Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 (3 page)

The ten children clustered around him like peas in a pod were sound asleep, limbs tangled.

He clasped his hands behind his head, thinking back to the babe he’d held a few hours earlier.

Confused emotions had surfaced with the birth of Bryk’s boy. Magnus—the son of a Frank and a Viking, born in the new Land of the Norsemen—was the harbinger of a new race. He would probably never experience the brutal hardships of a Norwegian winter, nor the breathtaking beauty of a northern fjord.

Cathryn would be a fine mother, but the notion filled Torstein with inexplicable sadness. Bryk’s wife had proven to be a strong ally. He was certain that without her influence he would not have been granted his freedom.

Cathryn was his champion, but she wasn’t his mother who was lost to him forever. It was difficult to understand why the notion bothered him. Marian had been a terrified child when she’d given birth.

But the certainty that Magnus would experience the love of a father and mother who adored him underscored his loss in a way he’d never allowed himself to consider before.

He sniffled, swallowing a sob lodged in his throat, but another followed, and soon he was biting into the flesh of his fist, his face pressed into the canvas as grief racked him.

In his lonely despair, one thing became clear. He’d been given an opportunity for a new life in Francia, but if he wanted to enjoy the fruits of freedom, things would have to change. He could no longer live a half-life between two worlds. He would defy the odds and prove he was worthy of being accepted as a true Viking.

At least Bryk had allowed him into the gathering to welcome the new babe. It was a beginning, and if he ever sired a child of his own—

He conjured an image of a babe born of a union between him and Sonja Karlsdatter. Would he have his father’s dark features or be fair like—

He clenched his fists, inhaling deeply to calm his turmoil. Sonja lived in that other world to which he’d been denied entry. She had a wealthy father and two belligerent brothers who would strike him dead without hesitation. Not to mention how his uncles would react if he expressed an interest in Sonja. He cursed the day he’d first set eyes on her. The gods had fixed in his brain a vision of an untouchable woman. The mere thought of her had his loins and his heart aching.

He’d never wept before. But now the future seemed clearer. Giving vent to the long pent up grief had cleansed him, strengthened him, girded him with a powerful weapon—defiance.

Bryk watched with pride as Cathryn pulled the silk robe over his son’s head, then laughed as she tried unsuccessfully to push Magnus’s little arms into the sleeves.

She pouted in frustration. “I told you he wouldn’t be happy.”

“But a newborn Viking prince must be wrapped in silk,” he retorted with a smile.

Cathryn blew the hair off her face in triumph, having got one arm in a sleeve. “He isn’t a prince,” she said.

“He is to me,” Bryk replied with a grin, leaning to assist with the second arm. Magnus grinned back a toothless grin as Cathryn straightened the long garment around him.

“I must admit Hannelore has done a wonderful job of sewing this. Her needlework is very fine. I just hope my uncle doesn’t realize it’s made from the lining of the priestly vestments you stole from the chapel on the first day of the invasion.”

“Removed,” he corrected. “I asked Hannelore to keep the lining safe and not sell it off. Most of the things my father brought back from Constantinople, including the silks, were lost in the storm tide.”

“What would he have exchanged for silk?” Cathryn asked absently, holding up her son for inspection.

Bryk eyed his wife, wondering if he should tell her. She had an eerie knack of sensing when he was holding something back. “The bolt he brought back was purchased with two slaves. Irishmen captured in a raid. It was the going rate then.”

Cathryn paused in her task, her face stricken. “And now it’s at the bottom of the sea.”

“Don’t be angry on this special day, Cathryn,” he pleaded. “The priest I took these vestments from wore sumptuous garments while many in his flock were probably starving.”

She sighed deeply. “I suppose that’s true. We can’t right every wrong, and Magnus does look like a prince in this baptismal robe.”

He lifted his son, relishing his weight, giving silent thanks to Odin for a strapping, healthy child. Better not to utter such thoughts out loud when they were on their way to a Christian baptism.

“You’ll have to go in my stead,” Olga whispered, smoothing a hand over the faded yellow coverlet. “I must stay with Ingeborg.”

Sonja folded her arms tightly and pouted. “You spend too much time with my snoring sister. Ida isn’t her first child. She’s done this before.”

Olga pressed a fingertip to her lips. “Hush. You’ll wake her. Wait until you have children of your own, Sonja, then you won’t be quick to criticize Ingeborg.”

As they tiptoed out of the chamber where unpleasant odors still lingered, she was tempted to tell her mother she intended never to have children, but thought better of it. “I don’t want to accompany Poppa to a Christian baptism. The ladies in her retinue are elderly, and she thinks she’s the Queen of Rouen now her husband has declared he’s Duke of the Norsemen.”

Olga frowned. “Guard your tongue, child. We must stay in Poppa’s good graces, for your father’s sake. He’s too old now to return to the campaign against the Bretons. We have to curry favor in any way we can. Your brothers are loyal warriors, but it isn’t likely they’ll return covered in glory. Poppa will expect one of us to accompany her.

“Babies!” Sonja exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. “Everybody’s having babies. The cathedral is cold and drafty, and why the Christians insist on pouring water on a child’s head—”

Olga grasped her arm, her face wrinkled with worry. “You mustn’t forget, Vikings are Christians now, and Poppa never abandoned her faith in the years she spent as a captive in Norway. She doesn’t tolerate anything that smacks of blasphemy. Besides, water is life giving. It’s a suitable symbol.”

Sonja shrugged. When she thought of the Kriger family, she vaguely remembered the tales of the young Christian woman that one of Rollo’s lieutenants had captured in Jumièges and later married. She recalled seeing her one night perched on a sea chest in a longboat during the battle for Rouen, looking pale and frightened. It was rumored she’d played a role in securing the peace treaty with the Franks, but Sonja didn’t imagine that was true.

No wonder many of her friends believed the Viking captor had lost his wits when he’d married his captive. But then perhaps they’d been jealous. There were never enough suitable men to go around. Too many of them died in battle.

She shuddered. Most of the Viking noblemen of her acquaintance were brawny, malodorous, unsophisticated brutes like Frits and Kennet. She loved her brothers, but to be wed to such a man—

When Ingeborg had first been wed to Alvar, she’d prattled on and on about how he was like
a burst of fire
, and how he made her heart flutter. Indeed! Sonja suspected the flutter and the flame had died. Her sister avoided her husband.

The pimple-faced boy Sonja had been promised to at birth had died in Norway, swept away by the storm tide. She’d felt guiltily relieved.

Mayhap her father had the right idea in seeking a Frankish husband for her. The Franks were reputed to be more refined than Norsemen. Otherwise she might end up with someone like Sven Yngre, a boy from her settlement who’d stared at her with lust in his eyes ever since the death of her betrothed. He was a pleasant enough young man with a mother who fussed over him, but she didn’t want to be his wife. He certainly didn’t make her heart flutter.

Resigned to having to obey her mother, she snorted. Fluttering hearts! Really!

Torstein fastened the silver buckle of the belt around the waist of his new tunic. “How does it look,
onkel
?” he asked Alfred nervously.

“Fine.”

Torstein tamped down his frustration. Alfred hadn’t looked at him before rendering judgement on the new clothing.

“You didn’t look at him,” Hannelore chided. “You are very handsome, Torstein.”

Frowning, Alfred glanced at his wife, then mumbled, “
Ja
. Fine. You look fine.”

Three of Alfred’s toddlers giggled, elbowing each other.

The air in the well-worn canvas shelter was becoming oppressive with too many bodies crammed inside, and Torstein didn’t want to sweat overmuch in his new clothes. Only Odin knew when he’d receive another outfit of the same quality.

He supposed Bryk had provided the new clothing so he wouldn’t be ashamed of him at today’s ceremony. His uncle had burned the coarse brown smock he’d worn as a thrall, and given him more suitable raiment, but nothing as fine as this blue linen tunic and woolen leggings. New leather boots too, with toggle fastenings! The silver buckle seemed overly generous, but Torstein had no intention of offering to give it back.

“Ready?” Alfred asked no one in particular.

“
Ja
!” Hannelore replied breathlessly, herding the children out through the grease-blackened door flap held open by her eldest son.

Torstein’s heart swelled with a happiness he’d never known as Alfred’s youngest held out his arms, begging to be carried. He was to be included in a family gathering—the Christian baptism of his cousin.

Despite the cool April weather, Torstein was sweating when they reached Rouen cathedral. He’d borne Brede on his shoulders from the camp near the lower reaches of the Seine. He enjoyed spending time with Alfred’s brood. They were always happy to see him.

He lowered the child to the ground, and wiped a sleeve across his brow, dismayed to catch sight of Bryk scowling at him from the arched doorway into the church. However, his uncle was scowling at everyone, except his wife. He doubted Bryk Kriger would ever feel completely comfortable inside a Christian church. He was more at home in his well-worn sheepskin cloak than in the new red woolen tunic he wore this day. Torstein had watched Cathryn lovingly fashion it, learning from Hannelore how to make the traditional braiding that decorated the edges of most Viking garments.

Magnus Bernard was nowhere in evidence. Bryk impatiently ushered everyone inside. The children’s excited voices echoed in the cavernous space, causing their uncle’s scowl to deepen. Alfred put a finger to his lips and the noise ceased.

The Archbishop of Rouen, robed in splendid shimmering vestments, stood proudly behind a large stone bowl raised on a pedestal, the babe cradled in his arms. Though only a fortnight old, Magnus was already a sturdy lad. Torstein wondered if the cleric had ever heard the tale of the priestly vestments Bryk had plundered from the chapel of Saint Éloi during the initial assault on Rouen. Did he suspect the baptismal robe Magnus wore had been fashioned from the lining? Hannelore had made good use of the costly material and exchanged the gold braiding for a healthy piglet.

As he got closer, Torstein noticed the stone bowl had been filled. He’d known water would be part of the ceremony but was Magnus to be plunged into it? He feared there’d be loud protestations from the lad.

The child’s parents, along with Alfred and Hannelore were clustered around the bowl. Torstein recalled Cathryn calling it a
font
. The Archbishop, still smiling, chattered away, but echoes swallowed his words.

Torstein hazarded a glance at Bryk, who looked apprehensive. Alfred too was frowning. Cathryn, however, beamed a grin from ear to ear as she gazed at her son.

The sun shone brightly outside, but candles flickered in the gloom of the enormous edifice. Confident no one’s attention was on him, Torstein looked up and up, marveling at the height of the ceiling. The communal Ringhouse in Møre was huge, but the cathedral dwarfed it. He doubted the wind would ever blow the roof off this building.

He looked back at the group gathered around the font. Bryk shifted his weight, glancing to the street. They seemed to be waiting for something. The babe startled, whimpering when a commotion at the doorway came closer, growing louder.

Rollo was making his entrance, striding up the aisle, his boot heels ringing loudly on the flagstones. His snow-white hair streamed behind him like a banner as if he walked into the wind, though the air in the stone church was as still as death.

Torstein had often thought the man mustn’t possess a comb, but he’d at least trimmed his beard. Son of the first
Jarl
of Møre, Rollo had always thirsted to be the center of attention. Torstein snickered inwardly. It was impossible not to notice him. Certainly Norway had been too small a country for Rollo and King Harald Fairhair to co-exist in peace.

Torstein had never liked the chieftain who’d brought them to Francia, but had to admit they were better off here than they had been in Møre. They’d had to fight hard, but Rollo had secured a new country for them. Mayhap he was entitled to be treated like a Duke.

As the Viking leader exuberantly greeted the Archbishop and the others gathered around the bowl, his wife entered. Whenever Torstein set eyes on Poppa of Bayeux he was reminded of Padraig, her burly thrall slain by an arrow from the bow of a Frank during the Battle for Chartres. An Irish monk captured during a raid, Padraig had been like a father to Torstein, and he still grieved his loss.

The people of Møre had referred to Poppa as the Chieftain’s concubine, though not to her face. Now she glided soundlessly up the aisle, opulently dressed in the Frankish style, followed by her usual retinue of ladies. He recognized them, matrons, widows—

—
Except!

His knees threatened to buckle. The sweat froze on his brow. His mouth fell open. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Sonja Karlsdatter shone like a diamond among shards of discarded pottery. Her flawless skin glowed in the flickering candlelight. She walked with her spine rigid, shoulders back, her virgin breasts tilted skyward. Stunningly intricate cup-shaped brooch pins held up the straps of a finely tailored
hangeroc
that showed off the tempting curve of her hips.

She was Freyja come down to earth to strut among mortals. Her golden hair peeked out from beneath a traditional Norse headdress edged with red and blue braiding. Her gaze fell briefly upon Torstein and she smiled the tight smile of an empress grudgingly acknowledging a groveling subject. Her attention moved quickly to the stone bowl, but the momentary pout of her lush lips turned his shaft to granite. He hadn’t seen her for many months and she had grown lovelier than he remembered. However, it was evident from the furrow in her brow she wished to be anywhere but here in the cathedral.

He leaned towards her as she passed, hoping to inhale her perfume, his body drawn as if by a lodestone. He toyed with the lunatic notion of suggesting they escape together and—

But she moved on, out of his view. He craned his neck to catch another glimpse. Bryk’s loud cough jolted him back to reality. His uncle glared as if he wanted to chop off his head with his
stridsøkse
. Torstein smiled weakly and followed everyone else’s lead as they touched their fingers to their foreheads and made the sign of the Christian savior. The ceremony had begun.

Sonja shifted her weight from one cold foot to the other, wishing she’d worn warmer boots. The Christian cleric droned on in Latin. She would never comprehend why the Christians used a dead language for their rites. He bounced the strapping babe in his arms as if he were the proud father and not the fair-haired giant standing by the bowl of water. She recognized him now. The farmer turned warrior. In Norway he’d been wed to Rollo’s sister. He was an attractive man, all muscle and chiseled features, but he didn’t appeal to Sonja.

Her thoughts wandered to the well-dressed young man with the silver belt buckle she’d glimpsed standing behind the Kriger family. He was dark haired, like the babe’s Frankish mother. She vaguely recalled some gossip of her having a newly discovered twin brother. He wasn’t well-muscled, unlike most Vikings, but he looked strong and wiry. The notion of marrying a Frank became more appealing.

She hazarded a glance over her shoulder, startled to see he was staring at her. She’d seen him before, but where? His eyes burned with an intensity that shook her to the core. The chilly cathedral became an inferno. The brooches covering her breasts were suddenly too confining, her underdress too tight. She glanced at the other ladies, hoping the heartbeat echoing in her ears wasn’t bouncing off the stone pillars. She feared she’d been stricken by some noxious fever lurking in these dank Christian cloisters.

She tore her gaze away from him, momentarily distracted by the sound of water being scooped from the stone bowl. The babe squirmed as the life giving liquid was dripped onto his forehead. But what struck Sonja full force was the look of pure adoration on the mother’s face as her child was named.

Cathryn Kriger was probably not much older than she. Perhaps she’d make a good friend. And mayhap she might introduce Sonja to her attractive twin brother who seemed as fascinated with her as she was with him.

It appeared the unwelcome excursion to the Christian ceremony might not be a burden after all.

She smiled with everyone else when the babe gurgled his approval of something the cleric said.

Bryk’s heart swelled with pride as the Archbishop passed his newly baptized son back to Cathryn. The child had behaved like the angels the Christians spoke of, coaxing a smile from some of the sour-faced women of Poppa’s retinue. The Thor’s hammer he’d fastened around his son’s neck had done its work and he doubted the cleric had noticed it. No Viking boy should face life without
Mjölnir
in his arsenal.

Things had gone better than expected, though he hadn’t understood most of the Latin rite.

Torstein had provided the only irritation. What was the lad thinking, making eyes at Sonja? Was he mad? Her father would kill him if he so much as approached the girl, and only Thor knew what her brothers might do. Bryk had fought with Frits and Kennet Karlsen at Chartres. They were warriors who had a reputation as bullies. He’d have to have a word with his nephew. Mayhap Cathryn was right. He should take the youth under his wing and prepare him for the future.

Torstein might be free now, but the Viking nobility would never forgive or forget he’d been born a slave. Still, it was his responsibility to make a place for the boy. Find him a suitable wife perhaps; a Frankish woman possibly, then there’d be no issue with his past.

However, home first.

“I love my new tunic,” he whispered to Cathryn, “but I want to get out of these fancy clothes.” He tickled Magnus Bernard under the chin. “I expected the cathedral to be chilly, but the wool is too hot.”

She frowned, a curious smile lifting the corners of her mouth. He shook his head as he put a hand to the small of her back to usher her from the church. It wasn’t the tunic making him hot. He’d only to look at his wife for prickly heat to spread across his skin and his manhood to thicken. Hasten the day their bodies would join again.