Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship

by Laura Strickland

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The GUARDIANS OF SHERWOOD Trilogy

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Mrs. Claus

  and the

  Viking Ship

  by

  Laura Strickland

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Laura Strickland

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First English Tea Rose Edition, 2014

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-287-5

  Published in the United States of America

  The GUARDIANS OF SHERWOOD Trilogy

  by Laura Strickland

  DAUGHTER OF SHERWOOD

  CHAMPION OF SHERWOOD

  LORD OF SHERWOOD

  Available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Dedication

  To Cheryl,

  who read aloud with me, for the gift of her friendship

  Chapter One

  Strathaidh, Scotland c. 850 AD

  “Mother, what is it?” Breathless, Tinnie burst into the great hall of the dun to find her mother alone and pacing like a woman gone mad. Swiftly she appraised Mairi MacAieth’s appearance—wild eyes, wild hair, desperate expression—and her heart twisted in her breast. Dread gripped her, hard and merciless. “What has happened?”

  Ah, and what more could happen? Tinnie feared to imagine. For the past two seasons, Clan Aieth had been at war with an enemy so cruel and terrible they could only call him “the monster.” He came by sea, this vile beast, out of the far north like all his fellow marauders, and brought a host of warriors with him. Their great longships appeared on the horizon like water dragons riding the foam. And, when they did, even hardened warriors trembled, for they came to plunder, maim, and subjugate without mercy.

  “Daughter, the monster has sent a message. He wishes to meet with us and talk terms.”

  A frantic quaver accompanied the words. In response, Tinnie’s stomach tightened further and her thoughts raced through a thousand doubts and terrors, all of which she hesitated to express.

  Mairi MacAieth raised both hands to grip her head as she paced the worn stones beside the hearth. The room, once a comfortable chamber, had long since been converted from a meeting place for clansmen and family into a space for feeding orphans and treating the wounded.

  Aye, for it had been such a long and terrible fight. Back in the beginning, Clan Aieth, determined to stand strong, had striven to resist. Tinnie’s father had organized his warriors and made a fortress of his own dwelling where his folk could take refuge during times of attack. Last winter had been hard, a time of deprivation, even once the monster retreated over the icy waves. Want rode Clan Aieth every bit as brutally as the Northmen.

  Their neighbors along this north Scottish coast, under attack by still other marauders, had little help to offer. Deep in the harsh winter, having given all of himself to his people, Tinnie’s father, Cormac MacAieth, perished.

  Tinnie’s mother, courageous to the core and unwilling to fail her husband’s legacy, tried to carry on. Looking at her now, though, Tinnie wondered if that had not been the moment when Clan Aieth truly lost the fight, when Cormac died. Oh, aye, they had taken up arms again when spring came and the longships returned like terrible harbingers of the season. But now the Chief’s house contained only two women—mother and daughter.

  Strange to think in all this time they had not so much as set eyes on the leader of these men who beleaguered and sought so determinedly to ruin them.

  Tinnie took a few tentative steps farther into the room, which lay cold and full of gloom. Rain pounded down outside. Aye, the north of Scotland might be no stranger to rain, but now it came blown by a merciless autumn wind. Already they faced another winter of want and pain.

  She considered the spectacle her mother made pacing beside the cold hearth—for members of the Chief’s house did not waste on their own comfort the fuel that might better be given to needy clansfolk—and her heart faltered within her. Mairi MacAieth had once been a lovely woman with flowing brown tresses and a joyful smile. Now her hair showed streaks of gray and her body looked frail as a bundle of sticks. Grief and care had worn her to almost nothing.

  Tinnie sifted through the questions teeming in her mind. “How? How did you learn of this?”

  Mairi lifted her face from her hands. A faint ray of gladness brightened her expression. “The marauder released one of our people, taken not two weeks ago, to bring the message—young Angus, it was. His mother will be so grateful.”

  “Aye.” Tinnie tiptoed to the hearth and seized her mother’s hands. “And what will you do?”

  “What can I do?” Anguish filled Mairi MacAieth’s eyes. “Meet with him, of course. Try to win for our people the best possible terms.”

  “Can you guess what his demands may be?”

  Mairi’s face contorted in a grimace. “Surrender. Total subjugation and a tribute we cannot possibly afford. We have so little left, and with winter coming I fear this will finish us. Tinnie, since your father’s death I have done my best to carry this fight. But now it seems evil has overtaken us.”

  “Not just yet.” Tinnie might be willing to admit many things, but not that. And this warrior from the north who assailed them might well be the very personification of evil, but she refused to surrender her dignity to him—or her faith.

  She squeezed her mother’s hands. “Listen to me. We will meet with this great beast if we must. We will even discuss terms with him. But we will not allow him to steal our hope.”

  “Hope?” Mairi repeated bitterly. “Where is there room to hope? Lass, we have lost everything.”

  “Save our faith. We still have that.” Tinnie lifted her chin. “Only let this monster come.”

  ****

  “I go to meet with the chief of this place, one Cormac MacAieth,” Claus said with satisfaction. “This fight is all but won.”

  “You think so?” His friend and close companion, Nels, narrowed his eyes and frowned at the stretch of shore they could see from the longboat. Rain slanted down, more than half sleet, yet the land held a wild beauty. “These people have fought hard.”

  Claus shrugged. “They always do. No one ever said of these Sutherlanders they are cowards.” He grinned suddenly, with a gleam of white teeth in his strong, broad face. “But who, I ask you, can stand long against the mighty warrior Claus?”

  Nels said softly, “I would not mind settling in such a place as this.”

  “And find your throat slit in the night? These folk might well be courageous, but I doubt they will ever
be forgiving. Nei, we will take our treasures, well earned, and go home.”

  “Ja, Claus.”

  “You come with me to MacAieth’s great hall. Gather Anders, Ketel, and Tors, and all your weapons—we will put on a fine show.”

  During the ten years he had been out of his father’s house, Claus Henjelssen had learned a lot about intimidation. Much of it, as he understood, consisted of show: put on a bold face and make, always, a terrifying silhouette on the horizon. A crowd of weapons never hurt. To visit the Chief’s hall he donned his best leather and iron armor, his helmet with the great silver antlers, and every piece of weaponry he owned. A big man, he knew the helmet made him still larger as he stepped ashore from the small skiff that had brought them in.

  He gazed about, weighing the place with a practiced eye. MacAieth had a good harbor, sheltered and with deep water, and Nels was right—the country held a stark beauty, moorland stretching away to the wild hills. Scattered dwellings, many now burned, lay like children near the skirts of the Chief’s hall, a good-sized round structure whence he was bound.

  They stalked there, the five of them, and as they went Claus ordered his mind. He possessed enough of the Gaelic tongue, gleaned from slaves taken in past raids and working in his father’s house, to communicate with MacAieth. He wondered what the man was like. Two seasons spent fighting him, and he did not know.

  And, was this the man now, waiting to greet them? For an old fellow stood at the entrance of the roundhouse, an aged warrior, by the look of him. Thin and shabby, he nevertheless lifted his head at their approach. Ja, the pride of these Gaels often proved prodigious, and could well be their downfall.

  Claus paused before the threshold. He towered over the old man; surely the fellow would not attempt to bar his way?

  “Chief MacAieth?” he demanded.

  The old man’s face contorted—not with fear but hate. Looking as if he might well choke on the words he said, “Nay. Come you in.”

  Claus turned to his companions. “Wait here. I meet this chief alone.”

  They nodded. Stalwart hearts, they would endure the icy rain until he needed them, and fight like ravening wolves if they suspected treachery.

  Inside the round house all lay dim and chill. Claus’ wondering eyes found no signs of wealth, little worth taking in goods or weaponry. Mayhap his father had been right—better to raid the monasteries that housed the Gaels’ holy men, who were an abomination to Odin.

  The old man led him into what must be the main hall and paused. Here at least a fire burned on the central hearth, giving some warmth and radiance. The rest of the place, though, offered little in comfort. Hard benches flanked the fire, and not so much as a single rush softened the floor. He had heard the Sutherland chiefs lived well, yet now he saw nothing to make him believe it. Disappointment gripped his heart. Two seasons spent sweating and fighting for this?

  But ah, these chiefs were canny—MacAieth may have hidden everything of worth before receiving him.

  And where was the man? Claus saw only a woman standing foursquare before the fire, facing him. Nay, two women.

  The foremost, no longer young, had graying brown hair bundled on her neck, and a thin, worn face. She did not look strong, but neither did her gaze dodge his.

  “Where is Chief MacAieth?” he asked.

  “I am his widow.”

  “Ah.” Surprise lifted Claus’ eyebrows. At what point in the fight had the man perished? Had it been of wounds taken in battle? “Then, Missus, I would speak with your sons.”

  “My sons are both dead.” Her voice did tremble then. “You see all that is left of the Chief’s house.”

  She gestured to the second woman, and Claus turned his eyes thence accordingly. He lost all his breath, precisely as if he had received a hard blow to the gut.

  Here, surely, lay Clan Aieth’s treasure. She must be daughter to the Chief’s wife—there existed enough resemblance. Yet her beauty lit the poor room even as the fire failed to do. Brown-haired like her mother, her flowing tresses carried a kiss of warmth like oak leaves in fall. Her face, a perfect oval, appeared serene—skin white as snow, lips tinged berry red. But Claus saw nothing of serenity in her eyes. Deep, dusky blue, they held all the wild fury of a storm on a distant sea, a thing Claus knew full well.

  His heart stuttered in his chest, and suddenly all his well-marshaled demands flew out of his head. A conquering marauder, he nevertheless suddenly wanted to throw himself at this woman’s feet.

  Yet in her beautiful eyes he saw only hate.

  Chapter Two

  “My name, it is Claus Henjelssen.”

  Tinnie could not imagine why the monster spoke to her and not to her mother. But since entering the room he had scarcely taken his eyes from her—bright blue eyes, light and clear like ice on a winter’s day. Somehow, despite her rampant terror, Tinnie managed to hold his gaze, even while she wondered at what she saw there.

  Utterly terrifying, the man loomed like one of his ships on the horizon, a towering giant with an antlered helmet on his head. From beneath it a wealth of fair hair flowed, so pale it almost looked white in the firelight. He wore a well-grown beard, as well, and eyebrows that soared above those merciless eyes.

  Broad shoulders filled his armor, and he bristled with weapons. Tinnie sneered inwardly. Did he truly suppose he needed all those trappings to face a clan he had already all but ruined?

  “This, Missus MacAieth, must be your daughter.” The words, heavily accented, came from his lips in a stilted rumble. She could almost see him grope for them.

  “My daughter, Tinnie,” Mairi said. Was Tinnie the only one who could hear the terror in her mother’s voice? “I understand you wish to talk terms.”

  The monster’s gaze still did not waver from Tinnie. It caressed her hair, probed the bodice of her gown, and seemed to measure the length of her legs, which promptly began to shake. Sweet heaven, why did he look at her that way?

  At last he withdrew his icy stare and refocused on Mairi. “You expect me to deal with you, a woman?”

  Mairi lifted her hands. “There is no one else. Though you knew it not, you have been dealing with this woman since last winter.” She smiled grimly. “But you will find it hard to steal anything more from us. As you can see, you have already destroyed everything. All we once had has been spent keeping our people alive.”

  “You fought valiantly.” The monster inclined his head gravely, a god paying his due. These Norsemen still held to their gods, as Tinnie well knew, and refused to even acknowledge the one true Lord. Just one more reason to despise them.

  “You must have something of worth.” Now the ice blue eyes moved about the room. “Hidden away, perhaps.”

  “Nothing more than you see. Our food stores are nearly gone. My people will surely starve this winter. I cannot imagine how I shall feed them.”

  “There is a solution to that,” the monster said. “People may also be of value.”

  For an instant, Tinnie did not grasp his meaning, but Mairi did. Quickly she said, “Slaves, you mean, to be sold in the south or the islands?”

  The monster shrugged. “They bring a fine price, and you would no longer need to worry about feeding them.”

  Mairi spat—she literally spat, a shocking gesture in a woman of her grace. “Have my people not suffered enough? How many have you already stolen during your raids these two years past? How many families broken?” Mairi drew herself up. “I will not permit it. They have nothing left but each other.”

  “But, Missus, I must have my price. You are defeated. My next act will be to raze all this to the ground and take whichever of your people do not perish. First, I do you the courtesy to negotiate, but this land is now conquered—mine. I do as I wish.”

  Aye, and that made it pretty plain, Tinnie thought, even as she turned sick inside. She had not believed things could get any worse. But now she witnessed her mother jerk and sag where she stood, and fairly felt the fight go out of her.

  “You c
annot,” Mairi began, but the monster’s merciless voice broke across her words.

  “Give me something of value, Missus, to buy the lives of your folk. Cattle. Sheep.”

  Mairi shook her head.

  “Hounds. Grain. Silver.”

  Shake, shake, shake. Stubbornly, Mairi said, “You will not take our women. Most have small children who would then be left orphans—”

  “Women bring a good price,” he told her implacably, “and make good rewards for my men who have battled so hard and who want wives.”

  “No,” Mairi breathed, “there must be another way.”

  “Only if you can offer something else. I am willing to bargain with you.” His eyes stole once again to Tinnie. She heard the breath catch in her mother’s throat.

  Mairi said in a new tone, “No.”

  “But Missus MacAieth, I find that I also need a wife. And she would be honored, as wife to a powerful chief. I am that. Ten years now out on my own with a fine, strong dwelling at Jarlsgrell.” He inclined his head and the firelight glinted on the silver antlers. “I can promise she would be used very gently, as she deserves.”

  “No,” Mairi said again.

  But the sense of it had begun to seep into Tinnie’s beleaguered mind. He wanted her? This terrible, terrifying monster? Wanted her to go away with him from her home and all she loved? As his wife?

  “Ah, then,” he said, “you would rather see all your people’s dwellings burned and your folk gone into slavery.”

  “Better that than my daughter slave to you!”

  “Not slave, but wife.”

  Mairi raged. “It is the same thing!”

  Tinnie stood listening to them argue while her heart thudded in her chest. An impossible choice, when so much had already been sacrificed. But oh, she knew the cruelty of this land she loved—she understood what a winter of want would bring. She loved her people as well. Enough to make this awful choice?

  “Wait,” she said, her voice hoarse in her own ears.

  The monster turned his head and looked at her. So did Mairi, with wild protest in her eyes.