Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (14 page)

In the waning light, Bryk, Alfred and Sven sat in grass burned brown by the summer sun, discussing various ideas for the rescue, but every option seemed doomed to failure. Bryk was getting discouraged. The silence stretched into long minutes.

“I have a plan,” Torstein said with unusual authority, causing everyone to glance up at him sharply.

He came to his feet. “They’ve forced some of the thralls to dig latrines and chop wood for the fires. When they start work on the morrow, Sven and I will be among them, but we’ll be armed.”

Bryk stood quickly. “As will I.”

Torstein shook his head. “Your pardon, Master, but you are too big, and you don’t look like a slave. We will join the prisoners under cover of darkness. The Franks won’t notice two more men.”

Bryk rubbed his chin. “Pity we don’t have more weapons.”

“They loosen the bonds so the men can dig. And I do have a few surprises.” He shrugged the haversack off his back that he always carried and opened it. Inside lay a dozen daggers packed on top of his one spare tunic. “This should be enough to cause some confusion. They’re from the other escaped thralls we left at the river.”

Sven seemed anxious to add something. “Remember how we stampeded the horses in Jumièges. Mayhap—”

Bryk smiled.

Alfred grinned. “And while the Franks are dealing with the revolt and the horses, we’ll steal into camp and rescue the women.”

“Exactly,” Torstein said. “But we won’t start our disturbance until we’re near the latrines. That way we’ll draw more guards away from the women’s tent.”

Bryk put a hand on Torstein’s shoulder, something he couldn’t recall doing before. It was on the tip of his tongue to admit the resemblance to Gunnar, but all he could manage was, “I’m proud of you, lad.”

~~~

Cathryn supposed she must have dozed during the long night. Poppa seemed to have slept soundly. Perhaps compared with being carried off by a Viking marauder who has just killed your father this perilous situation seemed more manageable to a woman b
orn into the Frankish nobility.

Cathryn was sustained only by the firm belief that her patron saint would strengthen and protect her. And she believed Catherine of Alexandria also watched over Bryk.

The thralls packed together had been treated like dogs. She suspected some had died in the extreme heat without water and food. She felt shame for her countrymen. The moans of distress from the beleaguered slaves touched her heart. Javune was among them—a young man with no experience of physical hardship.

Poppa sat up abruptly. “Listen.”

Cathryn had learned to respect her companion’s ability to hear sounds no one else could. She strained to listen, but only the faint nickering of horses, distant male voices and the droning snore of the solitary guard outside their tent came to her ears. “I can’t hear anything.”

“The thralls have fallen silent.”

Cathryn stopped breathing. Had the Franks grown tired of the wailing and cut their captives’ throats? “What does it mean?” she whispered, deafened by her own heartbeat.

“It means they are either dead, or they have hope.”

“They can’t all be dead. Surely we’d have heard something if every one of them had been killed.”

Poppa arched a brow. “Then it’s hope that has caused them to silence their despair.”

“What could have given them hope?”

But she knew the answer.

“Torstein.”

Poppa nodded, coming to her feet. “We must be ready.”

Cathryn had difficulty making her legs work. Hope at the moment of greatest despair was a powerful force that made her tremble from head to toe. She accepted the hand Poppa offered.

“You are a person of great faith and courage, Cathryn. I admire that in a woman. Your bravery has kept us alive.”

She was about to reply when a commotion erupted outside. Men were running, shouting in Norse and the Frankish tongue. The sleeping guard cursed, having apparently toppled off his stool, startled by the din. Whinnying horses galloped by close to the tent. More shouting. Screams.

They clung together, expecting the guard to rush into the tent. They became alarmed when the pandemonium seemed to fade into the distance. Poppa peeped through the flap. “They’ve set fire to some of the bigger tents and pavilions. There are panicked horses running everywhere.”

She and Cathryn whirled around when the back of their tent was suddenly torn asunder and Bryk’s massive shoulders appeared as he strode through the rent.

Cathryn tried to form his name, but sound refused to emerge from her parched throat.

It dawned on her the man with Bryk was Alfred. Her brother-by-marriage bowed to Poppa and held out his hand. “We don’t have much time.”

Hrolf’s concubine had stepped out of the tent before Cathryn could blink, but her feet seemed to be fixed to the dusty earth. Bryk scooped her up. “
Kom
, Cathryn,” he rumbled. She melted into him, giving thanks to her patron saint for what might be the last opportunity to feel the warmth of his solid body and the strength of his arms.

~~~

Bryk set his wife on her feet and they ran and ran, his heart in turmoil knowing there was no safe place to take her. In the predawn darkness, he was reasonably confident they were heading in the right direction for the main Viking camp at Chartres. It was their only hope.

His lungs were
on fire, his legs cramped. A sharp pain knifed into his side. He wondered how Cathryn was able to keep up with him. Good thing she was wearing male attire.

Suddenly she let go of his hand and fell to her knees, one hand braced against a tree trunk, gasping for breath.

Bryk went down on one knee. “Climb on my back,” he ordered.

He sensed it was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, but it was evident she could go no further. She obeyed, her arms clinging to his neck as he carried her through forests, across
parched fields and finally to the river.

He’d lost sight of Alfred and Poppa in the course of their flight and was relieved when his brother staggered out of the trees, Hrolf’s concubine on his back. Even in this ungainly situation, the Frankish woman managed to look dignified.

He sank to his knees on the grassy bank and eased Cathryn to the ground. Whimpering, she refused to let go. He came to his feet and pressed her body to his, relishing the feel of her soft curves, but perturbed by the trembling that shook her. He stroked her hair. “Hush, hush. Safe now,” he crooned, wishing it were true.

“Bryk,” she murmured, her face nuzzled into his neck. “Bryk. I thought I would never see you again. I have killed your trees.”

By Odin, how he loved this woman.

“I don’t care about the trees,” he replied, thankful the fire in his lungs had subsided. Now what to do with the fire in his loins? “You are my life, but we must keep moving.”

As the first pink streaks of dawn lit the sky, he whistled softly. Men emerged from the trees like wraiths out of Hel, leading the horses they’d brought from Chartres.

Cathryn startled, but he reassured her. “Thralls,” he explained. “Left with animals.”

The relief on her tear-smudged face when she recognized some of the slaves touched his heart. He doubted she could have continued much further on foot.

The thralls were careful not to offend him but it was evident from their rare smiles they were glad to see her.

Because she treats them like free men.

They were more wary of Poppa, but Alfred exhibited no such caution as he hoisted Hrolf’s concubine onto his horse and mounted behind her. She must be exhausted yet she kept her spine rigid.

Bryk mounted his horse and held out his hand to his wife. Their gazes locked. He was amazed to see no fear in her eyes. “We must leave here, though there is no safe place to take you,” he admitted reluctantly.

“You are my refuge, husband,” she said as she accepted his hand and mounted behind him. “Saint Catherine will protect us.”

As he turned the horse south, he couldn’t resist. “And Freyja.”

She giggled, leaning against his back, her arms around his waist. “And
Freyja.”

It occurred to him as they made their escape that he’d never been in greater danger, yet he’d never been more content.

Bryk had never known Hrolf to allow his deepest emotions to show. He suspected that even the chieftain’s angry outbursts were carefully planned for effect.

But when Alfred delivered Poppa into Hrolf’s arms, the old warrior clung to her, raining kisses on her dirty face, cooing words of endearment. She sagged against him. He nodded a word of thanks to Alfred, then lifted her and carried her off to his tent, a giant bearing a tiny limp doll.

Cathryn had dozed against
Bryk’s back once it became evident they weren’t being pursued, but the excitement of their arrival roused her. He dismounted carefully and put a hand on her leather-clad thigh, kneading his fingers gently into her flesh. “I like, but prefer dress.”

Eyes flashing, she grinned at him. “I didn’t bring a
dress with me.”

He laughed and put his hands on her waist. She gripped his shoulders as he lifted her from the horse. They clung together, her head on his chest. “
Kom
to my tent. I take care of you.”

He noticed as they made their way arm in arm to the canvas shelter that no work
had been done on the catapult. It was of no importance. With what he had to tell Hrolf about the relief army, there was no time left to continue a siege in any case.

He led his wife into his tent. “Not comfortable,” he said, indicating his meager bedroll. “But you rest.”

She smiled weakly, exhaustion etched on her lovely face. “If you rest with me,” she said hoarsely.

The siege was lost, the catapult a waste of time and effort. The relief army was unlikely to launch an attack immediately after the fiasco of the prisoner revolt. It would take them a while to round up their horses. Hrolf wouldn’t appreciate being bothered about defense strategy.

What else was there to do but lie abed all day with his beautiful wife? It might be his last opportunity before he was called to Valhalla. “
Ja
!” he replied, fiddling with the laces of Cathryn’s leggings. “Good idea.”

She yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “I’m too tired to take off my clothes.”

He grinned. “Don’t worry. I help with that.”

~~~

Once Cathryn was naked, Bryk fetched water from the river and bathed her lovingly, apologizing he had only his calloused hands to cleanse her. The cool water and his gentle touch were like a balm to her soul. Though they faced almost certain death on the morrow, she’d never felt safer or more loved. Had Saint Catherine experienced this calm acceptance of the inevitable in the face of the Breaking Wheel? She’d miraculously destroyed the instrument of torture. Would they be granted their own miracle?

Scarcely able to keep her eyes open, she touched his shoulder. “Take off your clothes. Let me wash you.”

He stripped quickly. She grimaced at the evidence of the hardships he’d endured during the siege. “You’re bruised,” she whispered, kissing the livid welt under his ribs. “And burned,” she added, touching her fingertips to the raised red marks on his arms.

“Your touch makes better,” he rasped.

She glanced at the evidence of interest stirring at his groin and smiled. “Later I’ll make you feel even better, but for now, lie down and I’ll cleanse you.”

He obeyed. She dipped her hands in the cold water and smoothed them over his bronzed skin. “You’ve been working in the sun without a shirt,” she murmured, admiring the play of his muscles as he responded to her touch.

“Catapult, battering ram,
Sambuca
, all waste of time,” he replied, the back of his hand hiding the frown she suspected creased his forehead.

His
obvious disappointment in the failure of the siege tore at her heart. He was a gentle man forced to fight for a piece of land to call his own. Francia was an enormous and fertile country. The unfairness of it rankled.

When she had washed the dust from his body, she bade him stand in the bucket. “Easiest way to clean your
big feet,” she teased.

He laughed, dipped one foot in, then the other. Suddenly, he grabbed her and drew her down to the bedroll. “Lie with me, Cathryn,” he growled.

She sensed his exhaustion, but also his need for her. “Lay back,” she whispered, coming to her knees between his legs. She circled the base of his shaft with her hand and leaned over to take him into her mouth.

“Cathryn,” he rasped, smoothing her hair back
behind her ear as she sucked him into the back of her throat in the rhythmic way she knew he loved. He closed his eyes. “I am in Valhalla already.”

The skin of his thighs warmed. His breathing became labored. He tigh
tened his grip on her hair. He moaned when she cupped his sack. She recognized the signs. The precious seed would soon erupt from his body, and she wanted it inside her.

His eyes widened when she suddenly stopped her ministra
tions and turned her back on him to straddle his hips. He groaned when she lowered herself onto his shaft, gripping his thighs. His fullness always filled her, but in this new position he possessed her completely.

“I’m home,” he groaned.

“Welcome,” she whispered.

“Ride me,” he rumbled, clamping his hands on her hips.

She did just that, relishing the control as she raised then lowered her body on him, over and over.

He put a
warm hand on her birthmark and slapped her gently. “
Jordbær
,” he croaked. “My juicy strawberry.”

A few more strokes and he cried out his release as the familiar heat of their joining flooded her body and peace filled her heart.

They clung together as he gradually softened. The sun climbed higher in the sky. She felt contentedly sticky, inhaling her husband’s scent and listening to his soft snores as he dozed.

She admired his strong legs when he got up briefly
and prowled around swatting at pesky bluebottles with his shirt. She laughed at his cry of triumph when he finally vanquished the last one. “My conqueror,” she quipped.

On the morrow her soul might
wing its way to heaven, but heaven was here on earth when Bryk came back to bed, knelt between her legs and licked her most intimate place. “Your turn now,” he teased.