Liette bit her bottom lip. “Mutton, my lady, with parsnips. Hard to find meat these days but the Norseman—”
Magnus had provided food. Her heart raced. “You’ve done well, Liette. Thank you,” she said hoarsely.
The peasant’s eyes widened then she quickly bobbed a curtsey and left. Judith surmised the woman wasn’t often the recipient of praise.
Theodoric looked nervously at the food in front of him, then at Judith. He picked up his eating dagger. “I suppose I’ll have to, er—”
Who had educated this young man? Did he have no notion of manners and customs? Or perhaps things were done differently in Ponthieu. “In Flandres, it’s customary for the man to cut the choicest piece and serve it to his lady.” The words tasted like parchment. She was this man’s lady.
He nodded vigorously, his eyes wide. “Yes. Same here. I’ll just—”
He sliced into the mutton, leaned forward and scraped her share onto her trencher. She was tempted to tell him he was supposed to pass it with the dagger, but a ring of green mold on the edge of her trencher caught her attention and she pushed the mutton away from it with her fingertip. There was no way of knowing how long the bread trenchers had been in the house. Stale was one matter, moldy another. On the morrow, she’d speak to Liette about baking fresh bread.
Her husband picked at his food, cutting off bits of meat and nibbling them, putting her in mind of a rabbit. When it became apparent she was to be given no utensil, she broke off an edge of the trencher that looked to be mold-free and ate with her fingers. Sustenance was more important than etiquette if she was to survive this ordeal.
Theodoric poked at his parsnips.
She swallowed a morsel of surprisingly tasty mutton and took a sip of watered wine, wishing it was apple brandy. “Liette is a good cook,” she ventured.
He looked up, frowning.
He has no notion of conversation.
“Yes,” he finally murmured. “She was my father’s cook.”
This news lifted her spirits. “Is she also the cook at the abbey?”
He smiled for the first time. “Yes. One of them.”
His face transformed as if by magic, his beauty taking her by surprise. “You should smile more often,” she said without thinking.
He blushed, breaking off a chunk of his trencher. “There hasn’t been a great deal of happiness recently.”
The bitterness in his words shook her. “I understand. Believe me, I am as unhappy as you.”
He gazed at her across the table, his eyes welling with tears. “I suppose we can be friends.”
She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of their predicament. It struck her she’d never had a friend, other than Beatrice. “But we are man and wife, Theodoric.”
He leaned forward abruptly and grasped both her hands in a surprisingly strong grip. “Please call me Theo. I can never be the kind of husband you want, Judith,” he rasped, his eyes wholly on her hands. “Women do not interest me, and I can’t—”
In the lengthening silence, he brushed his thumbs along hers, over and over. It was strangely calming, despite the sinfulness of what he was trying to tell her.
“Why did you agree to the marriage?” she asked softly.
He looked up sharply, his face contorted with anger. “We were threatened.”
She frowned in confusion. “With what?”
He gritted his teeth. “Excommunication.”
Her mouth fell open. “I don’t understand.”
He let go of her hands. “The bishop of Saint Riquier threatened to excommunicate me and Father Innocent if I didn’t agree to the betrothal. I care nothing of the consequences for myself, but for Charles—”
She wondered for a moment who Charles was, but then realized it must be the priest’s given name.
Theo looked so bereft she feared he might burst into tears.
“For him to be damned for eternity,” he choked. “I had no choice.”
In her dreams of marriage Judith had imagined her husband whispering many things, but being told her new groom had married her to save his male lover from eternal damnation left her drained, empty. “I had no choice either, Theo, but you’re right we must be friends,” she murmured. “Otherwise, we’ll both go mad.”
He looked relieved. “I’ll sleep in the stable,” he said.
A lonely future loomed. “No. This is your house. By the hearth, perhaps,” she replied, rising from her chair. “Excuse me, but I am tired.”
He came to his feet quickly and bowed as she made her way to the bedchamber, pondering how Arnulf had convinced the Bishop of Saint Riquier to coerce Theodoric into this marriage. And where was this elusive Bishop?
CONSTANT PREOCCUPATION
A sharp rap on the door of his cell at Saint Riquier woke Magnus from a fitful sleep. He groaned, knowing when he turned onto his side, there’d be no hint of grey light seeping beneath the door. “Not yet dawn,” he muttered. A billet in an abandoned monastery provided unexpected comfort, despite the musty linens, but why did the old priest believe he and Dag had to observe a pre-dawn monastic routine?
He unsuccessfully willed away the rock hard erection he’d woken with every morning since meeting Judith. Awakening pleasantly aroused was nothing new, but the intensity of his longing for the Flemish woman had him in knots.
He sighed at the inevitability of having to rise and face another day of riding back and forth between Abbatis and Saint Riquier. Duke Vilhelm had returned to Rouen to inform the Council of events at Montreuil, leaving Magnus in charge of the area north of the town. Most of his men were camped in fields near the abbey, but he and Dag had opted for bedding down in the unused cells at the abbey. Bendik and a contingent of knights from the Cotentin were lodged in Abbatis.
Scratching the back of his head, he stretched as he sat up, planting his feet on the stone floor. The chill soared into his spine. He shivered with irritation. How was it he forgot every morning the floor was cold? He looked up when Dag shoved open the door and staggered in, coughing. He looked pale and bleary-eyed and Magnus felt a pang of guilt that his brother had been afflicted with the same malady plaguing him.
“Any brandy left?” Dag croaked.
Magnus gestured to the alcove recessed into the wall. “Not a lot. Don’t guzzle it. That’s the last, unless we can coerce Bendik into giving up his.”
Dag grabbed the flask and slumped onto the bed next to Magnus. He uncorked the vessel and took a swig, then handed it to his brother.
Magnus stoppered the flask. “I’ll save it for later. Something tells me I’ll need it.”
“It definitely helps,” Dag rasped, licking his lips.
Magnus yawned. “Makes me feel like home isn’t too far away,” he murmured.
Dag flopped backwards onto the bed, his legs dangling over the side. “I admit this adventure is getting tiresome.”
Magnus shrugged. “At least you get to stay here. My horse can follow the lane to Abbatis and back without my help.”
Dag sat up and belched. “You think it’s wonderful staying here for a fortnight? The abbey is practically the only building left standing.”
The fumes from Dag’s breath tempted Magnus to drink the rest of the brandy now, but he decided against it. He slapped his brother’s thigh. “Be off. Bring my breakfast.”
Dag flopped back on the bed. “Your turn.”
Magnus rose and dragged his brother to his feet. “You are second in command, remember, which means I give the orders and you obey.” He winked, spreading his arms wide. “Besides, you’re dressed and I am not.”
He regretted the impulse when Dag eyed him up and down and smirked. “Dreaming again of the lovely Judith, I see.”
Magnus grabbed the bolster and belted him with it. “Go.”
Dag fled as dust and feathers flew and he coughed deeply. “Curses, Magnus. Someday.”
Magnus groaned when he glanced down at the lingering evidence of his arousal. No wonder his attempts to hide his desire for Ju
dith hadn’t fooled Dag. The woman played on his mind, and he was constantly preoccupied with sifting his fingers through her chestnut curls. Were her nipples dark?
He growled his frustration aloud. He’d resisted the temptation to call into Theodoric’s house as he’d ridden past each day, but it hadn’t been easy.
He was relieved yet stupidly disappointed not to catch a brief glimpse of her as he galloped by, wondering how she fared with her new husband. Theodoric, it appeared, had stayed away from the abbey, and Father Innocent seemed to spend most of his time on his knees before the altar.
Magnus deemed it a pity the cleric hadn’t offered comfort to the local peasant farmers who had lost everything. Now the rain had at last stopped, it was Norsemen from Montdebryk who labored to rebuild demolished cottages while keeping a weather eye out for Arnulf’s possible return with reinforcements.
The old priest ventured out from time to time. Magnus had learned his name was Father Septimus.
He strode to the ewer and filled the chipped bowl. He scooped water on to his face, then lifted the bowl over his head. Gasping as the cold water cascaded over his shoulders, he put the bowl down and washed his body, relieved the dousing had put paid to his arousal. He retrieved the drying cloth hanging on a peg, rubbed his hair then wrapped the linen around his hips, tucking it tight at his waist.
Dag staggered through the door, tumblers of ale in his hands, a loaf tucked under his arm. The aroma of fresh bread filled the air. He eyed Magnus. “I see the cold water trick worked.”
Magnus grabbed the bread. “You’re too bold, brother,” he said with a smile.
They sat on the edge of the bed in companionable silence, chewing the bread and a tasty cheese Dag produced from inside his gambeson.
“No ham?” Magnus asked.
Dag shrugged. “Liette took it to Theodoric’s house, apparently on your orders,” he explained with his mouth full.
Magnus winced. “I forgot.”
Dag took a hefty swallow of ale. “Have you informed her of the ransom?”
Magnus hated to admit he’d avoided it for several days. “I intend to tell her today.”
Dag thumped his chest with his fist and belched again. “Will Arnulf pay?”
The truth tasted sour in Magnus’s mouth. “No,” he spat.
“Will he try to recapture Montreuil?”
Magnus was a warrior. The blood of Vikings ran in his veins, and he had no fear of death. But the prospect of the conflict over Montreuil going on and on saddened him beyond his comprehension. “Losing the town is a humiliation. He is honor bound to try to win it back.”
A fit of coughing racked Dag again. “By Odin,” he rasped trying to catch his breath, “I hope Vilhelm sends relief troops soon. I have no desire to remain here.”
Magnus slapped his brother’s back hard. “And I should be at home with Aleksandra and Brynhild. I intend to petition the duke.”
Dag wiped his watery eyes. “Little girls need a mother.”
Magnus yanked off the towel and found his leggings. “They had a mother. She died.”
Dag scowled. “Surely you don’t plan to remain a widower? It’s your duty to sire sons. You’re still young, strong and healthy, Magnus. Any woman would be delighted to marry such a husband. Judith for example—”
Magnus gritted his teeth. “Judith is wed to another. She can never be mine, and I don’t want another wife.”
Dag shrugged. “Neither of those things is true, and you know it.”
~*~*~
“No matter how long you crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the Viking through the window slit,” Beatrice said from where she stood near the table, “he won’t stop on his way by.”
Shame filled Judith’s heart. She was Theodoric’s wife, though she had no notion where he spent his days. Yet, disappointment flooded her heart when Magnus galloped by twice each day. Was he avoiding her? She moved towards the cold hearth. “It’s of no consequence to me if he calls in or not,” she lied. “There’s naught else to do here except look out at the lane.”
Beatrice grunted. “The last part is true, but you cannot fool me, Judith of Valognes. You long for the Norseman.” She laughed. “And why not! Those muscles and long powerful legs. Not to mention his handsome face.”
A shiver of desire snaked up Judith’s thighs. “Beatrice,” she scolded, tears pricking her eyes. “For shame.”
“Oh my darling girl.” Her maid stretched wide her arms and Judith went willingly into her embrace, trying unsuccessfully to stifle the sob constricting her throat.
Beatrice kissed the top of her head. “Crying is good, my pet.”
Judith sobbed into the bosom of the woman who was the closest thing to a mother she’d ever had. “It’s sinful. My wishing he was my husband instead of Theodoric.”
“Yes,” Beatrice said hoarsely, “he’s a man who I’ve no doubt would be a true husband to you, in every—”
The sound of a horse approaching at speed broke the silence. Judith gripped Beatrice’s arms. “Go,” her maid urged. “A glimpse is better than naught.”
As Judith moved to the window slit, the hoof beats slowed. Her heart raced faster. “He’s stopping,” she murmured, wiping away the tears with her fingertips. “And I must look terrible.”
Beatrice hurried to blot her face with a damp rag. “A man in love sees only perfection,” she said with a smile.
Judith frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The Viking is as smitten as you. Any fool can see it. Now greet him as befits the lady of the house.”
It hadn’t occurred Magnus might be as attracted to her as she was to him. “But he has a wife,” she whispered as a knock sounded at the door.
Beatrice bustled by to get to the door first. Judith wondered what she was up to when she curtseyed deeply. “Welcome, my lord Magnus. We hoped you would call.”
Heat suffused her body as Magnus strode into the small space, filling it with his masculine presence. She gripped the back of her father’s chair, fighting back an urge to throttle Beatrice as the woman fussed.
Magnus stared at Judith, his gaze sending tiny winged creatures fluttering in her belly.
“All is well in Saint Riquier?” the maid asked.
Magnus frowned, evidently surprised the question had come from a servant. “It is,” he replied before looking back at Judith.
“And your brother is well?”
Judith dug her fingernails into the worn fabric of the chair.
“Dag’s cough continues to plague him,” he replied with a smile that tingled up her spine.
“But you are recovered,” Beatrice persisted.
Had the maid suddenly decided she was his equal, pelting him with questions?
“For the most part,” he said, raising a hand as if to ward off further enquiries. “And before you ask, all is well in Abbatis.”
Relief surged through Judith. He had accepted Beatrice’s interrogation with good humor.
“And in Normandie. All is well with your wife and children?”
The smile left his face and he narrowed his eyes, staring at Judith.
Her heart plummeted to her boots. She averted her eyes from his intense gaze.
“My wife died recently,” he said flatly, “and my daughters still mourn her passing. I should be with them instead of here.”
Conflicting emotions swirled through Judith. Pain for his loss knifed into her heart, but elation soared. He wasn’t bound to another woman. His concern for his children was evident in the sadness in his voice. She feared words wouldn’t come if she attempted speech. She swallowed hard and asked, “What are their names?”
His features softened. “Aleksandra, named for the birthplace of my mother’s patron saint.”
“Saint Catherine,” she murmured.
“Aye,” he rasped, “and Brynhild, named for Brynhildr, Queen of the Valkyries.”
She wasn’t sure who the Valkyries were, but had a notion they were part of Norse mythology. The
names slipped off his tongue as if he’d only now stepped off a longboat from Norway. This man was a confusing blend of contradictions.
“Aleksandra is six, soon to be seven, and her sister four.”
Judith’s heart went out to these unknown little girls. She had pined for a mother long dead. She wondered if he had loved his wife.
“You must miss your wife,” Beatrice asked loudly.
He looked at her impertinent maidservant as if she’d grown another head that he intended to bite off, but then he turned to Judith. “I do,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “She passed from this earth not long ago.”
If Beatrice was correct, and he was drawn to her, was it because he missed having a woman in his bed?
She swayed as he came closer. “What caused her death?”
She wished to bite off her tongue. It was more than likely the woman had died of—
“She died birthing my son. I buried them together.”
She longed to rush to him, to throw her arms around his neck and kiss away the desolation on his face. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.
Even Beatrice had fallen silent.
Judith waited, sensing he was preparing to impart some news. Had Arnulf been spotted on his way with an army to recapture Montreuil? Her brother wouldn’t readily accept such a humiliating defeat. She recalled the bitter anger on his face the last time she’d seen him in Saint Riquier. When he’d ridden away, leaving her to—
Her Viking’s voice jolted her back to the house. “A ransom demand has been sent to your brother.”
A ransom? This barbarian cared nothing for her after all. “Arnulf is my half-brother,” she murmured, as if telling him that set the world to rights.
Magnus arched his brows then cleared his throat. “Two of the men we captured with your wagon were freed and sent to Bruggen with the message.”
She sank down into her father’s chair, wishing it would swallow her up. If Arnulf paid she would return to her hometown and resume her comfortable life. Was it what she wanted? “Bruggen,” she whispered.
Beatrice shook her head.
“He won’t pay,” Judith said hoarsely. The sore throat she’d thought was on the mend constricted. “He believes Montreuil belongs to Flandres, and he will come for it again.”
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