Viking Betrayed (Viking Roots Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  Judith had never seen a half naked man either; now she watched eight of them stalk the pig. But it was Magnus who held her gaze. She knew he was big and strong, but the sight of his broad chest and wide shoulders, the rippling muscles of his torso and the bulging power of his arms turned her bones to liquid.

  She was seized with an insane urge to lick the sweat from his skin and sift her fingers through the dusting of golden hair on his chest. And he had nipples, lighter and flatter then hers but—

  Her heart careened around her rib cage when the pig charged for the gate. Micheline grasped her hand as Brede jumped on the animal, but Judith stopped breathing altogether at the sight of Magnus running through the muck towards his cousin, the muscles in his magnificent body tight, ready for action.

  She pitied anyone who ever stood in the way of this athlete. The pig obviously had no chance of victory.

  She winced when the sow kicked him during the melee. Behind her, Beatrice sucked in a breath. When the animal finally trotted off into the barn, she breathed again, torn between an urge to join in the laughter at the slippery antics, and a compulsion to kiss away the pain he must be suffering after the kick, though he showed no sign of discomfort. But the pig’s hoofed foot had landed near—

  She dug her nails into the wooden railing when it came to her that Magnus had noticed her staring. A splinter drove into the flesh of her palm, but the stab of pain wasn’t the reason for the wave of heat flowing over her. She dragged her eyes to his mud-smeared face. He grinned like a young lad, and she admitted inwardly she had fallen irrevocably in love with him.

  Magnus quickly removed his hand from his groin and strode up to the fence. He wasn’t sure if Judith was appalled at the spectacle she’d witnessed or if she’d enjoyed it. She was gripping the wood like a drowning person clings to driftwood.

  He spread his arms. “What’s your opinion of Vikings now?” he quipped.

  She opened her mouth, staring at him wide-eyed, putting him in mind of a floundering fish. Pain he hadn’t noticed before flared in his thigh.

  She took a deep breath. “That was—”

  She swayed, her mouth quivering. He feared she might swoon, and was taken by surprise when she doubled over with throaty laughter.

  Beatrice looked at her mistress as if she’d gone mad, but her joy warmed Magnus’s heart.

  She straightened, her face as red as a pomegranate, tears running down her cheeks. “That was one of the most comical things I’ve ever seen,” she rasped. “I was terrified for you, yet it was funny. And it was good to see you laugh.”

  Terrified for me?

  “I was thinking the same about you,” he said.

  He licked the mud from his thumb, giving in to an unwise urge to brush the moisture from her cheek.

  She blinked rapidly but then winced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, looking at her palm. “Only a splinter.”

  He took her warm hand in his. Any attempt to remove the long sliver of wood embedded in her flesh with his muddy hands was bound to fail. He raised her hand to his mouth and sucked, feeling the tug in his loins. Her skin held the aroma of fresh bread.

  Only Judith’s sharp intake of breath broke the utter silence. He raised his head, satisfied he’d managed to draw the wood partly out of her palm. “There. Beatrice should be able—”

  He wasn’t sure what to make of Brede’s grin, nor Beatrice’s look of outrage, nor Micheline’s red face and downcast eyes. But he had no trouble recognizing the lust in Judith’s gaze. He let go of her hand. Adultery was a serious matter, a sin against God’s law. Their immortal souls were at risk.

  It was Brede who broke the silence. “We’re hungry after our adventure,” he said to Micheline. “You’ll need to fetch more eggs. Mayhap take Judith with you.”

  Magnus was concerned when Judith frowned. “Have you gathered eggs before?”

  She smiled wickedly. “No, but it must be easier than wrestling a pig.”

  He and Brede watched as the women made their way to the henhouse.

  “I’m for the river,” Brede said. “Get this muck off then a good meal. The river water might help your leg.”

  “Good idea,” Magnus agreed, hoping cold water might put paid to his arousal. “I’m starving.”

  Brede slapped him on the back. “And not for food.”

  Magnus toyed with feigning indignation, but his cousin would see through the lie. “Ja! Judith is tempting and I can’t deny I’m drawn to her. But she is wed to another, and my wife only recently—”

  Brede held up a hand. “Ida’s death was a loss, but life goes on, Magnus. Judith seems as smitten as you. Mayhap Odin has something planned for you both.”

  Dare he hope it was true?

  Judith hesitated on the threshold of the henhouse, wrinkling her nose at another unpleasant smell.

  Micheline brushed past her and began pushing hens off their roosts. Straw and feathers flew as the creatures clucked indignantly.

  Beatrice rushed in to assist. “Let me hold the basket. I helped my father collect eggs when I was a child,” she exclaimed.

  Judith wondered anew at the things she didn’t know about her maidservant. Clutching the rough wood of the doorframe, she lifted her skirts and carefully stepped over the sill. “They’re unhappy you’re taking their eggs.”

  Micheline shrugged. “They’re used to it. They don’t like being disturbed from their roosts.”

  Much like me.

  It occurred to her she’d been reluctant to leave her comfortable life in Bruggen, but would never regret meeting Magnus and his hospitable relatives. Her fear of Vikings seemed childish now.

  “Two left,” Micheline sang out, pointing to the last roosting hen, and nodding at her.

  Judith pushed the long sleeves of her linen frock up as far as her elbows, and made a shooing motion with her hand. She pulled back when the creature pecked at her.

  “Shove her off,” Beatrice said impatiently.

  Judith swallowed hard. She’d undertaken a perilous journey through devastated lands and more difficulties lay ahead. Strangely, the prospect didn’t bother her, but a bad-tempered bird had her quaking in her boots.

  Beatrice tapped her foot impatiently. Annoyed, Judith pushed the back of her hand against the hen, surprised at the warmth in the bird’s soft feathers, but exasperated when she didn’t move.

  “Coax her,” Micheline suggested.

  Judith inhaled and shoved again, this time more forcefully. “Shoo, birdie, birdie, shoo.”

  Relief washed over her as the hen shook her wings and rose from the roost, revealing two eggs. She grabbed them before the creature had a chance to change her mind. “They’re still warm,” she laughed, placing them carefully in Beatrice’s basket. “How did you know there would be two?” she asked Micheline as they made their way back to the farmhouse.

  “Tachi always lays two,” Micheline replied.

  “You have names for your hens?” Judith asked with a smile.

  Micheline blushed. “Brede says I’m silly, but they sense if you love them.”

  The notion of people loving animals was foreign to Judith. Arnulf had his hunting dogs, but she’d never seen him give them any affection. Bruggen was full of cats. They were a necessity to keep rodents under control, but nobody loved them, did they?

  She pondered this as they walked together in silence, until the young Viking woman said, “It usually takes me four or five tries before Tachi gives in. You will make a good farm wife.”

  Judith of Valognes, descendant of Charlemagne, a farm wife! The prospect was ridiculous.

  Yet the notion of working alongside Magnus on the lands he boasted of at Montdebryk filled her with a peculiar sense of longing.

  But such longings could lead to despair.

  The Poultice

  The Seine quickly cleansed the grime from Magnus’s body, but he emerged from the water with a throbbing green and purple bruise on his thigh.
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br />   “Nasty,” Brede remarked as they rubbed themselves dry with linen cloths brought by a servant, along with clean tunics and leggings. “My mother will insist you use a poultice. She’s probably busy making it already.”

  Magnus had learned over the years that his tante Hannelore’s cures were effective, so didn’t protest.

  They dressed, and made their way to the house, laughing again at the antics with the pig.

  “You’re favoring your leg,” his aunt declared when he entered the dwelling. “I’ve a poultice ready.”

  Brede snorted. “What did I tell you?” He pecked a kiss on his mother’s cheek. “We’d have guessed from the aroma of rosemary filling this place.”

  Hannelore shrugged her son away, pushing Magnus into a chair. “Come along, nephew. Off with your leggings.”

  The mischievous Freyr chose the moment he lifted his shirt and untied the laces to bring Judith and her maid through the door. His body reacted predictably.

  Her rosy cheeks flushed crimson as she gaped at him. Beatrice bristled, scowling as he pulled his shirt down over his arousal. Hannelore swallowed a sly laugh.

  Beatrice flung an arm around her mistress’s shoulders, dragging her to the door. “We’ll leave till they’re done,” she said indignantly.

  Judith acquiesced but cast a furtive glance over her shoulder as they left. He may have imagined it, but she seemed reluctant to go.

  “You embarrassed her, tante,” he scolded.

  Hannelore chuckled, spooning the rosemary she’d boiled up onto a piece of muslin. “Best you go into the bedchamber then if you’re afraid someone might catch sight of something they’ve likely never seen before.”

  Magnus got up and headed to the back part of the house.

  Brede shook his finger at his mother. “You are naughty.”

  Hannelore folded the muslin, squeezing out the extra liquid. “I’m entitled to be naughty at my age. Besides, nothing wrong with giving Freyja a helping hand.”

  Magnus shook his head. His aunt had made no effort to tame her voice. She’d wanted him to hear. But what was a man to do? Judith was untouchable.

  He stripped off his leggings, woefully aware his aunt would have something to say about the rigid flesh between his legs when she arrived with the poultice.

  When Beatrice deemed it safe, she and Judith reentered the house. Micheline was piling some sort of egg concoction onto Brede’s trencher. He rubbed his hands. “Smells wonderful and I am ravenous.”

  Micheline scooped food onto another trencher but Brede was the only person seated at the table. She picked up the second trencher. “I’ll take this to Magnus.”

  Hannelore bustled over and took the platter from her, thrusting it at Judith. “I’m sure he’d prefer our guest serve it to him.”

  She accepted the trencher. “Where is he?”

  Hannelore cocked her head towards the back end of the house. “My poultice won’t be effective unless he keeps it on for a few hours. He’s in the chamber.”

  Given her station, the suggestion she serve Magnus was impudent; taking the food to his chamber was completely inappropriate. Beatrice scowled deeply, looking ready to protest loudly.

  But Judith acknowledged inwardly that her so-called station in life had changed dramatically, and besides, she wanted to serve him. “I’ll gladly go,” she croaked, barely recognizing her own voice.

  Ignoring her maid’s astonished gasp, she lifted the hem of her skirt and strode toward the bedchambers before her courage deserted her, hoping her trembling hand wouldn’t tip the egg mixture onto the planked flooring.

  She peeked nervously into each bedchamber, eventually locating Magnus lying on his back staring up at the rafters, hands folded behind his head, feet dangling over the end of the bed. A linen sheet covered the lower part of his body; she should have been relieved, but a twinge of disappointment tugged at her.

  He frowned and sat up abruptly, pressing a hand to his thigh.

  “Judith, you shouldn’t be in here,” he growled.

  “I brought food,” she murmured, holding out the trencher. “It smells delicious and I’m sure you’re hungry after the episode with the pig, and they say swimming also whets the appetite.”

  Her face was on fire, but she babbled on. The knot in her belly eased when he smiled and held out his free hand.

  She passed the trencher, inhaling the aroma of rosemary permeating the chamber. “Is it helping?”

  He furrowed his brow.

  “The poultice. Is it taking away the pain?”

  “Ja. Tante Hannelore’s medicines are magick, but she was wrong to send you. You’re not a servant and we cannot be alone together.”

  She tore her eyes away from his thigh. “I would gladly serve you, Magnus,” she whispered before she fled.

  Sailing Down The Seine

  “I don’t understand why we cannot go overland,” Beatrice whined. “Bendik and most of the men are traveling across country with our wagon. Why must we go by boat?”

  From the shore, Judith watched Magnus organize the oarsmen who would row the longboat sitting at anchor by the dock near Brede’s farm. “Magnus has explained that he and his brothers came to Rouen in the Alexandria. It’s the quickest way, and probably safer than going by land.”

  “But we’ll be in the open sea,” Beatrice wailed, chewing her knuckles.

  Judith understood her maid’s fear of the water, but the complaints were becoming tiresome, especially since the prospect of a sea voyage made her nervous too. “Again, Magnus has promised we will stay close to shore.”

  “But the boat is old, and look at this river. It’s a torrent.”

  Judith feared if she looked too hard at the rapidly flowing water and considered how deep people said it was, she might lose heart. She inhaled deeply, noting how crisp and fresh the air seemed compared to Bruggen, where the stench of refuse and waste often assailed her nostrils. “It was his father’s boat, named for the birthplace of his mother’s patron saint. Surely it’s a good omen? We will be safe.”

  Beatrice’s consternation grew as sea chests, provisions, weapons and armor were loaded on board and the Alexandria sank lower in the water.

  Magnus beckoned. “Come, my ladies,” he shouted.

  He offered his hand to Judith as she stepped over the side. She’d missed his touch in the two days they’d stayed with Brede and his family.

  Beatrice hesitated, chewing her lower lip, seemingly unwilling to climb aboard.

  “Don’t worry,” Magnus said reassuringly as two of his men took her by the elbows and lifted her into the longboat, “the lower we sit in the water, the less likelihood we will capsize.”

  The color drained from the older woman’s face.

  Magnus put an arm around her waist, but spoke to Judith. “With your permission, I’ll escort Beatrice to the shelter first.” He winked. “She’ll feel better once she sits.”

  Warmth trickled up her spine. A wink was a secret shared. Magnus and Beatrice made their way to the shelter in the center of the longboat. Judith was pleased with herself. Her legs were braced in a most unladylike posture, but she’d found her balance on the rocking boat.

  Bryk Kriger’s Viking blood flowed hotly in Magnus’s veins. His father had boasted often enough that a Norseman’s spirits soared when he stood with legs braced on a longboat bound for the open sea.

  Though they weren’t undertaking an adventure, excitement tingled in his bones as one of his men shoved the Alexandria away from the dock. He tasted exhilaration on the breeze. He’d captained the boat many times, but this day was different. He was carrying a precious cargo and would do his utmost to protect Judith in the event of trouble, although he didn’t anticipate problems during the short voyage.

  The commands shouted to the crew, his stance at the prow, the watchful eye he kept on the swiftly moving water, all were familiar things he had done many times. Now, he felt Judith’s gaze on him, swelling his heart with pride in the seafaring skills passed on by his
father.

  Many Vikings believed women on board ship brought bad luck, but Judith seemed to belong on the Alexandria.

  He chuckled inwardly. There was nothing like being watched by a beautiful woman to make a man strut.

  “You’re strutting, brother.”

  He turned to scowl at Dag. Preoccupied with Judith, he hadn’t noticed his brother approach from the stern. “Vikings who stand at the prow of a longboat are supposed to strut. Did you learn nothing from father?”

  Dag laughed heartily. “Many say those of us born in Francia cannot claim to be Vikings. We are too soft.”

  Pondering his brother’s remark, Magnus shouted an order to the man at the tiller as they approached one of the many meandering bends in the river. “The tide’s going out. This rowing speed should get us to the delta in good time,” he said. “However, the helmsman might need your help.”

  “Understood,” Dag acknowledged as he left the prow.

  It wasn’t the first time Magnus had heard comments regarding the supposed lack of backbone among the sons of the original Viking settlers. He admired the courage of his father and the rest of the people of Møre who’d left Norway thirty years before. In comparison, his life was easier, thanks to the hardships endured by his father.

  He became immersed in his thoughts, lulled into contentment by the rhythmic splash and creak of the oars, the grunts of the rowers as they heeded the beat of the drum, the sound of the boat slicing through the miles of sun-dappled water.

  “This is my land, won for me by my ancestors,” he murmured to the river, gripping the smooth wood of the prow. “I will give my life in its defense, if needs be. My children and my children’s children will inherit its bounty.”

  But his pledge reminded him he had no sons. Brede was right. Soon he would have to consider a second marriage.

  He glanced back quickly to where Judith sat atop his sea chest, her smiling face turned to the sun, and acknowledged deep in his heart she was the woman he wanted to spend his life with.