Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (2 page)

Braced against the sea chest on which he sat, Bryk raised and lowered his oar rhythmically, slicing into the water, one of fifty men helping to drag the long, narrow ship forward.

Hrolf stood at the steering oar, turning his
wind-reddened face from time to time on his crew. Next to him stood his son, Vilhelm. The boy sailed with the men despite Poppa’s protests that at ten years of age he was too young. She thought he should be with her in one of the boats filled with women and children, elderly folk and the thralls who plied the oars.

Bryk
had to grudgingly admit the man had been right. Many flocked to leave harsh lives in Norway. Their warship was one of a hundred in the fleet they had labored to build and repair, forced by the brutal winter to commandeer the Ringhouse for the purpose.

They had stripped the forests and salvaged wood from the community structure.
The fires of the smithy had burned hot and long to forge new iron rivets and reshape old ones.

As they rowed away from
Møre, Bryk fixed his gaze on the smoldering rubble of the gathering place his people had been justifiably proud of. He knew every man on board was swearing the same oath. They might never return, but they would never forget the land of their birth.

Many had balked at Hrolf’s insistence his Frankish wife teach them a few words of her language
after their work was done each day. Bryk had welcomed the opportunity to listen in the near darkness to the foreign tongue roll off the woman’s lips. In a new land, such knowledge would be an advantage.

He suspected
he’d been chosen for this crew so his chieftain would have opportunities to goad him, but that had not happened. Hrolf maintained his disdainful demeanor, but had declared, “Seldom will a voyage go well if the men are at odds. We are all bound by the law of an army united.”

Bryk
had to grudgingly admire the wit of a man who never rode having named his ship the
Seahorse
.

It had been a long journey
, much of it across open sea from Møre to the western kingdom of the Franks—long and cold in early spring. Over and over he’d counted the number of squares of fabric that made up the sail until he knew in his sleep how many red and how many white the women had woven and plaited and sewn together.

They’d felt the biting
chill as they sailed south, hugging the coast of Norway, keeping an eye on the brass weathervane atop the mast. They passed Bergen and Stavanger, then kept far out from shore until they reached Jutland.

They’d avoided getting too close to the
misty Danish coast, preferring not to make use of the drinking horns every man carried slung on a lanyard across his body. The sound of a strident foghorn carried for miles over water.

However, they
pulled in at Ribe to trade furs, honey and beeswax for weapons. Some of the older slaves were sold off, Hrolf declaring they were dead weight.

A
s they journeyed south, the sun’s rays grew stronger every day and the wind seemed less biting. Cautious optimism took root in Bryk’s heart. Tucked away safely in his sea chest alongside his sharpened
Stridsøkse
were seeds and rootstocks from the apple trees. His brother’s chest held the same treasure.

Alfred, seated next to him, was
finding the voyage difficult. Seven years older than Bryk, he’d been a farmer all his life. He was no stranger to manual labor, but the oar and the coarse horsehair and elk leather ropes had raised angry welts on his palms. He fretted for his wife and ten children.

It was a blessing Gunnar had been the one swept away. He was unmarried and had no children, except for
a son born of his thrall.

“Jutland passed,” Hrolf
had yelled two days ago, his hands cupped to his mouth. “From here everything belongs to the Franks.”

Now
Alfred frowned. “Surely any people strong enough to conquer and hold so vast an empire are capable of mustering armies far larger than our force.”

Bryk
sought to reassure him. “Hrolf knows what he’s doing. He plans to strike deep within the heartland of the Franks.”

He hoped his voice didn’t betray his fear that the
boldness might prove to be dangerous folly. “By day, we’ve sailed out of sight of land so they don’t become aware an invasion fleet is making its way down their coast.”

Only at night had they anchored in hidden coves or along sandy beaches. Hrolf did indeed know the way.

It irked that he was now defending the man who had treated his wife cruelly. “Hrolf hopes to strike the first blow against the western Frankish kingdom before their king has time to gather an army. He loves to remind us that the run of the game is determined by the first move. You’d think we were playing
hnefatafl
.”

Alfred shook his head. “But every morning we’ve landed men to forage for animals and
winter crops. Surely the loss of the livestock and provisions they’ve brought back has alerted someone?”

He
shrugged away his brother’s worries. “We have to eat. It wasn’t possible to bring enough provisions to feed everyone. But pirate raids are common along any coast. Hrolf doesn’t believe it will have caused too much alarm. And you have to admit your belly is fuller than it has been in a while.”

Alfred grunted his agreement.

Hrolf changed course suddenly, heading closer to land, away from the rest of the fleet. He signaled for the
Kriger
to follow the
Seahorse
.

“We must be getting close,”
Bryk said.

As they came in sight of land, Hrolf ordered a halt. “Armor,” he shouted.

The rowers pulled in their oars, and those who had armor took it out of their sea chests, along with their weapons. Bryk thanked the gods he hadn’t got rid of his mail shirt when he’d abandoned warmongering. Alfred, who had no armor, helped him don it once he’d pulled it out of its sealskin bag.

“Lash shields,” Hrolf yelled.
Alfred jumped immediately to fasten his brother’s shield to the rack along the side of the ship.

Bryk
accepted that his brother was dependent upon his protection.

“Is
a battle at hand?” Alfred asked nervously.

“No,”
he replied, hefting his
stridsøkse
, then placing the heavy weapon next to his sea chest where it would be accessible. “I suspect we’ll go scouting first.”

Hrolf braced his legs. “W
e are nearing the mouth of the Seine, the mighty river that flows out from the heart of West Francia. We don’t want to miss it. The fleet will wait out of sight for our signal while we search for the river’s mouth.”

“
Why armor if we are only looking for a river?” Alfred asked.

Bryk
didn’t want to alarm his kind and gentle brother, but he had to be forewarned. “This is the land of the enemy,” he said. “Uncertainty lies ahead. Would you track a wolf threatening your sheep without arming yourself?”

Alfred
shook his head, looking anxiously out to sea, then back to shore.

The
Seahorse
hugged the coastline, its sail lashed. In the early afternoon the land curved away to the east. Hrolf signaled to the
Kriger
to pull alongside. When the ship was within hailing distance, he called to its captain. “Tormod, row out to the fleet,” he said. “Tell them we have located the estuary. They should look for our camp among the islands in the delta. On the morrow we’ll head downriver.”

The mouth was too wide for them to see
the opposite bank and the water was choppier than out at sea. Gradually the river narrowed and they encountered sandbars, and low, grassy islands. The water turned brown. They slowed down as a sailor next to Hrolf threw out a weighted line, checking the depth.

As they neared a
large island Bryk recognized, Hrolf swung the ship sharply and she slid sideways in the water the last few feet. He called for a halt and the anchor was dropped. In five days, they had reached Francia.

A summons to
Mater
Bruna’s office after the observance of Terce meant only one thing. Cathryn was to be punished for something. Time would tell what. Despite her prayerful entreaties to Saint Catherine, the persecution continued.

Upon receiving permission to enter
the cramped room she was surprised to see a smile on her Superior’s normally scowling face.

She was further astonished to be invited to sit in one of the well-upholstered chairs. A pang of regret
twirled in her belly. She had spent many happy hours in this same seat soaking up the knowledge and wisdom that poured from
Mater
Silvia.

She sat politely, gripping the wooden arms
, her back rigid. When
Mater
stared accusingly at her white knuckles, she nervously laced her fingers together in her lap.

Should she look at
Mater
, or keep her eyes downcast as she’d been reminded since childhood? She decided to fix her gaze on her hands.

“You have been chosen,” the elderly nun
declared, her mouth settling back into its usual tight moue.

Having no idea what was coming next, Cathryn deemed it wise to remain silent.

“Do you not wish to know for what you have been chosen?”

She risked a quick glance at her tormentor. “I trust in the Lord and Saint Catherine that whatever it is—”

“Yes, yes,” the nun interrupted with a dismissive wave. “You’re to go to Jumièges.”

A maelstrom of thoughts
whirled through Cathryn’s head. From what she’d heard, the town was a mere ten miles distant, but it was far enough to escape Bruna’s tyranny. However, the abbey at Jumièges had been destroyed by Viking marauders nigh on seventy years before, and according to rumor the rebuilding was by no means complete. Why was she being sent there? How would she travel? Was she to go alone? One thing was for certain. Travel was risky. Cathryn had never ventured further than to walk to the cemetery behind the abbey.

Saint Catherine
pray for me.

“But what of Vikings?” she asked nervously.

“Too early in the year. They come in the summer, if at all. There have been no raids for several years. Your work illuminating manuscripts has come to the attention of the Archbishop of Rouen,”
Mater
said, her voice edged with jealousy. “He wishes you to instruct the small community being reestablished in Jumièges. They are copying damaged manuscripts.”

Again Cathryn was torn. It was work she loved, but—

“You will leave on the morrow on a trading ship bound for the sea. They will take you as far as Jumièges.”

Cathryn could no longer contain her thoughts. She had only ever glimpsed the mighty river from the
cemetery. “Down the Seine?”

Mater
looked at her with disdain. “Of course. Do you suppose a ship can travel by road? Be ready at dawn.”

A damp mist
crept in from the sea as the Viking horde gathered on the island after the rest of the fleet followed the
Kriger
into the mouth of the Seine. Happy sounds of families reunited after the long voyage filled the air. Pots and pans clanked as women set about preparing for the foragers to return.

Bryk
chuckled as Alfred strolled by with his youngest atop his broad shoulders and the rest of his brood clustered around his legs. His nieces and nephews called out to him. “
Onkel
Bryk.”

He returned
their waves with mixed feelings. He loved Alfred’s boisterous children, but they reminded him keenly of his own loss.

Hrolf called a council of captains from other boats.
They gathered round a bonfire near the shore. Bryk was not invited to the inner circle, but noted bitterly that Hrolf offered tumblers of his family’s
eplevin
to the captains. Even young Vilhelm was allowed a taste. The Gardbrukers had been given no choice but to watch Hrolf load their entire stock of the apple wine aboard his own ship.

Bryk
sat cross-legged on the fringe, huddled into his woolen cloak, ready to hasten back to the longboat once the meeting concluded. Canvas shelters were reserved for the women and children. Most of the men would have to sleep on the damp grass, and he didn’t intend to be one of them. His personal thrall wouldn’t be able to hold his place for long.

The chieftain
climbed aboard his boat, one hand on the neck of the carved seahorse at the prow. His voice carried over the crackle of the flames as he held his wooden tumbler high. “This has been a long journey, and it’s good to set our feet on solid ground again.”

This statement was greeted with loud
laughter and agreement, but no one sipped their wine, waiting for their leader to take the first drink in the new land.

“The
gods smiled on us, and only three of our number perished on the way.”

Alfred
elbowed Bryk. “Aye, three drunken fools we’re better off without.”

Bryk
remained silent, thinking of the three families facing an uncertain future without a protector.

Still Hrolf’s tumbler remained aloft. Several men licked their lips. “We lost no boats!”

There was a rousing cheer.

Hrolf continued once the noise had quieted.
“We are a strong and determined force. However, as many have observed, the Franks can muster a large army to rout us. Surprise and swift action will be the keys to success. We must strike before they have time to react.”

“But if we sail upriver, we will be going further away from the sea,”
Captain Tormod said hesitantly.

Tormod
had echoed what every Norseman felt in his bones. The sea offered safety, a means of escape. A Viking rarely ventured far inland in foreign climes.

Hrolf narrowed his eyes and lowered his tumbler. “This is true, but we must have courage to
forge deep in their territory and take what we can to strengthen our bargaining hand. Once we take Rouen, the roads left by the Romans will give us access to vast areas.”

Murmurs of confusion and discontent greeted this pronouncement.

Hrolf cleared his throat. “We are outnumbered. We will take what we want and use it to pry concessions from the King of the Franks. Traders to our lands have told of the challenges he faces from factions within Francia. They call him Charles the Senseless.”

Laughter greeted this revelation.

Hrolf laughed with them, but then grew serious again. “His army is weak and he will welcome a bargain if he thinks we can be of use to him. In the past we’ve often extracted
geld
ransoms to leave communities in peace. The goal now is to wrest land where we can settle. There is no going back.”

At last he took a long swig of his wine. The captains watched
for a moment, then broke into loud cheering and drained their own tumblers.

Bryk
leaned towards his brother. “The man has charmed them again, and with our wine.”