Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  The newcomers were welcomed into the lodge and invited to break their fast. Dieter was given dry clothing and his apparel strung on the drying line. Everyone shared their story. Ragna shuddered when she told Dieter of jumping into the sea.

  He laughed. “I heard the tale, and I knew that if anyone had the courage to leap into the sea, it was Ragna FitzRam.”

  Ragna was astonished that her fate had hinged on the ramblings of a dying survivor of the wreck. The newcomers learned the details of Reider’s betrayal, and that he and Kjartan had gone to regain Reider’s birthright.

  Like the Danes, Ivar also believed Dagfinn Alfredsen would fight with Reider. “He’s a good man. Murder of a rightful ruler would not sit well with him.”

  The thought occurred to Ragna that Ivar might be a good source of information. “Captain Ivar, tell me about Margit.”

  The seaman looked at her curiously. “You speak of Margit Hansdatter?”

  Ragna felt her face flush. “I do not know her name. She was Reider’s betrothed,” she murmured, hoping her nervousness was not obvious.

  Ivar drew on his pipe. “Margit came from Heide as an arranged bride for Reider. She is a beautiful woman…”

  Ragna’s heart fell.

  “…on the outside. But I always thought her devious.”

  Torgrim snorted his agreement, spat into the hearth and said something in Danish. Ivar explained. “She betrayed Reider with Gorm.”

  No wonder Reider mistrusts women.

  Dieter came to his feet. “You can stop worrying. We will be on our way as early as the morrow. Ivar will take us back to Hamburg.”

  Ragna should have been elated, but her thoughts were full of Reider. To never see him again, and not know what happened to him?

  XVI

  A hue and cry went up early the next morning. Longboats had been sighted entering the cove.

  “Gorm’s henchmen!” Torgrim shouted breathlessly, running by Ragna on his way out of the lodge. She had lain awake for hours, clutching Reider’s headband, and finally risen before dawn.

  Dieter had slept in Kjartan’s alcove, but was already up and dressed. He issued curt orders to his men and Ivar rallied his sailors. They left and Ragna followed.

  “Stay here, with Thor,” Dieter ordered.

  She stamped her foot. “I can fight. I have my dagger.”

  Her Saxon brother-by-marriage held up his hand. “Nein, Ragna. I insist. Blythe would never forgive me if anything happened to you at this juncture.”

  She sat down heavily on a bench, pouting as she listened to the sound of boots running across pebbles. Soon she heard metal clanging on metal, strident shouting, cries of pain. She paced back and forth, anxious to know what transpired outside. Thor followed her movements, cocking his head.

  The minutes stretched interminably and her frustration grew. When the clamor lessened, she tightened her grip on her dagger and crept to the door, inching it open. The conflict seemed to be over. Dieter and Ivar stood at the water’s edge looking out to sea, unharmed. Dieter still had his sword drawn. One of the enemy longboats had pulled away from the shore, apparently fleeing. Bodies lay on the bloodied pebbles of the beach.

  Without warning, a burly Dane barreled through the door, knocking her to the floor. Blood poured from a gash across his forehead. She squealed as the dagger fell from her hand. Her heart in her throat, she scrambled away from the attacker, screaming loudly. A glimmer of hope surfaced when she heard Dieter shout her name, but died when the Dane stooped to pick up her weapon. Surely she would not be robbed of life by her mother’s dagger?

  With a menacing growl, Thor leapt at the intruder, sinking his teeth into the giant’s leg. The Dane howled and fell to the floor. Then he kicked Thor hard with his other foot, sending the dog careening against the wall with a loud whimper.

  It was too much. Ragna came to her feet, and rushed at the intruder, waving her arms. Her loud shrieks evidently took him by surprise. He staggered to his feet and ran out, shoving Dieter to the ground when he collided with him. He ran into the waves in pursuit of his fleeing comrades. Thor followed hard on his heels. Ragna ran after him, but Dieter restrained her.

  “He has my mother’s dagger,” she wailed.

  Dieter held fast, breathing heavily. “Your life is more important, sister.”

  She fell to her knees, keening the loss. The cold pebbles jarred her bones. “He will likely drown, taking my dagger with him to the bottom of the sea.”

  He pulled her back to her feet and held her tightly as she sobbed. “We prevailed against them. That’s the important thing. Your fellow shipwreck survivors fought well, as did the Danes on our side. Gorm’s men suffered considerable losses. I am only sorry some of them escaped to limp back to their leader. But we have one of their boats.”

  Ragna scanned the shoreline, breathing a sigh of relief when Thor emerged from the sea, apparently uninjured. Her hero shook the water from his pelt and raced to her side.

  XVII

  Roar Knutsen was relieved to be back in Strand. It had taken his last reserve of strength to reach the fleeing longboat. His comrades had hauled him aboard with great difficulty. Had they been rowing away at full power he would never have made it. His head wound had bled like the devil, even after the long while he had spent in the water. He would bear the scar for the rest of his life, a reminder of the failed expedition. The puncture wounds in his leg were deep and painful.

  Glad though he was to be home, he did not look forward to the dressing down they would surely receive from Gorm. Margit’s rage would be intolerable. Roar regretted ever agreeing, while in the throes of a drunken stupor, to help Gorm take the throne. His rule had benefited no one, least of all the men who had aided him. Gorm had listened to Margit’s treacherous flattery and believed it, but he was no leader of men.

  The raid on Reider’s hideout had been ill advised, but Gorm would not be dissuaded. Roar thought bitterly of the lifelong friends he had lost in the battle at Husembro, and Reider and most of his men had not been there in any case. The only thing Roar had to show for the foray, beside the wounds, was a handsome carved dagger, though it was too small for his hand.

  He and his companions came wearily to their feet in the Hall when Gorm swept in with Margit on his arm. He escorted her to a seat, climbed the step to the dais and sat on the throne. He sprawled in the elaborately carved chair for several minutes, chewing his fingernails, scowling at the assembly. Roar’s nervousness increased. The head wound burned, pain gnawed his leg.

  “Knutsen!” Gorm finally bellowed.

  Roar came forward and went down on one knee. “My lord Gorm.”

  Gorm leaned forward. “How many times must I remind you? It’s Prince Gorm.”

  Filled with disgust, coupled with an urge to snicker, Roar touched his hand to his heart. Did the fool not realize the crown he wore was too big for his head, in more ways than one? “A thousand pardons, my lord Prince.”

  Gorm squirmed, digging his stunted fingernails into the arms of the throne. “Explain your failure to deliver Reider Torfinnsen to me. You have returned with far fewer men than you took with you.”

  Roar itched to tell the arrogant nobody that Reider had not been at the encampment, that everyone had deemed it a fool’s errand, but he thought better of it. Gorm had no interest in anything he had to say. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air.

  Suddenly Gorm leapt to his feet, waving a dismissive hand at Roar. “Can no one track Reider Torfinnsen for me? Must I do everything myself? Get out of my sight.”

  Roar stood and backed away, breathing a sigh of relief. When he turned, Margit’s malevolent glare had his gut plummeting back to his feet. She would not let him off so lightly.

  Gorm strode out of the Hall, accompanied by several minions for whom Roar had no respect. Margit came to her feet and beckoned, raking her cold eyes over him, stripping him bare. She fluttered her eyelashes. “Attend me in my chamber, Roar.”

  She left, a round-shouldered female
thrall following in her wake. He was sure the girl had been pregnant the last time he had seen her. But he couldn’t be concerned with that. He had his own worries. If Gorm caught him in Margit’s chamber, he was a dead man.

  ~*~

  Margit smirked. She had grown to womanhood in Heide, surrounded by burly warriors, full of their own bravado, afraid of nothing, except a woman who knew how to manipulate them. It amused her that Roar Knutsen, fearless giant, stood before her now, licking his lips, looking around nervously, shifting his weight. What would he do if she put a firm grip on his manhood?

  She took a step forward, her eyes locked on his groin. She glanced up at his face, pleased to see sweat beading on his forehead. She opened her mouth, intending to taunt him, but her gaze fell upon a dagger tucked into his belt. She reached for it. He closed his eyes and looked as though he might swoon. She yanked the dagger from his belt. “What is this?”

  His eyes flew open in alarm then settled on the dagger. He let out a sigh of relief. “A dagger,” he stammered.

  She touched the tip of the blade to the end of his nose, sniggering when he went cross-eyed. “I know it’s a dagger, fool. It’s a woman’s dagger. Why do you have it?”

  She ran her fingers over the intricate carving, recognizing the worth of the old weapon. She had never seen the like before, though the figure carved on the hilt was definitely a Viking.

  Roar squirmed. “I captured it. In the raid.”

  Margit scoffed. “From a woman?”

  His eager answer shocked her. “Ja!”

  A woman at Reider’s encampment? She chewed her lip as jealousy gnawed at her. “A woman at Husembro? Who was she? Describe her.”

  Roar shook his head, eyeing the dagger. “I know not. She was hidden in a lodge and I stumbled over her. I thought there was a chance Reider might be hiding inside. She was a blonde. Long hair down to her waist. I had to flee before I had a chance to kill her. She had a mean dog. A man came to her rescue and our boat had pulled away—” His voice trailed off.

  Coward!

  “—he was not a Dane.”

  This captured her attention. “Not a Dane?”

  Roar sweated still. “He was not dressed like a Dane, and Ivar Sigurdsen was with them. We were outmanned.”

  She waved her hand in dismissal. “Be gone. You sicken me.”

  He turned to leave, then had the temerity to look back at the dagger, a question in his eyes. She smirked. “Nej, Roar. The dagger is mine now.”

  XVIII

  After long deliberation, Dagfinn’s battle plan was deemed the most likely to succeed. The best time to attack Gorm was at night. Not only would darkness provide cover, most of the drunkards and malcontents who had supported the usurper would be well into their cups by nightfall.

  Sailing at night was risky, and a frontal attack from the sea fraught with dangers. Gorm and his cronies would be on the watch. Instead, Dagfinn proposed they sail in daylight to the opposite side of Strand, trek overland, wait until nightfall and attack from the rear.

  Though the rocky leeward side of the island provided few landing places, one of Reider’s farms had a small dock they could use.

  Kjartan was concerned that if their overland attack failed, they would have no means of escape by sea.

  Reider rubbed his chin. “You are right, my friend, but I think Dagfinn’s plan offers the best chance of success.”

  Kjartan scratched his head. “I agree. Every proposal has risks. I’ll prepare the men.”

  Reider and Dagfinn shook hands, and his father’s ally slapped him on the back. “The gods will favor us, Reider. We are fighting for justice and honor. Gorm has no honor. My commanders will ready our men. It is fitting we should help you regain your birthright.”

  Reider embraced his neighbor, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He and Kjartan were left with little to do while Dagfinn’s men prepared the fleet. They and their crew were outfitted with armor and weapons. Reider was glad to have his hand on an axe once again. It was his favorite weapon but he was out of practice. He and Kjartan had spent an hour in mock combat. Muscles Reider had not used for a while were already aching.

  “How fortunate we are to have such an ally, Kjartan,” he said as they paused for refreshment, marvelling at the number of boats and men Dagfinn had committed to the fight.

  Kjartan sheathed the dagger, his weapon of choice. “Indeed, but he and your father were friends, as well as allies. He knows you would do the same for him if needs be.”

  Both men wiped the sweat from their brows and bare torsos, then resumed their practice.

  It felt good to be engaged in hard physical exercise again. They had trained during their exile, but now there was purpose to it, a feeling it was real. Vengeance was within reach.

  Though the prospect filled Reider with more determination than ever, something was missing. Would vengeance be enough? What then? Strand would need a strong ruler. Was he equal to the task? With Ragna he could be.

  Preoccupied with this startling thought, he swung at Kjartan, but his friend nimbly sidestepped and Reider stumbled forward.

  Kjartan sheathed his weapon and bent at the waist. He put his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “Your thoughts are elsewhere, my friend. I could have plunged my dagger to the hilt in your gut. Could it be you are thinking of Ragna?”

  Reider opened his mouth to deny it, but Kjartan knew him too well. “She has crept into my thoughts a time or two,” he conceded.

  Kjartan grunted. “Hah! A time or two? You are besotted with the woman.”

  Reider took another practice swing with the axe. “Is it that obvious?”

  Kjartan put his hands on his hips. “It pains me to say this, but Ragna has almost restored even my faith in women. She is a rare jewel. Forgive me, my Prince, but you would be a fool to drive her away.”

  ~*~

  Two days later, as the fleet approached Reider’s remote farm, it seemed the gods were not on their side. The waters were choppy and the early morning rain came down in sheets. The dock was small. It had not been used for years and some of the timbers were rotten. One boat holed on the jagged rocks and the men aboard had to swim for shore in the chilly water. Two drowned, weighed down by their armor.

  Each boat in turn disembarked its warriors at the dock, then anchored further out with a skeleton crew. Eventually three hundred tired men were safely landed, soaked to the skin. The sun came out and steam rose off their wet gear as they marched the mile to the farm. Once they had dried their weapons, they would rest until late afternoon then begin the trek to the Great Ringhouse.

  Reider, Kjartan, Dagfinn and his commanders gathered in the tiny farmhouse, welcomed heartily by the tenant farmer and his wife and children.

  Dagfinn chuckled, watching the farmer’s wife bow and scrape as she scurried to provide her unexpected noble guests with refreshment. “They are proud you have chosen their little abode to launch your offensive.”

  “They are good tenants who take care of the land,” Reider murmured, smiling as he too watched the farmer’s five urchins, all miniatures of the very pregnant farmwife. He had never thought much about siring children, but now he felt a yearning to hold a child of his own, Ragna’s child.

  “They have naught good to say about Gorm’s rule,” Kjartan added.

  They reviewed their plans, then settled down to rest. The farmer took his family off to the barn, insisting Reider sleep in his bed. The deer hide curtain provided some privacy to the little niche. He wiped the last of the rain from the lamellar cuirass Dagfinn had given him, stripped it off and flopped onto the pallet. Hands behind his head, he gazed up into the rafters, stretching his legs. The woodsy scent of the cooking fire smoldering in the hearth teased his nostrils.

  No doubt the farmer and his wife made love quietly here so as not to wake their children. His pik stirred at the thought of Ragna. How he wished she was in his arms, in this simple little house with its sturdy oaken timbers
and planked walls, joining with him to make beautiful blonde babies.

  He dozed fitfully for an hour or so, the task ahead weighing heavily on his mind. The clothing that had dried on his body earlier in the day felt stiff and uncomfortable. Impatient, he rose, put his armor back on, then went to find Kjartan. In short order the invading force was ready to begin the trek. At first the terrain was rocky and hilly, but levelled off as they approached the main village.

  Twilight descended as Reider and Dagfinn’s men dug into their hiding places just beyond the outlying ring houses.

  Kjartan returned from scouting the area. “Gorm has no guards in place on this side of the village. He never did think past his nose.”

  Reider shrugged one shoulder, tightening his grip on the handle of his stridsøkse, running his finger lightly over the blade of the axe. “He’ll regret that.”

  There was a sudden commotion. One of Dagfinn’s men appeared, dragging a villager by the scruff of the neck. “We caught this wretch spying on us,” he declared gruffly, throwing the peasant at Reider’s feet.

  The man turned fearful eyes to Reider, then came to his knees. “My lord Reider! Is it you? Praise be to our Lord Jesus Christ that you have come.”

  He touched his fingertips to his forehead and made the Sign of the Crucifixion across his body. “We have prayed for your return. Gorm is an agent of the devil who takes everything and gives nothing in return.”

  He quickly surveyed Reider’s men crouched in the ditch. “You have many warriors to aid you, but be assured the villagers will also come to your aid. We may have only pitchforks and shovels, but we will fight for you. Your cause is righteous.”

  Reider put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “What is your name?”

  “Kristian, my prince.”