Viking's Love

Smashwords Edition

Copyright by Karolyn Cairns 2012

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the staff at Smashwords
for their tireless efforts to promote authors. I would also like to
thank my family for their continued support and encouragement for
my pursuits in writing.

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This book is dedicated to my mother, Sharon
Sharrard, an avid reader and my biggest fan.

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Lockwraithe Manor, England 869 A.D.

The mists surrounding the scenes of battle
dissipated as the sun started to rise in the mottled grey sky. The
vivid red and black dragon sails were stark and visible in the
distance, hovering like specters of death. Dozens of Viking long
ships were docked upon the beachfront.

The Viking horde stormed the shores of
Lockwraithe before dawn. They met feeble resistance from the small
village just outside the large, grey stone keep. Too late the alarm
rang out of an impending attack. The sleepy seaside village was
taken unawares. The lad in charge of ringing the bell fell under a
Viking sword before he reached the tower. The inhabitants braced
themselves within the keep for battle.

Lady Allisande Osgood stared at her
hysterical mother and pushed her into the space dug out from the
wall. There was only room for one to hide there. Lady Edwina sobbed
and stared at her daughter in horror.

“
No! You must hide, my child!” Her
mother balked immediately, but her daughter wouldn’t argue the
matter.

“
You must hide, Mama! Quickly! There is
no time!” Allisande pushed her mother behind the cabinet and stared
at her with sorrowful violet eyes. “I’ll not see you harmed. Collin
and Father would have wanted me to protect you, Mama. Don’t worry
for me. I will hide among the serfs until it is safe to slip away.
This will be over soon. They merely seek to rob us and they will
leave. You will see.”

Lady Edwina’s ravaged face looked bleak. She
focused on her daughter’s manly attire with disapproval, seeing the
sword dangling at her hip. “But who will protect you, my
daughter?”

Allisande smiled without humor. “I pity the
Viking who crosses my path, Mama. Now be quiet. I’m going to push
the cabinet back. You don’t come out until all is quiet, do you
hear?”

Lady Edwina nodded, tears in her eyes. “Go
with God, my daughter! Do nothing to anger the Vikings! Give them
what they want. Where is your father? Where is Harold? Where has he
gone?”

“
I haven’t seen him since the attack
began, Mama,” Allisande lied, not meeting her mother’s gaze. She
saw Harold Osgood stuffing some belongings into a satchel before
him and a half dozen of his men fled through the hidden passage
behind the chapel wall. She suspected he ran while the Vikings were
beating down the doors. She’d not tell her sainted mother her
husband was a coward. “He probably fights valiantly outside the
keep.”

Lady Edwina looked relieved at her words,
worrying for her husband now as Allisande pushed the cabinet back
in place, mindful of the steel doors being rammed outside. The
Vikings would be inside at any moment. She didn’t have a moment to
lose.

Her serfs saw her and came to her, whipping a
ragged cloak about her shoulders, forcing her to hide behind them
as the doors gave way.

“
Ye just stay quiet, Lady Allisande,”
Elspeth whispered with a warning and squeezed her hand, her pale
green eyes filled with fear, “no matter what happens, my lady.
We’ll protect ye.”

Allisande didn’t answer her maid, her violet
eyes filling with fury as she heard the Viking war party outside
the steel doors. Her hand itched to snatch the sword at her hip and
join the fray. A dozen of her father’s loyal retainers poised to
meet the band who attacked them at the door.

The promise she made to her mother stayed her
hand. Lady Edwina made her hide among the serfs until it was safe.
Allisande allowed her mother to believe that, knowing she had no
plans to run and hide.

Thinking of her father who was nowhere to be
found made her jaw tighten. He’d wasted little time in fleeing,
leaving them to face the Vikings alone. A bitter gleam filled her
gaze to think Harold would forsake them at such a time.

Her father’s cowardice made it impossible for
her to leave her people now. She would stay and see this through.
The rage in her eyes to know she could do nothing for the villagers
beyond the keep made her shake in fury, huddling behind the group
of cowering serfs when all she desired to do was kill every Viking
who dared step foot onto her lands.

****

The smell of blood and death was thick in the
air, as all was gutted, destroyed, and killed with wanton zeal. No
stone was left unturned or overlooked. The thatched huts and
cottages were burned to the ground, as well as the barns, sheds,
and other outbuildings. Everywhere one looked was destruction.

The community well was fouled. The crops were
coated with oil and burned. Even the baron’s prized hounds were
taken from the kennels. Their throats were cut. They hung from the
trees outside the keep, bearing testament to the total annihilation
of Lockwraithe.

The survivors, those lucky few who managed to
run for the woods, took shelter at the abbey not far from
Lockwraithe. The fief was spared Viking raids for nearly a decade
or more. The lord, the Baron Lockwraithe, Harold Osgood, paid a
staggering tribute to the Viking leader, Ivar Ragnorsson, to keep
his home free of the scourge that plagued the British Isles
now.

The attack made no sense to the villagers and
serfs. The answers for why it was done would have shocked the
simple folk who served Lockwraithe faithfully all of their
lives.

The battle sounds were sporadic and few as
the morning wore on. Not far from the shoreline, a lone man stood
amidst the half-dozen dead Englishmen scattered about the ground,
clad in animal skins from head to toe.

The man was a fearsome sight, standing at
well over six feet tall. His massive shoulders blocked out the
grisly backdrop beyond him of butchery and mayhem. His rippling
biceps bunched as he gripped his weapon in readiness, blue eyes
narrowed, hovering there, looking amongst the dead for who he
sought.

Joran Ivarsson searched for Baron
Lockwraithe. The hunt began in earnest when the keep was taken
after hours of battering the steel gates. After a brief skirmish
with Harold’s last few loyal retainers, the steel doors finally
gave way.

Dozens of Vikings ascended within the hall
with whoops and war cries, sounding hellish and inhuman to the
cowering serfs within. The lucky ones found places to hide and
cower to await their fates. The others had the misfortune to fall
beneath the Viking swords just for being too close to the door when
they came forth.

A quick search conducted by the Viking put in
charge of securing the keep concluded the baron was missing, his
wife and children too. Soon the Vikings within Lockwraithe took to
looting and raiding the considerable larder of food and drink while
their leader took to the grounds outside to find the baron.

Joran listened closely to the sounds of the
forest around him, conscious of the hair rising at the back of his
neck. With sudden awareness, he swung around without warning, the
large battle axe arcing out with an evil hiss, savagely cleaving a
man in two who snuck stealthily up behind him.

The body of the Baron Lockwraithe toppled in
a bloody, disjointed heap at his feet. His corpse was a grisly
sight to behold, his life’s blood spurting upon the ground. Even
the hardened Viking grimaced to see the carnage at his feet.

Joran stood silent over his fallen enemy now,
recognizing him immediately as the one he sought. He cursed under
his breath as he looked into the unseeing eyes of the baron in
obvious regret. He tossed the axe to the ground in disgust.

Joran shrugged out of the helmet and fur skin
mask covering his head. He tossed them on the ground nearby. He had
vivid war paint of blue and black smeared upon his face and chest.
His long, golden hair was wet with sweat. He raked a large hand
through it now in frustration, knowing the death of the baron would
enrage his leader.

His orders were clear. Take Harold Osgood
alive. Ivar Ragnorsson would not be pleased to learn the baron
escaped his justice through death.

The plan was to take the devious baron
captive and torture him to name the traitors within the Viking’s
ranks who conspired with the Englishman. The secret was now as dead
and elusive as the baron.

The traitors were responsible for his oldest
half brother’s death and nearly a hundred of his Viking brothers
and kinsmen. He stiffened in anger to have denied his people the
justice they sought.

Joran wanted to howl in fury at the
unfairness. The raid was planned for over a year, down to the very
last detail. One lone Viking survived that fateful day in the
forests of Northumbria.

Only Wulfstan escaped the swarm of English
soldiers to return to York to report to Ivar and his brothers of
the ambush. The shipment of gold meant for the English king’s
coffers would be escorted by a handful of soldiers, they’d been
told by the deceitful baron. It turned into a blood bath when
hundreds of English soldiers appeared instead.

Ivar’s oldest legitimate son was killed, as
well as a hundred of his most trusted men, taken unaware by the
outnumbering horde of Englishmen hiding in wait for the Vikings to
arrive.

Ivar was convinced of Osgood’s treachery when
he learned of the massacre. He became embittered to lose his oldest
son and many valued warriors. He was proved to be right in his
belief of Harold Osgood’s guilt. They captured the baron’s trusted
man-at-arms. The man confessed of the baron’s sins under torture.
He also implied one among them betrayed them, meeting with Osgood
and Lord Ulsted to plan the ambush. The Viking who turned traitor
was unknown now, much to Joran’s fury.

Joran muttered another curse and bent and
closed the sightless eyes of Harold, unnerved by the sight of his
grey-blue eyes staring sightlessly up at him. The look of shock was
still etched upon his handsome, refined features.

Joran heard his name shouted from the stone
keep in the distance. He schooled his features to hide his
disappointment as he left the scene of death to join his men. The
day’s victory was now clouded by the too-quick death of the
baron.

****

Joran stalked down the drawbridge into the
inner bailey, kicking squawking chickens out of his path to meet
his first in command. A large, heavily-muscled redheaded Viking
eyed his approach with a worried look. Joran’s piercing blue gaze
narrowed when he saw the dozens of women huddling against the outer
wall.

He scanned the courtyard where the
Lockwraithe’s other serfs were tied together. Fear and shock filled
the faces that stared back at the Viking Berserker leader, Joran
Ivarsson. They cowered within the bailey to await their fate.

“
Joran, did you find the baron?”Grogan
strode forward with an intent look, sheathing his sword. “The
scribe said he ran when the siege was underway. What kind of man
leaves his family at such a time?”

“
A dead one, and by my hand,” Joran
informed his closest friend tersely, and shook his head in disgust,
regret gleaming in his gaze. “He came at my back! I killed him
before I knew it to be him. My father will not be pleased to learn
I’ve stolen that privilege from him.”

“
Your father will realize you had no
choice, Joran.”

“
Ivar understands nothing, but expects
everything nonetheless, Grogan,” Joran replied bitterly, his
sky-blue eyes filled with anger. His lips twisted into a sneer. “He
will be angered the baron escaped his justice, no more. What of his
lady? Does she yet live? Where are his son and daughter? Are they
among those here?” Joran’s eyes slid over the group of women
waiting to be led to the long ships beyond the ransacked keep. He
hoped his father would be pacified to have both the baron’s wife
and children to ransom back to the English king. Grogan looked
uncomfortable. He looked away from the penetrating stare. Joran let
loose a vile stream of curses. “Thor’s teeth! Osgood’s wife and
children were killed in the siege too? Is that what you fail to
say, Grogan?”