It irritated Bryk that Cath-ryn didn’t call him by name. “My name is Bryk Gardbruker,” he told the Abbot. “Cath-ryn knows this and I speak the truth.”
When the elderly nun repeated what he’d said it prompted an exchange of rapid glances between her and the Abbot.
Cath-ryn blushed and seemed reluctant to look at him.
He’d evidently said something to embarrass her.
Ekatarina grinned like a child as if she were privy to the world’s biggest secret. “Da!” she exclaimed.
THE LIBRARY
Two days later Cathryn strained without success to catch a glimpse of the river through the narrow window slit in the library, surely designed to make sure monks weren’t distracted by anything going on outside.
One of Bryk’s men stationed downriver had sighted longboats approaching. He had immediately ordered the women into the library, and consigned the monks to their cells. The workmen were sent back to the village and instructed to remain there.
His apprehension at the arrival of the man he called his chieftain was evident. Would the Viking leader show the same restraint or would they be massacred?
Cathryn marveled how in two days Bryk had taken full control of Jumièges with a handful of men. Only two villagers had been killed during the raid, for which the local inhabitants were grateful. Everyone was aware of the atrocities perpetrated when the Vikings had last come to Jumièges. More than one thousand monks had been slaughtered, the abbey sacked.
Bryk was a man who commanded respect. He had shown mercy to Sprig, listening to the Abbot’s suggestion that the monk be confined to his cell.
He questioned the stonemasons about the construction of the abbey, inspected the cottages in the village, tallied the town’s provisions. Ekaterina went with him. Cathryn did not.
He seemed anxious to avoid her. She longed for another kiss, for his touch, for any sign he cared. At night she clutched the scarf to her breast, tracing her fingertip along the intricate braiding on one edge, inhaling his scent. She’d never set eyes on the sea but she rode the waves with him when she licked the salt from the fibers. In two days she had turned into a seething mess of thwarted wantonness, jealous of an ancient nun because Bryk fussed over her.
It was foolish. Soon he would be gone. She was being tested.
She pulled away from the window. “I suppose now his people are coming, he will leave,” she said to Ekaterina. “They will plunder and destroy, then return to their native land.”
“Nyet,” came the unexpected reply. “They settle in Francia.”
Her heart did a peculiar somersault. “Settle? King Charles won’t permit it.”
Ekaterina shrugged, smiling one of her enigmatic smiles. “Don’t vorry,” she whispered.
Kaia sauntered over to the window slit. “I can’t see anything,” she said, her voice flat. She’d been pouting for two days because she’d seen nothing of Javune. Cathryn wondered if her own preoccupation with Bryk was as obvious.
“Gardbruker,” Ekaterina said.
Had the old woman read her mind? “What?”
“His last name means he is a farmer.”
Cathryn came close to snorting. “Farmer?”
“Da. He vants to cultivate apple orchards in Francia.”
Cathryn didn’t know what to make of this startling revelation. Her thoughts went to the river where the gentle farmer was greeting his warrior chieftain.
Watch over him, Saint Catherine.
~~~
Stroking the pad of his thumb over the carved Viking on the handle of his dagger, Bryk kept his eyes on Hrolf as the chieftain brought his longboat to shore. Cath-ryn had returned the talisman to him. He hoped she would have no further need of a weapon when Hrolf took over the town.
Many of the boats rode lower in the water. His countrymen had indeed stopped along the way to help themselves to treasures which now lay no doubt in the men’s sea chests.
He gritted his teeth when he noticed Alfred was missing. But it wouldn’t be wise to let his alarm show.
He relished the prospect of explaining how he had captured Jumièges with a handful of inexperienced men and precious little blood spilled. It would raise his standing, allowing him to protect the woman he’d taken.
He wasn’t sure why he was preoccupied with her. She was a Christian who had dedicated her life to the Vite Krist. His thoughts wandered to the brief kiss they’d shared. Her sweet taste had taken him off guard. She hadn’t fought him like she’d fought the monk. Indeed, it was as if she’d enjoyed it—thoroughly. And certainly he had. Perhaps next time he might delve his tongue—
His musings were interrupted when Hrolf jumped from the boat and strode over to him. “Gardbruker.”
He bowed slightly, satisfied that the sloping bank allowed him to look the giant in the eye. He hoped the carnal heat spreading through his body wasn’t evident on his face. Better to get his mind off tongues mating. “It is safe to let everyone come ashore. I have secured the town.”
Hrolf frowned, looking to the buildings beyond. “Secured?”
Bryk quickly summarized events, then paused before making his last remark. “I deemed it wise to kill as few men as possible. If we wish to ultimately be welcomed here, we should show that we are civilized people with much to offer.”
Hrolf stared at him for long minutes until Vilhelm came up the bank. Bryk took advantage of the moment. “You want your son to rule here in peace, do you not?”
Hrolf clamped a hand on his son’s shoulder and grinned. “Indeed. Lead on Bryk Kriger. Let us see this town you have captured single handedly.”
Bryk was still a farmer at heart, but was elated Hrolf had recognized him as a warrior. Part of it was because he’d appealed to Hrolf’s vanity, having guessed the chieftain harbored visions of establishing a ruling dynasty. However, he’d proven a man didn’t need to be a bloodthirsty savage to be a warrior. “My brother? Alfred?” he asked.
“Coming overland with captives and livestock. Too many—they’d have swamped a boat. Besides we needed room for the pig.”
It was then Bryk noticed the hubbub on board the Seahorse. The crewmen were attempting to land a very pregnant sow that looked ready to drop a litter at any moment.
Laughing, Hrolf gave the command for his people to come ashore, then turned to his son. “Fetch your mother. I want her to accompany me as we walk abroad in our new land.”
Bryk waited, watching the enraged pig intimidate burly warriors who had no idea how to handle her. Alfred was probably happy to be on dry land, but he’d have known how to calm the sow.
~~~
Ekaterina had dozed off in a library chair.
In an effort to calm her frayed nerves, Cathryn mixed paint and resumed work on a partially finished illumination. It was one Sprig had begun and would need her full concentration if she was to correct his careless work.
She tried to ignore Kaia’s nervous pacing and the din drifting in from outside. Evidently the Viking chieftain had arrived with a horde. She was surprised to hear the excited voices of children. The raiders had brought their families. Perhaps it was true they intended to settle in Francia. Did Bryk have a wife and children?
She had no trouble picturing him with his own brood. He was a gentle giant. She remembered the night they had met, when he’d—
“They’re coming,” Kaia hissed, hurrying away from the wooden door as it was thrust open.
Ekaterina woke with a snort accompanied by another sound Cathryn recognized.
She came to her feet too quickly, tipping her stool. It clattered to the planked floor. Dropping her quill added to her confusion.
Bryk was the biggest man she had ever seen, until a bearded giant strode into the library. The smell of leather and the sea overpowered even the unpleasant odor of flatulence. The woman with him seemed tiny in comparison, yet there was something striking about her—a nobility, evident despite her wrinkled nose. Her eyes darted here and there, perhaps searching out the culprit who’
d fouled the air.
Bryk and a boy followed the pair. Was this his son?
To her surprise it was the woman who spoke first. “I am Poppa, wife to Hrolf Ganger,” she said in the Frankish tongue, indicating the giant. “Vilhelm is our son.”
Relief swept over her—the boy wasn’t the child of her Viking. She ought to have known by the resemblance wrought by the similarly wrinkled noses. But this woman spoke her language.
“I am the daughter of Berengar, Count of Bayeux,” the woman continued. “My husband killed my father and destroyed my home many years ago during a raid on our town. He took me to Norway, where I have lived ever since.”
This didn’t sound right. Vikings never married their captives. They enslaved them. The still silent Hrolf must have prized this woman.
She glanced at him, perturbed to see he was staring at her, unmistakable lust in his gaze. Fear skittered up her spine.
Bryk strode to where she stood and took her hand. He said something that caused Hrolf to scowl.
The woman smiled. “Bryk says you are his captive, under his protection.” She shot a gloating glance at her husband who finally spoke after clearing his throat. It seemed the woman had the upper hand in their relationship, but there was no doubt Hrolf was used to being obeyed.
“He says you have nothing to fear,” Poppa explained. “We come in peace, seeking a new land.”
“Da!” Ekaterina said with great conviction and to the surprise of everyone.
Buoyed by the strength of Bryk’s hand, Cathryn found her voice. “But King Charles will oppose you.”
Hrolf replied immediately. “We are not afraid to fight for a piece of this land.”
“You speak my language,” she blurted out.
Hrolf chuckled. “I visited Francia many years ago, and claimed my lovely Poppa. She has taught me.”
Poppa wandered over to the workbench, examining the vellum Cathryn had been working on. “You are illuminating? It’s a rare skill, especially for a woman.”
Cathryn glanced up at Bryk. He had tightened his grip on her hand and was staring at her work, admiration in his eyes. “You?” he asked.
She wished the sample was one of her own better pieces. “It’s for the altar bible.”
“Beautiful,” he breathed in her language. The word rolled off his foreign tongue, sending shards of longing scurrying up her thighs.
“She’s a nun, Bryk,” Poppa said, first in his language then in Cathryn’s. “Married to the White Christ. I am still a Christian. Do not offend me by lusting after her.”
“But I’m not a nun,” Cathryn said hastily. “I haven’t taken my final vows, or any vows for that matter. I was a foundling left at the door of the abbey.”
Poppa stared first at her then at Bryk. “Where are you from, which convent?”
“Saint Catherine of Alexandria, in Rouen.”
“Aha! Rouen!” Hrolf shouted, startling everyone. “Our next port of call.”
THE INVINCIBLE BARBARIAN
Ekaterina perched atop an iron chest on board the Seahorse, her smiling face turned to the wind, booted feet planted firmly on the deck. Her gnarled and mottled hands gripped the smooth metal. Occasionally, she called out Splash, Splash in cadence with the rhythm of the oars. The men pulling those oars chuckled each time, to which she dutifully responded, “Da!”
For Cathryn, riding in a longboat was different from sailing aboard the Bonvent. It was smaller than the trading ship, but she felt safer. However, she too held firmly to the bronze-clad sides of the sturdy wooden sea chest Bryk had given her to sit on. Her pigments and quills were tucked inside, along with the axe she remembered from the night of their meeting.
Kaia offered no conversation. She had sulked and sobbed alternately since leaving Javune in Jumièges.
Hrolf and his son stood at the prow. Cathryn had her back to them, but sensed the Viking leader’s excitement as they drew closer to Rouen. Her own heart skittered around in her chest—life had changed considerably in the short time since she’d left the town of her birth.
She studied the scenery, trying not to let her eyes wander to Bryk, who held firm to the tiller at the rear of the vessel.
The task of keeping the heavy boat steady in the winding river seemed effortless for him. He wore a knee-length shaggy cloak the color and texture of sheepskin, pushed back off his shoulders to reveal a faded red lining. It was fastened at the shoulder with a pin held captive in an elaborately decorated gold circle. A woolen braid similar to the one on her scarf edged the cloak. Someone had fashioned the well used garment with love.
A crimson shirt had replaced the one he’d torn apart. Tight pants clung to his muscular thighs, a narrow leather belt snaking its way through the loops at his waist. A large pouch made of some animal skin hung from it. She suspected the key to the iron padlock that secured the chest lay inside. The buckle was ornate, silver perhaps. An enormous sword sat on his hip that she would have difficulty lifting. She recognized the hilt of a familiar dagger tucked within easy reach.
A cow horn etched with what looked like a two-headed ship hung from a lanyard suspended across his body. Perhaps he used it for drinking.
His shins were wrapped in strips of braided fabric which disappeared inside calf high leather boots fastened with toggles.
Perched atop his head was a rounded helmet with chain mail hanging from it to protect his neck. Metal flaps covered his ears. But the studded metal mask encircling his eyes and covering his nose were the most menacing aspect. A zigzag pattern had been hammered into it, the oval eye slits transforming him into a creature of myth, a bird-like raptor. She was relieved he hadn’t worn it the night they’d met. She’d have died of fright.
He was the embodiment of every tale she’d ever heard about Vikings—a battle-ready barbarian. The helmet must weigh a considerable amount, yet he showed no sign of discomfort.
She squirmed on the chest, clenching pulsating inner muscles she never knew she had, aware his heavy outer tunic was within, as well as his armor.
He was a man who sailed the perilous seas. He had shaved his beard, though not closely. Stubble still shadowed his rugged features. Had the wind and sun turned his hair to gold as they had bronzed his face and arms? Was his chest the same burnished hue? It had been impossible to tell when he’d stripped off his shirt in the darkness and she’d been too awe-struck at the size of him. Could she mix paint from her pigments to match?
She studied him, painting a picture behind her eyes, looking away quickly when she became aware he was staring back, a strange smile on his chiseled face. Had he guessed her lustful longing to be the woman such a man clung to in the night?
She was damned.
Saint Catherine intercede for me. I am losing my wits.
She fretted over why he had insisted to Hrolf she be brought along, though she was glad of it. She understood Ekaterina’s value as a translator, but a battle loomed. And why were they in a boat with the men and not with the women? They would have been safer in Jumièges. Except Sprig was still there.
~~~
Bryk thanked the gods for his good fortune. Not only had Hrolf acceded to his demands he bring Cath-ryn, he’d promoted him to navigator. It was important his captive not think him an oarsman.
He’d not wanted to leave her in Jumièges. The fifty Vikings who held the town would surely keep Sprig confined, but he felt a keen need to be her protector.
It was absurd. He was taking her into a siege to keep her safe. But most of the men who’d made the journey from Møre faced the same dilemma. He had a better understanding of Alfred’s anxieties for his family.
He pushed his cloak further back off his shoulders, studying the river’s unpredictable flow. Navigating these waters required more concentration than gliding up a fjord. He had to admit it was good to be back in action. Working the land was satisfying, but there was much to be said for a sturdy ship beneath a man’s feet and the prospect of battle ahead.
He recalled something Hr
olf often repeated. “It is better to live on the sea and let others raise your crops and cook your meals. A house smells of smoke, a ship smells of frolic. From a house you see a sooty roof, from a ship you see Valhalla.”
He hazarded a glance at Cath-ryn. She looked away quickly. Perhaps she would be the one to fill his house with the tempting aromas of her cooking. She sat atop his sea chest, as if she was already his—
The word he’d conjured gave him pause. He didn’t want another wife. A foreign captive could not marry a Viking. Hrolf had never wed his Frankish concubine, only pledging to her more danico. Cath-ryn was his possession, like the sea chest.
He wondered what she thought of his war helmet and hoped he didn’t look too menacing. He laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the notion—the helmet was meant to give the impression he was an invincible barbarian.
He had secured clothing for her from Poppa. Asking Alfred’s wife would have caused hardship. The voluminous white robe of the Christian God was badly soiled and the ugly headgear that hid most of her lovely face irritated him. His chieftain’s concubine had balked at first, insinuating that Cath-ryn was probably unaware of the ways of Vikings.
But Hrolf had supported his insistence she couldn’t remain in the religious community. She’d implied as much. She was his thrall, and from the glint in her eye and the way she gazed at him, he was confident she was a woman born to share a man’s bed. These errant thoughts produced a pleasant but inconvenient stiffening at his groin. It was unfortunate his long kyrtill was in his chest. But the weather had warmed and he’d have been too hot if he’d worn it at the tiller. However, he was assured the pouch hid his arousal. It held a few coins brought from home and of no practical use. There was a scrap of clean cloth to wipe his hands and face, a fire starting kit, a whetstone, and a lock of Myldryd’s hair, braided into a circle—and the key to his chest.
There was also a key to the farmhouse in Møre—a keepsake.
He feared the woolen under-dress Poppa had provided for Cath-ryn might be overly heavy. She appeared comfortable though it was tight around the breasts. The robe had hidden the bounty of her perfect globes. He mused about the color of her nipples, probably dark, given her black hair, then wished he’d avoided the notion as his arousal surged.
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