Viking Defiant (Viking Roots Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  Sonja cried out.

  Reluctantly, trembling from head to toe, he slowly withdrew.

  “No! Deeper,” she cried, grasping his hips.

  His shaft thickened as he plunged back inside. “Curl your feet behind my knees,” he urged, growling his pleasure when she complied, drawing him closer to her center.

  He thrust again and again, hard and deep, her amulet around his neck swinging free between them. She danced her fingertips along his thighs, carrying him over the edge. As his seed erupted into her womb he crushed her against his chest. Their cries of ecstasy filled the night air.

  Euphoric, and soaked in sweat, he collapsed on top of her. “Good thing we have no neighbors,” he whispered into her neck.

  “Hope my brothers and the guards are asleep,” she murmured hoarsely.

  He raised up on his forearms and looked into her eyes. “In truth, I don’t care if the whole world knows I’ve made love to my noble wife. Now, I am free.”

  “No,” she teased. “Now, you’re my slave.”

  His heart leapt. “And you are mine.”

  Careful to stay inside her pulsing sheath, he turned them so they were lying face to face. They drifted into oblivion atop the sweet feather bed.

  Epilogue

  Montdebryk, Normandie, Fifteen years later

  Bryk and Alfred strolled around the recently completed wall walk atop the palisade. Bryk resisted the urge to explain the construction, wanting to see Alfred’s reaction. The last time he had visited Montdebryk, two years before, there’d been only one row of wooden pilings encircling the promontory.

  His brother paused, stamping one foot, then the other. “Solid,” he muttered.

  “You’re as talkative as ever,” Bryk replied. “Aren’t you curious?”

  Alfred shrugged. “I’d guess you’ve filled the space in between the two wooden walls with earth and stones.”

  Bryk was disappointed. “Well, ja, but you make it sound easy. It’s taken months to get the fill packed hard enough to build on, and the walls secure so they didn’t cave in.”

  Alfred looked out at the cottages that had sprung up at the edge of the promontory. “Good thing you’ve no shortage of workers.”

  Bryk welcomed the opportunity to boast of other steps he’d made toward progress. He gestured towards the trees encircling the promontory. “You know from your own experience in Rouen how a fruitful orchard attracts peasants. It took five years, but my trees eventually provided apples.”

  Alfred laughed. “Ja! Our hardy little seeds from Norway seem to like the rich earth here.”

  Bryk was happy to see his older brother laugh. In the two years apart, Alfred had grown stooped. His hair had thinned and turned completely gray. Bryk ran a hand through his own hair, thanking Freyr for its weight, though he’d recently detected a few traces of gray. He straightened his shoulders, and sucked in his belly. He hoped the lines around his eyes weren’t as pronounced as Alfred’s. He didn’t consider he was elderly, and his brother was ten years his senior.

  The intimate passion he and Cathryn shared kept him feeling young. The wanton gaze of a beautiful woman was strong motivation for a man to keep his body in fine fettle.

  He supposed fourteen children would wear anyone out, though the diminutive Hannelore never seemed to age, and Cathryn looked as vibrant as she had before birthing Magnus and the four brothers and one sister who’d followed.

  As they continued their walk, the sounds of laughter and children playing drifted from the courtyard. “I wonder what our father would say of our twenty children?” Bryk asked.

  Alfred grinned. “He’d proudly boast up and down the fjords of Norway how Freyja had blessed his virile sons.”

  Their eyes met in a moment of shared recollection. “Do you miss our homeland, Alfred?” Bryk asked.

  Alfred stared out, his arms relaxed at his sides. Was he seeing laborers in fertile fields, apple trees in blossom, villagers bustling in and out of their cottages? Or was his mind’s eye filled with narrow fjords, pure white snow, conifer trees and mile upon endless mile of grey seas?

  “You, me, Torstein, we’ll always be Norsemen, sons of a beautiful but cold and sometimes brutal land,” Alfred replied without turning to look at Bryk. “Now the Franks call us Normans, and we’ve molded a strong, prosperous country in a new land. But we couldn’t have done it without the strengths our homeland bred into us.”

  “Nor without Rollo’s leadership, though I am still reluctant to admit it after all these years,” Bryk added.

  Alfred finally turned to Bryk. “Look around you, brother. As Cathryn says, be grateful to God and to Odin for what we have, and forget the resentments of the past. Rollo made mistakes, and he knows it. He’s a frail old man, and—”

  Inhaling the fragrant smell of apple blossom, Bryk waited in vain for more, but Alfred avoided his gaze and seemed to have forgotten what he was going to say. “You’re right. The years have gone by quickly, but they’ve been good years. Magnus is already fifteen and your eldest boys are in the army.”

  Alfred rubbed his knuckles along his chin. “As you may have guessed, Hannelore isn’t happy, but she’s proud just the same.”

  Bryk thought back to the day Magnus had been born. His babe had grown into a strong youth, built like his father, talented with a sword, handy with the stridsøkse, and a gifted rider. Cathryn fretted over Bryk’s insistence he be trained in the arts of war, but the boy would one day be the Comte of Montdebryk. “It won’t be long before my son and Torstein’s eldest join them,” he said, though the prospect was strangely disturbing.

  Alfred arched his brows, his eyes wide. “Hard to believe Bendik has seen fourteen summers. It bodes well that he and Magnus are good friends.”

  Bryk ushered his brother down the steps to the bailey. “Careful, we still need a railing here. You’re right. Since our nephew and his family came to live in the fortress ten years ago, the two have been inseparable.”

  “Remember how apprehensive we were when we granted Torstein his freedom?” Alfred said.

  Bryk did indeed recall his misgivings. “Yet Montdebryk couldn’t have a better Marshal. I trust him completely.”

  “Where is he by the way?” Alfred asked.

  “He took Sonja to assist with Kaia’s confinement. They live in the house Torstein built, though they’ve expanded it. It’s only seven miles away, but Javune goes to pieces when she’s with child. No one can blame him. He’s never forgotten the memory of the two babes they lost, and she’s not the strongest of women.”

  Alfred shrugged. “What’s this one? Their fourth?”

  “Ja,” Bryk replied. “They have three boys, all like their father. Cathryn is hoping for a girl this time. She’d like a niece close by.”

  “I was surprised they decided to come to the valley. I didn’t think Kaia would leave Rouen.”

  “It was a tumultuous time. The only way they could be together was to elope, and this was the obvious place to run to. Of course, my wife had a lot to do with it, aided by the archbishop who married them without her parents’ approval.”

  Alfred looked wistful. “Family is one of the things my children have missed, though they have their friends in Rouen, and Sven Yngre is a good neighbor.”

  “How many children do he and his wife have now?”

  “They didn’t wed until five years ago. Dagmar has borne him three sons, two of them twins. Hard to tell them apart.”

  Bryk’s next question was a measure of Cathryn’s influence on him. “Is he happy?”

  Alfred guffawed. “As a pig in muck. Dagmar is the perfect woman for him. She’s not like his late mama, and, surprisingly, nothing like Sonja.”

  Both men laughed heartily as they walked towards the main building. “This is certainly a fine dwelling like no other, brother,” Alfred said.

  Bryk was proud of the large square keep with its round towers on each corner, but his brother’s rare praise had him puffing out his chest. “Ja! Stone is more difficult
to work with than wood, but worth it. I defy Njord to blow this down.”

  Alfred slapped him on the back. “Who would have believed when we left Norway you’d become Rollo’s key man in a new territory! Let’s go in and you can show me what you’ve accomplished since my last visit.”

  Cathryn caught sight of the brothers as she and Hannelore were stepping away from the tiny chapel dedicated to Saint Catherine of Alexandria constructed by her husband in a quiet corner of the courtyard within the palisade. It was barely big enough for two people, but she was content the treasured triptych now had a special place.

  As if sensing their presence, Bryk turned and the men waited for them to reach the door. She pecked a kiss on his lips. “I was showing Hannelore the chapel,” she said.

  Alfred’s wife tucked under her husband’s arm. “It’s wonderful. Cathryn has given me a tour of the courtyard.”

  “You’ve seen the kitchens?” he asked.

  “And the stores,” Hannelore added.

  Bryk opened the heavy oaken door and ushered them out of the gusting wind. “I showed Alfred where we’ll build the barracks next to the forge.”

  Hannelore pouted. “I didn’t see the forge.”

  Cathryn laughed. “Sorry. It stinks of iron ore. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  Her sister-by-marriage rolled her eyes. “I’m not. But I do want to see what else you’ve accomplished on this level.”

  Smiling, Bryk led the way past the granary to the cellar. Hannelore gasped when she saw the scores of rundlets stacked one on top of the other. “This is all apple wine?”

  Pride blossomed in her husband’s eyes. He never turned away a chance to boast about his wine.

  “Ja,” he replied. “You market the fruit, Alfred, but I decided to ferment most of my crop.”

  Alfred peered closely at one of the rundlets. “But why is it in barrels?”

  Bryk’s eyes lit up. “Some of it’s in potels, and some still in the open vats. But I’m trying something new with these oak casks. I want to see what happens after the wine is kept in them for a long while. I’ve heard in the East—”

  Hannelore interrupted. “How long has this wine been in the casks? I don’t recall seeing them the last time we were here.”

  “Correct,” Bryk said. “We’ve been making the casks for nigh on two years, but the wine in them is eight years old.”

  “How long do you intend to let it sit?” Alfred asked. “Seems like a waste of good wine.”

  Bryk frowned. “Mayhap we’ll have occasion to break open a barrel while you’re here,” he said.

  Alfred looked at him strangely. “Make a cask ready,” he said with unusual authority. “I bring news from Rouen.”

  Torstein was relieved to get his wife back to Montdebryk. She’d helped Kaia deliver a tiny baby girl, but it had been a difficult birth, and Sonja was round with their seventh child. He’d spent the long hours repairing tools with Javune who told him what he already knew. Many local women in the throes of labor had confidence in Sonja. She calmed them, kept their fears at bay. Perhaps it was because she seemed to give birth without much effort. Their four boys and two girls had come into the world quickly.

  Looking tired but content after each birth, the first words out of her mouth were, “Thanks be to Freyja I’m not like my sister.”

  Torstein looked up at the grand edifice he’d helped his uncle build. Alfred and Hannelore had probably already arrived with their younger children. “I’d like to get you straight up to our chamber on the second floor,” Torstein told Sonja as he helped her dismount.

  “I doubt it,” she replied, nodding towards Bryk and Alfred who were headed in their direction across the courtyard. She slid off the horse into his embrace, her arms snaked around his neck. Predictably, his body warmed when she touched him. “I’d like to curl up with you on our feather bed, but I want to see the children. I’ve missed them.”

  They exchanged greetings as Cathryn and Hannelore came out to the courtyard. Soon noisy children clamored for their attention.

  Anxious to get Sonja inside, Torstein picked up his daughters, Tordis in one arm and Karoline in the other, and exchanged a glance with Bryk. His uncle seemed to understand and hoisted his daughter Katarina onto his shoulders, encouraging everyone to enter the main building. “Alfred has important news,” he said.

  Sonja was glad to put her feet up on a footstool in the main hall once the children had disappeared with their nannies or gone out to play.

  She was surprised to see servants carrying in two rundlets Bryk normally protected as if they were filled with gold. His experiment, he called it.

  Her husband was also eyeing the casks curiously. “What news then, onkel?”

  Alfred stood near the hearth, looking a lot older than Sonja remembered. “There is talk of a rebellion brewing.”

  It was apparent from the puzzled looks on everyone’s faces this didn’t seem a reason to break open Bryk’s precious casks.

  “I’ve heard rumblings of this,” Bryk said, again to Sonja’s surprise. “I mentioned it to you, Torstein.”

  Her husband averted his gaze. She understood. He hadn’t wanted to cause alarm.

  “Ja,” he replied. “Their leader is Riouf of Evreux. He thinks we Normans have become too Frankish, too soft. He has challenged Rollo on many occasions.”

  Cathryn gasped. “What is Rollo’s response?”

  Bryk frowned. “That’s part of the problem. He’s old and doesn’t seem to realize what’s transpiring at a time when we need strong leadership.”

  Alfred cleared his throat. “The news I bring might alleviate your fears. Break open your cask, brother. Let’s see what eight year old apple wine tastes like.”

  Bryk furrowed his brow but commanded the servants to open the rundlet and pour the concoction.

  Sonja sniffed her tumbler of golden liquid, wrinkling her nose when the pungent aroma assailed her nostrils. “Doesn’t smell like wine,” she whispered to Hannelore.

  When each person had been served, Bryk turned to his brother, his tumbler raised.

  Alfred touched his tumbler to Bryk’s. “We drink to the good health of the new Duke of the Normans.”

  “Rollo is dead?” Torstein asked.

  “No,” Alfred replied. “But three days ago he relinquished his title to his son. Vilhelm Longsword is now our duke.”

  Long moments of silence followed this pronouncement. Sonja chuckled inwardly at the image of Poppa’s indignant face behind her eyes. During the interview with the Ragnarsens the woman had insisted on her son marrying a Frank. It was common knowledge Vilhelm lived openly with his concubine, Sprota, a Breton princess he’d captured.

  “To our new Duke Vilhelm,” Bryk declared, “who wouldn’t be alive today were it not for Torstein’s defiant bravery.”

  Sonja’s heart filled with pride when her husband blushed modestly. He smiled as their eyes met across the chamber. Following the lead of the others who hesitantly lifted the tumblers to their lips, she sipped the golden liquid, squeezing her eyes tight shut as the fiery taste took her breath away and fumes soared up her nose.

  Bryk banged his empty tumbler down on a table. “Ja!” he shouted, licking his lips. “Gut. Alfred will take back to our new duke a barrel of the first spirits distilled in the land of the Normans.”

  The men eagerly held out their tumblers when he signaled for everyone to receive a second serving.

  The red-faced women looked at each other in disbelief, rolled their eyes to the rafters and politely declined.

  Sonja leaned close to Hannelore’s ear. “It would make a good cure for a blocked nose,” she whispered.

  Perhaps you missed Bryk and Cathryn’s love story, Viking Bold.

  Here’s an excerpt describing her first impression of the Viking she bumps into in the middle of the night.

  “Terror rendered Cathryn incapable of movement. She swayed, certain her heart had stopped beating. It surely would when the massive barbarian plun
ged his knife into her breast. One glimpse of long hair, silvery blonde in the moonlight, a full beard and animal skin clothing had been enough to tell her this was no wandering peasant intent on mischief.

  She had never been touched by a man. His hand was warm on her face, and it seemed he was being careful not to hurt her. At least he hadn’t broken her neck. His hands were big enough to snap her like a twig. She decided in an instant biting him wasn’t a good idea.

  The dizzying smell of male sweat filled her nostrils, but it wasn’t the acrid stink that clung to the loathsome Sprig. The heat from the arm gripping her body penetrated the thick wool of her habit.

  His voice was deep, but gentle. He was rocking her, which was good because her knees had buckled. Fear must have stolen her wits. How else to explain that she felt strangely safe, held firm against a male body as unyielding as a wall?

  He eased her away and looked into her eyes. “No harm,” he rasped.

  She had lost her wits. Something in the depths of his brown eyes held her. She quickly nodded her understanding, trusting him.

  He removed his hand from her mouth and they stared at each other for what seemed like long minutes.

  His frown betrayed his uncertainty as to what to do with her. A lunatic urge to beg him to take her away bubbled up in her throat. She never wanted to be parted from the security of his strong arms.

  But this man was a Viking—the hair, the clothing, the foreign tongue, the sheer size of him confirmed it. Women taken by Vikings became slaves.”

  Viking Betrayed continues the saga. It’s the story of Magnus, Bryk and Cathryn’s son.

  Here’s an excerpt.

  Montdebryk, Normandie, 939 AD

  Magnus Kriger jumped down into the freshly dug grave. The slick red mud sucked at his boots. He supposed he should be grateful the rain had stopped at last, though a damp chill lingered in the spring air. He braced his legs and held out his arms. “I’ll take her, Bendik,” he rasped.