Viking Betrayed (Viking Roots Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  “Indeed, why would anyone want to bring a child into the dangerous world we inhabit?” she mused, instantly regretting she had spoken out loud and without forethought.

  Arnulf came to a halt and stared, but, to Judith’s relief, the breathless midwife waddled into view, a wailing bundle clasped to her copious bosom. “A boy, milord,” she exclaimed, thrusting the tightly wrapped shrieking infant into his father’s arms.

  Arnulf’s upturned face glowed as he lifted the boy in triumph. “Welcome, my son. Welcome, Baldwin, future Comte of Flandres.”

  Call To Arms

  Rouen, Normandie

  Magnus would have preferred to ignore Duke Vilhelm’s summons to Rouen mere sennights after his wife’s death. Aleksandra’s frozen heart was thawing, but he’d been called away. Though it was too soon, he had no choice. A member of the Kriger family was obligated to go, and the journey to Rouen would have been a hardship for his aging father. Aleksandra refused to come to the courtyard to see him off. Brynhild kissed him farewell, but said nothing. He worried about her. His youngest daughter didn’t exhibit her sister’s anger, but she’d barely spoken since her mother’s death.

  Hopefully, whatever news the duke wanted to impart wouldn’t take long and he’d be back at Montdebryk in a few days.

  In Rouen, he glanced around the Council chamber that his father had told him had been built in the style of the communal Ringhouse in Norway. He stared hard at the dozen pillars supporting the rafters. They were made of wood, yet the casual observer would believe them solid stone. He had a sinking feeling the vocal presence of the other stern-faced councilors meant a quick return home wouldn’t be the case, and his hopes foundered completely when Vilhelm entered. The rhetoric ceased. The chieftain’s scowl betrayed his anger as he abruptly waved his ten advisors to their seats.

  Vilhelm, second Duke of the Normans, remained standing with long legs braced, his hand on the hilt of the legendary sword given to him by his father, the great Rollo. Magnus had apparently witnessed the ceremony as a babe in his uncle Alfred’s arms, but had no memory of the occasion. In her telling of the event, his mother described Vilhelm as a lanky youth, which was hard to believe of the bulky giant who stood before them now and declared in a booming voice, “Arnulf of Flandres has attacked Montreuil.”

  The news was met with grunts and groans.

  “It’s no big surprise,” Sven Yngre said. “He’s a land grabber. We expected he would move to extend his southern border, especially now he has an heir.”

  Vilhelm glared. “Ja. But not so soon and not with such a large force. His son, Baldwin, is only two months old. The town has fallen and Comte Herluin of Ponthieu expelled.”

  “This gives Arnulf control of the territory between the Somme and the Bresle,” Sven shouted amid the growing anger. “I’ll wager he had the support of his father-by-marriage.”

  Vilhelm confirmed it. “Herbert of Vermandois is his ally in this treachery. Herluin fled to Hugh the Great, but the Comte of Paris has refused to aid him because he has an alliance with Arnulf.”

  Apprehension flared its way up Magnus’s spine. He feared what might come next, and sure enough Vilhelm declared, “Herluin has asked for our help in recapturing Montreuil.”

  The nodding councilors had expected this pronouncement. Magnus wasn’t yet a full member of the Council, only allowed to be present as his father’s representative, but he itched to advise caution. Bryk Kriger had often repeated his opinion that too much meddling in the affairs of Francia might prove dangerous to the Norman province. Many Frankish magnates still looked upon the Norsemen as undesirable intruders though nigh on thirty years had passed since they’d come to the valley of the Seine.

  However, it was plain from the set of Vilhelm’s jaw he’d already made his decision. “I have given Herluin my assurances. We will take back Montreuil and restore him to his rightful lands. Montreuil is too close to Rouen for my comfort.”

  His eyes bored into Magnus. “Kriger, you will muster your army and they will be joined by our troops from the Cotentin. I trust all are in favor.”

  There was mumbling and grunting, but no voice raised in dissent.

  “Good,” the duke exclaimed. “Now, let’s discuss the details.”

  Betrothal

  Judith was aware Adela was jealous of her close relationship with Arnulf, and the haughty daughter of Herbert of Vermandois made no secret of her disdain of Judith’s illegitimacy.

  However, since the two women were often thrown together for long periods of time while Arnulf was absent fighting one skirmish or another, they developed a polite tolerance. Adela eventually allowed her daughters to call Judith tante.

  As they had each day since Arnulf’s latest departure, they sat by the hearth after the last meal of the day. Though it was early summer, a fire was still necessary to chase away the evening chill creeping into the hall. Servants had bustled the girls off to bed as usual. If they were her daughters, Judith would let them stay up longer.

  It irked when Adela quickly handed Baldwin off to the wet nurse when he fussed. In Judith’s opinion, mothers should nurse their own babes. Her nipples tingled at the notion of a babe suckling at her breast—or perhaps it was simply the dampness in the air. She gathered her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.

  As the babe’s wailing trailed away, Adela picked up her sewing. “I’ll never understand men,” she complained. “My husband thirsts for a son and then rides off to war barely two months after his birth.”

  Judith took up her own embroidery. She found solace in her sewing. The refrain never changed. Adela had no time for her children but expected Arnulf to remain home with them. While Judith might fret over her brother’s capture of Montreuil, she would never criticize him to Adela. No one would have censured him for casting out her pregnant mother after his father’s death, but he hadn’t. She loved her brother and would always defend him. “But it is his duty to protect and expand the borders of his territory.”

  Adela shrugged. “It’s also his duty to take care of his family in Bruggen.”

  Resentment seethed in Judith’s heart. Adela enjoyed every luxury the prosperous town offered. “The missives from Montreuil contain only good news. There is no threat to Bruggen. Herluin has fled and, according to Arnulf, no one will come to his aid. There is talk of expanding into other parts of Ponthieu.”

  She defended her brother’s actions, but a knot of dread still writhed in her belly, a specter of the terror that had swept through Flandres when the Vikings had attacked and burned towns and villages. It had happened long before her birth yet townsfolk still spoke in hushed tones of the barbarity.

  Was Arnulf baiting a bear by snubbing his nose at the Normans?

  The women sat in silence until a polite cough caught their attention. The monk scrivener bowed to Adela as he came to stand before them, a parchment in hand. “Your pardon, milady Comtesse, a missive has arrived from the comte.”

  They’d expected this. It had been several days since Arnulf’s last letter.

  “Read it to me,” Adela commanded in a voice that betrayed her lack of interest in its contents.

  The monk cleared his throat again. “It is addressed to milady Judith,” he said hoarsely.

  Adela glared at him, stretching her neck in indignation to the point Judith feared it might snap. Waving a dismissive hand as if swatting a fly, she yawned as she rose and swept out of the hall.

  Judith had a fleeting thought it was a pity Adela hadn’t died in childbirth, but then uttered a prayer of contrition under her breath for the unchristian wish. “What has my brother written to me?” she asked nervously, aware this particular monk had come to Bruggen as part of Adela’s household.

  The scrivener arched an eyebrow as he unfurled the parchment, leaving no doubt in her mind he had already read the contents.

  “To Judith of Valognes, etcetera, etcetera. Sister, good news. You are betrothed to Theodoric of Abbatis, gentleman of Ponthieu. I have lent my signature to t
he betrothal documents in your stead. The marriage is to take place upon your arrival in Saint Riquier. Make haste. Your brother, Arnulf, Comte of Flandres, etcetera, etcetera.”

  The hearty fire still crackled, yet a bitter cold seeped into Judith’s bones. “Saint Riquier?” she whispered.

  “North of Montreuil, in the county of Ponthieu,” the cleric replied, as if giving a lesson in geography to an ignorant child.

  “I know where it is,” she retorted a little too loudly. The truth lay like ice on her heart. Arnulf had sold her off to a nobleman from Ponthieu to tighten his hold on the newly conquered province. This alliance would ensure Theodoric’s compliance and fealty.

  Was she to have no voice in the matter? “Does he say anything of this man I am to marry?”

  The monk didn’t give the parchment a second glance. “I have read the missive in its entirety,” he declared, obviously offended.

  She trembled from head to toe, but resolved not to allow the monk to see her distress. Adela would be the first to learn of it. “Thank you. You may go. Leave the letter with me.”

  He hesitated before giving up the document and bowing out of her presence. She stared at the elegant script for several minutes before throwing it into the flames. Fists clenched at her sides, she watched the fire consume it, blaming the tears in her eyes on the smoke from the burning parchment.

  Plans Laid

  In fields outside Montreuil

  Magnus blew his nose for the hundredth time, afraid he might topple off the uncomfortable campstool into the darkness of the surrounding forest. He threw the soiled linen square Ida had fashioned into the bushes, wishing he was in his bed at home in Montdebryk. It had been a lonely place since his wife’s death, but at least it was warm.

  “What ails you, cousin?” Bendik asked.

  “This endless rain,” he replied with a sniff, deeming it unfair his friend looked hale and hearty. “My nose hasn’t stopped running for two months.”

  Bendik shifted his weight on his campstool. “Since the burial,” he whispered, holding out his palms to the cold brazier. Vilhelm had forbidden fires in the army’s encampment. “Mayhap you caught a chill.”

  “Mayhap,” Magnus replied hoarsely, fearing whatever plagued his nose was moving into his throat. He fished inside his gambeson and took out the small flask of Montdebryk apple brandy. He uncorked it and inhaled deeply before taking a swig of the fiery liquid. The fumes soared into his nostrils. “Your mother says this stuff is good for blocked noses.”

  Bendik smiled. “She reckons it’s good for naught else, much to your father’s disgust. His apple brandy is his pride and joy.”

  “For good reason,” Magnus replied, breathing more easily. “The sooner we get this campaign over with, the better. I worry for my daughters.”

  Bendik rubbed his hands together, as if the cold brazier had warmed them. “They have your mother, and mine,” he rasped.

  It was true, but Magnus needed to be with his girls, to help them cope with their grief. It was his duty, and here he was stuck in Ponthieu with hundreds of fellow Norsemen, waiting for Duke Vilhelm to give the word to commence the offensive to retake Montreuil.

  “I can’t see the point of not lighting a fire,” Bendik complained, apparently realizing the brazier wasn’t giving off heat. “I’m sure Arnulf knows we’re here, though it’s five miles to the town.”

  Magnus shook his head. “Now we’re in position, I can better understand Vilhelm’s concern. I had no real notion Montreuil was only half a day’s ride from Rouen.”

  They sat in silence for long minutes. Magnus cleared his throat in an effort to put an end to the incessant tickle that had survived the apple brandy. “Nothing is likely to happen this night,” he said between fits of coughing. “I’m for bed.”

  He got to his feet slowly and stretched his arms wide. A camp cot awaited but it was preferable to sleeping on the ground. It was the most dismal spring in his memory. “This weather doesn’t bode well for the apple crop,” he mused.

  Bendik stood quickly when Duke Vilhelm emerged out of the darkness accompanied by a handful of soldiers Magnus recognized as his usual bodyguard. He stuffed the flask back into his gambeson.

  “Kriger,” the duke barked. “Gather your men, but quietly.”

  Magnus stared at his chieftain. “Now?”

  Vilhelm tightened his scowl. “Comte Herluin and I will attack Montreuil at first light with my troops and the army from the Cotentin. You and your knights will proceed north to Abbatis and lay waste to everything between here and there. If Arnulf has reinforcements en route from Flandres, they must find nothing to sustain them. Abbatis isn’t a large community, but it’s close to the border with Flandres, and to the abbey at Saint Riquier. You will secure both.”

  He disappeared as quickly as he’d come, swallowed by the night. Magnus wondered if he’d dreamt the whole episode, but the scowl on Bendik’s face convinced him otherwise. He wished he hadn’t tossed away the linen square as his nose dripped again. He had others, but his servant had them in his safekeeping, and only Odin knew where the lad was at this moment.

  The coughing worsened. He fingered the silver Thor’s hammer pendant he’d worn around his neck since the day of his baptism. Nothing for it but to comply, and he would need Mjölnir’s strength to make it through the night. He was tempted to take another swig of the apple brandy, but better to keep a clear head. “Wake my brothers,” he told Bendik, “and yours. They can help round up the men.”

  Theodoric

  Near Saint Riquier, Ponthieu

  Judith shifted her weight in the uncomfortable saddle. “Seems ridiculous,” she confided wearily to her maid. “I was heartbroken at leaving Bruggen, but excited to see new parts of our country.”

  Beatrice shrugged. “And now?”

  Judith harbored great fondness for the stout woman who’d once been her mother’s personal maid. “The endless miles of flat land we’ve traversed for more than two days have lost their appeal.”

  The memory of the destruction of cottages, fields and livestock they’d seen on the way lay like a lead ball in her already constricted throat, and she prayed desperately her brother hadn’t been responsible for it.

  The leader of her armed escort shouted something from several yards ahead, but her ears were plugged. “What did he say? How much further to Saint Riquier?”

  Beatrice chewed her lip. “One of the soldiers assured me yestereve was our last night under canvas.”

  Judith shifted her weight in an unsuccessful attempt to get more comfortable. “Curses on the man who conceived a saddle which forces women to ride in this position.”

  Beatrice snorted. “Think it was a man, do you?”

  Judith appreciated her maid’s effort to lighten their misery, but there was no one else to complain to. “My bottom is raw, my back broken. Every hoof beat pounds in my aching head. Something lodged in my scratchy throat renders swallowing difficult, and my voice echoes in my ears.”

  “Mayhap you’ll be dead afore ever setting eyes on Theodoric,” Beatrice offered with a wink.

  Judith was undeterred. “And the rain! The closer we come to the coast, the harder it falls…in blinding sheets. God must have got his seasons mixed up. This isn’t spring.”

  Beatrice squinted up at the sky. “You and your betrothed will likely be drenched standing at the door of the abbey exchanging vows,” she quipped.

  The image conjured by her maid’s jest did nothing to lift Judith’s spirits. Since the cryptic summons from Arnulf, she’d heard nothing more, and hoped someone would at least welcome her to Saint Riquier.

  Had the same feelings of resentment churned in Adela’s belly when she’d learned of her betrothal to Arnulf?

  Beatrice sensed her thoughts as usual. “You might not be happy to leave Bruggen, but the Comtesse barely hid her glee at your departure.”

  Beatrice had once ruled the family roost, treating Baldwin’s children as her own, second only to the steward in aut
hority—until the arrival of the woman she referred to as “la Vermandoise”, shortened to “la Vermine” when she thought no one was within earshot.

  Judith acknowledged the truth of her words. “She assigned her maidservants to packing my belongings. Even things I didn’t particularly wish to bring were thrown into iron trunks.”

  Beatrice chuckled. “The amount of baggage heaped on the wagon might lead Theodoric to believe he’s marrying the daughter of a wealthy magnate, and I suspect your father’s chair won’t long survive in Adela’s hands.”

  Judith had been tempted to bring the beloved chair. A ludicrous idea. Sitting in it one last time had brought tears to her eyes, but saying goodbye to her nieces had been worse. Adela had no time for her daughters, and Arnulf would probably pay less attention now he had a son. She feared for the girls left with no one to show them love. Hazarding a glance over her shoulder, she changed the subject. “Speaking of the wagon, it seems to have fallen a considerable distance behind.”

  Beatrice smiled slyly. “I don’t suppose you’d be too upset if some of your things were lost. Especially the wedding gown.”

  Despite her pounding headache, Judith laughed out loud. Adela had harried seamstresses to sew the gown but had allowed Judith no say in the design, color or fabric. “You’re right. The lavender grey dress and white veil isn’t what I would have chosen.”

  Beatrice laughed with her. “Definitely not with your lovely auburn hair and delicate complexion.”

  Her maid had lightened the mood, but apprehension over Theodoric and what awaited them in Saint Riquier still knotted her belly. Surely Arnulf wouldn’t have sold her to an old man, or a cruel one. Surely he loved her enough to—

  Coherent thoughts refused to form. She was feverish in spite of the chilly rain. The sopping wet woolen cloak lay like a lead weight across her shoulders. The captain of the escort had advised waiting until the rain stopped, or eased, but Adela’s insistence there was no time to waste had carried the day.