Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (12 page)

The Viking sentries at the camp
on the banks of the Seine recognized Cathryn and didn’t challenge her, but were adamant Javune couldn’t pass through the compound fence they’d constructed.

“He’s a friend,” she said gently, indicating his robes. “A man of God.”

One of the sentries spat into the dust. “
Vite Krist!
” he exclaimed, impatiently beckoning Javune to move inside with her.

The encampment, normally filled at this time in the afternoon with the noise of children playing, bustled
instead with activity, people rushing here and there.

“Something’s going on,” she told the young monk. “We must hurry to find Hannelore.”

She’d feared Javune’s habit would draw hostile glares, but no one paid attention to them as they pushed their way through the busy throng. Everyone seemed to be heading towards the river, laden with bundles and chests. “I have a terrible feeling they are leaving,” she confided to her companion.

Javune looked afraid. “Mayhap they’ve lost the battle for Chartres and are fleeing back to Norway?”

Her heart hammered in her chest. The camp consisted of mostly women, children and thralls. “They would never make it back to their home country alive, and why would they want to without their men?”

The import of her words struck her full force. If Chartres had been lost—

By the time they reached Hannelore’s tent, Cathryn was breathless and frantic. Her sister-by-marriage took her hands, looking worried. “What is wrong, Cathryn?”

It cheered Cathryn’s heart that Hannelore had spoken, albeit haltingly, in her language, but she couldn’t hide her consternation. “Are the Vikings leaving?” she asked.

Hannelore frowned. “Some leave. Go Chartres.”

“Chartres?” she
cried. “Why? What has happened?”

“Talk Poppa,” Hannelore replied.

Cathryn looked to where Hannelore pointed. Chin tilted to the sky, hands fisted on hips, Poppa stood beside a longboat, surveying the activity around her as if she was Commander-in-chief of a mighty army. More astonishing was that she was clad in men’s attire. Since Hrolf’s clothing would have swamped her, and the leggings and tunic seemed to fit perfectly, Cathryn had a momentary notion the outfit belonged to Poppa.

“What is the arrogant woman doing?”
she muttered to herself, already on her way down the riverbank.

Poppa waved when she
saw her. “Cathryn!” she called huskily.

Was it her imagination or had the Frankish woman’s voice deepened?
Although relations between her and Hrolf’s concubine had warmed over the past sennights, she was surprised by Poppa’s apparent happiness at seeing her. “You’re going to Chartres?” she asked.

The smile left Poppa’s face. “The news from Hrolf is not good. They need more men.”

Cathryn was afraid to ask about Bryk. She had to trust Poppa would tell her if he had perished. “But the warriors Hrolf left behind secure the town. We are mainly women in the camp,” she pointed out.

“And hundreds of thralls. They are men. They can fight. I myself will lead them down the
Eure.”

Cathryn thought of Torstein. “What if they don’t wish to risk their lives for their masters?”

Poppa looked at her in disbelief. “Then they will die in this foreign place. We are their protection.”

Cathryn scanned the longboats, noting for the first time that thralls were indeed stowing their meager belongings, claiming their places. A desperate notion
seized her. “Take me with you,” she begged.

It was lunacy. She’d be sailing down an unknown river with hundreds of thralls heading for a town where military confrontation loomed large. But it would bring her closer to Bryk, and take her further from Sprig.

Poppa frowned at her in disbelief, but then softened her gaze. She eyed Cathryn from head to toe. “You will need different clothing. Go to my quarters. Padraig will see to it. Tell him I sent you. If the monk comes he’ll be expected to row.”

Cathryn had forgotten
Juvane. She swiveled her head to see him standing uncertainly on the bank, his sandaled feet mired in the trampled mud. Surely he wouldn’t want—

He nodded.

She turned back to Poppa who smiled. “Tell Padraig he’ll need clothing also. The thralls will deem it an ill omen if he boards wearing that outfit.”

Grinning broadly, Cathryn turned to run back to the camp, but Poppa caught her arm. “What of
Bryk’s apple trees?”

Panic lasted only until she saw the glint of amusement in the concubine’s eyes. “I’m killing them anyway,” she said, jubilant her husband still lived.

In the three
sennights that Bryk and his crew labored to make the two siege engines, Hrolf attempted to seize the town with the
sambuca
three times.

The first time the top of the ladder reached the
wall, the inhabitants cut down the four men on the platform after a brief skirmish and threw them off. If they weren’t dead when they hit the water, they were by the time they were fished out of the river downstream.

The decision was made to fashion wicker shields woven from willow saplings to three sides of the platform. These would protect the four in the vanguard until they could be unfastened and thrown open to allow the attackers to secure the rampart. Bryk deemed it an ill-advised plan, but was told in no uncertain terms by an impatient Hrolf to keep his mind on the new weapons.

When the ladder reached the wall the defenders were ready with bundles of blazing twigs, which is exactly what Bryk had foreseen. They set the wicker shields on fire and four screaming human torches fell to their deaths.

Following this catastrophe, arrows rained down on the rest of the raiders on the ladder who were then forced to retreat.

These failures added to Hrolf’s fury and increased the demand on Bryk to complete the other siege engines.

Apparently emboldened by the successful use of fire, the defenders poured pitch on the platform the third time the ladder reached the wall, then set fire to it, resulting in the destruction of well over half the apparatus and the deaths of twenty-five men.

That same night, Hrolf’s worried captains gathered around a brazier. The summer heat was sweltering, but the glowing embers warmed Bryk’s chilled heart.

The mood was somber. It was a long while before Hrolf made the speech they’d expected. “The
sambuca
isn’t going to work. I know the Romans are reputed to have used it with success, but Chartres evidently isn’t Syracuse.”

Bryk leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees. He knew what was coming so decided to take the offensive. “The battering ram is ready, but the catapult will take a few days longer.”

Hrolf stroked his beard. “We cannot afford to have this siege go on much longer. It’s possible the Bishop of Chartres has already succeeded in getting emissaries through our lines. A relief force may already be on the way. I want to be inside those cursed walls when they arrive.”

The longboats bobbed in the shady shallows, the tired crews enjoying a respite from the midday heat. Javune accepted the heel of bread from Torstein, broke it in two and offered half to Cathryn. She nodded her thanks to the thrall, aware they would have gone hungry without the slave’s resourcefulness. The corners of his mouth edged up into a hint of a rare smile. He evidently considered himself her property in the absence of his master.

He’d secured a place in the boat for Javune and taken the young Frank under his wing, showing him how to row with the least wear and tear on his hands.

He’d miraculously produced a small chest for Cathryn to sit on amidships. She wondered what was inside and if he’d stolen it. She’d only ever seen him with a small haversack on his back that presumably held all his possessions.

“What would your Superior say if she could see you now?” Javune teased. “All dressed up in men’s clothing.”

Cathryn laughed, covering her mouth with her hand lest she project bread into the conversation. “And armed,” she said, patting the dagger at her waist that Poppa had given her. “She’d be scandalized, as your Abbot would be if he knew you were plying the oars of a longboat down the River Eure.”

Javune sobered. “He’ll know soon enough.”

Cathryn watched Torstein out of the corner of her eye, suspecting he understood more of their conversation than they assumed. “You can never return, you know.”

The runaway monk gazed around at the sluggish river then popped another piece of bread into his mouth. “Of that I am glad. If I die during this adventure, at least I’ll have tasted a little bit of freedom.”

Torstein snorted, then turned away.

~~~

She and Poppa were surrounded by hundreds of men, but Cathryn didn’t feel threatened. She was confident that none of the thralls would dare lay a finger on Poppa. If they managed to overpower Padraig they’d still have to face Hrolf’s wrath when he found out. In addition she knew Torstein lurked nearby, always vigilant. It was strange that he seemed to have adopted her.

“Can I ask a question about Torstein?” she said to Poppa as they bedded down for the night under a canvas shelter. Men’s voices drifted on the still air. Nightjars called to each other in the distance. Crickets chirped. Frogs croaked.

“What do you wish to know?”

“His parents. Are they dead?”

Poppa shrugged. “His mother was sold off in the market at Ribe on the journey here.”

Cathryn’s heart broke for the youth. “I was a foundling, but to be torn apart from one’s mother, never to see her again must be worse. Did they get the chance to say goodbye?”

Poppa stared at her as if she’d spoken in Greek. “He’s a slave. Why do you care?”

Cathryn’s first reaction was to think that twenty years with Vikings had changed Poppa, but then it dawned on her the haughty Bayeux countess had probably never cared much about the feelings of ordinary people. “What about his father?” she asked, regretting she’d embarked on the conversation.

“Swept away in a storm surge last autumn,” she said with a yawn. “His name was Gunnar Gardbruker.”

A chill crept slowly up Cathryn’s spine, despite the fetid summer air. Surely it must be a common name. “Was he related to Bryk?”

“His brother,” came the sleepy reply.

Poppa called a halt just before a bend in the river. At her command the thralls steered the boats to the bank.

Cathryn jumped over the side of her longboat into the shallows, enjoying the freedom male attire provided, and hurried along the bank to where Poppa stood at the prow. Torstein shadowed her. “Why have we stopped?” she asked breathlessly.

“Listen.”

She strained to hear what Poppa had evidently heard. “Nothing. Only birds.”

“Exactly. It’s too quiet. We must be nearing Chartres, yet there is no sound, just a cloud of dust to the south
west.”

Cathryn peered into the distance. “Mayhap it’s smoke from Viking campfires, or from cooking fires in the town.”

Poppa shook her head. “It’s dust. Vikings don’t make dust. Horses do. We must be careful not to sail headlong into any relief force that may be on its way to Chartres.”

Cathryn looked around nervously. Who knew what lurked in the tall reeds? “A relief army? Who would march to relieve Chartres?”

“I suspect not King Charles,” Poppa sneered. “But Hrolf feared Richard, Duke of Burgundy and perhaps Robert, Margrave of Neustria might respond to any plea for help from Bishop Joseaume of Chartres. Our hope is that only one may have decided to join the fray and that they haven’t united their forces.”

Cathryn’s heart plummeted. Bryk faced enormous dangers. She’d known that, but in Rouen it had all seemed unreal.
Now that she was so close to him, her fear intensified.

Poppa raised a foot to the rail of her boat. Padraig heaved himself over the side to assist her onto shore. As he set her back on dry land, he grunted and slumped to the ground. Cathryn screamed when she saw the arrow embedded in his back, but Torstein’s surprisingly strong arm encircled her, pulling her away.

Helmeted men in chain mail emerged from the trees. Frankish soldiers! “Let her go,” one of them shouted.

She stumbled backwards into Torstein, unable to keep up with his frantic pace. They fell in a heap.
The boy struggled to escape from beneath her, but didn’t utter a word. She opened her eyes to see the point of a sword poised above her head.

“Thank God,” Poppa screamed in the Frankish tongue. “These barbarians captured us.”

The soldier who’d been intent on killing Torstein took his eye off the thrall for a split second, but it was time enough for the slave to slip away into the forest. The soldier put away his weapon and raked his eyes over her, then took her hand. He pulled her up so forcefully she had no choice but to fall into his arms. He misunderstood her sob. “You’re safe now. We’re Franks.”

Poppa was holding forth, arms flailing, shrieking about being
noblewomen from Rouen captured by Vikings.

Many thralls had fled into the forest. Some of the soldiers had gone off in pursuit, but others armed with swords and spears
herded the remaining thralls out of the boats. She couldn’t catch sight of Javune among them. She prayed fervently their lives would be spared and that Torstein would evade capture. The Frankish soldiers seemed to have no idea they’d stumbled upon a horde of slaves. Perhaps to them one barbarian was much like another.

~~~

Cathryn and Poppa were forced to walk the dusty mile or so to the Frankish camp with the more than a hundred other captives, but weren’t bound. Poppa continued to demand respect, protesting loudly that she was a highborn member of the Frankish nobility. Since it was the truth and she spoke the language, she carried it off well, but it was evident the soldiers were suspicious.

The size of the enemy camp astounded Cathryn. There were hundreds of tents and pavilions with soldiers milling around everywhere. The air was filled with
fine grit that coated her dry lips and burned her eyes.

They were allowed a few sips of water from a skin, then ushered into a small canvas shelter and left alone.

Poppa peeked out. “The Franks are corralling the thralls into a roped off area out in the full sun. They’re packed together like ling cod teeming in the net.”

Cathryn wiped her cracked lips with the back of her hand, still thirsty despite the water. Fear lodged like an apple in her throat. “What should we do?”

Poppa paced. “Those recently enslaved may betray us. The ones born into slavery will not. We must continue to play the part of innocent captives if we want to escape and aid our men.”

Cathryn thought of Torstein. Would he return to help them if he still lived? Or would he take advantage of a chance for freedom and disappear into the valley of the Seine? He was resourceful enough to possibly survive and begin a new life.

The camp remained unnervingly quiet for what seemed like hours. Cathryn dozed fitfully, sweltering in the stuffy tent. Poppa kept watch through the edge of the door flap. Suddenly she hissed at Cathryn. “The Franks are beginning their interrogation of the thralls.”

Rubbing grit from her eyes, she scurried over to Poppa’s side and peered out. In a dusty
, grassless clearing about fifteen yards away two men in armor sat on elaborately carved wooden chairs that seemed ridiculously out of place in the middle of nowhere. It was evident from their bearing these were noblemen. “Who are they?” she asked.

Poppa inhaled deeply. “My guess is Richard of Burgundy and Robert of Neustria.”

It was like a punch in the belly. “They’ve joined forces?”

Poppa offered no reply, and Cathryn sensed she too struggled with this new development. Poppa of Bayeux had the advantage of noble birth. Cathryn was a foundling who doubted she’d even be able to utter a coherent thought when questioned.

“They are bringing out the first of the thralls,” Poppa said. “Your monk is among them.”

Cathryn looked back once more at the horrific scene unfolding. Javune had been stripped to the waist, his hands bound. A soldier was dragging him like a dog on a leash towards the seated noblemen. Her heart stopped beating. She couldn’t take her eyes off his bared back. At the base of his spine was a large birthmark that looked alarmingly
like the
strawberry
on her own
derrière
that Bryk loved so much.

~~~

“Let’s begin with the lad who purports to be one of us,” the taller nobleman said, so softly Cathryn had to strain to hear, her thoughts full of her recent discovery. The mark on Javune’s back meant nothing. Many people had birthmarks they kept hidden. Some considered them the mark of the devil.

Javune was dragged forward and made to kneel. Cathryn’s thoughts went to
Kaia. Impossible as their love seemed, she prayed the young monk might be spared punishment for her friend’s sake.

“What is your name?”

Javune didn’t raise his head. “I am Brother Javune Crochette, from the Abbey at Jumièges.”

The nobleman leaned forward to grasp Javune’s chin, tilting his face to his view. “If you are who you say, you should know enough to address your betters in the proper manner. I am Robert of Burgundy.”

“
Oui, milord
,” Javune rasped.

The Duke studied his face. “How do you come to be in a Viking longboat on the River
Eure?” he asked.

“I was forced. My abbot
sent me to Rouen to assist the Archbishop with his library. The Vikings control the town. They pressed unwilling citizens into service.”

Burgundy scanned the imprisoned Vikings. “Yet you are the only Frank among them.”

Cathryn held her breath. “Why didn’t he say he was taken with us?” she hissed between gritted teeth.

“The mind doesn’t always work quickly when one is afraid,” Poppa replied with a shrug.

The other nobleman, presumably Robert of Neustria, leaned closer to Burgundy, but it was impossible to hear what he said.

“What of the women who claim to be nuns from Rouen?” Burgundy asked.

“They are from the Abbey Convent of Saint Catherine,” Javune replied.

Neustria raised an eyebrow as he came to his feet. He drew his sword and touched it to Javune’s throat. “One woman as pale as driven snow, and the other who looks to have lived life in the open air? And how do they come to be dressed as men?”

Cathryn had to turn away, too terrified to watch the interrogation. She feared Javune would falter, or die trying to protect her and Poppa. She dreaded to think how she would fare when they turned their attentions to them.

“They are from Rouen,” Javune repeated.

“He’s lying.”

Cathryn’s belly clenched. She
had heard the voice before, and knew instantly who had spoken.

Sprig!

She looked back to the clearing. A monk in black robes stood next to Burgundy’s chair. He was hooded, but she knew him all the same.

“Both women are concubines of Viking invaders. Javune here used to be a monk, but he has forsaken his calling and thrown in his lot with barbarians. They are traitors to their religion.”

Poppa gasped, her face a mask of fury. “In all my years with Hrolf, I’ve held fast to my religion.”

Her words jolted Cathryn. An image of her patron saint, defiant in the face of the spiked breaking wheel appeared behind her eyes. Her fear drained away as she came to her feet and took Poppa’s hand. “Come, my lady. Let us face the fate that awaits us, but with the truth as our ally.”