Viking Blood: The Viking Series, #6

VIKING BLOOD

Book 6

(The Viking Series)

By

Marti Talbott

© 2017

He called her Sassa, for she was indeed a divine beauty, and when she said she loved him in return, Laird Artair MacGreagor counted himself among the most fortunate of men. He knew full well other men would lust after her, but he was convinced he could protect her. Yet, it was not enough, for in his determination to keep her safe, he neglected to sufficiently safeguard himself.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

The Unwanted Bride, book 7

CHAPTER 1

More Marti Talbott Books

CHAPTER 1

LAIRD ARTAIR MACGREAGOR was dead.

He lay over his mare’s back with his hands dangling on one side and his feet on the other. His guards said not a word as they solemnly led his horse up the path that would take them to a courtyard in the center of the village of his birth. The arrow that pierced his heart still protruded from his back, and much of his horse’s hide was covered in blood.

As if the whole of creation also grieved the loss of a man greatly loved by one and all, a gentle breeze disturbed not the slender whispers of smoke that rose from cottage hearths, and the nearby river seemed to quiet its usual loud rush down the mountain to the sea. When they finally walked their horses out of the trees and entered the wide MacGreagor plateau at the base of the mountain, the men escorting their murdered laird looked not into the eyes of the people, and instead stared straight ahead.

As though they believed not what their eyes could clearly see, the men working in the gardens on the outer edge of the village paused as if frozen in time. Slowly, they grasped the truth of it, laid down their tools, and began to silently walk behind the procession. Women, sensing something was amiss, came to their doorways in time to see the horse carry his body up the path, set aside their brooms, gathered their children, and they too followed.

The modest hill that once separated the MacGreagors from neighbors who had long since moved away, was now little more than a mound, the dirt having been hauled away and used elsewhere. Through the generations, more trees had been cut down, making more cleared land available for building, grazing and gardening, although they were careful not to cut down those trees that exposed the existence of their village to people who did not already know where they lived.

Yet, the cleared land made it easy for the clan to see the returning guards and the grief stricken people following them. Shepherds watching flocks on the hillside, strained to see what was happening, while men pounding metal into tools halted the steady drumbeat of their work. Children stopped playing, older siblings set buckets of water down, and the men attempting to train horses allowed them to stray. Even the birds in the trees seemed more quiet than was usual. The odd silence outside made the curious come to doorways of old and new cottages. With nothing yet to see and no shouts of alarm, they too began to walk up narrow paths that meandered between the cottages, seeking to find the reason for the uncanny stillness.

As the grief-stricken procession approached the center of the village, dogs whimpered and chickens squawked as they scurried out of the way. At length, when the MacGreagors began to fully understand the magnitude of their loss, men hung their heads, women finally cried out, and then openly wept. Mothers grabbed wild-eyed children and held them close, while men left their chores to comfort their families. The truth be told, more than one man wiped a tear off his cheek.

She was the young woman Artair called Sassa, though her given name was Lezlie and appropriately so for she reminded them of a garden in full bloom. She had long, bright red hair, blue eyes, and a smile that seemed to light up the world. Yet when Artair’s bride-to-be pushed her way through the crowd gathered in the courtyard, her smile was no more. She let not a single tear roll down her cheek as she watched the procession finally halt, and when her mother put an arm around the girl to comfort her, Lezlie moved away. She watched the men assigned to guard and keep her beloved safe, dismount, and then reverently pull Artair’s body off his horse. With the help of others, the men carried him through the door, the foyer, and then into the Great Hall situated on the bottom floor of the only two-story building in the village. Just as reverently, they lay him face down on a long wooden table.

Outside, tearful wives and daughters held on to the arms of loved ones, but Lezlie solemnly followed Artair’s guards. Behind her, Elder Calder escorted Artair’s sister and aunt inside. Both were in tears and repeatedly wiped their cheeks with cloths. The room had small high windows, too small for an enemy to climb through, which on this day made the normal darkness seem fitting for such an awful occasion. A display of weapons hung on one wall, embers smoldered in a hearth situated in the opposite wall, and several chairs were haphazardly placed near the table. There were candles in wall holders, but they were not normally lit in the daytime. They would be now, and would remain so in his honor until their laird was laid to rest. Frazer, Artair’s second in command, went to the hearth and knelt down. He laid the end of a stick against one of the hot embers until it caught fire, and then got up and proceeded to light each of the candles, increasing the light in the room little by little.

It was Jaydan, the man in charge of Artair’s guards, who pulled the arrow out of their beloved laird’s back and then carefully examined it. ’Tis not a MacGreagor arrow. He was certain, for the arrow bore no small notch near the end, which was a longstanding MacGreagor custom, used to determine who could claim the death shot of an animal. In silence, Jaydan set the arrow aside, helped the men turn Artair over, and then followed the other men out so the women could wash his body.

Just then, the man they called Slone remembered. He went back, opened the leather bag he wore tied to his belt, pulled out a gold necklace, and offered it to Lezlie. He wished you to wear it on your... He did not finish his sentence, for the next day was to be her wedding day.

She stared at the English coins affixed to a gold chain for a long moment before she took it, looked into Slone’s sorrow filled eyes, and nodded her appreciation. Even after Slone walked out, she did not cry. It was not hers to tend his body washing, for she was not yet his wife and now never would be. Therefore, there was nothing for her to say and nothing for her to do, so she put the necklace in the pocket of her brown floor-length frock, turned and left the room.

Lezlie slowly opened the outer door of the home she would not now call hers, and as the crowd quieted and parted to let her through, she held her head high, walked to the middle of the courtyard, and grabbed hold of the reins to Artair’s horse. With a tug, she led the horse to the shallow river bank, walked it into the water, and then tied its reins to a nearby tree. She cared not that her skirt was getting wet, nor that her long hair had come loose from the string that held it away from her face. She thought only of Artair’s tender kiss, the warmth of his arms around her, and the look of love in his eyes – the last look of love she would ever see. Her actions were nothing more than instinctive as she held both hands together, dipped them in the cold river water, released the liquid on the back of Artair’s pure white horse, and began to wash away his blood.

The tearful MacGreagors looked on as even then she did not cry, and when her aunt Glynna wiped her cheeks and thought to help her wash the horse, Slone took hold of Glynna’s arm. Leave her work it out, said he.

Glynna knew he was right, but her heart was breaking for the girl who was not yet sixteen. Why does she not cry? Glynna whispered.

A tall, stout man who was well respected by all, Slone answered, ’Tis her Viking blood.

’Tis her Viking blood indeed, said Widow Hildr loud enough for all to hear. I have seen it before. She be calm without and filled with rage within. Hear me well – someday her rage shall seek its revenge and God save all of Scotland when it does!

Normally, the MacGreagors dismissed the Widow Hildr’s forebodings. Rarely did anything come of them, but she was right just often enough to make her warnings not so easily set aside. Furthermore, there was a sudden chill in the air, even though no wind blew. Leaves in the trees failed to flutter, the dogs renewed their barking, and even the long necked goose let loose her usual squawking. It was just unnerving enough to make them wonder if Widow Hildr might be right this time.

The people quieted as Frazer slowly and deliberately made his way through the crowd until he stood facing Jaydan. The same height as Jaydan, Frazer was stout enough to carry the most weight in cut wood, a feat Jaydan had not yet managed to better. Instead of tying his blond hair back, Frazer preferred to keep it cut shoulder-length. His expression was one of total consternation when he folded his arms and asked, Who has brought this darkness upon us?

We know not, Jaydan answered. We left the Farquharson village and were halfway home when an arrow came from behind. Dougal and Slone gave chase. but they found nothing, not even the tracks of a horse in the dirt. Jaydan drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, and finally let it out. I knew not what had happened until Artair started to fall from his horse. Jaydan again paused to take another deep breath before he told the rest of it, He suffered but a short time and spoke no words before his last breath left him. Jaydan bowed his head. There was nothing...nothing we could do to save him.

His words caused even louder sobs from the women and further raised the ire of the men, especially Frazer, I wager ‘twas Laird Farquharson what had him shot.

’Tis what I think too, said Graham, the most outspoken of Artair’s four guards. Of all the men, Graham was perhaps one of the most valuable. He was skilled in nearly every trade, and could be called upon when someone fell ill, or the work was more than the other men could do in a day. While some were not that fond of his abruptness, rarely was his help not greatly appreciated.

Yet, what proof have we? Jaydan asked.

Laird Farquharson came not twice, but thrice to ask for Lezlie’s hand, Graham answered, and never have I seen such fury as I saw in that lad’s eyes when she denied him.

Elder Calder shook his head. Aye, but that was months ago.

’Twas not months ago she agreed to marry Artair, and I’ve no doubt Laird Farquharson heard of it, Graham argued. How else could he have her, but to kill Artair before she was wed?

Few noticed when Lezlie stopped to listen. At the very thought she was the cause of her beloved’s death, she closed her eyes and hung her head. Jaydan was wrong, her Viking blood was not boiling within her. Instead, the extreme depth of her sorrow silenced a voice that wanted to scream in agony. Her pain hid a heart that threatened to cease beating, and the overwhelming confusion endangered her otherwise peaceful soul. Indeed, her Viking blood would soon rise up in her and she would feel the need for revenge – but not just yet. At length, Lezlie resumed washing the blood off Artair’s horse, but she let not a word of what the others were saying pass without notice.

Most of the men and some of the women nodded their agreement with Graham’s charge, but not Jaydan. What are we to do? Attack the Farquharson only to find we were in error? Nay, we must know the truth of his guilt for certain before we fight.

Elder Calder stroked the length of a beard that was turning white before its time. Aye, we must know for certain.

How? more than one man asked at the same time. Some of the women were beginning to go home, taking with them weeping children that perhaps understood not, but wept anyway. Husbands kept a comforting arm around upset wives and nearly grown daughters, while teenage boys inched forward, and perked their ears straining to hear what the men were saying.

A reward – what lad can resist a fine reward? Elder Calder answered.

Aye, Jaydan agreed. What say you, Frazer?

Frazer took a moment to consider the proposal. What reward have we to offer? I know of no wealth other than the jewels Artair wore in his belt, and the gifts he bestowed upon Lezlie.

Artair’s belt, and a cow perhaps, or three lambs? Calder suggested.

Graham was not pleased with that answer. So little? Was Artair not worth more than that to us? His words evoked a stir among the people. Some said the belt alone would be enough, while others agreed that it was far too little.

While they discussed it, Lezlie once more stopped washing the horse. She put her hand in her pocket, withdrew the necklace, and gazed at its magnificence in the sunlight. You shall offer... She was not speaking loud enough and few seemed to be listening, so she yelled, FRAZER!

Abruptly, everyone quieted. They watched her walk out of the shallow part of the river. She stood with her hands on her hips and a perturbed look on her face. You shall offer this and my other one besides! She held the gold necklace up for all to see. He was worth far more than gold to me, and I shall be the one to bestow it upon the lad who says the name of he that is guilty.

It was agreed then, for who could go against a MacGreagor beauty, upon whom such grief had been bestowed? To no one’s surprise, Kincaid came forward and accepted the necklace Lezlie held out. He had no words to say, nor were any needed when his understanding eyes met hers. Instead, he put the gold necklace in the pouch he wore tied to his belt, turned and started for his horse. No one spoke as he got a running start, grabbed hold of his horse’s mane, and swung up on the stallion’s bare back.

In no time at all, Kincaid MacGreagor, a carrier of news from clan to clan, rode out of sight.

THE WORLD OF KINGS and queens meant little to the MacGreagors, for rarely did ten years pass, without the kingdom being claimed by the next man daring enough to call himself king. Some kings died of natural causes, but more often than not, they died by nefarious means. There were constant plots against them, danger lurked even among their most trusted, and outright assassinations were always a distinct possibility. One king pledged his daughter to a Viking king, and displeased the English by doing so. Even that was not of consequence to the MacGreagors, for most had never seen the English. Moreover, no MacGreagor had occasion to see a Scottish king either, for royalty rarely left their well-guarded castles. Yet, the line of succession was clear. First came kings, second came earls, and then came lairds – the keepers of the land and the protectors of the individual clans.

At the moment, the MacGreagors were without a laird.

The MacGreagors enjoyed a familiar and time-honored communal existence that each generation