Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01

by The Rover Bold

  THE ROVER BOLD

  VIKING ROOTS MEDIEVAL ROMANCE SAGA BOOK I

  By Anna Markland

  ©Copyright Anna Markland 2014

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Art by Steven Novak

  “Terror rendered Cathryn incapable of movement. She swayed, certain her heart had stopped beating. It surely would when the massive barbarian plunged 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.”

  DEDICATION

  For my darling Katie, and all who seek a better life.

  COPYRIGHT

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Readers of my books have come to know and love members of the Montbryce family. The Rover Bold travels back in time to introduce their Norse ancestors.

  Even if you aren’t acquainted with the Montbryces, the FitzRams and the Sons of Rhodri, you’ll enjoy this adventurous tale of Viking rovers who set sail for Francia in the tenth century in search of a better life.

  That much is historical fact. Their leader, Hrolf Ganger, became the famous Rollo, founder and first Duke of Normandy (named of course for the North Men) and a direct ancestor of William the Conqueror. This is the fictitious story of a man who came with Rollo, a Rover Bold destined to establish a powerful dynasty of his own.

  PART ONE

  THE END

  “He who can’t defend his wealth must die,

  or share with the Rover Bold.”

  ~St. Olaf

  BITTER TRUTHS

  Møre, Norway, Autumn 910 AD

  “Our harvests have failed again,” the Chieftain declared, legs braced, meaty hands fisted on hips—a man too big for any horse to bear. His booming voice echoed in the silent Ringhouse and reached his audience despite the keening of the icy wind blowing off the already freezing fjord.

  Standing alone among his kinsmen and neighbors summoned to listen to the man who had led them for a generation, Bryk Gardbruker surveyed the bedraggled and hungry people of Møre. The dire pronouncement had not come as a surprise.

  He unfolded his arms and sauntered over to take up a position beside his one surviving brother. Alfred stood guard at the door of the root cellar where their meager crop was stored.

  Legend had it apples were the food of the dead, but the small, bitter fruit Bryk and his brother had salvaged during the earliest blizzard in living memory was one of the few sources of food in the entire settlement.

  Alfred shifted his weight. “Look at them glaring. They know we’ve no intention of hoarding the fruit, but careful rationing will have to be enforced if any of us hope to survive until spring.

  “Ice fishing will be the only other means of sustenance, and I for one don’t want to eat lutefisk all winter.”

  Bryk grimaced, the cloying taste of lye already in his mouth. He fixed his gaze on Hrolf Ganger, the chieftain, son of Rögnvald, first jarl of Møre. No one would make a move without his approval.

  Hrolf raked a hand through windblown hair as white as the snow in which he stood. “Our livestock and many of our boats are lost, swept away by last month’s storm tide.”

  Bryk exchanged a glance with Alfred, remembering the desperate struggle to survive the brutal storm that had swept in from the sea. Many had perished, including their younger brother, Gunnar. Homes had been destroyed. The roof of the once impressive Ringhouse was gone. They gathered within its battered walls, but it no longer shielded them from the elements.

  Alfred must have read his thoughts. “The gods were evidently dissatisfied with the sacrificial ox buried in the foundations.”

  The sheltered inland glade where the Gardbruker family’s trees grew had saved them from being uprooted. Villagers had clung to the gnarled trunks of his trees in the ferocious winds.

  Bryk narrowed his eyes. Hrolf was wise, a folk hero celebrated among his people for more than twenty years of successful raids, mainly into Francia. Skalds sang of his exploits around many a hearth.

  He never rode, but even on foot he was intimidating. He had played a role in the year-long siege of Paris, unsuccessful only because the King of Francia finally gathered an army and marched to relieve the wealthy city. No battle was fought—Hrolf maintained the Vikings gained more by agreeing to terms.

  “Next he’ll tell us again of the outrage of the Parisians who had defended the city when King Charles the Fat stopped short of attacking the Viking besiegers,” Bryk said sarcastically.

  Alfred chuckled. “And how instead he allowed the Norsemen to sail further up the Seine to raid Burgundy, which was in revolt against him, as well as promising a handsome payment. Hrolf harried Burgundy, where fine crops are raised and the best of wines made.”

  Bryk coughed into his fist to hide his amusement at Alfred’s excellent imitation of Hrolf’s frequent boast. “I often wonder why Ganger bothered to return to Møre,” he said under his breath.

  Alfred snorted. “Judging by the permanent grimace on the face of his concubine, I’d guess she wished he hadn’t dragged her with him.”

  Bryk grinned, rolling his eyes. “Poppa loves to remind everyone she is a high born Frankish woman captured in a raid on Bayeux.”

  In the intervening years Hrolf had continued to go a-viking to Francia, to the coasts of Ireland and Scotland, and other far-flung places, always returning with plunder. Bryk had accompanied him on many of these journeys until—

  “There is but one thing to be done,” Hrolf declared. “We must leave this cursed place. Start afresh in a new land, a kinder land.”

  Only the mocking call of a lone seagull soaring on the wind above the timbers of the damaged roof broke the utter silence that greeted this proclamation.

  Murmurs of dissent began as barely audible whispers, gradually growing louder until Hrolf raised his hand. “We will rebuild our boats and sail again to Francia.” He paused, his steely gaze surveying his people. “I know the way.”

  A few chuckled. Poppa’s face brightened.

  Without much effort he’d succeeded in calming the crowd. He had reassured them. They trusted and admired him.

  Bryk didn’t.

  Hrolf’s sister had died of grief after he’d shunned her—for being married to Bryk. Myldryd had taken their unborn child to the grave.

  “I suspect this sudden desire to leave Norway has a lot to do with Hrolf’s falling out of favor with King Harald Fairhair,” he spat through gritted teeth, pushing aside the bitter memories. Intent on raising the Chieftain’s ire, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “What will
we do in Francia? Most of us are farmers and fishermen, not warriors.”

  Hrolf’s gaze bore into him as a hush fell over the crowd. “If you’re a Viking, you’re a warrior. We will raid and plunder and claim the land as our own. There are noble Frankish families with daughters aplenty who will make excellent brides for conquering warriors.”

  Grunts of approval rippled through the crowd as unmarried men puffed out their chests.

  Hrolf rode the tide of growing enthusiasm. “The Franks have become soft. We will mow them down like the bitter wind destroys budding flowers.”

  Many thrust fists into the air, roaring their approval.

  Hrolf restored quiet with a brief wave of the hand. “Hundreds from neighboring villages and settlements will wish to join us. Odin has revealed this to me. Our destiny as Norsemen lies in the bountiful land of the river Seine. There will even be a place for men who grow apple trees.”

  Bryk shrugged off the insult. At one time the settlement’s second most celebrated warrior, he’d turned his back on plundering and raiding, sickened by the mindless barbarism. Bringing home spoils was one thing; bloodletting for sport was another. His brothers had welcomed him to the family farm. Hrolf wasn’t the only man present who thought little of him. His countrymen considered him a coward. Skalds no longer sang of his heroic deeds.

  THE FOUNDLING

  Rouen, Francia, Spring 911 AD.

  A black booted toe poked Cathryn’s chapped hand. “You missed this section.”

  No need to look up from where she knelt to know who had spoken. She took a deep breath, praying for humility. “I beg forgiveness, Mater.”

  She remained on her knees, tightened her reddened fingers around the rough wooden brush, and rescrubbed the already clean part of the elaborate mosaic flooring Reverend Mother had indicated.

  Seemingly satisfied, her superior swept off, clucking like a hen. When she deemed it safe, Cathryn sank back on her haunches and raised her head in time to see the black robed Mater swoop into the chapel like a carrion crow. She cringed as she looked across the vestibule to her red-faced friend Kaia, who had also ceased scrubbing. “Mater will surely find some other postulant to pick on in that holy place,” she whispered, hooking a finger into the tight coif under her chin.

  They both quickly resumed their task when Mater suddenly bustled out of the chapel only to disappear into the refectory.

  “She’s full of fire and brimstone this morning, and the sun isn’t up yet,” Kaia complained. “She delights in finding fault.”

  Cathryn heaved a heavy sigh. Life at the abbey convent dedicated to Saint Catherine of Alexandria had certainly changed since the promotion of Sister Bruna. “If only Mater Silvia still lived. She loved us.”

  Kaia too sighed. “And we loved her. She would never have had us on our knees at this hour scrubbing tiles. If such treatment continues I shall ask Papa to send me elsewhere for my education.”

  Cathryn came to her feet, inspecting the heavy linen apron. Mater would impose some burdensome penance if it became soiled. Kaia might have the wherewithal to effect changes in her station, but Cathryn had no such option. She had lived in the abbey since birth, a foundling left in a basket at the door. There was no life outside its walls. No one cared.

  Feeling the need to justify the benefits of the convent, she said, “We are safe here. Unlike many Rouennais, we’ve never been forced to flee from Vikings. Our position atop this hill has saved the community from the intermittent raids that have gone on along the Seine for nigh on thirty years.”

  She had the sinking feeling her words sounded like one of Mater Bruna’s lectures.

  Kaia snorted, confirming her fears, but she had frightened herself with talk of Vikings and couldn’t seem to stop. “Pillaging the many churches on islands offshore from the town has kept the marauders busy. The cathedral has been plundered often, but never totally destroyed. They tend to stay within easy reach of the river and flee quickly with their treasure trove.

  “Mater Silvia told me Rouen has been a Frankish city since the rule of Clovis four hundred years ago. She said most in the town seem resigned to the attacks since King Charles the Senseless provides no protection.”

  Kaia smiled at the nickname the Franks had bestowed on their king and seemed more inclined to listen. “My father says many locals are descended from former pirates from Northern lands or from Britain who settled in the valley of the Seine. They are farmers for the most part.

  “Villages closer to the sea have suffered years of foreign attacks. I’ve overheard Papa tell horrific tales of fire and carnage, people massacred, towns half destroyed. It’s common practice for many to disappear into the remote areas of the countryside at the onset of summer.”

  Cathryn wondered why a nobleman would expose his daughter to such lurid accounts. Keeping an eye on the long hallway leading to the refectory, she shuddered, thinking herself blessed she’d never set eyes on a Viking. Being shut away from the world atop a steep hill had its advantages.

  They got off their knees and she helped Kaia lift her bucket of dirty water. Her friend was frail and would have difficulty managing the task alone. Bearing the weight between them, each with one hand on the handle, they hefted the vessel towards the rear door of the kitchens.

  Cathryn would never openly criticize her superior. It wouldn’t be Christian. “This is the only home I’ve ever known. I was happy growing up here under the tutelage of Mater Silvia. She was a mother to me.”

  Kaia swiped the back of her free hand across her forehead. “It was she who taught you to read?”

  Cathryn shoved open the heavy door and they picked their way to the ditch behind the kitchens in the pre-dawn darkness. It was hard not to giggle as they hopped about trying not to get splashed by mud as the water cascaded into the ditch.

  “Read and write,” Cathryn confirmed. “She also nurtured my love of learning other languages, and shared with me the art of illuminating manuscripts. Mater Bruna can never take that away from me. I will persevere with her, as Saint Catherine persevered through her trials and tribulations with Emperor Maxentius. This is where I belong.”

  As they made their way back inside, Cathryn pondered the future. She was certain it was God’s will she spend her life emulating Saint Catherine. The nuns had bestowed the saint’s name on her.

  But doubt sparked briefly when she reached the vestibule. A grim-faced Mater Bruna stood by her bucket of dirty water, arms folded, tapping her foot. It was an inescapable truth—Saint Catherine’s perseverance had led to her martyrdom.

  NO GOING BACK

  Braced against the sea chest on which he sat, Bryk raised and lowered his oar rhythmically, slicing into the water, one of fifty men helping to drag the long, narrow ship forward.

  Hrolf stood at the steering oar, turning his wind-reddened face from time to time on his crew. Next to him stood his son, Vilhelm. The boy sailed with the men despite Poppa’s protests that at ten years of age he was too young. She thought he should be with her in one of the boats filled with women and children, elderly folk and the thralls who plied the oars.

  Bryk had to grudgingly admit the man had been right. Many flocked to leave harsh lives in Norway. Their warship was one of a hundred in the fleet they had labored to build and repair, forced by the brutal winter to commandeer the Ringhouse for the purpose.

  They had stripped the forests and salvaged wood from the community structure. The fires of the smithy had burned hot and long to forge new iron rivets and reshape old ones.

  As they rowed away from Møre, Bryk fixed his gaze on the smoldering rubble of the gathering place his people had been justifiably proud of. He knew every man on board was swearing the same oath. They might never return, but they would never forget the land of their birth.

  Many had balked at Hrolf’s insistence his Frankish wife teach them a few words of her language after their work was done each day. Bryk had welcomed the opportunity to listen in the near darkness to the foreign tongue roll off the wom
an’s lips. In a new land, such knowledge would be an advantage.

  He suspected he’d been chosen for this crew so his chieftain would have opportunities to goad him, but that had not happened. Hrolf maintained his disdainful demeanor, but had declared, “Seldom will a voyage go well if the men are at odds. We are all bound by the law of an army united.”

  Bryk had to grudgingly admire the wit of a man who never rode having named his ship the Seahorse.

  It had been a long journey, much of it across open sea from Møre to the western kingdom of the Franks—long and cold in early spring. Over and over he’d counted the number of squares of fabric that made up the sail until he knew in his sleep how many red and how many white the women had woven and plaited and sewn together.

  They’d felt the biting chill as they sailed south, hugging the coast of Norway, keeping an eye on the brass weathervane atop the mast. They passed Bergen and Stavanger, then kept far out from shore until they reached Jutland.

  They’d avoided getting too close to the misty Danish coast, preferring not to make use of the drinking horns every man carried slung on a lanyard across his body. The sound of a strident foghorn carried for miles over water.

  However, they pulled in at Ribe to trade furs, honey and beeswax for weapons. Some of the older slaves were sold off, Hrolf declaring they were dead weight.

  As they journeyed south, the sun’s rays grew stronger every day and the wind seemed less biting. Cautious optimism took root in Bryk’s heart. Tucked away safely in his sea chest alongside his sharpened Stridsøkse were seeds and rootstocks from the apple trees. His brother’s chest held the same treasure.

  Alfred, seated next to him, was finding the voyage difficult. Seven years older than Bryk, he’d been a farmer all his life. He was no stranger to manual labor, but the oar and the coarse horsehair and elk leather ropes had raised angry welts on his palms. He fretted for his wife and ten children.