Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (6 page)

Ekaterina perched atop an iron chest on board the
Seahorse
, her smiling face turned to the wind, booted feet planted firmly on the deck. Her gnarled and mottled hands gripped the smooth metal. Occasionally, she called out
Splash, Splash
in cadence with the rhythm of the oars. The men pulling those oars chuckled each time, to which she dutifully responded, “
Da!
”

For Cathryn, riding in a longboat was
different from sailing aboard the
Bonvent
. It was smaller than the trading ship, but she felt safer. However, she too held firmly to the bronze-clad sides of the sturdy wooden sea chest Bryk had given her to sit on. Her pigments and quills were tucked inside, along with the axe she remembered from the night of their meeting.

Kaia
offered no conversation. She had sulked and sobbed alternately since leaving Javune in Jumièges.

Hrolf and his son stood at the prow. Cathryn had her back to them, but
sensed the Viking leader’s excitement as they drew closer to Rouen. Her own heart skittered around in her chest—life had changed considerably in the short time since she’d left the town of her birth.

She studied the scenery, trying not to let her eyes wander to
Bryk, who held firm to the tiller at the rear of the vessel.

The task of keeping the heavy boat steady in the winding river seemed effortless for him. He wore a knee-length shaggy cloak the color and texture of sheepskin, pushed back off his shoulders to reveal a faded red lining. It was fastened at the shoulder with a pin held captive in an elaborately decorated gold circle. A woolen braid
similar to the one on her scarf edged the cloak. Someone had fashioned the well used garment with love.

A crimson shirt had replaced the one he
’d torn apart. Tight pants clung to his muscular thighs, a narrow leather belt snaking its way through the loops at his waist. A large pouch made of some animal skin hung from it. She suspected the key to the iron padlock that secured the chest lay inside. The buckle was ornate, silver perhaps. An enormous sword sat on his hip that she would have difficulty lifting. She recognized the hilt of a familiar dagger tucked within easy reach.

A cow horn etched with what looked like a two-headed ship hung from a lanyard suspended across his body. Perhaps he used it for drinking.

His shins were wrapped in strips of braided fabric which disappeared inside calf high leather boots fastened with toggles.

Perched atop his head was a rounded helmet with chain mail hanging from it to protect his neck. Metal flaps covered his ears. But the studded metal mask encircling his eyes
and covering his nose were the most menacing aspect. A zigzag pattern had been hammered into it, the oval eye slits transforming him into a creature of myth, a bird-like raptor. She was relieved he hadn’t worn it the night they’d met. She’d have died of fright.

He was the embodiment of every tale she’d ever heard about Vikings—a battle
-ready barbarian. The helmet must weigh a considerable amount, yet he showed no sign of discomfort.

She squirmed on the chest, clenching pulsating inner muscles she never knew she had, aware his heavy outer tunic
was within, as well as his armor.

He was a m
an who sailed the perilous seas. He had shaved his beard, though not closely. Stubble still shadowed his rugged features. Had the wind and sun turned his hair to gold as they had bronzed his face and arms? Was his chest the same burnished hue? It had been impossible to tell when he’d stripped off his shirt in the darkness and she’d been too awe-struck at the size of him. Could she mix paint from her pigments to match?

She studied him, painting a picture behind her eyes, looking away quickly when she
became aware he was staring back, a strange smile on his chiseled face. Had he guessed her lustful longing to be the woman such a man clung to in the night?

She was damned.

Saint Catherine intercede for me. I am losing my wits.

She fretted over why he had insisted to Hrolf she be brought along, though she was glad of it. She understood Ekaterina’s value as a translator, but a battle loomed. And why were they in a boat with the men and not with the women? They would have been safer in Jumièges. Except Sprig was still there.

~~~

Bryk
thanked the gods for his good fortune. Not only had Hrolf acceded to his demands he bring Cath-ryn, he’d promoted him to navigator. It was important his captive not think him an oarsman.

He’d
not wanted to leave her in Jumièges. The fifty Vikings who held the town would surely keep Sprig confined, but he felt a keen need to be her protector.

It was absurd. He was taking her into a siege
to keep her safe. But most of the men who’d made the journey from Møre faced the same dilemma. He had a better understanding of Alfred’s anxieties for his family.

He pushed his cloak further back off his shoulders, studying the river’s unpredictable flow. Navigating these waters required more concentration than gliding up a fjord. He had to admit it
was good to be back in action. Working the land was satisfying, but there was much to be said for a sturdy ship beneath a man’s feet and the prospect of battle ahead.

He recalled something Hrolf often repeated.
“It is better to live on the sea and let others raise your crops and cook your meals. A house smells of smoke, a ship smells of frolic. From a house you see a sooty roof, from a ship you see Valhalla.”

He hazarded a glance at Cath-ryn. She looked away quickly. Perhaps she would be the one to fill his house with the tempting aromas of her cooking. She sat atop his sea chest, as if she was already his—

The word he’d conjured gave him pause. He didn’t want another wife. A foreign captive could not marry a Viking. Hrolf had never wed his Frankish concubine, only pledging to her
more danico
. Cath-ryn was his possession, like the sea chest.

He wondered
what she thought of his war helmet and hoped he didn’t look too menacing. He laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of the notion—the helmet was meant to give the impression he was an invincible barbarian.

He had secured clothing for her from Poppa. Asking Alfred’s wife would have cause
d hardship. The voluminous white robe of the Christian God was badly soiled and the ugly headgear that hid most of her lovely face irritated him. His chieftain’s concubine had balked at first, insinuating that Cath-ryn was probably unaware of the ways of Vikings.

But Hrolf had supported his insistence she couldn’t remain in the religious community. She’d
implied as much. She was his thrall, and from the glint in her eye and the way she gazed at him, he was confident she was a woman born to share a man’s bed. These errant thoughts produced a pleasant but inconvenient stiffening at his groin. It was unfortunate his long
kyrtill
was in his chest. But the weather had warmed and he’d have been too hot if he’d worn it at the tiller. However, he was assured the pouch hid his arousal. It held a few coins brought from home and of no practical use. There was a scrap of clean cloth to wipe his hands and face, a fire starting kit, a whetstone, and a lock of Myldryd’s hair, braided into a circle—and the key to his chest.

There was also a key to the farmhouse in
Møre—a keepsake.

He feared the woolen under-dress Poppa had provided for Cath-ryn might be
overly heavy. She appeared comfortable though it was tight around the breasts. The robe had hidden the bounty of her perfect globes. He mused about the color of her nipples, probably dark, given her black hair, then wished he’d avoided the notion as his arousal surged.

He shifted his gaze to the cup-shaped silver brooches holding up the straps of her
hangerock
, the linen over-dress Poppa’s thrall had helped her fasten. The brooches were a generous gift, but they looked too much like breasts for his comfort. Funny he’d never noticed it before though all the wealthier women wore them.

“Too well dressed for a thrall,” Poppa had mumbled when they’d emerged from the curtained off area reserved for females. His heart had filled with contentment. She looked like a Viking noblewoman—except she’d evidently declined the offer of a traditional headdress, opting instead for his
scarf, which fluttered in the breeze.

Hrolf’s concubine had never fully accepted her role as a captive,
but he suspected she loved Hrolf. There was no doubt in his mind the chieftain loved her.

But would Cath-ryn accept being a thrall?
In his confused mind he couldn’t think of her as one of his slaves. They were well taken care of, but he didn’t love them.

Love?

As another swift bend in the meandering river appeared ahead, he wondered if he had made a mistake in claiming his prize.

His gaze chanced upon Ekaterina, who was staring at him, shaking her head.

Cathryn reluctantly twisted around to
face the town where she’d lived all her life. It seemed eerily quiet. No doubt the alarm had been raised, prompting citizens in the low-lying areas to flee. She raised her gaze beyond the cathedral to the distant hill where the abbey convent stood. Many would be sheltering there.

She
turned away.

As if sensing her turmoil,
Bryk shaded his eyes and looked to the hill.

Hrolf ordered the longboats to pull in
at the island where the chapel of Saint-Éloi stood. “First stop,” he declared.

Without another word from their leader, hundreds of men swarmed off the boats.
Bryk handed the tiller over to another seaman after everyone else had left. He took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. He donned the mailshirt from his chest, tucked the axe into his belt, then put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay. Short time.”

No use begging him not to go,
not to leave her. What would happen to her if he failed to return? She buried her nose in the cloak, inhaling his comforting scent.

Ekaterina waddled over to her. “All shall be well,” she crooned.

More than a hundred longboats sat at anchor and shorebirds danced on the wind, calling raucously, yet the silence seemed overwhelming. Cathryn could barely make out the boats with the women at the end of the line, but sensed they too were praying to their gods for the safe return of the men.

It occurred to her that this
was an opportunity to flee. The lone sailor wouldn’t leave his post on the boat. Judging by the shouts of elation coming from the church, the Vikings were busy gathering whatever there was of value. If she and Kaia leapt into the shallow water—

But
it would be impossible to take Ekaterina. Several islands dotted the Seine, each with a church of its own—Saint-Clément, Saint-Stephen. How to get from one to the other and then through the deserted town itself?

I
n her heart she didn’t want to leave because Bryk had asked her to stay.

~~~

Once Hrolf had claimed whatever treasures the priests hadn’t carried off, there wasn’t much else of value in the little chapel. Bryk was relieved no one had remained to defend the edifice. As his grumbling comrades trooped out to ransack the few hovels on the island and then muster for the next church, he cast about for some keepsake. He knew from long experience where a patient raider might discover hidden treasures.

He
crouched down beside the stone altar and put his shoulder to it. It moved an inch or two away from the wall. He braced his legs and pushed again, this time making a space barely wide enough for his arm.

He snaked a hand
up underneath the stone lip. As he’d suspected, there was a hidden shelf. His fingers touched fabric. He dragged out the bundle—vestments, folded and crammed into the hidey-hole. He danced his fingers along the shelf again, discovering several good sized candle ends, one of which was still wedged on a pointed gold candlestick.

He
understood some cleric taking time to conceal the candlestick and the vestments, but risking one’s life for spent candle ends?

Alfred’s wife could use the heavy fabric, and perhaps
Cath-ryn would like the gold braiding and the candlestick.

By Thor, this preoccupation has to stop.

He’d asked Alfred to keep an eye on her when he’d handed over the tiller. His brother might not be a warrior, but he would defend Bryk’s property. As he made his way back to the boat, his heart reassured him she wouldn’t try to flee.

Nevertheless, he let out a long slow breath when he caught sight of her, still sitting on his chest, as if guarding it
. She scowled at the men stowing their meager treasures.

Her eyes betrayed her happiness at his return
when she saw him. It felt good that someone cared whether he lived or died. He motioned for her to rise, lifted the lid of his chest and threw in the candle remnants. He’d show her the candlestick later, when they weren’t surrounded by fifty pairs of greedy eyes. As he stuffed in the vestments, he had an inkling there was something wrapped inside—also for later.

He had to sit on the lid to close the chest.
Cath-ryn quickly lost the scowl that had crossed her face on seeing the vestments and sat next to him, laughing, wriggling to add weight to the effort. Raiding had never been this enjoyable.

He pointed to the chest, then pulled at his
kyrtill
. “Alfred,” he said, cocking his head towards the tiller. “
Bror
.” He held up ten fingers. “
Barn
. Chilrens.”

Wide-eyed, she glanced over to Alfred, touching her fingers to his as she counted. “He’s your brother and he has ten children?”

The contact between them was light as air, yet her warmth seeped into him. Her delicate white hands and slender fingers made his look weathered and stained. “
Ja
.”

She frowned, moving a fingertip to his chest. “How many children do you have?”

The painful memories hit him like the heel of a
stridsøkse
.

“No lamb for the lazy wolf,” Hrolf shouted from the prow. “To oars.
Clement’s church awaits.”

Rescued from his torment,
Bryk breathed again as he made his way back to the tiller, his thoughts unexpectedly filling with an image of a child born of a black haired woman and a fair-haired man.