Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 (5 page)

An overwhelming urge to kiss her seized him, but the babe squirmed in his tight grasp and Sonja seemed suddenly distracted by a snorting sound from Puella. She swiveled her head to glare at the sulking girl. “It’s the whip for you, thrall,” she shouted. “You disobeyed me.”

Dismay flooded him. His
pikk
lost interest. He took his arm from her waist and stepped back, clutching Magnus to his chest. “Whips are for dogs,” he rasped.

She stared at him, anger still burning in her dark eyes. “She is a thrall.”

Magnus let out a screeching wail. Sonja reached for the child, but he was reluctant to hand him over. What lunacy had prompted him to hope he and this woman might ever have anything in common? He desired her, but their worlds were too far apart. “Thralls are people, not dogs,” he replied angrily, striding off towards the house, his cousin still in his arms.

Close to panic, Sonja hurried after the angry young man. She had to explain to Cathryn what had happened. Evidently her brother hadn’t understood her position, or perhaps like his sister he didn’t approve of slavery. She’d spoken in haste and would never actually whip the girl, thrall or no.

Being held firm against a half naked male body had stolen her wits. She’d made a terrible impression, coming close to falling face first in the dirt, then—

She stopped to catch her breath. Despite her consternation at the turn of events, she smiled inwardly. She’d been right. He wasn’t big and muscular, but she’d felt the strength in his arm and his thighs. And something else, something uniquely male Ingeborg had whispered about.

Freyja, forgive me; I liked the feel of those thighs
,
of that maleness
.

Her face had been close enough to his chest to see the fine dusting of dark hair. She’d savored the warmth of his skin when she’d touched his shoulder, inhaled the musky scent of healthy male sweat.

Overheated by the wantonness of her thoughts and the woolen
hangeroc
, she stopped to catch her breath. As she watched him enter the house, it struck her like a bolt of lightning that the whole conversation had been in Norse.

She blinked. How was such a thing possible?

Later in the evening, Cathryn breathed again when her son finally fell asleep with his head on his father’s shoulder. Bryk had paced for an hour cooing words of comfort. She didn’t want to mention the afternoon’s events, but it was evident her husband was perplexed by his son’s unusual upset. It had been too long since they’d made love and watching him walk around stripped to the waist in the small chamber was stirring longings deep in her belly. He’d been patient and she’d done her best to take care of his needs, but she knew he ached for their bodies to join again before he left for the war.

“He’s been like this since the visitors were here,” she said softly, hoping that would be an end of it. She didn’t want their few remaining days together to be spent arguing.

“We’ve had folk come before and he’s never been this upset,” he replied, chewing on his bottom lip as he lay Magnus in the cradle. “He likes people.”

She smiled, hoping to distract him. “He’s his father’s son.”

He frowned as he stretched out, dwarfing the bed, hands clasped behind his head, ankles crossed. “Thank goodness that isn’t true. I’m often difficult to get along with.”

She eased off his boots, then lay down on what little space remained and cuddled into him. He snaked a warm arm around her waist. “I’ve never noticed,” she teased, relishing the heat of his big body.

“You’re different,” he said, sifting his fingers through her hair. “For some unfathomable reason you love me.”

She levered up on one elbow, smoothing a hand over the bulge at his groin. “Do you want me to take off your leggings?”

The longing in his eyes tore at her heart, but he covered her hand with his and said, “No. Leave it for now.”

They lay together for several minutes listening to their son’s steady breathing. Cathryn thought Bryk had fallen asleep, but then he turned onto his side, looked into her eyes, and said, “Tell me what happened this afternoon. You’re uneasy.”

She might have known he would sense her worry. “Poppa came.”

“What else?”

If she drew out the story, her husband would get to the heart of the matter. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but something took place in the garden with Torstein. He was too upset to explain it to me.”

Bryk sat up on the edge of the bed. “He’ll tell me, or I’ll beat it out of him.”

She reached for his arm. “No, you won’t. There’ll be no beatings. A young woman called Sonja caused the upset. She took Magnus outside while I was busy with the guests, and according to Torstein’s garbled account, she stumbled.”

Bryk came to his feet, jaw clenched. “Sonja Karlsdatter?”

She shrugged. “I suppose—”

Hands fisted, he paced back and forth, making the tiny chamber seem smaller. “There’s trouble brewing if he thinks he can pursue Sonja. He seemed fixated on her in the cathedral.”

It occurred to her then how unusually agitated Torstein had been, barely able to speak the woman’s name. He’d thrust Magnus into Cathryn’s arms and fled when Sonja had re-entered the house. “Hmm,” she murmured, arching her brows, “is our nephew in love?”

“Absolutely not,” Bryk thundered.

Cathryn held her breath when Magnus whimpered. “You’ll wake him, and the rest of the household. Come back to bed and calm down. Why can’t Torstein fall in love? Sonja was rather tongue-tied afterwards.”

Bryk flopped down on the mattress. “You’d be tongue-tied if you’d come close to dropping a baby. She’d never have anything to do with a thrall.”

“He’s not a thrall,” Cathryn reminded him, suddenly remembering Sonja’s question about Javune. “Did she meet Torstein in Norway?”

“Unlikely. The family is from another settlement further down the coast.”

A possibility dawned on her. “Oh no,” she said hoarsely. “She believes Torstein’s my brother.”

Bryk eyed her curiously. “What?”

“Think on it. He’s dark-haired, like me. When she saw him with us at the cathedral—”

Bryk jumped up and resumed his pacing. “This is what happens when a slave is freed,” he mumbled.

Cathryn cuddled into the warm spot where he’d lain on the linens. “No, husband, this is what happens when you fail to teach him how to behave like a free man.”

He stopped pacing and looked at her. “As usual,
Saint
Cathryn, you are right. On the morrow I’ll start his training, and when we leave in a fortnight he’ll accompany the army. Some of the men will object, but I’ll deal with them.”

Cathryn was more content when he returned to their bed, but she glanced up at the triptych and uttered a silent prayer to her patron saint to protect her husband and his nephew when they journeyed to the front.

She hoped Bryk’s decision wouldn’t result in Torstein’s untimely death at the hands of the Bretons.

Sonja lay in bed, staring up at the rafters, desperately trying to recall what she’d heard about Cathryn’s brother.

She wished she’d paid more attention to the gossip, which had mostly concerned Bryk Kriger’s wife.

The whole community had been agog with the revelation that she was the niece of the Archbishop. The cleric had admitted to abandoning the newborn baby girl his brother’s widow had died birthing. He’d submitted to a public penance after confessing his sin. Most Vikings had certainly understood and forgiven the inability of a young man with no prospect of ever marrying to take care of a baby.

But tongues had wagged faster when it had come to light the girl had a brother, abandoned with her but sold off to a wealthy family.

Sonja vaguely recalled gossip about his being a monk infatuated with a Frankish nun, but that couldn’t be true. Frits had said he’d fought at Chartres and taken part in the Breton campaign.

Being a warrior might render him suitable in her father’s view. Or would his past be a stumbling block?

Whatever stood in the way, she determined to learn more about the man who now filled her thoughts.

Torstein wasn’t surprised when his uncle stormed into the camp shortly after dawn and thrust a sheathed sword into his hand with one word. “
Kom!
”

He put the weapon on the ground while he scrambled to don his tunic, leggings and boots, keeping an eye on Alfred’s squabbling toddlers. He grabbed a heel of bread from a smiling Hannelore and followed his uncle out of the canvas shelter, sword in hand.

After his uncles had granted him his freedom, he’d been allowed to carry a dagger, but he thirsted to learn the skill of swordplay. Achieving warrior status was the only way to acceptance among his fellow Vikings. Bryk Kriger was living proof of it. The alternative was to live as he had for the past months, in a no man’s land between two worlds.

For a slave to become a warrior would have been an impossible notion in Norway, but this was a new land, with new opportunities. Mayhap if he proved his worth, Sonja might—

His uncle’s stern voice intruded. “I plan to teach you how to wield a sword. And you can forget Sonja Karlsdatter.”

He remained silent. What was the use of arguing? Few could boast of winning an argument with his determined uncle.

Bryk came to a sudden halt. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,
onkel
,” he replied.

“We will seek a Frankish wife for you.”

“
Ja, onkel
.”

Voicing agreement wasn’t difficult. He’d spent a lifetime obeying commands. But now there was an alternate path, and he intended to take it. Disastrous as his meeting with Sonja had been, he’d seen desire smoldering in her dark eyes—for him.

“Sonja thinks you’re Cathryn’s brother,” his uncle said before striding off to the training field.

Torstein’s heart plummeted into his boots.

Arms folded, Sonja hovered near the door of the Great Room in case she had to flee. She clenched her fists, feeling the bite of fingernails digging into her palms, trying to pay attention to the Frankish gentleman her father had invited to the house. An inexplicable preoccupation with bearing a child of her own—a babe with black hair—filled her thoughts.

“Don’t you agree, Sonja?”

Having no inkling what her father was referring to, she took the offensive. “Do you speak Norse, Lord Arnulf?”

Olga, seated next to the hearty fire roaring in the hearth, gasped. Sweat glistened on her mother’s brow. Sonja supposed her father had arranged for the fire to impress their guest since the weather certainly didn’t warrant it.

Arnulf, who must be at least twice her age, looked down the longest nose she’d ever seen. “No. Your Duke Rollo has decreed Vikings learn my language. There is no necessity for me to study Norse.”

Seated in her father’s favorite upholstered chair, he crossed his legs and brushed invisible lint from his hose. Then he smiled indulgently at her father as if his daughter had asked the stupidest question in the world.

Karl Ragnarsen gripped the back of his wife’s chair, looking perplexed.

As he should, Sonja thought. The man had revealed his disdain for Viking culture. Cathryn’s brother had addressed her in perfect Norse. His voice, though filled with anger, had echoed in her head for hours. Unable to hold her tongue, she declared, “I met a Frank the other day who spoke my language perfectly.”

A snorting noise came from the corner of the chamber where Puella stood with another thrall, ready to serve when called upon. She was sure the sound had come from the slave, despite the innocent expression on the girl’s face when Sonja glared at her.

She still hadn’t dealt with the insubordination at the Archbishop’s house. It had been the root cause of the missteps, but Sonja’s own inability to make her wits function in the young man’s presence had contributed greatly. How to punish the slave for her witlessness? Puella still sported the black eye from being struck accidentally with the hoe.

An image of a reed-thin, bald baby with a nose like a long twig appeared unbidden behind her eyes. Bile rose in her throat as she backed away towards the door. Her mother scowled at her, but she was afraid she might utter something unforgiveable if she stayed in the odious man’s presence. “Forgive me. I am unwell.”

She bolted from the chamber before anyone forbade it. She hastened to her room and flung herself on the bed, feverishly plotting ways to see Cathryn’s brother again. If only she hadn’t shown her worst side to him.

She stilled, suddenly aware someone else was in her chamber. Puella tiptoed into her line of sight. “This is your fault, girl,” she menaced. “If you hadn’t had the gall to rise above your station—”

They stared at each other. Puella swayed, a curious expression on her face as if she wanted to tell Sonja something. At length she seemed to summon up her courage. “The man I spoke to isn’t a Frank. He’s a Norseman.”

This made sense in light of the language, but Sonja shook her head vehemently. “No. You’re wrong.”

Puella persisted. “He is a free man now, but only because Bryk Kriger freed him. I saw no harm in speaking with him. When he left Norway he was a thrall. His name is Torstein.”

Anger boiled in her belly. Frits and Kennet had spoken of this Torstein, the thrall who had led the revolt against the Franks at Chartres and who had aided in the rescue of Poppa and Cathryn. It wasn’t possible—

“He is Bryk Kriger’s nephew, a child born of his brother’s thrall. His father drowned in the tidal wave.”

Sonja had heard of people being turned to stone in myth. Now she knew it was possible. Her hopes splintered into a thousand shards.

The gods had cast a
hecks
on her, drawing her to a
nithing
with whom there was no future. No other explanation existed for the longing in her breast for a man she’d met only twice and barely spoken to. Simply looking at him had kindled a flame in her body, as well as in her heart, rousing feelings and sensations she’d never known.

But he was a thrall. Though he was free now, her father and brothers would never allow—

The numbing reality was worse. She had too much pride to give herself to a slave.

She tried and failed to make her legs function. With a limp wave of her hand she dismissed Puella and curled her knees to her chest atop the chilly linens of her bed.

Bryk lay awake listening to his wife’s steady breathing, kept awake by thoughts of Torstein. He and Alfred had discussed at length the possibility of granting their nephew his freedom before they’d actually made the decision. They were aware many in the Viking community would deem them mad for such an action. A thrall was a valuable chattel, especially an obedient and loyal one like Torstein.

They’d also considered the difficulties Torstein would face if he were free. He would never be welcomed as a member of the Viking community.

However, they’d concluded he had earned the right to be free, and truth be told Cathryn would never have accepted less than Torstein’s freedom.

Much of what they feared might result had indeed come to pass. However, there was one thing Bryk hadn’t expected—his own attitude towards his nephew.

He wished he was like Cathryn. She accepted Torstein for what he was—a brave man to whom she owed her life. Why couldn’t he do the same? Why was it difficult to open his heart to a courageous and generous young man who was his blood relative, the son of his own brother?

The truth was he had too much pride. He, the warrior turned farmer turned warrior who’d incurred the wrath of his chieftain and the disdain of his neighbors, now had too much pride in his own importance to take a freed thrall to his bosom.

He glanced up to the top of the armoire. Darkness cloaked the triptych but the saint was there, always ready to listen. “Saint Catherine of Alexandria,” he said inwardly. “Grant me the courage to overcome my pride before Cathryn perceives how weak I am.”

Torstein had learned over the years to study his uncle’s facial expressions. Bryk didn’t hide his feelings. It was plain to see he was surprised by how quickly Torstein mastered the handling of a sword.

It would of course be a long while, if ever, before he bested his uncle in combat, and he sensed Bryk was holding back, but he was confident he’d demonstrated his abilities.

“You’ve used a sword before,” Bryk rumbled.

“Only at Chartres.”

His uncle lunged unexpectedly, but he quickly sidestepped the blow and returned the thrust.

“Hmph! You have a feel for the weapon, I must admit. Didn’t inherit that from your father.”

Did he dare? He decided to go for it. “Mayhap from my grandfather, then?”

Bryk stopped in mid-thrust and glared, but then his expression softened and he came close to smiling. “Mayhap,” he agreed.

Torstein’s spirits lifted. By rights, he should hate this man, but Bryk had never treated him cruelly. Truth be told, he’d been kinder than his own father. However, he sensed his uncle’s reluctance to fully recognize him as his nephew. It was hard for a Norseman to accept a slave into the bosom of the family, but it was important he win over his uncle if he wanted to be recognized as a worthy member of Viking society in this new land. Bryk would be the best possible champion.

He prayed to Thor for strength as he went on the offensive, hoping his uncle wouldn’t retaliate by slicing him in two. Bryk Kriger would respect a man with courage and daring, but he too had suffered in the past for sticking to his convictions. Torstein would need to show his determination to be a fully-fledged warrior, a Viking worthy of Sonja Karlsdatter.

He hacked and thrust, lungs on fire, arms aching, his feet somehow finding a life of their own as he dodged and wove. His size seemed to work to his advantage, speed proving to be as important as brute strength.

To his relief, it was his uncle who called a halt, his brow furrowed. He’d never admit it, but he was out of breath.

Again, Torstein summoned up his courage. “You’re getting old,
onkel
.”

Bryk stared at him, but there was no anger in his eyes. “Beware, Torstein, I had your father over my knee more than once and whacked his arse good when he was insolent.”

Mention of Gunnar produced a maelstrom of confused emotions. He’d grieved with his mother when his father had drowned, though he didn’t understand why. The man had never shown either of them any love. But the notion of his uncle smacking his father’s arse amused him. He’d wager there’d been wailing and howling in protest.

His gut twisted when it dawned on him this was the first time his uncle had addressed him directly by name without it being an order from master to slave. “I wouldn’t recommend trying it with me,” he replied, raising his sword and bracing for an angry backlash.

But his uncle smiled and sheathed his weapon. “Maybe not,” he chuckled, eyeing Torstein’s sword. “Enough for today. Same time on the morrow. Keep the weapon until we can get you a better one. In a fortnight you’ll accompany the army to the west.”

He watched his uncle stride off, at once elated and terrified. One thing was certain. He must be sure of Sonja’s feelings before he left. If she cared for him he would defy convention to win her.