Viking Defiant (Viking Roots Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  An image of a reed-thin, bald baby with a nose like a long twig appeared unbidden behind her eyes. Bile rose in her throat as she backed away towards the door. Her mother scowled at her, but she was afraid she might utter something unforgivable if she stayed in the odious man’s presence. “Forgive me. I am unwell.”

  She bolted from the chamber before anyone forbade it. She hastened to her room and flung herself on the bed, feverishly plotting ways to see Cathryn’s brother again. If only she hadn’t shown her worst side to him.

  She stilled, suddenly aware someone else was in her chamber. Puella tiptoed into her line of sight. “This is your fault, girl,” she menaced. “If you hadn’t had the gall to rise above your station—”

  They stared at each other. Puella swayed, a curious expression on her face as if she wanted to tell Sonja something. At length, she seemed to summon up her courage. “The man I spoke to isn’t a Frank. He’s a Norseman.”

  This made sense in light of the language, but Sonja shook her head vehemently. “No. You’re wrong.”

  Puella persisted. “He is a free man now, but only because Bryk Kriger freed him. I saw no harm in speaking with him. When he left Norway he was a thrall. His name is Torstein.”

  Anger boiled in her belly. Frits and Kennet had spoken of this Torstein, the thrall who had led the revolt against the Franks at Chartres and who had aided in the rescue of Poppa and Cathryn. It wasn’t possible—

  “He is Bryk Kriger’s nephew, a child born of his brother’s thrall. His father drowned in the tidal wave.”

  Sonja had heard of people being turned to stone in myth. Now she knew it was possible. Her hopes splintered into a thousand shards.

  The gods had cast a hecks on her, drawing her to a nithing with whom there was no future. No other explanation existed for the longing in her breast for a man she’d met only twice and barely spoken to. Simply looking at him had kindled a flame in her body, as well as in her heart, rousing feelings and sensations she’d never known.

  But he was a thrall. Though he was free now, her father and brothers would never allow—

  The numbing reality was worse. She had too much pride to give herself to a slave.

  She tried and failed to make her legs function. With a limp wave of her hand she dismissed Puella and curled her knees to her chest atop the chilly linens of her bed.

  Bryk lay awake listening to his wife’s steady breathing, kept from sleep by thoughts of Torstein. He and Alfred had discussed at length the possibility of granting their nephew his freedom before they’d actually made the decision. They were aware many in the Viking community would deem them mad for such an action. A thrall was a valuable chattel, especially an obedient and loyal one like Torstein.

  They’d also considered the difficulties Torstein would face if he were free. He would never be welcomed as a member of the Viking nobility.

  However, they’d concluded he had earned the right to be free and, truth be told, Cathryn would never have accepted less than Torstein’s freedom.

  Much of what they feared might result had indeed come to pass. However, there was one thing Bryk hadn’t expected—his own attitude towards his nephew.

  He wished he was like Cathryn. She accepted Torstein for what he was—a brave man to whom she owed her life. Why couldn’t he do the same? Why was it difficult to open his heart to a courageous and generous young man who was his blood relative, the son of his own brother?

  The fact was he had too much pride. He, the warrior turned farmer turned warrior who’d incurred the wrath of his chieftain and the disdain of his neighbors, now had too much pride in his own importance to take a freed thrall to his bosom.

  He glanced up to the top of the armoire. Darkness cloaked the triptych but the saint was there, always ready to listen. “Saint Catherine of Alexandria,” he said inwardly. “Grant me the courage to overcome my pride before Cathryn perceives how weak I am.”

  Torstein had learned much over the years from paying close attention to his uncle’s facial expressions. Bryk didn’t hide his feelings. It was plain to see he was surprised by how quickly his nephew mastered the handling of a sword.

  It would of course be a long while, if ever, before he bested his uncle in combat, and he sensed Bryk was holding back, but he was confident he’d demonstrated his abilities.

  “You’ve used a sword before,” Bryk rumbled.

  “Only at Chartres.”

  His uncle lunged unexpectedly, but he quickly sidestepped the blow and returned the thrust.

  “Hmph! You have a feel for the weapon, I must admit. Didn’t inherit that from your father.”

  Did he dare? He decided to go for it. “Mayhap from my grandfather, then?”

  Bryk stopped in mid-thrust and glared, but then his expression softened and he came close to smiling. “Mayhap,” he agreed.

  Torstein’s spirits lifted. By rights, he should hate this man, but Bryk had never treated him cruelly. In fact, he’d been kinder than his own father. However, he sensed his uncle’s reluctance to fully recognize him as his nephew. It was hard for a Norseman to accept a slave into the bosom of the family, but it was important he win over his uncle if he wanted to be recognized as a worthy member of Viking society in this new land. Bryk would be the best possible champion.

  He prayed to Thor for strength as he went on the offensive, hoping his uncle wouldn’t retaliate by slicing him in two. Bryk Kriger would respect a man with courage and daring, but he too had suffered in the past for sticking to his convictions. Torstein would need to show his determination to be a fully-fledged warrior, a Viking worthy of Sonja Karlsdatter.

  He hacked and thrust, lungs on fire, arms aching, his feet somehow finding a life of their own as he dodged and wove. His size seemed to work to his advantage, speed proving to be as important as brute strength.

  To his relief, it was his uncle who called a halt, his brow furrowed. He’d never admit it, but he was out of breath.

  Again, Torstein summoned up his courage. “You’re getting old, onkel.”

  Bryk stared at him, but there was no anger in his eyes. “Beware, Torstein, I had your father over my knee more than once and whacked his arse good when he was insolent.”

  Mention of Gunnar produced a maelstrom of confused emotions. He’d grieved with his mother when his father had drowned, though he didn’t understand why. The man had never shown either of them any love. But the notion of his uncle smacking his father’s arse amused him. He’d wager there’d been wailing and howling in protest.

  His gut twisted when it dawned on him this was the first time his uncle had addressed him directly by name without it being an order from master to slave. “I wouldn’t recommend trying it with me,” he replied, raising his sword and bracing for an angry backlash.

  But his uncle smiled and sheathed his weapon. “Maybe not,” he chuckled, eyeing Torstein’s sword. “Enough for today. Same time on the morrow. Keep the weapon until we can get you a better one. In a fortnight you’ll accompany the army to the west.”

  He watched his uncle stride off, at once elated and terrified. One thing was certain. He must be sure of Sonja’s feelings before he left. If she cared for him he would defy convention to win her.

  Lunacy

  Perplexed that she was alarmingly jealous watching her sister as she nursed Ida, Sonja swallowed her pride and tried again. “But consider it, Ingeborg. Your baby and Magnus Kriger were born on the same day. It’s a wonderful opportunity to form a friendship, and perhaps a new alliance.”

  She inhaled deeply to calm her racing heart when Olga indicated her agreement. “Sonja is right. The Krigers are powerful and have Rollo’s ear.”

  But she wondered what her mother had been told when she scowled at her and added, “And we have to make amends for your sister’s strange behavior. Apparently, she came close to dropping the Kriger baby.”

  Ingeborg pouted, though the glint in her eye betrayed her pleasure at Sonja’s discomfort. “But I’m older than she is. Perhap
s she doesn’t want new friends.”

  Sonja resisted the temptation to throttle her sister. It was true the vibrant Cathryn had nothing in common with the bland Ingeborg, but she mustn’t reveal her plan—to nurture a friendship between herself and Bryk Kriger’s wife. She didn’t fully understand why she pursued such thoughts. She had repeated over and over in her mind that befriending Cathryn was the goal, but her heart knew the truth. She had to see Torstein again.

  It was lunacy.

  “I’ll send a message, asking her to visit us on the morrow,” her mother said.

  “We must go there,” Sonja blurted out without thinking. It was unlikely Torstein would accompany Cathryn on a visit to Karl Ragnarsen’s home.

  Her mother arched a brow. “We can’t invite ourselves to the archbishop’s residence.”

  “Mother is correct,” Ingeborg said, unexpectedly showing enthusiasm for the idea. “We’ll invite her for the morrow.”

  Cathryn and Bryk stood in the doorway, watching the departing thrall who had delivered an invitation to the Ragnarsen house.

  “That’s a nasty black eye,” she remarked. “I hope her mistress didn’t inflict it as a punishment.”

  Bryk shrugged and turned to enter the house.

  Cathryn followed. “There was something odd about the girl, as if she was hiding a secret.”

  Bryk shrugged again. “But she made the effort to speak a few words of your language before lapsing into Norse to deliver her message.”

  “True. I suppose declining the invitation would be perceived as an insult.”

  Bryk furrowed his brow. “Why would you want to?”

  Cathryn would have to choose her words carefully. Vikings were protective of their traditions and she was suspicious of the Ragnarsens’ motives. “Magnus and Ingeborg’s daughter were born the same day,” she said hesitantly, watching her husband’s face. Reassured when she didn’t detect a hint of a scowl, she continued. “Vikings pledge children to each other as marriage partners, and I understand the reasons for it.”

  Bryk smiled, putting his hands on her hips. “But you chose your mate and you want the same for our son.”

  Surprised relief unknotted her belly. “You understand.”

  He pressed his forehead to hers, causing her heart to flutter. “Don’t worry. I won’t arrange anything for Magnus.”

  This man was indeed a gift from God.

  He pecked a kiss on her lips. “At least not until he’s older.”

  Her spirits fell, but his wink reassured her, so she soldiered on. “I suppose establishing a friendly alliance with a wealthy and influential family can’t hurt. Magnus will have a playmate, and—” It was on the tip of her tongue to mention Torstein and Sonja, but she stopped in time.

  She swayed into him when he swirled his tongue in her ear.

  “Karl Ragnarsen was a great warrior, but he’s getting old and likely won’t go back to the front,” he said quietly.

  His whispered words echoed in her brain, but his warm breath on her ear was distracting.

  “His sons Frits and Kennet will use any excuse to get into a brawl. As I recall, this new child’s mother isn’t a beauty.”

  She scowled, feigning jealousy, but she stretched her neck, hoping his lips would find their way to her throat. “You’re a married man, Bryk Kriger. You’re not permitted to look at other women.”

  He pulled her to his body and there was no mistaking the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her. “I’ll never need another woman, Cathryn. You’re the mate of my soul.”

  It elated her that he seemed to understand important aspects of her Christian faith. Change was difficult for him. His struggle with what to do about Torstein was proof of it, but she didn’t think any less of him. He was a man steeped in his culture.

  She too wrestled with conflicting emotions. Meddling might prove to be disastrous, but if Bryk were to allow Torstein to be her escort—

  Her husband’s next words brought her back to reality. “I will see you safely to the Ragnarsen’s on the morrow, as protocol demands.”

  She wondered if he suspected what she’d had in mind, but his deep kiss chased away thoughts of slaves and traditions.

  Scowling, Bryk paced in front of the cold grate in the archbishop’s office. “You cannot go alone to the Ragnarsen house, and Rollo has summoned me to another strategy meeting. Unfortunately, Torstein will have to escort you.”

  Elation and desperation warred within Torstein. When Cathryn mentioned the invitation, hope soared in his heart. Ironically, his uncle was providing him the excuse to see Sonja, for he had no doubt she would be present at the gathering.

  Allowing Torstein to be his wife’s armed escort was a measure of Bryk’s growing esteem.

  But after an hour in the training field, he was sweaty, his clothing caked with dust.

  Cathryn eyed him. “Very well. But he’ll have to bathe first.”

  Bryk grinned.

  She turned to her husband, her nose wrinkled. “You too before you present yourself to Rollo.”

  Bryk’s grin fled. “The river then,” he said grudgingly.

  Torstein was heartily glad Cathryn had suggested leaving his new clothing at the house after the baptism, given the cramped living conditions at Alfred’s. “I can change into the tunic I wore to the cathedral,” he suggested, hoping his weak smile didn’t betray his desire to look presentable for Sonja.

  Cathryn seemed relieved. “Good idea. We want to look our best for the Ragnarsens and I’d like to get to know Ingeborg better. I should make more friends among the Viking community and our children were born the same day.”

  Then she said something that took him by surprise. “Torstein and I will stay out of the way of her sister, Sonja. She seems flighty. What a state she got into when she was here, almost dropping Magnus. You remember, Torstein.”

  He doubted coherent words would issue from his mouth if he attempted a response. Was Cathryn testing the waters?

  His uncle snorted then narrowed his eyes at Torstein. “My wife is right. It is a good idea for you to avoid Sonja, don’t you agree, nephew?”

  Here again was the familiar challenge. Be subservient, or be a man.

  He tightened the muscles in his gut. “We’ll see,” he said, stripping off his soiled shirt. “Beat you to the river, onkel.”

  Mixed Emotions

  Cathryn touched a hand to Torstein’s arm as their destination came into view. “I’ll take Magnus now, if you wish.”

  She had delayed asking because both man and baby looked comfortable and content. Her son had fallen asleep in the sling tied around Torstein’s body, his knees tucked to his chest. A strong hand supported the babe’s head. As they’d made their way to the Ragnarsen house, Torstein had frequently pressed his lips to Magnus’s forehead.

  She didn’t recall ever seeing a Viking male carry a babe across his body this way and supposed Torstein’s upbringing had inured him to any suggestion of weakness. She thought his tenderness made him look strong. He would be a good father.

  His future was more worrisome now. It was evident Bryk disapproved of his nephew’s interest in Sonja. Cathryn understood the chasm between them, but this was a new land; surely new rules might come into play.

  Perhaps Sonja’s display of nerves at the archbishop’s house had been caused by feelings she had for Torstein. If love was destined to blossom between them, Cathryn saw nothing wrong with nurturing it. Bryk’s love had brought her new life. Before the Vikings’ conversion to the Christian faith, it was unlikely they would have married, but historic events had changed things. Was it possible a different world awaited Torstein and Sonja?

  “Cathryn,” Torstein said, jolting her out of her daydream. “Do you want to take him?”

  She shook her head. “You can keep him if you wish.”

  He smiled. “I will but, as the only male I’ll be quickly shooed from the house.”

  Her belly turned over. Was Torstein expecting to be refused entry?
She would insist he accompany her. “Ingeborg’s father won’t be at home?”

  He smirked. “A Viking nobleman won’t attend a gathering of women. It’s beneath his dignity.”

  The door was thrust open. She recognized the young thrall who ushered them inside. The girl’s eyes widened at the sight of Torstein’s fine clothing.

  He whispered her name in greeting. “Puella.”

  She avoided his gaze, but Cathryn caught a glimmer of a smile.

  Three women bustled into the hallway, one carrying a baby girl. She supposed this sullen individual was Ingeborg, then chided herself for the unchristian thought that it was a pity the babe had such a pronounced nose.

  Four toddlers emerged from behind the women, all with the same hooked nose. They must have inherited it from their father, since Ingeborg’s face bore no extraordinary features. She was simply plain. It was the silvery blonde hair, rosy cheeks, perfect nose and big dark eyes of the sister standing beside her that drew the eye.

  The eldest of the three women glanced at Torstein, her brow furrowed, then held out her hands to Cathryn. “Velkommen,” she gushed. “I am Olga.” She waved in the direction of the woman with the baby. “Ingeborg’s mother, and Ida’s grandmother.”

  Cathryn noted she spoke in Norse, making no effort to communicate in the Frankish tongue. Nor did she introduce the red faced Sonja, who was doing her best not to look at Torstein.

  “Good day,” Cathryn replied to her hostess in Norse. “I am Cathryn Kriger, and this is my husband’s nephew, Torstein.”

  She reached to take her son from Torstein. “And this is Magnus Bernard Kriger.”

  Ignoring Torstein, Olga seized Magnus. “He’s heavy,” she exclaimed.

  Her son looked like a toddler next to the diminutive Ida, whose grandmother cooed and fussed over the two infants who stared at each other blankly. Ingeborg didn’t smile.