Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01

by The Rover Bold

  He shifted his gaze to the cup-shaped silver brooches holding up the straps of her hangerock, the linen over-dress Poppa’s thrall had helped her fasten. The brooches were a generous gift, but they looked too much like breasts for his comfort. Funny he’d never noticed it before though all the wealthier women wore them.

  “Too well dressed for a thrall,” Poppa had mumbled when they’d emerged from the curtained off area reserved for females. His heart had filled with contentment. She looked like a Viking noblewoman—except she’d evidently declined the offer of a traditional headdress, opting instead for his scarf, which fluttered in the breeze.

  Hrolf’s concubine had never fully accepted her role as a captive, but he suspected she loved Hrolf. There was no doubt in his mind the chieftain loved her.

  But would Cath-ryn accept being a thrall? In his confused mind he couldn’t think of her as one of his slaves. They were well taken care of, but he didn’t love them.

  Love?

  As another swift bend in the meandering river appeared ahead, he wondered if he had made a mistake in claiming his prize.

  His gaze chanced upon Ekaterina, who was staring at him, shaking her head.

  SACRED VESTMENTS

  Cathryn reluctantly twisted around to face the town where she’d lived all her life. It seemed eerily quiet. No doubt the alarm had been raised, prompting citizens in the low-lying areas to flee. She raised her gaze beyond the cathedral to the distant hill where the abbey convent stood. Many would be sheltering there.

  She turned away.

  As if sensing her turmoil, Bryk shaded his eyes and looked to the hill.

  Hrolf ordered the longboats to pull in at the island where the chapel of Saint-Éloi stood. “First stop,” he declared.

  Without another word from their leader, hundreds of men swarmed off the boats. Bryk handed the tiller over to another seaman after everyone else had left. He took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. He donned the mailshirt from his chest, tucked the axe into his belt, then put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay. Short time.”

  No use begging him not to go, not to leave her. What would happen to her if he failed to return? She buried her nose in the cloak, inhaling his comforting scent.

  Ekaterina waddled over to her. “All shall be well,” she crooned.

  More than a hundred longboats sat at anchor and shorebirds danced on the wind, calling raucously, yet the silence seemed overwhelming. Cathryn could barely make out the boats with the women at the end of the line, but sensed they too were praying to their gods for the safe return of the men.

  It occurred to her that this was an opportunity to flee. The lone sailor wouldn’t leave his post on the boat. Judging by the shouts of elation coming from the church, the Vikings were busy gathering whatever there was of value. If she and Kaia leapt into the shallow water—

  But it would be impossible to take Ekaterina. Several islands dotted the Seine, each with a church of its own—Saint-Clément, Saint-Stephen. How to get from one to the other and then through the deserted town itself?

  In her heart she didn’t want to leave because Bryk had asked her to stay.

  ~~~

  Once Hrolf had claimed whatever treasures the priests hadn’t carried off, there wasn’t much else of value in the little chapel. Bryk was relieved no one had remained to defend the edifice. As his grumbling comrades trooped out to ransack the few hovels on the island and then muster for the next church, he cast about for some keepsake. He knew from long experience where a patient raider might discover hidden treasures.

  He crouched down beside the stone altar and put his shoulder to it. It moved an inch or two away from the wall. He braced his legs and pushed again, this time making a space barely wide enough for his arm.

  He snaked a hand up underneath the stone lip. As he’d suspected, there was a hidden shelf. His fingers touched fabric. He dragged out the bundle—vestments, folded and crammed into the hidey-hole. He danced his fingers along the shelf again, discovering several good sized candle ends, one of which was still wedged on a pointed gold candlestick.

  He understood some cleric taking time to conceal the candlestick and the vestments, but risking one’s life for spent candle ends?

  Alfred’s wife could use the heavy fabric, and perhaps Cath-ryn would like the gold braiding and the candlestick.

  By Thor, this preoccupation has to stop.

  He’d asked Alfred to keep an eye on her when he’d handed over the tiller. His brother might not be a warrior, but he would defend Bryk’s property. As he made his way back to the boat, his heart reassured him she wouldn’t try to flee.

  Nevertheless, he let out a long slow breath when he caught sight of her, still sitting on his chest, as if guarding it. She scowled at the men stowing their meager treasures.

  Her eyes betrayed her happiness at his return when she saw him. It felt good that someone cared whether he lived or died. He motioned for her to rise, lifted the lid of his chest and threw in the candle remnants. He’d show her the candlestick later, when they weren’t surrounded by fifty pairs of greedy eyes. As he stuffed in the vestments, he had an inkling there was something wrapped inside—also for later.

  He had to sit on the lid to close the chest. Cath-ryn quickly lost the scowl that had crossed her face on seeing the vestments and sat next to him, laughing, wriggling to add weight to the effort. Raiding had never been this enjoyable.

  He pointed to the chest, then pulled at his kyrtill. “Alfred,” he said, cocking his head towards the tiller. “Bror.” He held up ten fingers. “Barn. Chilrens.”

  Wide-eyed, she glanced over to Alfred, touching her fingers to his as she counted. “He’s your brother and he has ten children?”

  The contact between them was light as air, yet her warmth seeped into him. Her delicate white hands and slender fingers made his look weathered and stained. “Ja.”

  She frowned, moving a fingertip to his chest. “How many children do you have?”

  The painful memories hit him like the heel of a stridsøkse.

  “No lamb for the lazy wolf,” Hrolf shouted from the prow. “To oars. Clement’s church awaits.”

  Rescued from his torment, Bryk breathed again as he made his way back to the tiller, his thoughts unexpectedly filling with an image of a child born of a black haired woman and a fair-haired man.

  ROUEN FALLS

  In the darkness Cathryn and Kaia huddled together on the sea chest, Bryk’s cloak around their shoulders. Ekaterina lay in the bottom of the gently rocking longboat, snoring loudly, seemingly oblivious to the damp cold. Cathryn thought of taking out the priestly vestments and spreading them over the elderly nun, but the chest was locked, and La Russe might consider it a sacrilege.

  She was happy to be free of the white habit the other women still wore. How Ekaterina managed to keep hers spotless was a mystery.

  The sun had set hours before, long after the Vikings had gone ashore to plunder the main part of the town, including the cathedral. At first, shouts and screams had drifted to their ears, but now everything had fallen quiet, the only sound the lapping of the black water against the boats. Smoke from earlier fires hung in the still air.

  They hadn’t eaten since Bryk had brought bread and cheese after the raid on Saint-Clément.

  But Cathryn’s greater hunger was to see Bryk return safely. She searched her heart for the reason he had become important to her in only a few days. To never see him again would be a worse torment than anything Saint Catherine had ever suffered.

  It was a blasphemous thought.

  Hearing footsteps, she peered nervously into the darkness. Poppa emerged from the gloom, accompanied by several women all chattering happily. She climbed into the Seahorse. “They have taken the town,” she said softly.

  Cathryn supposed she should stand to greet the chieftain’s wife, but she was too cold, her limbs stiff. She looked towards the cathedral. “I don’t understand.”

  “Listen.”

  Off in th
e distance, she thought she heard—

  Ekaterina’s eyes blinked open. “Zinging,” she said with her usual smile.

  Poppa laughed. “Prepare yourselves. They will return for us shortly.”

  Cathryn felt like an old woman as she and Kaia came to their feet then pulled Ekaterina up from the deck. They clung together trying to keep their balance in the rocking boat, sharing the cloak. Poppa seemed to have no such difficulty. She climbed out gracefully, rejoined her companions and disappeared into the darkness.

  The sound of male voices raised in song became louder. Soon men were on board, many of them reeling from drink, all with smoke-smudged faces, some bloodied. They set about stuffing objects into their chests. The boat rocked alarmingly as en masse they climbed over the rail, the chests on their shoulders, headed in the direction of the women’s boats.

  A lump refused to dislodge itself from Cathryn’s throat. Bryk and Hrolf had not returned.

  ~~~

  “You were right, my friend,” Hrolf rasped between hiccups, leaning heavily against Bryk.

  He tightened his grip on his chieftain’s waist, keeping him upright lest he fall face first in the muck as they staggered towards the Seahorse.

  When they’d left Møre he was a social outcast; now he was Hrolf’s friend. His advice had been true. “There is no need for slaughter. Dispatch only those who offer armed resistance. We will need people alive to work the land when it is ours,” he’d told his leader.

  And Hrolf had listened.

  Now they controlled the town, though they’d encountered scant numbers of terrified peasants, monks and priests, but no Frankish soldiers, and no-one of importance. He had a suspicion many had sought refuge in Cath-ryn’s convent, but he kept this notion to himself. Once people came to see they had little to fear from the rule of Vikings, they would emerge and return to the town.

  He’d taken no plunder. Land was what he wanted, and his chest was already over full. He’d have to throw out some of his rootstocks to make room and he had no intention of doing that.

  Nor had he imbibed any of the freely flowing wine and ale, not wanting Cath-ryn to think him a drunken barbarian. She’d been in his thoughts throughout the attack. Rouen was where she lived. He understood why she had scant knowledge of the place, but how did his involvement in the sacking of her town affect her, and why by all the gods did it matter to him?

  He’d anticipated seeing her again, but his elation when he set eyes on her in the darkness had him tempted to let his drunken chieftain fend for himself. He wanted to scoop her up and rain kisses on her worried face.

  Fortunately, Poppa emerged from the gathering mist with two thralls. One was Bryk’s personal slave, Torstein, the other a burly Irishman belonging to Poppa. Padraig took Hrolf’s weight and staggered away with him. Bryk puzzled about the curious smile the Frankish concubine sent his way as she left. Perhaps it amused her he was burdened with three foreign women.

  Cath-ryn came to him without hesitation and collapsed in his arms, teeth chattering. He put his arms around her, willing his heat into her body, relishing the feel of her against him.

  “You’re safe,” she murmured, eyes bright with tears.

  “Ja. Safe. Hus,” he replied, cocking his head in the direction of the town.

  Ekaterina tapped him on the shoulder. “Where is this house?”

  He turned, coming close to laughing out loud at the sight of the elderly nun and Kaia huddled in his cloak. He brushed away a tear from Cath-ryn’s cheek then let go of her, picked up Ekaterina and climbed out of the boat. “Kom!”

  Both young women followed without hesitation, clinging together as they dogged his heels through the empty streets of the town.

  Without being told, Torstein shouldered the heavy sea chest and fell in behind.

  THE TRIPTYCH

  The house Bryk had commandeered was a one-room hovel not far from the cathedral. Judging by the remnants of food and dirty wooden plates scattered here and there on the packed earth floor, Cathryn guessed the inhabitants had left in a hurry.

  Bryk indicated to his servant where he wanted the chest. After putting it down with a thud in one corner, the young man quickly brushed aside the ashes inside a circle of stones in the centre of the dwelling. He wiped his hands on his tunic, then built a fire with kindling and wood piled nearby.

  Bryk took what looked like the materials needed to strike a flame out of his pouch and threw them to his servant. “Fire,” he said with a smile, rubbing Cathryn’s upper arms. “Soon warm.”

  She wished she spoke enough of his language to tell him she needed only his touch to drive away the chill.

  The cramped space filled with smoke as the servant blew on the spark, trying in vain to get a flame going. He looked at Bryk nervously. Kaia’s hacking cough returned.

  Cathryn hunkered down near the grate, ready to assist with the blowing. “Perhaps if I—”

  Bryk grasped her arm and pulled her away. “Torstein do alone.”

  His gruff manner alarmed her. She thought to protest but caught Ekaterina’s glance. “It’s Torstein’s responsibility,” the elderly nun explained. “You mustn’t interfere.”

  The expression on the youth’s sooty face when the fire sprang to life reminded Cathryn keenly of the relief she’d often felt after satisfying Mater Bruna’s demands.

  Bryk unclenched his jaw and spat out a command to Torstein, who left the cottage quickly.

  “Where is he going?” she asked.

  Bryk lifted his fingers to his mouth. “Food.”

  Cathryn wondered how a young man who probably didn’t speak the Frankish language hoped to find sustenance for them in a ransacked town. There would be food at the abbey, but she didn’t want to be the one to lead the Vikings there. She shivered. They’d make their way up the hill in time.

  There was no furniture, so they sat on the cold floor around the fire. She leaned on Bryk when he put his arm around her shoulders. As long as she was with him she was safe. She gazed across at Kaia. Her friend was too pale and still shivering despite the shaggy cloak in which she was cocooned.

  It didn’t seem long before Torstein returned. From the ensuing conversation she surmised he’d procured the large ham, the cheese wheel and the flagon of ale from Hrolf. Bryk seemed pleased by the news. The chieftain must hold him in high regard if he sent food. He took out his dagger and sliced off pieces of meat, handing them each a portion. Torstein broke the cheese wheel apart and laid it on the floor before retreating to the corner with the chest, though he didn’t sit on it.

  “Is he not hungry?” she asked, her mouth full of the delicious smoked ham.

  Bryk frowned, but didn’t turn to look at his servant. He lifted the horn he always carried off his body and poured ale into it. He took a swig before offering it to Cathryn. Her first taste of the bitter brew made her gasp. He motioned her to pass the horn to Ekaterina.

  To her surprise, the old nun accepted it, drank a long draft, belched, then explained, “He will eat when we are done. It’s the way of the Vikings.”

  She should have heeded the warning in the elderly woman’s eyes, but instead she said, “Being a Viking’s servant is obviously a hard life.”

  Ekaterina glanced at Bryk quickly then whispered. “Torstein isn’t a servant. He’s a slave.”

  ~~~

  Bryk was relieved to see color return to Kaia’s ashen face after she’d eaten. Cathryn still leaned against him, but her body had stiffened at something the old nun had said. Everyone seemed to have eaten their fill. He’d have preferred some juicy roast pork and fresh white bread, but in the circumstances Torstein had done well.

  He picked up three slices of ham and a chunk of cheese and threw them to his slave. He smiled as the youth grabbed them, stuffing everything into his mouth at once. Cathryn sat up straight, shrugging off his arm.

  Frowning, he looked to Ekaterina.

  “I told her Torstein is your slave,” she explained.

  Cathryn folded her ar
ms, hugging her body.

  “This upsets her?” he asked.

  Ekaterina shrugged. “The Franks do not enslave their captives.”

  “Tell her Torstein was not a captive. He was born a thrall, as was his mother.”

  To his dismay, Cathryn still resisted his embrace when Ekaterina explained, but she said nothing and refused to look at him. It was a good thing he hadn’t mentioned Torstein’s mother had been sold off in the market at Ribe.

  He touched his fingers to her chin and turned her face to him. He wanted her to understand the ways of Vikings, though why her opinion was important he still couldn’t fathom. “Vikings, Franks, different ways. Not bad people.”

  Frustrated when her pout continued, he slipped back into his own language, depending on the old nun to explain. “Vikings spare the lives of captives. We feed and clothe, give them work, take care of their children. Franks do not show mercy to their prisoners.”

  She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. “Better to be dead than a slave.”

  Her words cut his heart. “Should I have killed you then, that night?”

  ~~~

  Exhaustion heightened Cathryn’s confusion. Her wits had fled. Bryk’s closeness caused joy to surge through her body, but fear held her in its grip. Did he intend to keep her as his slave?

  She knew what obedience was, and humility, but she wanted more from this man who’d captured her heart as well as her body.

  “No,” she replied in a whisper. “I am glad to be alive, and here with you.”

  “Da!” Ekaterina exclaimed as Bryk smiled.

  I will be his slave if it means I can be with him.

  He squeezed her hand. “Look treasure now.”

  He motioned for Torstein to bring the chest. The thrall set it down at his side and opened the lid once Bryk had produced a key from his pouch and unlocked it. The corners of the young man’s mouth twitched into a smile at first glimpse of the vestments on top of the pile.