Viking Betrayed (Viking Roots Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  The notion this journey was taking her closer to the territory of the barbaric Norsemen heaped terror on misery. Beatrice had dismissed such fears as nonsense and she told herself they were unfounded. Marauding Vikings were the stuff of nightmares, a thing of the past.

  The clouds parted and a weak ray of sunlight gilded the very top of the abbey’s roof in the near distance. “At last,” she said hoarsely. “We’ll be safe in Saint Riquier.”

  The captain of their escort brought the cavalcade to a halt in front of the abbey. He peered back down the road they’d travelled, rain dripping off the end of his nose.

  “No doubt wondering what’s become of the wagon,” Judith mumbled. “Some escort.”

  “They’re from Vermandois,” Beatrice whispered back. “Adela probably wanted to make sure we didn’t flee.”

  Where would I run to?

  There was no one to protect her interests, though she still clung to the hope Arnulf hadn’t let her down. Loneliness gripped her. She clutched the tiny crucifix she’d worn around her neck since childhood. It was the only thing of her mother’s she possessed. “Thy will be done, Lord God, but please, please let Theodoric be a kindly man who will love me.”

  The front door of the abbey creaked open. An ancient black-robed priest appeared, beckoning impatiently.

  Beatrice snorted. “No one to see to our horses, no one to help us dismount, no one to provide shelter as we make our way into the abbey. I’ll have a word with this Lord Theodoric.”

  Judith felt a pang of pity for the nobleman she was to marry, but Beatrice was correct. This wasn’t the way to greet a bride.

  It was fortunate two of their escort helped her dismount, otherwise Judith’s trembling legs would have faltered as soon as her feet touched the ground. They each put one hand under an elbow, grasped her hands, lifted her and took off at a trot in the direction of the door. Her feet skimmed over the deep puddles on the muddy path.

  Beatrice was afforded no such consideration and sloshed along behind, grumbling loudly.

  The old priest barely had time to shuffle out of the way before Judith and her bearers crashed through the door. The soldiers deposited her on her feet then turned and dove back into the deluge, ignoring Beatrice’s enquiries about the wagon.

  It took a moment for Judith’s eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The stale air made her beleaguered nose twitch, and a peculiar echo thudded in her ears. She realized it was her heartbeat, then also became aware the priest was already halfway up the center of the church, apparently en route to the altar. How was it possible for an old man to move with such speed?

  “Best we follow him,” Beatrice said, giving her a gentle shove. “Nobody else here to bid us welcome.”

  Anger seeped into Judith’s frozen heart. She might belong to the illegitimate branch of the family, but Charlemagne’s blood ran in her veins. “Not that he uttered any words of welcome.”

  And then her belly lurched. A tall, reed-thin man seemed to materialize out of nowhere near the altar. Like the priest, he was clad in black. The cleric bowed to him, then disappeared. She came to such an abrupt halt Beatrice bumped into her.

  Judith sensed with growing dread that this man walking slowly towards them was her betrothed.

  “Not old,” Beatrice whispered.

  Judith narrowed her eyes. “No. But…”

  “Not ugly,” the maid said.

  It was true the man’s features seemed pleasing enough.

  “Still has his hair.”

  As Theodoric halted in front of them, Judith noted he did indeed have a full head of dark hair flowing over his narrow shoulders.

  “Milady Judith,” he said, one finger jabbed into his chin, the other hand tucking an errant strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re wet.”

  Beatrice snorted.

  Judith eyed him, suspecting some kind of jest. He’d spoken as one woman to another.

  “Milord Theodoric,” she replied, bowing politely.

  He put a hand on his hip. “How can we get you dry?”

  A snake of dread curled around her heart. Not only did he speak like a woman, his gestures were not manly. Arnulf had warned her of the existence of men who comported themselves like women, and there were some in Bruggen she suspected of being of the same ilk.

  She swayed, torn between screaming until she could scream no more and falling to her knees in supplication. Why had this man agreed to wed her?

  Beatrice stepped forward with a perfunctory bow. “Milord Theodoric,” she said loudly, “my lady is indeed wet. Please direct us to your abode so I may assist her. And our wagon…”

  His eyes narrowed. He tapped two fingers against his chin. “Abode? Wagon?”

  Dear God, simple as well as effeminate.

  “She means your father’s house, Theo,” a voice boomed.

  Theodoric smiled, pointing his index finger at her, his hand limp at the wrist. “Ah! Yes. Of course.”

  Another man appeared from the area near the altar. Judith wondered if there was some sort of hidden door. She supposed it was his voice that had echoed off the stone pillars of the church. But he wore clerical robes—definitely a priest, though he was young.

  The newcomer put a familiar hand on Theodoric’s shoulder. “You’ll have to forgive your betrothed,” he said with a weak smile. “This marriage has taken us unawares. I’m Father Innocent.”

  Theodoric bobbed his head like an imbecile, his face turned to the newcomer as if in the presence of the Divine.

  “Theo has been living here, with us, since his father’s death. I will send someone to prepare a chamber for you at the manor house.” He gestured towards a wooden bench. “Wait here.”

  He linked arms with Theodoric. “Come, milord. Things to prepare.”

  Judith watched in disbelief as the two men strode off together. “They linked arms,” she croaked.

  Beatrice grunted, bustling her to the bench. She wrapped her loving arms around her mistress. “If I see your benighted brother…”

  Judith slumped against her maid and let the tears fall.

  The Wagon

  Magnus reined his mount to a halt atop what passed for a hill in the interminably flat land of Ponthieu. The rain had dwindled to a light drizzle, but the mist had thickened. He pointed to the west as his brother rode up beside him. “Do I see the roof of a church?”

  Dag stood in the stirrups and peered into the fog. “Must be Saint Riquier. Looks like a substantial edifice.”

  Magnus thanked the gods his throat felt better. If only his nose would dry up. His servant had restocked him with linens, but at the rate he was using them up, they wouldn’t last long. There was precious little brandy left in the flask. The Viking war helmet he’d inherited from his father was like a lead weight, but at least it was keeping his head and neck dry. “Impossible to tell if there’s an army camped there,” he said. “Our best plan is to ride closer to the Flemish border, then double back. We haven’t come across any enemy troops, and if we encounter none between here and Flandres, we should have no trouble taking the town.”

  Dag agreed. “They won’t be expecting an attack from the north.”

  They’d met no resistance, but it saddened Magnus that every farmhouse, barn, cottage and hovel had been razed, muddy fields churned to wasteland. Arnulf’s army had destroyed everything in their march to Montreuil. The thick fog lent an eerie air to the destruction. “I fail to see the military advantage in laying waste to a fertile land you plan to take for yourself,” he rasped.

  Dag shrugged. “Mayhap he enjoys destroying property.”

  Magnus supposed he shouldn’t be too judgmental. His Viking ancestors had plundered and burned their way across many lands over the centuries, and taken great pride in their dominance. A hundred years before, Vikings had devastated the lands they rode through and driven the Flemish back to the fortified towns they controlled now. “Mayhap he believes he’s winning back lost territory.”

  Bendik galloped up to joi
n them. “A rider arrived with a message from Duke Vilhelm. Our army’s first assault on Montreuil was repelled, but the enemy suffered heavy losses. Our chieftain is confident the second assault on the morrow at dawn will carry the day.

  “A party of unknown riders fled the town and Vilhelm is furious they escaped. They slipped by our armies in the confusion, aided in part by the heavy rain. He supposes one of those fleeing was Comte Arnulf. We’re to be on the lookout. It’s assumed he’ll head for Abbatis en route to Flandres.”

  Magnus’s thoughts went to his remaining brothers fighting with the duke. “Mighty Thor, watch over Bastian, Anders and Ulrik,” he muttered, making the sign of the cross.

  “Amen,” Dag said.

  “And my brothers too,” Bendik added with a grin.

  Magnus prodded his shoulder. “You won’t admit it, but you love your siblings. Even your sisters.”

  Bendik shrugged, but said nothing in reply. The family often poked fun at the heated squabbles between him, Tordis and Karoline.

  They set off again, skirting the town, taking their time. “No use galloping headlong into the enemy in this fog,” Magnus said.

  A few miles to the north of Saint Riquier, they stumbled across a band of muddied men in chain mail who fled into the mist as the Normans approached, abandoning the large wagon they’d been straining to extricate from a quagmire.

  Magnus looked over his shoulder at Dag. “Take a party and pursue them. They won’t get far on foot in armor. Bring them back alive.”

  He and Bendik dismounted and picked their way through the mud to the wagon.

  “Overloaded,” his cousin observed.

  “Indeed,” Magnus agreed, lifting an edge of the sopping wet canvas that had shifted, leaving much of the cargo exposed to the elements. “By Odin, what the devil have we here?”

  Bendik put a foot on the hub of the wheel, grasped the side of the wagon and levered himself higher. “Trunks a plenty, and a very worn chair.”

  “Odd,” Magnus remarked, removing his heavy helmet. “The men struggling with this cart were definitely soldiers, transporting a wagon full of stuff that’s certainly not armaments.”

  “Somebody’s belongings,” Bendik said, jumping back into the mire. “At least they had the common sense to get the horses out of the traces.”

  Magnus looked over to where the soldiers had tethered two drayhorses, along with their mounts. “We’ll add some half decent horseflesh to our string, though I doubt we’ll need carthorses.”

  Bendik walked over to check out the stocky nags. “Mayhap we should dig the wagon out of the mud. Might be some things of value in those trunks.”

  Magnus climbed up on the wheel to get a closer look at the load. “If the chair is any indication of the rest of the miscellany—”

  “Mayhap peasants fleeing Arnulf’s wrath,” Bendik said.

  “But why the soldiers?” Magnus asked as he stepped back into the muck.

  Bendik pointed. “You should have your answer soon.”

  Dag and his men emerged from the mist, urging forward the bedraggled enemy soldiers struggling to stay upright, hands bound behind their backs.

  Reluctantly, Magnus returned his helmet to his head, confident in its power to intimidate. Only one captive looked him in the eye when he approached them, so he assumed him to be their leader. “Where were you headed with this wagon?”

  The man remained silent.

  “They’re Flemish. Mayhap he doesn’t understand our language,” Dag said.

  Magnus studied his prisoner. “He understands what I’m saying. Saint Riquier?” he asked, pointing to the wagon.

  The man scowled.

  “Whose belongings?”

  “Sister,” one of the other men said, earning a glare from his leader.

  Magnus turned his attention to the second captive, poking him in the chest. “Your sister?”

  The soldier shook his head, his eyes wide. “No. Comte Arnulf.”

  Magnus frowned, exchanging a glance with Bendik. “Why would Arnulf’s sister be taking her—?”

  He slapped his thigh. “Of course. No better way to cement a conquest than an alliance of marriage.”

  He stood nose to nose with the second captive, the bile rising in his already constricted throat as the stench of rotten teeth penetrated his beleaguered nostrils. He deliberately exhaled in the prisoner’s face, wanting the wretch to smell the apple brandy on his own breath. “Am I right?”

  The man licked his lips, averting his gaze.

  Magnus smiled, suddenly feeling mischievous. “We’re off to a wedding,” he declared to Dag and Bendik. “The prisoners can right the wagon, then we’ll be on our way.”

  Bendik grimaced. “Why don’t we leave it here?”

  Magnus didn’t understand why it seemed necessary to rescue the conveyance. He doubted the Comte’s sister had travelled willingly into a battle zone. He felt a peculiar pang of sorrow for the woman who had deemed it important to transport a worn piece of furniture over such a distance in difficult conditions. It was sodden and would probably have to be thrown out, but still—

  “No. We’ll see it safely delivered to Saint Riquier. Vikings never arrive at a wedding without a gift.”

  A Wedding

  “My life is over, Beatrice,” Judith murmured, leaning against her confidante’s arm as they stepped over the warped threshold on their way out of Theodoric’s house. “How can I live in this place with such a man?”

  Beatrice harrumphed. “You’ll see. I’ll have this house put to rights in no time. We’ll find some servants in the town and get it scrubbed from top to bottom.”

  Bitterness filled Judith’s heart. Beatrice had given her life in service to her family. She was a treasured lady’s maid, not a scullery wench. “I appreciate you’re trying to make me feel better, but it will take an army to get rid of the years of neglect.”

  Beatrice persisted. “And you’ll make this dwelling your own. We’ll add tapestries, carpets, furniture.”

  The mention of furniture evoked a memory of her father’s chair. She blinked way the welling tears. “I never appreciated how happy I was in Bruggen, foolishly longing for marriage,” she lamented. “Why would Arnulf give me to a man like Theodoric? He’s more interested in Father Innocent. Ha! How ludicrous it sounds.”

  “Some women might be content with a man who makes no demands on them,” Beatrice said.

  Judith bristled. “How would you know? You’ve never been married.”

  She instantly regretted the cruel words. She embraced her maid. “I’m sorry, Beatrice. I’m distraught. My nose is plugged and I cannot think or breathe. I wish Arnulf would come. Surely he won’t miss the wedding of his sister? Is Montreuil far away?”

  Beatrice shrugged, patting her mistress’s back. “Halfway to Rouen, I believe.”

  Judith gripped her maid’s arm. “Rouen? Viking territory.”

  Beatrice pulled away and put her hands on Judith’s shoulders. “Listen to me. There’s no need to be concerned about Vikings. The days of marauding barbarians are over. You are to be wed today. True you don’t have a wedding gown, but your dress looks presentable now it’s dry.”

  Judith chided herself for her selfish thoughts. Beatrice had worked tirelessly well into the night to clean and air her clothing by the meager fire, after she’d swept a mountain of choking ashes out of the hearth and scoured the dilapidated house for wood and a tinderbox. Two old wooden stools in need of repair had burned slowly and provided the only warmth.

  Judith had helped by filling any vessel at hand with water from rain barrels so they might at least cleanse away the filth of the journey. She wished she’d had the chance to wash her hair for the ceremony. What would Theodoric think of his disheveled bride?

  Anger surged again. Her bridegroom’s eyes would likely be fixed on the man conducting the rite. He’d scurried back to the abbey after delivering them to the wretched house midway between Abbatis and Saint Riquier the day before.

&n
bsp; She scratched the back of her ear. “We didn’t sleep in the bed, but I feel itchy nonetheless.”

  Beatrice wiggled her shoulders. “When we return from the abbey, I’ll launder the linens. Can’t have my lady spending her wedding night in a lice-infested bed.”

  A thousand crawling things crept up Judith’s spine. “Nay. I cannot share a bed with Theodoric. Better to doze in the rickety chairs by the hearth as we did last night. And I thought my father’s chair was worn.”

  Beatrice peered down the long lane to Saint Riquier. “Doesn’t appear your betrothed has provided an escort, so we’d best be off,” she said. “It’s a good hour’s walk. You’ll feel better once the deed is done. At least the rain has stopped.”

  They walked arm in arm towards the abbey. Beatrice was right, but Judith’s mind filled with secret longings she’d harbored for her wedding day. She conjured a vision of the man she’d hoped to marry—a strong, tall, brave and proud nobleman who would cherish and protect her, perhaps grow to love her. She tucked the impossible dream away in her heart. Better to forget those thoughts. Pining for the unattainable would only make reality more difficult to bear.

  She studied her feet as they walked. “I never imagined I’d get married in muddy boots,” she lamented.

  Beatrice squeezed her arm. “Good. Keep your sense of humor.”

  Judith refrained from retorting that the comedy of the situation was breaking her heart.

  She was conflicted when she caught sight of Theodoric waiting at the door of the abbey. It was a relief, though she’d hoped he would decide against the marriage. It was evident he didn’t desire the union.

  Yet, there he stood, playing with the cuffs of his unfashionable black doublet, the same one he’d worn the day before, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He smiled briefly when he caught sight of her.