Tales of the Valkyries
Page 9
She hurried on, reasoning that if he wasn’t dead and wasn’t with Leofric, then mayhap he had already fled—without her. Had she left it to late to come to her senses?
Out of breath, heart hammering, she paused as the abbey came into view. There was no going back to a life of degradation and hardship with her step-father. She’d done what she could and hadn’t kept any of the coin from the Worcester market.
And then she saw him. Him and Sandor. Riding at a gallop out of the abbey precinct. In the opposite direction!
She fell to her knees and called on the Lord God and the spirit of the talisman to come to her aid.
* * *
Wulfram’s parents had taught him that there are forces at work in the world that cannot be explained by ordinary mortals. They often told the story of dark, magical events they’d witnessed first hand years ago in the desolate English wasteland of Dartmoor.
He paid heed therefore when a voice in his head whispered that Roswitha would come to him.
He reined to a halt. “Hold, Sandor,” he shouted to his adopted brother. “She will come.”
He turned, scanning the path to Pershore Abbey one last time. His heart threatened to burst out of his chest when he caught sight of Roswitha kneeling in the grass. He urged his horse to a gallop.
She got to her feet and waved both arms.
He leapt from the beast, cupped his hands on her bottom and lifted her to his body, not sure if coherent words would emerge from his constricted throat. “I knew, I knew you would come.”
“Forgive me, Wulfram. I wanted to come with you, but I was afraid and I thought it my duty to stay with my step-father. But he doesn’t love me.”
“I do love you, Roswitha,” he said truthfully.
Tears welled. “As I love you, courageous Jomsviking.”
“My kiss is my pledge of fealty to you, Roswitha of Pershore.”
He kissed her then, elated when she opened with just a little coaxing and allowed his tongue entry, sucking happily as a babe sucks at a mother’s teat. Could it be she was a woman of passion as well as loyal, beautiful and brave? His pik thought so and rejoiced.
The need for breath, and urgent shouts from Sandor, broke them apart.
“Leofric advised us to flee,” he explained. “We face a long and perilous journey to Jomsborg.”
The trust in her green eyes awed him. “I’ll never be fearful again with you as my champion,” she whispered.
He lifted her onto his horse. “Much as I loved having you ride in my lap, we’ll make better progress if you cling to my back.”
They quickly joined Sandor and galloped boldly into a future that held more promise than he’d ever dared hope.
Did you enjoy The Messenger?
Catch Anna’s latest Viking romance on Anna’s website
Vikings evoke images of strong men who allow nothing to stand in their way. They’re not normally associated with tender feelings. Wildflowers conjure more personal and sentimental images. In BANISHED, a handful of bluebells picked from a meadow by childhood sweethearts becomes a symbol and eventually an acknowledgement of a love long denied.
Audra longs to leave behind the life of an elite mercenary, a role forced on her after her father’s banishment from the Viking brotherhood.
A journey from exile to the court of King Canute offers a new life, though she fears few men will want her once her history is known.
The bloody feud that precipitated her father’s banishment resurfaces when she is unexpectedly reunited with a childhood sweetheart. Sigmar has always held her heart, but he is the son of her father’s enemy. Sigmar’s hopes for advancement in Canute’s service will be dashed if he obeys the dictates of family honor.
Can Audra and Sigmar lay the hatreds of the past to rest, or will the Viking code of vengeance triumph?
About Anna Markland
Thank you for reading The Messenger. 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.
Passion conquers whatever obstacles a hostile medieval world can throw in its path. My page-turning adventures have earned me a place on Amazon’s All-Star list.
Besides writing, I have two addictions-crosswords and genealogy, probably the reason I love research.
I am a fool for cats.
My husband is an entrepreneur who is fond of boasting he’s never had a job.
I live on Canada’s scenic west coast now, but I was born and raised in the UK and I love breathing life into European history.
Escape with me to where romance began.
I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.
I’d like to acknowledge the assistance of my critique partners, Reggi Allder, Jacquie Biggar, Sylvie Grayson and LizAnn Carson.
I’d love you to visit my newly revamped website and my Facebook page, Anna Markland Novels.
Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on Pinterest, or sign up for my newsletter.
Discover Anna Markland’s Booklist
If you prefer to read sagas in chronological order, here’s a handy list for the Montbryce family books
Conquering Passion—Ram and Mabelle, Rhodri and Rhonwen
If Love Dares Enough—Hugh and Devona, Antoine and Sybilla
Defiant Passion-Rhodri and Rhonwen
A Man of Value—Caedmon and Agneta
Dark Irish Knight—Ronan and Rhoni
Haunted Knights—Adam and Rosamunda, Denis and Paulina
Passion in the Blood—Robert and Dorianne, Baudoin and Carys
Dark and Bright—Rhys and Annalise
The Winds of the Heavens—Rhun and Glain, Rhydderch and Isolda
Dance of Love—Izzy and Farah
Carried Away—Blythe and Dieter
Sweet Taste of Love—Aidan and Nolana
Wild Viking Princess—Ragna and Reider
Hearts and Crowns—Gallien and Peridotte
Fatal Truths—Alex and Elayne
Sinful Passions—Bronson and Grace; Rodrick and Swan
Series featuring the stories of the Viking ancestors of my Norman families
The Rover Bold—Bryk and Cathryn
The Rover Defiant—Torstein and Sonja
The Rover Betrayed—Magnus and Judith
Novellas
Maknab’s Revenge—Ingram and Ruby
Passion’s Fire—Matthew and Brigandine (2016) in Hearts Aflame
Banished—Sigmar and Audra (2016)
Caledonia Chronicles (Scotland-The Stewart Kings)
Book I Pride of the Clan—Rheade and Margaret
Book II Highland Tides—Braden and Charlotte
Book 2.5 Highland Dawn—Keith and Aurora (a Kindle Worlds book)
Book III Roses Among the Heather—Blair &Susanna, Craig & Timothea
The Von Wolfenberg Dynasty (medieval Europe)
Book 1 Loyal Heart—Sophia and Brandt
Book 2 Courageous Heart—Lute and Francesca
Book 3 Faithful Heart
Aegir’s Daughter
by
Emma Prince
815 A.D.
Orkneyjar Islands
“It’s a deal, then.”
Ulfarr gave Ingul a broad smile as the two grasped forearms to seal their arrangement.
As Ingul strode wide-legged back down the docks, Ulfarr couldn’t prevent the widening of his grin. Another adventure awaited—he could feel it in the salty air.
“Are you sure about this, captain?” Gamell asked quietly at Ulfarr’s side once Ingul was out of earshot.
“About Ingul?” Ulfarr turned to the young man who’d served faithfully on the Black Boar for nigh six seasons. “I have no doubt the old sea dog can scrounge up a dozen seaworthy men, even this late in the season.”
“Nei, not just Ingul, captain,” Gamell said, his brows coming together. “All of it. Departing for another trading voyage. Taking on a new crew for a fall run. Sailing the Black B
oar into autumn seas.” Gamell’s gaze shifted across the water to where the sun approached the hazy mass of Pictland in the southwest. “There is still enough daylight for the crew to stow the ship for winter.”
Ulfarr glanced past Gamell’s shoulder at his knarr, which bobbed cheerfully alongside the dock. “Nei, friend, the crew’s work is done for the day—and for the season. You all have served me well, but you ought to rejoin your families until spring. And the Black Boar will be fine, I assure you. She’ll be happier on the water than in some shed on land.”
As would Ulfarr.
Glinting with the last of the day’s sunshine, the seemingly endless sea beyond Orkneyjar and Pictland beckoned.
He should have been satisfied to call the season over. Less than a fortnight earlier, Ulfarr had been in Morndahl, a sleepy yet well-positioned Northland village that served as a stopover between the western isles and the larger trade markets in Jutland. He’d meant for that voyage to be the last of the season, but what should have been little more than an exchange of seal-skin rope for shipbuilding lumber turned into quite the thrilling undertaking.
First Jarl Brunn, Morndahl’s tight-fisted ruler, had refused to give Ulfarr the agreed upon amount of lumber. Then thanks to Thorolf, Ulfarr’s friend and the village’s shipbuilder, Ulfarr had learned that what little lumber he’d accepted was fit for naught more than firewood.
Jarl Brunn’s double cross had soured Ulfarr’s good spirits, but as usual, the gods had turned his bad luck into a grand adventure. Thorolf had snatched a thrall girl meant for the Jarl, then begged, bloodied and helpless, for Ulfarr’s help before losing consciousness. He’d taken Thorolf and the girl onboard the Black Boar and set sail for the Orkneyjar isles.
Thanks to Ulfarr’s prodding, Thorolf had removed his head from his ass and realized he loved the girl just a few days past. The two lovebirds were now tucked away somewhere in Pictland, safe from Jarl Brunn’s wrath. Meanwhile, Ulfarr should have been content to stow his cargo ship for the season, good deeds completed and his appetite for adventure sated.
But the sea called.
“Don’t fret about me, lad. All will be well.” He met Gamell’s earnest, concerned gaze and gave him a reassuring nod.
“Odin made you for the sea, captain,” Gamell said, a grudging grin tugging at his mouth.
“Ja, true enough,” Ulfarr replied, pounding Gamell on the back. “But at least for tonight I will enjoy what land has to offer. Surely you are staying in the village this night for Jarl Sigurd’s harvest celebration?”
Gamell’s face brightened with excitement, and Ulfarr was reminded of just how young his loyal friend still was. “Ja, of course! It will be the only thing to talk of all winter when we are all stuck indoors!”
The two strode down one of the island’s five long docks, Ulfarr’s arm slung companionably around Gamell’s shoulder.
“Perhaps this will be the year you take a wife,” Ulfarr said, shooting Gamell a sideways look.
Gamell had been little more than a boy when he’d joined Ulfarr’s crew, but now he was nigh a grown man in his own right. Still, the lad was unusually serious and cautious for his age. Ulfarr could never resist getting a rise—or a blush—out of him when it came to the subject of women.
“N-nei, I think not, captain,” Gamell stammered, his grin slipping. “I’ll return to my father’s farm to help with the harvest, but come spring I want to rejoin you on the Black Boar.”
“You know, Gamell, a man can keep a wife and a home of his own and still spend the summers trading on the open seas,” Ulfarr prodded, ruffling Gamell’s sun-burnished light brown hair.
“Then why haven’t you done so, captain?” Gamell asked, his blue eyes guileless.
Odin’s teeth. Ulfarr was a generous handful of years older than Gamell—old enough to have taken a woman to wife, and certainly old enough not to fall into the trap of his own advice.
“Clever lad,” was all he could manage in response. “Perhaps we shall both find wives this evening.”
Muted sounds of merriment drifted to them from the longhouse as they approached, but Ulfarr wasn’t prepared for the barrage of noise when he yanked open the door.
Drumbeats sent the longhouse’s wooden slats trembling. The strains of several pipes barely cut through the cacophony of shouts, cheers, and general revelry coming from the mass of people within.
Men and women lifted drinking horns and cups frothing with ale, toasting to Thor’s wife Sif, goddess of the harvest. A few who looked like warriors were arm wrestling at a long wooden table on one side of the longhouse. On the other side, Jarl Sigurd sat in an enormous chair atop a wooden dais, looking on at the festivities with a wide grin on his weathered face.
The Jarl must have invited not only all those here on the largest of the Orkneyjar islands, but the inhabitants of the smaller islands as well. Added to the villagers and farmers were the traders and longshipmen who would overwinter here in preparation to either return to the Northlands or launch deeper into new lands come spring.
“Just think, lad,” Ulfarr shouted, tipping his head toward Gamell to be heard over the merriment. “One of the women here could become your wife. Her, for example.” He tilted his head in thanks at a serving girl as she offered them wooden cups of mead.
Gamell’s tanned cheeks flushed red, and it had nothing to do with the heat inside the longhouse. Ulfarr couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Or see that one there.” He pointed, this time barking a laugh at Gamell’s round eyes as he took in the sight of a pretty blonde cheering on the arm wrestlers.
“Or that one there—”
The laughter died in Ulfarr’s throat as his eyes landed on a dark-headed woman sitting alone in a shadowed corner. Her hair, black as a raven’s wing, slid away from her face like a veil as she tilted back her cup and took a long drink.
As she lowered the cup, her eyes drifted across the crowded longhouse and settled on Ulfarr. A bolt of something hot and sharp shot through him as her green eyes locked with his.
“Nei, perhaps not that one,” he said to Gamell, never breaking eye contact with the woman. “There’s no telling what a woman like that would do to a poor boy like you.”
Ulfarr hardly registered the indignant shove Gamell gave his shoulder. His eyes still fixed on the dark-haired beauty, he began weaving through the crowded longhouse. Gamell may have called after him, but his friend’s voice was lost in the revelry.
Just as he reached her dim corner, she stood and whistled at a passing serving girl for another cup of mead. Though her undeniable beauty had struck him first, now he was dealt a second surprise.
Her simple tunic ended above the middle of her thighs, as a man’s would. Beneath the tunic she wore tight-fitting trousers and knee-high leather boots, both of which looked worn but sturdy.
Though she was garbed like a man, the leather belt cinched at her waist revealed a decidedly womanly figure. Her high, full breasts strained against the tunic’s linen, and her hips flared enticingly from her small waist.
“I’ve seen donkeys with better manners,” she said, flicking a glance at him as she snatched a brimming cup from the server. “Move along, friend. I’m in no mood for company this evening.”
Ulfarr realized he’d been staring, lips parted and feet rooted in place before her. He felt his eyebrows lift at the curt dismissal. Women normally didn’t mind his company—Odin’s eye, women normally sought him out.
“Forgive me,” he said, curving his lips in a disarming smile. “I did not mean to stare, but you are undeniably the most beautiful woman in all of Orkneyjar.”
With a sigh, she sank back down onto the wooden bench she’d been occupying. “I’m not some silly girl whose head will spin and skirts will lift with mere honeyed words,” she said, her gaze scanning the crowds wearily. “Find someone else.”
Ulfarr would have laughed at how easily she was handling this intrusion if it had been directed at another man. Instead, he felt something kindle lo
w in his belly. Heat began to pulse in his manhood. By the gods, he loved a challenge.
“You misunderstand,” he said, taking up the bench across from her and thus placing himself directly in line with her gaze. “How could I lift your skirts when you don’t have any? I came to ask who made your trousers. I am in need of a new pair myself, and—”
She rolled her eyes and snorted, although it wasn’t entirely without mirth. The flame in his belly flickered brighter and began to warm his blood.
“I am Ulfarr,” he added before she could form another rejection. “Some call me the Golden.”
A dark brow arched as she looked at him closely for the first time. “Let me guess,” she said slowly. “At first they called you Ulfarr the Golden because of that lion’s mane on your head.” She flicked her fingers toward his unbound hair where it sat around his shoulders.
“But then you used that blinding smile and those deep blue eyes to charm every female up to and including old crones with not a tooth left in their heads, so they called you the Golden because they all swore that you might as well be the sun.”
He doubted she meant any of that as a compliment, but he couldn’t help chuckling. Oh, ja, he would enjoy this challenge. “Mayhap you are right. The smile certainly does the trick often enough.”
She narrowed those emerald eyes at him critically, but he thought he detected the slightest curve around the corners of her full, rosy lips. “Look. I don’t care if you’re Ulfarr the Golden or Ulfarr the Gelded at the moment. I’ve had a day straight from Hel’s realm, and all I want to do is sit in peace and drink this mead. Your charm is wasted on me.”