Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01

by The Rover Bold

  Don’t let me go.

  But he pushed her again, gesturing towards the wall. “Go,” he urged, untying his horse.

  She staggered away from him, crying for no good reason. Nearing the wall, she turned for one last glimpse, but he’d already disappeared, swallowed up by the night.

  Loneliness shuddered through her. Blinded by tears, she resumed her walk to safety—and bumped straight into someone lurking in the shadows.

  “Looking for me?” the man asked, pinning her to the wall with his body.

  She’d never heard him speak but she recognized Sprig’s odor. Her belly turned over at the malevolence in his voice. He spoke with an odd accent. She struggled, but he clamped his mouth on hers. She gagged on the reek of onions. He squeezed her breast. The cold stone bit into her back and fear gnawed at her gut as he forced her legs apart with his knee and yanked up her robe. His icy hand touched her thigh.

  Then abruptly he was gone, crumpled in a mewling heap at her feet.

  A warm hand grasped hers, and she was lifted as her legs gave way.

  “Come, Cath-ryn,” the Viking rumbled.

  ~~~

  Bryk wasn’t sure what made him turn back. It had been alarmingly difficult to push the woman away a second time. Visions of her lying naked beneath him on a bed of furs played behind his eyes.

  It was foolish. She was a Frank, a follower of the White Christ. She’d probably raised the alarm by now. He was putting himself in harm’s way—for no good reason. But he needed to be assured she was safe.

  He came close to roaring his outrage when he saw what was taking place.

  A man in religious garb had her up against the wall, his hand reaching under her robe, despite her protestations. In war he had witnessed many rapes and knew exactly what the man had in mind. Evidently nothing he’d been told about Christian clerics was true.

  Intent on his evil deed, her attacker apparently didn’t hear Bryk steal up behind him. A swift chop to the base of his skull dropped him like a stone.

  Thanks be to Freyja he’d returned in time. Cath-ryn stared at him, shaking uncontrollably, seemingly on the verge of hysteria. He couldn’t walk away. Her attacker’s moans indicated he wasn’t dead. He would likely try for her again, or exact revenge. Taking her with him would cause difficulties. He had nothing to offer but the life of a thrall.

  This young woman drew him like a lodestone. And how was it he had changed in the blink of an eye from a man who’d forsworn murder to one resolved to kill anyone who touched her? Perhaps she was a witch who’d put a heks on him. He had no choice.

  “Kom! Cath-ryn,” he said urgently as he scooped her up and carried her to his horse.

  A VIKING’S CAPTIVE

  Cathryn had never ridden, but she liked being cradled in the Viking’s arms. However, worry gnawed at her. “The alarm will be raised,” she told him.

  He seemed to understand. “Ja. Alarm.”

  But they rode on.

  She prayed Javune and Kaia were safe.

  Was Sprig dead? She shivered, recalling the paralyzing terror when she feared the odious monk would succeed in raping her. It was strange how one man’s touch was thrilling and another’s repellent.

  They reached the river and the horse readily waded into the dark water. Cathryn had lived her life in a convent overlooking this same river, but had never been allowed to venture near it, until the voyage aboard the Bonvent. Fear took hold. She snaked her arms around her captor’s neck. He tightened his grip. “Safe,” he whispered in her ear.

  His warm breath and calm demeanor reassured her. They reached the opposite bank and scaled an embankment. His arms stiffened. A small group of similarly clad men surrounded them as they rode into a glade. She should have known he wouldn’t be alone. Vikings always came in hordes.

  He said something to the men in his language, his voice stern. They looked from him to her. What lurked in their eyes? Disbelief, resentment? Certainly not welcome.

  ~~~

  “This woman is my captive,” Bryk declared, knowing his cohorts would understand completely. To make sure, he added, “I claim her as my thrall.”

  Without a word they drifted away to the shelter of the trees.

  He dismounted, then pulled Cath-ryn into his arms, relieved she had stopped shaking. But he recognized the fear and uncertainty in her eyes and he wanted it gone. “Safe,” he repeated, wishing he knew more of her tongue.

  She replied in her own language. She was perhaps uttering her thanks, and he was elated when she timidly took his hand and added, “Takk.”

  She speaks my language!

  “It was nothing,” he replied hastily, wanting to warm her chilled hand. “I couldn’t let him—”

  But it was evident from her frown he’d spoken too quickly. He barely understood his actions. How to explain them to her? She was here and now he would have to take care of her. He’d always seen to the welfare of his thralls, clothed and fed and sheltered them. But strangely the prospect of this woman as his thrall didn’t appeal. Not that she wasn’t desirable, despite the ugly robe. The persistent hardening of the flesh between his legs that he’d tried unsuccessfully to will away was proof of it.

  It was his right to take her, willing or not, if she were his slave. But the prospect of taking her by force filled him with dismay.

  The stirrings were welcome, if inconvenient. He thought his interest in women had died with Myldryd.

  He raked a hand through his hair, worried there might be pursuit from the abbey. She watched then pointed to her head. She said a word in her language, and he repeated it. “Hair.”

  She smiled. “Good.”

  He laughed, assuming he’d said it correctly. He reached out and sifted his fingers through her black hair, repeating the word, then trailed his fingertips down her neck. Her face darkened as she moved away, putting both hands on her head.

  He understood. Women in Norway never went about with their hair uncovered. She obviously hadn’t expected to come across a Viking in the middle of the night. He chuckled, wishing his belongings weren’t on board the Seahorse.

  Her eyes widened in alarm when he took out his dagger. He feared she might swoon when he untied the leather belt of his kyrtill and tugged it over his head. It was chilly without the woolen overtunic. He quickly peeled off his linen shirt and sliced through the hem of braided wool then tore off a piece of the long garment he judged ample for a scarf.

  He handed her the fabric and patted the top of his head. She stared wide-eyed at his chest and it occurred to him suddenly she had probably never seen a half naked man before. As a warrior he’d trained long and hard to keep fit. Farming had kept his muscles strong, his body lean. He had a momentary notion to strut like a rooster, but thought better of it. He quickly redonned his shirt and kyrtill, welcoming the protection when his thighs were again covered by the woolen garment. He hoped she’d been unaware of the significance of the bulge at his groin.

  She finally seemed to understand his intent, covered her head with the fabric and knotted it under her chin. The ripped edging Myldryd had lovingly braided framed her face.

  ~~~

  Bryk settled Cathryn into a hollow at the base of a tree. Horses whinnied and snorted nearby. He motioned for her to stay where she was then strode off on long legs in the direction of the men.

  She was afraid she might be sick. The trembling had begun again. She wished he hadn’t left her alone. In the space of a few minutes she’d gone from terror, believing Bryk intended to rape and kill her, to salivating at the site of steam rising from his bared body in the chilly night air, the moonlight glowing silver on metal bands around his upper arms.

  She ought to have known he would do her no harm. He’d understood her alarm at realizing her hair was uncovered and sacrificed part of his own garment to fashion a scarf.

  As she fingered the knot under her chin, she had a fanciful urge to toss the fabric away, to beg him to run his fingers through her hair again. Her scalp had tingled benea
th his gentle touch. She traced a fingertip down her neck, aware for the first time how sensitive her skin was. The prospect of putting back on the coif she’d worn since childhood suddenly lodged in her belly like a lead weight.

  His hair was as blond as hers was dark, and long where hers was short, cropped for comfort under the coif and wimple. But the gleam in his eye told her he liked it.

  Perhaps now she was free, her hair would grow.

  Free?

  Instead of being preoccupied with meaningless trivialities she should worry he might sell or enslave her. Staying with these men wouldn’t mean freedom. She’d never been at liberty to come and go as she wished. The life she’d accepted as her destiny suddenly rankled. It didn’t make sense.

  What did these Vikings intend? What was Bryk doing lurking near the abbey? It was obvious they intended to attack. The monks and nuns there would be slaughtered. Brother Javune. Kaia.

  She struggled to her feet as Bryk approached, his men close behind, their jaws clenched. Some decision had been reached; she saw it on his face and the axe in his grip confirmed what she dreaded. He took her hand. “Jumièges,” he said as he pulled her in the direction of his horse.

  STAMPEDE

  Bryk was depending heavily on a hunch there would be no armed Frankish soldiers in the vicinity of the abbey. And how many monks could there be in a partially finished building? There’d be few stonemasons at work before dawn.

  However, if the foul smelling monk had raised the alarm, the local peasantry would quickly arm itself and come looking for the enemy.

  He had no choice but to take the fight to them and hope intimidation and terror would make up for the size of his raiding party.

  Cath-ryn resisted when he pulled her towards his horse. He turned to her, filled with regret for the fear he had once again brought to her lovely face. But she would eventually see he wasn’t a murdering barbarian. Why her opinion mattered he wasn’t sure. “I cannot leave you here,” he rasped, growling and licking his lips like a hungry predator. “Wolves.”

  He howled at the moon to make sure she understood.

  Nervously, she looked into the shadows, then came willingly.

  She gripped his shoulders when he put his hands on her waist to lift her onto Fisk. It was like lifting a feather. He searched for some way to reassure this delicate female. It was risky, but he drew his dagger, rested it on his palm and offered it, hilt first.

  She looked at the weapon, then at him, her eyes wide.

  The Viking his grandfather had carved into the ivory handle stood out in sharp relief in the moonlight.

  “Take,” he said sternly, wondering if it was wise to give away his talisman. “Protect.”

  She took hold of the handle with trembling hands paler than the ivory, but didn’t drop it as he feared she might. Instead she stared at it.

  Was she contemplating plunging it into his back? The uncertainty in her eyes when she finally looked at him calmed his fears. She simply didn’t know what to do with it.

  His men moved restlessly, their faces anxious. They were youths, looking to him as the seasoned warrior to lead them in what was likely their first raid.

  He quickly grasped her hand and wound the tasseled end of her corded belt around the blade then tucked it in at her hip. “Careful,” he whispered with a wink.

  She smiled weakly, her palm flattened over the weapon.

  He mounted Fisk in front of her, elated when she clamped her arms around his waist and pressed her breasts to his back. She likely had no idea of the effect she was having on his manhood.

  This had to be the strangest Viking raid in the glorious history of his people; a farmer and a nun leading a raiding party consisting of a handful of youths and a few wild horses.

  For reassurance he looked to the sky and mumbled. “Lend us your aid, mighty Thor, god of war.”

  “Thor,” Cath-ryn whispered into his back, followed by something that sounded like her own name.

  ~~~

  As the water lapped around the horse’s legs, Cathryn repeated her prayer for deliverance to her namesake saint over and over like a litany. But they’d traveled only a few yards on the opposite bank when she saw her entreaties to Saint Catherine had been for naught. She chided herself. It had been naive to assume the alarm wouldn’t have been raised.

  Panicked voices reached her ears and in the pre-dawn darkness the abbey was lit by the glow of torches. Bryk dismounted and lifted her down. Despite the rapid beating of her heart, the strength of his big hands calmed her roiling belly.

  He motioned to the men to remain with the horses, then took her hand and crept forward. At the edge of the trees they stopped and crouched down.

  Mater Bruna will be livid that I’ve soiled my habit!

  She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of her thoughts. It was unlikely she’d live long enough to see the mean-spirited Superior again. At least the last hours of her existence would be filled with life.

  Her brawny Viking had made her feel more alive than ever before.

  The crowd was boisterous, peasants mostly and a few monks. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out faces. She recognized the tall man calmly issuing orders to the monks. “Father Abbot,” she whispered, turning to Bryk. “Please don’t kill him.”

  He nodded. “Fader.”

  Had he understood?

  Then she spied Javune carrying a torch and murmured his name.

  Bryk chuckled, making the shape of a woman with his hands and kissing sounds with his lips. She knew then he’d seen the young monk with Kaia.

  She was about to return his smile when her attacker strode into view, gesturing wildly and shouting loudly. Bile rose in her throat and for the first time in her life she felt hatred for another person. “Sprig,” she said hoarsely, gripping the handle of the dagger.

  Bryk shifted his weight, his teeth gritted. “Spreeg,” he spat, brandishing his axe. “I kill.”

  Much as she might want the monk punished, she couldn’t condone murder. “No,” she whispered, pushing down his raised arm. “God will punish.”

  He looked at her strangely, his eyes wide. She might drown in those dark brown depths. She recognised now what Kaia had seen in Javune’s eyes.

  But no! Kaia had seen love. She wasn’t sure what she saw in Bryk’s eyes, and this was not the time to be thinking such thoughts.

  There was no sign of her friend nor of Ekaterina. The elderly nun must be terrified. There’d be scant air for Kaia to breathe if both women were closeted in the tiny cell.

  The peasants had armed themselves with pitchforks and sickles.

  As the first grey steaks of dawn lit the sky, Bryk put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay,” he ordered, and then crept back to his men.

  Close to panic at being left alone, she was startled by loud shouts behind her. Moments later she curled into a ball and covered her ears as wild horses stampeded past in the direction of the abbey.

  ~~~

  Among the many things Bryk had learned during his years as a plundering marauder, probably the most important was the effective use of surprise.

  If a raider didn’t hold the advantage, he had to be bold and make his enemy believe he did. He’d hoped that if they made enough noise and panicked the wild horses, the armed mob might assume a Viking horde was attacking when the beasts arrived in their midst.

  He knew from experience there was nothing like horses running amok to make grown men wet themselves.

  As he had foreseen, the villagers dispersed rapidly when the frenzied animals galloped out of the trees. Most dropped their tools as they fled. One or two waved their arms in an effort to turn the beasts, but quickly abandoned the idea when Bryk and his men emerged from the forest. He had instructed his band to yell with gusto and brandish their weapons menacingly, but only those who posed a genuine threat were to be rendered harmless or killed.

  By the time the sun was up, they had ten monks lined up with their backs to the abbey wall, a score of villagers a
nd workmen roped together, and two nuns tending to the handful of wounded. One of the nuns was the girl of the tryst. The other was ancient.

  As his men corralled the last of the horses, he strode over to the monks. To his surprise the old nun followed him. She beamed a big smile, took hold of his hand and addressed him in his language. “I am Sister Ekaterina. In the name of God, and our beloved Saint Catherine of Alexandria, we welcome you, Viking.” She pointed to the axe in his other hand. “You could have killed us all, but you chose not to.”

  His astonishment grew when she spoke to the man he recognized as the Abbot, pointing and gesturing, evidently repeating what she had said to him. The elderly monk seemed to have difficulty understanding her, but she persevered and he eventually made a sign over Bryk with his hand. It was one Christians made as a blessing and he returned the captive’s nod.

  The monk who had attacked Cath-ryn stepped forward, his face a mask of hatred. “What have you done with the nun, barbarian?”

  Ekaterina scowled at the monk as she translated.

  Bryk grabbed the front of the man’s robes with his free hand and dragged him to his knees. “She is safe, no thanks to you.” He looked to the Abbot. “This man called Spreeg attacked Cath-ryn.”

  Disbelief spread on the Abbot’s face as Ekaterina explained.

  Sprig scrambled to his feet. “You believe the lies of a barbarian? I am a monk. I have dedicated my life to God. He has stolen Cathryn away.”

  “But he knows your name, my son, how can that be?” the Abbot asked, his voice gentle.

  Sweat broke out on Spreeg’s forehead. “He must have tortured her. Perhaps she called out for my help.”

  Bryk had an urge to lop off the man’s head and be done with the matter, but he remembered Cath-ryn staying his hand. He didn’t see her approach from the trees, but there was no mistaking the joy on Ekaterina’s face as she waddled past him.

  “Da! My child,” she gushed.

  He turned to see her fold Cath-ryn in a warm embrace. She kissed Ekaterina’s forehead then faced Spreeg. “The Viking speaks true, my lord Abbot. I believe Brother Sprig would have violated me if the Viking hadn’t come to my rescue.”