Viking Defiant (Viking Roots Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  She’d learned about apples, horses, chickens, pigs and goats, and now saw the appeal of working alongside Torstein on a farm of their own.

  If only Rollo had given him the recognition he deserved. Now, they waited anxiously for the great chieftain to decide their fate.

  A movement near the stable caught her eye. “Torstein,” she whispered as he beckoned.

  Alfred appeared, but continued walking towards the house, taking the basket from her hands as he passed. “I’ll get the eggs,” he said.

  She hesitated, sniffing her fingers, hoping she’d managed to scrub away the last of the stink of mud before retiring last evening. Bathing in a partially finished house full of children was a challenge. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, praying she didn’t look too much like a farm wife, then hurried towards him.

  He took her hands in his, kissed them and drew her into the stable.

  “I’ve been working,” she whispered breathlessly. “In the mud. I mean I fell in the mud. I was chasing a sow. I—”

  His kiss silenced her. Filled with pent up passion and longing, it wasn’t gentle like the other kisses they’d shared. She melted into him as his tongue parted her lips and mated with hers.

  She couldn’t breathe, but didn’t want to. He held her so tightly she feared he might break her in two. But she relished it. She should have been terrified by the hard maleness pressed against her mons, but she reveled in the knowledge it was need of her arousing him.

  She pressed her breasts against his rock hard chest and raked her fingers through his hair to show how badly she craved him.

  He ended their kiss and nestled her face into his warm neck. “Sonja,” he growled. “I have missed you. Come, lie with me.”

  Her breath caught in her throat as they sank down into a pile of clean straw she’d hayed the day before. Nearby, horses nickered and pigs grunted, but the scent of leather and of man filled her nostrils. Torstein lay on his back and drew her on top of him, cupping her backside to press her mons to his arousal. “You see how much I want you,” he said with a smile.

  She lifted up on her forearms. “I’ve ached for you in places I didn’t know existed before I met you.”

  He arched his brows. “Show me where,” he teased.

  She touched a fingertip to her breast. He raised his head and sucked her through the fabric of her hangeroc. A spasm of desire spiraled into her womb. “I can feel it,” she said hoarsely.

  He chuckled. “I know. Look at your nipple.”

  She looked down, astonished to see the telltale buds pouting at the cloth like little cobnuts. “Being near you does strange things to my body,” she explained shyly.

  “You have no inkling of the things I’d like to do to your body,” he replied, the lighthearted smile gone from his handsome face. “But for the moment, there’s a warm and wet place I’d like to taste.”

  Desire flooded her, making the wet place he spoke of wetter. “Taste?” she croaked in a voice she barely recognized.

  He rose up, turned her onto her back and knelt between her legs. “Pull up your skirts,” he whispered, his gaze holding hers.

  She obeyed, holding her breath as he eased her legs farther apart and bent his head to swirl his tongue over the intimate folds even she had never seen. She whimpered as he licked and sucked, licked and sucked, delving his tongue in and out.

  “You taste like honey,” he rasped.

  She moaned in reply, incapable of coherent thought, completely in the thrall of intense sensations running rampant through her loins, up the back of her thighs, into her womb and then teasing her nipples.

  She was climbing a mountain, approaching the summit. Torstein was humming, his mouth still on her nether lips, his arms clamped around her thighs. The vibration from his throat carried her over the peak and into Freyja’s loving embrace.

  As she floated back to earth, strong arms lifted her. She put a hand on Torstein’s heaving chest. “My love,” she murmured happily. “Your needs.”

  He pecked a kiss on her forehead. “The day is coming, my little sow-chasing farmer,” he rasped, holding her close to his body. “But not in a stable. Come, judging by the aroma, Hannelore is cooking eggs to break our fast.”

  They left the stable and stumbled breathlessly into the kitchen. She felt her face redden when Torstein plucked a piece of straw from her hair. Hannelore and Alfred exchanged an amused glance, then served up fried eggs to their squabbling brood.

  Judgement

  As the people of Rouen filed quietly into the cathedral at Rollo’s command, those for Torstein drifted to the right, while Sven’s supporters moved to the left. Seated near the front, Cathryn kept turning around in an effort to gauge which side was the most popular.

  “Don’t worry,” Torstein said, squeezing her hand. “Whatever happens, I don’t intend to give Sonja up.”

  His words did nothing to lift the lead weight lodged in her belly.

  Seated near the high altar in a chair normally reserved for the archbishop, the duke eyed the crowd, his lips curled into a grimace. Cathryn suspected it was his ill-concealed anger keeping the chatter to a minimum. Conversation came to an abrupt end when eyes fell on the scowling face of their chieftain.

  She didn’t blame him. He’d summoned the inhabitants to hear a pronouncement concerning his son, Vilhelm, but he would also render judgement on other matters. The scandal involving Sonja and Torstein was on everyone’s lips.

  Poppa too looked displeased. Rollo sprawled in his seat, long legs stretched out, his big feet on a cushioned footrest, whereas she sat on the edge of her chair. There was nothing unusual in this, but her displeasure seemed to be directed at her husband’s posture.

  Vilhelm stood behind his father, fidgeting with his hair.

  “He looks nervous,” Torstein whispered in her ear.

  Cathryn had to admire her husband’s nephew. Judgement was to be rendered that might cost him everything, yet he maintained his sense of humor. Weapons were not allowed in the cathedral unless they were to be used for ceremonial purposes. Judging by his pout, Vilhelm was unhappy he’d had to leave his sword at the door.

  Rollo rose slowly, beckoning his son to stand by his side. The wingbeats of unseen birds nesting high in the roof and a choked cough from somewhere in the back intruded on the utter silence in the enormous cathedral. All eyes remained fixed on the duke.

  “People of Terra Normanorum, Land of the Norsemen,” Rollo boomed, “this day I honor my son and name him as heir to my chieftaincy. When the time comes, he will rule these lands.”

  A few more people coughed, but since this announcement came as no surprise to the people gathered there, confusion was evident on many a face.

  The lanky Vilhelm smiled weakly.

  Poppa sat like a roosting chicken laying an egg.

  A wave of murmurs rolled through the cathedral when two Viking warriors marched down the center aisle bearing a long object wrapped in furs. People craned their necks as the two halted before Rollo. He reached for the furs and tore them off with great flourish, revealing the longest sword Cathryn had ever seen. He picked it up and held it high over his head with both hands.

  An audible gasp rippled though the church as the light caught the inlay in the magnificent sword. Rollo held it aloft, turning slowly, first to the right, then to the left.

  “He wants to make sure everyone sees the symbols on the blade,” Alfred rasped.

  Cathryn didn’t understand. “What does it mean?” she asked.

  “Ulfberht,” he whispered as if uttering a prayer.

  “What?”

  His eyes remained fixed on Rollo. “Ulfberhts are made from the finest crucible steel. It’s a rare craftsman who can fashion such a sword. If he’s a Viking he learned the skill on the Volga trade route. Rollo has kept him well hidden.”

  This meant nothing to Cathryn. A sword was a sword, but it was evident that the warriors in the cathedral had been struck dumb by the unusual blade.

  “It
’s bigger than Bryk’s,” she exclaimed, clamping a hand over her mouth when she realized she’d spoken out loud.

  “Bigger than Rollo’s too,” Torstein quipped, cupping his hand to Cathryn’s ear in order to be heard above the gasps.

  She elbowed him good-naturedly. “Behave,” she admonished.

  He drew a finger across his lips, eyes twinkling with amusement. He seemed confident things would go his way. She was thankful Sonja had been persuaded not to attend. In the two days since Torstein had seen his beloved, he’d behaved in an exemplary way, giving no hint of the turmoil roiling within.

  She feared if the judgement went against him he might boil over like the Icelandic volcano Bryk had once described to her. It was a relief Alfred stood with them.

  Rollo girded the sword around Vilhelm’s narrow hips. Cathryn held her breath, afraid once the sword was in place it might drag on the stone floor.

  Vilhelm straightened his bony shoulders as his father stepped back, apparently as relieved as everyone else the sword wasn’t too long.

  Alfred rolled his eyes skyward.

  Rollo smiled broadly for the first time. “My son will henceforth be known as Vilhelm Langaspjøt, Vilhelm Longsword,” he decreed. “He was born in a faraway land, but his rule will reach to these shores and beyond.”

  A halfhearted cheer went up from the crowd, increasing in volume as Poppa glared.

  “The Ulfberht caught their attention for a few minutes, but they’re more interested in me and Sonja,” Torstein whispered with a wink.

  The duke regained his seat. Vilhelm knelt before him, somewhat hampered by the sword, and swore an oath of fealty to his father.

  Torstein had an urge to shout out what everyone else was thinking.

  Get on with it.

  His fate lay in the hands of a powerful and unpredictable man he’d never liked, a man who’d sold off his mother like some chattel.

  And not only his fate, but Sonja’s too rested with the duke, though he doubted consideration of her feelings and opinions would play any part in Rollo’s decision.

  The chieftain dealt next with one or two trivial matters. Feet shifted, coughing became more prevalent as the crowd grew restless and impatient.

  Alfred drummed his fingers against his chin.

  Cathryn’s fingernails were gouging the flesh from Torstein’s hand. He feared his heart might explode in his chest.

  “And lastly,” Rollo intoned, “in the matter of the betrothal of Sonja Karlsdatter and Sven Yngre—”

  Torstein stopped breathing, his attention fixed on a moth fluttering amid a myriad of dust motes illuminated by a sudden shaft of sunlight penetrating the gloom. He could grab it and obliterate its powdery wings, or let it fly free.

  “It is my decree—”

  The moth hovered closer. Torstein’s fingers itched to reach out and swat it straight to Hel. Moths were pesky creatures that chewed holes—

  “—the young woman in question be given into the custody of Cathryn Kriger. She will travel with the Comte’s wife to the valley of the Orne.”

  He swiveled his head to look at Cathryn. She stared at him, her mouth agape, apparently as dumbfounded as he was. He looked back at the shaft of sunlight. The moth had disappeared. Frustration flooded his veins as he narrowed his eyes, looking for it. Where had it gone?

  “My son, Vilhelm Longsword, will command the contingent escorting the families to the west. The warrior Sven Yngre and the freed slave Torstein Mariansen, will travel with the escort. Neither will have any congress with Sonja Karlsdatter.”

  As a thrall he’d only ever been known as Torstein. Rollo was making it clear he was still considered the son of Marian, the slave, and not Gunnar’s son.

  Resentment seethed in his gut. He caught sight of the elusive moth and plucked it out of the air between his thumb and forefinger.

  “The final decision regarding the betrothal will be made by my son and the Comte of Montdebryk.”

  Alfred growled, clenching his fists.

  Torstein stared at the moth, frantically wriggling its front legs. He’d never paid attention to how furry moths were, how black their eyes. If he rubbed his fingers together—

  He exhaled a long slow breath and let the creature fly free.

  “What does it mean?” Cathryn whispered.

  “He doesn’t want to make a decision which might divide people here,” Torstein replied bitterly. “He’s passing it on to Bryk and the duke-in-waiting.”

  Sonja’s heart leapt into her throat when Alfred burst through the door. She’d worn a path in the dirt floor of the kitchen pacing back and forth, frantic despite Hannelore’s attempts to calm her nerves.

  He wasn’t smiling. Her spirits plummeted.

  Hannelore must have sensed she might swoon and came to her side, linking arms.

  “You’re assigned to Cathryn,” he said.

  She frowned. “What does this mean?”

  “You’re to accompany Cathryn to Montdebryk.”

  She looked at Hannelore, but things were no clearer in her friend’s brown eyes.

  “Sven and Torstein are both commanded to be part of the escort under the command of Vilhelm, now, by the way, called Longsword by his father’s decree—”

  Sonja leaned heavily on Hannelore. “I’m not understanding any of this, what of me and Torstein?”

  “Neither Torstein nor Sven are to have any contact with you.”

  The reason for living had been ground into the dirt. “Forever,” she asked in a scratchy voice she barely recognized..

  “No. The decision concerning your betrothal has been left to Vilhelm Longsword—”

  A sudden vision of Poppa’s haughty refusal of her as a prospective daughter-by-marriage danced behind her eyes. Was Vilhelm aware of it?

  “—and to my brother.”

  A maelstrom of thoughts swirled in her frenzied mind as she stared at Alfred. Bryk was Torstein’s uncle, how could he decide against him? But deciding for him would be seen as favoritism. Bryk held Sven in high esteem, but Torstein? Was he still a slave in his uncle’s eyes?

  Long days of travel with the two men who sought to wed her loomed like the giant icebergs her father had described to his children after his return from Grønland. Viking sailors had learned from bitter experience to stay away from the danger lurking below the beautiful floating mountains.

  Being close to Torstein, yet forbidden to speak to him, to touch him, to feel the brush of his lips against the parts of her body that craved him would be torture. But disobeying Rollo’s edict would doom them.

  At least she and Torstein were both headed for the hinterland. She was certain he would never give her up, and she resolved to be strong. “I will pray to Freyja and to Saint Catherine of Alexandria for the strength to bear this new test,” she said.

  Goodbye, Dear Friend

  Inhaling the pleasing aroma of laundered breechclouts dried in the fresh air, Cathryn folded her baby’s clothes ready for the journey while Sonja kept Magnus amused. She glanced up from her task, surprised to see both her friend and son looking at her expectantly. What had they been discussing? “I’m sorry. I’m preoccupied with my visit to the convent this afternoon. It will be hard to say goodbye to Ekaterina.”

  She was surprised when her uncle appeared at the door of their chamber, looking distraught. She went to his side. “What is it?”

  He put a hand on her arm. “You intended to go to the convent this afternoon.”

  “Yes, I want to say goodbye to Ekaterina.”

  He took a deep breath. “Perhaps you should go now.”

  She frowned, but then a wave of nausea rose up her throat. “Is she ill?”

  “Mater Bruna reports she seemed unwell last evening in the refectory, and when she didn’t appear for morning prayers—”

  Cathryn gasped. “Ekaterina would never miss—” She made the sign of her Savior and looked into her uncle’s eyes. “Is she dead?”

  “No, but she has asked for you.”


  Cathryn clutched his arm, afraid her knees might buckle. “Will you come with me?”

  “Of course.”

  Sonja touched her hand reassuringly. “I’ll watch over Magnus.”

  They left quickly. As they climbed the hill to the convent, Cathryn was grateful for the support of her uncle’s arm. They fairly flew up the hill, his black robes flapping behind him in the wind, yet they didn’t seem to be going fast enough. By the time they reached the abbey she was gasping for breath, her aching legs cramped.

  Mater Bruna greeted her with unusual humility and the archbishop with fawning subservience before leading the way to Ekaterina’s cell.

  Cathryn was tempted to remark to her uncle it was a far cry from the treatment she’d received before it had been revealed she was the archbishop’s niece, and prior to her marriage to one of the most powerful men in Rollo’s army—but time was precious.

  Ekaterina was elderly, but Cathryn had never considered her old and frail or thought the guardian angel she’d known all her life might die.

  She barely recognized the hollow-cheeked figure prostrate on the pallet. For a desperate moment she feared she’d come too late.

  The coif, wimple and habit had been removed, and Ekaterina lay covered with a linen sheet, clad only in the simple chemise the nuns wore, withered hands clasped over her chest.

  Cathryn had never seen her beloved friend’s hair. She fell to her knees beside the pallet and sifted her fingers through the thin wisps of grey, remembering how she and Kaia had laughed at Ekaterina’s first glimpse of her face in Bryk’s mirror. So long ago, and yet it seemed like yesterday.

  Ekaterina opened her eyes. “Da! My child,” she whispered.

  Cathryn’s heart was full of words she wanted to say to this devout woman who’d found her on the doorstep of the convent, a foundling left in a basket, but they swam in her head and refused to emerge from her constricted throat.

  “Don’t cry,” Ekaterina whispered. “I can die happy, now you and Bryk have your Eden. He is a good man. Take care of him.”