Viking Defiant (Viking Roots Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  No wonder many of her friends believed the Viking captor had lost his wits when he’d married his captive. But then perhaps they’d been jealous. There were never enough suitable men to go around. Too many of them died in battle.

  She shuddered. Most of the Viking noblemen of her acquaintance were brawny, malodorous, unsophisticated brutes like Frits and Kennet. She loved her brothers, but to be married to such a man—

  When Ingeborg had first been wed to Alvar, she’d prattled on and on about how he was like a burst of fire, and how he made her heart flutter. Indeed! Sonja suspected the flutter and the flame had died. Her sister avoided her husband.

  The pimple-faced boy Sonja had been promised to at birth had died in Norway, swept away by the storm tide. She’d felt guiltily relieved.

  Mayhap her father had the right idea in seeking a Frankish husband for her. The Franks were reputed to be more refined than Norsemen. Otherwise, she might end up with someone like Sven Yngre, a boy from her settlement who’d stared at her with lust in his eyes ever since the death of her betrothed. He was a pleasant enough young man with a mother who fussed over him, but she didn’t want to be his wife. He certainly didn’t make her heart flutter.

  Resigned to having to obey her mother, she snorted. Fluttering hearts! Really!

  Torstein fastened the silver buckle of the belt around the waist of his new tunic. “How does it look, onkel?” he asked Alfred nervously.

  “Fine.”

  Torstein tamped down his frustration. Alfred hadn’t looked at him before rendering judgement on the new clothing.

  “You didn’t look at him,” Hannelore chided. “You are very handsome, Torstein.”

  Frowning, Alfred glanced at his wife, then mumbled, “Ja. Fine. You look fine.”

  Three of Alfred’s toddlers giggled, elbowing each other.

  The air in the well-worn canvas shelter was becoming oppressive with too many bodies crammed inside, and Torstein didn’t want to sweat overmuch in his new clothes. Only Odin knew when he’d receive another outfit of the same quality.

  He supposed Bryk had provided the new clothing so he wouldn’t be ashamed of him at today’s ceremony. His uncle had burned the coarse brown smock he’d worn as a thrall, and given him more suitable raiment, but nothing as fine as this blue linen tunic and woolen leggings. New leather boots too, with toggle fastenings! The silver buckle seemed overly generous, but Torstein had no intention of offering to give it back.

  “Ready?” Alfred asked no one in particular.

  “Ja,” Hannelore replied breathlessly, herding the children out through the grease-blackened door flap held open by her eldest son.

  Torstein’s heart swelled with a happiness he’d never known as Alfred’s youngest held out his arms, begging to be carried. He was to be included in a family gathering—the Christian baptism of his cousin.

  New Beginnings

  Despite the cool April weather, Torstein was sweating when they reached Rouen cathedral. He’d borne Brede on his shoulders from the camp near the lower reaches of the Seine. He enjoyed spending time with Alfred’s brood. They were always happy to see him.

  He lowered the child to the ground, and wiped a sleeve across his brow, dismayed to catch sight of Bryk scowling at him from the arched doorway into the church. However, his uncle was scowling at everyone, except his wife. He doubted Bryk Kriger would ever feel completely comfortable inside a Christian church. He was more at home in his well-worn sheepskin cloak than in the new red woolen tunic he wore this day. Torstein had watched Cathryn lovingly fashion it, learning from Hannelore how to make the traditional braiding that decorated the edges of most Viking garments.

  Magnus Bernard was nowhere in evidence. Bryk impatiently ushered everyone inside. The children’s excited voices echoed in the cavernous space, causing their uncle’s scowl to deepen. Alfred put a finger to his lips and the noise ceased.

  The Archbishop of Rouen, robed in splendid shimmering vestments, stood proudly behind a large stone bowl raised on a pedestal, the babe cradled in his arms. Though only a fortnight old, Magnus was already a sturdy lad. Torstein wondered if the cleric had ever heard the tale of the priestly vestments Bryk had plundered from the chapel of Saint Éloi during the initial assault on Rouen. Did he suspect the baptismal robe Magnus wore had been fashioned from the lining? Hannelore had made good use of the costly material and bartered the gold braiding in exchange for a healthy piglet.

  As he got closer, Torstein noticed the stone bowl had been filled. He’d known water would be part of the ceremony but was Magnus to be plunged into it? He feared there’d be loud protestations from the lad.

  The child’s parents, along with Alfred and Hannelore were clustered around the bowl. Torstein recalled Cathryn calling it a font. The archbishop, still smiling, chattered away, but echoes swallowed his words.

  Torstein hazarded a glance at Bryk, who looked apprehensive. Alfred too was frowning. Cathryn, however, beamed a grin from ear to ear as she gazed at her son.

  The sun shone brightly outside, but candles flickered in the gloom of the enormous edifice. Confident no one’s attention was on him, Torstein looked up and up, marveling at the height of the ceiling. The communal Ringhouse in Møre was huge, but the cathedral dwarfed it. He doubted the wind would ever blow the roof off this building.

  He looked back at the group gathered around the font. Bryk shifted his weight, glancing to the street. They seemed to be waiting for something. The babe startled, whimpering when a commotion at the doorway came closer, growing louder.

  Duke Rollo was making his entrance, striding up the aisle, his boot heels ringing loudly on the flagstones. His snow-white hair streamed behind him like a banner as if he walked into the wind, though the air in the stone church was as still as death.

  Torstein had often thought the man mustn’t possess a comb, but he’d at least trimmed his beard. Son of the first Jarl of Møre, Rollo had always thirsted to be the center of attention. Torstein snickered inwardly. It was impossible not to notice him. Certainly Norway had been too small a country for Rollo and King Harald Fairhair to co-exist in peace.

  Torstein had never liked the chieftain who’d brought them to Francia, but had to admit they were better off here than they had been in Møre. They’d had to fight hard, but Rollo had secured a new country for them. Mayhap he was entitled to be treated like a duke.

  As the Viking leader exuberantly greeted the archbishop and the others gathered around the bowl, his wife entered. Whenever Torstein set eyes on Poppa of Bayeux he was reminded of Padraig, her burly thrall slain by an arrow from the bow of a Frank during the Battle for Chartres. An Irish monk captured during a raid, Padraig had been like a father to Torstein, and he still grieved his loss.

  In Norway, the people of Møre had referred to Poppa as the chieftain’s concubine, though not to her face. Now, she glided soundlessly up the aisle, opulently dressed in the Frankish style, followed by her usual retinue of ladies. He recognized them, matrons, widows—

  Except!

  His knees threatened to buckle. The sweat froze on his brow. His mouth fell open. His pikk saluted. It couldn’t be.

  Sonja Karlsdatter shone like a diamond among shards of discarded pottery. Her flawless skin glowed in the flickering candlelight. She walked with her spine rigid, shoulders back, her virgin breasts tilted skyward. Stunningly intricate cup-shaped brooch pins held up the straps of a finely tailored hangeroc that showed off the tempting curve of her hips.

  She was Freyja come down to earth to strut among mortals. Her golden hair peeked out from beneath a traditional Norse headdress edged with red and blue braiding. Her gaze fell briefly upon Torstein and she smiled the tight smile of an empress grudgingly acknowledging a groveling subject. Her attention moved quickly to the stone bowl, but the momentary pout of her lush lips turned Torstein’s arousal to granite. He hadn’t seen her for many months and she had grown lovelier than he remembered. However, it was evident from the furrow in her brow she wished to be any
where but here in the cathedral.

  He leaned towards her as she passed, hoping to inhale her perfume, his body drawn as if by a lodestone. He toyed with the lunatic notion of suggesting they escape together and—

  But she moved on, out of his view. He craned his neck to catch another glimpse. Bryk’s loud cough jolted him back to reality. His uncle glared as if he wanted to chop off his head with his stridsøkse. Torstein smiled weakly and followed everyone else’s lead as they touched their fingers to their foreheads and made the sign of the Christian savior. The ceremony had begun.

  Sonja shifted her weight from one cold foot to the other, wishing she’d worn warmer boots. The cleric droned on in Latin. She would never comprehend why the Christians used a dead language for their rites. He bounced the strapping babe in his arms as if he were the proud father and not the fair-haired giant standing by the bowl of water. She recognized him now. The farmer turned warrior. In Norway he’d been wed to Rollo’s sister. He was an attractive man, all muscle and chiseled features, but he didn’t appeal to Sonja.

  Her thoughts wandered to the well-dressed young man with the silver belt buckle she’d glimpsed standing behind the Kriger family. He was dark haired, like the babe’s Frankish mother. She vaguely recalled some gossip of her having a newly-discovered twin brother. He wasn’t well-muscled, unlike most Vikings, but he looked strong and wiry. The notion of marrying a Frank became more appealing.

  She hazarded a glance over her shoulder, startled to see he was staring at her. She’d seen him before, but where? His eyes burned with an intensity that shook her to the core. The chilly cathedral became an inferno. The brooches covering her breasts were suddenly too confining, her underdress too tight. She glanced at the other ladies, hoping the heartbeat echoing in her ears wasn’t bouncing off the stone pillars. She feared she’d been stricken by some noxious fever lurking in these dank Christian cloisters.

  She tore her gaze away from him, momentarily distracted by the sound of water being scooped from the stone bowl. The babe squirmed as the life-giving liquid was dripped onto his forehead. But what struck Sonja full force was the look of pure adoration on the mother’s face as her child was named.

  Cathryn Kriger was probably not much older than she. Perhaps she’d make a good friend. And she might introduce Sonja to her attractive twin brother who seemed as fascinated with her as she was with him.

  It appeared the unwelcome excursion to the Christian ceremony might not be a burden after all.

  She smiled with everyone else when the babe gurgled his approval of something the cleric said.

  Bryk’s heart swelled with pride as the archbishop passed his newly baptized son back to Cathryn. The child had behaved like the angels the Christians spoke of, coaxing a smile from some of the sour-faced women of Poppa’s retinue. The Thor’s hammer he’d fastened around his son’s neck had done its work and he doubted the cleric had noticed it. No Viking boy should face life without Mjölnir in his arsenal.

  Things had gone better than expected, though he hadn’t understood most of the Latin rite.

  Torstein had provided the only irritation. What was the lad thinking, making eyes at Sonja? Was he mad? Her father would kill him if he so much as approached the girl, and only Thor knew what her brothers might do. Bryk had fought with Frits and Kennet Karlsen at Chartres. They were bullies. He’d have to have a word with his nephew. Mayhap Cathryn was right. He should take the youth under his wing and prepare him for the future.

  Torstein might be free now, but the Viking nobility would never forgive or forget he’d been born a slave. Still, it was his responsibility to make a place for the boy. Find him a suitable wife perhaps; a Frankish woman possibly, then there’d be no issue with his past.

  However, home first.

  “I love my new tunic,” he whispered to Cathryn, “but I want to get out of these fancy clothes.” He tickled Magnus Bernard under the chin. “I expected the cathedral to be chilly, but the wool is too hot.”

  She frowned, a curious smile lifting the corners of her mouth. He shook his head as he put a hand to the small of her back to usher her from the church. It wasn’t the tunic making him hot. He’d only to look at his wife for prickly heat to spread across his skin and his manhood to thicken. Hasten the day their bodies would join again.

  Worlds Collide

  Cathryn believed her newfound kinship with the Archbishop of Rouen had contributed greatly to the quick acceptance of Viking rule by the townsfolk. Her uncle seemed to genuinely like Bryk and it warmed her heart. He’d confided that he and many Frankish nobles had come to realize the town was prospering under Rollo.

  The Viking leader showed genuine interest in Rouen and its people. He had instituted many projects to improve life, not the least of which was the ambitious and risky undertaking to divert the course of the Seine in order to make the offshore islands more accessible.

  Vikings were expected to learn to speak the Frankish tongue and he encouraged marriages between his people and the local population.

  The Franks came to appreciate the Vikings as hardworking and resourceful who intended to make their land flourish. Folk who had fled to the countryside or to other towns gradually returned.

  Archbishop Franco was particularly impressed with Rollo’s pious devotion to his new religion and openly supported the campaign against the Bretons and the steady expansion of Norse territory.

  Many Vikings snickered at the respect shown to Poppa by the local nobility, but acknowledged privately that her Frankish blood had smoothed the way to peace.

  Nevertheless, Cathryn was amused at her uncle’s uncharacteristic nervousness when Poppa sent a messenger one morning announcing her intention to visit later in the afternoon.

  Bryk had left earlier in the day, summoned by Rollo to a meeting of lieutenants to plot the next step in the campaign against the Bretons. Since Poppa must have been aware of this, Cathryn supposed she planned a gathering of females and would doubtless bring her retinue.

  The household servants were busily preparing for her arrival. Cathryn fed Magnus and hoped he would sleep contentedly until Poppa left.

  Apart from her uncle, Torstein was the only male left at the house, but he was tending the apple trees in the garden and would likely stay out of the way. Despite his freedom, he tended to prefer his own company. Cathryn worried for him and was glad Bryk had consented to teach him some rudimentary military skills. She had a suspicion it wouldn’t take the young man long to master the arts of war. Beneath a wiry exterior beat the heart of a tenacious wolf, she was sure of it.

  Bryk had also suggested seeking a Frankish wife, but Cathryn had misgivings. Having been raised in a convent she knew no one of a suitable age. Her friend Kaia was still determined to wed Cathryn’s twin brother, but her father had raised objections to their marriage on the grounds life as a monk hadn’t equipped Javune to provide for a wife. He’d insisted the young man be trained in the military arts. Rollo had consented to his joining the Viking campaign against the Bretons. He was still in the west with the army.

  She worried about him too. He’d had difficulty coming to terms with the revelation the man he believed was his father had adopted him as a baby and later sent him off to a monastery when he and his wife succeeded in siring a child of their own. One day, perhaps, she and her brother might get to know each other better. He was her only close flesh and blood, her twin.

  Sounds of visitors being greeted by the maidservant interrupted her thoughts and she hastened to the entryway.

  It took perseverance, but Sonja convinced her mother to allow her to go with Poppa in her stead to visit the Kriger household.

  “But you don’t like babies,” Olga protested, looking down her nose. “And the mother is a Frank.”

  Sonja chose her words carefully, not wanting to appear to have suddenly changed her opinions. Her mother might get suspicious. “It’s true I have no patience with babies, but—”

  She sighed and looked at her mother wistfully.
<
br />   “—I suppose I must learn.”

  Olga’s face brightened as she squeezed Sonja’s hand. “How good to see you coming around, daughter. I told your father one day you’d mature.”

  She resisted the urge to tighten her grip on her mother’s fingers, smiling sweetly instead. “And we must reconcile ourselves to adopting some of the Frankish customs.”

  Olga clasped her hands to her breast and beamed the smile of a mother whose child has at long last come to its senses. “Of course you must accompany Poppa in my stead. But only if you take Puella with you.”

  Sonja opened her mouth to protest, but her mother raised her hand in a gesture that indicated she would brook no opposition. “You can’t attend without a thrall. Do you want people to think we are without servants to do our bidding?”

  Upon arrival at the residence, the women were ushered inside and welcomed by Kriger’s wife and the archbishop. Sonja was surprised at her hostess’s fluency in Norse, though she quickly changed back to the Frankish tongue when addressing Poppa. The cleric withdrew with barely concealed relief once his welcoming duties were done.

  The other women were indeed accompanied by thralls who were instructed by their mistresses to remain outside. Sonja glared a reminder at the sometimes-willful Puella to behave and not wander off. Pouting, the girl sank down to sit with the others.

  Cathryn Kriger didn’t make any attempt to hide her disapproval of the situation, but recovered quickly, smiling sweetly at her important guest. Her face reddened considerably when Rollo’s wife embraced her warmly. “I wouldn’t be alive today were it not for the bravery of this young woman,” Poppa explained to her retinue.

  Turning back to Cathryn, she said, “I want to see the library. I’ve heard you’ve accomplished a great deal.”

  Cathryn shrugged nervously. “There wasn’t much else to do while Bryk was away,” she explained softly.