Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01

THE ROVER BOLD

VIKING ROOTS MEDIEVAL ROMANCE SAGA BOOK I

By Anna Markland

©
Copyright Anna Markland 2014

All Rights Reserved

Cover Art by Steven Novak

“Terror rendered Cathryn incapable of movement. She swayed, certain her heart had stopped beating. It surely would when the massive barbarian plunged his knife into her breast. One glimpse of long hair, silvery blonde in the moonlight, a full beard and animal skin clothing had been enough to tell her this was no wandering peasant intent on mischief.”

For
my darling Katie, and all who seek a better life.

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All
fictional characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author and all incidents are pure invention.

Readers of my books have come to know and love members of the Montbryce family.
The Rover Bold
travels back in time to introduce their Norse ancestors.

Even if you aren’t acquainted with the
Montbryces, the FitzRams and the Sons of Rhodri, you’ll enjoy this adventurous tale of Viking rovers who set sail for Francia in the tenth century in search of a better life.

That much is
historical fact. Their leader, Hrolf Ganger, became the famous Rollo, founder and first Duke of Normandy (named of course for the North Men) and a direct ancestor of William the Conqueror. This is the fictitious story of a man who came with Rollo, a
Rover Bold
destined to establish a powerful dynasty of his own.

“He who can’t defend his wealth must die,

or
share with the Rover Bold.”

~St. Olaf

Møre
, Norway, Autumn 910 AD

“Our harvests have failed again,” the
Chieftain declared, legs braced, meaty hands fisted on hips—a man too big for any horse to bear. His booming voice echoed in the silent Ringhouse and reached his audience despite the keening of the icy wind blowing off the already freezing fjord.

Standing alone among
his kinsmen and neighbors summoned to listen to the man who had led them for a generation, Bryk Gardbruker surveyed the bedraggled and hungry people of Møre. The dire pronouncement had not come as a surprise.

He
unfolded his arms and sauntered over to take up a position beside his one surviving brother. Alfred stood guard at the door of the root cellar where their meager crop was stored.

Legend had it
apples were the food of the dead, but the small, bitter fruit Bryk and his brother had salvaged during the earliest blizzard in living memory was one of the few sources of food in the entire settlement.

Al
fred shifted his weight. “Look at them glaring. They know we’ve no intention of hoarding the fruit, but careful rationing will have to be enforced if any of us hope to survive until spring.

“
Ice fishing will be the only other means of sustenance, and I for one don’t want to eat
lutefisk
all winter.”

Bryk
grimaced, the cloying taste of lye already in his mouth. He fixed his gaze on Hrolf Ganger, the chieftain, son of Rögnvald, first
jarl
of Møre. No one would make a move without his approval.

Hrolf
raked a hand through windblown hair as white as the snow in which he stood. “Our livestock and many of our boats are lost, swept away by last month’s storm tide.”

Bryk
exchanged a glance with Alfred, remembering the desperate struggle to survive the brutal storm that had swept in from the sea. Many had perished, including their younger brother, Gunnar. Homes had been destroyed. The roof of the once impressive Ringhouse was gone. They gathered within its battered walls, but it no longer shielded them from the elements.

Alfred must have read his thoughts. “T
he gods were evidently dissatisfied with the sacrificial ox buried in the foundations.”

The
sheltered inland glade where the Gardbruker family’s trees grew had saved them from being uprooted. Villagers had clung to the gnarled trunks of his trees in the ferocious winds.

Bryk
narrowed his eyes. Hrolf was wise, a folk hero celebrated among his people for more than twenty years of successful raids, mainly into Francia.
Skalds
sang of his exploits around many a hearth.

He never rode, but e
ven on foot he was intimidating. He had played a role in the year-long siege of Paris, unsuccessful only because the King of Francia finally gathered an army and marched to relieve the wealthy city. No battle was fought—Hrolf maintained the Vikings gained more by agreeing to terms.

“Next he’ll tell us again
of the outrage of the Parisians who had defended the city when King Charles the Fat stopped short of attacking the Viking besiegers,” Bryk said sarcastically.

Alfred chuckled. “And how instead
he allowed the Norsemen to sail further up the Seine to raid Burgundy, which was in revolt against him, as well as promising a handsome payment. Hrolf harried Burgundy,
where fine crops are raised and the best of wines made
.”

Bryk coughed into his fist to hide his amusement at Alfred’s excellent imitation of Hrolf’s frequent boast.
“I often wonder why Ganger bothered to return to Møre,” he said under his breath.

Alfred snorted. “
Judging by the permanent grimace on the face of his concubine, I’d guess she wished he hadn’t dragged her with him.”

Bryk
grinned, rolling his eyes. “Poppa loves to remind everyone she is a high born Frankish woman captured in a raid on Bayeux.”

In the intervening years
Hrolf had continued to go a-viking to Francia, to the coasts of Ireland and Scotland, and other far-flung places, always returning with plunder. Bryk had accompanied him on many of these journeys until—

“There is but one thing to be done,” Hrolf
declared. “We must leave this cursed place. Start afresh in a new land, a kinder land.”

Only the mocking call of a lone seagull soaring on the wind above the
timbers of the damaged roof broke the utter silence that greeted this proclamation.

Murmurs of dissent began as barely audible whispers, gradually growing louder
until Hrolf raised his hand. “We will rebuild our boats and sail again to Francia.” He paused, his steely gaze surveying his people. “I know the way.”

A few chuckled.
Poppa’s face brightened.

Without much effort he’d succeeded in calming
the crowd. He had reassured them. They trusted and admired him.

Bryk
didn’t.

Hrolf
’s sister had died of grief after he’d shunned her—for being married to Bryk. Myldryd had taken their unborn child to the grave.

“I suspect
this sudden desire to leave Norway has a lot to do with Hrolf’s falling out of favor with King Harald Fairhair,” he spat through gritted teeth, pushing aside the bitter memories. Intent on raising the Chieftain’s ire, he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “What will we do in Francia? Most of us are farmers and fishermen, not warriors.”

Hrolf
’s gaze bore into him as a hush fell over the crowd. “If you’re a Viking, you’re a warrior. We will raid and plunder and claim the land as our own. There are noble Frankish families with daughters aplenty who will make excellent brides for conquering warriors.”

Grunts of approval rippled through the crowd as unmarried men puffed out their chests.

Hrolf rode the tide of growing enthusiasm. “The Franks have become soft. We will mow them down like the bitter wind destroys budding flowers.”

Many thrust fists into the air, roaring their
approval.

Hrolf
restored quiet with a brief wave of the hand. “Hundreds from neighboring villages and settlements will wish to join us. Odin has revealed this to me. Our destiny as Norsemen lies in the bountiful land of the river Seine. There will even be a place for men who grow apple trees.”

Bryk
shrugged off the insult. At one time the settlement’s second most celebrated warrior, he’d turned his back on plundering and raiding, sickened by the mindless barbarism. Bringing home spoils was one thing; bloodletting for sport was another. His brothers had welcomed him to the family farm. Hrolf wasn’t the only man present who thought little of him. His countrymen considered him a coward.
Skalds
no longer sang of his heroic deeds.

Rouen,
Francia, Spring 911 AD.

A black booted toe poked Cathryn’s
chapped hand. “You missed this section.”

N
o need to look up from where she knelt to know who had spoken. She took a deep breath, praying for humility. “I beg forgiveness,
Mater
.”

She remained on her knees,
tightened her reddened fingers around the rough wooden brush, and rescrubbed the already clean part of the elaborate mosaic flooring Reverend Mother had indicated.

Seemingly satisfied, h
er superior swept off, clucking like a hen. When she deemed it safe, Cathryn sank back on her haunches and raised her head in time to see the black robed
Mater
swoop into the chapel like a carrion crow. She cringed as she looked across the vestibule to her red-faced friend Kaia, who had also ceased scrubbing. “
Mater
will surely find some other postulant to pick on in that holy place,” she whispered, hooking a finger into the tight coif under her chin.

They both
quickly resumed their task when
Mater
suddenly bustled out of the chapel only to disappear into the refectory.

“She’s
full of fire and brimstone this morning, and the sun isn’t up yet,” Kaia complained. “She delights in finding fault.”

Cathryn heaved a heavy sigh. Life at the
abbey convent dedicated to Saint Catherine of Alexandria had certainly changed since the promotion of Sister Bruna. “If only
Mater
Silvia still lived. She loved us.”

Kaia
too sighed. “And we loved her. She would never have had us on our knees at this hour scrubbing tiles. If such treatment continues I shall ask Papa to send me elsewhere for my education.”

Cathryn
came to her feet, inspecting the heavy linen apron.
Mater
would impose some burdensome penance if it became soiled. Kaia might have the wherewithal to effect changes in her station, but Cathryn had no such option. She had lived in the abbey since birth, a foundling left in a basket at the door. There was no life outside its walls. No one cared.

Feeling the need to justify the benefits of the convent, she said, “
We are safe here. Unlike many Rouennais, we’ve never been forced to flee from Vikings. Our position atop this hill has saved the community from the intermittent raids that have gone on along the Seine for nigh on thirty years.”

She had the sinking feeling her words sounded like one of
Mater
Bruna’s lectures.

Kaia
snorted, confirming her fears, but she had frightened herself with talk of Vikings and couldn’t seem to stop. “Pillaging the many churches on islands offshore from the town has kept the marauders busy. The cathedral has been plundered often, but never totally destroyed. They tend to stay within easy reach of the river and flee quickly with their treasure trove.

“
Mater
Silvia told me Rouen has been a Frankish city since the rule of Clovis four hundred years ago. She said most in the town seem resigned to the attacks since King Charles the Senseless provides no protection.”

Kaia
smiled at the nickname the Franks had bestowed on their king and seemed more inclined to listen. “My father says many locals are descended from former pirates from Northern lands or from Britain who settled in the valley of the Seine. They are farmers for the most part.

“
Villages closer to the sea have suffered years of foreign attacks. I’ve overheard Papa tell horrific tales of fire and carnage, people massacred, towns half destroyed. It’s common practice for many to disappear into the remote areas of the countryside at the onset of summer.”

Cathryn wondered why a
nobleman would expose his daughter to such lurid accounts. Keeping an eye on the long hallway leading to the refectory, she shuddered, thinking herself blessed she’d never set eyes on a Viking. Being shut away from the world atop a steep hill had its advantages.

They got off their knees and
she helped Kaia lift her bucket of dirty water. Her friend was frail and would have difficulty managing the task alone. Bearing the weight between them, each with one hand on the handle, they hefted the vessel towards the rear door of the kitchens.

Cathryn
would never openly criticize her superior. It wouldn’t be Christian. “This is the only home I’ve ever known. I was happy growing up here under the tutelage of
Mater
Silvia. She was a mother to me.”

Kaia
swiped the back of her free hand across her forehead. “It was she who taught you to read?”

Cathryn shoved open the heavy door and they
picked their way to the ditch behind the kitchens in the pre-dawn darkness. It was hard not to giggle as they hopped about trying not to get splashed by mud as the water cascaded into the ditch.

“Read and write,” Cathryn confirmed
. “She also nurtured my love of learning other languages, and shared with me the art of illuminating manuscripts.
Mater
Bruna can never take that away from me. I will persevere with her, as Saint Catherine persevered through her trials and tribulations with Emperor Maxentius. This is where I belong.”

As they made their way back
inside, Cathryn pondered the future. She was certain it was God’s will she spend her life emulating Saint Catherine. The nuns had bestowed the saint’s name on her.

But
doubt sparked briefly when she reached the vestibule. A grim-faced
Mater
Bruna stood by her bucket of dirty water, arms folded, tapping her foot. It was an inescapable truth—Saint Catherine’s perseverance had led to her martyrdom.