Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 (14 page)

Bryk urged Fisk to the top of a rise, his heart set to racing by the sounds of battle not far away. What he saw alarmed him further. A skirmish was being fought in the near distance between Vikings and Bretons. His belly lurched. Where were the women and children? Where was Cathryn?

A man the size of Rollo had a Viking pinned against a rock. His gut clenched when he recognized the Breton chieftain. Suddenly Torstein ran out of the trees, brandishing his sword. He hesitated for a moment, then rushed towards the giant.

Pride swelled in Bryk’s heart. No one would have censured his nephew for choosing a different opponent. He ordered his men to charge, keeping his eyes fixed on the scene as Fisk galloped closer. His heart leapt into his throat when Torstein fell and the giant raised his javelin.

No-o-o-o-o-o!

Suddenly, the Breton crumpled onto Torstein, felled by another warrior. The dust made it impossible to make out who it was.

He reined to a halt and leapt from Fisk’s back in time to help Torstein to his feet, realizing the other warrior was Sven Yngre. “Good teamwork,” he rasped. “He was a formidable opponent.”

Torstein looked first at Sven, then at his uncle. “
Ja!
” he murmured.

“Vilhelm is wounded,” Sven said hurriedly. “By the rock.”

Bryk was conflicted. If Vilhelm died, Rollo’s grief would be immense, but he had to ask—

As if sensing his indecision, Torstein lay a bloodied hand on his arm. “They are safe. I hid them away.” He grinned. “Your seeds too.”

Choking on the gratitude welling in his throat for the love in his nephew’s heart, he gathered Torstein into his embrace, not caring his clothing was bloodied, and then hastened to see to Vilhelm.

Torstein staggered around wondering if he was caught in the throes of a dream. His limbs were heavy, his wits muddled. Mayhap he’d been struck on the head without realizing it. He’d suffered wounds before and not been aware of them.

After several fruitless attempts he managed to roll the Breton off his sword. He wiped off the blood on a nearby tuft of grass, then stared, thinking how strange the world would be if grass was red.

He sheathed the weapon and looked over to where Bryk knelt beside Vilhelm. He might have known it was Rollo’s son Sven had been willing to die to protect.

To his relief, Vilhelm sat up, apparently dazed, but alive. Torstein hunkered down in the grass, watching, waiting for a sudden dizziness to leave him. Two warriors helped get Vilhelm to his feet. There was no blood in evidence.

He straightened when a bruised and bloodied Sven strode over. “You saved my life. I was done for. My death would have made it easier for you.”

Torstein shook his head. “As you saved mine. No matter what happens, we are comrades.”

Sven’s smile faded. “That’s as maybe, but she is still my betrothed.”

Torstein watched his rival walk away. The clouds parted and his head cleared. He smiled. Bryk had embraced him with love.

“It’s been too quiet since Torstein left,” Cathryn croaked. “Thanks be to the gods Magnus has fallen asleep,” she whispered.

Sonja’s eyes widened, and Cathryn stifled a laugh at the incongruity of her Viking-like prayer.

She stiffened when she heard someone calling her name, then scattered the blanket of leaves to the winds when she recognized the voice. It was one she’d longed to hear again. “Bryk, Bryk,” she yelled, scrambling to her feet. “Over here.”

Magnus woke, rubbing his eyes at the moment Bryk burst into the glade and scooped up his son.

“Papa!” the child gurgled.

“It’s the first time he’s said that,” Cathryn exclaimed as her husband clamped his arm around her waist and gathered her to his side.

“I have to teach him how to say it in Norse,” he rasped, nuzzling her hair. “You smell earthy.”

A battered and bruised Torstein strode into the glade. His hand was burned and she knew without asking he’d saved the seeds.

He and Sonja stared at each other, but he shook his head imperceptibly when she made a move towards him. An uncomfortable silence followed.

“What’s going on?” Bryk asked.

Cathryn linked her arm in Torstein’s. “Had it not been for your brave nephew, we would be dead. But he has given his word there’ll be no congress between him and Sonja during the journey, and I promised to make them abide by their oath.”

She deemed it best not to mention the kiss Torstein had planted on Sonja’s lips when he’d left them.

“I don’t understand,” Bryk replied, leading his wife out of the glade by the hand. Sonja and Torstein followed.

“Rollo has decreed you and Vilhelm are to decide the matter of Sven, Torstein and Sonja.”

Bryk came to an abrupt halt, giving in to Magnus’s demands and hoisting him on his shoulders. “But Torstein has just saved Sven’s life, and Vilhelm’s. I witnessed it.”

Sonja gasped, one hand gripping her pendant, her eyes full of admiration for Torstein.

Cathryn’s hopes rose.

Bryk eyed Torstein. “But he is my nephew. I must appear to be impartial if I render a judgement.”

Cathryn looked back at the thwarted lovers, but averted her eyes quickly, pretending she hadn’t noticed Sonja’s lips brushing Torstein’s swollen fingers and his other hand pressed to the small of her back.

Two days later, Bryk carried Magnus in one arm and led Cathryn by the hand around the outside of the long rectangular house he’d built. “We wove thin branches to make the walls,” he explained, wishing he’d been gifted with magic to erect a better dwelling for her in the brief time he’d had available.

“Wattle,” she said. “But the outer walls are sod.”

“
Ja!
Mud holds the sticks together. But to keep out the wind we piled turf against the outside.”

He gestured to the growing pile of firewood chopped in preparation for the colder months. “We were lucky to dig a good well with sweet water, and on the morrow, laborers will erect a shelter over the latrine.”

“It’s incredible, Bryk. You have worked hard.” She peered up at the pitched roof. “It’s high. Who did the thatching?”

“Me,” he replied proudly.

“
Pappaen
,” Magnus shouted with glee, poking his father’s chest.

She laughed. “You’ve been teaching him. But you don’t like heights. You admitted it after Chartres.”

He looked sheepish. “Huh. Standing atop a siege engine looking down at swiftly running water isn’t the same as working on your own house.”

She pecked a kiss on his cheek. “I’m proud of you. This is a wonderful home. The view is extraordinary, and the profile of the rock promontory—it’s as if the gods—”

She smiled slyly. “I sound more like a Viking every day.”

A tingling began in his loins. He was anxious to show her the bedchamber. “Everything you see is ours. This dwelling is temporary. There is stone available in the area and local people speak of iron ore deposits nearby. It may take a few years but we will build a solid dwelling of stone.” He took her hand. “Careful. You have to step down when we go inside. It’s dug out, Viking style. Keeps out draughts.”

Cathryn expected to walk into one big room, but Bryk had built a small entrance hall.

“In winter, we take off boots and cloaks here,” he explained. “Then we go into Great Room.”

He led her into a large area furnished with chairs woven of willow saplings, and a sturdy wooden table. “Don’t tell me you made these too,” she teased.

He looked at her curiously. “I know how to make, but local peasants made them. Franks.”

At one end was an area for cooking. A large cauldron had been suspended from the ceiling joist to hang over a ring of stones. Above it a hole had been cut into the roof. Cathryn suddenly felt nervously inadequate. She stared at the pot. “I can’t cook, Bryk. I didn’t work in the kitchens at the abbey and servants prepared everything at my uncle’s house.”

He tightened his arm around her waist. “I didn’t marry you for your cooking,” he teased. He puffed out his chest in mock superiority. “Besides, I am the
Comte
. I have servants. Rollo expects it.”

They laughed together, and Magnus joined in, adding to their amusement.

Bryk showed her the storeroom, already stocked with smoked meats and gutted rabbits. “There is abundant game in the forests and fields in this valley, fish aplenty in the river,” he said with a wink.

Her heart bounced against her ribs when he ushered her into the bedchamber. “The bed is big enough for six people,” she exclaimed, running a hand over the sheepskin coverlet.

He shrugged. “I’m a big man,” he said with a lustful smile, his voice low and husky. “And I like room to play.”

He gestured to a smaller bed tucked into a corner. “For Magnus, but when other babes come, we will have to share with our children.”

Magnus insisted on being put down on the pallet, where he curled up, smiling happily.

“Smart boy,” Bryk said, hunkering down to tousle his son’s hair.

Cathryn sat on the edge of the enormous bed, deeming this the right moment to share her news. She had feared the rigors of the journey might rob her of the new life growing in her womb. “We won’t have this bed to ourselves for much longer.”

Bryk turned to face her, his brow furrowed, then looked at her belly. Smiling, he fell to his knees at her feet, his head on her lap, his arms around her thighs. “Freyja has truly blessed you, Cathryn.”

The heat of his body awakened the familiar yearning. “She has blessed us both,” she replied. It dawned on her then that she believed what she had said. It had become as natural to call upon Bryk’s Norse gods as it was to pray to her patron saint.

He kissed her belly. “Another son.”

She stroked his hair, wondering what she had done to deserve such happiness. “Or daughter.”

He stared up at her. “Do you like my Eden?”

She brushed her lips over his, savoring the taste of his breath. “It’s paradise.”

Despite the autumn chill Torstein couldn’t have been any deeper in
Hel
.

He narrowed his eyes and studied the hundred or so Norsemen gathered in a circle around him in the open field near his uncle’s house. They’d come to bear witness to Vilhelm’s judgement.

He shrugged off the cold wind raising gooseflesh on his bare chest and tattooed arms. He’d left off his shirt and tunic, determined to display his scars and the proof of his battle honors.

He smelled winter in the air, though thanks be to Odin the winter in Francia had proven to be nothing like the bone-chilling ordeals he’d survived in Norway.

He knew the men gathered around him, had fought with many, saved some of them from certain death, including Sven Yngre who refused to meet his gaze. By rights Sven should be standing with him.

However, he wasn’t alone in the circle. Sonja stood a few feet away, shivering. Apparently no one had offered her a cloak, not even her brothers who stood near Sven. Her nose was red, her lovely face pinched. She’d spent the last two days confined to a tent erected for some of the women, and suspected they had shunned her. Only Cathryn had visited and offered comfort.

Yet his beloved stood with her spine straight, shoulders back, her noble birth evident, despite her clothing being more soiled than anything he’d ever worn as Bryk’s thrall. And her gaze was fixed on him, a hint of a smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

He’d done everything possible to prove he was worthy of her and his heart was at peace that she knew it if no one else did. It was up to the gods now and they both accepted it.

If Vilhelm decided for Sven, Torstein would never marry, but Sonja would be forced into a loveless marriage, and he feared for her. She was a woman made for love, for passion.

His dark mood lifted when Frits unexpectedly hurried to his sister and put his cloak around her shoulders. He left the circle, glowering at Kennet.

Torstein didn’t have time to ponder what this meant. He clenched his fists as Vilhelm Longsword strode into the circle, followed by Bryk. It was impossible to glean anything from his uncle’s stern expression and Vilhelm seemed more concerned with keeping the end of his weapon away from his feet.

The Duke’s son cleared his throat, but it was Bryk who spoke first. “Every man here knows me,” he said softly.

Grunts of agreement greeted his pronouncement. Kennet’s attention seemed fixed on his boots.

Bryk came to stand beside Torstein and put a hand on his shoulder. His hopes rose as strong fingers dug into his flesh. His uncle couldn’t have made a more telling gesture of support.

Bryk’s eyes traveled around the circle. “And you know this man. Born a thrall, yes, but a warrior who has demonstrated nothing but courage since his freedom was granted.” He looked directly at Vilhelm. “Many of you would be in Valhalla now were it not for him. Regardless of what happens here today, I intend to deed to him the land granted to me in Rouen as a reward for his bravery.”

A nagging worry he was a landless
nithing
had plagued Torstein. If he and Sonja were allowed to be together he would have nothing to offer her. His spirits rose.

“However—”

Torstein felt the chill when Bryk removed his hand and walked away.

“—He is also my nephew, and therefore I recuse myself from rendering judgement on Torstein Kriger.”

A gasp of surprise rippled its way around the circle of men, gathering momentum like the storm tide that had devastated their settlement in Norway. Kennet looked up, his eyes wide.

Sonja swayed. Had she understood, as her brother had, that his uncle was trying to help them? He itched to rush to her side, to reassure her hope was still alive.

He called me Kriger.

Vilhelm had to clear his throat five or six times before order was restored. He glowered at Bryk, which didn’t augur well. “Before I deliver my decision, does anyone else have anything to offer to the proceedings?”

Men eyed their neighbors, then studied their feet. Torstein opened his mouth to ask why he wasn’t allowed to speak, why they were behaving as if he were on trial for a crime. He closed it abruptly when Sven took a step into the circle.

Sonja might have collapsed had Bryk not hurried to her side and supported her. Torstein’s love for his uncle welled up in his heart. No matter the outcome of today, he had won Bryk’s respect and love and been welcomed into the bosom of the Kriger family.

Despite the cloak, Sonja was freezing, numbed to the bone by the chilly wind and the dread Vilhelm might decide in Sven’s favor. Her brothers’ behavior confused her, and she suspected they were as usual sitting on the fence to see who won. They probably had some ulterior motive, but what might it be?

The one thing keeping her blood from turning to ice was the sight of Torstein standing defiant, his hard-won battle tattoos on display. Compared to many of the tall, bulky men encircling him he was small of stature, but in her eyes he was a giant.

Why Freyja had decided it was her destiny to fall in love with a freed slave, she didn’t understand, but she would go to her grave loving him.

A chill marched steadily up her spine as she studied Sven. She pitied him. He was handsome, honorable, courageous, and it was probable Vilhelm’s judgement would bind him to a wife who loved another. Everyone stared at the young man who’d never hidden his desire for her. He deserved better.

He bowed to Vilhelm, his jaw clenched. “I will, of course, abide by your decision, my lord.”

Vilhelm nodded.

Sven turned to Torstein. He swallowed hard. “You, Torstein Kriger, are the brother of my heart. You have protected me a hundred times, as I have protected you. It matters not to me you were once a thrall. In my eyes you are a warrior, and I hope in the end we will remain friends.”

Sonja was thankful for Bryk’s strong arm as she watched Torstein struggle for control of his emotions. She gasped when Sven turned to face her.

She wanted to tell him her esteem for him was boundless, but she didn’t love him. However, this wasn’t a place where a woman’s voice would be welcomed.

He inhaled deeply. “Sonja Karlsdatter. I have never made any secret of my wish to wed you. You are a woman any man would be proud to take to wife.”

Bryk’s grip on her arm tightened. “Stay strong,” he whispered.

Sven smiled. “But your heart belongs to another.”

He turned to address Vilhelm. “By your leave, I withdraw my offer to wed Sonja,” he declared curtly, his jaw clenched.

The Duke’s son stared at him open-mouthed, as did most of the men gathered there. Sonja wanted to shower him with kisses of gratitude then rush into Torstein’s arms. But Bryk held firm. “Not yet,” he rasped close to her ear.

“Granted,” Vilhelm mumbled at length.

Pandemonium broke out, but a lone voice shocked everyone into silence. “Wait,” Torstein shouted. “My lord Vilhelm, Sonja’s fate rests with Frits and Kennet Karlsen since her parents are in Rouen. I ask their permission to take her as my wife.”

At the moment she believed the nightmare was over, Torstein had placed their fate in the hands of her witless brothers.

“I support the marriage,” Bryk announced loudly, rekindling her hopes.

Frits and Kennet stared at each other, seemingly struck dumb.

Vilhelm fiddled with the belt of his scabbard. “Well?”

Both men nodded at once. “We agree,” Frits declared with a smile.

It was unbelievable.

Vilhelm drew out his prodigious sword and held it aloft. “In the name of Rollo, Duke of the Norsemen, I recognize the betrothal of Torstein Kriger and Sonja Karlsdatter.”

Bryk freed her arm. “Go to him now.”

Somewhere, far away, there was cheering. But Sonja saw only Torstein’s smile, heard only the thud of his heart as she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her body to his, the icy chill banished from her limbs by his heat.

The world swam in a green blur as he picked her up and twirled her round and round, his lips pressed firmly to hers.