Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02

by The Rover Defiant

  “I am concerned for my loved ones fighting far away,” she said, glad of someone to share her torment with. “I barely know my twin brother, and if something should happen to him—”

  “Javune?” Sonja asked softly, her face reddening. “I confess I at first thought Torstein was your brother.”

  Cathryn patted her hand. “That dawned on me after the first meeting. Your confusion was understandable, given our similar coloring. However, Torstein is determined to return covered in glory in order to win you,” she said. “And you fret he will take unnecessary risks.”

  Sonja grasped Cathryn’s hand. “My brothers are still at the front, and I’m concerned for them, of course, but my biggest fear is what they might do to Torstein if they discover—” Her eyes filled with tears. “But you have concerns of your own. You miss your husband.”

  Cathryn smiled. “I do. And I don’t know how I’ll go on if he falls in battle. But I’ve had a recurring dream that he is well, and close to finding the land he wants.”

  PARADISE FOUND

  Rollo had promised parcels of land to the victorious Vikings, and scouting groups fanned out through the valley of the River Orne as men sought the piece they wished to claim.

  He had hinted at his intention to appoint Bryk as Governor of this new area of Viking dominance. The search for the land he wanted hadn’t yet yielded results, but Bryk was confident Rollo would grant it to him once he found it.

  It rankled that Sven had been named as one of the men entitled to land, whereas Torstein had not, but the opportunity to speak to Rollo never seemed to arise, and what would he say anyway?

  Javune had turned down the opportunity of land in the valley with the excuse he intended to return to Rouen and settle there. It was perplexing, but Bryk ought to have known the lovesick youth would want to be close to Kaia.

  He resolved to endow his nephew with a portion of his own grant, otherwise he’d never hear the end of it from Cathryn. And he’d feel better too.

  One afternoon he and a group of warriors that included Sven, Torstein, and the Karlsens, urged their tired horses to the top of a gradual rise. Sonja’s brothers had taken to following Sven everywhere, insisting their future brother-by-marriage was obliged to provide them with the new shields.

  Torstein didn’t avoid the two men, instead flaunting his shield at every opportunity. It amused Bryk. The slave had become the master! He had something they wanted.

  They’d been riding for hours, and this would be their last hill before turning back for the main camp downstream.

  Two or three of the men, including Sven, had decided upon choice pieces of land they wanted to claim. Torstein had merely shrugged his shoulders when Sven had asked his opinion of the fertile slope he’d picked out, glaring at Bryk when he commented it was an excellent choice.

  Frits and Kennet had congratulated Sven heartily, commenting how impressed Sonja would be with his decision. To Bryk’s relief, Torstein had walked away, fists clenched.

  He understood his nephew’s torment, but was at a loss what to do about it. Having learned of Sven’s betrothal to Sonja, he now realized what stood between the two young men was more complicated than jealousy over land. Their rivalry for a woman didn’t bode well, especially since Sven was plainly unaware of Torstein’s interest. It was a contest Torstein could never win.

  Preoccupied with these thoughts, he was the first to top the rise where he reined Fisk to a halt and scanned the horizon. What he saw stole the breath from his lungs. He blinked, narrowed his eyes and looked again at a nearby rocky outcropping. He swiveled his head when Torstein reached his side, reassured by the lad’s gaping stare. His wits hadn’t failed him.

  “Do you see it?” he asked, not doubting for a moment that the outline of the rock was the profile of a man’s face. But not just any man.

  “It’s you,” Torstein rasped.

  Bryk had seen the profile of his father’s face, but supposed since he resembled his sire—

  The distinctive outcropping jutted from a gently sloping promontory covered with white pearlwort, lichen and onyxflowers. Miles and miles of verdant flat land surrounded it. He inhaled deeply, his heart racing. “This is where I will plant my orchards and build my dwelling of stone,” he declared, never more certain of anything in his life. “My son and his sons will watch over and nurture this land.”

  He turned to his nephew, amazed to see tears welling in his eyes.

  “It’s a fine place. I am happy for you, onkel,” Torstein said hoarsely, and Bryk knew his joy was genuine. He’d done nothing to deserve his nephew’s adulation, and yet it was evident the youth loved him.

  Torstein’s emotions were mixed. Happiness for his uncle constricted his throat. At last! The Eden he sought. He smiled, conjuring an image of Cathryn looking out from the promontory, Magnus on her hip.

  A calm sense of the rightness of it filled him. Bryk’s descendants would prosper and rule in this perfect location. He smelled the apple blossom from the acres and acres of trees Bryk would cultivate.

  He would gladly labor to help his uncle. He enjoyed hard work, especially when it was freely given.

  But he foresaw no place for himself and Sonja here. His uncle would never understand and accept his feelings and aspirations. Bryk might offer him a token portion of this claim, for appearances sake. Torstein would refuse it. He would earn his own piece of Francia.

  Rollo didn’t yet deem him worthy. But the day would come.

  THE PENDANT

  Rouen was awash with excitement. Rollo had sent word of the victory over the Bretons. Poppa of Bayeux called for an assembly of the townspeople in the cathedral.

  Cathryn made her way there, free of the anxiety for her husband that had lain heavily on her heart. Poppa had reassured her privately of his well-being.

  Sonja carried Magnus. Alfred, his pregnant wife and their brood accompanied them. Hannelore talked of nothing other than the house Alfred was building near the Seine. A twinge of jealousy spiked Cathryn’s heart, as it had whenever she’d been invited to view Alfred’s progress, but she reminded herself Bryk was searching for the right place to settle. She asked her patron saint once more for patience. Living in a small chamber at the Archbishop’s residence was increasingly difficult with a growing boy. However, there was much to be said for being catered to by servants and having comfortable shelter.

  Sonja did her best to join in the air of celebration, but Cathryn recognized the girl’s inner turmoil. She’d spent more and more time with Cathryn as her estrangement from her parents worsened, often staying overnight. Cathryn had to admit it was comforting to have another warm body in the bed, and Sonja often got up during the night if Magnus woke in distress. She suspected the girl slept very little in any case.

  To her relief, she and her companions were ushered to the front benches upon arrival at the cathedral, alleviating her worry she might have to stand for hours. Poppa swept in to take a seat in the opposite front row, unexpectedly nodding at Cathryn.

  A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd when the Archbishop climbed the steps to the ambo. Everyone, including Cathryn, had apparently assumed Poppa would be delivering the speech.

  He bowed to Poppa, then bestowed a knowing smile upon his niece and Magnus before coughing into his hand. Something was going on, but what?

  “People of Rouen,” he intoned. “Norsemen, Franks, Neustrians, Burgundians, all who live in peace in this historic town.”

  Heads nodded and those who understood the Frankish tongue murmured an explanation to those who didn’t.

  “I stand before you this day, humbled to impart to you the words of our Duke, Rollo.”

  A memory surfaced behind her eyes of this same uncle standing atop a windswept Saint Catherine’s Hill, defiantly informing the invading Viking chieftain of the loyalty of the people of Rouen to King Charles. “God works in mysterious ways,” she whispered to Sonja.

  “We rejoice and give thanks to God that the enemy has been driven fr
om the valley of the Orne.”

  People glanced at their neighbors, uncertainty on their faces as to whether cheering was allowed in this holy place. The Archbishop encouraged them with an enthusiastic gesture.

  The cheers and applause went on for several minutes after her uncle called for silence. Much as she admired him and was beginning to feel a certain fondness, he didn’t have Rollo’s presence.

  Silence wasn’t restored until Poppa turned and glared at the congregation whereupon the Archbishop continued. “Many of our victorious warriors, Vikings and Franks alike, have laid claim to land in the newly conquered region.”

  A shiver of apprehension slithered up Cathryn’s spine.

  “It is our Duke’s wish and command that we colonize the area as quickly as possible. Families whose names appear on this list,”—with great flourish he stretched out his arm and unfurled a long piece of parchment—“are encouraged to join their menfolk.”

  Loud gasps greeted this pronouncement. Eyes were riveted on the dangling document, including Cathryn’s.

  Magnus fussed in Sonja’s arms. Cathryn turned to take him, alarmed to see Sonja’s face had paled alarmingly. “Courage,” she whispered. “Don’t lose hope.”

  Tears streamed down Sonja’s face. Cathryn wanted to reassure her, but it was unlikely her friend’s name was on the list, unless Sven had inscribed it there.

  The Archbishop continued. “Preparations for the migration of families will get underway immediately.” Then he grinned at Cathryn again. “With great personal pride,” he continued, “I announce the appointment of my nephew-by-marriage, Bryk Kriger, as Governor of the Orne valley.”

  Alfred leapt to his feet, his fist thrust in the air. “Ja!” he declared. Hannelore giggled, pulling at his tunic to get him to sit down, but by now most of the congregation was on its feet cheering. His boys jumped up and down on the bench, obviously delighted at the change in the rules of behavior in this gloomy place.

  Magnus stared first at them, then at his mother. Laughing, she clutched him to her breast, certain her husband had found his Eden.

  Sonja declined Cathryn’s invitation to join the family for a celebration at Alfred’s new house. “My name isn’t on the list,” she murmured.

  Cathryn handed Magnus to Hannelore. “Take him, please.”

  Her sister-by-marriage obliged and disappeared into the dwelling with her nephew.

  “You knew it wouldn’t be,” she told her friend. “You should be relieved Sven didn’t add your name to the list which would have sealed your fate.”

  “My parents will be mortified,” Sonja said.

  “What of Sven’s mother?” Cathryn asked. “Have you seen her?”

  Sonja rolled her eyes. “She nearly bowled me over when we were leaving the cathedral, insisting I go with the migration, though I’m not on the list.”

  Cathryn chewed her lip, hesitating to speak what was in her mind. When the Vikings had first come to Francia, disguised as a man, she had traveled into territory more dangerous than the valley of the Orne to be with Bryk. She hoped Saint Catherine would approve of her decision. “Perhaps you should come with us. It’s fitting the son of a Governor have his own nanny.”

  The spark of gratitude in Sonja’s dead eyes spurred her on. “Besides, it will be easier to leave behind everyone I love if I have a friend with me.”

  Sonja frowned. “Alfred’s family, and your uncle?”

  A pang of sorrow tugged as Cathryn’s heart acknowledged whom she would miss the most. “And Ekaterina.”

  Sonja arched one brow. “The old nun? You’re afraid you’ll never see her again,” she said.

  “She’s always been part of my life,” Cathryn replied. “It was she who discovered me and Javune in a basket on the doorstep of the convent.”

  “And she was with you in Jumièges when Bryk took the town.”

  A memory of the first time she’d met Bryk flooded Cathryn. She’d known then he was her destiny, despite his foreign appearance and speech. “Ekaterina saw the good as soon as she set eyes on him.”

  Sonja chuckled. “And it’s difficult to ignore her when she’s in a room.”

  Cathryn smiled. “Yes, she does create some distinctive odors, but I’ve come to love that about her.”

  Sonja linked arms with her. “She’s old. No one lives forever.”

  Cathryn appreciated her friend’s comforting gesture. “We used to jest in the convent that Ekaterina was alive when the relics of Saint Catherine were first discovered in the Year of Our Lord Eight Hundred. Of course it’s impossible, though she is the only one of the nuns who actually served in the monastery dedicated to the martyr on Mount Sinai. I suppose I want her to live forever.”

  Sonja inhaled deeply, putting a hand on her neck. “Ja. Life is short. Touching my birth amulet used to help me ward off such thoughts, but I gave it to Torstein.”

  Cathryn’s sprits lifted as she fingered her silver pendant of Freyja. “When I first met Bryk, he gave me this pendant. I treasured it, but when we married he presented me with an engraved rune plate.”

  She fished the copper amulet out from beneath her dress and read the inscription. “When two hearts yearn for each other, the hotter the flame of love waxes.”

  Sonja blinked away tears. “He loves you a lot.”

  Thanksgiving for the certainty of her husband’s love filled Cathryn’s heart. “As Torstein loves you. I don’t need two charms.”

  She lifted the pendant over her head and settled it around Sonja’s neck. “It’s fitting I give it to you. It belonged to Myldryd.”

  Sonja lay her palm over the silver goddess. “I vaguely remember meeting her when we visited Møre. She was beautiful. Thank you.”

  “So, it’s settled. On behalf of Torstein, I give you the pendant.”

  Sonja tucked the gift down inside the neckline of her dress. “I pray Freyja works the same magic for me and Torstein.”

  Cathryn hugged her. “Are you sure you won’t come into Alfred’s house? You are welcome.”

  Sonja conceded, but as they entered the warm dwelling, Cathryn reluctantly admitted inwardly it would take more than magic to seal a union between a freed thrall and a Viking noblewoman.

  It would take a miracle.

  GOVERNOR

  Bryk had invited Rollo to ride out to the land he’d chosen. Approval had come immediately. “Good thing I didn’t see it first,” his chieftain jested, slapping Bryk on the back.

  He’d ordered the entire camp be moved close to the promontory, declaring it appropriate the formal ceremony naming Bryk as Governor be conducted there.

  Kneeling before Rollo, surrounded by hundreds of warriors, Bryk looked out at his land, certain he’d made the right decision. The Duke had grunted at his choice of squire to stand beside him holding his axe and spear, but Bryk had insisted Torstein was the only blood relative present.

  He wished with all his heart Cathryn was there to share the honor about to be bestowed upon him, but preparations were already underway for families to migrate from Rouen. He intended to construct a dwelling of stone, but in the interim he and Torstein had already started work on a sizable wattle and daub shelter.

  He conjured a vision of Cathryn’s face as she looked out at the verdant fields. Would she see the orchards in her mind’s eye, as he did?

  He planned to take Magnus and his future sons and daughters riding far and wide throughout his land.

  The wind whipped his hair over his face. He raked it back with his fingers, suddenly aware of the dampness of the grass on which he knelt seeping through his leggings. He looked up at Rollo. His Duke was studying him. How long had the chieftain waited for his attention?

  To his surprise, Rollo winked and bent low to his ear. “You and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, Bryk Kriger,” he rasped. “What happened with Myldryd—” He inhaled deeply. “My sister would have loved this place.”

  Bryk was astonished. It wasn’t in Rollo’s nature to admit past mistakes, but this wa
s the closest he’d ever come to expressing regret for Myldryd’s suicide. It seemed her death had weighed on the chieftain’s mind. For years he’d longed to harangue Rollo, to curse him to Hel. Now his first wife and his own heart were at peace.

  Rollo straightened and drew his sword. Bryk looked up. His chieftain’s flowing white mane seemed one with the sky. “If we were in Norway,” Rollo declared loudly, “I would name this warrior as jarl of these lands. But we are subjects of the king of Francia now.” He winked again at Bryk. “Therefore I name Bryk Kriger Comte of the lands of the Norsemen in the valley of the Orne, and I designate this place as the center of government for the region. It shall henceforth be known as Mont de Bryk.”

  Bryk smiled inwardly. Cathryn would be pleased Rollo had named his land in the Frankish tongue, but his elation vanished as the enormous sword came down onto his shoulders, one after the other, like Thor’s hammer. He steadied his breathing, giving thanks to Odin Rollo had used the flat edge of the weapon.

  Torstein’s knees threatened to buckle when Rollo’s sword landed heavily on his uncle’s shoulders. The giant was nothing if not unpredictable. Surely he didn’t intend to chop off Bryk’s head?

  It was more likely he’d take a swing at the freed thrall standing at the new Comte’s side. He flinched, prepared to dart out of the way, but the Duke sheathed his weapon and strode off, Bryk in tow. Torstein hurried after them, holding firm to his uncle’s axe, spear and new tapered shield.

  His selection as Bryk’s squire had given him new hope. His uncle had shrugged off his stammered words of gratitude, but they both recognized the significance of the gesture. Those who still considered him a slave would have to change their attitude now.

  The copper amulet rested against his chest. The metal was cold, but the memory of Sonja’s response to his touch was a firebrand to his soul, strengthening his resolve to remove the two remaining obstacles. He had to convince Rollo he was deserving of a grant of land, and he had to get rid of Sven.