Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (13 page)

The mood in the Viking camp
on the Eure was somber. The gates of Chartres had easily withstood the first assault with the battering ram.

It had taken three exhausting days to find, fell and bring back to camp the huge log.
Bryk’s design called for a canopy to be built over the ram. Covered with wet hides from the cows they’d slaughtered and eaten, a canopy would have protected the men carrying the ram and prevented it catching fire.

The walls of Chartres rose steeply almost directly from the riverbank, making it difficult for the attackers to gain momentum as they thrust the ram. Bryk wanted to suspend the huge log from the canopy frame so men didn’t have to labor uphill to carry it forward. Ropes would provide the power to lever it back and forth.

Covering the end of the ram with metal, if they’d had enough to feed the forge, would have increased its efficiency.

However, Hrolf was impatient to test it out before these embellishments were complete. All it took was a few sacks of sawdust, followed by burning hot sand dropped on the winded warriors to force a retreat just as the first crack splintered the massive door.

“The Franks didn’t even need the grappling hooks they whirled overhead,” Hrolf yelled in frustration before secluding himself inside his tent where he’d remained for several hours.

Bryk was tired. He hunkered down, his eyes drifting to the partially finished catapult. He wondered about the wisdom of spending more time and effort on it when distant dust clouds indicated troops massing. They should be conserving their strength, planning to defend against a relief army. It was unlikely Hrolf’s wish to be inside the stubborn walls would come to fruition before they were attacked. A Viking’s strength lay in raiding unfortified coastal towns and villages; there was much to be learned about penetrating impenetrable walls.

“We need to know the enemy’s strength.”

Bryk looked up from studying the ground. It was tempting to laugh out loud at the vision that confronted him, but he thought better of it. Hrolf had emerged from his tent, face so red and hair so tangled he looked like a snow capped beetroot.

He’d expected to be harangued about the shortcomings of the siege engine, but his chieftain launched into a proposal for scouting parties to spy on the enemy.

Stealthily roving through perilous open countryside suddenly seemed more appealing than spending another day sweating over the cursed catapult. He stood. “I’ll go. Give me Alfred, and Sven
Yngre.”

Hrolf thrust out his bearded chin, closed one eye and scratched his head, as if contemplating the suggestion. “Agreed. The sooner the better.”

Within a half hour, the resourceful Sven had separated three horses from the pack rounded up during Hrolf’s raids. Despite his first terrifying experience on horseback, the lad had become an accomplished rider. Alfred too had long experience with horses.

“We’ll follow the river to begin with, then venture towards what looks to be a camp,” he told them.

They nodded in agreement. It occurred to him that Alfred never questioned what he did. He hoped he wasn’t leading his brother to his death, though he’d noticed a transformation of sorts, a growth in Alfred’s confidence. He supposed exposure to constant danger would make a warrior of any farmer.

They rode slowly along the bank for an hour, always with a weather eye to the place they judged the enemy camp to be located. Bryk called a halt when he spied something odd on the opposite bank of the river. It looked familiar, and yet—

“Longboats,” Sven rasped. “Two I’d say. Hacked to bits.”

Dread washed over Bryk as they dismounted and crept stealthily closer to the pile of debris. Though the destruction was complete, there was no doubt in his mind these were Viking boats, from
Møre.

“What are they doing here?” Alfred wondered out loud.

Bryk scanned the riverbank. “ I don’t know. Judging by the trampled ground, they were destroyed by Frankish soldiers, and their crews taken prisoner.”

“But who was manning them?”

A snake curled itself around Bryk’s bowels. “There’s one person I can think of who would know we needed reinforcements and who had the courage to lead them here.”

“Poppa,” Alfred acknowledged. “But only thralls were left in Rouen, apart from the garrison. She wouldn’t leave the town unprotected.”

The certainty that Poppa of Bayeux was in enemy hands, or dead, made his heart bleed for Hrolf. If it was Cathryn—

They waded through thigh deep water to reach the ruined boats, gradually aware of
a familiar odor. The flies led them to a body that could only be Padraig. He’d a hole in his back the size of a fist.

“They tore the arrow out,” Alfred rasped.

Sven shrugged. “Can’t waste arrows on a thrall.”

“But do they know they’ve captured thralls?” Bryk mused aloud.

His fear for Poppa grew.

Then he caught sight of a small chest floating in the water, its lid torn off. He’d given it to Torstein years ago. His suspicion that Hrolf’s concubine had led a band of thralls was probably well founded. Was the lad now in enemy hands? The prospect saddened him. He’d sworn to protect the thrall after his brother’s death. It was a pity Torstein had been born into slavery. In different circumstances Bryk, and he suspected Alfred, would have been proud to call the boy nephew.

As if his thoughts conjured him, Torstein sauntered out of the forest, accompanied by about a dozen men.

Bryk’s
spirits lifted as he slapped him on the back. “I was thinking what a resourceful fellow you are, and now you’ve proven it. What has gone on here? Have they taken Poppa?”

Torstein avoided his gaze. “
Ja
. And my mistress.” He fell to his knees, head bowed. “I tried to protect her, but they were too many. I thought it best to flee to fight another day. We followed them to their camp, but I returned here. I knew you would come.”

Bryk hardly heard a word he said. His heart was drumming too loudly in his ears.

“It’s a large force with many horses,” Torstein informed his master as they scrambled on their bellies up a slight rise, having left the horses with the remaining thralls near the river. “
More than five score slaves have been herded together in the sun for hours with no food or water.

“There are few sentries. I think the Franks believe they have taken care of the problem of reinforcements and are preparing to attack our main army.”

Bryk grasped Torstein’s sleeve, clinging to a last hope he’d misunderstood. “Explain to me once more why Cathryn is here.”

“She insisted on accompanying Poppa of Bayeux. She was killing your trees.”

If his heart and gut weren’t tied in knots he might have laughed. “What?”

Torstein looked him in the eye, a rarity for a slave. For a fleeting moment Bryk saw Gunnar’s face. He’d never noticed the resemblance before.

“The apple trees. They do not respond to her care. She believes she is responsible for them withering. It made her sad. Also, I think she was unhappy living in the archbishop’s house. They treated her badly, although the archbishop allowed her to work on his library, with Javune.”

Bryk was astonished at Torstein’s account. The thrall had never been known to utter more than a few words, and then only when spoken to. He even sounded like Gunnar. “Javune?” he asked, wondering what other unexpected events had taken place in his absence.

“He came with us from Rouen. He is one of the prisoners.”

Bryk held his breath, trying to come to terms with the revelations. “Have they not discovered he’s a Frank?”

“
Ja
, but Sprig is also here, and from what I could see I believe he discredited Javune.”

Fury choked Bryk. “Sprig? He is under guard in Jumièges.”

Torstein shook his head. “He is here. I have seen him. My mistress discovered he was in Rouen en route to some abbey in Neustria. He is the only one who could have told the relief army about our plan to bring reinforcements.”

Bryk’s
blood was boiling. Not only was his wife a prisoner of the Franks she could fall prey once more to the depraved monk. “Neustria?”

“He is from there, according to Javune.”

They continued their slow progress to the top of the rise, followed closely by Alfred and Sven. Torstein had warned they weren’t far from the enemy and would have to keep their heads low. Nor could they linger long.

Bryk’s
eyes darted here and there, trying to ascertain the lay of the land. Soldiers, slaves, tents, two men seated in carved chairs.

Carved chairs?

“Don’t mention the chairs to Hrolf. Might give him ideas,” he rasped to Alfred and Sven. They chuckled in agreement. Even Torstein smiled weakly.

“Imagine the huge chair we’d have to lug everywhere for our chieftain,” Alfred quipped.

“
Ja!
” Sven agreed. “And Poppa would insist on one for herself.”

Bryk mused inwardly about the apparent need men felt to make light of the direst situations.

But his blood turned to ice when a black robed figure strode into view and stood by Burgundy’s chair. There was no doubt in his mind it was Sprig.

“There stands the man who has betrayed the expedition to bring reinforcements,” he rasped, relieved Cathryn and Poppa weren’t among the thralls languishing in the intense heat. “The women must be in one of the tents,” he said, refusing to consider the possibility his wife was already dead.

Moments later, only the restraining hands of his companions stopped him rushing from their hiding place,
stridsøkse
held high, ready to die in defense of Cathryn and Poppa as they strode from one of the tents. He choked down the battle cry threatening to erupt from his chest.

“Watching you being hacked to pieces won’t help Cathryn,” Alfred hissed.

Bryk calmed, reassured in part by his wife’s posture. Despite the male attire, she walked like a queen about to accept the homage of her subjects, Poppa in tow. In contrast, Hrolf’s concubine looked like a wary peasant. “She’s not afraid,” he whispered, knowing in his heart her faith in Saint Catherine’s protection had given her courage.

“At least they’re not being dragged before the nobles,” Sven said.

The scene that unfolded was remarkable. Cathryn didn’t wait for the noblemen to speak. She took the lead, and though Bryk was too far away to hear her words, it was evident she wasn’t cowering in fear.

“They look surprised,” Alfred said with a trace of a smile.

“She’s scolding them,” Bryk replied, his heart filling with pride.

Poppa appeared to remain silent throughout the interview. Cathryn continued to speak when the monk threw off his hood and shouted something at her. “Didn’t even flinch,” Bryk murmured.

“Richard of Burgundy doesn’t look happy, but he seems more annoyed with the monk than with your wife,” Alfred said.

When Cathryn finally stopped talking, the two noblemen exchanged a glance. The taller of the two said something to Cathryn who promptly turned on her heel and marched back to the tent.

“What a woman,” Sven observed.

A ridiculous surge of jealousy boiled up in
Bryk’s gut. He’d have to speak to his wife about the tightness of the pants that showed off the tempting curve of her bottom. “
Ja
. But we must get them out of here. Sprig will keep on trying to discredit her. If he fails he’ll plot some other means to exact revenge.”

~~~

Throughout the interview with Richard of Burgundy Cathryn had chanted a mantra in the back of her mind.

Saint Catherine pray for me
.

The saint had sustained her, and for that she was grateful, though her knees threatened to buckle as she and Poppa regained their tent.

However, an overwhelming sense of Bryk’s closeness had cloaked her in a mantle of invincibility.

Burgundy admitted to admiring her courage, though he obviously thought her suggestion that Vikings and Franks might live together in peace and harmony was lunacy. Undeterred, she’d urged peace talks rather than war, explaining the Vikings had come to settle not to plunder and destroy. That notion had also fallen by the wayside, but at least she’d planted the seed in Burgundy’s mind.

It had been unnerving keeping her composure in the face of Sprig’s poisonous attacks, especially when he shouted for the mark of the devil to be scourged from Javune’s back.

Poppa had eventually snapped out of her trance and almost growled at the monk. She had seconded without flinching Cathryn’s avowal of faithfulness to her Viking husband.

It had been in Cathryn’s mind to launch into a treatise of how tolerant the Vikings were in contrast to many Franks, but thought better of it. Nor did she deem it the appropriate moment to accuse Sprig.

She’d said enough and stayed true to her beliefs and her husband. Burgundy had agreed to spare Javune’s life, though he’d been returned to the thralls’ compound.

There was no guarantee anything she’d said would lead to peace, but at least they were still alive.