Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 (2 page)

Sonja Karlsdatter wrinkled her nose in distaste and held her breath as the baby girl her older sister had labored for more than a day to bring forth slid into the world. It was the fifth time she’d been obliged to assist at Ingeborg’s confinement and it never got any easier. The blood, the shrieks of pain and the stench made her belly roil, and it was difficult to feel sympathy for the strident wailing of a woman she disliked.

Her tongue had got the better of her and she’d harangued Ingeborg several times. “You should be grateful to be birthing your child in an opulent house in Rouen and not in the Viking camp.”

Many still dwelt under canvas there, despite the months that had passed since King Charles had granted the town to Hrolf.

“It’s one of the benefits of having a wealthy and powerful father,” she’d reminded her sister.

Karl Ragnarsen had easily convinced a Frankish nobleman to part with his house for more gold than it was worth.

During the voyage from Norway, thralls had taken care of Ingeborg’s other children. Those still suckling had been farmed to wet nurses. Sonja had barely set eyes on them in the five long days it had taken to journey by sea to the valley of the Seine.

Rouen had fallen quickly to the Vikings, and their father and older brothers had left with the warriors fighting King Charles in the hope of wresting more land near Chartres. Ingeborg and Sonja and their mother had enjoyed the best Rouen had to offer—good and plentiful food, fine fabrics and linens, traveling entertainers. The chieftain’s concubine, Poppa of Bayeux had made sure the noble Viking ladies were well taken care of.

However, Ingeborg had never made any secret of her resentment of the sister who’d stolen their parents’ love.

“Another girl,” their mother gushed, cooing as she wrapped the screeching red object in swaddling cloths. Thankfully, Sonja had never been asked to take on that task. She prayed the day would never come.

Babies were smelly, demanding, prune-like creatures, and she resolved to avoid this newcomer until she reached the age of two. Then her nieces and nephews became likeable.

Ingeborg sank back onto the soiled mattress, pouting her disappointment. “Arval hoped the first child born in Francia would be a boy.”

Sonja clenched her jaw, praying fervently she would never be married off to a man for whom there’d be no joy at the news of a daughter. Arval was greedy. He already had two healthy lads.

She impatiently dabbed the perspiration off her sister’s forehead with a fresh cloth then drew the antler comb through her matted hair. Their mother placed the babe across Ingeborg’s swollen breasts, then rushed off to tell Arval the news.

Sonja glanced down at her own breasts. They were little apples compared to Ingeborg’s melons. A giggle rose up in her throat at the notion of Ingeborg with two ripe melons strapped to her chest.

Her sister eyed her curiously. “What’s funny?”

Sonja stifled the giggle. “Nothing. I was thinking how pretty she is,” she lied. Like all Arval’s children, this babe had her father’s hooknose.

To her horror, the pouting Ingeborg thrust the child at her. “Take her. I’m exhausted.”

It was as if a red-hot coal had been placed in her grasp. She held the wriggling child out at arms’ length. Her heart stopped beating. Dizzy with nausea, she tightened her grip, fearful she might drop the precious bundle. What was taking Mother so long? Arval would instantly sense her discomfort if he entered now and—

She suddenly became aware the child had stilled. Her gaze swiveled from the door to the babe’s face. Its eyes were closed, its skin mottled. Panic flared in her belly. She shook her head, hazarding a glance at the softly-snoring Ingeborg. Surely the child wasn’t dead? Had she squeezed too hard?

She held her breath, an ear to the babe’s mouth, her head swimming with the dire punishments ahead if she’d killed Arval’s daughter. He might not have wanted another girl, but he’d be murderously belligerent if Sonja had throttled her.

Close to tears, she looked back at the babe’s face. Suddenly, the lifeless eyes blinked open, and the fragile scrap of humanity smiled, melting her heart.

Her knees threatened to buckle with relief. Aware her father was engaged in seeking a wealthy Frankish nobleman as her husband, she prayed to the goddess Freyja to render her barren. Bringing children into the world was too hard on the body and the heart.

The door banged open, raising the hair on her nape. Arval strode into the chamber, reeking of ale, his disheveled red hair writhing like a nest of snakes. His face was even redder.

The noise, or perhaps the stink of an unwashed male body, startled Ingeborg awake. She seemed to realize she’d handed the child over to her sister. Glaring at Sonja, she held out her arms. “Return her to me, if you please.”

Before Sonja had a chance to comply, Arval plucked the child from her grasp. “My daughter,” he declared, grinning broadly as he gazed at the newest addition to his brood. “She is beautiful.”

He leaned over his wife to peck a kiss on her cheek then carried the babe from the chamber, ignoring the protestations of his mother-by-marriage standing on the threshold.

Ingeborg burst into wailing tears. Olga rushed to her daughter’s side, clucking words of comfort. Sonja rolled her eyes as she stole unnoticed through the open door, relieved to be free at last of the belly-churning odors of the oppressive chamber.

Wanting to get closer to his wife, Bryk pulled a small stool up beside Cathryn’s bed, hoping it wouldn’t give way under his weight. He smoothed his hand over the suckling babe’s bald head. The child had no hair, but he suspected his son would inherit his blonde coloring. He touched the backs of his fingers to the side of Cathryn’s swollen breast. “Motherhood has made you more beautiful, if that were possible,” he rasped, wishing he was the one sucking noisily on the rigid nipple he knew well.

She glanced up at him and smiled, sending more blood rushing to his
pikk
. He thanked Freyja yet again for the gift of this remarkable woman who had brought light to his dark life.

“I am happy you were here for our child’s birth, Bryk. I missed you,” she said.

Was it a trick of his mind, or had her voice become even sultrier? He looked up at the treasured three-paneled altarpiece atop the armoire, conjuring an image of Cathryn kneeling in prayer before it. The flame from the chamber’s lone candle flickered over the figure of Saint Catherine of Alexandria hammered into the gilded copper. “But you had your patron saint to watch over you while I was gone,” he said.

He was teasing, though during the months away fighting the Bretons he too had often beseeched the martyred saint to watch over his wife, left behind in Rouen.

She pouted, but her laughing eyes told him she was aware he was teasing. “My namesake saint was indeed a great consolation to me.” She raked her gaze over Bryk’s chest. “But she isn’t flesh and blood. She didn’t keep me warm during the lonely nights.”

He shifted his weight on the precarious stool to ease the ache at his groin. “This flimsy bit of wood wasn’t made for a man in distress in the nether regions,” he complained.

Cathryn laughed out loud, causing the babe to stop suckling and contort his face into a grimace. She bit her bottom lip, guiding her breast once more to his eager mouth. “See what you made me do,” she giggled. “He’s just mastering this. We mustn’t distract him.”

“I can teach him the right way to do it, if you like,” Bryk offered with a wink. “I’ve missed you too.”

Her face reddened as she entwined the fingers of her free hand with his. She avoided his gaze. “It will be a while before we can lay together again.”

He grimaced. “
Ja
. I know, but you must heal. I will try to be patient.”

She hesitated, then tightened her grip on his fingers. “You have taught me other ways to please you.”

His hopes soared. Mayhap he wouldn’t have to find relief at his own hand as he’d reluctantly done many times while the campaign raged on. Why were men facing battle in a state of constant arousal? He was suddenly on fire, filled with an urge to strip off his leggings and let Cathryn’s clever mouth ease the insistent need in his loins. But she was weary. The babe had fallen asleep.

He came to his feet, lifting the child from her grasp. “Let me take him. He’s filled his belly. It’s late and you need rest. He’ll wake again before dawn. Sleep now. I’ll watch over him.”

She yawned as her eyelids drooped and within seconds she was adrift.

Holding the sleeping infant to his chest with one arm, he gently pulled the linens over Cathryn’s bare breast, resisting the overwhelming urge to kiss the nipple glistening in the candlelight. Instead he nuzzled his son’s head. “Lucky boy,” he whispered as he sank into a chair and put his feet up on the stool.

The sleeping babe curled into his chest. He touched the tiny fingers that instantly gripped one of his, filling his heart with joy. “You are my son, Magnus Bernard. I am your father, Bryk Kriger. You’ve a strong Viking grip.”

But it reminded him of the promise of Cathryn’s fingers entwined with his. He chuckled, giving thanks to the Norns and to all the saints of the
White Christ
that he’d lived to see his babe.

It was a joy he’d thought never to savor after the death of his first wife.

He fished around in the leather pouch at his waist for the tiny flute he’d fashioned from the bone of a goat. He’d made it a lifetime ago when Myldryd had told him she was with child. Standing at her graveside in Norway he’d been tempted to crush the flimsy flute in his fist, but for some reason he hadn’t. He’d never understood why he’d brought it with him to this new land, until now. He blew a few notes for his babe, who snuggled closer at the plaintive sound.

He snuffed out the candle, lay his head back and dozed, more determined than ever to find what he sought. Rouen was a fine town, prosperous since Roman times, and Cathryn’s uncle, the Archbishop, had insisted they remain lodged in his comfortable house. He’d been relieved she was taken care of while he was gone.

He’d planted some of the apple tree rootstocks on the land Hrolf had given him on the banks of the Seine, but hundreds of the seeds he and Alfred had brought from Norway still lay in his sea chest, stored in the root cellar. He thirsted for a bigger piece of land where he could plant vast orchards and build a stone dwelling in the Frankish style. He shuddered, remembering the devastation the winter winds had caused to the wooden buildings in the settlement they’d left behind in Norway.

He hated being apart from his wife, and would soon be required to leave again. However, the campaign against the Bretons afforded the Vikings the opportunity to expand the territory they’d wrested from King Charles. The sovereign had been unsuccessful in subduing the Bretons, hence he’d given the task to the Norsemen, thus allowing them freedom to roam over much of Western Francia. Somewhere in the fertile vastness lay the perfect place, the fabled Eden of the Christians.

He fell asleep, lost in his dream.

Cathryn wasn’t sure what woke her. The chamber was in darkness. Had her child cried out? She held her breath, listening, reassured by the faint snoring of her husband. But she was alone in the bed.

She eased up on her elbows and peered into the gloom, gradually making out Bryk sleeping in a nearby chair. Her heart caught in her throat at the sight of her tiny son sprawled across his father’s chest, held firm by her husband’s massive hand on his bottom. She gasped when she caught sight of the tiny flute in his other hand, recalling the first time he’d shown it to her in the hours after Rouen had fallen to the Vikings. She’d known then she loved him.

As if he sensed she’d awakened, the babe cried out. Bryk stirred. “What is it, little Viking?” he murmured. “Hungry? Let’s see if your mama is awake.”

He brought the child to her, brushing the tear from her cheek with his thumb. “You’re crying?” he asked.

She took the baby and exposed her breast. He fussed for a few moments before latching on. She looked back at her husband. “They are tears of happiness. I love you, but I wish you didn’t have to go back to the war. I’m afraid. What will become of me and Magnus if anything happens to you?”

He shrugged, sitting down carefully on the stool he’d occupied earlier, his gaze fixed on the suckling infant. “Don’t worry. Hrolf makes sure I’m not in the vanguard.” He looked up to the rafters. “Sorry, I mean
Rollo
. Our chieftain rants if we call him by his Norse name. He insists we address him as Rollo, Duke of the Norsemen.”

“Well, it was the name he took at his baptism,” she replied.

“You’re right, but all my life I’ve called him Hrolf. And a few other less pleasant names.”

She knew of his despair when Hrolf had shunned his sister because her husband had turned his back on raiding. Racked with shame, Myldryd had taken her own life. “But the two of you are reconciled. He knows you are one of his most worthy lieutenants. He relies on you and doesn’t want to see you killed.”

Bryk shook his head. “It’s my belief you are the reason he wants to make sure I return from the campaign in one piece.”

“Me?”

“Rollo’s wife has plans to usher you into her inner circle.”

It was laughable. “Poppa the Haughty wants me in her inner circle? I doubt it. I’m a foundling, a nobody.”

Bryk yawned. “Not any more. She knows she would likely be dead were it not for your bravery when you were both captured by the Franks. Then, when the Archbishop revealed the circumstances of your birth and why you and your twin brother were left on the doorstep of the abbey convent, you suddenly became worthy in her eyes. You’re the niece of an Archbishop.”

Misgivings caused a pulse to throb at Cathryn’s temple. “Am I now worthy of you?”

Bryk traced his finger over her knee beneath the linens. “You know I loved you the moment I first set eyes on you, Cathryn. It’s true I struggled for a while with the notion of marrying a captive. It’s forbidden in Viking law. But I soon realized I didn’t want to live without you, and I was never comfortable with the prospect of making you my thrall.”

Her heart lifted. She fluttered her eyelashes. “But I am your thrall.”

As the first streaks of dawn crept into the chamber, she saw the glint in his eye.

“And I am your slave, Cathryn Kriger,” he rasped.

Mention of slaves brought Torstein to mind. She carefully shifted the babe to the other nipple, wondering if she should bring up the subject of the young man. “What will happen to your nephew?”

Bryk yawned again. “Which one? I have several. Alfred does have quite a brood.”

She pouted. “You’re avoiding the question. You’re aware which nephew I’m referring to.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “To be honest, I’m not sure. Vikings have a saying. ‘
Never take a thrall as a friend
.’”

Pity for Torstein welled up in her throat. “But he is your nephew, Bryk. He led the revolt and helped save my life. You freed him, yet you still treat him like a servant.”

He shifted his weight, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “It’s the only life he’s known.”

She regretted the anxiety she was causing, but the injustice burned in her belly. “And that’s all he’ll ever know if you don’t take him under your wing. Your brother’s blood flows in his veins. He’s a cousin to the babe you can’t take your eyes off and would probably fight to the death in defense of your son. He’s demonstrated his courage.”

He rubbed his thumb along his chin. “You’re right. He would likely sacrifice his life for me and you, but you cannot expect me to change the habits of a lifetime overnight.”

She lifted her sated son over her shoulder and patted his back. “You became a Christian overnight.”

The bleak look in his eye told her she’d gone too far. Bryk may have embraced Christianity, but hadn’t abandoned the Norse gods, and probably never would.

She patted his hand. “Forgive me. I’m too impatient.”

He came to his feet, reached for Magnus and lifted him over his shoulder. “No. You have a big heart and you hold onto what you believe is right like a dog with a juicy bone.”

She laughed. “Like Saint Catherine.”

“It’s one of the things I love about you,” he whispered.

Alfred and Hannelore still dwelt in the main Viking camp because the house under construction on the banks of the Seine was only partially finished when Alfred had left with the army.

Wedged into his corner of their canvas shelter, Torstein lay awake in the darkness, listening to his uncle’s loud snoring on the other side of the threadbare dividing blanket hanging from the ceiling support.

The noise wasn’t keeping him awake; he’d slept through worse.