Thing—An assembly of free people who made laws and settle disputes; on a much larger scale it would be called an Althing.
Thrall—Slave.
Tun—252 gallons, as of ale.
Valhalla—Hall of the slain, Odin’s great hall for warriors in Asgard.
Valkyries—Female warriors in the afterlife who did Odin’s will.
Vapnatak—Weapon clatter; at a Thing or Althing, the men voted by banging their swords against their shields.
Vestfold—Southern Norway.
Wergild—A man’s worth, often the penalty paid for killing or injuring a highborn man or woman.
Reader Letter
Dear Reader:
How did you like my latest book in Viking Series I? I hope I did Thork proud. After all, his father, Tykir, has been a beloved character, along with other members of the Haraldsson, Thorksson, Tykirsson, and Eiriksson families, for almost twenty years now.
I’ve said it before and will repeat again, I have good reason for loving the Vikings and their culture. My grandfather many times removed was Rolf the Gangr, first Duke of Normandy. It was a fascinating discovery when doing family genealogy research years ago to discover my Norse heritage. How many people can trace their roots back to the tenth century? I should have suspected, though, with a grandfather whose name was Magnus.
One of the sticking points for many readers in ancient historical novels is the language issue. How could the Vikings understand the Saxons or the French and vice versa? The explanation is a simple one. Old Norse (not to be confused with modern Norwegian) was mutually intelligible with Saxon English and other tongues spoken at that time. Modern Icelandic comes closest to retaining the Old Norse words.
In fact, a lot of English words are what are referred to as loanwords from Old Norse. Such as knife (knífr), fish (fiski), no (nei), beer (bjr), take (taka), ill (íllr), drunk (drukkinn), Russian (Rus), according to Wikipedia, “Old Norse Language.” Or, quoting from The Year 1000, by Robert Lacey and Danny Danziger, “Have you a horse to sell?” would be “Haefst thu hors to sellenne?” in Anglo-Saxon, and “Hefir thu hross at selja?” in Old Norse, with the response “Obviously, I have two horses to sell” being “Ic haebbe tvau hors” in Anglo-Saxon, and “Ed hefi tvau hors” in Old Norse.
You should know that The Pirate Bride is the eleventh book in Viking Series I, all of which are still available in new print or e-book formats: The Reluctant Viking, The Outlaw Viking, The Tarnished Lady, The Bewitched Viking, The Blue Viking, My Fair Viking (aka The Viking’s Captive), A Tale of Two Vikings, Viking in Love, The Viking Takes a Knight, and The Norse King’s Daughter. Every time I think it’s time to end this series, I wonder what will happen to Alrek, or Jamie, or Jostein, and now Starri, Guthrom, and Selik. Or how about the brooding Wulf from Viking in Love? Don’t they all deserve their own stories?
Please visit my website at www.sandrahill.net or my Facebook page at Sandra Hill Author for news about these and my other books, contests, genealogy charts, and other good stuff. I can be reached at
[email protected].
As always, I wish you smiles in your reading.
Sandra Hill
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KISS OF WRATH
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Prologue
The Norselands, A.D. 845
When men turn beastly . . .
Mordr Sigurdsson, best known as Mordr the Brave, led his battle-weary men up the steep incline from the fjord to Stonegarth. His wooden castle and the surrounding village sat atop a high motte, a massive, flat-topped earthworks mound in the Frankish style, rising high above the surrounding area.
He’d already anchored his longships. Later, but not too much later, the ten vessels would be brought ashore to winter. Already, ice crusted the edges of the narrow waterway leading to his aptly named, grim estate in the far north where naught grew except boulders and hardy evergreens, which was fine with him. He obtained all he needed to subsist and prosper by trading, serving in the army of one grab-land king or another, or going a-Viking. A good life!
He and his men had been gone nigh on a year now, longer than he usually spent away from his homeland. In truth, they’d waited too long in trying to outrun winter for their return voyage, having to crack thickening ice ahead of them in many places, but that one last monastery to plunder had been too tempting. As a result, they were not only exhausted but cold to the bone with frost painting their fur cloaks and hats, not to mention beards and mustaches. Like Norse ice gods, they were. Their breaths froze into snowflakes on leaving their mouths, and below their noses, snot formed icicles into miniature tusks.
They were home now, though, and he for one intended to dig in for a long stay.
As if sensing Mordr’s thoughts, his hersir, Geirfinn the Fearless, said on a frosty breath, “My Aud best have the fire stoked for my arrival because I intend to burrow in ’til the spring thaw.”
Atzer Horse Teeth, one of Mordr’s hirdsmen serving under Geirfinn, guffawed from his other side. “Which fire would that be? The cook fire, or the fire betwixt your wife’s thighs?”
Mordr and other hirdsmen close by laughed, causing more frosty cloud-breaths.
“Did I not mention burrowing?” Geirfinn replied with a grin, hardly visible through his huge, walrus-like, ice-crusted mustache. “I do my best work beneath the bed furs . . . burrowing.”
More companionable laughter. Ah, it was good to be home.
“First off, I want a horn of ale, or five,” Mordr declared, joining in the levity. “A warm bath to wash away the battle filth.”
“And lice,” someone called out behind him.
Lice were ever a problem for fighting men ofttimes forced to bed down in unclean places and unable to take their customary baths. Norsemen did tend to bathe more than other men. ’Twas one reason women of all lands welcomed them to their beds. That, and other reasons, Mordr thought with silent humor at his own jest.
“Then I want a hearty meal in my great hall,” Mordr went on to encourage his men onward. Many of them wore heavy hauberks of chain mail. Plus, swords and battle-axes and shields added to the weight on the climb upward. “Yea, you are all invited to my welcome feast . . . after your burrowing.” He smiled before continuing, “Then a long night betwixt the thighs of my favorite concubine, Dyna.”
“Dyna of the big bosoms?” Atzer teased.
“Precisely,” Mordr said. “Forget a long night. Mayhap I will need a night and a day afore I am sated. I might even favor my wife, Gulli, with my attentions if she is not in her usual nagsome mood.”
There was much nodding. They all understood the pain of a shrewish wife.
But, nay, Mordr realized belatedly, there was something more important than all those appetites. Most of all, he yearned to see his children, Kata and Jomar. Though only one year apart, being six and five, respectively, his little mites were naught alike in appearance or personality. Kata had pale blonde hair that would no doubt darken over time into dark blonde or light brown like his own. She was a saucy wenchling with an impish grin, always up for some mischief or other. Jomar, black-haired like his mother, Gulli, was more serious but always willing to participate in Kata’s childish adventures.
Yea, that is what he had missed most about Stonegarth. His children. He pictured himself, first thing, tossing Kata and Jomar into the air, giving them huge bear hugs and playful tickles. Was there aught more glorious to a man than the giggle of a child, especially when the boyling or girling was fruit of his loins?
He’d brought Kata dozens of ribands, all the colors of the rainbow, and for Jomar, there was a miniature sword crafted of hard wood with its own belted scabbard, so small it would fit around a man’s thigh. Mordr couldn’t wait to see their joyful appreciation. Also, both of them would delight in an intricately carved board game of hnefatafl wit
h silly game pieces—giants and trolls and such, rather than the usual king, his defending soldiers, and the opposing foemen.
His first clue that something was amiss came with the realization that none of his housecarls, or even any villagers, rushed to greet them. The second clue, which had his comrades-in-arms unsheathing their weapons, was no smoke rising from the roofs of his keep or any of the longhouses and outbuildings that comprised Stonegarth on the flat-topped mountain. Always there should be hearth smoke, even in the summer months, from cook fires, if not for heat. The ominous silence had them all on alert.
And then they came upon the first of the macabre scenes. In the outer courtyard lay the dead bodies of his guardsmen, frozen into stiff, grotesque postures, eyes open, mouths agape in horror. Even the blood was preserved by the cold onto their wounds in splotchy patterns. Which gave Mordr evidence that the attackers must have come just afore the more recent freeze. No more than three sennights ago.
“Was it Saxons?” someone asked.
“Those cowards would not travel this deep into our territory,” another soldier replied. “Mayhap Huns.”
“Nay! ’Twas Norsemen. Look at this sword. Pattern-welded in the Viking style,” Atzer pointed out.
“Hordssons!” several men concluded as one.
“Those slimy outlaws do not merit the name Viking. They have lurked about for years, waiting for a chance to attack,” Geirfinn said. “Damn them all to the fires of Nifhelm.”
Mordr heard these remarks through the roar that was growing in his ears. “Kata? Jomar?” he cried out even as he began to sprint toward the keep. The other men began rushing in all directions, swords aready, though, from the state of the frozen corpses, it appeared the invaders had been gone for days if not weeks.
Despite his heavy armor, Mordr ran like the wind across the courtyard, up the steps, and through the open double doors leading to his great hall, where the three hearth fires were cold, the logs long burned out. Tapestries had been ripped from the walls, benches and trestle tables wantonly hacked into kindling. Along the way, he jumped over the corpses of his housecarls and servants, male and female both. In the corridor betwixt the solar and the scullery, he found Dyna’s body, her gunna torn from neck to hem, her breasts bearing dark bruise marks, as did her widespread thighs. Mordr would warrant that many men had participated in the rape, if the bloodstains on her thighs were any indication.
His wife’s body bore similar signs of mistreatment when he found it in a storage room where she must have hidden, or tried to hide.
And no sign of his precious children.
With foreboding, Mordr vaulted up the steep stairs to the upper level of his wooden keep where there were three sleeping chambers. In the first one, he found Jomar, who must have been hiding, facedown, under the bed when he’d been found by the invaders. He’d been dragged out by the feet, and his skull cleaved almost clear through from the back by a broadsword. Mordr prayed gods that it had been a quick death.
He dropped to his knees and gathered his little boyling up into his arms, keening with grief. His heart felt shattered like glass, sharp slivers cutting into his soul. But he could not fall apart yet. First he must find Kata. Laying Jomar carefully onto the bed, he spread his own fur cloak over the body, as if to warm him in death.
Kata’s nude, frozen corpse lay in the next chamber. No sword blow to her perfect body. Instead, from the quantity of blood pooled betwixt her thighs, he concluded with horror that she must have bled to death from her girl parts. From numerous swivings by beastly Hordsson males.
What kind of men killed women and children? What kind of men found pleasure in raping little girls? Why had they not taken women and children, or healthy males, as valuable slaves, a practice employed by even the most vile villains? The slave marts in Hedeby and Birka and Kaupang would have welcomed them in a trice. Had that been the case, Mordr would have had a chance of recovering his children, by ransom or sword.
This was an act of violence, of evil, pure and simple. Aimed at him. Monetary gain had not been the goal, leastways not totally.
Mordr stood, arms raised to tear at his own hair. The roar of outrage, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” that came from him could be heard even outside the keep and beyond, into the village. Some say that was the day that Mordr the Brave became Mordr the Berserker.
Chapter One
Hell hath no fury like a Viking wronged . . .
After being restrained by his men—it took Geirfinn, Atzer, and three other burly fellows to hold him down—and after being forced to drink horn after horn of uisge beatha, that potent, prized Scottish brew, Mordr fell into a deep, alehead sleep. When he awakened, the rage was still in him, but he restrained it inside himself in silent, cold fury toward the Hordssons. He began to plan.
No matter what he did—walk down the incline to check on the landed longships, eat a hunk of cold boar shank, bathe his filthy body, feel the warmth of the hearth fire—images of Jomar and Kata were ever with him. And those images were not of the laughing, happy children he had left behind at Stonegarth a year ago. Nay, all he could see was their bloody, defiled bodies and sad, frozen, tormented faces.
Their deaths, all the deaths at Stonegarth, must be avenged. Thus it was that, two days later, in his great hall, which had been cleared somewhat of the destruction, Mordr raised a hand high in the air and declared, “War on the Hordssons! To the death of every misbegotten cur bearing that name!”
A loud cheer went up from the men. There were no women or children present, of course.
Within a sennight, Mordr and his reluctant followers—reluctant only because winter was not the best time for warfare and his hirdsmen would have preferred a springtime march to battle—had razed the sorry keep and village of the Hordsson clan. Not a single Hordsson male over the age of ten survived the surprise assault. Some women were killed, too. Mordr, even in the berserk madness that overtook him when fighting started, had no taste for killing females, but if they got in his way, they were fair targets, to his rattled mind. Never young children, though. Never!
For a year and more, he sought out Hordsson kin in other parts of the Norselands . . . Hordaland, Jutland, Vestfold, Holgaland. It did not matter if they had participated in the raid on Stonegarth, if they had Hordsson blood, Mordr decreed they must die. Then there was word of some Hordssons in the Irish lands; he traveled there and wreaked his still raging vengeance. Still others lived and died at Mordr’s hands in Northumbria where a Viking king ruled that portion of Britain. After that, he moved onto the Orkney Isles.
Hundreds of dead Hordssons lay in his wake of terror. Others shook in fright and changed their names to escape Mordr’s path of retaliation.
Though it had not been his aim, Mordr gained far fame for his berserk skill with a sword named Vengeance and a battle-axe named Fury. Every man with a speck of sense, even those not named Hordsson, avoided his path for fear of doing or saying something to set him off. ’Twas a well-known fact amongst fighting men that you never engaged a warrior, whether he was a berserker or not, who had no care whether he lived or died.
In truth, Mordr welcomed the road to Valhalla. Or did the Christians have the right of it? Followers of the One-God believed there was an afterlife where good deeds whilst living gained an entry into Heaven. According to their Holy Book, after death a man could meet up with those who’d gone before him. If that was the case, Mordr was lost. He’d never been baptized, and too many misdeeds would bar him from the heavenly gates. Alas, he would never see Jomar and Kata again.
By then, many of his men wearied of the vendetta and went back to Stonegarth, with Mordr’s permission, led by Atzer. Mordr never returned to his home, though he had heard years later that the estate prospered as the men under Atzer took wives, had children, and drew villagers and cotters to newly built longhouses. Even his six brothers, who joined him at first from their estates scattered across the Norselands, gave up after a while. It was not their fight.
“Mayhap you need to swive a l
usty maid, or ten, to calm your mind,” his brother Ivak suggested before departing.
“Ivak, you think every problem in the world can be solved with your cock.”
“Can it not?” his halfbrained brother asked, and he was serious.
Vikar, the oldest of the Sigurdsson brood, gave his usual sage advice, sage in his own not-so-humble opinion. “Your pride has been assuaged. Accept the wergild offered by King Haakon to halt your vendetta, and use it to start over again.”
“Dost think this is about pride? Dost think I care for bribe coins? Dost think I could truly start over?” Mordr stormed. “I can never replace my two children.”
That shut up Vikar . . . for a while.
His brother Cnut mentioned the widow whose prosperous lands adjoined his in Vestfold.
“Would that by chance be Inga No Teeth?” Mordr asked with growing impatience.
“Well . . .” Cnut said defensively, “you know what they say about all cats being the same in the dark.”
“Whoever said that did not know cats, or women,” Ivak interjected.
They all turned to stare at Ivak.
“I am just saying,” Ivak defended himself. “Besides, there are advantages to a toothless woman in the bed arts.”
They all gaped at Ivak with incredulity.
“I am just saying,” Ivak repeated, this time with a grin.
“I do not need another wife,” Mordr said with growing impatience.
“You could go exploring with those Vikings who seek new countries to settle beyond Iceland,” said Trond.
Mordr arched a brow at Trond, who was the laziest Norseman ever born. Trond would never go exploring himself because it would require too much energy. “The only way I am going to Iceland is if there is an Hordsson sitting on an iceberg thereabouts,” Mordr declared.
Sigurd the Healer made one of the most outrageous suggestions. “Methinks you should let me drill a hole in your head. Trepanning, it is called. Mayhap all your body’s bad humours would be released, and you would lose this madness.”