Wanting to get closer to his wife, Bryk pulled a small stool up beside Cathryn’s bed, hoping it wouldn’t give way under his weight. He smoothed his hand over the suckling babe’s bald head. The child had no hair, but he suspected his son would inherit his blonde coloring. He touched the backs of his fingers to the side of Cathryn’s swollen breast. “Motherhood has made you more beautiful, if that were possible,” he rasped, wishing he was the one sucking noisily on the rigid nipple he knew well.
She glanced up at him and smiled, sending more blood rushing to his pikk. He thanked Freyja yet again for the gift of this remarkable woman who had brought light to his dark life.
“I am happy you were here for our child’s birth, Bryk. I missed you,” she said.
Was it a trick of his mind, or had her voice become even sultrier? He looked up at the treasured three-paneled altarpiece atop the armoire, conjuring an image of Cathryn kneeling in prayer before it. The flame from the chamber’s lone candle flickered over the figure of Saint Catherine of Alexandria hammered into the gilded copper. “But you had your patron saint to watch over you while I was gone,” he said.
He was teasing, though during the months away fighting the Bretons he too had often beseeched the martyred saint to watch over his wife, left behind in Rouen.
She pouted, but her laughing eyes told him she was aware he was teasing. “My namesake saint was indeed a great consolation to me.” She raked her gaze over Bryk’s chest. “But she isn’t flesh and blood. She didn’t keep me warm during the lonely nights.”
He shifted his weight on the precarious stool to ease the ache at his groin. “This flimsy bit of wood wasn’t made for a man in distress in the nether regions,” he complained.
Cathryn laughed out loud, causing the babe to stop suckling and contort his face into a grimace. She bit her bottom lip, guiding her breast once more to his eager mouth. “See what you made me do,” she giggled. “He’s just mastering this. We mustn’t distract him.”
“I can teach him the right way to do it, if you like,” Bryk offered with a wink. “I’ve missed you too.”
Her face reddened as she entwined the fingers of her free hand with his. She avoided his gaze. “It will be a while before we can lay together again.”
He grimaced. “Ja. I know, but you must heal. I will try to be patient.”
She hesitated, then tightened her grip on his fingers. “You have taught me other ways to please you.”
His hopes soared. Mayhap he wouldn’t have to find relief at his own hand as he’d reluctantly done many times while the campaign raged on. It was a strange truth that men facing battle were always in a state of constant arousal. He was suddenly on fire, filled with an urge to strip off his leggings and let Cathryn’s clever mouth ease the insistent need in his loins. But she was weary. The babe had fallen asleep.
He came to his feet, lifting the child from her grasp. “Let me take him. He’s filled his belly. It’s late and you need rest. He’ll wake again before dawn. Sleep now. I’ll watch over him.”
Her eyelids drooped and within seconds she was adrift.
Holding the sleeping infant to his chest with one arm, he gently pulled the linens over Cathryn’s bare breast, resisting the overwhelming urge to kiss the nipple glistening in the candlelight. Instead, he nuzzled his son’s head. “Lucky boy,” he whispered as he sank into a chair and put his feet up on the stool.
The sleeping babe curled into his chest. He touched the tiny fingers that instantly gripped one of his, filling his heart with joy. “You are my son, Magnus Bernard. I am your father, Bryk Kriger. You’ve a strong Viking grip.”
But it reminded him of the promise of Cathryn’s fingers entwined with his. He chuckled, giving thanks to the Norns and to all the saints of the White Christ that he’d lived to see his babe.
It was a joy he’d thought never to savor after the death of his first wife.
He fished around in the leather pouch at his waist for the tiny flute fashioned from the bone of a goat. He’d made it a lifetime ago when Myldryd had told him she was with child. Standing at her graveside in Norway he’d been tempted to crush the flimsy flute in his fist but, for some unknown reason, he hadn’t. He’d never understood why he’d brought it with him to this new land, until now. He blew a few notes for his son, who snuggled closer at the plaintive sound.
He snuffed out the candle, lay his head back and dozed, more determined than ever to find what he sought. Rouen was a fine town, prosperous since Roman times, and Cathryn’s uncle, the archbishop, had insisted they remain lodged in his comfortable house. He’d been relieved she was taken care of while he was gone.
He’d planted some of the apple tree rootstocks on the land Hrolf had given him on the banks of the Seine, but hundreds of the seeds he and Alfred had brought from Norway still lay in his sea chest, stored in the root cellar. He thirsted for a bigger piece of land where he could plant vast orchards and build a stone dwelling in the Frankish style. He shuddered, remembering the devastation the winter winds had caused to the wooden buildings in the settlement they’d left behind in Norway.
He hated being apart from his wife, and would soon be required to leave again. However, the campaign against the Bretons afforded the Vikings the opportunity to expand the territory they’d wrested from the king of the Franks. The sovereign had been unsuccessful in subduing the Bretons, hence he’d given the task to the Norsemen, thus allowing them freedom to roam over much of Western Francia. Somewhere in the fertile vastness lay the perfect place, the fabled Eden of the Christians.
He fell asleep, lost in his dream.
Cathryn wasn’t sure what woke her. The chamber was in darkness. Had her child cried out? She held her breath, listening, reassured by the faint snoring of her husband. But she was alone in the bed.
She eased up on her elbows and peered into the gloom, gradually making out Bryk sleeping in a nearby chair. Her heart caught in her throat at the sight of her tiny son sprawled across his father’s chest, held firm by her husband’s massive hand on his bottom. She gasped when she noticed the tiny flute in his other hand, recalling the first time he’d shown it to her in the hours after Rouen had fallen to the Vikings. She’d known then she loved him.
As if he sensed she’d awakened, the babe cried out. Bryk stirred. “What is it, little Viking?” he murmured. “Hungry? Let’s see if your mama is awake.”
He brought the child to her, brushing the tear from her cheek with his thumb. “You’re crying?” he asked.
She put the baby to her breast. He fussed for a few moments before latching on. She looked back at her husband. “They are tears of happiness. I love you, but I wish you didn’t have to go back to the war. I’m afraid. What will become of me and Magnus if anything happens to you?”
He shrugged, sitting down carefully on the stool he’d occupied earlier, his gaze fixed on the suckling infant. “Don’t worry. Hrolf makes sure I’m not in the vanguard.” He looked up to the rafters. “Sorry, I mean Rollo. Our chieftain rants if we call him by his Norse name. He insists we address him as Rollo, Duke of the Norsemen.”
“Well, it was the name he took at his baptism,” she replied.
“You’re right, but all my life I’ve called him Hrolf. And a few other less pleasant names.”
She knew of his despair when Hrolf had shunned his sister because her husband had turned his back on raiding. Racked with shame, Myldryd had withered away. “But the two of you are reconciled. He knows you are one of his most worthy lieutenants. He relies on you and doesn’t want to see you killed.”
Bryk shook his head. “It’s my belief you are the reason he wants to make sure I return from the campaign in one piece.”
“Me?”
“Rollo’s wife has plans to usher you into her inner circle.”
It was laughable. “Poppa the Haughty wants me in her inner circle? I doubt it. I’m a foundling, a nobody.”
Bryk yawned. “Not any more. She knows she would likely be dead were it not for yo
ur bravery when you were both captured by the Franks. Then, when the archbishop revealed the circumstances of your birth and why you and your twin brother were left on the doorstep of the abbey convent, you suddenly became worthy in her eyes. You’re the niece of an archbishop.”
Misgivings caused a pulse to throb at Cathryn’s temple. “Am I now worthy of you?”
Bryk traced his finger over her knee beneath the linens. “You know I loved you the moment I first set eyes on you, Cathryn. It’s true I struggled for a while with the notion of marrying a captive. It’s forbidden in Viking law. But I soon realized I didn’t want to live without you, and I was never comfortable with the prospect of making you my thrall.”
Her heart lifted and she fluttered her eyelashes. “But I am your thrall.”
As the first streaks of dawn crept into the chamber, she saw the glint in his eye.
“And I am your slave, Cathryn Kriger,” he rasped.
Mention of slaves brought Torstein to mind. She carefully shifted the babe to the other nipple, wondering if she should bring up the subject of the young man. “What will happen to your nephew?”
Bryk yawned again. “Which one? I have several. Alfred does have quite a brood.”
She pouted. “You’re avoiding the question. You’re aware which nephew I’m referring to.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “To be honest, I’m not sure. Vikings have a saying. ‘Never take a thrall as a friend.’”
Pity for Torstein welled up in her throat. “But he is your nephew, Bryk. He led the revolt and helped save my life. You freed him, yet you still treat him like a servant.”
He shifted his weight, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “It’s the only life he’s known.”
She regretted the anxiety she was causing, but the injustice burned in her belly. “And that’s all he’ll ever know if you don’t take him under your wing. Your brother’s blood flows in his veins. He’s a cousin to the babe you can’t take your eyes off and would probably fight to the death in defense of your son. He’s demonstrated his courage.”
He rubbed his thumb along his chin. “You’re right. He would likely sacrifice his life for me and you, but you cannot expect me to change the habits of a lifetime overnight.”
She lifted her sated son over her shoulder and patted his back. “You became a Christian overnight.”
The bleak look in his eye told her she’d gone too far. Bryk may have embraced Christianity, but hadn’t abandoned the Norse gods, and probably never would.
She patted his hand. “Forgive me. I’m too impatient.”
He came to his feet, reached for Magnus and lifted him over his shoulder. “No. You have a big heart and you hold onto what you believe is right like a dog with a juicy bone.”
She laughed. “Like Saint Catherine.”
“It’s one of the things I love about you,” he whispered.
Alfred and Hannelore still dwelt in the main Viking camp because the house under construction on the banks of the Seine was only partially finished when Alfred had left with the army.
Wedged into his corner of their canvas shelter, Torstein lay awake in the darkness, listening to his uncle’s loud snoring on the other side of the threadbare dividing blanket hanging from the ceiling support.
The noise wasn’t keeping him awake; he’d slept through worse.
The ten children clustered around him like peas in a pod were sound asleep, limbs tangled.
He clasped his hands behind his head, thinking back to the babe he’d held a few hours earlier.
Confused emotions had surfaced with the birth of Bryk’s boy. Magnus—the son of a Frank and a Viking, born in the new Land of the Norsemen—was the harbinger of a new race. He would probably never experience the brutal hardships of a Norwegian winter, nor the breathtaking beauty of a northern fjord.
Cathryn would be a fine mother, but the notion filled Torstein with inexplicable sadness. Bryk’s wife had proven to be a strong ally. He was certain that without her influence he would not have been granted his freedom.
Cathryn was his champion, but she wasn’t his mother. She was lost to him forever. It was difficult to understand why the notion bothered him. Marian had been a terrified child when she’d borne him.
But the certainty that Magnus would experience the love of a father and mother who adored him underscored his loss in a way he’d never allowed himself to consider before.
He sniffled, swallowing a sob lodged in his throat, but another followed, and soon he was biting into the flesh of his fist, his face pressed into the canvas as grief racked him.
In his lonely despair, one thing became clear. He’d been given an opportunity for a new life in Francia, but if he wanted to enjoy the fruits of freedom, things would have to change. He could no longer live a half-life between two worlds. He would defy the odds and prove he was worthy of being accepted as a true Viking.
At least Bryk had allowed him into the gathering to welcome the new babe. It was a beginning, and if he ever sired a child of his own—
He conjured an image of a babe born of a union between him and Sonja Karlsdatter. Would he have his father’s dark features or be fair like—
He clenched his fists, inhaling deeply to calm his turmoil. Sonja lived in that other world to which he’d been denied entry. She had a wealthy father and two belligerent brothers who would strike him dead without hesitation—not to mention how his uncles would react if he expressed an interest in Sonja. He cursed the day he’d first set eyes on her. The gods had fixed in his brain a vision of an untouchable woman. The mere thought of her had his loins and his heart aching.
He’d never wept before. But now the future seemed clearer. Giving vent to the long pent up grief had cleansed him, strengthened him, girded him with a powerful weapon—defiance.
Preparations For A Baptism
Bryk watched with pride as Cathryn pulled the silk robe over his son’s head, then laughed as she tried unsuccessfully to push Magnus’s little arms into the sleeves.
She pouted in frustration. “I told you he wouldn’t be happy.”
“But a newborn Viking prince must be wrapped in silk,” he retorted with a smile.
Cathryn blew the hair off her face in triumph, having got one arm in a sleeve. “He isn’t a prince,” she said.
“He is to me,” Bryk replied with a grin, leaning to assist with the second arm. Magnus grinned back a toothless grin as Cathryn straightened the long garment around him.
“I must admit Hannelore has done a wonderful job of sewing this. Her needlework is very fine. I just hope my uncle doesn’t realize it’s made from the lining of the priestly vestments you stole from the chapel on the first day of the invasion.”
“Removed,” he corrected. “I asked Hannelore to keep the lining safe and not sell it off. Most of the things my father brought back from Constantinople, including the silks, were lost in the storm tide.”
“What would he have exchanged for silk?” Cathryn asked absently, holding up her son for inspection.
Bryk eyed his wife, wondering if he should tell her. She had an eerie knack of sensing when he was holding something back. “The bolt he brought back was purchased with two slaves. Irishmen captured in a raid. It was the going rate then.”
Cathryn paused in her task, her face stricken. “And now it’s at the bottom of the sea.”
“Don’t be angry on this special day, Cathryn,” he pleaded. “The priest I took these vestments from wore sumptuous garments while many in his flock were probably starving.”
She sighed deeply. “I suppose that’s true. We can’t right every wrong, and Magnus does look like a prince in this baptismal robe.”
He lifted his son, relishing his weight, giving silent thanks to Odin for a strapping, healthy child. Better not to utter such thoughts out loud since they were on their way to a Christian baptism.
“You’ll have to go in my stead,” Sonja’s mother whispered, smoothing a hand over the faded yellow coverlet
. “I must stay with Ingeborg.”
Sonja folded her arms tightly and pouted. “You spend too much time with my snoring sister. Ida isn’t her first child. She’s done this before.”
Olga pressed a fingertip to her lips. “Hush. You’ll wake her. Wait until you have children of your own, Sonja, then you won’t be quick to criticize Ingeborg.”
As they tiptoed out of the chamber where unpleasant odors still lingered, she was tempted to tell her mother she intended never to have children, but thought better of it. “I don’t want to accompany Poppa to a Christian baptism. The ladies in her retinue are elderly, and she thinks she’s the Queen of Rouen now her husband has declared he’s Duke of the Norsemen.”
Olga frowned. “Guard your tongue, child. We must stay in Poppa’s good graces, for your father’s sake. He’s too old now to return to the campaign against the Bretons. We have to curry favor in any way we can. Your brothers are loyal warriors, but it isn’t likely they’ll return covered in glory. Poppa will expect one of us to accompany her.”
“Babies,” Sonja exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “Everybody’s having babies. The cathedral is cold and drafty, and why the Christians insist on pouring water on a child’s head—”
Olga grasped her arm, her face wrinkled with worry. “You mustn’t forget, Vikings are Christians now, and Poppa never abandoned her faith in the years she spent as a captive in Norway. She doesn’t tolerate anything that smacks of blasphemy. Besides, water is life giving. It’s a suitable symbol.”
Sonja shrugged. When she thought of the Kriger family, she vaguely remembered the tales of the young Christian woman that one of Rollo’s lieutenants had captured in Jumièges and later married. She recalled seeing her one night perched on a sea chest in a longboat during the battle for Rouen, looking pale and frightened. It was rumored she’d played a role in securing the peace treaty with the Franks, but Sonja didn’t imagine that was true.
Viking Defiant (Viking Roots Book 2) Page 2