Viking Defiant (Viking Roots Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  “Cathryn is a gifted illuminator,” Poppa told her companions. “The episcopal library was a disaster, but she has put it to rights.”

  Sonja had never seen a library, and had no notion what an illuminator was, but sought some way to attract Cathryn’s attention. The Frankish woman was obviously embarrassed by Poppa’s claims concerning her talents. “Yes, will you show us?” she asked quietly, drawing stares of rebuke from some of the more senior Viking women who immediately echoed the request.

  Cathryn led the noisy gaggle along the corridor to the library. Poppa’s attention was diverted by one of her friends. Sonja seized the moment to sidle up to Cathryn. “I understand you have a twin brother,” she whispered.

  Cathryn looked at her curiously. “Ja. I do. Javune. He is in—”

  The strident wailing of a baby interrupted. Cathryn glanced away nervously. “I must collect Magnus,” she said. “The library is just there. I will be with you momentarily.”

  The confined space, paneled entirely with lime-washed planking, reeked of old parchment, leather and oil. Cramming a bevy of overly perfumed Viking matrons inside did nothing to improve matters. Sonja’s throat constricted. She was trapped in an airless brown box.

  Cathryn bustled in, bouncing her distraught son on her hip. “May I introduce Sister Ekaterina from Saint Catherine’s Abbey,” she said, a little out of breath. “She is assisting with the refurbishing of the library.”

  Sonja wasn’t the only one who seemed puzzled until an ancient nun emerged like a wraith from amid parchments piled haphazardly in one corner.

  “Da,” the crone exclaimed, her gnarled and ink-stained hands reaching for the babe.

  An unmistakable trumpeting noise followed her halting progress across the room. The women frowned first at each other, then at the elderly nun.

  Cathryn’s face reddened further.

  Sonja’s eyes watered as the air soured.

  Desperate for an opportunity to flee the library and fearing the woman was too frail to bear the child’s weight, she seized the babe before the nun had a chance to secure him. “Let me,” she insisted, heading for the door with her charge.

  Magnus stopped fussing and stared at his new bearer.

  “He likes you,” Cathryn said with a smile of relief. “Can you walk the hall with him for a few minutes while I explain some of the improvements we’ve made?”

  “Certainly,” Sonja replied, surprised she was comfortable with the task. She walked away from the library and paced the corridor for several minutes, expecting the others would soon find an excuse to escape the fetid air. She smiled as the babe fingered the ties of her headdress. He was heavy for a newborn. “You’re a big boy,” she crooned, delighted when he gurgled his agreement.

  She decided to go in search of Puella. Better for her and the slave to take turns carrying the child until Cathryn reemerged.

  Exiting the house, she discovered to her dismay that the disobedient thrall wasn’t with the others. One of them scrambled to her feet and cocked her head towards the garden. “She’s gone to the garden behind the house.”

  Sonja was tempted to hand the babe off to this thrall while she went in search of Puella, but Cathryn had entrusted the child to her. She hoisted him awkwardly over her shoulder and strode off in the direction of the garden, feeling his weight.

  Near a grove of fledgling trees, she stopped dead, her heart in her throat. Puella was talking to the young man with the silver buckle from the cathedral. He was leaning with both hands on the long shaft of a gardening implement, stripped to the waist, sweat glistening on his sun bronzed skin. His hair was short for a Frank, something she hadn’t noticed in the church. Slicked back and tied behind his nape, it was as sleek as oiled ebony.

  He laughed at something the slave said, throwing his head back. A shiver raced up her spine as her eyes followed the curve of his long neck. She must have gasped, or perhaps the babe drew his attention. He caught sight of her and smiled hesitantly.

  There was nowhere to flee. Mortification mingled with jealousy. Puella’s defiance of the rules would reflect poorly on Sonja’s family. How dare she speak to Cathryn’s brother before Sonja had a chance to introduce herself?

  She must apologize and assure the young man the slave would be punished, if only her heart would stop fluttering like a caged bird in her breast. She willed her body to move towards him, but her boots mired in the rich brown earth. The man’s smile turned to a frown. The babe tightened his grip as she lurched forward.

  Torstein flung the hoe aside and raced forward, regretting the sharp cry of distress from Puella. He must have hit her with the handle, but it was vital he get to Sonja before she fell face down with the babe in her arms. A fall in the soft earth wouldn’t injure her badly, but she’d be heartsick if she hurt Magnus.

  He’d caught sight of Sonja as Poppa’s retinue was approaching the house and had made up his mind to watch for a glimpse of her as she left. Now, she’d seen him at his worst, half naked, sweaty and chatting with a thrall. He cursed that he’d allowed Puella’s wanton gazes and giggles to distract him. She’d never made any secret of her desire. He should have sent her packing. Thralldom was a life he had to leave behind.

  He bent his knees to catch the baby as Sonja stumbled forward, panic marring her lovely face. Holding the child to his chest, he snaked an arm around her waist and held fast, praying her momentum wouldn’t take them all down.

  The breath whooshed from her lungs as her hips collided with his. He braced his thighs to keep her upright, hoping she didn’t understand the significance of the rigid flesh at his groin.

  She clamped a hand on his shoulder, her face redder than a winter beetroot. “I thank you, sir, from the depths of my heart. I feared I would drop the babe,” she said breathlessly.

  She was no longer in danger of falling, but still held his shoulder. Her gaze seemed fixed on his mouth. Her thighs moved against his.

  An overwhelming urge to kiss her seized him, but the babe squirmed in his tight grasp and Sonja seemed suddenly distracted by a snorting sound from Puella. She swiveled her head to glare at the sulking girl. “It’s the whip for you, thrall,” she shouted. “You disobeyed me.”

  Dismay flooded him. His pikk lost interest. He took his arm from her waist and stepped back, clutching Magnus to his chest. “Whips are for dogs,” he rasped.

  She stared at him, anger still burning in her dark eyes. “She is a thrall.”

  Magnus let out a screeching wail.

  Sonja reached for the child, but he was reluctant to hand him over. What lunacy had prompted him to hope he and this woman might ever have anything in common? He desired her, but their worlds were too far apart. “Thralls are people, not dogs,” he replied angrily, striding off towards the house, his cousin still in his arms.

  Close to panic, Sonja hurried after the angry young man. She had to explain to Cathryn what had happened. Evidently, her brother hadn’t understood her position, or perhaps, like his sister, he didn’t approve of slavery. She’d spoken in haste and would never actually whip the girl, thrall or no.

  Being held firm against a half-naked male body had stolen her wits. She’d made a terrible impression, coming close to falling face first in the dirt, then—

  She stopped to catch her breath. Despite her consternation at the turn of events, she smiled inwardly. She’d been right. He wasn’t big and muscular, but she’d felt the strength in his arm and his thighs. And something else, something uniquely male Ingeborg had whispered about.

  Freyja, forgive me; I liked the feel of those thighs, of that maleness.

  Her face had been close enough to his chest to see the fine dusting of dark hair. She’d savored the warmth of his skin when she’d touched his shoulder, inhaled the musky scent of healthy male sweat.

  Overheated by the wantonness of her thoughts and the woolen hangeroc, she stopped to catch her breath. As she watched him enter the house, it struck her like a bolt of lightning that the whole conversation had be
en in perfect Norse.

  She blinked. He was a Frank. How was such a thing possible?

  Mistaken Identity

  Later in the evening, Cathryn breathed again when her son finally fell asleep with his head on his father’s shoulder. Bryk had paced for an hour, cooing words of comfort. She didn’t want to mention the afternoon’s events, but it was evident her husband was perplexed by his son’s unusual upset. It had been too long since they’d made love and watching him walk around stripped to the waist in the small chamber was stirring longings deep in her belly. He’d been patient and she’d done her best to take care of his needs, but she knew he ached for their bodies to join again before he left for the war.

  “He’s been like this since the visitors were here,” she said softly, hoping that would be an end of it. She didn’t want their few remaining days together to be spent arguing.

  “We’ve had folk come before and he’s never been this upset,” he replied, chewing on his bottom lip as he lay Magnus in the cradle. “He likes people.”

  She smiled, hoping to distract him. “He’s his father’s son.”

  He frowned as he stretched out, dwarfing the bed, hands clasped behind his head, ankles crossed. “Thank goodness that isn’t true. I’m often difficult to get along with.”

  She eased off his boots, then lay down on what little space remained and cuddled into him. He snaked a warm arm around her waist. “I’ve never noticed,” she teased, relishing the heat of his big body.

  “You’re different,” he said, sifting his fingers through her hair. “For some unfathomable reason, you love me.”

  She levered up on one elbow, smoothing a hand over the bulge at his groin. “Do you want me to take off your leggings?”

  The longing in his eyes tore at her heart, but he covered her hand with his and said, “No. Leave it for now.”

  They lay together for several minutes listening to their son’s steady breathing. Cathryn thought Bryk had fallen asleep, but then he turned onto his side, looked into her eyes, and said, “Tell me what happened this afternoon. You’re uneasy.”

  She might have known he would sense her worry. “Poppa came.”

  “What else?”

  If she drew out the story, her husband would get to the heart of the matter. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but something took place in the garden with Torstein. He was too upset to explain it to me.”

  Bryk sat up on the edge of the bed. “He’ll tell me, or I’ll beat it out of him.”

  She reached for his arm. “No, you won’t. There’ll be no beatings. A young woman called Sonja caused the upset. She took Magnus outside while I was busy with the guests and, according to Torstein’s garbled account, she stumbled.”

  Bryk came to his feet, jaw clenched. “Sonja Karlsdatter?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose—”

  Hands fisted, he paced back and forth, making the tiny chamber seem smaller. “There’s trouble brewing if he thinks he can pursue Sonja. He seemed fixated on her in the cathedral.”

  It occurred to her then how unusually agitated Torstein had been, barely able to speak the woman’s name. He’d thrust Magnus into Cathryn’s arms and fled when Sonja had re-entered the house. “Hmm,” she murmured, arching her brows, “is our nephew in love?”

  “Absolutely not,” Bryk thundered.

  Cathryn held her breath when Magnus whimpered. “You’ll wake him, and the rest of the household. Come back to bed and calm down. Why can’t Torstein fall in love? Sonja was rather tongue-tied afterwards.”

  Bryk flopped down on the mattress. “You’d be tongue-tied if you’d come close to dropping a baby. She’d never have anything to do with a thrall.”

  “He’s not a thrall,” Cathryn reminded him, suddenly remembering Sonja’s question about Javune. “Did she meet Torstein in Norway?”

  “Unlikely. The family is from another settlement further down the coast.”

  A possibility dawned on her. “Oh no,” she said hoarsely. “She believes Torstein’s my brother.”

  Bryk eyed her curiously. “What?”

  “Think on it. He’s dark-haired, like me. When she saw him with us at the cathedral—”

  Bryk jumped up and resumed his pacing. “This is what happens when a slave is freed,” he mumbled.

  Cathryn cuddled into the warm spot where he’d lain on the linens. “No, husband, this is what happens when you fail to teach him how to behave like a free man.”

  He stopped pacing and looked at her. “As usual, Saint Cathryn, you are right. On the morrow, I’ll start his training and, when we leave in a fortnight, he’ll accompany the army. Some of the men will object, but I’ll deal with them.”

  Cathryn was more content when he returned to their bed, but she glanced up at the triptych and uttered a silent prayer to her patron saint to protect her husband and his nephew when they journeyed to the front.

  She hoped Bryk’s decision wouldn’t result in Torstein’s untimely death at the hands of the Bretons.

  Sonja lay in bed, staring up at the rafters, desperately trying to recall what she’d heard about Cathryn’s brother.

  She wished she’d paid more attention to the gossip, which had mostly concerned Bryk Kriger’s wife.

  The whole community had been agog with the revelation that she was the niece of the archbishop. The cleric had admitted to abandoning the newborn baby girl his brother’s widow had died birthing. He’d submitted to a public penance after confessing his sin. Most Vikings had certainly understood and forgiven the inability of a young man with no prospect of ever marrying to take care of a baby.

  But tongues had wagged faster when it had come to light the girl had a brother, abandoned with her but sold off to a wealthy family.

  Sonja vaguely recalled gossip about his being a monk infatuated with a Frankish nun, but that couldn’t be true. Frits said the brother had fought at Chartres and taken part in the Breton campaign.

  Being a warrior might render him suitable in her father’s view. Or would his past be a stumbling block?

  Whatever stood in the way, she determined to learn more about the man who now filled her thoughts.

  Torstein wasn’t surprised when his uncle stormed into the camp shortly after dawn and thrust a sheathed sword into his hand with one word. “Kom!”

  He put the weapon on the ground while he scrambled to don his tunic, leggings and boots, keeping an eye on Alfred’s squabbling toddlers. He grabbed a heel of bread from a smiling Hannelore and followed his uncle out of the canvas shelter, sword in hand.

  After his uncles had granted him his freedom, he’d been allowed to carry a dagger, but he thirsted to learn the skill of swordplay. Achieving warrior status was the only way to acceptance among his fellow Vikings. Bryk Kriger was living proof of it. The alternative was to live as he had for the past months, in a no man’s land between two worlds.

  For a slave to become a warrior would have been an impossible notion in Norway, but this was a new land, with new opportunities. Mayhap if he proved his worth, Sonja might—

  His uncle’s stern voice intruded. “I plan to teach you how to wield a sword. And you can forget Sonja Karlsdatter.”

  He remained silent. What was the use of arguing? Few could boast of winning an argument with his determined uncle.

  Bryk came to a sudden halt. “Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you, onkel,” he replied.

  “We will seek a Frankish wife for you.”

  “Ja, onkel.”

  Voicing agreement wasn’t difficult. He’d spent a lifetime obeying commands. But now there was an alternate path, and he intended to take it. Disastrous as his meeting with Sonja had been, he’d seen desire smoldering in her dark eyes—for him.

  “Sonja thinks you’re Cathryn’s brother,” his uncle said before striding off to the training field.

  Torstein’s heart plummeted into his boots.

  Too Much Pride

  Arms folded, Sonja hovered near the door of the Great Room o
f her home in case she had to flee. She clenched her fists, feeling the bite of fingernails digging into her palms, trying to pay attention to the Frankish gentleman her father had invited to the house. An inexplicable preoccupation with bearing a child of her own—a babe with black hair—filled her thoughts.

  “Don’t you agree, Sonja?”

  Having no inkling what her father was referring to, she took the offensive. “Do you speak Norse, Lord Arnulf?”

  Olga, seated next to the hearty fire roaring in the hearth, gasped. Sweat glistened on her mother’s brow. Sonja supposed her father had arranged for the fire to impress their guest since the weather certainly didn’t warrant it.

  Arnulf, who must be at least twice her age, looked down the longest nose she’d ever seen. “No. Your Duke Rollo has decreed Vikings learn my language. There is no necessity for me to study Norse.”

  Seated in her father’s favorite upholstered chair, he crossed his legs and brushed invisible lint from his hose. Then he smiled indulgently at her father as if his daughter had asked the stupidest question in the world.

  Karl Ragnarsen gripped the back of his wife’s chair, looking perplexed.

  As he should, Sonja thought. The suitor had revealed his disdain for Viking culture. Cathryn’s brother had addressed her in perfect Norse. His voice, though filled with anger, had echoed in her head for hours. Unable to hold her tongue, she declared, “I met a Frank the other day who spoke my language perfectly.”

  A snort echoed from the corner of the chamber where Puella stood with another thrall, ready to serve when called upon. She was sure the sound had come from the slave, despite the innocent expression on the girl’s face when Sonja glared at her.

  She still hadn’t dealt with the insubordination at the archbishop’s house. It had been the root cause of the missteps, but Sonja’s own inability to make her wits function in the young man’s presence had contributed greatly. How to punish the slave for her witlessness? Puella still sported the black eye from being struck accidentally with the hoe.