Page 1 of Truly, Madly Viking

Prolog

998 A.D., Summertime in the Norse lands

Jorund Ericsson stared blankly at the huge grave mound. It was large enough to hold a longship and all the personal belongings necessary for the occupant to lead a good life in the afterworld.

A year and more he had been gone to the East lands, fighting the wars of the emperor of Miklegard. A lifelong warrior-for-hire, he had been part of the elite Varangian Guard, made up of handpicked Vikings from many nations. On the journey home, he had idled time away by standing under the banner of the Norse king Olaf Tryggva son, who was on the offensive again in Britain, spreading sword dew in his wake like a bloody wave. For Olaf, who happened to be Jorund's paternal uncle, this represented but a brief respite from the ongoing territorial struggles with the Danish king, Sven Forkbeard.

Some said fighting was a Viking way of life. 'Twas true.

With no apologies, Jorund acknowledged being a lord of swordplay... a mercenary, but not without principles; he stood only with those chieftains whose goals and standards he shared. Following this life path, he saw death as a constant companion and had long since lost count of the bodies that had fallen under his sword, or those of his comrades who now resided in Valhalla.

Still, he had never expected to find this upon his return to his homeland.

In his distress, his eyes darted here and there about the grave site, soon catching on the burial stone, where sticklike runic symbols spelled out:

Here lies Inga Sigrundottir,

Wife of Jarl Jorund Ericsson of Vestfold, Daughter of Jarl Anlaf of Lade.

She lived but twenty and three winters. Died she in the great famine, In the year nine ninety-seven.

Jorund choked back a gasp. There had been no great love betwixt him and Inga these six years since their forced marriage. Nonetheless, grief and great shame overwhelmed him at her death eight months past. A man protected those under his shield, lest he be a nithing, a man devoid of honor. He should have been here to safeguard her welll being, whether from the dangers of man or nature.

But then his gaze moved to the left, to the two small conjoined grave markers that read: Greta and Girta Ingadottir, Firstborn twins,

Beloved daughters.

They lived but five years.

May Freyja hold them to her eternal bosom.

Jorund dropped to his knees and put his face in his hands. He was not an emotional man. Once, amid the din of battle, he'd cleaved a man to the teeth with his battle-ax and ne'er felt a moment of remorse.

He could not remember the last time he had yielded to the woman-weakness of crying— mayhap as a child when one of his brothers had hurt him in rough play—but tears welled in his eyes now.

The thought of Inga lying in the cold earth brought him regret that one so young should journey from this earth before her time. Regret... that was all. He was the one who had suffered most from Inga's renowned machinations, which had led him reluctantly to her marriage bed, but he bore her no ill will. She had not been a bad woman at heart.

Thoughts of his daughters, on the other hand, brought fierce pain to his chest and constriction to his throat. He had not wanted marriage. He had not even wanted children—but, oh, when he'd held them for the first time, bloody and blue with wrinkled skin, after they emerged from their mother's womb... well, he'd loved them on first sight. Seed of his loins they had been, but so much more than that.

The last time he'd seen his girls, they'd not yet celebrated the fourth anniversary of their birthing day. His longship had been pulling up anchor in the fjord in front of his vast homestead. Inga had been standing at the bank, along with his father and mother Jarl Eric and Lady Asgar; his brothers, Rolf the Shipbuilder and Magnus of the Big Ears; and the family retainers. Greta and Girta had come dancing down the hillside at the last moment, their blond braids swishing back and forth, their hiked-up gunnas wrinkled and dirty from some youthling game or another. And they had been giggling. Odd that he should recall that now. But then, he reminded himself, was there a sound more heart-touching in the whole world than that of a giggling child... even to a hardened warrior such as himself.

"Don't forget to bring me ribands, Father!" Greta had called out to him... as if she hadn't reminded him enough times the night before amid sticky kisses and little-girl hugs. "All the colors of the rainbow...

please." That last word she'd added upon seeing her mother frown down at her for the girl's lack of politeness. Inga, daughter of a high jarl of Lade in northeast Norway, had placed great importance on courtly.

"And silk slippers from a harem," Girta had added gaily ducking as her mother reached out to swat her with an open palm for her impertinence.

"A harem, indeed!" Inga had snorted, but then she hadn't been able to help herself and grinned at the child's outrageousness. Girta had been known for her saucy tongue.

Jorund smiled to himself at the sweet memory, even as a strangled cry escaped his closed air passes.

"My son."

Jorund jerked upright as he felt a palm on his shoulder. Standing, he turned to see his father.

"I need your help, Jorund. Yours and that of your brother, Magnus."

"This is not the time," he choked out, waving a d to indicate the burial mound.