Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 (15 page)

In the days that followed, Vilhelm, Bryk and the men chosen as their close advisors conceived a plan to rout any remaining Bretons who might be lurking in the area. Cathryn had worried the appointment of both Sven and Torstein to this council might lead to friction, and was relieved when her husband assured her such was not the case.

Torstein had secured a place on the council by virtue of being a landowner, albeit his land was in Rouen.

She was also relieved Vilhelm had elected to lead the expeditionary force, and her husband would remain at Montdebryk to attend to completing ditching, banking and the erection of palisades around the promontory. Men who weren’t assigned to the expeditionary force were expected to contribute to the fortification of the promontory in order to qualify for assistance from others with their own dwellings.

“It’s a wonderful idea,” she told Bryk as she settled Magnus on her lap to feed him his porridge.

“This is the Norse way,” he explained, breaking apart a loaf of bread. “Our stone dwelling and the promontory will someday in the future provide a gathering place and a safe haven if necessary.”

“I have to admire your nephew,” she went on, “he has no land in the valley, but has worked as hard as anyone on the fortifications.”

“Huh!” he grunted in reply. “He should. He sleeps on the floor of my house every night. I don’t like having to keep quiet when I’m making love to my wife.”

Magnus laughed out loud, splattering his mother’s chemise with bits of porridge.

Smiling, Bryk reached forward to wipe his face. “It’s not funny, little Viking. You’ll find out.”

Trying not to laugh, Cathryn brushed the food off her clothing. “I’m not happy about the arrangement either, but what can we do? At least he hasn’t asked if Sonja can sleep here too, and she must be uncomfortable in the women’s tent.”

Bryk glared, chewing on his bread. “We have to get him a piece of land in the valley. Rouen is too far away. Rollo has given permission for their marriage but he and Sonja will always face censure there. Here we can make new rules.”

Cathryn shifted Magnus to her other hip and rested her hand against her husband’s cheek. “I can’t believe I’m hearing these words from you.”

His face reddened as he covered her hand with his. “I am the
Comte
now. I must consider the well-being of the people of this region. Torstein will be a valuable asset in taming this land.”

“And you care about him,” she teased.

He narrowed his eyes. “
Ja
,” he agreed reluctantly. “I care.”

“Care about who?” Torstein asked as he came in from the entryway.

“Your uncle cares about you,” Cathryn replied as he took Magnus from her and hoisted him onto his shoulders. “Careful, he’s got porridge everywhere.”

“Horse, horse,” Magnus shouted, laughing when Torstein obliged by galloping around the table.

Torstein had overheard something of the conversation on his way in, and couldn’t resist needling his uncle. “About me? Surely you’re mistaken?” he said with a wink, then whinnied, sending his cousin into fits of giggles.

Bryk got up abruptly. “Don’t tempt me, or I’ll soon dig out your slave collar again.”

There was a time when such a remark would have broken Torstein’s spirit, but he recognized the glint in his uncle’s eye. He lifted Magnus and gave him back to his mother. “I’m like a thrall anyway; I’ve been digging and tree felling and hammering since dawn.”

He deemed it best not to mention the blisters on his palm that had made the tasks more difficult.

Bryk shrugged. “And more to come. It’s Sven’s turn to receive the assistance of a work crew.”

Torstein had hoped to spend time with Sonja, but this was a chance to thank Sven for his noble gesture. An opportunity hadn’t presented itself at the council meetings. He followed his uncle outside and they rode the seven miles to Sven’s holding. Others joined them en route as they passed partially finished homes. Most had a canvas shelter pitched nearby—temporary quarters for the waving womenfolk and barefoot children.

As they rode onto Sven’s land, Torstein was taken aback. “He hasn’t made much progress on his house,” he said to his uncle.

Bryk nodded. “Perhaps his heart isn’t in it.”

They dismounted and Sven came to shake Bryk’s hand, then Torstein’s. It was now or never. He gripped his friend’s hand in both of his. “I want to thank you, Sven,” he said. “It was a noble gesture. I swear I will do everything in my power to make Sonja happy.”

Sven smiled, waving a greeting at the other workers. “Make sure you do. But the truth is I came to realize Sonja and I would never be happy together. Why make three people miserable?” He glanced at Bryk, seemingly hesitant to continue. “In fact, I miss Rouen, and my mother will never come to the frontier. She enjoys her comforts.”

Torstein wasn’t surprised by his friend’s admission. “What will you do with your land here?”

Sven shifted his weight from one foot to the other, gazed off into the distance, scratched his head, then cleared his throat, avoiding Bryk’s gaze. “I want to make you a proposition.”

Torstein glanced at Bryk, but his uncle’s expression was unreadable. “A proposition?”

Sven opened his arms wide. “A fair exchange. My land here for your land in Rouen.”

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Torstein followed the sweep of his friend’s arm. “Where does your property lie?” he asked.

Sven pointed out the markers. “And the river isn’t far distant, over there.”

Torstein rubbed the stubble on his chin. The land he now owned near the Seine belonged to him thanks only to the generosity of his uncle. Yet Bryk stood with arms folded and legs braced, chewing a sweet grass plucked from the meadow as if the discussion was of no importance to him.

If he made the trade, he might lose Bryk’s respect—something he’d striven hard to win. But he thirsted for land in this valley, for a new beginning far away from the censure of Rouen. In the distance he heard the rippling waters of the Orne. “I cannot agree to it,” he said.

Sven frowned. “But I thought—”

“The property near the Seine is three times the size of this, and Alfred has proven it’s arable. There is no guarantee things will grow here.”

Sven stared at him, mouth agape, looking crestfallen. “Well—”

Torstein crossed his fingers, hoping he was doing the right thing. “I will deed to you one third of the parcel near the Seine in exchange for this land.”

Sven glanced at Bryk, but evidently gleaned as little indication of the
Comte’s
feelings there as Torstein had. He spat into his hand and offered it to Torstein. “Done.”

Torstein spat into his blistered hand, and shook on it. “Done,” he repeated. No thrall was allowed to seal a bargain in this manner. He relished the warm spittle of freedom joining his hand to Sven’s.

“You drive a hard bargain,” Sven said as he strode away.

Torstein faced his uncle.

Bryk unfolded his arms and walked towards him. To Torstein’s surprise, he smiled, offered his hand to his nephew and drew him into his embrace. “Well done, lad. We are of one blood, after all.”

The moon had waxed and waned since Torstein’s bargain with Sven Yngre. Bryk Kriger stood atop his promontory, relishing the chill of approaching winter in the air. “Reminds me of Norway,” he said to Torstein beside him. It gladdened his heart the memories now were fond ones. He would never forget the dark times, but the bitterness had faded, thanks to the happiness he’d found in Francia.

Was the same true of his nephew? “Your life in Norway is behind you now. This is a new beginning.”

“Thanks to you,
onkel
,” Torstein replied.

“No, you earned it, though you do have the right bloodlines.”

They chuckled, sharing the humor.

“Cathryn is looking forward to the celebration of Christ’s birth, the feast Christians called Yuletide,” Bryk said.

Torstein laughed again. “You have to admit even you have been caught up in the preparations, roving far and wide in search of the precise cedar boughs Cathryn insists she needs.”

Bryk rolled his eyes. “And I can attest that the red berried ilex does not grow in this valley.” He slapped Torstein on the back. “However, those important activities have been superseded by the excitement over a wedding—the first ever to be held at Montdebryk.”

It was a good omen—a union between a freed slave and a noblewoman, a sign this was a new land of opportunity for those who might prove their worth. The ceremony would honor both Christian and Norse traditions, setting a precedence for tolerance and peace.

He glanced over to his wife’s uncle. Twenty yards away the Archbishop was sprinkling water and intoning some Latin blessing over the stone footings of the magnificent building Bryk hoped would rise there one day. The wind caught the wide sleeves of the cleric’s white robes causing them to billow behind him like the wings of a giant bird. With his free hand he kept a pointed hat clamped to his head. Bryk supposed he’d eventually get used to the strange Christian customs, but wondered if the Archbishop realized how comical he looked.

They’d made remarkable progress on the footings. Hundreds of new settlers had flocked to the area; Franks, Celts, Norsemen, some from Britain, many with badly needed skills. The promise of new lands and new opportunities had drawn them. Some of the Bretons captured in the battle had begged a chance to remain and settle in the area. Bryk’s first plan had been to enslave them, but Torstein had dissuaded him, instead suggesting they be granted land in exchange for working on the stone edifice.

More remarkable still was the completion of Torstein’s house, thanks in large part to Vilhelm’s assigning laborers to the task. Seven miles away the modest dwelling stood ready to welcome the newly married couple after the ceremony.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bryk caught sight of Cathryn standing in the entryway of their house nearby, waving impatiently.

Standing at his side, Torstein, clad in the blue tunic Bryk had given him for the baptism, cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “I think he’s done,” he said hopefully.

Bryk smiled. The Archbishop had insisted on blessing the place where the wedding would take place, though it was outside. “I believe you’re right.” He winked at his nephew. “A bit ironic, wouldn’t you say, this Christian fuss for the joining of two pagans?”

Torstein winked back. “Now, now,
onkel
. You wouldn’t want your wife to hear.”

The cleric bustled over. “Everything is in readiness. The ceremony can commence.” He looked over to where Cathryn stood. “I see my niece is impatient to get on with it.”

“
Ja
,” Bryk replied. “Women and weddings.”

The Archbishop laughed—as if a celibate cleric knew anything about women. Again Bryk wondered at the folly of the Christians and their religious ideas. But at least his wife’s uncle had undertaken the arduous journey from Rouen to preside over the ceremony, bringing his flask of precious
holy
water with him from the cathedral.

He signaled Cathryn. She ducked inside the house, reappearing after a minute or two. Vilhelm exited behind her, carrying Magnus. He offered his arm and escorted her up the hill.

Bryk wondered if the day would ever dawn when the sight of his wife didn’t steal his breath away. The new life within was showing, only adding to her beauty. She looked like a Norsewoman born and bred, clothed as she was in traditional Viking garb.

He suppressed a chuckle at the errant hope Vilhelm would keep his sword away from her feet.

His attention was fixed on Cathryn and he didn’t notice Sonja step out of the house until Torstein inhaled sharply.

A fleeting memory of cool autumn winds blowing off the fjord near Åndalsnes shivered through Sonja as she stepped out of Cathryn’s house. She looked down at the elaborate Viking wedding dress and boots she wore—gifts from her repentant parents brought from Rouen by the kindly Archbishop. She touched a hand to the traditional red and blue headdress that matched her gown. She recognized her mother’s handiwork in the gold braided edging, felt the weight of the wool. Olga had wanted to make sure she was protected from the cold. The knowledge warmed her heart and her body.

Two men linked arms with her, one on each side. She smiled first at Frits, then at Kennet as her brothers lifted her and carried her in Viking fashion up the hill to her bridegroom. Her feet never touched the ground.

They might have been back in Norway.

But they weren’t, thanks be to Freyja, or she wouldn’t be marrying the man she loved who stood waiting atop the promontory, his uncle and a Christian cleric at his side.

“Sonja,” he rasped, taking her hand when her brothers deposited her next to him. The warmth of his touch sent tiny winged creatures fluttering in her belly.

“Torstein,” she murmured, her gaze flitting from the silver buckle of his belt to the love burning in his eyes.

The Archbishop cleared his throat, made the Christian sign of the Crucifixion, and then began the Latin rite. Cathryn had schooled them in their responses and everything went smoothly and faster than she’d anticipated. The only moment of irritation came when Frits started sucking food out of his teeth, but Bryk quickly silenced him with a glare.

Despite the chill in the air, Sonja’s body warmed at the prospect of life with Torstein. In Norway she’d have married a wealthy nobleman and lived in an opulent house, waited on by servants and thralls. Here she was impatient to cuddle with her defiant rover in the cozy bed in the wattle and daub cottage he’d built, and farm the land he’d won through his bravery.

Bryk and her brothers had concluded the traditional Norse bridal agreement beforehand; therefore what was to follow was a formality. However, she hadn’t known what bride price Bryk, as Torstein’s sponsor, had paid.

She smiled when her brothers’ faces lit with pleasure as they accepted new tapered shields from her husband’s uncle. Many warriors clamored for the shields Torstein and Sven had fashioned, but only Rollo, Vilhelm and Bryk had received one.

Now she understood. It wouldn’t have mattered to them who won her, provided they got what they wanted.

Brandishing their shields in one hand, they each pecked a kiss on her cheek and declared the bargain honored and their sister wed. She was sure it wouldn’t be long before they were arguing over who had the best shield, though both looked identical to her.

Cathryn smiled and announced there was food and ale in the house. Sonja made a move to follow everyone down the hill, but Torstein pulled her back. “It will be hours before we can leave for our home,” he rasped. “I want to kiss my bride.”

He pulled her to his body and nibbled her bottom lip. Their breath mingled in the cold air. “Your nose is cold,” he said, “but you taste wonderful, and you are the most beautiful bride a man could wish for.”

His tongue coaxed its way into her mouth and mated lovingly with hers. A wave of longing flooded her, and she whimpered.

He broke them apart. “Not long now, Sonja,” he said with a smile. “Our feather bed awaits.”