They reached the bend in the Seine after several hours, their boots waterlogged, leg wraps and woolen hose soaked, feet frozen. He had an urge to peel off his heavy mail-shirt and cast it into the deepest bog he could find.
He contemplated the river, shrugging off the discomfort. He’d been colder and wetter before. The Seine was narrower than near the mouth, but he recalled that the waters flowed swiftly here. Their comrades were on the opposite bank approximately a hundred yards away. They’d have to swim across. He was confident the gelding would accept a rider, but the wild horses would balk.
Suddenly he was shivering. Vikings lived on the sea, but few were strong swimmers, and Bryk was no exception. They had to trust the horses would keep them above the water. He had no intention of drowning in a muddy river. How would he ever find his way to Valhalla?
The apprehensive looks on the other men’s faces as they urged the reluctant beasts to the sandy bank told him they were thinking the same thing. He pushed away the niggling suspicion that none of these young men had ever ridden a horse.
“Mount at the last moment,” he urged them. “Let’s hope they’ll be more nervous about the water.”
Bryk led the way on the gelding, filled with a resentful feeling Hrolf would claim the handsome beast—simply as a possession since he never rode.
The water deepened quickly. He sensed the moment his horse hesitantly allowed the water to keep it afloat. He gave the animal its head and soon it was swimming confidently. He glanced behind. The other riders were not faring as well, their mounts obviously terrified of the deep water. Sven Yngre struggled for control, but suddenly slid into the cold water. His horse turned, headed back to the shore they had just left, Sven clinging to its mane.
The remaining horses seemed to sense the panic in the air. They halted close to mid stream, refusing to move despite the frantic shouts of the riders. If they didn’t start swimming soon, they’d be swept downriver.
Movement from behind drew his attention. The Seahorse was approaching at speed from the other bank. Bryk feared the boat might make matters worse.
With some difficulty, he turned his own horse in time to see Sven lose his grip and slip under the water.
Gritting his teeth, Bryk motioned frantically to the Vikings in the boat. “Save Sven,” he yelled. “I’ll see to the horses.”
The longboat glided past him, but he didn’t look away, his attention fixed on the men.
His mount seemed to sense what he intended. It swam strongly to the last horse in the group then continued on back to the bank. The wild horses followed until all were safely back on the sandy shore they’d left minutes before. Bryk slid from his horse, reached his arms around its neck and rested his forehead on the animal’s. “Thanks be to Freyja we found you. I name you Fisk, for you surely swim like a fish.”
Fisk nickered as if in agreement.
Panting, soaked to the skin, Bryk looked out to the river.
Hrolf stood braced at the helm of the Seahorse just offshore. “We have him,” he bellowed, pointing into the bow where Sven huddled. Bryk was relieved he wouldn’t have to explain the death of her only son to Sven’s grieving mother.
“Stay on that side,” Hrolf hollered. “We must follow the river. It winds back and forth, but you can go overland, due east to where it narrows. We’ll meet again near the town there.”
Bryk had never ventured this far inland, but he recalled something of Hrolf’s tales. “Jumièges?”
“Ja! Jumièges. It’s a good place to start raiding.”
ILLUMINATING
The reconstruction of the devastated abbey at Jumièges was only partially complete, but it was immediately clear to Cathryn it would be a magnificent edifice. The Abbot had welcomed them with kindness, seemingly elated at having an “expert” in their midst. She’d been allotted a small working area within the confines of the library, the only part of the abbey that had been completed thus far. Even the kitchen was a makeshift affair of partial walls and canvas.
Two monks were assigned as her pupils. Brother Javune, a handsome youth from Rouen, was eager to learn. The other, an older man named Brother Sprig, was not. He evidently resented being tutored by a female and refused to speak to her during the lessons.
“He’s from Neustria,” Javune whispered, as if that explained the rudeness.
After a sennight of trying without success to elicit some verbal response from Sprig, Cathryn decided this was yet another test of her worth as an adherent of Saint Catherine. Since Javune held promise, and Sprig’s talents were mediocre, she carried on as if nothing were amiss.
Ekaterina went off to the river each day early in the morning, rarely returning until dusk. Cathryn supposed the woman spent her time in meditative prayer.
For the first two days Kaia wandered from place to place, always sullen, bothered by a hacking cough she’d developed on the boat. On the third day, she meandered into Cathryn’s workplace and set eyes on Javune. From that day forth she became a frequent visitor and her cough seemed to miraculously disappear.
Javune’s face reddened whenever Kaia happened by and leaned over his work, feigning interest.
After a fortnight, Cathryn decided to speak to Kaia. Not only was her behavior sinful, Javune’s work was suffering as a result, and Sprig’s smirking face showed his increasing disdain.
“He’s a monk,” she whispered to her friend between gritted teeth as they huddled together for warmth in their draughty cell after the evening meal. “And you are a postulant.”
“Da!” Ekaterina interjected from the pallet where she lay prostrate, breaking wind.
Kaia pressed a thumb and finger to her nose. “But I’m only in the convent for my education. Papa will never force me to take final vows.”
Her remark saddened Cathryn. She had hoped that as the only two young postulants, they might take final vows together when they were nineteen. The prospect of spending her life in the company of elderly women was depressing, especially if Mater Bruna was in charge. “But Javune is a monk.”
“He doesn’t want to be,” Kaia insisted, pulling off her coif and wimple.
“Da!” Ekaterina repeated, filling the air with more trumpets of foul smelling wind.
Cathryn held her breath. The lone candle’s flame flickered alarmingly. “What makes you think that?” she asked finally.
Kaia sighed. “He tells me with his eyes—those beautiful blue eyes.”
Her words struck Cathryn like a bolt of lightning. She had noticed Javune’s blue eyes, but only because colors and their many hues were important in her work. She obviously hadn’t seen in his eyes what Kaia had. On the other hand it hadn’t been difficult to read the dislike in Sprig’s heart when he turned his dark eyes on her.
“What do you mean?” she asked hesitantly, removing her own headgear then scratching her scalp.
“He loves me,” Kaia whispered, pulling her habit over her head.
“Da!”
Cathryn and Kaia both puffed out their cheeks, holding their breath, but no sound emerged from the dozing doyenne. When she deemed it safe to breathe again, Cathryn snorted. “How can he be in love with you? He doesn’t know you, and you don’t know him.”
Kaia looked at her wistfully. “It was love at first sight.”
Something in her friend’s eyes gave her pause. She’d never seen Kaia look radiant before. “Love at first sight?” she whispered.
Kaia hunched her shoulders, beaming a smile Cathryn never suspected she had in her arsenal of facial expressions. “He makes me feel tingly.” She smoothed her hands over her breasts. “Here,” she whispered.
Cathryn averted her gaze from Kaia’s nipples, pouting against the thin fabric of her chemise. A good nun didn’t notice such things.
Then Kaia trailed a fingertip slowly down her belly to her mons. “And here,” she said throatily.
Cathryn’s lungs stopped working. The fetid air was suddenly too hot, the habit too confining. As her friend settled onto the sec
ond pallet, evidently lost in thoughts of Javune, she felt cast adrift from everything she had ever known. She’d grown up in the certainty she would devote her life to Saint Catherine. The martyr had been the virgin bride of Christ. Had the long dead woman she served ever tingled in those intimate places?
You are bound straight for Hell.
Certainly no one in Cathryn’s life had ever made her feel that way. She clenched the inner muscles between her legs, wanting inexplicably to stretch like one of the cats that prowled the kitchens in Rouen. On the morrow she’d have to do penance for these sinful thoughts.
She quickly stripped off her habit, resisting the temptation to glance at her own strangely tingling nipples, and slumped down on the pallet next her friend.
She dozed fitfully and wasn’t sure how long she’d tossed and turned when she became aware Kaia no longer slumbered beside her. She sat up abruptly, peering into the gloom. Ekaterina snored on. Kaia was gone.
Fear gripped her heart. To venture abroad at night was dangerous especially after the Abbott had mentioned there’d been reports of thieves downriver. She was certain Kaia was with Javune.
She felt around in the darkness for her habit, struggled into it and crept from the cell, fumbling with the corded belt. Mater had made it clear her wealthy friend was her responsibility.
TRYSTS IN THE NIGHT
Bryk had made a decision during the cross-country trek. He resented Hrolf, but the chieftain had brought them safely to Francia. His plan to coerce the King of the Franks into ceding territory made sense. The rich plains and forests they’d traversed held great promise. A man might settle here and plant apple trees, build a more comfortable and secure life than the one he’d left behind.
But the choicest lands would be doled out to those who enjoyed Hrolf’s favor. Only warriors would be richly rewarded.
Bryk had courage. He didn’t fear death, and would fight for a stake in this new country. But he wouldn’t murder. He would win his place with honor.
He and his cohorts came to the top of a steep hill overlooking the Seine. The village of Jumièges was visible not far away and he had a good view downriver, but there was no sign of the fleet. He suspected Hrolf and the other captains had been unable to resist the temptation to raid and plunder en route.
He had come to trust the men with whom he travelled. They were inexperienced youths who’d confided that they too enjoyed the prospect of enriching themselves with booty, but assumed rape and murder went hand in hand with plundering.
Confident as he was in them, their group was too small to attack a town. His other concern was to forage for food for themselves and the horses, though there was an abundance of spring grass for grazing. Scouting the area would give him knowledge and sustenance. Hrolf would need both when he arrived.
When it was fully dark, he left his men with the wild horses, led Fisk down the steep embankment, then mounted and crossed the river. The full moon illuminated the outline of what looked like a partially finished building in the distance. It worried him; too much light made the excursion riskier.
He tied Fisk’s rope to a tree and crept towards what he saw now was a stone building under construction. He remembered the tales of the sacking of the abbey at Jumièges by Vikings three score and ten years before. This edifice must be the replacement. He marveled at the perseverance of the Franks who seemed determined to rebuild with stone—a process which took much longer than the wooden construction his people used.
He suspected roofs didn’t blow off stone buildings. When Hrolf gave him land, he would build with stone.
Keeping to the shadow cast by the building, he loped across to the wall and crept towards the end. He took a quick glance around the corner, expecting to see the front entryway. Instead there was only a narrow arched doorway, perhaps leading to a kitchen.
As he stepped out of the shadows, the door creaked open. He retreated quickly, flattening his body against the wall when someone came stealthily from the other side of the building.
There was enough moonlight to make out a man in robes, his head hooded. He seemed anxious not to be seen as he waited on the very spot where Bryk had stood moments earlier.
What in the name of Thor is he waiting for in the dark?
The answer came when the door creaked again and a young woman in white robes appeared. The monk pushed the hood from his head, revealing his youth, and took the girl’s hands, drawing her into the shadows.
Bryk held his breath. If they detected him only paces away—
It was his understanding that men and women who had dedicated their lives to the Christian God were celibate, a notion Vikings deemed ridiculous. His young companions were apparently unaware of this obligation as they kissed ravenously, their hands wandering over each other’s bodies.
A cloud crept over the moon. Bryk strained in the darkness to hear their whispers. His knowledge of the Frankish language was limited, but their clandestine endearments touched his heart and evoked cherished memories of Myldryd. He clenched his fists, guilt washing over him. Had he not turned his back on warmongering, his beautiful wife might still be alive.
The kissing couple broke apart abruptly, jolting him from his reverie. Censure in the whispered exchange that followed indicated they’d been discovered, though he’d neither seen nor heard another person approach. Annoyed with himself for his inattention, he drew his dagger and narrowed his eyes in time to see the lovers flee back around the corner of the building.
Had the unseen person left?
His breath caught in his throat when the clouds rolled on, revealing a second young woman clad in white robes. She leaned back against the wall and turned her face to the moon. She was tall and slender, and her beauty stunned him, but he swallowed hard, struck by the loneliness in her expression. He had an unwelcome urge to gather her into his arms and stroke his hand over the cropped hair that shone inky black in the moonlight.
Sensations that he’d believed long dead stirred in his loins.
Fisk nickered, catching the girl’s attention. She frowned, peering into the darkness where the horse was tethered.
Alarm skittered up his spine. He willed her to return to the safety of the building, but instead she took slow, tentative steps towards his hidden mount. If she discovered the beast—
He crept up to her from behind.
When she caught sight of Fisk, she gasped and slowly offered her open palm. But then it seemed to dawn on her what the presence of the horse meant. She whirled around, her eyes filling with fear when she saw him a few paces away.
He cursed inwardly that he still held the dagger. No wonder she was terrified. She opened her mouth to scream.
Swiftly, he sheathed the weapon, snaked an arm around her back and clamped his hand over her mouth as he pulled her against him. Heat from her trembling body sparked desire, sending blood rushing to his pikk. But the terror in her eyes gave him pause. She thought he had rape on his mind.
“Hush,” he said softly, rocking her like a baby against his chest. “Hush.”
He recognized the moment her fear subsided when she went limp in his arms. Or had she fainted?
A MAN’S TOUCH
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.
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 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. An 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.
Better a slave to this man than to Mater Bruna.
She shivered when he let go, swaying on unsteady legs until he put his hands on her waist and touched his lips to hers. The softness of his beard surprised her.
She should have been outraged, should have protested, pushed him away, called on her patron saint. But along with the alarmingly wonderful sensations coursing through her body, and a desire to have him breathe his salty breath into her, a ridiculous notion beat a tattoo in her thoughts.
Love at first sight, love at first sight.
He broke them apart, a strange look on his face, as if he too struggled to comprehend the situation in which they found themselves. He tapped his chest. “Bryk,” he rasped.
Her breath caught in her dry throat but she managed to squeeze out, “Cathryn.”
He smiled, sending tiny winged creatures fluttering in her lower belly.
“Cath-ryn,” he repeated hoarsely.
On his lips her name was a song.
But then he put a hand on her back and pushed her gently in the direction of the abbey.
He’s letting me go. I can warn the others.
She gripped his arm, unable to speak.
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