Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (15 page)

July 20, 911 AD, near Chartres, Francia

“The relief army is camped to the southwest of the city
,” Bryk reported to Hrolf at the gathering of the Viking captains the following day. “There are Franks, Burgundians, and men from Aquitaine.”

He didn’t want to add that it was a formidable force they faced. Their enemies had joined forces and their backs were to the walls of Chartres. Hrolf’s stern expression betrayed that he already knew it. The presence of Poppa and Cathryn made matters worse.
Bryk had considered suggesting they surrender to the Bishop of Chartres before the fighting began, but Hrolf would never agree.

He’d also
thought of flight down the Eure, but there weren’t enough seaworthy longboats left for everyone, and where would they go? Burgundy and Neustria would pursue them relentlessly.

At least he’d been able to secrete Cathryn and Poppa in one of the longboats, away from the action, with instructions to seek refuge in Chartres and beg for mercy
if all was lost.

He’d silenced his wife’s objections with a gentle kiss, wiping away her tears with his thumb. He’d given her a dagger and suspected neither she nor Poppa would surrender willingly.

Bryk drew his own dagger and crouched, using the point of the weapon to draw three circles in the sandy soil, trying to recall what he’d seen in the brief glimpse he’d had of the encampment. “Duke Richard has split his forces into three groups. Aquitainians camped here.”

H
rolf nodded, stroking his beard, his long legs braced.

“Robert
the Margrave is in the center with his Neustrians.”

Hrolf remained silent.

“The Burgundians are massed on the other flank.”

Hrolf coughed up phlegm and spat at the spot Bryk had pointed to. “We will form up in a half circle and surround them.”

Bryk nodded his agreement. He too thought taking the offensive was their only hope. They’d be slaughtered pinned against the walls of the town. But Hrolf’s next command took him by surprise. “I will lead one end of the charge. Bryk Kriger will lead the other.”

The word was passed and the Vikings quickly took up familiar positions. The dust kicked up by the horses of the Frankish army blossomed like a cloud on the horizon. Bryk wished he had Fisk beneath him.

“They’re coming,” Hrolf shouted as the dust cloud moved closer. “Wait for my signal.”

Bryk shifted his
stridsøkse
to his left hand and wiped the sweat from his right palm on his padded pants, then drew his sword. He could wield an axe with his weaker hand, and the sword hefted better in the right.

The weather was hot and humid, the sun blazing down—nothing like summer in
Møre—and he was sweating under the mail shirt and his heavy helmet. The wooden shield strapped to his back felt like a lead weight.

He didn’t worry overmuch about it. Once the battle began the icy chill of fear would quickly take hold and he’d be flying like a bird, striking down any who might challenge him.

He didn’t fear death. He had earned a place in either Odin’s Valhalla or Freyja’s Fólkvangr and was sure the Valkyries would carry him to one of the gods’ feasting halls. If he had a choice—

When Duke Richard’s army galloped into sight, yelling their battle cry, he abandoned all thoughts of the goddess of fertility and offered a quick entreaty to Saint Catherine—just in case.

Hrolf clenched his jaw, his steely gaze fixed on the advancing horde. Bryk was initially surprised how few of the enemy were actually mounted. Evidently they’d had trouble rounding up their frenzied mounts. That evened the game somewhat. He hadn’t relished crippling horses to unseat their riders.

Hrolf raised his axe. “
Aaaangrrrrrep
!” he bellowed, leading the charge on the left flank. Bryk yelled his own war cry and set the right flank in motion.

There was a momentary but noticeable lull in the shouting coming from the Frankish side. The sight of a white-haired bearded giant rushing toward them, armed with a menacing axe
bigger than most men, would be enough to make any soldier’s throat constrict, not to mention his sphincter muscles.

Bryk smiled inwardly, but grimly hoped he wouldn’t soil himself. He’d seen enough death
to be aware of what happened to a man’s bowels. He’d been in many skirmishes, but this was different. His thoughts went to Møre, to Myldryd and his ancestors buried far away.

They had begun this odyssey in the hope of securing land for a new life. Now it seemed all might be lost. But he would fight with honor for what he came for, even to the death, though he regretted with all his heart that
Cathryn would be left alone—again.

With well practiced discipline the Viking flanks surged as the center held back. Bryk loped along steadily, wanting to keep up with Hrolf’s long strides, but needing to conserve his strength. He’d soon need every ounce of it.

~~~

The two sides came together in an enormous cloud of choking dust.
Unsure of his targets, Bryk swung his sword and axe, satisfied when metal met flesh and his enemies fell at his feet. He strode over bodies, bellowing a war cry. All around him men died, some screaming as limbs were hacked off and blood flowed, others slipping silently into death without a whimper.

The dust cleared for a moment. He squinted into the melee, astonished to see Alfred bring down a Frankish soldier. His brother had somehow acquired a sword and shield and obviously knew how to handle them. They grinned at each other like naughty boys, but then the dust obscured his vision and he moved on, hacking and slashing and praying.

For a while it seemed the Franks were giving ground. They suddenly seemed preoccupied with something happening behind them.

Bryk came close to whooping with glee when he caught sight of Torstein leading a horde of Viking slaves against the Franks’ rear guard. His spirits lifted when the enemy fell back further.

But his joy was short-lived. He swiveled his head as the heavy gates of Chartres creaked open, the din audible even over the clash of battle. He blinked twice, fearing he was hallucinating.

The B
ishop of Chartres, crowned with his episcopal mitre as though about to celebrate mass, and holding high a cross, strode forth from inside the walls followed by the clergy and townsfolk armed with spears and swords. They rushed forward, lashing the backs of the Vikings.

The battle raged on. Bryk lost all sense of time. His biceps ached and he could barely lift his weapons. He’d lost his shield some time ago and was covered in blood. He was sure his helmet must be battered beyond recognition. Thirst raged in his throat, grit scoured his eyeballs every time he blinked. But he was alive—for the moment.

He inhaled deeply, preparing to enter the fray again when he saw something he had never thought to see in his lifetime.

Hrolf stood on the other flank, waving a white flag.

Bryk swayed and had to jam his sword into the dry ground and lean on it lest he fall over. Duke Richard called a halt to the battle. It took
time for the Vikings to realize their chieftain had surrendered and for the Frankish soldiers to become aware of their leader’s orders.

Bryk fell to his knees, still leaning on the sword while minor skirmishes continued around him. The axe fell from his cramped hand. If he died in the next few minutes, so be it. He was a dead man anyway. Everything he had fought for crumbled at the sight of Hrolf surrendering to Burgundy. His dream of tending his apple trees while watching Cathryn’s belly grow round with his child was swept away. He wondered if he had enough strength left to at least get to the longboat to defend her against violation.

He struggled to his feet, but staggered when he was shoved from behind. He understood enough of the Frankish tongue to know he was being ordered to move towards the hill where Hrolf stood. A Frank picked up his axe and brandished it under his nose. Did the fool not realize Bryk could snap him like a twig?

But what further need did he have for the axe, or the sword? He allowed himself to be herded together with those of his battered countrymen who’d survived. He was surprised by how many still lived, but worried that he didn’t see Alfred among them, or Torstein. It gladdened his heart to catch sight of Sven
Yngre, bloodied and bruised, but still alive, leaning on an apparently unscathed Javune. Though what future did the young men have now?

As they
limped away, it struck him there was something about Javune he should be paying attention to, but whatever it was eluded his befuddled brain.

The Vikings
stood before Richard of Burgundy, but it was Hrolf who addressed them.

“We have come to terms with Duke Richard and Margrave Robert and have agreed to surrender. We will be allowed to remain on this hill to tend our wounded and bury our dead. In exchange we have agreed to hand over good faith hostages.”

A terrible foreboding crept into Bryk’s heart. He glanced at the leader of the Franks, knowing only too well whom the Burgundian had stipulated.

“Duke Richard has requested that my wife, Poppa of Bayeux, be one of the hostages, and Cathryn, wife of Bryk Kriger be the other.”

Rage exploded in Bryk’s chest as he leapt to his feet. “
Jamais
!” he spat at Burgundy in his own tongue.

Hrolf raised
a hand, his lined face twisted in torment. “Calm yourself, brother. I have agreed.”

~~~

The Vikings were not allowed to leave the hill, but nuns and monks from Chartres gradually brought first the wounded, then the dead from the field.

Bryk eventually located Alfred who
sported a purple goose egg on his forehead, and Torstein who showed off the finger severed from his bandaged left hand with great pride to anyone who might listen.

Reassured the remnants of his family were safe, he hastened to find Hrolf. He was about to harangue his chieftain about the decision to sacrifice Cathryn and Poppa when their attention was drawn to a dust cloud
to the north.

“More Franks,” Hrolf spat. “They’re a little late.”

Within an hour, a large group of infantrymen led by a knight on horseback had joined Richard’s camp. From their position on the hill, it was easy to see that the recently arrived knight and the Duke were arguing. From time to time the newcomer looked back at the hill.

“Whoever he is, he wants to attack us,” Hrolf rumbled. “He’s come late to the party and is angry he missed the action.”

“Will Richard honor the arrangement?” Bryk asked, knowing in his heart the Duke would likely capitulate and assist a further attack.

“We must get to the longboats,” Hrolf said. “At least there we can offer a defense.”

Suddenly, the newcomer wheeled his horse to face them and ordered his men up the hill. The Vikings had only their bare hands to defend themselves. It would be a massacre. As the infantrymen began the climb, Duke Richard rode to the base of the hill, shouting at the top of his lungs.

The newcomer glared up at the Vikings, then ordered his men to retreat.

Hrolf spat. “Poitou. That’s the name Burgundy yelled. He’ll sleep on it then try again on the morrow. We must act tonight.”

~~~

Cathryn and Poppa crouched in the trees downriver from the longboats and watched the handful of Frankish soldiers search every one of them, and then turn their attention to the abandoned camp, eventually leaving with a handful of bleating sheep from the pens.

“They are looking for us,” Poppa whispered. “The battle has not gone in our favor.”

They’d spent hours on their knees praying for a victory. Now their husbands were probably dead and they were alone in enemy territory.

Despair threatened to overwhelm Cathryn. Perhaps she was being punished for living in sin with a pagan. She closed her eyes, conjuring an image of her beloved. There was no evil in him. Loving such a man couldn’t be sinful. “Saint Catherine has abandoned us,” she murmured hoarsely.

“There were perhaps moments when she believed God had abandoned her,” Poppa replied softly. “I refuse to give up hope. Hrolf believed we would settle and prosper in this land. I still have faith.”

They remained hidden until well after nightfall. Cathryn’s legs were so cramped she feared she’d be unable to stand. She was about to struggle to her feet to attend to the call of nature when an eerie, mournful wail splintered the silence.

Poppa got up quickly and grasped Cathryn’s arm. “It’s a Viking horn.”

They crept stealthily out of the forest, their hopes lifting as more and more horns added to the cacophony.

They had almost reached the longboats when strong arms grabbed them from behind.

“Aha!” a male voice declared.

The Franks evidently believed the horns that most Vikings wore slung across their bodies weren’t dangerous. Bryk hoped that might be the key to their escape.

They’d waited until well after nightfall to put their plan into effect. Those who were able crept into the Frankish encampment
, filled their lungs with air, then blew their horns.

The result was predictable. The sleeping Franks jumped to the conclusion they were under attack and scattered in all directions.

“Good of them to leave us the stretchers,” Hrolf quipped as the Vikings carried their wounded down the hill and headed to the boats under cover of darkness.

Bryk clung to the hope Cathryn hadn’t been captured, but there was no sign of the women once they arrived.

There was no time to search for them, however, until the second part of the plan had been put into place, and Bryk breathed a sigh of relief that the livestock were still in the pens. Some of the thralls had already unearthed weapons hidden on board and begun the slaughter. It went against all his farming instincts to kill animals for anything but food and self-preservation. He reasoned that the latter was the case here.

~~~

“We meet again, Cathryn, wife of Bryk,” Richard of Burgundy quipped, lounging in his ornate chair in the dimly lit tent.

Cathryn was tempted
to voice her opinion of a man who had a carved chair lugged around the countryside, but this wasn’t the time. Exhaustion and fear had stolen her wits.

She had no idea what had happened to Poppa. They’d been separated immediately upon being brought into the Frankish camp. She decided to act as though Richard was Emperor
Maxentius and she Catherine of Alexandria.

“I will not yield,” she insisted, head held high.

Burgundy frowned. “Yield to what?” he asked. “No one here will molest you.”

She hesitated, but her tormentor had to be exposed or she might find herself once more at his mercy. “There is one among you who has already tried to rape me.”

He chewed his lower lip, eyeing her with suspicion. “Name him,” he said, his voice edged with anger.

“Sprig.”

He appeared startled. “The monk?”

She nodded.

Trust blossomed on his face. “He has already left to continue his journey to Vézelay, but he’ll be dealt with. I loathe dishonorable men who attack women, especially a cleric—”

“Thank you,” she breathed, relief flooding through her veins that he believed her. But she had to get the discussion back to the Vikings
. “I will continue to suggest that peace talks will achieve more than bloodshed. Why can the Norsemen not be granted a portion of our country?”

Burgundy stroked his beard. “Charles the Senseless might say that notion is treasonous.”

She opened her mouth to offer a retort but then realized he was smiling. “The King might believe calling him
Senseless
is treason,” she replied.

The smile left his face. “Vikings are not known as peace loving people. If we give them a little, they might want a lot more.”

Cathryn’s thoughts went to Hrolf. Richard didn’t know him, yet he’d summed up the Viking leader. “Most of them are like my husband. They are hard-working men who simply want a fertile piece of land on which to grow crops and raise a family. They would defend it to the death.”

Richard leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair, but the corners of his mouth still quirked upwards. “And what crop would your Viking grow?”

“Apples. He brought the seeds and rootstocks from Norway. Some that he planted in Rouen still live, though I managed to kill several.”

Richard burst out laughing. “I hope your Viking knows what a priceless treasure he has in you.”

She felt her face redden. “I am nothing, a foundling left on the threshold of a convent, but the Norsemen have a long and proud history and will contribute much to the prosperity and strength of Francia.”

Burgundy frowned. “A foundling?”

She nodded, staring at her feet, feeling very uncomfortable in male attire.

The Duke’s eyes wandered
from her toes to the top of her head. “You are without doubt the most intelligent, the most courageous and the most beautiful foundling I’ve ever met.”

Remember
you are Catherine of Alexandria and even the best of men…

“But will you free the Vikings?”

Burgundy came to his feet slowly. “We’ll have to see what King Charles says about the Vikings settling in Francia, but you are right, Cathryn. They are a resourceful people. They’ve already freed themselves.”