Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (4 page)

Bryk had made a decision during the cross-country trek. He resented Hrolf, but the chieftain had brought them safely to Francia. His plan to coerce the King of the Franks into ceding territory made sense. The rich plains and forests they’d traversed held great promise. A man might settle here and plant apple trees, build a more comfortable and secure life than the one he’d left behind.

But the choicest lands would be doled out to those who enjoyed Hrolf’s favor.
Only warriors would be richly rewarded.

Bryk
had courage. He didn’t fear death, and would fight for a stake in this new country. But he wouldn’t murder. He would win his place with honor.

He and his cohorts
came to the top of a steep hill overlooking the Seine. The village of Jumièges was visible not far away and he had a good view downriver, but there was no sign of the fleet. He suspected Hrolf and the other captains had been unable to resist the temptation to raid and plunder en route.

He
had come to trust the men with whom he travelled. They were inexperienced youths who’d confided that they too enjoyed the prospect of enriching themselves with booty, but assumed rape and murder went hand in hand with plundering.

Confident as he was in them, their group was too small to attack a
town. His other concern was to forage for food for themselves and the horses, though there was an abundance of spring grass for grazing. Scouting the area would give him knowledge and sustenance. Hrolf would need both when he arrived.

When it was fully dark, he left his
men with the wild horses, led Fisk down the steep embankment, then mounted and crossed the river. The full moon illuminated the outline of what looked like a partially finished building in the distance. It worried him; too much light made the excursion riskier.

He tied Fisk
’s rope to a tree and crept towards what he saw now was a stone building under construction. He remembered the tales of the sacking of the abbey at Jumièges by Vikings three score and ten years before. This edifice must be the replacement. He marveled at the perseverance of the Franks who seemed determined to rebuild with stone—a process which took much longer than the wooden construction his people used.

He suspected roofs didn’t blow off stone buildings.
When Hrolf gave him land, he would build with stone.

Keeping to the shadow cast by the building, he
loped across to the wall and crept towards the end. He took a quick glance around the corner, expecting to see the front entryway. Instead there was only a narrow arched doorway, perhaps leading to a kitchen.

As he stepped out of the shadows, the door creaked open. He retreated quickly, flattening
his body against the wall when someone came stealthily from the other side of the building.

There was enough
moonlight to make out a man in robes, his head hooded. He seemed anxious not to be seen as he waited on the very spot where Bryk had stood moments earlier.

What in the name of Thor
is he waiting for in the dark?

Th
e answer came when the door creaked again and a young woman in white robes appeared. The monk pushed the hood from his head, revealing his youth, and took the girl’s hands, drawing her into the shadows.

Bryk
held his breath. If they detected him only paces away—

It was his understanding that men and women who had dedicated their lives to the Christian God were celibate
, a notion Vikings deemed ridiculous. His young companions were apparently unaware of this obligation as they kissed ravenously, their hands wandering over each other’s bodies.

A cloud crept over the moon.
Bryk strained in the darkness to hear their whispers. His knowledge of the Frankish language was limited, but their clandestine endearments touched his heart and evoked cherished memories of Myldryd. He clenched his fists, guilt washing over him. Had he not turned his back on warmongering, his beautiful wife might still be alive.

The kissing couple broke apart abruptly, jolting him from his
reverie. Censure in the whispered exchange that followed indicated they’d been discovered, though he’d neither seen nor heard another person approach. Annoyed with himself for his inattention, he drew his dagger and narrowed his eyes in time to see the lovers flee back around the corner of the building.

Had the unseen person left?

His breath caught in his throat when the clouds rolled on, revealing a second young woman clad in white robes. She leaned back against the wall and turned her face to the moon. She was tall and slender, and her beauty stunned him, but he swallowed hard, struck by the loneliness in her expression. He had an unwelcome urge to gather her into his arms and stroke his hand over the cropped hair that shone inky black in the moonlight.

Sensations that he’d
believed long dead stirred in his loins.

Fisk nickered, catching the girl’s attention. She frowned, peering into the darkness where the horse was tethered.

Alarm skittered up his spine. He willed her to return to the safety of the building, but instead she took slow, tentative steps towards his hidden mount. If she discovered the beast—

He
crept up to her from behind.

When she
caught sight of Fisk, she gasped and slowly offered her open palm. But then it seemed to dawn on her what the presence of the horse meant. She whirled around, her eyes filling with fear when she saw him a few paces away.

He cursed inwardly that he still held the dagger. No wonder she
was terrified. She opened her mouth to scream.

Swiftly, h
e sheathed the weapon, snaked an arm around her back and clamped his hand over her mouth as he pulled her against him. Heat from her trembling body sparked desire, sending blood rushing to his
pikk
. But the terror in her eyes gave him pause. She thought he had rape on his mind.

“Hush,” he said softly, rocking her
like a baby against his chest. “Hush.”

He recognized the moment her fear subsided
when she went limp in his arms. Or had she fainted?

Terror rendered Cathryn incapable of movement. She swayed, certain her heart had stopped beating. It surely would when the massive barbarian plunged his knife into her breast. One glimpse of long hair, silvery blonde in the moonlight, a full beard and animal skin clothing had been enough to tell her this was no wandering peasant intent on mischief.

She had never been touched by a man. His hand was warm on her face, and it
seemed he was being careful not to hurt her. At least he hadn’t broken her neck. His hands were big enough to snap her like a twig. She decided in an instant biting him wasn’t a good idea.

The dizzying smell of male sweat filled her nostrils, but it wasn’t the acrid stink that clung to Sprig.
The heat from the arm gripping her body penetrated the thick wool of her habit.

His voice was deep, but gentle.
He was rocking her, which was good because her knees had buckled. Fear must have stolen her wits. How else to explain that she felt strangely safe, held firm against a male body as unyielding as a wall?

He eased her away and looked
into her eyes. “No harm,” he rasped.

S
he had lost her wits. Something in the depths of his brown eyes held her. She quickly nodded her understanding, trusting him.

He removed his hand from her mouth and they stared at each other for what seemed like
long minutes.

His frown betrayed his uncertainty as to what to do with her. An urge to beg him to take her
away bubbled up in her throat. She never wanted to be parted from the security of his strong arms.

But this man was a Viking—the hair, the clothing, the foreign tongue, the sheer size of him
confirmed it. Women taken by Vikings became slaves.

Better a slave to this man than to Mater
Bruna.

She shivered when he let go
, swaying on unsteady legs until he put his hands on her waist and touched his lips to hers. The softness of his beard surprised her.

She should have been outraged, should have protested, pushed him away, called on her patron saint. But along with the alarmingly wonderful sensations coursing through her body,
and a desire to have him breathe his salty breath into her, a ridiculous notion beat a tattoo in her thoughts.

L
ove at first sight, love at first sight.

He broke them apart, a strange look on his face, as if he too struggled to comprehend the situation in which they found themselves
. He tapped his chest. “Bryk,” he rasped.

Her breath caught in her dry throat but she managed to squeeze out, “Cathryn.”

He smiled, sending tiny winged creatures fluttering in her lower belly.

“
Cath-ryn,” he repeated hoarsely.

On his lips her name was a song.

But then he put a hand on her back and pushed her gently in the direction of the abbey.

He’s letting me go.
I can warn the others.

She gripped his arm
, unable to speak.

Don’t let me go.

But he pushed her again, gesturing towards the wall. “Go,” he urged, untying his horse.

She staggered away
from him, crying for no good reason. Nearing the wall, she turned for one last glimpse, but he’d already disappeared, swallowed up by the night.

Loneliness shuddered through her.
Blinded by tears, she resumed her walk to safety—and bumped straight into someone lurking in the shadows.

“Looking for
me?” the man asked, pinning her to the wall with his body.

She’d never heard him speak but she recognized Sprig’s
odor. Her belly turned over at the malevolence in his voice. He spoke with an odd accent. She struggled, but he clamped his mouth on hers. She gagged on the reek of onions. He squeezed her breast. The cold stone bit into her back and fear gnawed at her gut as he forced her legs apart with his knee and yanked up her robe. His icy hand touched her thigh.

Then abruptly he was gone, crumpled in a
mewling heap at her feet.

A warm hand
grasped hers, and she was lifted as her legs gave way.

“
Come, Cath-ryn,” the Viking rumbled.

~~~

Bryk
wasn’t sure what made him turn back. It had been alarmingly difficult to push the woman away a second time. Visions of her lying naked beneath him on a bed of furs played behind his eyes.

It was foolish. She was a Frank, a follower of the White Christ. She’d probably raised the alarm by now. He was putting himself in harm’s way—for no good reason. But he needed to be assured she was safe.

He came close to roaring his outrage when he saw what was taking place.

A
man in religious garb had her up against the wall, his hand reaching under her robe, despite her protestations. In war he had witnessed many rapes and knew exactly what the man had in mind. Evidently nothing he’d been told about Christian clerics was true.

Intent on his evil deed,
her attacker apparently didn’t hear Bryk steal up behind him. A swift chop to the base of his skull dropped him like a stone.

Thanks
be to Freyja he’d returned in time. Cath-ryn stared at him, shaking uncontrollably, seemingly on the verge of hysteria. He couldn’t walk away. Her attacker’s moans indicated he wasn’t dead. He would likely try for her again, or exact revenge. Taking her with him would cause difficulties. He had nothing to offer but the life of a thrall.

This young woman
drew him like a lodestone. And how was it he had changed in the blink of an eye from a man who’d forsworn murder to one resolved to kill anyone who touched her? Perhaps she was a witch who’d put a
heks
on him. He had no choice.

“
Kom
! Cath-ryn,” he said urgently as he scooped her up and carried her to his horse.

Cathryn had never ridden, but she liked being cradled in the Viking’s arms. However, worry gnawed at her. “The alarm will be raised,” she told him.

He seemed to understand. “
Ja
. Alarm.”

But they rode on.

She prayed Javune and Kaia were safe.

Was Sprig dead? She shivered, recalling the paralyzing
terror when she feared the odious monk would succeed in raping her. It was strange how one man’s touch was thrilling and another’s repellent.

They
reached the river and the horse readily waded into the dark water. Cathryn had lived her life in a convent overlooking this same river, but had never been allowed to venture near it, until the voyage aboard the
Bonvent
. Fear took hold. She snaked her arms around her captor’s neck. He tightened his grip. “Safe,” he whispered in her ear.

His warm breath a
nd calm demeanor reassured her. They reached the opposite bank and scaled an embankment. His arms stiffened. A small group of similarly clad men surrounded them as they rode into a glade. She should have known he wouldn’t be alone. Vikings always came in hordes.

He said something to
the men in his language, his voice stern. They looked from him to her. What lurked in their eyes? Disbelief, resentment? Certainly not welcome.

~~~

“This woman is my captive,” Bryk declared, knowing his cohorts would understand completely. To make sure, he added, “I claim her as my thrall.”

W
ithout a word they drifted away to the shelter of the trees.

He dismounted,
then pulled Cath-ryn into his arms, relieved she had stopped shaking. But he recognized the fear and uncertainty in her eyes and he wanted it gone. “Safe,” he repeated, wishing he knew more of her tongue.

She
replied in her own language. She was perhaps uttering her thanks, and he was elated when she timidly took his hand and added, “
Takk
.”

She speaks my language!

“It was nothing,” he replied hastily, wanting to warm her chilled hand. “I couldn’t let him—”

But it was evident from her frown he’d spoken too quickly. He barely understood his actions. How to explain them to her? She was here and now he would have to take care of her. He’d always seen to the welfare of his thralls, clothed and fed and sheltered them. But strangely the prospect of this woman as his thrall didn’t appeal.
Not that she wasn’t desirable, despite the ugly robe. The persistent hardening of the flesh between his legs that he’d tried unsuccessfully to will away was proof of it.

It was his right to take her, willing or not, if she were
his slave. But the prospect of taking her by force filled him with dismay.

The stirrings were welcome, if inconvenient. He thought his interest in women had died with
Myldryd.

He raked a hand through his hair, worried
there might be pursuit from the abbey. She watched then pointed to her head. She said a word in her language, and he repeated it. “Hair.”

She smiled. “Good.”

He laughed, assuming he’d said it correctly. He reached out and sifted his fingers through her black hair, repeating the word, then trailed his fingertips down her neck. Her face darkened as she moved away, putting both hands on her head.

He understood.
Women in Norway never went about with their hair uncovered. She obviously hadn’t expected to come across a Viking in the middle of the night. He chuckled, wishing his belongings weren’t on board the
Seahorse
.

Her eyes widened in alarm when he took out his dagger
. He feared she might swoon when he untied the leather belt of his
kyrtill
and tugged it over his head. It was chilly without the woolen overtunic. He quickly peeled off his linen shirt and sliced through the hem of braided wool then tore off a piece of the long garment he judged ample for a scarf.

He handed her the fabric and patted the top of his head.
She stared wide-eyed at his chest and it occurred to him suddenly she had probably never seen a half naked man before. As a warrior he’d trained long and hard to keep fit. Farming had kept his muscles strong, his body lean. He had a momentary notion to strut like a rooster, but thought better of it. He quickly redonned his shirt and
kyrtill
, welcoming the protection when his thighs were again covered by the woolen garment. He hoped she’d been unaware of the significance of the bulge at his groin.

She finally seemed to understand his intent, covered her head with the fabric and knotted it under her chin. The ripped edging
Myldryd had lovingly braided framed her face.

~~~

Bryk settled Cathryn into a hollow at the base of a tree. Horses whinnied and snorted nearby. He motioned for her to stay where she was then strode off on long legs in the direction of the men.

She was afraid she might be sick. The trembling had begun again. She wished he hadn’t left her alone. In the space of a few minutes she’d gone from terror, believing
Bryk intended to rape and kill her, to salivating at the site of steam rising from his bared body in the chilly night air, the moonlight glowing silver on metal bands around his upper arms.

She ought to have known he would do her no harm. He’d understood her alarm at realizing her hair was uncovered and sacrificed part of his own garment to fashion a scarf.

As she fingered the knot under her chin, she had a fanciful urge to toss the fabric away, to beg him to run his fingers through her hair again. Her scalp had tingled beneath his gentle touch. She traced a fingertip down her neck, aware for the first time how sensitive her skin was. The prospect of putting back on the coif she’d worn since childhood suddenly lodged in her belly like a lead weight.

His hair was as blond as hers was dark, and long where hers was short
, cropped for comfort under the coif and wimple. But the gleam in his eye told her he liked it.

Perhaps now she was free, her hair
would grow.

Free?

Instead of being preoccupied with meaningless trivialities she should worry he might sell or enslave her. Staying with these men wouldn’t mean freedom. She’d never been at liberty to come and go as she wished. The life she’d accepted as her destiny suddenly rankled. It didn’t make sense.

W
hat did these Vikings intend? What was Bryk doing lurking near the abbey? It was obvious they intended to attack. The monks and nuns there would be slaughtered. Brother Javune. Kaia.

She struggled to her feet as
Bryk approached, his men close behind, their jaws clenched. Some decision had been reached; she saw it on his face and the axe in his grip confirmed what she dreaded. He took her hand. “Jumièges,” he said as he pulled her in the direction of his horse.