Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (7 page)

In the darkness Cathryn and
Kaia huddled together on the sea chest, Bryk’s cloak around their shoulders. Ekaterina lay in the bottom of the gently rocking longboat, snoring loudly, seemingly oblivious to the damp cold. Cathryn thought of taking out the priestly vestments and spreading them over the elderly nun, but the chest was locked, and
La Russe
might consider it a sacrilege.

She
was happy to be free of the white habit the other women still wore. How Ekaterina managed to keep hers spotless was a mystery.

The sun had set hours before, long after the Vikings had gone ashore to plunder the main part of the town, including the cathedral. At first
, shouts and screams had drifted to their ears, but now everything had fallen quiet, the only sound the lapping of the black water against the boats. Smoke from earlier fires hung in the still air.

They hadn’t eaten since
Bryk had brought bread and cheese after the raid on Saint-Clément.

But Cathryn’s greater hunger was to see
Bryk return safely. She searched her heart for the reason he had become important to her in only a few days. To never see him again would be a worse torment than anything Saint Catherine had ever suffered.

It was a blasphemous thought.

Hearing footsteps, she peered nervously into the darkness. Poppa emerged from the gloom, accompanied by several women all chattering happily. She climbed into the
Seahorse
. “They have taken the town,” she said softly.

Cathryn
supposed she should stand to greet the chieftain’s wife, but she was too cold, her limbs stiff. She looked towards the cathedral. “I don’t understand.”

“Listen.”

Off in the distance, she thought she heard—

Ekaterina’s eyes blinked open.
“
Zinging
,” she said with her usual smile.

Poppa
laughed. “Prepare yourselves. They will return for us shortly.”

Cathryn felt like a
n old woman as she and Kaia came to their feet then pulled Ekaterina up from the deck. They clung together trying to keep their balance in the rocking boat, sharing the cloak. Poppa seemed to have no such difficulty. She climbed out gracefully, rejoined her companions and disappeared into the darkness.

The sound of male voices
raised in song became louder. Soon men were on board, many of them reeling from drink, all with smoke-smudged faces, some bloodied. They set about stuffing objects into their chests. The boat rocked alarmingly as en masse they climbed over the rail, the chests on their shoulders, headed in the direction of the women’s boats.

A lump refused to dislodge itself from Cathryn’s throat.
Bryk and Hrolf had not returned.

~~~

“You were right, my friend,” Hrolf rasped between hiccups, leaning heavily against Bryk.

He
tightened his grip on his chieftain’s waist, keeping him upright lest he fall face first in the muck as they staggered towards the
Seahorse.

When they’d left
Møre he was a social outcast; now he was Hrolf’s
friend
. His advice had been true. “There is no need for slaughter. Dispatch only those who offer armed resistance. We will need people alive to work the land when it is ours,” he’d told his leader.

And Hrolf had listened.

Now they controlled the town, though they’d encountered scant numbers of terrified peasants, monks and priests, but no Frankish soldiers, and no-one of importance. He had a suspicion many had sought refuge in Cath-ryn’s convent, but he kept this notion to himself. Once people came to see they had little to fear from the rule of Vikings, they would emerge and return to the town.

He’d taken no plunder. Land was what he wanted, and his chest was already over full. He’d have to throw out some of his rootstocks to make room and he had no intention of doing that.

Nor had he imbibed any of the freely flowing wine and ale, not wanting Cath-ryn to think him a drunken barbarian. She’d been in his thoughts throughout the attack. Rouen was where she lived. He understood why she had scant knowledge of the place, but how did his involvement in the sacking of her town affect her, and why by all the gods did it matter to him?

He’d
anticipated seeing her again, but his elation when he set eyes on her in the darkness had him tempted to let his drunken chieftain fend for himself. He wanted to scoop her up and rain kisses on her worried face.

Fortunately, Poppa emerged from the gathering mist with
two thralls. One was Bryk’s personal slave, Torstein, the other a burly Irishman belonging to Poppa. Padraig took Hrolf’s weight and staggered away with him. Bryk puzzled about the curious smile the Frankish concubine sent his way as she left. Perhaps it amused her he was burdened with three foreign women.

Cath-ryn came to him without hesitation and collapsed in his arms, teeth chattering.
He put his arms around her, willing his heat into her body, relishing the feel of her against him.

“You’re safe,” she murmured, eyes bright with tears.

“
Ja
. Safe.
Hus
,” he replied, cocking his head in the direction of the town.

Ekaterina tapped him on the shoulder. “Where is this house?”

He turned, coming close to laughing out loud at the sight of the elderly nun and Kaia huddled in his cloak. He brushed away a tear from Cath-ryn’s cheek then let go of her, picked up Ekaterina and climbed out of the boat. “
Kom
!”

Both young women
followed without hesitation, clinging together as they dogged his heels through the empty streets of the town.

Without being told, Torstein shouldered the heavy sea chest and
fell in behind.

The
house
Bryk had commandeered was a one-room hovel not far from the cathedral. Judging by the remnants of food and dirty wooden plates scattered here and there on the packed earth floor, Cathryn guessed the inhabitants had left in a hurry.

Bryk
indicated to his servant where he wanted the chest. After putting it down with a thud in one corner, the young man quickly brushed aside the ashes inside a circle of stones in the centre of the dwelling. He wiped his hands on his tunic, then built a fire with kindling and wood piled nearby.

Bryk
took what looked like the materials needed to strike a flame out of his pouch and threw them to his servant. “Fire,” he said with a smile, rubbing Cathryn’s upper arms. “Soon warm.”

She wished she
spoke enough of his language to tell him she needed only his touch to drive away the chill.

The
cramped space filled with smoke as the servant blew on the spark, trying in vain to get a flame going. He looked at Bryk nervously. Kaia’s hacking cough returned.

Cathryn hunkered down near the grate, ready to assist with the blowing. “Perhaps if I—”

Bryk grasped her arm and pulled her away. “Torstein do alone.”

His gruff manner alarmed her. She
thought to protest but caught Ekaterina’s glance. “It’s Torstein’s responsibility,” the elderly nun explained. “You mustn’t interfere.”

The
expression on the youth’s sooty face when the fire sprang to life reminded Cathryn keenly of the relief she’d often felt after satisfying
Mater
Bruna’s demands.

Bryk
unclenched his jaw and spat out a command to Torstein, who left the cottage quickly.

“Where is he going?” she asked.

Bryk lifted his fingers to his mouth. “Food.”

Cathryn wondered how a young man who probably didn’t speak the Frankish language
hoped to find sustenance for them in a ransacked town. There would be food at the abbey, but she didn’t want to be the one to lead the Vikings there. She shivered. They’d make their way up the hill in time.

There was no furniture, so they sat
on the cold floor around the fire. She leaned on Bryk when he put his arm around her shoulders. As long as she was with him she was safe. She gazed across at Kaia. Her friend was too pale and still shivering despite the shaggy cloak in which she was cocooned.

It didn’t seem long before Torstein returned. From the
ensuing conversation she surmised he’d procured the large ham, the cheese wheel and the flagon of ale from Hrolf. Bryk seemed pleased by the news. The chieftain must hold him in high regard if he sent food. He took out his dagger and sliced off pieces of meat, handing them each a portion. Torstein broke the cheese wheel apart and laid it on the floor before retreating to the corner with the chest, though he didn’t sit on it.

“Is he not hungry?”
she asked, her mouth full of the delicious smoked ham.

Bryk
frowned, but didn’t turn to look at his servant. He lifted the horn he always carried off his body and poured ale into it. He took a swig before offering it to Cathryn. Her first taste of the bitter brew made her gasp. He motioned her to pass the horn to Ekaterina.

To her surprise, the old nun accepted it, drank a long draft, belched, then explained,
“He will eat when we are done. It’s the way of the Vikings.”

She
should have heeded the warning in the elderly woman’s eyes, but instead she said, “Being a Viking’s servant is obviously a hard life.”

Ekaterina glanced at
Bryk quickly then whispered. “Torstein isn’t a servant. He’s a slave.”

~~~

Bryk was relieved to see color return to Kaia’s ashen face after she’d eaten. Cathryn still leaned against him, but her body had stiffened at something the old nun had said. Everyone seemed to have eaten their fill. He’d have preferred some juicy roast pork and fresh white bread, but in the circumstances Torstein had done well.

He
picked up three slices of ham and a chunk of cheese and threw them to his slave. He smiled as the youth grabbed them, stuffing everything into his mouth at once. Cathryn sat up straight, shrugging off his arm.

Frowning, he looked to Ekaterina.

“I told her Torstein is your slave,” she explained.

Cathryn folded her arms, hugging
her body.

“This upsets her?” he asked.

Ekaterina shrugged. “The Franks do not enslave their captives.”

“Tell her Torstein was not a captive. He was born a thrall, as was his mother.”

To his dismay, Cathryn still resisted his embrace when Ekaterina explained, but she said nothing and refused to look at him. It was a good thing he hadn’t mentioned Torstein’s mother had been sold off in the market at Ribe.

He touched his fingers to her chin and turned her face to him. He wanted her to understand the ways of Vikings, though why her opinion was important he still
couldn’t fathom. “Vikings, Franks, different ways. Not bad people.”

Frustrated when her pout continued, he slipped back into his own language
, depending on the old nun to explain. “Vikings spare the lives of captives. We feed and clothe, give them work, take care of their children. Franks do not show mercy to their prisoners.”

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. “Better to be dead than a slave.”

Her words cut his heart. “Should I have killed you then, that night?”

~~~

Exhaustion heightened Cathryn’s confusion. Her wits had fled. Bryk’s closeness caused joy to surge through her body, but fear held her in its grip. Did he intend to keep her as his slave?

She knew what obedience was, and humility, but she wanted more from this man who’d captured her heart as well as her body.

“No,” she replied in a whisper. “I am glad to be alive, and here with you.”

“
Da
!” Ekaterina exclaimed as Bryk smiled.

I will be his slave if it means
I can be with him.

He squeezed her hand. “
Look treasure now.”

He motioned for Torstein to bring the chest. The thrall set it down at his side and opened the lid
once Bryk had produced a key from his pouch and unlocked it. The corners of the young man’s mouth twitched into a smile at first glimpse of the vestments on top of the pile.

Bryk
slapped him on the shoulder, grinning broadly, then snaked his big hands under the garments and lifted them out.

She half dreaded he
would get to his feet, unfurl the robes and put them on. Instead he set them aside and delved into the chest for something else. He handed a few candle ends to Torstein who pulled a glowing twig from the fire and lit them. Their soft flickering glow brought comfort to the dark hovel.

He then pulled out a
misshapen chunk of candle still wedged onto a candlestick made of gold. He yanked it off to reveal a pointed holder as long as Cathryn’s hand. He handed it to her. “For you.”

Cathryn had never
owned a personal possession. Nuns were forbidden attachment to worldly things. She longed to accept the gift, moved beyond imagining by the pleasure in his gaze. She wiped her palms on her skirts and glanced at Ekaterina. The old nun nodded.

With trembling hands she took the
treasure from him. “Thank you.”

It was heavy, an object of value. She should have
been mortified that it had been plundered from a Christian church, but joy tingled up her spine as she slowly traced a finger from the base to the tip.

Kaia
suddenly giggled. Ekaterina’s face reddened. Bryk coughed, then held out his hand. “Keep safe. In sea chest.”

She handed it back and watched as he nestled it into the folds of his
extra clothing. Then he came to his knees and carefully unfolded the vestments.

The expectation on his face
showed he thought there was something wrapped inside.

Ekaterina sucked in a breath when the object was revealed—an exquisite triptych
, a small folding altarpiece. “Gilded copper,” she breathed, “made for a rich patron.”

Bryk
traced a fingertip along the ornately curved top then carefully opened one of the wings to reveal the figure of a man embossed on the inside.

“
Saint John Baptist holding a lamb,” Ekaterina explained to Bryk. “The Baptist named his cousin, Jesus Our Lord, as the Lamb of God who would be sacrificed to redeem sinful humanity.”

“Poppa has spoken of this lamb before,” he said thoughtfully,
stroking the animal.

Then he
slowly opened the second wing. The center panel depicted Christ on the cross with Saint John and the Blessed Virgin Mary on either side.

Cathryn had expected this. What stole her breath away
and had Ekaterina and Kaia exclaiming out loud was the scene engraved on the interior of the right wing—there was no mistaking the figure of Saint Catherine with her attributes of Sword and Wheel, symbols of her martyrdom.

Ekaterina
launched into a mantra in some incomprehensible language, her eyes turned heavenward, hands raised in supplication.

Kaia
burst into tears.

Cathryn stared at the triptych in disbelief. Her patron saint hadn’t abandoned her.

Bryk sat back on his haunches, looking from one stunned woman to the next, obviously at a loss to understand what was happening.

Cathryn pointed to the panel, then pressed her palm to her breast. “Catherine is my saint.”

The warmth of his hand over hers calmed her instantly. “Cath-ryn,” he whispered, gazing at the artifact. “What is this?”

“
Catherine was a princess who was scourged and imprisoned by the Roman emperor Maxentius because she refused to give up her Christian faith. Many people came to see her, including the Empress. All became Christians. Then, Maxentius proposed marriage.”

Cathryn waited while
Ekaterina explained these details, wondering if she had the courage to tell him the rest of the story. Bryk nodded thoughtfully, then looked to her.

She swallowed hard. “
She refused, declaring she was the bride of Jesus Christ, to whom she had pledged her virginity.”

Ekaterina hesitated, but somehow managed to convey the details to
Bryk. Was he blushing?

She gathered her courage. “
The furious emperor condemned Catherine to death on the spiked breaking wheel, but, at her touch, this instrument of torture was miraculously destroyed. Maxentius finally had her beheaded.” She sliced her hand across her neck, smiling weakly.

Bryk
remained silent for long minutes. Many of the candles guttered out. Only the glow of the embers lit his pensive face. Ekaterina fell asleep, snoring softly. Kaia dozed, slumped against the wall. Torstein gazed into nothingness.

Her Viking
turned to look at her, his hand resting on the figure of the saint. “You are like her. Brave.”

~~~

Bryk had stood at a fork in the road of life before. He’d made the decision to turn away from murder and mayhem. It hadn’t been easy. Myldryd might still be alive if he’d chosen differently.

W
hichever path he chose now might lead to destruction. The cult of the White Christ that he and his compatriots mocked perhaps had more to it.

What
caused a god to sacrifice his son? Some of the Norse gods he revered seemed like a gang of squabbling
nithings
in comparison. Why had the saint held fast to her faith despite the threat of torture and death? She’d claimed to be the bride of Christ and remained faithful to her husband.

Myldryd
had abandoned him, unable to face being shunned by her family. Would Cath-ryn be willing to give her life for him? Deep in his heart he believed she would sacrifice herself for someone she loved, but these musings were a waste of time. He could never marry a captive, a foundling at that.

If he abandoned the
Viking gods, he would never feast with Odin in Valhalla, nor with Freyja in the banquet hall of Fólkvangr.

Cath-ryn had fallen asleep against him. He watched her breasts rise and fall, listening to her steady breathing. That she felt safe
enough to sleep calmed his troubled heart.

He eased down to lie
on his side, drawing her into his arms, then pulled the heavy Christian robes over them. She murmured something and cuddled into him.

N
eed pounded in his loins like Thor’s hammer. Why not take her now? This woman fired his blood, stoking desires dormant since Myldryd’s death.

But she was an innocent
, and rape lay like a grim ghost deep in his bones, reminding him of the evil he’d once been capable of. Christians preached the forgiveness of their god, but was there salvation for a man haunted by past misdeeds?