the mark of her faith. And if she must die for it, she would.
They entered the courtyard and her escort led her to a hut where he paid for two cups of mead.
“Sit on the bench and I will go talk to the men.”
Satisfied the Viking would do all he could, she looked around with great curiosity. Having only ever traveled a full day’s ride from her home, the only other stone structure she’d seen belonged to a group of monks who lived in Hesse. There were a great number of sheep grazing on long grass and the pigs were rolling in puddles of mud. The air smelled different here, maybe the salt of the sea mixed with the rather unpleasant aromas of everyday life.
Mauriana’s father had traveled before he married her mother. To France and where her mother’s family hailed from, Scandinavia. If she remembered correctly, a region called the Trondelag in Norway. There were reasons her mother never fully explained why her grandmother had taught her Norse. She couldn’t read or write it, but she understood Jarl Bodvar and his crew. And people in this village seemed to speak many foreign languages. The sounds of this new world pleased her and she closed her eyes, daydreaming that her parents and siblings were there with her.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” a feminine voice invaded her peaceful thoughts.
Mauriana opened her eyes and found the woman with the long blond hair seated next to her. She spoke the common tongue of Germania. “For good reason,” Mauriana replied. “Tis my first time.”
“And you have sailed with Jarl Bodvar?”
It intrigued Mauriana that this woman would know that. “Yes.”
“Are you his kinswoman?”
Remembering Ivar had warned her not to talk, she shook her head. “I am his guest.”
The woman clicked her tongue. “And Ivar is your escort?” she laughed. “That man knows only one way to safeguard women and it doesn’t involve wearing clothes.”
Mauriana’s cheeks heated. “I am certain he wishes to do other things.”
The woman smiled and lifted a strand of her hair. “Your coloring is different, the gold and red is beautiful. Are you sure you don’t wish to stay and work for me? I have plenty of room in my house for another girl. You’ll be well fed and don’t have to fuck a man who doesn’t appeal to you. Plenty of silver exchanges hands in this village, and all you have to do is lay on your back and spread your legs for a share of it.”
Mauriana had never even kissed a man and the idea of sharing her body with a stranger made her feel uneasy. But the woman was friendly and she didn’t wish to offend her. “I thank you for the generous offer, but I gave the jarl my word that I would return to the ship with Ivar.”
“And do you know where he’s taking you?”
“To Norway.”
“Do you know why?”
“My village was burned and Jarl Bodvar saved my life.”
Her pretty face grew dark then. “Norsemen never do anything out of the kindness of their hearts,” she said. “Now you’re indebted to the jarl.”
“But my father’s silver paid for my passage on his ship.” Mauriana covered her mouth suddenly, ashamed she had spoken so freely. “Forgive me,” she said. “I shouldn’t share my secrets with anyone.”
“My name is Rosamund,” the woman whispered. “And because you have been so kind to me, I give you this warning. Norse believe in wyrd, and will hold that the gods have delivered you into their hands. A beauty such as you will fetch a high price as a thrall. Tis better to lay in one of my beds than upon one of theirs.”
“I don’t understand…”
“Mauriana…” Ivar growled as he approached. He glowered at Rosamund. “Be gone, whore.”
“Tis not the name you call me deep in the night,” she said, standing. Then she drew her wool shawl closer to her body, covering her breasts. “Remember what I told you.” She touched Mauriana’s shoulder affectionately. “Trust no man.”
Ivar raised his hand. “Give me a reason to strike you.”
Rosamund chuckled and quickly retreated.
Confused by what Rosamund had said, she studied Ivar’s face, wondering if he’d lied to her this whole time. Was Jarl Bodvar’s benevolence nothing more than a ruse? The same fear she felt in her village reemerged. But she dared not question Ivar directly. If she was going to survive whatever plans these Norsemen had for her, ’twas best to remain cooperative.
“Did the whore spew vicious lies as she always does?”
“No,” Mauriana said. “She spoke well of Jarl Bodvar and mentioned something about wyrd. What is it?”
Ivar rubbed his chin, looking irritated. He gazed in the direction of Rosamund’s house, then fisted his hands. “Tis fate.”
“And does everyone possess wyrd?”
“Aye,” he answered.
“Then what is mine?”
He sighed. “Let us return to the ship. I have news of your home better shared in private.”
Something seemed to upset the Viking, she could see it in his eyes. And the fact that he wished to speak to her away from the village likely meant the news wasn’t good. But she’d rather know. If her family was dead, she needed to mourn them properly. And what better way to do so, than crossing the sea in a great ship headed for a land she’d only ever heard of in stories told by her grandmother and father?
Chapter Three
Once back on the ship, Jarl Bodvar showed her to an area where a fur had been tacked to the rail, forming a small shelter. “Rest here when you feel the need,” he said. “The winds whip mercilessly across the sea, chilling a man bone-deep.”
She thanked him, then found Ivar waiting for her. Desperate to hear his news, she mentally prepared for what she already expected to be true. Inevitably, the cursed monk had come ready to fight with more than a dozen armed soldiers willing to destroy her home unless her people submitted. She approached Ivar, his expression neutral. But these seasoned seafarers weren’t affected by violence and death. In fact, she guessed Ivar had seen too many battles and too much blood spilled, for the scars on his muscled arms revealed what type of man he truly must be.
Underneath his sad smile and dark eyes were secrets she’d like to discover—tales to be told of what the world was like beyond her imagination.
“You are well?” he asked.
“I am frightened,” she admitted. “My heart aches and I must hold it all in so no one knows what I am really thinking or feeling.”
“Be at peace,” he said. “Thor’s great oak did fall, killing a few. But most of the villagers converted because not one hair on the monk’s blasted head was harmed after his foul deed. Testing the gods the way he did should bring a painful death.” Ivar looked about before continuing. “This land is filled with cowards and will soon feel the oppression of this ne
w church.”
He looked so disgusted, but Mauriana’s heart flooded with hope. Only a few had died. “If my people are alive, there is no reason for me to sail to Norway. Perhaps the jarl will let me return to the village. I can find my own way home.”
Ivar’s face soured even more. “Impossible.”
“But…”
“You are under his protection. Geestendorf is no place for a maiden. Men of the lowest sort rape and murder for less cause than a pretty face.”
No matter how true his words, she didn’t like being held against her will. And regardless of Rosamund’s warning, Mauriana wanted to believe Jarl Bodvar acted out of concern for her welfare. “I have silver enough to hire a knifeman to escort me home.”
Ivar laughed darkly. “Criminals travel in packs like wild dogs,” he said. “One man protecting you wouldn’t last a day, much less a night in the woods. You will remain here. Once we reach Norway, I promise to send word to Hesse inquiring after your family. You will give me details. Our ships travel often in that region.”
For a crewman, Ivar spoke with much confidence and authority, his countenance as arrogant as the jarl’s. Were all Norsemen so demanding?
“Please… Let me speak to the jarl, he might understand.”
“No.” Ivar gripped her by the shoulders. “Accept your circumstances. As we speak, the sail is being raised. Look.”
She followed his gaze. The white and red sail had indeed been secured. “Surely you understand why I must stay. If there’s even the remotest hope my family survived, I must be reunited with them. I have sisters and a brother. My mother is pregnant. Again, I beg you for mercy.” Misery took control and tears burned her eyes.
Ivar’s steely look of warning won her silence. She palmed the tears away and swallowed the whimper that fought to escape her lips. Not the type to weep easily, she knew she had good reason. Even if only one member of her family still breathed, she had cause to stay. A reason to live. Faith that all things would turn out well. Her kinsmen lived in volatile times, faced many dangers over the years. Born of strong blood and with a spirit inclined toward survival, Mauriana must face this challenge as she did all others—relying on what her father had taught her—fight to live.
What would her beloved father say? Bide your time, girl. And so she would, no matter how difficult it was to not hurl herself over the side of the ship and swim for land.
“Fear not.” Ivar again gripped her shoulders, only this time, his hands were gentle. “I’ve kept watch over you all these days and will continue to do so. Sleep now,” he suggested. “I will wake you when it’s time to eat.”
Feeling helpless, Mauriana acquiesced and walked quietly away. She crawled into the fur shelter and drew it around her, appreciative of the privacy. Outside, she might have to bite her tongue, but in here, shielded from the eyes of all those men, she’d curse and weep all she wanted. Once more, tears wet the corners of her eyes. Only this time, she didn’t fight against the torrent of sorrow that assailed her. She mourned the loss of her family and freedom, the destruction of Thor’s holy oak, the deaths of her kinsmen, and the defeat of the old ways.
As she curled up, tucking her knees to her chest, visions of her home filled her exhausted mind. A cross stood at the center of her village instead of Thor’s oak. Her once vibrant home nestled in the heart of the forest stood exposed, surrounded by barren fields. Boniface’s words of doom echoed inside her head, his bearded face a bad omen.
“Hear me, Allfather,” she prayed to Odin. “Save my family. Let my mother’s unborn child breathe the air of this world. Do with me as you will—my life for theirs.” That’s all she had to give in exchange, and the silver in the purse tied about her waist. But what use did the gods have for meager coins? “Take me instead of them.”
The ship rolled side-to-side suddenly, but to her surprise, the sickness didn’t return. For some reason she never feared the vessel lined with colorful shields. Not even the carvings of dragon heads on the stern and bow intimidated her. For her mother’s mother had told her many stories about mythical creatures that moved unseen in the heavens. About the Valkyries and warriors they claimed. About the jealous gods they worshipped. About her homeland, where Mauriana often dreamt she’d go. Those childhood fantasies were now a hard reality.
And as she fell asleep, the face of a certain Viking brought her much needed peace.
Chapter Four
Ivar stared down at the sleeping Mauriana. The ship had landed minutes ago, and he needed to depart. Finding her at rest, he decided to leave without saying goodbye. He’d see the lovely girl again. Satisfied she was safe, he turned on his heels and headed for the pier. Jarl Bodvar was already barking orders at his family and servants who’d lined up to greet the arriving crew. In Ivar’s opinion, months away from home did little to endear a man to his family. But greeting them like an angry bear would make anyone wish the jarl’s ship had sunk.
In the distance he recognized his own men waiting, led by his younger brother. He raised his hand and waved, a smile on his face. How he’d missed home, the women and food, his family and lands, the crisp air and snow-covered peaks of the Trondelag.
“Will you stay for the sacrifice?” Jarl Bodvar stopped him. “For the feast?”
Ivar eyed his ally. Distant cousins on his mother’s side, the only reason he’d sailed to Germania was to repay an old debt to Bodvar. He’d done his duty. All of the jarl’s wares had sold well above market value or been traded for silk and rare gems, items the nobles in Scandinavia craved more and more of.
Ivar grunted. “I have my own altar to visit. And judging by the presence of my brother—my mother wishes to see me.”
“Minutes on land and we’ve already forgotten what’s it’s like to be freemen.” The jarl turned to his own waiting wife and daughters, then back to Ivar. “Sometimes I think they greet me so warmly because they want to see what gifts I bring. To Hel with their husband and father.”
Ivar grinned. “I wish you well.”
“You are a hero’s worthy friend,” Bodvar praised him.
“What about the girl?” Ivar couldn’t resist asking.
“No harm shall befall her.”
It pleased him to know his cousin would protect her. “Goodbye.”
He greeted Bodvar’s family as he walked by, then pushed through the crowd, eager to hear news from home.
“Ivar,” his brother, Hesketh, said on a smile. “The gods have favored you again.”
“No.” He embraced his brother. “The winds did.”
“No matter,” Hesketh said. “You are safe and our mother is anxious to set eyes upon you.”
Ivar motioned to two of his soldiers. “Three baskets await retrieval on the ship. And don’t forget to collect my portion of silver from the jarl.” The fact his cousin had failed to offer it to him before he took his leave suggested the old warrior wouldn’t pay unless Ivar asked for it. The shrewd bastard had grown richer over the years from such omissions, he suspected.
“Aye,” the men said in unison and departed.
“Tell me of our mother, sisters, and brothers.” As head of the household, it was Ivar’s duty to protect and provide for his family. His father died in battle six years ago, leaving his mother with six children to contend with.
“Unfortunately, fever claimed two of our servants.” His brother sighed, always the sort to take what he viewed as failure to heart. “Syn and Rakel suffered through it, but their strength has returned. Mother nearly drowned them with her mixtures, but she is a dedicated spaewife, especially to her twin daughters. Brokk and Jorund are as you left them, proving themselves more worthy of your respect and trust on the practice field.”
“I am pleased to hear it.”
“What treasures did you bring home?”
Ivar stood thinking. Silk and flameworked glass beads for the women, two mail shirts for himself, and khanjars, oddly shaped knives from the Arab traders, for each brother. “You are no better than a child, beggin
g to open his gift before it’s even brought home. Come…” Ivar turned to his steed, a beast to be sorely missed whenever he left. “Faithful Raven.” He stroked his neck affectionately. “Let us go home.”
Located only miles from Jarl Bodvar’s home, Ivar’s steading encompassed acres of fertile land and generous pine woods. The western border of his property ended on the cliffs overlooking the sea. As his entourage approached the open gates of his fortified longhouse, his heart filled with joy. It never failed to make him happy to return to the place his father and his trusted captains built with their own two hands.
Constructed of wood and insulated with turf along the four sides, his home was fit for any family of wealth. The ends of the roof curled upward as any ship, dragonheads greeting the sunrise, announcing his family’s loyalty to the gods.
Ivar rode to the very entrance, dismounted, and walked inside. Three rock hearths split the great hall in half. Sunshine spilled into the space through the smoke slits in the roof and the openings between the walls and ceiling. One side was dedicated to everyday life, weaving looms and tables where the women worked, the other furnished for his family and feasts. Freemen and thralls alike bowed as he strode by, headed for the dais on the far side of the room where his carved, high chair waited, covered by the fur of a bear he killed years ago.
Behind the dais, a wall of colorful tapestries hid his private chambers. To the left of his room, a narrow hallway led to the kitchens where he knew his mother waited. Rushing to the place reserved for women, he cared little for formalities whenever he dealt with his family. As soon as he entered, the half-dozen servants working at the tables stopped and curtsied.
“Why ever did you…” His mother whipped around. “Ivar!” She ran to him, throwing her arms around his neck. She kissed his cheeks. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you approached? I would have met you in the hall.”
“Idona,” he used her first name playfully. “The lady of this steading need not greet me. I will always come to her.”
Sirens of the Northern Seas: A Viking Romance Collection Page 21