Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01

by The Rover Bold

  She opened her mouth to offer a retort but then realized he was smiling. “The King might believe calling him Senseless is treason,” she replied.

  The smile left his face. “Vikings are not known as peace loving people. If we give them a little, they might want a lot more.”

  Cathryn’s thoughts went to Hrolf. Richard didn’t know him, yet he’d summed up the Viking leader. “Most of them are like my husband. They are hard-working men who simply want a fertile piece of land on which to grow crops and raise a family. They would defend it to the death.”

  Richard leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair, but the corners of his mouth still quirked upwards. “And what crop would your Viking grow?”

  “Apples. He brought the seeds and rootstocks from Norway. Some that he planted in Rouen still live, though I managed to kill several.”

  Richard burst out laughing. “I hope your Viking knows what a priceless treasure he has in you.”

  She felt her face redden. “I am nothing, a foundling left on the threshold of a convent, but the Norsemen have a long and proud history and will contribute much to the prosperity and strength of Francia.”

  Burgundy frowned. “A foundling?”

  She nodded, staring at her feet, feeling very uncomfortable in male attire.

  The Duke’s eyes wandered from her toes to the top of her head. “You are without doubt the most intelligent, the most courageous and the most beautiful foundling I’ve ever met.”

  Remember you are Catherine of Alexandria and even the best of men…

  “But will you free the Vikings?”

  Burgundy came to his feet slowly. “We’ll have to see what King Charles says about the Vikings settling in Francia, but you are right, Cathryn. They are a resourceful people. They’ve already freed themselves.”

  PEACE

  Hrolf strode into Bryk’s tent, brandishing a parchment. “Charles the Senseless has come to his senses. He realizes we aren’t going away. He has sent a message proposing a discussion of peace.”

  Bryk leapt to his feet, marveling at the favor the gods bestowed on a man who had lost an important battle, yet seemed to have won the war. The plan to build a barricade with the slaughtered animals had proven very effective the day after the flight from the hill. The Franks had regrouped and come in pursuit, but their horses were put off by the smell of blood and would not advance. Since then they’d been left unmolested, though the stench worsened with every passing day of intense heat. It seemed a stalemate had settled in.

  In the sennight since the disappearance of Cathryn and Poppa, Bryk had fretted, cursed, drunk himself half blind with Hrolf, and prayed. The only moment of relief had been the arrival of a missive from Burgundy reaffirming that the women were his hostages, and that they were ‘in good health.’

  “The king awaits us by the river,” Hrolf declared.

  “Charles has arrived?” Bryk asked, fledgling hope burgeoning in his heart.

  “Apparently,” Hrolf replied impatiently.

  They walked the half league to the meeting place, a small stream off the Eure. Backed by ranks of foot soldiers, the King, Richard and Robert sat atop their horses on the far bank. Behind them Bryk recognized Poitou. The hothead held the reins of two horses. Cathryn was mounted on one, Poppa on the other. Bryk’s head suddenly felt like he’d been drinking stale beer all night. His wife was clothed in fine raiment, her black hair adorned with a gold circlet. Who had given her these fine things? The answer was obvious. “Burgundy,” he spat under his breath.

  Dreadful suspicions entered his mind, but then he looked at Cathryn’s face. Her gaze was for him alone. He recalled something Hrolf often said. “The eyes of a maid tell true to whom her love she has given.”

  He glanced again at Richard of Burgundy. Perhaps the man wasn’t the monster he’d assumed.

  Hrolf summoned Bryk to stand beside him.

  Robert of Neustria cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Poppa of Bayeux and Cathryn of Rouen have spoken of your desire to settle in these lands. The King asks what it is you want.”

  Cathryn of Rouen.

  Bryk liked the sound of that.

  Hrolf filled his lungs. “Let me and my people live in the land of the Franks,” he bellowed back across the water. “We will make our home here, and become your vassals.”

  He turned to Bryk. “I can’t see from this distance. Does he look angry?”

  Bryk shaded his eyes. “Hard to tell, but he hasn’t said anything to the others.”

  Hrolf nodded then turned back to the king. “I will take Rouen as my capital, and the land around it. In return we will defend the Seine from future attacks.”

  “He’s discussing it,” Bryk advised his chieftain moments later.

  Richard of Burgundy called back. “You pledge to defend against other Viking attacks?”

  Hrolf answered immediately. “It will be our land. We will defend it against any invader.”

  There was a long pause, then the King himself shouted. “You will not invade other lands in my kingdom.”

  It was not a question.

  “Agreed.”

  The king shifted his weight in the saddle. “Becoming my vassal means that if I go to war you will be obliged to join my army and bring armed men—one thousand or more.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And will you forsake your pagan gods and worship the One True God?”

  To Bryk’s surprise, his chieftain didn’t hesitate for a moment. “All my people will convert to the Christian God.”

  A calm Bryk had never known stole into his heart. He would become an adherent of Cathryn’s faith openly and without fear. They could marry. Cathryn’s broad smile across the stream fired his blood further.

  “We will cede to you the land between the River Epte and the sea—” the king declared,

  Hrolf nodded.

  “—and Flandres.”

  Hrolf pouted. “Too marshy.”

  Bryk held his breath.

  The king scowled. “Bretagne, then.”

  Hrolf chuckled. “Charles the Senseless isn’t so senseless after all. The Franks have never been able to conquer the Bretons, now he wants me to do it. This will be a start, my friend. There’s a lot of good land we must cross to get to Bretagne. It can be ours for the taking if we’re patient.”

  Suddenly he became serious. “Before we left Møre, I had a vision,” he confided. “I foresaw my baptism into the religion of the White Christ and peoples of many races united under my rule.”

  Bryk had long suspected his chieftain’s dreams of power and glory, but was astonished to hear the words uttered out loud. What of the claims that Odin had revealed the future?

  Hrolf addressed the king. “We agree, provided that our women are returned to us and our territory be known as Terra Normannorum.” He chuckled again. “That bit of Latin should impress him.”

  Land of the Northmen.

  Bryk liked the sound of that too.

  “There is one last condition,” Burgundy shouted. “You must offer a token of homage. It is customary for vassals to kiss the foot of the king.”

  Fury darkened Hrolf’s face. “Never,” he hissed between gritted teeth, “will I bend my knee before any man, and no man’s foot will I kiss.”

  In the ensuing silence Bryk sensed the dismay of the hundreds of men behind him. All they desired and had fought for was within their grasp, but Hrolf’s pride would snatch it away. Bryk had dealt with pride before. “I will kiss the king’s foot,” he said.

  Hrolf stared at him for long minutes, then shouted to the king. “My lieutenant will perform the act of homage.”

  Charles hesitated then nodded his approval.

  Bryk waded across the stream. The king watched him down his long nose. Standing by the side of the horse, he feared what he was about to do might jeopardize the peace agreement. But he too was a proud Viking. He had to perform homage but make it palatable to his countrymen. He’d redeemed himself in their eyes in lar
ge measure, but perhaps after this the skalds would sing his praises once more.

  He seized the king’s foot and drew it up to his lips so quickly, Charles narrowly averted falling from his horse, saved only by the quick thinking of Burgundy. Laughter broke out among the Vikings; loudest of all boomed Hrolf’s bellow.

  Charles glared. Bryk strode over to Poitou, took the reins of both horses, mounted behind his wife and urged the horse back across the stream, Poppa’s mount in tow.

  Hrolf slapped Bryk’s horse on the rump as he strode towards Poppa. “Well done, brother,” he shouted, as he helped his wife from her mount. “He’s angry, but the peace will hold. And we’ve gained two fine horses. One for you, one for me.”

  Bryk turned the horse towards the camp, tightening his arms around his beloved. He nibbled her ear. “You have turned out to be a courageous diplomat, my love,” he murmured in his own language, not expecting she would understand.

  She leaned back against him and to his surprise replied in Norse. “Thanks to me, Hrolf will have no choice but to reward you handsomely, husband. I saved his wife and rescued his dreams of glory.”

  OATHS

  A fortnight later, Bryk and Cathryn stood hand in hand in Chartres cathedral. He thought it best not to mention it was the first time he’d ever been in a Christian church and not had looting on his mind.

  King Charles, Richard, Duke of Burgundy, and Robert, Margrave of Neustria, local magnates, bishops and abbots, bound themselves by the oath of the Catholic faith to Hrolf, who stood before them, Poppa at his side.

  They swore by their lives and their bodies and by the honor of the entire kingdom that he might hold the land and transmit it to his heirs from generation to generation throughout all time to come.

  “It’s a miracle,” Bryk whispered.

  Cathryn smiled. “If you pray and have faith—”

  Bryk squeezed her hand as the dignitaries trooped out of the cathedral. “The King looks content.”

  Cathryn giggled. “Not nearly as content as Hrolf, and you’d think Poppa had been crowned Queen of all Francia.”

  Bryk inhaled the fresh air once they exited the church. “Now we can return to Rouen and see to my trees.”

  Cathryn cringed. “You won’t be happy.”

  ~~~

  It came as a pleasant surprise to discover that many of Bryk’s trees had not only survived but flourished. The maidservant who’d welcomed them back to the Archbishop’s house in Rouen as if they were her long lost children explained. “His Grace instructed his gardener to take care of them.”

  “Evidently, we are acceptable now,” Cathryn said to Bryk in his language, all the while smiling at the maid who had previously shunned her.

  “Of course,” he replied. “Norsemen hold the power here now. Anyone who fails to respect you will answer to me.”

  Though the woman didn’t speak his language, she obviously understood his tone and the look in his eye. She smoothed back an errant curl, her gaze fixed on her feet. “His Grace has requested you meet him in his office.” She bobbed a curtsey and left.

  Cathryn burst out laughing. “I’ve never been curtseyed to before!”

  Bryk frowned. “What does he want, I wonder?”

  “I don’t know. He was uncomfortably interested in everything about me before I left with Poppa.”

  They made their way to the small chamber at the other end of the house. The Archbishop hadn’t arrived, but Cathryn was startled to see Javune seated in an ornate chair, looking nervous and unsure.

  He leapt to his feet when they entered. “Cathryn,” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” she replied.

  He shrugged. “I was summoned, no doubt to be punished for running away. I expect to be sent off to some remote monastery.”

  “But no robe,” Bryk said. “You wear ordinary clothes.”

  Before he could reply, Archbishop Franco swooped in, greeting them all with uncharacteristic good cheer and insisting they sit down. “We’re just waiting for one more person, then we’ll begin,” he said.

  He paced back and forth in a room too small for such an activity, hands clasped behind his back. After two or three uncomfortable minutes, the door creaked open. Cathryn leapt to her feet to embrace the unexpected visitor. “Ekaterina!” she exclaimed.

  ~~~

  As the old nun embraced him, a twinkle in her eye, Bryk was still preoccupied with Javune’s outfit. Obviously some Viking, possibly Torstein, had given him castoffs, but that wasn’t what bothered him.

  The last time he’d seen Javune after the defeat at Chartres, the young man had been stripped to the waist, and something about that had struck him as odd. He’d been too exhausted and defeated to think on it then, but he closed his eyes and tried to conjure the scene. Javune and Torstein were limping away. He’d been relieved they hadn’t suffered any wounds, although Javune had a mark on his back that looked like—

  He blinked his eyes wide open. “Jordbær,” he exclaimed.

  “Your pardon?” the Archbishop asked.

  Cathryn’s eyes filled with alarm as she glanced from him to Javune and back.

  She knows.

  Javune frowned nervously.

  Ekaterina winked.

  The Archbishop bade everyone regain their seats. He cleared his throat. “What I have to tell you will not be easy for me to say, nor for you to hear.”

  Bryk glanced at Cathryn. The courageous woman who’d helped his countrymen establish a claim to vast tracts of Francia suddenly looked like a frightened child. He swore under his breath to kill the cleric with his bare hands if anything that happened in the next few minutes resulted in harm to his wife.

  “Many years ago, twenty to be exact, my brother, Bernardus, drowned in the Seine.”

  Bryk’s heart lurched, his thoughts going to his brother whose body had never been recovered from the North Sea.

  Javune still frowned.

  Ekaterina’s eyes were closed but Bryk knew she wasn’t asleep.

  Cathryn’s mouth had fallen open.

  Franco cleared his throat again. “His wife, Faregilda, was with child. The shock of my brother’s death was so great, she took to her bed and never left it. She died in childbirth.”

  Javune scratched his scalp, obviously having no idea what was coming next, but Bryk knew.

  Ekaterina peeled open one eye, her face reddening as an unpleasant odor permeated the air. “Pardon,” she murmured.

  Cathryn seemed to be holding her breath, but Bryk doubted it was because of the reek of flatulence.

  Franco fidgeted with the sleeve of his cassock. “I was a young cleric, recently ordained. Our parents were dead. We had no siblings. At the time it seemed I had no option but to entrust my brother’s offspring to the Church.”

  Cathryn gripped the arms of her chair and stared at the Archbishop. “You left me in a basket on the doorstep of the convent,” she said hoarsely.

  “You and your brother,” Ekaterina said softly.

  All eyes swiveled to the nun.

  “I myself found the basket with two sleeping angels, a boy and a girl. Beautiful twins.”

  Javune’s leg had begun to twitch.

  Bryk took hold of Cathryn’s hand. It was ice cold. He felt helpless to help her deal with this astounding news.

  Ekaterina came to her feet. “When the boy turned one, the nuns decided he couldn’t stay at the convent. He was given to a married couple who had tried unsuccessfully to have children of their own. The girl, my sweet Cathryn, stayed at the convent.”

  Cathryn turned to Ekaterina. “Did you know the Archbishop was my uncle?”

  The nun shook her head. “I have suspicion only recently, when his Grace start to ask many questions, and when he directed me to accompany you to Jumièges.”

  Franco fell to his knees in front of Cathryn. “Forgive me. I was young. But you are my flesh and blood and I have followed your progress. I made sure you lacked noth
ing. I encouraged Mater Silvia to take you under her wing. It was no hardship for her. She loved you. I wanted you to meet Javune.”

  Bryk wanted to kiss away the tears streaming down his wife’s face. She had learned the identity of her parents, but so much had been taken away.

  Javune jumped to his feet. “I don’t understand what all this has to do with me,” he said. “If you’re going to send me off to a monastery, why do I have to sit and listen to this sad story?”

  Cathryn took his hand. “Because you are my brother.”

  He stared at her for long moments then pulled his hand away. “No. It cannot be true. My parents have another child, my older brother.”

  Franco came to his feet. “It has taken some time to discover what happened to you, Javune. Ekaterina didn’t know the name of the people who took you as their own, but she recalled the man had a large mole on his cheek.”

  Javune sucked in a breath.

  “There is only one man in Rouen with such a mark on his face. Faroin Crochette.”

  Javune shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Shortly after you went to live with them, Faroin discovered his wife was with child. They’ve admitted to lying to you because they wanted their own flesh and blood child to inherit. Your stepbrother is actually younger than you are.

  “As you grew to manhood, they feared you might discover the truth, so they sent you to a monastery.”

  Javune stared at the cleric. “Faroin Crochette is not my father?”

  Franco shook his head. “We mustn’t judge them. What they did was wrong, but—”

  Fury darkened Javune’s face. “There is no proof of any of this.”

  “You have a strawberry shaped birthmark on your lower back,” Cathryn said softly. “I saw it when Burgundy was questioning you.”

  “Of what consequence is that?” Javune retorted.

  “Cathryn has the same mark,” Bryk replied, when it became obvious his wife couldn’t speak.

  “You both inherited that mark from my brother. He and I inherited it from our father,” Archbishop Franco explained.

  “Da!” Ekaterina exclaimed, slapping her rump. “On the bottom.”