Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (5 page)

Bryk was depending heavily on a hunch there would be no armed Frankish soldiers in the vicinity of the abbey. And how many monks could there be in a partially finished building? There’d be few stonemasons at work before dawn.

However, if the
foul smelling monk had raised the alarm, the local peasantry would quickly arm itself and come looking for the enemy.

He had no choice but to take the fight to them and hope intimidation and terror would make up for the size of his raiding party.

Cath-ryn resisted when he pulled her towards his horse. He turned to her, filled with regret for the fear he had once again brought to her lovely face. But she would eventually see he wasn’t a murdering barbarian. Why her opinion mattered he wasn’t sure. “I cannot leave you here,” he rasped, growling and licking his lips like a hungry predator. “Wolves.”

He howled at the moon to make sure she understood.

Nervously, she looked into the shadows, then came willingly.

She gripped his shoulders when he put his hands on her waist to lift her onto Fisk. It was like lifting a feather.
He searched for some way to reassure this delicate female. It was risky, but he drew his dagger, rested it on his palm and offered it, hilt first.

She looked at the weapon, then at him
, her eyes wide.

The Viking his grandfather had carved into the ivory handle stood out in sharp relief in the moonlight.

“Take,” he said sternly, wondering if it was wise to give away his talisman. “Protect.”

She took hold of the handle with trembling hands
paler than the ivory, but didn’t drop it as he feared she might. Instead she stared at it.

Was she contemplating plunging it into his back? The uncertainty in her eyes when she finally looked at him calmed his fears. She simply didn’t know what to do with it.

His men moved restlessly, their faces anxious. They were youths, looking to him as the seasoned warrior to lead them in what was likely their first raid.

He quickly grasped her hand and wound the tasseled end of her corded belt around the blade then tucked it in at her hip. “Careful,” he whispered with a wink.

She smiled weakly, her palm flattened over the weapon.

He mounted Fisk in front of her, elated when she clamped her arms around his waist and pressed her breasts to his back. She likely had no idea of the effect she was having on his manhood.

This had to be the strangest Viking raid in the glorious history of his people; a farmer and a nun leading a raiding party consisting of a handful of youths and a few wild horses.

For reassurance he looked to the sky and mumbled. “Lend us your aid, mighty Thor, god of war.”

“Thor,” Cath-ryn whispered into his back, followed by something that sounded like her own name.

~~~

As the water lapped around the horse’s legs, Cathryn repeated her prayer for deliverance to her namesake saint over and over like a litany. But they’d traveled only a few yards on the opposite bank when she saw her entreaties to Saint Catherine had been for naught. She chided herself. It had been naive to assume the alarm wouldn’t have been raised.

Panicked voices reached her ears and
in the pre-dawn darkness the abbey was lit by the glow of torches. Bryk dismounted and lifted her down. Despite the rapid beating of her heart, the strength of his big hands calmed her roiling belly.

He motioned to the men to remain with the horses, then took her hand and crept forward. At the edge of the trees they stopped and crouched down.

Mater Bruna will be livid that I’ve soiled my habit!

She almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of her thoughts. It was unlikely she’d live long enough to see the mean-spirited Superior again.
At least the last hours of her existence would be filled with life.

Her brawny Viking had made her feel more alive than
ever before.

The crowd was boisterous, peasants mostly and a few monks. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out faces. She recognized the tall man calmly issuing orders to the monks. “Father Abbot,” she whispered, turning to
Bryk. “Please don’t kill him.”

He nodded. “
Fader.
”

Had he understood?

Then she spied Javune carrying a torch and murmured his name.

Bryk
chuckled, making the shape of a woman with his hands and kissing sounds with his lips. She knew then he’d seen the young monk with Kaia.

She was about to return his smile when her
attacker strode into view, gesturing wildly and shouting loudly. Bile rose in her throat and for the first time in her life she felt hatred for another person. “Sprig,” she said hoarsely, gripping the handle of the dagger.

Bryk
shifted his weight, his teeth gritted. “Spreeg,” he spat, brandishing his axe. “I kill.”

Much as she might want the monk punished, she couldn’t condone murder. “No,” she whispered, pushing down his raised arm. “God will punish.”

He looked at her strangely, his eyes wide. She might drown in those dark brown depths. She recognised now what Kaia had seen in Javune’s eyes.

But no!
Kaia had seen love. She wasn’t sure what she saw in Bryk’s eyes, and this was not the time to be thinking such thoughts.

There was no sign of her friend
nor of Ekaterina. The elderly nun must be terrified. There’d be scant air for Kaia to breathe if both women were closeted in the tiny cell.

The peasants had armed themselves with pitchforks and sickles.

As the first grey steaks of dawn lit the sky, Bryk put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay,” he ordered, and then crept back to his men.

Close to panic at being left alone, she was startled
by loud shouts behind her. Moments later she curled into a ball and covered her ears as wild horses stampeded past in the direction of the abbey.

~~~

Among the many things Bryk had learned during his years as a plundering marauder, probably the most important was the effective use of surprise.

If
a raider didn’t hold the advantage, he had to be bold and make his enemy believe he did. He’d hoped that if they made enough noise and panicked the wild horses, the armed mob might assume a Viking horde was attacking when the beasts arrived in their midst.

He knew from experience there was nothing like horses running amok to make grown men wet themselves.

As he had foreseen, the villagers dispersed rapidly when the frenzied animals galloped out of the trees. Most dropped their tools as they fled. One or two waved their arms in an effort to turn the beasts, but quickly abandoned the idea when Bryk and his men emerged from the forest. He had instructed his band to yell with gusto and brandish their weapons menacingly, but only those who posed a genuine threat were to be rendered harmless or killed.

By the time the sun was up, they had ten monks lined up with their backs to the abbey wall, a score of villagers and workmen roped together, and two nuns tending to the handful of wounded. One of
the nuns was the girl of the tryst. The other was ancient.

As his men corralled the last of the horses, he strode over to the monks. To his surprise the old nun followed him. She beamed a big smile, took hold of his hand and addressed him in his language. “I am Sister Ekaterina. In the name of God, and our beloved Saint Catherine of Alexandria, we welcome you, Viking.” She pointed to the axe in his other hand. “You could have killed us all, but you chose not to.”

His astonishment grew when she spoke to the man he recognized as the Abbot, pointing and gesturing, evidently repeating what she had said to him. The elderly monk seemed to have difficulty understanding her, but she persevered and he eventually made a sign over Bryk with his hand. It was one Christians made as a blessing and he returned the captive’s nod.

The monk who had attacked Cath-ryn stepped forward, his face a mask of hatred. “What have you done with the nun, barbarian?”

Ekaterina scowled at the monk as she translated.

Bryk
grabbed the front of the man’s robes with his free hand and dragged him to his knees. “She is safe, no thanks to you.” He looked to the Abbot. “This man called Spreeg attacked Cath-ryn.”

Disbelief
spread on the Abbot’s face as Ekaterina explained.

Sprig scrambled to his feet. “You believe the lies of a barbarian? I am a monk. I have dedicated my life to God. He has stolen Cathryn away.”

“But he knows your name, my son, how can that be?” the Abbot asked, his voice gentle.

Sweat broke out on
Spreeg’s forehead. “He must have tortured her. Perhaps she called out for my help.”

Bryk
had an urge to lop off the man’s head and be done with the matter, but he remembered Cath-ryn staying his hand. He didn’t see her approach from the trees, but there was no mistaking the joy on Ekaterina’s face as she waddled past him.

“
Da!
My child,” she gushed.

He turned to see her fold Cath-ryn in a warm embrace. She kissed Ekaterina’s forehead then faced
Spreeg. “The Viking speaks true, my lord Abbot. I believe Brother Sprig would have violated me if the Viking hadn’t come to my rescue.”

It irritated
Bryk that Cath-ryn didn’t call him by name. “My name is Bryk Gardbruker,” he told the Abbot. “Cath-ryn knows this and I speak the truth.”

When the elderly nun repeated what he’d said it prompted
an exchange of rapid glances between her and the Abbot.

Cath-ryn blushed and s
eemed reluctant to look at him.

He’d evidently said something to embarrass her.

Ekatarina grinned like a child as if she were privy to the world’s biggest secret. “
Da
!” she exclaimed.

Two days later Cathryn strained without success to catch a glimpse of the river through the narrow window slit in the library, surely designed to make sure monks weren’t distracted by anything going on outside.

One of
Bryk’s men stationed downriver had sighted longboats approaching. He had immediately ordered the women into the library, and consigned the monks to their cells. The workmen were sent back to the village and instructed to remain there.

His apprehension at the arrival of the man he called his chieftain was evident. Would the Viking leader
show the same restraint or would they be massacred?

Cathryn marveled how in two days
Bryk had taken full control of Jumièges with a handful of men. Only two villagers had been killed during the raid, for which the local inhabitants were grateful. Everyone was aware of the atrocities perpetrated when the Vikings had last come to Jumièges. More than one thousand monks had been slaughtered, the abbey sacked.

Bryk
was a man who commanded respect. He had shown mercy to Sprig, listening to the Abbot’s suggestion that the monk be confined to his cell.

He questioned the stonemasons about the construction of the abbey, inspected the cottages in the village,
tallied the town’s provisions. Ekaterina went with him. Cathryn did not.

H
e seemed anxious to avoid her. She longed for another kiss, for his touch, for any sign he cared. At night she clutched the scarf to her breast, tracing her fingertip along the intricate braiding on one edge, inhaling his scent. She’d never set eyes on the sea but she rode the waves with him when she licked the salt from the fibers. In two days she had turned into a seething mess of thwarted wantonness, jealous of an ancient nun because Bryk fussed over her.

It was foolish. Soon he would be gone. She was being tested.

She pulled away from the window. “I suppose now his people are coming, he will leave,” she said to Ekaterina. “They will plunder and destroy, then return to their native land.”

“
Nyet
,” came the unexpected reply. “They settle in Francia.”

Her heart did a peculiar somersault. “Settle? King Charles won’t permit
it.”

Ekaterina shrugged, smiling one o
f her enigmatic smiles. “Don’t
vorry
,” she whispered.

Kaia
sauntered over to the window slit. “I can’t see anything,” she said, her voice flat. She’d been pouting for two days because she’d seen nothing of Javune. Cathryn wondered if her own preoccupation with Bryk was as obvious.

“
Gardbruker,” Ekaterina said.

Had the old woman read her mind? “What?”

“His last name means he is a farmer.”

Cathryn came close to snorting. “Farmer?”

“
Da
. He
vants
to cultivate apple orchards in Francia.”

Cathryn didn’t know what to make of this startling revelation. Her thoughts went to the river where the gentle farmer was greeting his
warrior chieftain.

Watch over him, Saint Catherine
.

~~~

Stroking the pad of his thumb over the carved Viking on the handle of his dagger, Bryk kept his eyes on Hrolf as the chieftain brought his longboat to shore. Cath-ryn had returned the talisman to him. He hoped she would have no further need of a weapon when Hrolf took over the town.

Many of the boats rode lower in the water.
His countrymen had indeed stopped along the way to help themselves to treasures which now lay no doubt in the men’s sea chests.

He gritted his teeth when he noticed Alfred was missing. But it wouldn’t be wise to let his alarm show.

He relished the prospect of explaining how he had captured Jumièges with a handful of inexperienced men and precious little blood spilled. It would raise his standing, allowing him to protect the woman he’d taken.

He wasn’t sure why he was preoccupied with her. She was a Christian who had dedicated her life to
the
Vite Krist
. His thoughts wandered to the brief kiss they’d shared. Her sweet taste had taken him off guard. She hadn’t fought him like she’d fought the monk. Indeed, it was as if she’d enjoyed it—thoroughly. And certainly he had. Perhaps next time he might delve his tongue—

His musings were interrupted when Hrolf jumped from the boat and strode over to him. “
Gardbruker.”

He bowed slightly,
satisfied that the sloping bank allowed him to look the giant in the eye. He hoped the carnal heat spreading through his body wasn’t evident on his face. Better to get his mind off tongues mating. “It is safe to let everyone come ashore. I have secured the town.”

Hrolf frowned, looking to the buildings beyond. “Secured?”

Bryk quickly summarized events, then paused before making his last remark. “I deemed it wise to kill as few men as possible. If we wish to ultimately be welcomed here, we should show that we are civilized people with much to offer.”

Hrolf stared at him for long minutes until
Vilhelm came up the bank. Bryk took advantage of the moment. “You want your son to rule here in peace, do you not?”

Hrolf clamped a hand on his son’s shoulder and grinned. “Indeed. Lead on
Bryk
Kriger
. Let us see this town you have captured single handedly.”

Bryk
was still a farmer at heart, but was elated Hrolf had recognized him as a warrior. Part of it was because he’d appealed to Hrolf’s vanity, having guessed the chieftain harbored visions of establishing a ruling dynasty. However, he’d proven a man didn’t need to be a bloodthirsty savage to be a warrior. “My brother? Alfred?” he asked.

“Coming overland with captives
and livestock. Too many—they’d have swamped a boat. Besides we needed room for the pig.”

It was then
Bryk noticed the hubbub on board the
Seahorse
. The crewmen were attempting to land a very pregnant sow that looked ready to drop a litter at any moment.

Laughing, Hrolf gave the command for his people to come ashore, then turned to his son. “Fetch your mother. I want her to accompany me as we walk abroad in our new land.”

Bryk waited, watching the enraged pig intimidate burly warriors who had no idea how to handle her. Alfred was probably happy to be on dry land, but he’d have known how to calm the sow.

~~~

Ekaterina had dozed off in a library chair.

In an effort to calm her frayed nerves, Cathryn mixed paint and resumed work on a partially finished illumination. It was one Sprig had begun and would need her full concentration if she was to correct his careless work.

She tried to ignore Kaia’s nervous pacing and the din drifting in from outside. Evidently the Viking chieftain had arrived with a horde. She was surprised to hear the excited voices of children. The raiders had brought their families. Perhaps it was true they intended to settle in Francia. Did Bryk have a wife and children?

She had no trouble picturing him with his own brood. He was a gentle giant. She remembered the night they had met, when he’d—

“They’re coming,” Kaia hissed, hurrying away from the wooden door as it was thrust open.

Ekaterina woke with a snort
accompanied by another sound Cathryn recognized.

She
came to her feet too quickly, tipping her stool. It clattered to the planked floor. Dropping her quill added to her confusion.

Bryk
was the biggest man she had ever seen, until a bearded giant strode into the library. The smell of leather and the sea overpowered even the unpleasant odor of flatulence. The woman with him seemed tiny in comparison, yet there was something striking about her—a nobility, evident despite her wrinkled nose. Her eyes darted here and there, perhaps searching out the culprit who’d fouled the air.

Bryk
and a boy followed the pair. Was this his son?

To her surprise it was the woman who spoke first. “I am Poppa, wife to Hrolf Ganger,” she said in the Frankish tongue, indicating the
giant. “Vilhelm is our son.”

Relief swept over her—
the boy wasn’t the child of her Viking. She ought to have known by the resemblance wrought by the similarly wrinkled noses. But this woman spoke her language.

“I am the daughter of
Berengar, Count of Bayeux,” the woman continued. “My husband killed my father and destroyed my home many years ago during a raid on our town. He took me to Norway, where I have lived ever since.”

This didn’t sound right. Vikings
never married their captives. They enslaved them. The still silent Hrolf must have prized this woman.

She glanced at him, perturbed to see he was staring at her, unmistakable lust in his gaze. Fear skittered up her spine.

Bryk strode to where she stood and took her hand. He said something that caused Hrolf to scowl.

The woman smiled. “
Bryk says you are his captive, under his protection.” She shot a gloating glance at her husband who finally spoke after clearing his throat. It seemed the woman had the upper hand in their relationship, but there was no doubt Hrolf was used to being obeyed.

“He says you have nothing to fear,” Poppa explained. “We come in peace, seeking a new land.”

“
Da
!” Ekaterina said with great conviction and to the surprise of everyone.

Buoyed by the strength of
Bryk’s hand, Cathryn found her voice. “But King Charles will oppose you.”

Hrolf replied immediately. “We are not afraid to fight for a piece of this land.”

“You speak my language,” she blurted out.

Hrolf chuckled. “I visited
Francia many years ago, and claimed my lovely Poppa. She has taught me.”

Poppa wandered over to the workbench, examining the vellum
Cathryn had been working on. “You are illuminating? It’s a rare skill, especially for a woman.”

Cathryn glanced up at
Bryk. He had tightened his grip on her hand and was staring at her work, admiration in his eyes. “You?” he asked.

She
wished the sample was one of her own better pieces. “It’s for the altar bible.”

“Beautiful,” he breathed in her language
. The word rolled off his foreign tongue, sending shards of longing scurrying up her thighs.

“She’s a nun,
Bryk,” Poppa said, first in his language then in Cathryn’s. “Married to the White Christ. I am still a Christian. Do not offend me by lusting after her.”

“But I’m not a nun,” Cathryn said hastily. “I haven’t taken my final vows, or any vows for that matter. I was a foundling left at the door of the
abbey.”

Poppa stared first at her then at
Bryk. “Where are you from, which convent?”

“Saint Catherine of Alexandria, in Rouen.”

“Aha! Rouen!” Hrolf shouted, startling everyone. “Our next port of call.”