A Viking's Revenge: Raised By Vikings Series Read online

  A Viking’s Revenge

  Rased By Vikings Series

  TS Florence

  Contents

  Ten Years Ago

  Present day

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Ten Years Ago

  Ava River

  My life is perfect. Ravenglass has grown to be one of the strongest kingdoms in England, ready to be inherited by me. That is not to say I want my parents to go anytime soon. They are both in good health for their age. And that is not to say I wouldn’t first live in the future King Edgar’s smaller, neighbouring kingdom of Holt, first. Although his kingdom isn’t as big as Ravenglass, he is handsome and chivalrous and almost every other girl in England fights for his attention.

  In their late forties, my parents, the Queen and King of Ravenglass, are still madly in love. They have spent their lives devoted to me. To shaping me into the future Queen.

  As a princess, my life has been afforded many pleasures not granted to others. I am aware of my fortune, and have gratitude every day to be able to pursue interests that are close to my heart, and not out of necessity, like I see so many poorer people subjected to.

  I practice healing with ancient druids brought from Ireland by my father. They teach me how to bring horses back from the brink of death. How to heal a bird’s broken wing. How to nurse a baby lamb, whose mother has been taken by wolves.

  Of course, there are the other requirements that fall to a princess. I am taught the ways of court politics, how to engage conversations with other royals, how to negotiate on behalf of my kingdom.

  I am fortunate that my father shed most of his Viking habits after years away from his wild youth.

  His old friend Gudford would visit every spring, and with every year, they had less and less to discuss. Eventually, the two would sit side by side, silently drinking, wondering how life had made them so different. Gudford would dress in tasteless fur, drink too much ale, and would rant about Lord Jesus being a false god, after he had drank too much.

  Which was why he was in such a mood, on the first day of spring. Gudford was travelling to Ravenglass to pay tribute to the King and Queen, my mother and father.

  Their arrival was like any other. We lined up at the castle gates, my royal family welcoming the visitors. Gudford entered first, followed by his second in command, Kristof. And with Kristof, Einar the Heartless. A new name, which people say suited him. It is ironic that his last name is Hjarta, yet his warrior’s name is Heartless. A tragic contradiction; his own personal fate battling the fate that Kristof and Allina had tried so kindly to gift him. But typical of Einar, he was not grateful for their kindness.

  My father does not like Einar, and so neither do I. I’m not sure why. Father has never gone into the details to tell me, but he says something about the boy’s dead stare. I tried to avoid him as much as possible, but I still grant him the kindness of a smile, here and there. I’m positive the brightness of my smile must cheer his day in some form, when he visits Ravenglass. He must be three or four years my senior, and he has a masculine face for his age.

  As he makes his way through the castle gates, his cold gaze locked first on my father, and then on me, as if I had personally aggrieved him. For the first time, I noticed not only his eyes, but his face. His expression. I noticed his highset cheekbones, his sharp jawline that was not yet covered by a man’s beard. His hair fell to his ears.

  Rumours swept from Gudford’s village to Ravenglass, one of father’s secret messengers delivering monthly updates of the happenings in from his old home.

  “The boy is showing signs of evil,” Father Olef said to him, after a church service one Sunday morning. “He cut down his step brother in cold blood.”

  They came home from bathing in the river, to find Einar sitting on his bed, bloody and silent. Their only true son, dead on the floor. Einar’s sister, Helga, sat weeping in the corner, so unfortunate to witness the extreme barbarity. She would have been not much older than me—maybe only by two years. She did not accompany Einar and Kristof on this visit. I was sad, because I had always gotten along with her.

  Father told me about Einar when he was a boy. The boy who his men rescued from Wales. He would stare at him with his cold, wintery eyes.

  As I have grown older, now at thirteen years old, I feel the Einar’s attention shifting from father to me. Father noticed it before I did. Watch that boy, he would say to Kristof. I do not like where his gaze falls.

  Kristof told my father that he would speak to his son.

  It surprised me that he still travelled with the boy, despite killing his only true son.

  I told King Edgar about Einar the Heartless. His strange obsession with my father and with me. I have heard stories about that savage. Be careful, he had told me, the sooner you are married to me, the sooner I can protect you, he said.

  King Edgar Wormwood. My future husband.

  Although Edgar’s kingdom is small, he is still royal. My mother approves, but father has his reservations. Edgar has all the qualities of a husband in the making. He is royal, rich, handsome, and well-versed in courtly politics.

  Einar is not well-bred, like you and I, Edgar had said, He doesn’t understand true qualities of our society.

  I believed Edgar. Einar had a cold ferocity to him. He would often compete in events like jousting, sword combat, and archery in Ravenglass Tournaments. For as long as I can remember, he has won all the competitions. Edgar does not compete—he believes it is for commoners who feel they need to prove something.

  As we sat at dinner on the first night of their arrival, Einar was placed next to me. Father shifted uncomfortably in his throne as Einar slowly lowered into his seat.

  “Good Evening, Einar” I said, adhering to proper etiquette.

  He breathed heavily through his nose, as if scoffing at my politeness.

  “Princess, Ava” he said.

  “How were your travels?” I asked.

  “Uneventful,” he replied.

  “Fascinating,” I said, losing the control of my urge to use sarcasm to cope with his rudeness.

  “Maybe, for you,” his lips curled into an arrogant smirk.

  Was it because he had suddenly become attractive? Did he think that because he was attractive he could speak to girls how he likes, and they would still fall at his feet? Or because of his reputation as Einar the Heartless. I refused to call him by that name.

  Einar Hjarta

  My father was a good man. His name was Owen Owenson. My name was also Owen Owenson, before it was changed by my new parents. Now, I am Einar Hjarta. Einar means lone warrior, and Hjarta means Heart, in their native language, Norse. I believe the name Einar suits me. The Lone Warrior. They come from a land in the North, where they say life is colder and harder. Titus the Conqueror was once their leader.

  My life is a tragedy, like the ones you see played out by the travelling entertainers, the puppeteers, the luckless, whose life is one tragedy after another.

  I was raised by Kristof and Allina Hjarta, but Kristof is not my father and Allina is not my mother.

  I remember watching Titus the Conqueror kill my father. The worst part about that fight was that it was fair. I watched my father lose in a fair fight to the better man. Until that moment,
my father was the strongest man in the world. He was invincible. He kept the wolf from breaking down our front door on cold winter nights.

  I watched Titus the Conqueror give my father shield and sword. He had the same five square feet of space as Titus the Conqueror had. Titus was a trained warrior. My father was a desperate farmer. Titus fought for glory; for reputation. My father fought to feed his starving family. Titus put his steel through my father’s heart. He made me watch, a child. I could not know my age, but I guess I was 3 or 4, maybe. My sister was younger, still a baby. They guess my age now to be no older than sixteen.

  At the time, I didn’t understand. Most of the memories I had are gone, swept away by time. Now, I understand only through the fragmented memories of a young child. I interpret my history only as it is narrated by my younger self, too young to see the world for what it was. I understand there is bias in that.

  I am most known for the murder of my stepbrother, Halfdan Hjarta. People from our village look at me suspiciously, Kristof and Allina included. For this, I earned the name Einar the Heartless. I hate this name. So do Kristof and Allina. They do not like it, for the drama it placed upon their son’s death. But the village from where I came—its citizens—they thought it endearing. they enjoy the darkness of my history, the mystery of the horrible deeds surrounding the tragedy that is my life. I cannot resent them for that—their lives are uneventful, after all.

  There is not one person besides my sister that I care for, to some degree. There are some I dislike more than others. I hate Titus the Conqueror the most. I hate Gudford, the man who pretends to be my friend. I dislike Kristof and Allina for taking me away from my homelands and raising me in the home of Titus the Conqueror. I know they had good intentions, but they should have left me where I belonged. I dislike Titus the Conqueror’s daughter, Ava. Though innocent, she is wrapped in a soft cotton consisting of her royal world, where little matters outside of castle gossip and events where she can show off her shiny new dresses.

  No, I do not dislike her. I despise Ava River. Pretty little perfect Ava. She swans around Ravenglass as if she were an angel from heaven. She treats those around here with a patronising touch that only someone from Royalty can do. It is no surprise that her boyfriend is a young king. Edgar Wormwood. Worm is fitting, don’t worry about the wood.

  I don’t need to know the man to see through the thin veneer of good manners and civility. There is a depravity to the him that I cannot put my finger on. A cowardice. A man who hides behind fancy words. He wears a shiny sword at his belt, but for decoration only. There is something beneath the surface of that man that unsettles me, and I’m the one they call heartless.

  It’s funny, really. Here I am, the boy who never had a chance in life. The boy who people look at sideways, who move away when I get too near. That is my lot in life. I am Einar the Heartless. For what, I ask? For Killing my half brother, Halfdan. Fitting. Halfdan was my Halfbrother. Not by blood, but by association. I wouldn’t consider him a brother at all. Not by association, not by anything. He was merely a person with whom I was required to spend the younger years of my life in company with.

  He deserved his death. It was an easy one, and one he would have received sooner or later. My only regret is that Helga had to see it. My baby sister. Even now, I can see that the violence has affected her. She became mute. Not a word since he died.

  When Kristof and Allina questioned her, she would not speak. They say she has become mute because she loved her brother, Halfdan. I spit on that lie, and the shame it brings me and my sister.

  I sat in my room after the first night back in Ravenglass. I have lost count of how many times I have visited this castle. Every time is equally insufferable as the visit that came before. I was placed next to Ava River during the dinner. Her vapid conversation made me gag, her patronising choice of comments, her condescending remarks. Fascinating, she said. Everyone who has travelled knows that unless you meet raiders in the woods, there is precisely nothing fascinating about travel.

  I fantasize of taking her from her father. I fantasise of taking from him what he took from me. Love. The chance at happiness. Once, I was Owen Owenson, who loved and was loved. Now, I am Einar the Heartless. Now, I am incapable of being loved.

  Present day

  Ava River

  My Chambermaid Ariana applied the third layer of makeup to hide the bruise. This one covered the left side of my upper cheek, reaching from my ear all the way to the inside of my nose, and under my eye.

  “This one is larger than normal,” she whispered gently.

  I have been married to King Edgar for seven years. I was married at sixteen, yet did not start trying to have a child until my twenty-first birthday. A little older, yes. Unfortunately, I am Barren. I cannot have children. I am now twenty-three. for several years, we have tried without success.

  “You’re a cursed bitch,” Edgar would say. “It’s because you do not eat enough,” he would force me to eat, watching me at the table, venom in his eyes.

  I was thankful we were travelling to Ravenglass to visit. The abuse would stop several weeks before we left, because Edgar did not want my father to see the bruises. I could never tell my parents how he treated me—my father would never forgive himself.

  How naïve I was to believe that any marriage could remotely resemble that which my mother and father have. They married for love and marrying for love is not the accepted norm in my society. People marry to increase their wealth, their power, their lands, and their connections. Sometimes, people even marry to put an end to family blood feuds.

  I thought I was marrying out of love. It seemed that way at first. The hitting didn’t start until we started trying for a child, but ee became cold towards me long before that. Since then, we have been in a loveless partnership. To use the term loveless is to put it politely. Our relationship is like two enemies tied at the ankle, unable to seek refuge in each other’s arms. At least, that is how it is for me. I keep my hatred silent. I do not let him see my emotion. I have become an expert in smoothing my features, calming my eyes and keeping my hands still. Edgar must know how I feel, but he does not comment. I believe he does not care.

  Most nights, he seeks refuge in other women’s beds. Women who visit from neighbouring counties. They must know I sleep alone. I imagine they laugh at me as they make love. But, in all honesty, it is a relief. Every night away from Edgar, I count as a blessing.

  “You won’t be leaving your chambers today, so do not bother with the makeup,” Edgar stopped besides my chambermaid, nonchalantly pushing her aside with his hip.

  He spat into his hand and wiped it across the freshly applied makeup. The smell of his saliva made me gag. “You don’t like that?” He asked.

  “I—“ I began to say.

  His hand, still wet with his spit, gripped my cheeks, causing Ariana, my frightened chambermaid to take in a sharp breath.

  “You don’t like my spit? It seems you like nothing about me, you barren bitch,” he shoved my head to the side, and walked to the door. He stopped momentarily, without turning his back to us.

  “Chambermaid, you will come to my chambers tonight,” he walked away.

  “My Ariana,” Lucy said, her eyes filling with tears.

  “I will try to talk sense into him,” I said, fearful already of the impending punishment I knew I would receive. My words would have no effect, but it would not be right for me to say nothing.

  “My Lady I would never want to put you in that position. He is horrible enough already without provocation,” she said.

  “I feel no jealousy, I am simply worried for you,” I said, taking her hand.

  Tears welled in both our eyes as she washed my face with a warm, wet cloth. We had visitors from a neighbouring kingdom coming to visit. And he would use the usual excuse that I was sick. He preferred to socialise alone. It allowed him the freedom to touch other women in intimate ways.

  Despite the darkness that lurked beneath Edgar’s surface, he had a
n uncanny ability to charm and impress women who didn’t know any better. His uncanny ability relied heavily on his good looks, something that had faded entirely for me, since I had gotten to know him.

  It was growing close to the annual meeting in Ravenglass, and I knew there was a small chance Edgar would not punish her for challenging him. He stopped by her chambers on the way to his.

  “Where is the chambermaid,” he slurred, not knowing Ariana’s name.

  “I have sent her into the next village with several merchants to collect new dresses for our visit to Ravenglass next month,” I said, clenching my hands in nervousness under my bedsheets. I mentioned Ravenglass in the hopes that it would reach his putrid mind that he risked my father seeing my bruises.

  “You did what,” he slurred, stepping closer.

  I repeated myself.

  “You stupid, barren bitch,” he spat in my direction, looking at me in disgust.

  “I would take you right now. Rough, to punish you, but I can hardly get it up with you, anymore,” he laughed, stumbling out, neglecting to close my chamber door.

  I bolted the door shut behind him, preventing any more visits if he decided to change his mind. He would likely be asleep soon, anyway.

  Ariana crawled out from under my bed as she heard the bolts click into place.

  “Forgive me for speaking out of turn, My Lady, but he is a wretched man,” she said, her eyes wide with fear.

  “If a man seems too charming to be true, then maybe it is too good to be true,” I said to her, thinking of the earlier days, as I crawled back into bed.

  I was a naïve teenager, and an even more naïve child. I believed the world around me existed solely for my own entertainment. I was shallow and judgmental, and I looked at Edgar as if he were bestowed upon the Earth by god. What a fool I was.