Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 (11 page)

Bryk had invited Rollo to ride out to the land he’d chosen. Approval had come immediately. “Good thing I didn’t see it first,” his chieftain jested, slapping Bryk on the back.

He’d ordered the entire camp be moved close to the promontory, declaring it appropriate the formal ceremony naming Bryk as Governor be conducted there.

Kneeling before Rollo, surrounded by hundreds of warriors, Bryk looked out at his land, certain he’d made the right decision. The Duke had grunted at his choice of squire to stand beside him holding his axe and spear, but Bryk had insisted Torstein was the only blood relative present.

He wished with all his heart Cathryn was there to share the honor about to be bestowed upon him, but preparations were already underway for families to migrate from Rouen. He intended to construct a dwelling of stone, but in the interim he and Torstein had already started work on a sizable wattle and daub shelter.

He conjured a vision of Cathryn’s face as she looked out at the verdant fields. Would she see the orchards in her mind’s eye, as he did?

He planned to take Magnus and his future sons and daughters riding far and wide throughout his land.

The wind whipped his hair over his face. He raked it back with his fingers, suddenly aware of the dampness of the grass on which he knelt seeping through his leggings. He looked up at Rollo. His Duke was studying him. How long had the chieftain waited for his attention?

To his surprise, Rollo winked and bent low to his ear. “You and I haven’t always seen eye to eye, Bryk Kriger,” he rasped. “What happened with Myldryd—” He inhaled deeply. “My sister would have loved this place.”

Bryk was astonished. It wasn’t in Rollo’s nature to admit past mistakes, but this was the closest he’d ever come to expressing regret for Myldryd’s suicide. It seemed her death had weighed on the chieftain’s mind. For years he’d longed to harangue Rollo, to curse him to
Hel
. Now his first wife and his own heart were at peace.

Rollo straightened and drew his sword. Bryk looked up. His chieftain’s flowing white mane seemed one with the sky. “If we were in Norway,” Rollo declared loudly, “I would name this warrior as
jarl
of these lands. But we are subjects of the king of Francia now.” He winked again at Bryk. “Therefore I name Bryk Kriger
Comte
of the lands of the Norsemen in the valley of the Orne, and I designate this place as the center of government for the region. It shall henceforth be known as Mont de Bryk.”

Bryk smiled inwardly. Cathryn would be pleased Rollo had named his land in the Frankish tongue, but his elation vanished as the enormous sword came down onto his shoulders, one after the other, like Thor’s hammer. He steadied his breathing, giving thanks to Odin Rollo had used the flat edge of the weapon.

Torstein’s knees threatened to buckle when Rollo’s sword landed heavily on his uncle’s shoulders. The giant was nothing if not unpredictable. Surely he didn’t intend to chop off Bryk’s head?

It was more likely he’d take a swing at the freed thrall standing at the new
Comte’s
side. He flinched, prepared to dart out of the way, but the Duke sheathed his weapon and strode off, Bryk in tow. Torstein hurried after them, holding firm to his uncle’s axe, spear and new tapered shield.

His selection as Bryk’s squire had given him new hope. His uncle had shrugged off his stammered words of gratitude, but they both recognized the significance of the gesture. Those who still considered him a slave would have to change their attitude now.

The copper amulet rested against his chest. The metal was cold, but the memory of Sonja’s response to his touch was a firebrand to his soul, strengthening his resolve to remove the two remaining obstacles. He had to convince Rollo he was deserving of a grant of land, and he had to get rid of Sven.

Sonja had been warned over and over again about the lustful nature of men. No one had mentioned women also experienced feelings of bodily need. Nor had she given such notions any thought until she met Torstein. Since their last tryst she’d dissolved into a seething cauldron of wanton desires; but no other man she encountered moved her to the slightest degree, and the prospect of wedding Sven Yngre filled her with dread.

It seemed wherever she went in Rouen, Sven’s mama was there, grinning and nodding like a lunatic, patting her hand and muttering, “Soon, soon, you join Sven in the wilderness.”

There was nothing for it but to nod in return and take her leave quickly. Fortunately, she was often out with Cathryn as frenzied preparations progressed for the migration of families to the Orne, and her friend was adept at dragging her away from Sven’s mother. Cathryn’s stature had risen with Bryk’s appointment, and the woman never challenged her. She prayed to Freyja Mother Yngre wouldn’t be accompanying them.

News of the daring exploits of the warriors known as Sven and Torstein was on everyone’s lips. She longed to shout at the top of her lungs to anyone who would listen that one of those celebrated warriors was hers, and not the one everyone assumed.

A contingent of men who’d opted to settle in the new valley was on its way back with Rollo. They would provide the bulk of the escort for the migrating families. Poppa, who seemed to have taken Cathryn under her wing, had informed them of the Duke’s decision Bryk remain in the new territory. He would therefore not be among those escorting the families.

Cathryn said she understood, though her keen disappointment was evident to Sonja. The hope Torstein would arrive with Rollo burned like a beacon in her heart. She slept fitfully, her body aroused at the memory of his touch. Some mornings she was mortified to awake with her hand in an intimate place it should not have been, a place that ached for him. She hoped Cathryn hadn’t noticed.

Her nipples had taken on a life of their own, hardening at the mere thought of her beloved. She wore a woolen shawl tightly gathered around her chest everywhere she went.

The only thing worse than the prospect of Torstein not being in the escort was the dire possibility Sven might be.

As the longboats rounded the last bend in the Seine, a loud cheer went up from the waiting crowd packed together on the dock in Rouen. Torstein’s arms were like lead weights after a full day rowing. Bryk had told him he wasn’t expected to row, but better to have something to occupy his body.

The tattoos newly etched into his biceps still itched, but they were his badges of honor, symbols of his important role in a great victory. His heart careened around inside his chest at the prospect of seeing Sonja again.

Sven stood expectantly at the prow, gazing to shore. Torstein marveled the jealous heat blazing from his eyes wasn’t burning a hole in his friend’s back.

It had been a difficult journey. On more than one occasion when Yngre had spoken of his anticipation at seeing Sonja, Torstein had come close to blurting out that he might as well abandon hope of wedding her. She was his.

He devised a hundred schemes for disposing of his rival. The possibility of having to kill his comrade turned the blood in his veins to ice. Odin knew he’d had plenty of opportunities to dispatch Sven to Valhalla, but he loved him like a brother. They’d been to
Hel
and back together, and had saved each other’s lives more than once. They’d had a design made up of their runes tattooed on their thighs. There was never a trace of censure for Torstein’s past in his friend’s words or deeds.

Javune’s presence on the same boat hadn’t helped matters. Torstein felt obliged to befriend Cathryn’s twin, but the closer they got to Rouen the more sullen he became. His situation was too akin to Torstein’s to offer sympathy and words of understanding.

Rollo’s boat docked first. The crowd surged forward but Poppa’s guards kept them at bay. The giant strode over the side of his boat as if it were a toy replica, embraced his wife, then hastened away. Vilhelm followed in their wake, almost tripping over the long sword he’d taken to wearing on his hip. Rollo’s son, shorter in stature than his father, evidently thought the enormous weapon made up for it.

Torstein stowed his oar as the steersman swung their boat into the dock. Was there a sweeter sound than the creak of wood on wood when a longboat came home? As a boy, he’d often watched from the dock in Møre as jubilant warriors swarmed off their boats after returning from Ireland or from the east. Now the same euphoria surged through his blood.

Javune leapt from the boat and disappeared into the crowd.

Sven suddenly raised a hand in salute. Torstein came to his feet, bracing his legs in the rocking boat. Men were disembarking, eager to reunite with loved ones. He craned his neck, trying to see who Sven was waving to. He breathed again when his friend stalked off towards his mother.

But his belly churned when he caught sight of Sonja tucked in beside Mother Yngre. Anger flooded him. Had she abandoned him and decided to wed Sven?

But she still scanned the boats. She must have seen Sven by now, yet—

She was looking for him.

His spirits soared further when he caught sight of Cathryn standing close to Sonja. She was waving to him. Alfred was at her side, Magnus perched on his shoulders. Torstein thrust out his chest. No one in the crowd would fail to notice it was the freed slave whose arrival the
Comte
’s wife awaited with anticipation.

His uncle had given him a new sea chest as a token of thanks for acting as his squire. He hoisted it onto his shoulder and stepped over the side of the boat onto the dock, confident the elaborate brass hinges and binding would attract attention.

Sven bowed to Sonja and kissed her hand as Torstein strode towards them, but she was staring at him, her face awash with tears.

Magnus bobbed up and down on his uncle’s shoulders like a knight urging his horse into the fray. Cathryn beamed.

For the first time in his life, Torstein felt like a conquering hero. He was a Viking warrior. He’d proven his mettle. He would no longer hide in the shadows. Sonja loved him. He lifted her amulet from its hiding place, proud to display it over his tunic.

Smiling, he put down his sea chest at Alfred’s feet and raised his arms to Magnus. The boy flew into his embrace, chanting, “Tor, Tor.”

Torstein nuzzled his nose into his cousin’s fine blonde hair, savoring the aromas of innocence and love, laughing as Magnus pulled at his war braids. “You’ve grown, young man,” he said hoarsely.

He bent to kiss Cathryn’s cheek. She grinned, lifting the protesting child from his arms. “Welcome home, brave warrior,” she said loudly, her eyes darting to Sonja.

He turned to look at the face that filled his dreams. “You are more beautiful than I remember,” he rasped.

Sven watched, his arms dangling at his sides. His eyes fell upon the amulet. He peered at it then scowled, clenching his fists.

Torstein opened his arms and Sonja collapsed against him with a sob. He held her tightly to his chest, savoring the warmth of her trembling body, then brushed his lips over hers.

Sven drew his dagger, his handsome features contorted in anger.

The smile disappeared from Mama Yngre’s face. She swooned, tottered a few steps along the dock then fell with a great splash into the Seine. Pandemonium broke out among those standing nearby who’d been soaked by the spray. Her son sheathed his weapon and joined several others who’d jumped in to the rescue.

There would be consequences, but Sonja didn’t care as she was whisked along the dock. She reveled in the security of Torstein’s strong arm around her waist. His other hand held fast to a splendid sea chest perched on his shoulder.

She licked her lips, savoring again his salty taste, the soft brush of his beard against her skin. She filled her lungs with the scent of his healthy male sweat. Her warrior was home, her amulet displayed proudly on his chest, his tattoos proclaiming his bravery.

Once again carrying Magnus aloft on his shoulders, Alfred cleared their path through the crowd, many of them pushing their way in the opposite direction to see who had fallen into the river.

Cathryn’s smile looked like she’d painted it on with her pigments. A retinue of servants from the Archbishop’s residence buffered them from curious onlookers.

Sonja regretted the insult to Sven. Hopefully his mother would recover from her dunking, but the distraught woman would petition Rollo for retribution. She doubted if her parents had been in the crowd, but once they heard what had happened—

“I love you,” Torstein rasped, tightening his grip on her waist. “I won’t allow anyone to come between us.”

His words calmed her rapidly beating heart. She had to trust he was right.