Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01

by The Rover Bold

  As Ekaterina explained Hrolf’s words, Cathryn studied the walls of the only place she had ever lived, suddenly catching sight of Mater Bruna in the doorway. There was no mistaking the wrath in the Superior’s scowling gaze. It appeared that a former postulant clad in Viking garb was a greater irritation than the historic scene unfolding before her.

  A sense of smug satisfaction welled up in Cathryn’s heart as she smoothed a hand over her scarf. But a leaden ball of dread settled in her belly when it struck her Bryk might leave her here.

  ~~~

  Soon, only Bryk, his three Frankish captives and a scowling nun lurking in the entryway of the convent remained atop the windswept hill. Torstein waited a little way off with Fisk.

  Bryk pondered what to do with Cath-ryn. He could ask Hrolf to station him in Rouen as part of the occupying force, but that would lessen his standing in the chieftain’s eyes, and diminish his chances of a generous land grant in the future.

  Life on the march with a marauding army was no place for a woman.

  The peasants whose hovel they’d commandeered would soon emerge from hiding and return to their dwelling.

  But he craved Cath-ryn’s company, and her body. She was already an essential part of his happiness. If he left her at the abbey, he might never see her again.

  A tug on his sleeve interrupted his thoughts. He looked down at Ekaterina standing on tiptoe, lips pursed to kiss him. He smiled and bent for her to peck him on the cheek. “Goodbye, bold rover. Take good care of Cathryn.”

  Then she was gone, waddling off towards the convent. She embraced Cathryn briefly, then took Kaia’s hand and disappeared through the doorway. Neither woman exchanged greetings with the crow-like sentinel at the gate.

  Cathryn stood alone like a stone pillar buffeted by the wind. She had her back to him, but he sensed her indecision. This was where she had spent her life. His heart admitted reluctantly she had to make the choice. Would she yield to the insistent scowling gaze of the crone and return to the safety of the convent, or turn to him? He prayed to Cath-ryn’s patron saint that she would give herself over to him.

  What?

  Praying to a Christian martyr? What about the Forn sidr, the ancient practices and beliefs of his people? Lust had robbed him of his wits. He had nothing to offer a woman, especially a Frank, a captive.

  But one day you will.

  Where had such a thought come from? Was Freyja urging him on, or had the martyred bride of the White Christ heard his plea?

  Through the fabric of his shirt, he fingered the square amulet hanging around his neck. Myldryd’s half of the talisman lay buried in a grave far away. He whispered the words etched in delicate runes on its copper surface. “Think of me, I think of you. Love me, I love you.”

  Cath-ryn turned slowly to face him. “Please don’t leave me here,” she said hoarsely. “Take me with you.”

  He should have refused, should have admonished her to return to the convent, to the life she knew. But the relief rushing through his veins as he gathered her up and signaled Torstein to bring Fisk overwhelmed his better judgment. No matter the difficulties, he would protect this woman.

  All shall be well.

  Fury twisted the crone’s face as she glared in their direction then whirled to enter the convent. The door shut with a resounding bang behind her.

  As they rode back down the hill, the sun came out and the wind calmed. To be safe, Bryk thanked first Freyja, then Odin, then Cath-ryn of Alexandria for the gift of this beautiful woman who had brought light to his dark life.

  A NORSE WEDDING

  Once the Rouennais and their Viking conquerors had reached the town, Hrolf commandeered part of the Archbishop’s residence as living quarters for his family. The cleric seemed visibly chagrined, but put on a brave face. Perhaps he was sympathetic to Poppa’s plight as a former Frankish noblewoman captured by Norsemen.

  Bryk had urged Fisk to move on but reined to a halt when Poppa called to him. “There will be a chamber here for you and your captive. The Archbishop is aghast at the notion of your taking her into the town, and I agree. Have you explained more danico to her?”

  He shook his head, relieved she had spoken in his tongue, though he suspected from Cath-ryn’s red face she understood the gist of what they were saying.

  “You must tell her,” she insisted.

  He dismounted quickly and put his hands on Cath-ryn’s waist. He lifted her from the horse, savoring the touch of her hands gripping his shoulders and the softness of her warm body as she shyly pressed it to his. He doubted she was aware of what the hard flesh at his groin meant.

  “Tell me what?” she asked, her hands moving to his biceps.

  He gestured towards the dwelling. “You, me, we live here.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “In the Archbishop’s house?”

  “Ja!”

  “You and me? Together?”

  “Ja! Together.”

  “But we’re not married.” She looked to Poppa. “Explain that I cannot live in sin with him, especially here.”

  Poppa’s reply wasn’t what she expected.

  “You won’t be living in sin. Hrolf and I have never married, except in more danico, which is to say in the tradition of the Norse tribes. It’s the only way a Viking nobleman can join with a foreign captive considered to be of lesser rank. Hrolf is the son of a jarl, I was the daughter of a Count—but a captive.

  “It’s their tradition, and if you want Bryk you must accept it. You have made your choice to give yourself to him. You are not of the nobility, yet he has chosen you. It’s an honor.”

  The words whirled in the maelstrom of Cathryn’s mind. “You and Hrolf aren’t married?”

  Poppa shrugged. “I suppose you can say I’m his concubine, since we have never had the blessing of the Church. But he has been faithful to me and I to him. He loves me, and I have come to love him. Someday, perhaps, when he embraces the one true faith—”

  She glanced hurriedly at Bryk, and said nothing more.

  “But your son—”

  “Is Hrolf’s heir. He never enslaved me.”

  She recalled Torstein had been born into slavery—a fostri Bryk had called him. Where were his parents? Were they both slaves?

  She narrowed her eyes at her Viking, afraid he might believe she was rejecting him. “What does this mean? It’s true I chose to be with Bryk, but I thought—”

  He tightened his grip on her waist. “I want you,” he rasped, his eyes bright.

  What was it she saw in those brown depths? Love or lust? Mater Bruna had harangued the nuns often enough on the alarming subject of the inability of men to control their sinful urges.

  But there was no room in her heart for guilt. “I want you, too,” she murmured.

  “Good!” he exclaimed. “Hrolf say the words, and you are mine.”

  ~~~

  Bryk had never thought to marry again. Myldryd had been given to him when they were children. His father had paid the bride price and signed the contract. They’d grown up knowing they would marry. They got along and he loved her, though he’d never burned for Myldryd the way he burned for Cath-ryn. When he was old enough, they’d undergone the ritual of bride buying and bride transfer, then celebrated with a feast. Essentially it was a commercial transaction between two families, and their marriage was much like everyone else’s in Møre. They were comfortable.

  It was accepted that if Bryk found a woman of higher rank he wanted to wed, he had the right to set Myldryd aside and remarry. But he’d known in his heart such a thing would never happen. For one thing, Myldryd was Hrolf’s sister, the daughter of a jarl. For another, he was content with her.

  She accommodated his needs, but he’d never thought of his wife as a passionate woman. She’d loved him in her own way.

  He wanted to share these thoughts with Cath-ryn, but didn’t have the words. He hoped his actions would show her he cared and would remain faithful.

  If it were within his power he would partici
pate in a Christian marriage, something she no doubt wanted with all her heart. But he’d have to forswear the Norse gods.

  ~~~

  Cathryn had never given any thought to marriage, though she’d sung in the choir at two nuptial masses at the abbey. But her imaginings wouldn’t have come close to the brief ceremony that had joined her to Bryk. She wished Ekaterina had been there to explain what was going on, but at least Poppa had helped her. The Frankish woman had supplied a fine linen chemise and woolen overdress, along with a traditional Norse headwrap.

  She’d had no part to play. The men had done all the talking. Since she had no parents, Hrolf had given her away. Representing his brother, Alfred gave Hrolf the vestments taken from the chapel of Saint-Éloi as her bride price.

  The chieftain’s eyes lit up as he shrugged his huge body into the too-small vestments and preened like a peacock. Poppa rolled her eyes.

  Bryk presented her with the gilded copper triptych as his token of buying her. She should have been affronted by the notion, but the longing in his eyes when he handed it over touched her heart.

  The feasting had already lasted much longer than the ceremony. The nervous Frankish servants had gradually relaxed as the evening wore on and the Norsemen hadn’t slaughtered them.

  She wondered if there was any food left in the kitchens after endless platters of venison, jambon, and vegetables had been served. How was it the Archbishop enjoyed such fare, certainly better than anything she’d ever eaten at the convent? The heat from Bryk’s thigh pressed against hers shooed thoughts of hunger from her mind.

  She’d never seen the heavily braided saffron shirt he wore, nor the tight leggings. When she’d commented on the absence of his usual leg wraps, he’d explained the leggings were kept in place by straps under the soles of his feet.

  The notion of seeing something as intimate as the soles of his feet had her heart beating wildly, and the bulge at his groin cast into doubt unsettling things Poppa had told her about what took place in the marriage bed.

  The silver pendant of the goddess Freyja hung around her neck. She rubbed the talisman between thumb and forefinger, finding it strangely calming.

  At last, when she feared she might die of heat in the confined space of the dining area, Bryk held out his hand. “Kom, Cath-ryn,” he said, his deep voice rich with promise.

  ~~~

  For the first time in his life, Bryk wished he didn’t belong to a tribe of men who were unashamedly vocal in their exuberance about sexual matters. He sensed his bride was skittish enough without the raucous cheers that echoed as he escorted his bride to their tiny chamber.

  He had swallowed his pride and asked Poppa to arm him with words for the bridal bed, but hoped his lovemaking would demonstrate how much he cherished her.

  Torstein had lit the candles as instructed, and the chamber smelled fresh, which was more than could be said when they’d first entered it earlier in the day. It had been a long while since he’d slept in a real bed and he trusted his thrall had made sure the linens were clean.

  He didn’t intend to do much sleeping this night. Cath-ryn had awakened a long buried desire to sire children, to perhaps establish his own dynasty.

  He pulled off his boots, then casually eased the overtunic and shirt over his head and tossed them away carelessly. She’d seen him do this before, so he hoped she wouldn’t be alarmed.

  He knelt to remove her shoes. She watched, wide-eyed, her hands on his shoulders. Then she touched her fingertips to the silver amulets around his biceps. By rights they belonged to Alfred as the eldest son, but his brother had insisted Bryk have them.

  “You were wearing these the night we met,” she whispered.

  “Ja,” he replied. “My fader—warrior.”

  She stared up at the amulet around his neck as he came to his feet. “Can I touch it?”

  His throat had gone strangely dry, so he simply nodded.

  She examined the rune sheet. “It’s green.”

  “Copper,” he explained. “Green like your eyes.”

  “It has symbols, like the comb.”

  Was he ready to tell her he loved her, to explain Myldryd? “Rún,” he replied, frustrated by his cowardice.

  The silence stretched until she whispered, “You have nipples.”

  Her innocence struck him full force. The prospect of being the first to possess her was highly arousing, but he would have to be patient and careful not to hurt her. He sensed passion in Cath-ryn and Freyja had granted him the right to unleash it.

  He took hold of her hands and put them on his chest. “Touch,” he said. “Feel me.”

  He fervently hoped she would soon want to taste as well as touch him. She kept her hands where he had placed them for a few minutes, then brushed her thumbs over his nipples. He tilted his chin to the rafters, swallowing hard to smother the growl that threatened to emerge as desire spiraled from his sack into his spine.

  She withdrew her hands quickly, her face full of concern. “Did I hurt you?”

  How to explain the fire flowing through his veins at her touch? He decided to take a chance. He brushed his thumbs over the nipples pouting against the fabric of her dress. Her mouth fell open and she closed her eyes.

  “Pain?” he asked.

  She peeled open her eyes. “No,” she replied hoarsely. “I like it.”

  She sucked in a breath when he did it again. Control of his greedy pikk was going to be difficult.

  He put his palms over the brooches they’d used to pin the straps of her overdress, hoping he’d soon be cupping warm, firm breasts no man had ever touched. “Take clothing off.”

  She hesitated only a moment, then reached to unfasten the brooches.

  ~~~

  To Cathryn’s relief, Bryk took over the task of unpinning the elaborate silver fastenings from her trembling hands. The woolen overdress slipped soundlessly to the floor, revealing the fine linen chemise Poppa had given her. She’d never worn such a garment, but suddenly she wanted it off, wanted to feel the golden hairs on his chest against her skin. Were they soft or wiry?

  Only a fool would think he’d never bedded a woman. She’d heard Vikings often had more than one wife. He would know what to do, because she surely didn’t—yet she trusted him.

  Her husband—should she call him that—raked his eyes from the top of her head to her toes. Her body heated under his gaze.

  He motioned for her to raise her arms then reached for the hem of the chemise.

  She did as he asked and he eased the garment over her head. The headwrap came with it. He buried his nose in the fabric, inhaling deeply before tossing it away. “Smell good,” he said with a grin.

  No one in the convent lingered overlong without clothing. Bodies were sinful earthly vessels to be kept covered. The nuns disrobed and dressed in the dark, and eyes didn’t wander.

  As a consequence, Cathryn had rarely seen her own body, yet now she stood calmly under the perusal of a lusty male. The hunger in his half hooded eyes produced tinglings in intimate parts she’d been taught to deny existed.

  Bryk seemed particularly fascinated with her breasts. She had no inkling how they compared to other women’s, but when he cupped her with his big hands, again brushing his thumbs over the nipples, the tingling turned to liquid fire.

  She opened her mouth to ask if she was too small when he suddenly took her in his arms and crushed her to his body. The breath wooshed from her lungs as the heat from his chest flowed into her skin. His hair was soft. He didn’t smell like the women she’d lived with. She supposed it was the scent of a man.

  She clung to him as he carried her to the bed which was three times the size of her pallet at the convent, though she’d guess this was a seldom-used chamber for guests.

  The linens were blessedly cool as he laid her down, but prickly heat flared again when he took her hand and pressed it to the swelling at the apex of his thighs.

  If the rigid flesh she felt beneath her fingers was what Poppa had referred to as
his man part, the woman had obviously fabricated the tale of it entering a woman’s body.

  He fumbled with the belt of his pants, his eyes darkening when the silver buckle refused to open.

  He’s nervous!

  She climbed off the bed and reached for his waist. “Let me help.”

  He inhaled deeply, stretching his long neck as he’d done before, filling her with an inexplicable urge to lick it. She was afraid she’d offended him until he lifted his arms to the side. “Off, please, Cathryn,” he growled.

  ~~~

  Bryk was impatient with himself. He was too aroused, acting like a youth with his first girl. He’d come close to spilling his seed at first sight of the black curls at her mons. If he didn’t get his leggings off soon—

  Things were progressing too quickly. As she was unfastening his belt and he was sifting his fingers through her hair, the thought occurred that perhaps he should forewarn her. Try as he might the Frankish word for big eluded his frenzied brain. But then he became aware she had already hooked her thumbs in the waistband and was easing his leggings over his hips.

  “Cath-ryn,” he rasped, realizing when she gasped it was too late.

  He quickly shucked the garment, giving thanks to Freyja he’d had the foresight to wear leggings and dispense with the leg wraps. She fixed her wide eyes on his erection. Then she took him completely by surprise when she cautiously touched a finger to the swollen tip of his rampant pikk. “It’s very big.”

  By Odin. This woman will kill me!

  Then she tried unsuccessfully to encircle him with her fingers. “And thick,” she breathed.

  He was lost. There were many things he wanted to tell her, but didn’t have the Frankish words. He lapsed into Norse, hoping she’d understand. He braced his legs, then curled her hand around his manhood. “Your touch sets me on fire,” he whispered near her ear. “Move your hand on me, like this.”

  Their bodies shared a language of their own. She responded and her skin heated as she learned his needs.

  The faint aroma of female arousal wafted into his nostrils. He’d wager she was already wet. Intimacy with Myldryd had never been an earth moving experience. His raging desire for Cath-ryn put him in mind of a seething volcano he’d once seen in Iceland.