Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (11 page)

Hands clasped behind her back, Cathryn waited nervously in the Archbishop’s private library, gazing round in dismay at the shelves crammed with codices of bound vellum and parchment of all shapes and sizes piled haphazardly. There were unbound sheaves too, some stacks threatening to topple at any moment.

She’d at first worried about the reason for her summons since she was normally ignored, as if she didn’t exist. The chaotic disorder amid which she stood offered an inkling as to the reason for her presence.

The black-robed prelate swooped in, followed by a hooded monk. A shiver of fear raced up her spine at the memory of Sprig’s attack, until the monk lifted off his cowl and looked up. She gasped. “Brother Javune!”

The young man bowed, smiling weakly, his eyes exhorting her not to reveal what she knew of him.

The
prelate ignored her outburst. “I requested Brother Javune be allowed to travel from Jumièges to assist in setting the library to rights,” he announced in a haughty tone, gesturing towards the shelves with bony fingers. “As you see, my predecessor left it in a less than desirable state.”

Since Franco had been in office for nigh on half a year, she thought it inappropriate to lay all the blame for this mistreatment of precious books on Archbishop
Witton, but said nothing.

He looked down his nose at her. “However, this young monk assures me you are the best person to examine the illuminated pages and restore those that are found to have deteriorated.”

A tiny bud of hope sprouted in Cathryn’s heart. She was to be allowed to work on sacred texts, doing something she loved and excelled at. Perhaps her fellow Franks hadn’t written her off altogether. “I am humbled, my Lord Archbishop,” she said hoarsely, finding the courage to look up at him. “It will be an honor.”

He waved a dismissive hand, eyeing her Viking garb with distaste. “Yes, well, Our Lord welcomed Mary of
Magdala so we mustn’t condemn you too harshly. Those who repent their sins are to be forgiven.”

She glanced up sharply at Javune. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He avoided her gaze. She suspected the Archbishop knew nothing of the young man’s sin, of his apparent longing for
Kaia.

Irritation welled up in her heart. The love she and Bryk shared wasn’t sinful. Why did she need forgiveness? Was it wrong to love an honorable man because he espoused a different faith?
Bryk’s belief in his own gods was steadfast. He had pledged to her in the name of those gods, but because no Catholic cleric had blessed their marriage—

She shuddered, aware that voicing such heretical thoughts could lead to prosecution and perhaps death.

The Vikings suddenly seemed a tolerant people compared to her Catholic countrymen. Hrolf had allowed the Rouennais to continue practicing their religion. Bryk had never insinuated she should abandon her faith. In fact he seemed drawn to some aspects of it.

Still, she would seize this opportunity and pray that one day Vikings and Franks might live together in peace.

It had been an exhausting few days for the Viking warriors, laboring under cloudless skies to build a siege engine.

Bryk and the men under his command had scoured the neighboring islands and the nearby banks of the Eure for suitable trees.

Cathryn had occupied his thoughts. Her strong faith intrigued him. She’d talked about forgiveness, about the son of her god dying for the sins of others. Bryk had a multitude of past sins preying on his mind. He regretted the marauding barbarian he had once been. Would Cathryn’s god forgive him? He was certainly repentant.

Alfred’s voice brought him back to the present. “I thought the long days of rowing had strengthened every muscle in my body,” his brother complained, rubbing his biceps. “But I was wrong.”

Bryk stretched his arms to ease the ache in his shoulders from wielding an axe for hours on end. “I know what you mean.”

The air rang with the sounds of hammering as men pounded rivets pulled from one of the less seaworthy longboats.

“I’m certain this racket has alerted the people of Chartres to our presence and our purpose,” Alfred said.

Bryk shrugged. “It can’t be helped. Hopefully they won’t be expecting a
sambuca
to arrive, bringing men from the water over the walls.”

Stripped to the waist, they sat on the grass, sharing a
waterskin, watching the completion of the platform that joined two of the boats together. It would form the base for the four foot wide
sambuca
that lay ready on the bank next to the boats.

Bryk stretched out on his back, squinting at the sun. The breeze felt good on his bare skin. It was the perfect day to be lying in the grass with Cathryn in his arms, or jumping into the river to cleanse his body of the sheen of sweat that coated his skin.

“I still think you should attach some sort of cover over the ladder,” Alfred said. “Otherwise the Franks will pick the men off with arrows as they ascend.”

Bryk dragged his thoughts back to the dreadful reality they faced. “No time. We’ll have to carry shields with us,” he replied reluctantly, aware his brother had no shield and no armor. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re not in the vanguard.”

A shout from downstream drew their attention. Alfred came to his feet, shaded his eyes and scanned the river. “It’s Hrolf returning from raiding.”

Bryk rose. “Let’s hope he’s had success and that he’s pleased with our progress.”

As they watched their chieftain’s longboat approach, Bryk noted the look on Hrolf’s face. It was one he knew well. It spoke of a bloodlust satisfied. The surrounding countryside had been laid waste. The siege was about to begin.

Cathryn was confident in her skill, but the Archbishop’s intense scrutiny of her work was unnerving. He insisted on watching over her shoulder while she tried to repair a faded illumination.

He had fallen into the habit of visiting the library every day and seemed fascinated by the process, asking what seemed like a thousand questions.

It was bothersome that the queries weren’t always about illuminating. She’d been shunned by her fellow Franks, yet was suddenly of immense interest to his Grace. She preferred the anonymity.

“
Mater
Bruna tells me you were a foundling at the abbey convent.”

Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck, but she continued the careful
quill stroke. “
Oui
, your Grace. I was left on the threshold in a basket.”

“Hmm.”

Hands behind his back, he strolled over to inspect what Javune was doing at the other
escritoire
. The rapid beating of her heart slowed, but then he glanced up at her sharply. “What year was that?”

She didn’t dare look at his face. “I have almost nine and ten years, your Grace.”

“And no one has any idea whose child you were?”

It was something she’d never considered until she’d met Bryk, a man full of proud tales of his ancestors.

“
Non
, your Grace,” she replied wistfully.

“I see,” he intoned gravely. “I see.”

He paced back and forth for a few minutes, then left abruptly.

“Strange bird, that one,” Javune observed. “I don’t trust him.”

Cathryn was inclined to agree, but it flew in the face of everything she’d ever been taught to decry a cleric. “He’s an Archbishop. A servant of God.”

Javune snorted. “You have noticed how well this servant of God lives, and yet I doubt if he has offered you payment for your work. He’d be hard pressed to find a better illuminator.”

She warmed at the praise, but it dawned on her she’d never given any thought to such an idea.

“They can be the most untrustworthy, these men of God. Look at Sprig.”

The mention of her attacker’s name sparked fear in her heart. “But he is safely confined at Jumièges.”

He shrugged, a look of pity in his eyes. “No, he isn’t. He persuaded the Abbot you enticed him. Don’t forget they are both from Neustria. Sprig was the Abbot’s protégé at
Vézelay Abbey. That’s how he came to be at Jumièges.”

Indignation soared up her throat. “You saw us together. I never did anything to encourage his attentions.”

“I know, but Sprig played the part of the penitent sinner very well, and you are a mere woman after all, a daughter of Eve.”

She spluttered, her mind a maelstrom of confused thoughts concerning Sprig. “
Neustrian. No wonder he speaks the Frankish tongue with inflexion.”

Javune nodded. “The Abbot is sending him back to
Vézelay. He accompanied me to Rouen.”

An icy fear crept up her spine. “What?
He’s here? Where is Vézelay?”

“About six days south, but he had to travel through Rouen and then follow the
Eure.”

“Isn’t that the river that flows through Chartres?” she said hoarsely.

Javune seemed not to have heard her. “Besides,” he continued, “the Abbot didn’t consult me. My father has led him to believe I’m a ne’er do well. He thinks as the youngest son I should be happy to spend my life in God’s service.”

She took a deep breath, determined not to look away. “But you would rather be with
Kaia.”

The wretched desperation in his blue eyes reassured her that his feelings for
Kaia were true. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know what it is to be separated from someone you love.”

Javune scowled. “But at least you have gained your freedom. I am entombed and will never be free. You
can walk away from here. I cannot.”

She had once felt the same
, but it struck her full force how fortunate she’d been to find Bryk. Her rescuer was a strong, determined man who would protect her with his life. If Javune left the monastery he would be a penniless outcast, fated never to marry Kaia.

The thought of Sprig being free and spreading lies about her right here in Rouen filled her heart with dread. She felt
Bryk’s absence keenly.

“If Sprig is a threat I should mayhap seek refuge in the Viking camp by the river,” she murmured, knowing she wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms. But they would protect
Bryk’s property.

A strange light lit his eyes. “Perhaps I should accompany you,” he replied.

The Vikings had spent an extra day building a railing on either side of the ladder, then heaved it into position so its foot rested across the sides of the two vessels
lashed together.

It had taken fifty men to hold it with the other end protruding beyond the prows
while the foot was hammered into place.

Beyond exhaustion, Bryk had slept the sleep of the dead, despite the battle that loomed. Everything was in readiness. In the pre-dawn darkness Hrolf gave the signal.

Rowers took up the oars on the outer sides and pulled the two vessels upriver to the walls of the town. They’d been picked for their strength; once the boats turned to face Chartres they had to keep them steady across the swift current.

Standing at the base of the ladder, legs braced, ready to lead the charge, Bryk held his breath. Many things could go wrong. He glanced up at the pulleys at the top of the masts, feeling the weight of his helmet. He hoped the ropes they’d made from the inner bark of trees would hold. They’d strengthened them with elk hide rope from their ships. He’d had to guess at the length of the ladder since he hadn’t had the opportunity to properly view the fortified walls.

The prows of the longboats came close to the walls. “Up!” he yelled to the ten men standing on the sterns who then heaved on the ropes attached to the head of the ladder. Hand over hand they strained to raise the apparatus with the aid of the pulleys. Others on the prows assisted with the lifting of the machine, keeping it steady with long poles while the boats tossed beneath their feet.

Bryk slung his shield on his back and began the long climb as the ladder was being hoisted. Three men followed. The plan was to overpower the first defenders and secure the ladder
once they reached the platform at the end.

The men behind him grunted with exertion as the climb became steeper. A hue and cry broke out above them when the enemy perceived the Vikings’ tactic.

He looked down at the muddy shoals of the river Eure, and wished he hadn’t. He inhaled deeply to settle his roiling belly. He’d never liked heights. Even harvesting apples made him dizzy.

The ladder lurched as the main body of attackers began the climb. He was confident the wooden structure would hold the weight, but the ropes were another matter.

He fixed his eyes on the top of the wall. It still seemed a long way away. His heart sank. He’d made the ladder too short.

~~~

Hrolf pouted for two days, pacing back and forth outside his tent while they labored to extend the ladder. He snarled at anyone who dared speak to him. Bryk decided it was better not to bother.

No mention was made of the sneering laughter of the town’s defenders that had followed them as they withdrew the
Sambuca
.

Finally the chieftain came down to the water’s edge. “We’ve put all our hopes on one siege engine. That was our mistake. The men can finish this job. I want you to build me a catapult, and a battering ram. We must leave nothing to chance.”

It came as a relief that Hrolf apparently didn’t blame him for the shortcomings of the
sambuca
, but a catapult would have to be built in full view of the town, and Bryk had never seen a battering ram, let alone crafted one.

Hrolf raised his hand. “I know. I’m asking a great deal. But if any man can accomplish this, it’s you. Now let’s get started.”