Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01

by The Rover Bold

  Bryk grasped Torstein’s sleeve, clinging to a last hope he’d misunderstood. “Explain to me once more why Cathryn is here.”

  “She insisted on accompanying Poppa of Bayeux. She was killing your trees.”

  If his heart and gut weren’t tied in knots he might have laughed. “What?”

  Torstein looked him in the eye, a rarity for a slave. For a fleeting moment Bryk saw Gunnar’s face. He’d never noticed the resemblance before.

  “The apple trees. They do not respond to her care. She believes she is responsible for them withering. It made her sad. Also, I think she was unhappy living in the archbishop’s house. They treated her badly, although the archbishop allowed her to work on his library, with Javune.”

  Bryk was astonished at Torstein’s account. The thrall had never been known to utter more than a few words, and then only when spoken to. He even sounded like Gunnar. “Javune?” he asked, wondering what other unexpected events had taken place in his absence.

  “He came with us from Rouen. He is one of the prisoners.”

  Bryk held his breath, trying to come to terms with the revelations. “Have they not discovered he’s a Frank?”

  “Ja, but Sprig is also here, and from what I could see I believe he discredited Javune.”

  Fury choked Bryk. “Sprig? He is under guard in Jumièges.”

  Torstein shook his head. “He is here. I have seen him. My mistress discovered he was in Rouen en route to some abbey in Neustria. He is the only one who could have told the relief army about our plan to bring reinforcements.”

  Bryk’s blood was boiling. Not only was his wife a prisoner of the Franks she could fall prey once more to the depraved monk. “Neustria?”

  “He is from there, according to Javune.”

  They continued their slow progress to the top of the rise, followed closely by Alfred and Sven. Torstein had warned they weren’t far from the enemy and would have to keep their heads low. Nor could they linger long.

  Bryk’s eyes darted here and there, trying to ascertain the lay of the land. Soldiers, slaves, tents, two men seated in carved chairs.

  Carved chairs?

  “Don’t mention the chairs to Hrolf. Might give him ideas,” he rasped to Alfred and Sven. They chuckled in agreement. Even Torstein smiled weakly.

  “Imagine the huge chair we’d have to lug everywhere for our chieftain,” Alfred quipped.

  “Ja!” Sven agreed. “And Poppa would insist on one for herself.”

  Bryk mused inwardly about the apparent need men felt to make light of the direst situations.

  But his blood turned to ice when a black robed figure strode into view and stood by Burgundy’s chair. There was no doubt in his mind it was Sprig.

  “There stands the man who has betrayed the expedition to bring reinforcements,” he rasped, relieved Cathryn and Poppa weren’t among the thralls languishing in the intense heat. “The women must be in one of the tents,” he said, refusing to consider the possibility his wife was already dead.

  Moments later, only the restraining hands of his companions stopped him rushing from their hiding place, stridsøkse held high, ready to die in defense of Cathryn and Poppa as they strode from one of the tents. He choked down the battle cry threatening to erupt from his chest.

  “Watching you being hacked to pieces won’t help Cathryn,” Alfred hissed.

  Bryk calmed, reassured in part by his wife’s posture. Despite the male attire, she walked like a queen about to accept the homage of her subjects, Poppa in tow. In contrast, Hrolf’s concubine looked like a wary peasant. “She’s not afraid,” he whispered, knowing in his heart her faith in Saint Catherine’s protection had given her courage.

  “At least they’re not being dragged before the nobles,” Sven said.

  The scene that unfolded was remarkable. Cathryn didn’t wait for the noblemen to speak. She took the lead, and though Bryk was too far away to hear her words, it was evident she wasn’t cowering in fear.

  “They look surprised,” Alfred said with a trace of a smile.

  “She’s scolding them,” Bryk replied, his heart filling with pride.

  Poppa appeared to remain silent throughout the interview. Cathryn continued to speak when the monk threw off his hood and shouted something at her. “Didn’t even flinch,” Bryk murmured.

  “Richard of Burgundy doesn’t look happy, but he seems more annoyed with the monk than with your wife,” Alfred said.

  When Cathryn finally stopped talking, the two noblemen exchanged a glance. The taller of the two said something to Cathryn who promptly turned on her heel and marched back to the tent.

  “What a woman,” Sven observed.

  A ridiculous surge of jealousy boiled up in Bryk’s gut. He’d have to speak to his wife about the tightness of the pants that showed off the tempting curve of her bottom. “Ja. But we must get them out of here. Sprig will keep on trying to discredit her. If he fails he’ll plot some other means to exact revenge.”

  ~~~

  Throughout the interview with Richard of Burgundy Cathryn had chanted a mantra in the back of her mind.

  Saint Catherine pray for me.

  The saint had sustained her, and for that she was grateful, though her knees threatened to buckle as she and Poppa regained their tent.

  However, an overwhelming sense of Bryk’s closeness had cloaked her in a mantle of invincibility.

  Burgundy admitted to admiring her courage, though he obviously thought her suggestion that Vikings and Franks might live together in peace and harmony was lunacy. Undeterred, she’d urged peace talks rather than war, explaining the Vikings had come to settle not to plunder and destroy. That notion had also fallen by the wayside, but at least she’d planted the seed in Burgundy’s mind.

  It had been unnerving keeping her composure in the face of Sprig’s poisonous attacks, especially when he shouted for the mark of the devil to be scourged from Javune’s back.

  Poppa had eventually snapped out of her trance and almost growled at the monk. She had seconded without flinching Cathryn’s avowal of faithfulness to her Viking husband.

  It had been in Cathryn’s mind to launch into a treatise of how tolerant the Vikings were in contrast to many Franks, but thought better of it. Nor did she deem it the appropriate moment to accuse Sprig.

  She’d said enough and stayed true to her beliefs and her husband. Burgundy had agreed to spare Javune’s life, though he’d been returned to the thralls’ compound.

  There was no guarantee anything she’d said would lead to peace, but at least they were still alive.

  RESCUE

  In the waning light, Bryk, Alfred and Sven sat in grass burned brown by the summer sun, discussing various ideas for the rescue, but every option seemed doomed to failure. Bryk was getting discouraged. The silence stretched into long minutes.

  “I have a plan,” Torstein said with unusual authority, causing everyone to glance up at him sharply.

  He came to his feet. “They’ve forced some of the thralls to dig latrines and chop wood for the fires. When they start work on the morrow, Sven and I will be among them, but we’ll be armed.”

  Bryk stood quickly. “As will I.”

  Torstein shook his head. “Your pardon, Master, but you are too big, and you don’t look like a slave. We will join the prisoners under cover of darkness. The Franks won’t notice two more men.”

  Bryk rubbed his chin. “Pity we don’t have more weapons.”

  “They loosen the bonds so the men can dig. And I do have a few surprises.” He shrugged the haversack off his back that he always carried and opened it. Inside lay a dozen daggers packed on top of his one spare tunic. “This should be enough to cause some confusion. They’re from the other escaped thralls we left at the river.”

  Sven seemed anxious to add something. “Remember how we stampeded the horses in Jumièges. Mayhap—”

  Bryk smiled.

  Alfred grinned. “And while the Franks are dealing with the revolt and the horses, we
’ll steal into camp and rescue the women.”

  “Exactly,” Torstein said. “But we won’t start our disturbance until we’re near the latrines. That way we’ll draw more guards away from the women’s tent.”

  Bryk put a hand on Torstein’s shoulder, something he couldn’t recall doing before. It was on the tip of his tongue to admit the resemblance to Gunnar, but all he could manage was, “I’m proud of you, lad.”

  ~~~

  Cathryn supposed she must have dozed during the long night. Poppa seemed to have slept soundly. Perhaps compared with being carried off by a Viking marauder who has just killed your father this perilous situation seemed more manageable to a woman born into the Frankish nobility.

  Cathryn was sustained only by the firm belief that her patron saint would strengthen and protect her. And she believed Catherine of Alexandria also watched over Bryk.

  The thralls packed together had been treated like dogs. She suspected some had died in the extreme heat without water and food. She felt shame for her countrymen. The moans of distress from the beleaguered slaves touched her heart. Javune was among them—a young man with no experience of physical hardship.

  Poppa sat up abruptly. “Listen.”

  Cathryn had learned to respect her companion’s ability to hear sounds no one else could. She strained to listen, but only the faint nickering of horses, distant male voices and the droning snore of the solitary guard outside their tent came to her ears. “I can’t hear anything.”

  “The thralls have fallen silent.”

  Cathryn stopped breathing. Had the Franks grown tired of the wailing and cut their captives’ throats? “What does it mean?” she whispered, deafened by her own heartbeat.

  “It means they are either dead, or they have hope.”

  “They can’t all be dead. Surely we’d have heard something if every one of them had been killed.”

  Poppa arched a brow. “Then it’s hope that has caused them to silence their despair.”

  “What could have given them hope?”

  But she knew the answer.

  “Torstein.”

  Poppa nodded, coming to her feet. “We must be ready.”

  Cathryn had difficulty making her legs work. Hope at the moment of greatest despair was a powerful force that made her tremble from head to toe. She accepted the hand Poppa offered.

  “You are a person of great faith and courage, Cathryn. I admire that in a woman. Your bravery has kept us alive.”

  She was about to reply when a commotion erupted outside. Men were running, shouting in Norse and the Frankish tongue. The sleeping guard cursed, having apparently toppled off his stool, startled by the din. Whinnying horses galloped by close to the tent. More shouting. Screams.

  They clung together, expecting the guard to rush into the tent. They became alarmed when the pandemonium seemed to fade into the distance. Poppa peeped through the flap. “They’ve set fire to some of the bigger tents and pavilions. There are panicked horses running everywhere.”

  She and Cathryn whirled around when the back of their tent was suddenly torn asunder and Bryk’s massive shoulders appeared as he strode through the rent.

  Cathryn tried to form his name, but sound refused to emerge from her parched throat.

  It dawned on her the man with Bryk was Alfred. Her brother-by-marriage bowed to Poppa and held out his hand. “We don’t have much time.”

  Hrolf’s concubine had stepped out of the tent before Cathryn could blink, but her feet seemed to be fixed to the dusty earth. Bryk scooped her up. “Kom, Cathryn,” he rumbled. She melted into him, giving thanks to her patron saint for what might be the last opportunity to feel the warmth of his solid body and the strength of his arms.

  ~~~

  Bryk set his wife on her feet and they ran and ran, his heart in turmoil knowing there was no safe place to take her. In the predawn darkness, he was reasonably confident they were heading in the right direction for the main Viking camp at Chartres. It was their only hope.

  His lungs were on fire, his legs cramped. A sharp pain knifed into his side. He wondered how Cathryn was able to keep up with him. Good thing she was wearing male attire.

  Suddenly she let go of his hand and fell to her knees, one hand braced against a tree trunk, gasping for breath.

  Bryk went down on one knee. “Climb on my back,” he ordered.

  He sensed it was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, but it was evident she could go no further. She obeyed, her arms clinging to his neck as he carried her through forests, across parched fields and finally to the river.

  He’d lost sight of Alfred and Poppa in the course of their flight and was relieved when his brother staggered out of the trees, Hrolf’s concubine on his back. Even in this ungainly situation, the Frankish woman managed to look dignified.

  He sank to his knees on the grassy bank and eased Cathryn to the ground. Whimpering, she refused to let go. He came to his feet and pressed her body to his, relishing the feel of her soft curves, but perturbed by the trembling that shook her. He stroked her hair. “Hush, hush. Safe now,” he crooned, wishing it were true.

  “Bryk,” she murmured, her face nuzzled into his neck. “Bryk. I thought I would never see you again. I have killed your trees.”

  By Odin, how he loved this woman.

  “I don’t care about the trees,” he replied, thankful the fire in his lungs had subsided. Now what to do with the fire in his loins? “You are my life, but we must keep moving.”

  As the first pink streaks of dawn lit the sky, he whistled softly. Men emerged from the trees like wraiths out of Hel, leading the horses they’d brought from Chartres.

  Cathryn startled, but he reassured her. “Thralls,” he explained. “Left with animals.”

  The relief on her tear-smudged face when she recognized some of the slaves touched his heart. He doubted she could have continued much further on foot.

  The thralls were careful not to offend him but it was evident from their rare smiles they were glad to see her.

  Because she treats them like free men.

  They were more wary of Poppa, but Alfred exhibited no such caution as he hoisted Hrolf’s concubine onto his horse and mounted behind her. She must be exhausted yet she kept her spine rigid.

  Bryk mounted his horse and held out his hand to his wife. Their gazes locked. He was amazed to see no fear in her eyes. “We must leave here, though there is no safe place to take you,” he admitted reluctantly.

  “You are my refuge, husband,” she said as she accepted his hand and mounted behind him. “Saint Catherine will protect us.”

  As he turned the horse south, he couldn’t resist. “And Freyja.”

  She giggled, leaning against his back, her arms around his waist. “And Freyja.”

  It occurred to him as they made their escape that he’d never been in greater danger, yet he’d never been more content.

  CALM BEFORE THE STORM

  Bryk had never known Hrolf to allow his deepest emotions to show. He suspected that even the chieftain’s angry outbursts were carefully planned for effect.

  But when Alfred delivered Poppa into Hrolf’s arms, the old warrior clung to her, raining kisses on her dirty face, cooing words of endearment. She sagged against him. He nodded a word of thanks to Alfred, then lifted her and carried her off to his tent, a giant bearing a tiny limp doll.

  Cathryn had dozed against Bryk’s back once it became evident they weren’t being pursued, but the excitement of their arrival roused her. He dismounted carefully and put a hand on her leather-clad thigh, kneading his fingers gently into her flesh. “I like, but prefer dress.”

  Eyes flashing, she grinned at him. “I didn’t bring a dress with me.”

  He laughed and put his hands on her waist. She gripped his shoulders as he lifted her from the horse. They clung together, her head on his chest. “Kom to my tent. I take care of you.”

  He noticed as they made their way arm in arm to the canvas shelter that no work had been done on th
e catapult. It was of no importance. With what he had to tell Hrolf about the relief army, there was no time left to continue a siege in any case.

  He led his wife into his tent. “Not comfortable,” he said, indicating his meager bedroll. “But you rest.”

  She smiled weakly, exhaustion etched on her lovely face. “If you rest with me,” she said hoarsely.

  The siege was lost, the catapult a waste of time and effort. The relief army was unlikely to launch an attack immediately after the fiasco of the prisoner revolt. It would take them a while to round up their horses. Hrolf wouldn’t appreciate being bothered about defense strategy.

  What else was there to do but lie abed all day with his beautiful wife? It might be his last opportunity before he was called to Valhalla. “Ja!” he replied, fiddling with the laces of Cathryn’s leggings. “Good idea.”

  She yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “I’m too tired to take off my clothes.”

  He grinned. “Don’t worry. I help with that.”

  ~~~

  Once Cathryn was naked, Bryk fetched water from the river and bathed her lovingly, apologizing he had only his calloused hands to cleanse her. The cool water and his gentle touch were like a balm to her soul. Though they faced almost certain death on the morrow, she’d never felt safer or more loved. Had Saint Catherine experienced this calm acceptance of the inevitable in the face of the Breaking Wheel? She’d miraculously destroyed the instrument of torture. Would they be granted their own miracle?

  Scarcely able to keep her eyes open, she touched his shoulder. “Take off your clothes. Let me wash you.”

  He stripped quickly. She grimaced at the evidence of the hardships he’d endured during the siege. “You’re bruised,” she whispered, kissing the livid welt under his ribs. “And burned,” she added, touching her fingertips to the raised red marks on his arms.

  “Your touch makes better,” he rasped.

  She glanced at the evidence of interest stirring at his groin and smiled. “Later I’ll make you feel even better, but for now, lie down and I’ll cleanse you.”