Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 (12 page)

Watching Sonja and Torstein laugh together as they played with Magnus, Cathryn pondered her next course of action.

Torstein had changed. He displayed his battle tattoos proudly and any hint of subservience had disappeared. He was a man to be reckoned with. The heated gazes he and Sonja exchanged confirmed what she already knew. They were destined to be together, exactly as she and Bryk had been. Her entreaties to Saint Catherine had convinced her she should persevere in her support of their love.

Torstein had told her of the chieftain’s failure to grant him land, though Sven had received a prime piece of the valley. She grieved at the resentment in his voice. What did a man have to do to prove his worth?

Frits and Kennet Karlsen had decided to stay in the hinterland, but hadn’t yet laid claim to any land.

Rollo wouldn’t be pleased at the events on the dock and Cathryn’s support of Torstein might cost Bryk his new appointment.

Her husband’s insistence Torstein act as his squire proved he valued his nephew and recognized him as a true Viking. She wished she’d been present to witness the ceremony naming Bryk as
Comte
. She’d laughed at Torstein’s description of Rollo’s heavy hand with his sword and was anxious to see the lush valley Torstein described.

She’d caught sight of Javune leaping from the longboat, but no one had seen anything of him since. Her brother’s apparent refusal to claim lands in the hinterland was perplexing.

Hannelore, round with her next child, bustled in, interrupting her daydream. “Sonja cannot return to her parents’ house,” she whispered in Cathryn’s ear. “They’ve shunned her.”

Cathryn cast a wary eye at Sonja, but she didn’t seem to have heard. “And my uncle, the Archbishop, will never permit Torstein and Sonja to live under the same roof—especially his roof. I don’t want to cause a rift between us.”

Hannelore sat down and leaned towards her. “Sonja can come to live with us in our new dwelling until matters are resolved.”

Cathryn was surprised. Hannelore always deferred to her husband, but he was outside with their children. “Are you sure Alfred will approve?”

Hannelore looked across at Torstein. “He’s come to realize his nephew is no longer a thrall, but a celebrated warrior. Torstein reminds him of his father.”

Cathryn had never met the great Magnus, for whom her son was named, but Bryk had spoken often enough of the Viking who’d wandered as far as Constantinople, trading slaves captured in Ireland for silk and rock crystal beads in the markets of the great eastern city. She often wondered why he’d decided to keep Torstein’s mother and not sell her off in the east. Where was the ill-fated woman now? Did Torstein ever think of her?

The answer was obvious. Rarely a day went by she didn’t think of her own parents—the mother and father she’d never known.

She cleared her throat. “I regret interrupting your reunion,” she said, plucking a giggling Magnus from atop the prone Torstein’s chest, “but Sonja must go now with Hannelore to the new house on the Seine. Torstein will stay here.”

Sonja frowned, but evidently understood the implication. “My parents have disowned me, haven’t they?”

“
Ja,”
Hannelore confirmed
.
“But you can come to live with us. Don’t worry. Alfred won’t bite.”

Torstein came to his feet and embraced Sonja. He leaned his forehead against hers. “All shall be well. Go now with Hannelore. I’ll come when I can.”

In the early morning hours, Torstein made his way through the streets of Rouen, Alfred at his side. Some they encountered shunned him; others hailed him as a hero. “At least they know who am I now,” he quipped to his uncle.

Alfred shrugged. “Rollo hasn’t made any pronouncement yet concerning your antics in the two days since your return. Things may change then.”

Two long days without Sonja.

“And what of you,
onkel
, will your opinion of me change depending on Rollo’s judgement?”

It was a risky question, but without the support of his family, winning Sonja would be more difficult.

Alfred kept on walking, but shook his head. “No, lad, you’ve proven your mettle to me, and to Bryk I would guess. We’ll support you.”

A lead weight lifted from his heart. “Though it means incurring the Duke’s wrath?”

Alfred called a halt as his farm came in sight. “Rollo’s in a difficult position. What’s he to do? Sven is a celebrated warrior. You’ve slighted him. His mother is on the rampage, calling for you to be punished. Only Freyja knows what Sonja’s parents have been up to.

“You’re a freed slave, but our chieftain knows of your part in Sven’s success and the overall victory. He’s aware of your bravery at Chartres and your role in rescuing his beloved Poppa. You’re Bryk’s nephew, and there’s a lot of bad history between Rollo and Bryk I suspect the Duke would like to remedy. In addition, Bryk is his new
Comte
in the hinterland and he won’t want to jeopardize stability there.”

Torstein grinned, thumping his uncle’s shoulder. “That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time,” he jested.

Alfred rubbed his arm. “I may not say much, but it doesn’t mean I don’t see things and take note.”

He offered a raised fist to Torstein, then spread his fingers. “You are my family, the son of my brother. I will fight for you as you have fought to protect me and mine and what we have in this new land.”

Torstein accepted his uncle’s gesture and they clasped hands. Vindication flooded his veins as Alfred drew him into an embrace, slapping him on the back.

As they made their way to the farmhouse, he pushed from his thoughts the wish that it had been his uncle Bryk who’d embraced him.

In the hour after dawn, Sonja ventured forth to Hannelore’s henhouse to collect eggs.

In Norway she had lived a life of privilege as the daughter of a wealthy member of the warrior nobility. She’d rarely been near a horse, and as for tasks like mucking out a stable—such was the work of thralls.

Laboring on Alfred’s farm had left her dirty and tired, her hands calloused, fingernails in shreds. Every part of her body ached.

In addition to collecting eggs from indignant hens, she’d fed piglets, fallen in the mud helping Alfred corral a sow, and yes—mucked out a stable with the aid of a pregnant Hannelore. However, the work had also helped her through the long hours apart from Torstein and, to her surprise, she’d enjoyed it.

She’d learned about apples, horses, chickens, pigs and goats, and now saw the appeal of working alongside Torstein on a farm of their own.

If only Rollo had given him the recognition he deserved. Now they waited anxiously for the great chieftain to decide their fate.

A movement near the stable caught her eye. “Torstein,” she whispered as he beckoned.

Alfred appeared, but continued walking towards the house, taking the basket from her hands as he passed. “I’ll get the eggs,” he said.

She hesitated, sniffing her fingers, hoping she’d managed to scrub away the last of the stink of mud before retiring last evening. Bathing in a partially finished house full of children was a challenge. She tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, praying she didn’t look too much like a farm wife, then hurried towards him.

He took her hands in his, kissed them and drew her into the stable.

“I’ve been working,” she whispered breathlessly. “In the mud. I mean I fell in the mud. I was chasing a sow. I—”

His kiss silenced her. Filled with pent up passion and longing, it wasn’t gentle like the other kisses they’d shared. She melted into him as his tongue parted her lips and mated with hers.

She couldn’t breathe, but didn’t want to. He held her so tightly she feared he might break her in two. But she relished it. She should have been terrified by the hard maleness pressed against her mons, but she reveled in the knowledge it was need of her arousing him.

She pressed her breasts against his rock hard chest and raked her fingers through his hair to show how badly she craved him.

He ended their kiss and nestled her face into his warm neck. “Sonja,” he growled. “I have missed you. Come, lie with me.”

Her breath caught in her throat as they sank down into a pile of clean straw she’d hayed the day before. Nearby, horses nickered and pigs grunted, but the scent of leather and of man filled her nostrils. Torstein lay on his back and drew her on top of him, cupping her backside to press her mons to his arousal. “You see how much I want you,” he said with a smile.

She lifted up on her forearms. “I’ve ached for you in places I didn’t know existed before I met you.”

He arched his brows. “Show me where,” he teased.

She touched a fingertip to her breast. He raised his head and sucked her through the fabric of her
hangeroc
. A spasm of desire spiraled into her womb. “I can feel it,” she said hoarsely.

He chuckled. “I know. Look at your nipple.”

She looked down, astonished to see the telltale buds pouting at the cloth like little cobnuts. “Being near you does strange things to my body,” she explained shyly.

“You have no inkling of the things I’d like to do to your body,” he replied, the lighthearted smile gone from his handsome face. “But for the moment, there’s a warm and wet place I’d like to taste.”

Desire flooded her, making the wet place he spoke of wetter. “Taste?” she croaked in a voice she barely recognized.

He rose up, turned her onto her back and knelt between her legs. “Pull up your skirts,” he whispered, his gaze holding hers.

She obeyed, holding her breath as he eased her legs farther apart and bent his head to swirl his tongue over the intimate folds even she had never seen. She whimpered as he licked and sucked, licked and sucked, delving his tongue in and out.

“You taste like honey,” he rasped.

She moaned in reply, incapable of coherent thought, completely in the thrall of intense sensations running rampant through her loins, up the back of her thighs, into her womb and then teasing her nipples.

She was climbing a mountain, approaching the summit. Torstein was humming, his mouth still on her nether lips, his arms clamped around her thighs. The vibration from his throat carried her over the peak and into Freyja’s loving embrace.

As she floated back to earth, strong arms lifted her. She put a hand on Torstein’s heaving chest. “My love,” she murmured happily. “Your needs.”

He pecked a kiss on her forehead. “The day is coming, my little sow-chasing farmer,” he rasped, holding her close to his body. “But not in a stable. Come, judging by the aroma, Hannelore is cooking eggs to break our fast.”

They left the stable and stumbled breathlessly into the kitchen. She felt her face redden when Torstein plucked a piece of straw from her hair. Hannelore and Alfred exchanged an amused glance, then served up fried eggs to their squabbling brood.

As the people of Rouen filed quietly into the cathedral at Rollo’s command, those for Torstein drifted to the right, while Sven’s supporters moved to the left. Seated near the front, Cathryn kept turning around in an effort to gauge which side was the most popular.

“Don’t worry,” Torstein said, squeezing her hand. “Whatever happens, I don’t intend to give Sonja up.”

His words did nothing to lift the lead weight lodged in her belly.

Seated near the high altar in a chair normally reserved for the Archbishop, the Duke eyed the crowd, his lips curled into a grimace. Cathryn suspected it was his ill-concealed anger keeping the chatter to a minimum. Conversation came to an abrupt end when eyes fell on the scowling face of their chieftain.

She didn’t blame him. He’d summoned the inhabitants to hear a pronouncement concerning his son, Vilhelm, but he would also render judgement on other matters. The scandal involving Sonja and Torstein was on everyone’s lips.

Poppa too looked displeased. Rollo sprawled in his seat, long legs stretched out, his big feet on a cushioned footrest, whereas she sat on the edge of her chair. There was nothing unusual in this, but her displeasure seemed to be directed at her husband’s posture.

Vilhelm stood behind his father, fidgeting with his hair.

“He looks nervous,” Torstein whispered in her ear. “And somewhat naked without the long sword he usually sports.”

Cathryn had to admire her husband’s nephew. Judgement was to be rendered that might cost him everything, yet he maintained his sense of humor. Weapons were not allowed in the cathedral unless they were to be used for ceremonial purposes. Judging by his pout, Vilhelm was unhappy he’d had to leave his sword at the door.

Rollo rose slowly, beckoning his son to stand by his side. The wingbeats of unseen birds nesting high in the roof and a choked cough from somewhere in the back intruded on the utter silence in the enormous cathedral. All eyes remained fixed on the Duke.

“People of
Terra Normanorum
, Land of the Norsemen,” Rollo boomed, “this day I honor my son and name him as heir to my chieftaincy. When the time comes, he will rule these lands.”

A few more people coughed, but since this announcement came as no surprise to the people gathered there, confusion was evident on many a face.

The lanky Vilhelm smiled weakly.

Poppa sat like a roosting chicken laying an egg.

A wave of murmurs rolled through the cathedral when two Viking warriors marched down the center aisle bearing a long object wrapped in furs. People craned their necks as the two halted before Rollo. He reached for the furs and tore them off with great flourish, revealing the longest sword Cathryn had ever seen. He picked it up and held it high over his head with both hands.

An audible gasp rippled though the church as the light caught the inlay in the magnificent sword. Rollo held it aloft, turning slowly, first to the right, then to the left.

“He wants to make sure everyone sees the symbols on the blade,” Alfred rasped.

Cathryn didn’t understand. “What does it mean?” she asked.

“Ulfberht,” he whispered as if uttering a prayer.

“What?”

His eyes remained fixed on Rollo. “Ulfberhts are made from the finest crucible steel. It’s a rare craftsman who can fashion such a sword. If he’s a Viking he learned the skill on the Volga trade route. Rollo has kept him well hidden.”

This meant nothing to Cathryn. A sword was a sword, but it was evident that the warriors in the cathedral had been struck dumb by the unusual blade.

“It’s bigger than Bryk’s,” she exclaimed, clamping a hand over her mouth when she realized she’d spoken out loud.

“Bigger than Rollo’s too,” Torstein quipped, cupping his hand to Cathryn’s ear in order to be heard above the gasps.

She elbowed him good-naturedly. “Behave,” she admonished.

He drew a finger across his lips, eyes twinkling with amusement. He seemed confident things would go his way. She was thankful Sonja had been persuaded not to attend. In the two days since Torstein had seen his beloved, he’d behaved in an exemplary way, giving no hint of the turmoil roiling within.

She feared if the judgement went against him he might boil over like the volcano Bryk had once described to her. It was a relief Alfred stood with them.

Rollo girded the sword around Vilhelm’s narrow hips. Cathryn held her breath, afraid once the sword was in place it might drag on the stone floor.

Vilhelm straightened his bony shoulders as his father stepped back, apparently as relieved as everyone else the sword wasn’t too long.

Alfred rolled his eyes skyward.

Rollo smiled broadly for the first time. “My son will henceforth be known as
Vilhelm Langaspjøt
, Vilhelm Longsword,” he decreed. “He was born in a faraway land, but his rule will reach to these shores and beyond.”

A halfhearted cheer went up from the crowd, increasing in volume as Poppa glared.

“The Ulfberht caught their attention for a few minutes, but they’re more interested in me and Sonja,” Torstein whispered with a wink.

The Duke regained his seat. Vilhelm knelt before him, somewhat hampered by the sword, and swore an oath of fealty to his father.

Torstein had an urge to shout out what everyone else was thinking.

Get on with it
.

His fate lay in the hands of a powerful and unpredictable man he’d never liked, a man who’d sold off his mother like some chattel.

And not only his fate, but Sonja’s too rested with the Duke, though he doubted consideration of her feelings and opinions would play any part in Rollo’s decision.

The chieftain dealt next with one or two trivial matters. Feet shifted, coughing became more prevalent as the crowd grew restless and impatient.

Alfred drummed his fingers against his chin.

Cathryn’s fingernails were gouging the flesh from Torstein’s hand. He feared his heart might explode in his chest.

“And lastly,” Rollo intoned, “in the matter of the betrothal of Sonja Karlsdatter and Sven Yngre—”

Torstein stopped breathing, his attention fixed on a moth fluttering amid a myriad of dust motes illuminated by a sudden shaft of sunlight penetrating the gloom. He could grab it and obliterate its powdery wings, or let it fly free.

“It is my decree—”

The moth hovered closer. Torstein’s fingers itched to reach out and swat it straight to
Hel
. Moths were pesky creatures that chewed holes—

“—the young woman in question be given into the custody of Cathryn Kriger. She will travel with the
Comte
’s wife to the valley of the Orne.”

He swiveled his head to look at Cathryn. She stared at him, her mouth agape, apparently as dumbfounded as he was. He looked back at the shaft of sunlight. The moth had disappeared. Frustration flooded his veins as he narrowed his eyes, looking for it. Where had it gone?

“My son, Vilhelm Longsword, will command the contingent escorting the families to the west. The warrior Sven Yngre and the freed slave Torstein Mariansen, will travel with the escort. Neither will have any congress with Sonja Karlsdatter.”

As a thrall he’d only ever been known as Torstein. Rollo was making it clear he was still considered the son of Marian, the slave, and not Gunnar’s son.

Resentment seethed in his gut. He caught sight of the elusive moth and plucked it out of the air between his thumb and forefinger.

“The final decision regarding the betrothal will be made by my son and the
Comte
of Montdebryk.”

Alfred growled, clenching his fists.

Torstein stared at the moth, frantically wriggling its front legs. He’d never paid attention to how furry moths were, how black their eyes. If he rubbed his fingers together—

He exhaled a long slow breath and let the creature fly free.

“What does it mean?” Cathryn whispered.

“He doesn’t want to make a decision which might divide people here,” Torstein replied bitterly. “He’s passing it on to Bryk and the Duke-in-waiting.”

Sonja’s heart leapt into her throat when Alfred burst through the door. She’d worn a path in the dirt floor of the kitchen pacing back and forth, frantic despite Hannelore’s attempts to calm her nerves.

He wasn’t smiling. Her spirits plummeted.

Hannelore must have sensed she might swoon and came to her side, linking arms.

“You’re assigned to Cathryn,” he said.

She frowned. “What does this mean?”

“You’re to accompany Cathryn to Montdebryk.”

She looked at Hannelore, but things were no clearer in her friend’s brown eyes.

“Sven and Torstein are both commanded to be part of the escort under the command of Vilhelm, now, by the way, called Longsword by his father’s decree—”

Sonja leaned heavily on Hannelore. “I’m not understanding any of this, what of me and Torstein?”

“Neither Torstein nor Sven are to have any contact with you.”

The reason for living had been ground into the dirt. “Forever,” she asked in a scratchy voice she barely recognized..

“No. The decision concerning your betrothal has been left to Vilhelm Longsword—”

A sudden vision of Poppa’s haughty refusal of her as a prospective daughter-by-marriage danced behind her eyes. Was Vilhelm aware of it?

“—and to my brother.”

A maelstrom of thoughts swirled in her frenzied mind as she stared at Alfred. Bryk was Torstein’s uncle, how could he decide against him? But deciding for him would be seen as favoritism. Bryk held Sven in high esteem, but Torstein? Was he still a slave in his uncle’s eyes?

Long days of travel with the two men who sought to wed her loomed like the giant icebergs her father had described to his children after his return from Grønland. Viking sailors had learned from bitter experience to stay away from the danger lurking below the beautiful floating mountains.

Being close to Torstein, yet forbidden to speak to him, to touch him, to feel the brush of his lips against the parts of her body that craved him would be torture. But disobeying Rollo’s edict would doom them.

At least she and Torstein were both headed for the hinterland. She was certain he would never give her up, and she resolved to be strong. “I will pray to Freyja and to Saint Catherine of Alexandria for the strength to bear this new test,” she said.