Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 (8 page)

“This place isn’t worthy of you,” Torstein said hoarsely, reluctant to lower Sonja onto the rope bed he’d strung between the kitchen chimney and the wall. “It stinks like a distillery.”

To his relief, she sank down playfully on the straw mattress and pulled him with her. The creaking bed swayed as their feet left the floor. “It’s warm and you’re here,” she said in a sultry voice that calmed his nervousness, but not his racing heart.

“It’s a wonder your sister doesn’t notice the cooking odors on your clothing when you return to her,” he lamented, settling his body next to hers.

She pecked a kiss on his nose, smoothing a stray lock of hair off his face. “Stop worrying. Ingeborg cares about only one thing—Ingeborg. She’s not concerned with what I do. If she’s noticed it, she’ll think it’s from the kitchens.”

She was right. They had only a few minutes together and he was filling the precious moments with nagging worries. He nestled his face against her warm neck, savoring the arousing feel of her fingers in his hair. “One day we will lie in a sweet feather bed and make love slowly,” he promised.

His arousal hardened at the prospect. Afraid he might frighten her, he backed his hips away, but she pulled him against her. “I want to feel your maleness pressed to my body, Torstein. It will be the memory that warms me while you’re away. The sure knowledge you want me will keep me alive.”

He fingered the cord of the amulet around his neck. “And I will have your bright star guiding me home.”

It struck him then that Rouen was the first place he’d thought of as home. Norway was where he’d been born, a place where he’d lived. His home was where Sonja was.

She traced a fingertip over the copper. “This trinket is a cold memento. I would give you something to keep you warmer.”

The heat in the confined alcove seemed to soar to infernal proportions. Sweat broke out on his brow. Did she mean—?

“I want to make you mine, Sonja, but not here.”

She stared into his eyes, slipping the straps of her overdress off her shoulders. More blood rushed to his groin when she shyly pulled down the front of her undertunic. “I too want to lie in a sweet feather bed when you take me, but for now—”

He shifted his weight to help her ease the fabric down, struck dumb by the perfect beauty of her naked breasts. If only Odin had granted more light in the dingy corner.

“Suckle me,” she said seductively.

Torstein had no memory of his mother feeding him at her breast, but supposed he must have sucked at the teat of some lactating woman if not his mother. But this was no ordinary suckling. He swirled his tongue over the rigid nipple in an act of intimate sharing with the woman he loved that filled him with a peace he’d never known. She was gifting him with a part of herself she’d given to no man before.

He stroked his hand over her belly. “One day our child will grow here,” he rasped before clamping ravenously onto the second nipple.

She whimpered, nodding in agreement. The aroma of female arousal invaded his nostrils. She was close to release. He could give it to her. He eased away, gazing into her dark eyes. Even in the meager light he saw her need, and her assent.

Swiftly, he parted her legs and pushed up her skirts. “I wish there was time to pleasure you slowly.”

“The day will come,” she said huskily, shuddering when his fingers touched the wet heat between her legs. He pressed his mouth to hers as he stroked her to ecstasy, her cries of fulfillment filling his throat.

Despite the dim light in the alcove, a warm orange glow dawned behind Sonja’s tightly closed eyes. The delicious heat flooding her body turned her bones to liquid. She vaguely heard Torstein’s voice. He was smoothing down her skirts, urging her to rise from the swinging bed, but she wanted to stay, cradled in his strong arms. On the morrow he’d be gone. “My heart is breaking, Torstein. Don’t go,” she whimpered.

He pulled her to her feet. “I must, but I swear to you I will return a hero. Your parents will have no choice but to allow us to marry.”

“I beg you not to be foolhardy,” she pleaded. “You will be killed.”

Torstein pressed a finger to his lips when a scratching noise caught their attention. Her heart raced. If they were discovered, her father would make sure he was flogged and cast out of Rouen.

A strange odor filled her nostrils. She recognized it, but from where? It wasn’t one of the usual kitchen smells. It smelled like—

She and Torstein looked at each other and at the same time mouthed, “Ekaterina.”

He took her hand and they crept out of their hiding place. The elderly nun was slicing food on a chopping board with a large carving knife.

“She’s hard of hearing,” he whispered. “If we creep—”

They came to an abrupt halt when Ekaterina turned to look at them, holding aloft a chunk of cheese. “
Tvorog!
” she exclaimed.
“Da!”

She thrust the stolen morsel into her mouth and downed it in one chew, hunching her shoulders in delight like a thieving servant raiding the kitchen.

Sonja was torn between laughing hysterically and fleeing back to the room where Cathryn was entertaining her sister. She’d been gone overlong.

Ekaterina put a finger to her lips. “Our
seecret
,” she whispered with a wink.

Torstein looked confused. Was the woman speaking of the cheese?

“Not a
vord
about who cut
ze
cheese,” she said.

The compulsion to laugh bubbled out of Sonja’s throat, but she sobered quickly when the ancient nun put down the knife and came to stand before them. She placed her gnarled hands over their joined ones and intoned what Sonja supposed was an incantation in some language she didn’t recognize. “
Everythink
gut
,” she said, making the Christian sign over them. “Go now. I finish
ze
cheese.”

Torstein’s eyes were smiling as he kissed Sonja’s hand then hastened away. She lifted her skirts and hastened to rejoin the others, her heart in her throat.

After a long, exhausting day the last thing Sonja wanted to do after supper was obey her father’s summons to his office. Her bed called, though she feared she’d get no sleep this night, her head filled with thoughts of Torstein going off to war. Her tingling body craved again the delicate touch of his fingers that had sent her careening into an abyss of bliss.

She wanted to look her best for the departure of the army on the morrow, to give her beloved a fond memory to hold in his heart.

She listened at the wooden door, hoping to glean a clue as to what her father wanted. Had word reached his ears of her relationship with Torstein?

Hearing nothing, she held her breath, tapped lightly and entered.

When she saw who had come to visit, her knees threatened to buckle. She wanted to flee, but her feet were rooted to the spot. Fisting the grey woolen skirt of her
hangeroc
, she mumbled incoherent words of greeting to Sven Yngre and his elderly mother.

Both visitors were dressed in garb designed to impress. Sven wore brown leather leggings molded to his strong legs. If she got close enough to his boots she’d likely see her reflection in the polished leather. His tunic fell to mid-thigh, the fine black wool cinched at the waist with a wide belt fastened with a horn buckle.

Not silver, like Torstein’s.

He had trimmed his beard and tied back his long blonde hair with a thong. His fingernails were clean.

His mother must have worked for many hours to fashion the elaborate gold braiding along the tunic’s hem and sleeves. A circular silver pin at his shoulder held in place a short sheep’s wool cloak, which was odd given the summer heat. An impressive bronze sword hung on his hip, its battle scars an indication it had belonged to his father.

He was taller than she remembered. Torstein had spoken proudly of his blossoming friendship with this boy she’d played with as a child and who’d grown into an attractive man. She cringed inwardly at his desperate anger if he learned Sven had come a-wooing.

A lead weight pressed on her heart.

Her father stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “Here she is,” he announced.

She wondered why her normally confident sire sounded nervous. Perhaps it was frustration at not leaving to fight with the army prompting him to state the obvious.

He cleared his throat, appeared ready to speak, then coughed into his hand once more before he spoke. “The Yngre’s have come with a proposal.”

Does it include a sweet feather bed?

Clearly, she was losing her wits. She looked at Sven, then quickly averted her gaze. His eyes shone with the same longing she saw in Torstein’s eyes, the same hope. The desperate notion they had come to discuss something other than a bride alliance faded.

Her belly lurched. The prospect of marriage to Sven loomed as a long nightmare. She was incapable of returning the ardor burning in his eyes. They would destroy each other. It would be a fate worse than the loveless marriage of Ingeborg and Arval.

She swayed, her head spinning. If only she had something to hold on to. A peculiar vision of her friend Cathryn surged into her head.

Saint Catherine, pray for me.

“Why does she pray to a Christian saint?” Sven’s mother asked, scowling at Sonja’s father.

Mortified that she had evidently uttered the prayer out loud, she was filled with regret for causing the dejection on Sven’s face. She dove into a diatribe about Cathryn’s copper triptych, explaining the martyr’s fate at the hands of Emperor Maxentius, and the steadfast faith of Sister Ekaterina who was reported to be over a century old. She might have mentioned the flatulence problem before expounding on Rollo’s mandate for the Vikings to convert, and she was doing her best to combine the Norse gods with—

Her father’s incredulous glare silenced her, but her trembling hands were beyond her control. Sven was taller than Torstein, possibly fairer of face, probably stronger, and he didn’t carry the taint of thralldom. But he wasn’t Torstein, and, for whatever reason, the gods had decided Torstein was her destiny. Mayhap if Sven deemed her a lunatic, he’d lose interest in the idea of marrying her.

Long minutes crawled by in oppressive silence.

“Sonja is nervous,” her father said.

Sven took a step towards her. If he came too close she might be sick. Retching on the black tunic would be considered a profound insult.

Thankfully, her father waved him away. “Sonja is distraught, like everyone. On the morrow we send our glorious warriors off to war. Frits and Kennet are still in the west. Ingeborg is hysterical over Arval’s departure, and you too will join the fight, Sven.”

Sven’s mother beamed a smile at her son, who still looked perplexed at Sonja’s behavior.

Her father coughed again. “I propose we accept this bride alliance in theory and ratify it on your return from the battle front.”

She wanted to rain kisses on her father’s face, but then he’d think for certain she had completely lost her wits. “
Ja!
” she blurted out. “When you return.”

She turned and fled, leaving her father to deal with the visitors.

Hundreds of brightly colored pennants flapped in the stiff breeze blowing off the Seine. Row upon row of longboats lay at anchor, packed with men, horses, weapons and provisions. Leaning on her father’s arm as she stood on tiptoe, Sonja craned her neck over the crowd assembled to see off the army, searching for a last glimpse of Torstein.

“It’s ironic,” her father shouted over the din of the crowd, “Vikings will sail once more down the Seine to the Eure, this time as the allies of Charles the Senseless.

“They’ll be welcomed at Chartres, sight of our defeat at the hands of the Franks. Then they’ll embark on the overland trek to meet the rest of the army holding the Bretons at bay.”

She gripped his arm, dread surging into her throat. Some terrible fate might befall Torstein on this journey. “This time they’ll march with Robert of Neustria and Richard of Burgundy, instead of against them,” she said in an effort to allay her fears.

Her father patted her hand. “How I wish I was going with them,” he lamented. “I’d love to set foot in Chartres. We lost a lot of good men in that battle.”

What were Torstein’s memories of Chartres? It was where he’d led the slaves’ revolt against the Franks, saved Cathryn’s life and won his freedom.

Her father chuckled. “And I have to admit I miss those handsome brothers of yours, holding the line in the west against the Bretons.”

Sonja had never considered Frits and Kennet handsome, and fervently hoped containing the Bretons didn’t depend solely on them. They enjoyed combat, but weren’t known as heroic warriors.

“There’s Sven,” her father declared, pointing to one of the longboats. “I suppose it would be appropriate for you to wave.”

She saw him then, standing proudly, legs braced, hands on hips, in the belly of Bryk Kriger’s boat, the
Alexandria.
He searched the crowd, no doubt looking for her. Torstein would be in Bryk’s boat too, she was sure. She scanned the warriors standing beside Sven. Her heart bled when she set eyes on Torstein. He was seated near Sven’s feet, manning an oar, his beloved face a mask of resentment.

She longed to rush to his side and tell him she didn’t care if he was an oarsman. She understood, and one day—

His narrowed eyes roved over the excited crowd. Did he feel her presence? Her father had given her permission to wave. Only Torstein would know her salutation was for him. But how would he ever catch sight of her amid this bustling throng? “I can’t see properly,” she wailed in frustration.

Her father grasped her hand and pushed his way through the crowd. “Make way,” he shouted, typically oblivious to the annoyed glares of several he shoved. He pulled her to the front at the edge of the dock. Her legs trembled when he hoisted her onto a wooden stanchion. She held onto his shoulder for balance with one hand and clung to the neighboring piling with the other.

She recognized the moment Torstein saw her. He smiled. She waved, not expecting him to wave back. To her consternation, it was Sven who returned her gesture.

“Pity,” her father said. “He’d have been a good choice in different circumstances.”

She dragged her eyes away from Torstein who had glanced up at Sven. “What do you mean?”

Her father pointed. “Here comes the man we’ve set our sights on for you.”

She looked up the ramp. Duke Rollo and his son Vilhelm were making their way amid the cheering crowd. Poppa followed close behind, acknowledging the hurrahs of the people.

“How does Sonja, future Duchess of the Normans sound to your ears, my dear daughter? Rollo is seeking a bride alliance for his son. He would of course prefer a Frankish woman but I’m sure we can—”

A snake coiled around Sonja’s innards as he prattled on. She let go of the man who had sired her but who didn’t know her at all, and wrapped both arms around the piling, digging her fingernails into the rough wood. She swayed as her eyes fell on the dark water lapping at the side of the dock. If she jumped now, the torment would be over. She would drown quickly beneath the crowded hulls.

But she wouldn’t see Torstein again. She looked back to his ship. He was staring at her. She raised a fist in the air, determined not to lower her aching arm until his longboat had sailed out of sight down the winding Seine.

Torstein nodded, took up his oar and answered the call of the coxswain as Kriger embraced his wife and son, shoved the
Alexandria
away from the dock and leapt aboard.

“Take care of your nephew,” she murmured, trusting Njord, god of the wind, to carry her words to Bryk’s ears.

Standing close by, Cathryn Kriger turned to look at her. Her friend was crying. Their eyes met. Sonja’s heart broke and she burst into tears.

“There, there,” her father muttered in a rare display of tenderness. “Don’t worry. Your future is promising. Remember, the brightest star shines in the darkest sky.” He frowned. “Where is your amulet, by the way?”

Years ago, Bryk had turned his back on roving the seas, relieved to be free of the mayhem and the violence. There was, however, one thing he’d missed—the excitement that surged through a Norseman’s veins when his longboat pushed away from the dock.

Now he was proud to have his own vessel, named for the birthplace of his wife’s patron saint.

He had a handpicked, loyal crew, though he regretted being forced to assign his nephew to the oars. He hoped Torstein would come to understand why it was necessary. Many in the Viking community had objected to a former slave being allowed to fight in the army.

He enjoyed the trust of his Duke and was confident of a victory in this final push against the Bretons. The fight was a just one. Norsemen would soon control the valley of the River Orne. They had come to Francia for land, and land they would have.

Life was good and held the promise of more. Yet, if it were possible, he would gladly leap off the
Alexandria
into the embrace of his wife standing on the dock, Magnus in her arms, her lovely face wet with tears. He had to turn away, distraught at the prospect of never seeing his son again.

Odin, watch over him if I fall in battle.

Cathryn was probably still waving, but would understand why he didn’t return her salute. Vikings, especially commanders, set their sights on the prow and never looked back.

He glanced at Torstein who was staring at the shore with a strange smile on his face. He shaded his eyes and gave in to the temptation of looking back to the dock for one last glimpse of his family. Many people were waving, but he noticed a woman atop a piling not far from Cathryn. She stood out because she had her fist in the air. In the crush it was difficult to make out who she was. Sonja Karlsdatter! Surely Torstein’s smile wasn’t for her?

As the
Alexandria
glided into the middle of the Seine, he noticed Sven Yngre waving to someone on the dock. Probably his mother. “Eyes to the river,” he shouted impatiently to the crew.

Sven complied as Torstein gripped his oar, braced his legs, and pulled.

As his body fell into the familiar rhythm of rowing, Torstein accepted his uncle’s explanation as to why it was expected he man an oar. As Bryk pointed out, he too had been a lowly oarsman when they’d first left Norway. “Look at me now,” he’d crowed with a wink and a grin.

Perhaps the words hadn’t been intended to give Torstein hope things might change for him too, but he chose to cling to the belief that one day he would prove he was worthy of Sonja.

It was disconcerting Sven hadn’t been selected to row, and who was it he’d waved to on the dock?

The first hour of the voyage passed quickly and he was surprised when his uncle called a rest. The military training had honed his body. Rowing now was easier than it had been on the voyage from Norway.

Sven came down the boat ladling water into the tin cups of the rowers. “Hey, my friend,” Torstein said with a wink after his first long gulp of the blessedly cold water. “Who were you waving goodbye to?”

Sven grinned, then took a swig from the ladle. “My betrothed.”

“Sly devil,” Torstein replied. “When did you become betrothed?”

“Last night,” his friend responded.

“Who’s the lucky girl?”

Sven puffed out his chest and looked out over the choppy waters of the river. “Sonja Karlsdatter,” he said. “Did you not see how she valiantly kept up her salute as we sailed?”

Suddenly every muscle in Torstein’s body ached. His lungs stopped working. He hung his head and stared at his feet, his forearms resting on the oar. A dull certainty gnawed at him. His beloved had betrayed him with his only friend.