Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (8 page)

She wouldn’t fight him
, he was certain. She was his, but their bodies would join for the first time on a bed of thick furs, in private, crying out their fulfillment. He liked the notion of watching Cath-ryn scream in ecstasy.

His already hard
pikk
turned to granite. He’d get no sleep this night.

Cathryn stretched lazily, then startled. It was fully light. She and the other sleeping nuns remained in the hovel, but she was the only one covered by a mound of priestly robes. She threw them off, guilt and panic gripping her heart. Where was Bryk? Had he abandoned her?

A slight movement in the corner caught her eye. Torstein sat cross-legged, watching.

Bryk had left his thrall to guard her—and his chest was still where he’d left it, the padlock hanging open.

A memory of his gift
—the first she’d ever received—drifted back. It had been too dark to see the candlestick and the triptych properly. An urge to touch them again seized her.

She crawled over t
o the chest on all fours and put a hand on it. Torstein scurried to her side. She assumed he would stop her, but he opened the lid.

“Thank you,” she said. “
Takk
.”

He looked at her curiously, then
retreated back into his corner.

She
was lifting out the precious objects when Bryk entered the dwelling. He eyed her suspiciously.

“I wanted to see
them again,” she explained, feeling her face redden. Did he think she meant to steal his possessions?

To her relief he smiled
, coming to kneel beside her. “You like?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she loved
them, that she loved him, but God might strike her dead for coveting stolen religious objects, and for loving a pagan.

He was a warrior, a barbarian who would laugh at the idea of a
silly girl pining for him.

Ekaterina and
Kaia stirred from their slumber.

Bryk
put the loot aside and removed two water skins slung across his body and gave one to Torstein, along with a small sack. The slave scurried off to rekindle the fire.

“
For apples,” Bryk explained with a smile, holding up the second water skin. He took all his possessions out of the chest to reveal a layer of sacking in the bottom. He removed the first layer. The three women stared at neat rows of twigs with their roots wrapped in straw. He touched the back of his hand to the straw, then sprinkled water from the skin over everything.

Then he carefully lifted the layer
with the twigs. Below were hundreds of densely packed shiny black seeds. They glistened like the scales of a tiny dragon. Bryk picked up a handful, spread them in his palm and stared.

T
here was more to this man than she had ever imagined. “Why are apples important to you?”

Bryk
touched a fingertip to the seeds in his palm. “In our legends, the goddess Ydun gives apples to the gods, thereby granting them eternal youthfulness. When I win land here I need something to grow people will want.

“
In the legends of the Vanir, eleven golden apples were given to woo the beautiful Gerdr by Skírnir, who was acting as messenger for the god Freyr.”

Cathryn was lost
, despite Ekaterina’s explanations. “Who are the Vanir?”

He
blew into the air. “Njord is the god of the wind who fills our sails, important to seamen.” He looked her in the eye. “His children Freyr and Freyja are the gods of fertility.”

Ekaterina grinned naughtily as she explained the word that had rolled off his tongue like honey from the dipper.

“
Fruktbarhet
,” Cathryn repeated, elated at his smile of pleasure.

“As well, the
goddess Frigg sent King Rerir an apple after he prayed to Odin for a child. Frigg's messenger was a crow who dropped the apple in his lap. Rerir's wife ate the apple and bore a son—the heroic Völsung.”

The only apple in the Christian tradition
that Cathryn knew of was the fruit of the tree that symbolized Adam’s fall from grace. Bryk’s legends were richer, more in tune with the life giving and healthy properties of the fruit.

The
stories were an important part of his history and culture. Their backgrounds and beliefs were very different, perhaps too different. What did he think of her God his people called the
Vite Krist
? “Too many strange sounding names,” she murmured weakly.

He rummaged
through his pile of belongings and drew out a small silver pendant. The circular keepsake with the figure of a woman at its center lay like a fragile jewel in his palm. He held it out to her. “For you,” he said, pointing to the woman. “Freyja.”

Cathryn accepted the precious object with trembling hands. It
was a woman’s talisman. Who had it belonged to? His mother or his wife? She feared any attempt to utter words of thanks would reveal her longing to know more about him.

“My wife’s,” he said, his eyes bright.

Cathryn smoothed a finger over the goddess, deafened by the frantic beating of her broken heart. “What is her name?”

“
Myldryd,” he rasped. “She died.”

~~~

Shackles fell away as Bryk spoke his wife’s name out loud for the first time since her death. He was seized with a desire to tell Cath-ryn the whole story, to reveal fears and torments he’d never shared with anyone.

But he hadn’t learned enough of her language, and these were things he wanted to whisper without an elderly woman as a go-between.

However, he could share some of the things he’d brought from Norway. He found the ceramic oil lamp his mother had made when he was a boy, small enough to fit in his palm. “Light,” he explained as they passed it from one to the other.

The tiny flute he’d fashioned from the bone of a goat needed no explanation.
Cath-ryn’s eyes filled with tears as the plaintive notes emerged from an instrument he’d sworn he would never play again after the child he’d made it for was lost. He wasn’t sure why he’d brought it with him, but was suddenly glad he had.

Her tears turned to laughter w
hen he switched to the jaw harp, a memento of a journey to Pomerania. He laughed with her, rendering it difficult to keep playing. When was the last time he’d laughed? Even the sullen Kaia seemed caught up in the merriment as she held Ekaterina’s hands, steadying the old woman who danced tottering steps to the resonant twang of the instrument.

Winded,
Ekaterina sat down heavily, a gleam in her eye when he located his
hnefatafl
board and playing pieces. “
Da
! I know how to play,” she exclaimed, then rushed into an explanation of the rules partly in the Frankish tongue, the rest in some language only she understood.

But he caused the biggest uproar when he produced a glass mirror and a comb made of deer antler. For a moment he
feared the three women might come to blows over who should get to use them first. He held up a hand to calm the squabbling and handed the mirror to Ekaterina.

~~~

There were no mirrors in the convent, and Cathryn suspected this was the first time in many a year Ekaterina had seen her own face. She stared into the glass, barely touching her fingertips to her forehead as she traced the deep wrinkles. Cathryn wondered if she would remove the coif and wimple she had steadfastly clung to, but it was a forlorn hope. Instead, the nun smiled broadly and exclaimed, “Still a beauty!”

Everyone
laughed with her. “
Ja!
” Bryk said with a smile that made her throat go dry. He handed the comb to Kaia. Cathryn pouted at her smug friend, but was secretly glad he had left her to the last.

Kaia
tugged the comb through her tangled hair, preening this way and that as she looked into the mirror then reluctantly handed the items over.

Cathryn
noticed some sort of decorative lettering along the spine of the comb. She traced a finger over it. “This looks like Greek. What does it say?”

Ekaterina clucked. “Not Greek. Runes.”

“It says
Bryk Gardbruker made this
,” he rasped, covering her hand with his and guiding her fingertip over the symbols.

“You made it?” she asked,
savoring the warmth of his skin and filled with reverence for the fine carving that must have taken hours of patient work. “And the mirror?”

He shook his head. “Trade.”

Then he delved into the pile again, this time producing a tiny silver spoon no bigger than her little finger—too small to use even for a quail’s egg.

When she looked at it curiously he put it to his ear and rotated it. “For cleaning,” he explained.

If she still harbored the notion of Vikings as crude barbarians it disappeared like a puff of smoke. Her admiration for these resourceful people increased when Torstein brought forth steaming bowls of barley porridge he’d quietly boiled up on the fire.

In the late afternoon, Bryk mounted Fisk. Torstein lifted Ekaterina into his arms. She beamed up at him as he nestled her on his lap. He smiled back.

Cathryn and
Kaia fell in behind as the horse, led by the slave, walked slowly up the hill to the abbey. Fifty Viking warriors followed.

Ekaterina had said nothing, but Cathryn
recognized in her heart the old nun would want to live out her days at the convent. Communicating with the Vikings would henceforth be more difficult. However, Bryk was quickly learning her language and anxious to speak it at every opportunity. Somehow they seemed to understand each other.

And there was always Poppa and Hrolf.

The chieftain and his wife and son led the procession. She hoped Hrolf’s presence wouldn’t be too intimidating for the people who’d sought refuge in the abbey. He had agreed with Bryk on the importance of normal life resuming as soon as possible. “There can be no prosperity without people,” Bryk had argued.

“And certainly no progress without the support of the Christian clerics,” had been Hrolf’s reply
. “Our intention to stay and rule this town and its environs must be made clear to the Rouennais.”

To Cathryn’s surprise,
once they neared the abbey, the Archbishop of Rouen emerged from within the walls. She had seen him only once, at
Mater
Silvia’s interment. He was tall, and dark-haired. Accompanied by several men in fine clothing, he walked forward, head held high. She had to admire his courage in facing the enemy, but supposed he hoped to dissuade the Vikings from sacking the abbey. He would also have watched the goings on in the town from atop the hill, and known there had been no mass slaughter, no wholesale destruction.

Cathryn steadied Ekaterina as
Bryk lowered her to the ground before dismounting.

“Very strong, your Viking,” the elderly nun whispered, her face flushed.

She didn’t have a chance to reply that Bryk wasn’t
her
Viking. Hrolf’s booming voice rang out. “I am Hrolf Ganger. I have taken Rouen, and intend to rule here.”

The Franks
tried unsuccessfully to hide their surprise at the Viking’s command of their language. Or perhaps they were amazed to be still alive.

The
Archbishop stepped forward, his black robes billowing in the stiff wind blowing off the river. “I am Franco, Archbishop of Rouen. We are subjects of Charles, King of West Francia.”

Cathryn hazarded a glance at
Bryk, wondering if he’d understood the Archbishop’s antagonist reply. His tightly clenched jaw and rigid shoulders indicated his dismay.

Hrolf, however, ignored the
prelate’s remarks. “Under my rule, Rouen will prosper. Norsemen work hard. Your people have naught to fear if they obey. There is to be no looting, no rape, no murder. You can continue to worship your god. Punishment for those who defy my commands will be severe, whether they be Frank or Viking. Lead the way from this place and return to your homes and churches. This is my command.”

The Franks stared at Hrolf, then murmured amongst themselves for several long minutes
before the Archbishop again came forward. “Since you purport to come in peace, we will obey, until King Charles arrives with his army.”

Hrolf chuckled as refugees emerge
d from the abbey and walked to the downhill path, led by the Archbishop. “Rouen is ours,” he told Bryk. “We won’t wait for Charles the Senseless. We’ll take the fight to him.”

As Ekaterina explained Hrolf
’s words, Cathryn studied the walls of the only place she had ever lived, suddenly catching sight of
Mater
Bruna in the doorway. There was no mistaking the wrath in the Superior’s scowling gaze. It appeared that a former postulant clad in Viking garb was a greater irritation than the historic scene unfolding before her.

A sense of smug satisfaction welled up in
Cathryn’s heart as she smoothed a hand over her scarf. But a leaden ball of dread settled in her belly when it struck her Bryk might leave her here.

~~~

Soon, only Bryk, his three Frankish captives and a scowling nun lurking in the entryway of the convent remained atop the windswept hill. Torstein waited a little way off with Fisk.

Bryk
pondered what to do with Cath-ryn. He could ask Hrolf to station him in Rouen as part of the occupying force, but that would lessen his standing in the chieftain’s eyes, and diminish his chances of a generous land grant in the future.

Life on the march with a marauding army was no place for a woman.

The peasants whose hovel they’d commandeered would soon emerge from hiding and return to their dwelling.

But he craved
Cath-ryn’s company, and her body. She was already an essential part of his happiness. If he left her at the abbey, he might never see her again.

A tug on his sleeve interrupted his thoughts. He looked down at Ekaterina
standing on tiptoe, lips pursed to kiss him. He smiled and bent for her to peck him on the cheek. “Goodbye, bold rover. Take good care of Cathryn.”

Then she
was gone, waddling off towards the convent. She embraced Cathryn briefly, then took Kaia’s hand and disappeared through the doorway. Neither woman exchanged greetings with the crow-like sentinel at the gate.

Cathryn stood alone like a stone pillar buffeted by the wind.
She had her back to him, but he sensed her indecision. This was where she had spent her life. His heart admitted reluctantly she had to make the choice. Would she yield to the insistent scowling gaze of the crone and return to the safety of the convent, or turn to him? He prayed to Cath-ryn’s patron saint that she would give herself over to him.

What?

Praying to a Christian martyr? What about the
Forn sidr
, the ancient practices and beliefs of his people? Lust had robbed him of his wits. He had nothing to offer a woman, especially a Frank, a captive.

But one day you will.

Where had such a thought come from? Was Freyja urging him on, or had the martyred bride of the White Christ heard his plea?

Through the fabric of his shirt, h
e fingered the square amulet hanging around his neck. Myldryd’s half of the talisman lay buried in a grave far away. He whispered the words etched in delicate runes on its copper surface. “Think of me, I think of you. Love me, I love you.”

Cath-ryn turned slowly to face him. “Please don’t leave me here,” she said hoarsely. “Take me with you.”

He should have refused, should have admonished her to return to the convent, to the life she knew. But the relief rushing through his veins as he gathered her up and signaled Torstein to bring Fisk overwhelmed his better judgment. No matter the difficulties, he would protect this woman.

All shall be well.

Fury twisted the crone’s face as she glared in their direction then whirled to enter the convent. The door shut with a resounding bang behind her.

As they rode back down the hill, the sun came out and the wind calmed.
To be safe, Bryk thanked first Freyja, then Odin, then Cath-ryn of Alexandria for the gift of this beautiful woman who had brought light to his dark life.