Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02

by The Rover Defiant

  THE ROVER DEFIANT

  By Anna Markland

  ©Copyright Anna Markland 2014

  Cover Art by Steven Novak

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  COPYRIGHT

  CATHRYN’S SON

  INGEBORG’S DAUGHTER

  NEVER TAKE A THRALL AS A FRIEND

  PREPARATIONS FOR A BAPTISM

  NEW BEGINNINGS

  WORLDS COLLIDE

  MISTAKEN IDENTITY

  TOO MUCH PRIDE

  LUNACY

  MIXED EMOTIONS

  KISS OF LIFE

  HIDDEN DEFIANCE

  THE ROPE BED

  A PROPOSAL

  FAREWELL BRAVE VIKINGS

  JAVUNE

  WAR

  VICTORY

  INTERVIEW WITH POPPA

  PARADISE FOUND

  THE PENDANT

  GOVERNOR

  HEROES RETURN

  REUNION

  JUDGEMENT

  GOODBYE, DEAR FRIEND

  TROUBLE AFOOT

  UNDER ATTACK

  BRYK’S EMBRACE

  A NEW HOME

  FULL CIRCLE

  A BARGAIN

  A WEDDING

  SWEET FEATHER BED

  EPILOGUE

  FAMILY TREE

  ANNA MARKLAND

  MORE ANNA MARKLAND

  DEDICATION

  Dedicated to victims of human trafficking.

  There is no easy walk to freedom anywhere, and many of us will have to pass through the valley of the shadow of death again and again before we reach the mountaintop of our desires. ~ Nelson Mandela

  COPYRIGHT

  © Copyright Anna Markland 2014

  ISBN 978-1-927619-32-2

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  All fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

  Near a grove of fledgling trees, Sonja stopped dead, her heart in her throat. The young man with the silver buckle was leaning with both hands on the long shaft of a gardening implement, stripped to the waist, sweat glistening on his sun bronzed skin. His hair was short, something she hadn’t noticed in the cathedral. Slicked back and tied behind his nape, it was as sleek as oiled ebony.

  CATHRYN’S SON

  Rouen, Terra Normanorum, Francia, 912 AD

  Torstein stared at the squirming newborn Alfred had placed in his arms. In an uncertain life filled with danger, real fear gripped him for the first time. His throat constricted, his belly churned.

  “Don’t be afraid,” his burly uncle reassured him with a smile, “you won’t drop your cousin.”

  It was easy for Alfred to say. He had ten children, and it was unlikely he would let this new nephew fall.

  But it wasn’t the prospect of dropping the red-faced babe, nor the unfamiliar odors lingering in the air that intensified Torstein’s unease.

  Did he dare murmur the word cousin? He mouthed it silently.

  Before being granted his freedom, he’d never been acknowledged as part of this family crammed into the small chamber to share the joy and relief of the new parents. He was the child of one of their sons, but his mother was a thrall.

  He gazed at the babe, searching for any resemblance to his dead father, swept away in a storm tide the autumn before the Vikings left their Norwegian coastal village forever in search of a new life. He saw none, but then he barely remembered Gunnar’s face.

  His last glimpse of his mother’s ashen mask of despair haunted him. The chieftain had declared her dead weight during the voyage from Møre to Francia. Torstein had watched in stunned disbelief as she was herded away with other slaves to the Danes’ market at Ribe.

  “Don’t worry,” the babe’s mother told him, jolting him from his memories. But her smile turned to a wince as Hannelore drew a bone comb through her tangled hair, startlingly black against the clean bolster. As she fussed with the comb, Alfred’s wife pulled the fresh linens up to Cathryn’s chin, clucking about modesty and too many men in the room.

  Torstein wanted to tell his aunt-by-marriage she looked serene, despite having labored for hours in the chamber in the Archbishop of Rouen’s house to bring forth her son. But he doubted his uncle Bryk would approve, despite his obvious euphoria at having sired a boy. His scowl clearly showed his unease with his nephew holding the babe. Torstein was grateful he’d been allowed into the chamber—he had Cathryn to thank for it.

  “He is beautiful,” he ventured, inhaling the cleansing aroma of the new life he held. A lifetime of servitude was difficult to forget, though his uncles had freed him months ago. He was aware many in the Viking community were of the opinion Bryk and Alfred had lost their wits when they’d granted him his freedom.

  “Bah!” Bryk Kriger exclaimed impatiently, taking the babe from Torstein’s wooden arms and holding him aloft. “Boys are not beautiful. They are handsome…sturdy…rugged.”

  The child’s lingering warmth seeped away. The new babe threw his arms wide and wailed loudly, kicking his legs. His father laughed, but his mother frowned.

  If the boy grew to be like Bryk, he would indeed be big and strong, whereas Torstein had inherited his mother’s frame and coloring. He was the only one in the family with dark hair, apart from Cathryn, and imagined he looked like a struggling sapling standing next to his uncles.

  But a man didn’t need muscles to be strong. Torstein might not be the celebrated warrior his uncle was, but he’d proven in the war against the Frankish army he had as much Viking blood in his veins as any of them.

  He’d led a revolt of slaves against their Frankish captors and helped his uncle rescue Cathryn from the enemy’s clutches.

  He wondered briefly if his dead father had felt pride and joy at his birth. The answer was hard to swallow. Gunnar had barely acknowledged his existence. After the storm tide, his uncle Bryk had become his master.

  But Odin had decided things would change. Though the battle against the Franks at Chartres had been lost, King Charles of Francia had conceded that the Vikings weren’t going away and would continue to fight for land to settle. He’d granted their leader, Hrolf Ganger, control of a huge swath of the Seine valley, including the city of Rouen, in exchange for Hrolf’s oath of fealty.

  Hrolf in turn had given fertile land on the banks of the mighty river to Bryk and Alfred, and they had bestowed freedom on Torstein and recognized him as their nephew.

  “What will you name him?” he rasped, suddenly uncomfortably aware of a jealous desire for a son of his own. As a thrall he’d sworn never to sire a child into slavery. But now—

  Cathryn smiled again, her eyes full of love for her husband and the child he toted face down on his hip as if it were something he’d done for years. This wa
s Bryk’s firstborn, but he’d evidently observed his older brother. “We decided on Bernard, after my father. Though I never knew him, I wish to honor his memory.”

  Torstein often felt greater kinship with Cathryn, a Frank by birth, than with his own flesh and blood. But his aunt-by-marriage had been raised in a convent and made no secret of her abhorrence of the notion of slavery. Her generous heart had prompted the naming of her son after the father who’d drowned in the Seine before she’d been born. What would it be like to have such a woman look at him with adoration in her eyes in the way Cathryn looked at her husband?

  Bryk’s booming voice brought him back to the present. “But Magnus is the name he’ll be known by. After my father.”

  My grandfather.

  The realization stunned Torstein. He had only a vague memory of the giant warrior who’d somehow managed to go a-viking frequently and run a productive farm in Møre. He’d died in his sleep at a ripe old age. After his death, Alfred and Gunnar had taken over the family farm and apple orchards.

  Bryk had followed in his father’s roving footsteps. But a few years ago he’d suddenly turned his back on murder and mayhem and joined his brothers. Most in Møre deemed him a coward for his actions. His first wife, Hrolf Ganger’s sister, had died of shame. Myldryd had taken their unborn child to the grave.

  Torstein felt great joy for his uncle’s newfound happiness with a wife he loved and a healthy son. He’d at first agreed with the settlement’s condemnation of Bryk Gardbruker. But in the course of the war with the Franks, he’d come to see his uncle was a man of great courage and strength, a hero deserving of the ballads the skalds sang of him around the campfires. He’d left Norway a nithing, but now Hrolf recognized him as one of his most worthy and trusted lieutenants. Bryk Gardbruker had been renamed Bryk Kriger—the Farmer was now the Warrior.

  Torstein’s bravery at Chartres hadn’t gone unnoticed by his fellow Vikings, and he hoped one day to be as celebrated as his uncle, which might take a miracle.

  The Christian Franks often spoke in hushed tones of miracles wrought by the Vite Krist. Torstein had become an adherent of their faith, as had all the Vikings—the acceptance of the White Christ a condition imposed by King Charles the Senseless. But he sensed deep in his heart that entreaties to Freyja, goddess of fertility, might be more productive if he embarked on a search for a wife.

  Magnus Bernard was now wailing insistently. Bryk handed him back to his mother. “He’s hungry,” he said in Norse, cocking his head towards Torstein. “Best you leave now.”

  Hannelore waved her hands as if she was shooing chickens from the chamber. “How can this woman regain her strength with so many sweaty men in here? Out! Out!”

  Torstein wondered if perhaps Alfred’s wife was jealous of the attention Cathryn was receiving. It was unlikely many well-wishers had attended any of her confinements. However, her unusually disheveled appearance and sweat-matted hair attested to her having travailed hard and long in assisting with the birth.

  Torstein had to leave, but his feet refused to move. A dangerous impulse to watch Cathryn suckle her child seized him. He thirsted for what Bryk had. He imagined his uncle’s delight at watching his wife feed their son, a boy who belonged to the first generation of a new nation of people.

  However, Bryk would kill him if he suspected Torstein harbored a notion to look upon Cathryn’s breasts.

  He wasn’t interested in his aunt-by-marriage that way. As he’d grown to manhood in Norway, only one woman had caught his eye, and the interest of his pikk. She was the daughter of a Viking nobleman from a neighboring settlement and sister to two hulking louts he’d steered clear of in Chartres. Sonja Karlsdatter didn’t know he existed.

  INGEBORG’S DAUGHTER

  Sonja Karlsdatter wrinkled her nose in distaste and held her breath as the baby girl her older sister had labored for more than a day to bring forth slid into the world. It was the fifth time she’d been obliged to assist at Ingeborg’s confinement and it never got any easier. The blood, the shrieks of pain and the stench made her belly roil, and it was difficult to feel sympathy for the strident wailing of a woman she disliked.

  Her tongue had got the better of her and she’d harangued Ingeborg several times. “You should be grateful to be birthing your child in an opulent house in Rouen and not in the Viking camp.”

  Many still dwelt under canvas there, despite the months that had passed since King Charles had granted the town to Hrolf.

  “It’s one of the benefits of having a wealthy and powerful father,” she’d reminded her sister.

  Karl Ragnarsen had easily convinced a Frankish nobleman to part with his house for more gold than it was worth.

  During the voyage from Norway, thralls had taken care of Ingeborg’s other children. Those still suckling had been farmed to wet nurses. Sonja had barely set eyes on them in the five long days it had taken to journey by sea to the valley of the Seine.

  Rouen had fallen quickly to the Vikings, and their father and older brothers had left with the warriors fighting King Charles in the hope of wresting more land near Chartres. Ingeborg and Sonja and their mother had enjoyed the best Rouen had to offer—good and plentiful food, fine fabrics and linens, traveling entertainers. The chieftain’s concubine, Poppa of Bayeux had made sure the noble Viking ladies were well taken care of.

  However, Ingeborg had never made any secret of her resentment of the sister who’d stolen their parents’ love.

  “Another girl,” their mother gushed, cooing as she wrapped the screeching red object in swaddling cloths. Thankfully, Sonja had never been asked to take on that task. She prayed the day would never come.

  Babies were smelly, demanding, prune-like creatures, and she resolved to avoid this newcomer until she reached the age of two. Then her nieces and nephews became likeable.

  Ingeborg sank back onto the soiled mattress, pouting her disappointment. “Arval hoped the first child born in Francia would be a boy.”

  Sonja clenched her jaw, praying fervently she would never be married off to a man for whom there’d be no joy at the news of a daughter. Arval was greedy. He already had two healthy lads.

  She impatiently dabbed the perspiration off her sister’s forehead with a fresh cloth then drew the antler comb through her matted hair. Their mother placed the babe across Ingeborg’s swollen breasts, then rushed off to tell Arval the news.

  Sonja glanced down at her own breasts. They were little apples compared to Ingeborg’s melons. A giggle rose up in her throat at the notion of Ingeborg with two ripe melons strapped to her chest.

  Her sister eyed her curiously. “What’s funny?”

  Sonja stifled the giggle. “Nothing. I was thinking how pretty she is,” she lied. Like all Arval’s children, this babe had her father’s hooknose.

  To her horror, the pouting Ingeborg thrust the child at her. “Take her. I’m exhausted.”

  It was as if a red-hot coal had been placed in her grasp. She held the wriggling child out at arms’ length. Her heart stopped beating. Dizzy with nausea, she tightened her grip, fearful she might drop the precious bundle. What was taking Mother so long? Arval would instantly sense her discomfort if he entered now and—

  She suddenly became aware the child had stilled. Her gaze swiveled from the door to the babe’s face. Its eyes were closed, its skin mottled. Panic flared in her belly. She shook her head, hazarding a glance at the softly-snoring Ingeborg. Surely the child wasn’t dead? Had she squeezed too hard?

  She held her breath, an ear to the babe’s mouth, her head swimming with the dire punishments ahead if she’d killed Arval’s daughter. He might not have wanted another girl, but he’d be murderously belligerent if Sonja had throttled her.

  Close to tears, she looked back at the babe’s face. Suddenly, the lifeless eyes blinked open, and the fragile scrap of humanity smiled, melting her heart.

  Her knees threatened to buckle with relief. Aware her father was engaged in seeking a wealthy Frankish nobleman as her husband
, she prayed to the goddess Freyja to render her barren. Bringing children into the world was too hard on the body and the heart.

  The door banged open, raising the hair on her nape. Arval strode into the chamber, reeking of ale, his disheveled red hair writhing like a nest of snakes. His face was even redder.

  The noise, or perhaps the stink of an unwashed male body, startled Ingeborg awake. She seemed to realize she’d handed the child over to her sister. Glaring at Sonja, she held out her arms. “Return her to me, if you please.”

  Before Sonja had a chance to comply, Arval plucked the child from her grasp. “My daughter,” he declared, grinning broadly as he gazed at the newest addition to his brood. “She is beautiful.”

  He leaned over his wife to peck a kiss on her cheek then carried the babe from the chamber, ignoring the protestations of his mother-by-marriage standing on the threshold.

  Ingeborg burst into wailing tears. Olga rushed to her daughter’s side, clucking words of comfort. Sonja rolled her eyes as she stole unnoticed through the open door, relieved to be free at last of the belly-churning odors of the oppressive chamber.

  NEVER TAKE A THRALL AS A FRIEND

  Wanting to get closer to his wife, Bryk pulled a small stool up beside Cathryn’s bed, hoping it wouldn’t give way under his weight. He smoothed his hand over the suckling babe’s bald head. The child had no hair, but he suspected his son would inherit his blonde coloring. He touched the backs of his fingers to the side of Cathryn’s swollen breast. “Motherhood has made you more beautiful, if that were possible,” he rasped, wishing he was the one sucking noisily on the rigid nipple he knew well.

  She glanced up at him and smiled, sending more blood rushing to his pikk. He thanked Freyja yet again for the gift of this remarkable woman who had brought light to his dark life.

  “I am happy you were here for our child’s birth, Bryk. I missed you,” she said.

  Was it a trick of his mind, or had her voice become even sultrier? He looked up at the treasured three-paneled altarpiece atop the armoire, conjuring an image of Cathryn kneeling in prayer before it. The flame from the chamber’s lone candle flickered over the figure of Saint Catherine of Alexandria hammered into the gilded copper. “But you had your patron saint to watch over you while I was gone,” he said.