Read Viking Flame: Prequel to Viking Fire Online
Authors: Andrea R. Cooper
Viking Flame: Prequel to Viking Fire
Viking Flame
Prequel to Viking Fire
by
Andrea R. Cooper
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2015 Andrea R. Cooper
Revised edition
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, or distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic additions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Cover art & design: LM Creations
Copyright © 2015 Andrea R. Cooper
Published by: Andrea R. Cooper 2015
Author’s website:
http://www.andreaRcooper.com
Author’s blog:
http://andrearcooperauthorblog.wordpress.com
Dedication
To my husband who not only showed me love is real, but opened up a world of magic and fantasy. Who encouraged me to indulge in my love of reading, and never told me to give up my dream of becoming an author. And who wrestled with little ones so I had time to write. Thank you for your support. I love you. To my children, Troy, Levi, and Chloe, may you always follow your dreams, and hold onto them until they come true. Never accept defeat even when friends or family doubt you.
To my fans who encouraged me with their enthusiasm and words after reading Viking Fire and asking to have more of Bram, this novella is dedicated to you and your enthusiasm of my characters. Thank you.
Bram, son of Ragnar, gripped the ship’s stern as the Irish waves crashed against the side. His paid passage on this ride, the silver Thor’s amulet his mother gave him before her death, moved him closer to his destiny to a new home. Hopefully, the Norns would show him kindness… for once.
He strolled onto the deck with his cloak flapping and the sea spraying his face despite his hood. His once a day fresh air from his confines of the Captain’s rooms below to keep hidden. When a raven cawed overhead, the Captain raised his hand to throw a stone-lure at it.
“No.” Bram gripped the Captain’s hand. “It could be one of Odin’s ravens. And I’d not like to alter my luck by angering a god.” Not that he’d had much luck since Morga died. Ireland—a new start for him–for a new family.
The Captain shrugged, his long eyebrows furrowing, but lowered the stone.
Bram hiked his hood down more to conceal his blond hair and hunched his shoulders as the Captain had instructed him. If the other sailors knew he was a Viking, they’d run him through with their swords and toss him overboard. So he’d stayed below deck a majority of the time.
It was bad enough he’d lost his sword and axe to pay his brother Henrick’s debts. Bram didn’t cower from a fight, but he’d rather avoid it weaponless on a ship full of Irish men in the middle of the sea.
Once his feet struck land, combat was an entirely different matter.
Soon he would meet his bride. Rebecca… daughter of a nobleman and subject to Laird Liannon. More importantly, the contract for her came with a small farm and his services to Laird Liannon. It was more than he received for his inheritance as the second of nine brothers. The payment was his sword, or rather his joining the Laird Liannon to fight against any and all foes—Irish or Viking.
Somehow he’d learn to love this Rebecca. If he negated any part of the contract, marrying an Irish lass or fighting, then he forfeited the land, gold, and titles bestowed upon him from the Laird. Not to mention, the rumors of Liannon. If Bram refused to honor the contract, he might end up a life-long prisoner in the dungeons at best.
Bram had no doubt though, that he could woo this Rebecca. Often, Morga had told him he could charm a nun into his bed. Morga, an Irish captive, a present from Erick the eldest brother when Bram was fourteen. She was bold and daring. Her brown hair with red highlights glittered in the sunlight. Even though she was a Gaelic thrall, she taught Bram her language.
Morga. His heart fisted and he blinked back the salt water stinging his eyes as the ship rocked along the waves.
The Norns be damned! Two months before their wedding, Morga died of a fever. But he should have known that the Norns ruled even the destiny of the gods, no matter how much he’d wanted to carve his own fate, their will prevailed.
For three years, he’d been empty inside.
Then the contract from Laird Liannon arrived and he signed it before thinking it through. He thought a wife, land, and a purpose would fill the void. But the closer the ship sailed to Ireland; he hoped this marriage would yield true love again.
But maybe he would be twice-lucky in this life.
“The cliffs are too steep here; we’ll sail to O’Neill land.” The Captain smirked. “If you can avoid their detection, the Liannon clan is to the west.”
“Guess you’re not here to plunder since you’re alone.”
Bram shook his head. He wanted to live in Morga’s homeland. “Aye. Though my brothers told me Ireland is rich in soil and women. But I promised my love who died from plague that I’d never raid or pillage on her birthplace.” He rocked back on his heels. “England, Wales, and Scotland though—didn’t have my vow.”
The Captain smacked him on the back. “As long as you leave my country out of your spoils, I don’t care who you fight.”
“I don’t battle everywhere I go.” Bram rubbed his beard. “Egypt and Constantinople know me as a trader.” Since Morga, Bram had never shed blood or stolen from her country.
Maybe living in Ireland would help ease the ache she’d left. Somehow be closer to her.
Bram desired a place he could defend and not have to leave for months at a time to go
a-viking
. He’d already turned down five replacement thralls his brother, Erick, brought him over the years. He wanted a wife, not a slave.
Regardless, Bram had agreed to join Liannon’s clan and fight alongside the Gaels all for the hope of land and starting a family. The fishing ship drew up to the coast and the Captain tossed him a line to the row boat. “Get on with you.”
Bram smirked, but climbed down the side of the ship and into the rowboat. The first mate, one who always glared at him with a bleeding gummed snarl, and scurvy, snatch the oar. Without waiting for Bram to settle into the boat, the man pushed off with the oars. Bram fell against the back of the boat with a grunt.
“I paid your Captain handsomely to see me
safely
to shore.”
“Aye.” The man rowed, but his scowl did not lessen. Cliffs rose up on one side of the ocean and waves churned against the rocks.
Near the beach, the man quit rowing and yanked out a knife.
Bram didn’t move. “You go against your Captain’s orders t—”
“You made it to shore. That’s all we’s promised.” He spat at Bram’s boots. “No one said anything about you living
afterwards
.” When he dove forward, Bram ducked to the side and snatched the sailor’s arm, pinning it to his side. When the sailor slung with his free arm, Bram increased the pressure until the man was on his knees.
“Cease, or I will break your arm.” If it wasn’t for his pledge to Morga, he’d have snapped the man’s arm already. Once his contract was signed with the Laird, then he’d be free to fight in Ireland—or at least against other Vikings and rival Irishmen. The man continued to struggle, “Or perhaps a leg as well? What will your Captain say if you return without your weapon and injured? Will he be merciful and allow you to recover or throw you to the sharks?”
“Heathen scum!” He twisted his body to escape Bram’s grip.
As he did, Bram snapped the man’s wrist backward and the first mate let out a howl before the blade came closer to Bram’s chest.
“Now, hand me the knife.” When the man glared at him, he increased pressure on the bent wrist. “Or this heathen might do worse so that not even the sharks would want you.”
The first mate gulped and released his hold of the knife.
Bram broke his hold and snatched the blade out of the air before it hit the water. “Tell your Captain, I will not forget his hospitality nor will any of my
eight
brothers.”
The man paled. “What brings you to our island? To rape our women and pillage our churches?”
“No.” Bram rose and tucked the small blade into his boot. “To find my bride.”
Rain pelted the keep’s stonewalls and wooden rafters. Pheasant and wood smoke lingered in the air as Bram followed an elderly servant through Liannon’s keep.
Months ago, Bram negotiated with Irish Lairds. Many needed protection against not only Vikings, like him, who raided their shores and monasteries, but against rival clansmen. Sometimes those battles were bloodier than with the foreigners.
“You arrived sooner than expected and the Laird doesn’t have your contract back from the scribe yet. He told me to make you comfortable and he’d meet with you tomorrow evening.” The servant bristled as she led him into a small chamber. “In the meantime, best keep to yourself, and stay here.”
Inside was a bed and a wooden shelf lined the stone wall. The servant marched to the window and opened the shutters. A small fire crackled in the hearth. Not much room, but was better than outside in the cold and rain.
Bram had put into his response to the Laird, not to betray his presence to their subjects until necessary. He’d rather three days to observe before it was revealed he was a Viking here to fight for the Laird Liannon. Often, people hid their motives when they knew who was watching. “Thank you…” Bram gestured toward the servant and her smile brightened.
“Elva.” She dipped into a curtsey not many servants would be able to manage as gracefully, much less one with grey hair and wrinkles. “I’ll fetch you when they are ready.” After a wink, she was gone.
Stay put? No, he was not a prisoner nor would he act like one. Still, he was a guest in the Liannon’s home and wished to stay in his good graces. But he wanted to at least
see
his intended. To know if he was attracted to her and what kind of person she was when she didn’t know anyone observed her.
He chuckled as he tugged up the hood of his cloak. His beard needed shaving, but he’d leave it until he was announced. No doubt, his intended would faint when she realized she was being forced into a marriage with a heathen—a Viking.
The rain softened to a mist and he desired to explore the area.
He left the chambers and marched down the stone flooring to a courtyard. The rushes crunched under his boots. Outside, the early summer sun heated his skin and the recent rain made the grass look brighter and humidity clung to the air.
Next to an oak tree stood a woman with her back to him. Her red hair, the color of sunset on the ocean, made his breath catch. Around her were two lads with frowns and a younger lass who kept wiping at her eyes. The woman had one hand on her hip, the other clutching a child’s bow. “Why won’t you let Mary shot with you?”
“She’s a girl,” one of the young boys replied.
“That shouldn’t matter.” The red-haired woman took a step closer to the weeping girl. “I’m a girl, and I could beat you all and your brothers with the bow.”
They snickered. Bram shifted closer so he could see the targets in the distance, but remained hiding behind a crooked maple tree.
“Don’t believe me?” she asked them, then bent down and whispered something to the little girl with a mop of curly blonde hair who scampered past Bram and into the keep.
“Women should be having babies and baking.” The older boy spat on the ground near the woman’s feet.
“And boys should know manners. Queen Boudicca was a warrior. The Celtic Druidess Sgathaich trained fighting men and women–even as from as far as Gaul–and those warriors were feared more than any others.”
The boy shrugged. “But Mary’s not a warrior. She’s a whiny baby.”
“Maybe because you’re not giving her a chance.”
“Excuse me.” Mary, the little one with her face damp with drying tears pushed past Bram. She held a bow and quiver of arrows twice as tall as she.
When the woman glanced toward him, Bram stepped closer to the maple tree in order not to come across as if eavesdropping on her conversation. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to know more about this woman before she saw him. Too often, people put on masks for either good or not. He wanted to observe this woman before
officially
meeting her.
“Thank you, Mary.” She grasped the bow and an arrow, handing the child’s smaller bow back to her. “Now watch.” Smoothly as if she were picking a flower, she notched an arrow. The arrow zinged through the air and struck dead center of the target. It would be a difficult task for most men, yet this woman had done it easily.
“Lucky sh—” the older boy sneered, but his words cut off when another arrow hit the next target at the bull’s eye.
Five arrows later, the woman tucked her bow over her shoulder. “Still believe it’s luck or that women can’t shoot?”
Bram grinned. The woman was fiery more so than Morga. Ragnar, a childhood friend of his who wept at animals being slaughtered, died in battle. He was too kind-hearted. Bram’s father made him watch his friend cut down. If Ragnar had fought, he might have lived. In this land, Bram was surprised to find a strong woman across the sea despite her not being a Viking.
The younger boy kicked at a rock. “Well,
you
can shot, but not Mary. She can’t even draw her bow.”
“Oh?” The woman knelt down until she was eye level with Mary. “Is it too hard?”
Mary nodded and wiped at fresh tears streaming down her freckled cheeks.
“Well, we’ll fix that.” She held out her hands and took the bow Mary offered her. After a few moments, she’d loosened the draw and asked Mary to check it.
“It’s still too hard to pull the string,” the child replied with a lisp.
The woman stroked a finger on the tip of Mary’s nose. “Then we’ll keep working until you can draw it.”
“Any looser and she’ll not be able to hurt an ant beside her shoe.” The older boy burst out laughing.
“Don’t listen to them.” She handed the loosened bow to Mary. “Once we get you drawing, it’s just a matter of practicing every day and soon you’ll be able to tighten you bow until eventually… you’ll shoot further and more accurate then both of them.”
Mary giggled.
“Now keep both eyes open until we figure out your dominate eye, that’s right, now draw back the arrow and string with three fingers.” The woman placed her hands over Mary’s. “This allows for a quick release. Oh, turn this hand behind the bow.” She moved the girl’s thumb from wrapping around the bow and touching her fingers. “There, now you won’t torque the bow when you shoot. Keep your shooting elbow up higher than your shoulder.”
The child’s arrow landed a foot away and the group of boys chortled.
“I shot it! I shot it!” Mary exclaimed jumping up and down.
“Yes, you did. I’ll be here every morning after the meal and give you lessons. And by your next birthday, you’ll be the one laughing at their shots.” The woman accepted Mary’s hug. “Boys get too confident in their abilities that they never improve.”
“Thank you.” Mary kissed the woman’s cheek and ran off chasing after a goose that waddled nearby.
The woman touched her own cheek and turned back to the keep. Bram watched her pass him. She would make a fine mother. Stubborn, yet caring.
*
The next morning, Bram joined the other servants at their wooden table and bench to break his fast. Several dogs meandered through the chambers hunting for scraps that had fallen. Noise from thirty people echoed with the banging of pots in the kitchens near the table. The high table was covered with a linen table cloth and sat on an elevated platform. Several smaller tables were aligned vertically below the Laird’s table, and the servants were in the back near the kitchens.
“Who are you?” a dark haired man asked.
Wood smoke and the scent of porridge and bread wafted through the chamber. Laird Liannon accepted more wine in his goblet, while his wife whispered to him. There was an empty seat on either side of the couple, but Bram shrugged it off that they preferred only special and trusted guests be that close to them.
“Bram.”
“A foreigner?” another asked, his voice rising.
Laird Liannon banged his goblet on the table. “Do not quarrel at my tables. This man is here under contract with me.”
The servants grumbled and stole glares at him, but gradually returned to eating and whispering.
Bram’s gaze drew to every woman with red hair. None here in the dining chambers had the bright vibrant red as the woman with the bow had been. It was like if the sun turned red and the spun into strands of hair. She was nowhere.
Was she a servant then? Couldn’t be, she was dressed in too fine a clothing to be anything less than a noble woman.
Finishing his morning meal, Bram nodded goodbye to the other servants.
From the corner of his vision, a flash of white made him turn. Elva, the servant woman, snuck out of the dining chamber.
He’d played too many a games with his eight brothers not to recognize when someone was up to something that wouldn’t be approved. Tracing her steps, he was outside in the courtyard and his breath caught. There was the woman from yesterday.
“Where are you going?” a soldier asked.
“Sorry, forgot something.” Bram sauntered toward where Elva had disappeared.
From around the corner, the red-haired woman’s words carried on the breeze and he loved the Irish lilt of her voice. “Father can give
my
portions of bread and meat to the hungry.” Her back to him, she waved an arm out toward Elva. “They are starving in the fields and I can’t stomach the idea of fatty greasy meat while they lack. Surely, everyone would be able to scrape off—”
“Your father will not be so kind as to give away food from his own table.” Elva turned and stared at him a moment.
As if sensing that she wanted him to stay in the shadows from her raised eyebrows, he ducked behind a fig bush. When the two women return to chatting, Bram realizes Elva wants him to listen, so he stays hidden.
“It’s not like he’ll miss it.” The red-haired woman kicked aside a stone. “Too often food goes back to the kitchens uneaten. The village children with their hollow eyes and long faces… I want to do something for them.” She snapped her fingers. “I know. Tell the cook to make the bread trenchers smaller. About a quarter of the size for the women and children, leave the men’s portions the same as always, save Douglas and Ernest—they eat less than even me. Give the remainder of all the excess food to me, and I’ll distribute them to the countryside.”
“In what?” Elva placed her hands on her hips, but it didn’t sound like she tried to convince her mistress this plan was foolhardy.
“Go fetch a wagon and a driver.” The red-haired lass glanced in his direction, but didn’t seem to notice him. Her emerald eyes caught the late afternoon sunlight before she glanced back at Elva. “Quickly now.”
“I will find us a driver.” Elva paused at the bush and nodded at Bram. “It would do well not to have too many in this plot of yours as it could lead to someone taken you as ransom and the Laird would kill me if anything happened to you like your twin cousins.”