She raised watery eyes to Cathryn’s uncle. “God has forgiven you, my Lord Archbishop, for abandoning zis child and her brother. Vill you give me your blessing?”
Struggling for composure, he signed the Cross over Ekaterina and uttered a blessing in Latin, his voice cracking with emotion. Then he said, “Thank you for watching over the children I failed to cherish as I should have.”
She closed her eyes and drifted away with a smile on her wizened face.
“Goodbye, Ekaterina,” Cathryn sobbed. “You were right. You are still a beauty.”
Trouble Afoot
Bidding farewell to Alfred and Hannelore and their children was the next heart-wrenching thing Cathryn had to face.
The children wept openly, clinging to Cathryn and Sonja’s skirts. She was glad for her friend’s sake their distress showed the depth of their affection. Sonja’s parents had refused to see her. There’d been no tears of parting. She’d shrugged it off with the excuse they’d never been a close family, but Cathryn sensed her grief.
Tears streamed down Hannelore’s face, and Alfred seemed to be having a difficult time keeping his composure.
“Montdebryk isn’t far away,” Cathryn said. “Once we get established there, my husband will build better roads.”
But her heart admitted it would be a long time before they saw each other again.
Bryk had left the remaining apple seeds from Norway behind when he’d gone off to war. Alfred had packed them in Torstein’s new chest and seen to its delivery to the longboats lined up to take the settlers down the Eure.
It wouldn’t be easy to get the precious cargo safely into the hinterland, but she was confident Torstein would keep an eye on the chest as they journeyed. Seeds were to be found elsewhere, but it was important to Bryk he start his orchard with those from his father’s trees.
She had hoped to be gone from the farm before Torstein came to say his goodbyes, but he suddenly appeared in the yard. If the children had been bereft at Cathryn’s leaving, they were inconsolable over Torstein’s departure.
Sonja dissolved into a puddle of tears as she watched the weeping and wailing, and Cathryn decided the best thing was to spirit her and Magnus away.
Alfred escorted them to the archbishop’s residence. “Congratulate my brother for me,” he said hoarsely. “Tell him I’m proud of him. I’m proud of you both. I give thanks to Freyja for bringing you to Bryk.”
He turned to Sonja. “Don’t give up hope. Torstein is a determined young man.”
He lifted Magnus from his shoulders, hugged him and then handed him to Cathryn. “I will miss this little Viking,” he rasped.
He strode off. Cathryn wondered if she’d ever see him again.
Perched astride the gable, Bryk wiped the sweat from his brow after securing the last of the new thatch, relieved he had provided Cathryn and Magnus with a roof over their heads before they arrived.
From his vantage point his gaze travelled far down the valley. He missed his wife and infant son keenly and was impatient to share this Eden with them.
And they were bringing his apple seeds.
He raised his hammer in salute to the men who had helped build his house. “Merci,” he shouted, since most of them were Franks from the surrounding countryside. Locals had gradually drifted to Montdebryk, drawn by the promise of work and stability. To a man they acknowledged his gesture. They seemed happy the Norsemen had arrived and relieved to see the back of the Bretons.
But he was worried. Peasants from outlying areas repeatedly reported rumors of armed Bretons still lurking in the valley.
A shout in the distance drew his attention. Men were running towards a group of travellers who appeared to be carrying heavy objects that looked suspiciously like—
Hoping he was mistaken, he tucked the hammer in his belt, slid down the thatch on his arse, and hastily climbed down the ladder to the ground. A crowd had gathered around the newcomers. The stench made his belly roil and his eyes water.
Two bodies lay on the grass. One was a Frank; the other a Viking warrior he’d known since childhood. Both men had laid claim to parcels of land in the furthest reaches of the new territory and set out with their kinsmen and thralls to build homes for their families.
Their throats had been cut. Flies buzzed around the ghastly wounds. He clamped a hand over his mouth and nose to ward off the smell, scrutinizing the faces of the dirty and plainly exhausted peasants who’d carried the bodies. They avoided his gaze, but he doubted they were responsible for the murders.
“They’ve been dead several days,” he said in their language.
The tallest raised his eyes from his bare feet. “A sennight, my lord. Everyone killed. We brought these bodies to prove. We hid,” he explained nervously.
“Hid?”
“From the Bretons.”
“Bretons did this? How many?”
“More than a score. Burned everything too,” the man replied.
“Are they still in the valley?”
The man frowned, shrugging his shoulders. “We fled.”
Bryk studied the bedraggled group, and then turned to one of his soldiers. “Organize a burial for our fallen warriors, and make sure these brave men who have risked their lives to return the bodies are taken care of. Food, water, clothing. Whatever they need.”
He’d given the orders in Norse, but the Frankish peasants seemed to understand. Gratitude and relief showed in their eyes. The tall man bent the knee to kiss his hand, then scurried off with the soldier and the others.
Bryk stared at his slaughtered comrades. Here was the first test of his leadership. This danger had to be dealt with quickly before more lives were threatened.
His blood ran cold. The Breton commander was no fool. He would direct his attacks at his enemy’s weakest point. He’d no doubt seen the partially built homes of the men they’d murdered. He would make it his priority to halt the settlement of Norsemen in the valley. The migrating families were probably already on their way. The escort would be heavily armed, but they wouldn’t be expecting an ambush.
Under Attack
The journey from Rouen was a long nightmare for Torstein. He was filled with a sense of impending danger. During the war, Sven had been the one who’d shared such concerns, but communication with him was now forbidden. On the rare occasions he caught a glimpse of his scowling comrade, Sven seemed as watchful and alert as he was. Mayhap he too sensed danger, or perhaps he was preoccupied with fears of losing Sonja.
Torstein plucked up his courage and mentioned his opinions to Vilhelm, who saw no necessity for the guard to be doubled at night, nor for scouts to be sent ahead. As far as he was concerned, the valley had been cleansed of the enemy who, to a man, had retreated to the Cotentin.
Torstein looked forward to reaching the valley. He was exhausted scanning the surrounding countryside and keeping an eye out for Sonja, Cathryn and the wagon with the chest of seeds, then standing watch at night.
It came as a relief when, on the third day, Vilhelm called a halt in the early part of the afternoon and ordered camp be set up in the grove of oak trees they’d reached, although it wasn’t a place he would have chosen. “Too easy for an enemy to creep up on unseen,” he muttered, knowing Sven would agree with him.
He collected his rations from the cook tent and sank down with his back to a tree that afforded him a view of the women and the wagons. Once his belly was full, he dozed, hoping for a few hours sleep before he took up his nightly watch.
Sitting in the shelter of an oak after breaking her fast, Cathryn swatted the buzzing flies away from her son’s red face and cuddled the whimpering child who’d refused to eat anything. “He’s having enough trouble with new teeth without these pesky insects,” she said to Sonja. “I’ve never seen them as bad.”
Sonja wiped the perspiration from her brow with her sleeve. “They say it’s unusually hot for this time of year. In Norway we’d have been shifting the first snows by now. I’d hoped once we were away from
the Eure it would be better.”
She sank down next to Cathryn and shaded her eyes. “They say one more day,” she murmured.
Men were preparing the horses for the last leg of their journey overland to the valley of the Orne. She searched in vain for a glimpse of Torstein, having seen him only briefly and in the distance since they’d set off from Rouen three days earlier.
Cathryn had deemed it wiser he be assigned to another boat as they’d sailed down the Eure, and Sonja’s brain recognized it was the right decision, but her heart longed for the sight of him.
Ironically, Sven seemed to be everywhere she looked, always scowling at her, taunting the snake coiled in her belly. Once or twice he’d looked ready to approach her, but Cathryn’s glare had apparently dissuaded him.
She glanced at Magnus, relieved for her friend’s sake he had fallen asleep. Traveling with a babe had frayed the normally patient Cathryn’s nerves. She fretted too about the apple seeds and frequently inspected the cart on which they’d been loaded, along with several chests and paraphernalia belonging to other families.
If Bryk’s wife was longing for him with the same intensity that Sonja craved Torstein, she understood her wish for the journey to end. She too wanted to reach Montdebryk, but dreaded what might transpire there. “You miss your husband,” she whispered to her friend.
Cathryn peeled open one eye. “I do,” she replied. “But at least we will be together once this journey is over. I hope—”
A cry of alarm drew their attention. Fear skittered up Sonja’s spine. Men were running, shouting. Vilhelm mounted and rode off, brandishing his enormous sword. Others followed. Magnus awoke, his eyes wide, lip quivering. Cathryn and Sonja drew closer together under the tree. Panicked women and children ran by. At least one of the carts was on fire.
“Bryk’s seeds!” Cathryn screeched, causing Magnus to cry out.
Suddenly, Torstein was beside her. He took the distraught child from Cathryn’s arms. “Hurry. We are under attack. Come with me.”
Despite her terror, Torstein’s presence calmed Sonja. She and the sobbing Cathryn followed him through tangled underbrush deep into a copse. He lay Magnus in a hollow. “Lie down,” he urged. They obeyed, curling their bodies protectively around the child. He scooped armfuls of dry leaves over them. “Don’t stray from here until I return.”
He kissed Sonja on the lips, then disappeared into the trees.
Muffled shouts and screams reached their ears. Magnus seemed to sense the importance of keeping quiet. He clung to his mother, his head buried in her breast. Sonja’s frantic lungs refused to work. The beating of her heart echoed in her ears. Clutching the silver pendant Cathryn had given her, she silently begged Freyja to keep her beloved safe.
Thralls formed a relay with buckets of water in an effort to douse the fire threatening to consume the cart. Torstein gave thanks to Odin for Cathryn’s insistence the chest with the seeds be always visible. Recognizing it immediately, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and beat at the flames, then held it to his face, reached up and yanked the chest from the pile. The red-hot brass handle seared the flesh of his hand and he hurled the chest away from the fire.
Coughing, he staggered out of the billowing smoke, eyes stinging, lungs laboring. He tore a strip from his cloak, wrapped it around his palm and ran towards the sounds of battle, sword drawn. Leaping over fallen branches and boggy ditches, he cursed Vilhelm’s lack of foresight.
Waking in the middle of the night, long after he’d intended, he’d scouted a safe haven for Sonja, Cathryn and Magnus—just in case. He was sure only the brightness of the full moon had roused him from a deep sleep, and he saluted Máni for his help in finding the hollow where he’d hidden them.
He trusted Thor would protect him so he might return to his loved ones.
The attackers appeared to be well armed and organized, which meant they were probably Bretons. He’d seen at least ten Norsemen succumb in minutes, then the raiders disappeared into the trees, which likely meant they weren’t secure in their numbers.
At the moment he feared his beleaguered lungs might burst, he stumbled upon the battle. Grunts and hair-raising screams filled the air. Metal clanged on metal. Several of the enemy lay dead in the churned earth. Steam rose from wild-eyed horses writhing in the red muck, some with severed limbs, others pierced by javelins, all shrieking unearthly noises like demons loosed from Hel. The stench of blood filled his nostrils, rousing his warrior instinct.
Norse and Frankish fighters seemed to be gaining the upper hand against pockets of Bretons. Gritting his teeth, he scanned the scene for where he might be most effective.
Twenty paces away, he caught sight of Sven Yngre standing astride a fallen comrade, fending off a javelin-wielding Breton. It was the giant Bryk suspected was their leader.
The fallen warrior’s body was half hidden in the crevice of a rock face, only his legs visible. Sven’s back was to the rock, leaving him no room to maneuver. His spear lay at his feet. The Breton’s enormous sword had already battered his friend’s wooden shield. A few more blows and he’d be done for.
The world stood still. The gods had provided the solution to his problems. With Sven dead, Sonja would be his. No one would censure him for joining the fray to slay the other Bretons so they might then turn their attention to dispatching the giant.
Sven would be hailed as a hero who’d died trying to protect a fallen comrade.
Torstein willed his feet to run, run away from Sven and the giant and the unknown fallen warrior.
But then—
Do you want to be free?
If he turned his back on Sven, he would be a slave to dishonor forever. No one else would be aware of it. But he’d know, and Sonja deserved an honorable man.
“Freeeedommmmm!” He savored the taste of it as the war cry surged from his chest, ringing in his ears as he rushed headlong towards the giant.
Taken off guard, the Breton turned, raising his shield. It gave Sven a chance to take up a better position. His eyes widened when he saw who had come to his aid. Then he smiled.
With both hands on the hilt of his sword, Torstein brought it down on the giant’s shield over and over, hacking, slashing, keeping him occupied while Sven dragged the fallen warrior further into the protection of the crevice.
Torstein’s biceps burned, his lungs were on fire, the pain of the charred flesh on his hand was unbearable, but the sound of his sword splintering his enemy’s shield brought joy to his heart. He flared his nostrils, gaining courage from the smell of the Breton’s fear.
With a roar, the giant lunged, throwing him off balance. He fell backwards, but held on to his sword. Looming over him, the Breton roared like an angry bear, drawing back the beefy arm holding the javelin. Torstein expected he’d soon see the Valkyries. Surely, he’d earned a place in Valhalla?
Suddenly, the giant’s eyes rolled skyward as he crashed like a felled oak onto Torstein’s sword, pinning his arm. The javelin fell to the ground. Struggling to scramble free of the dead weight and uncertain as to what had happened, he looked up in time to see Sven pull his spear from the giant’s back.
His friend offered him a hand. “Kom! No time to rest. The enemy is routed. Help me with Vilhelm.”
Bryk's Embrace
Bryk urged Fisk to the top of a rise, his heart set to racing by the sounds of battle not far away. What he saw alarmed him further. A skirmish was being fought in the near distance between Vikings and Bretons. His belly lurched. Where were the women and children? Where was Cathryn?
A man the size of Rollo had a Viking pinned against a rock. His gut clenched when he recognized the Breton chieftain. Suddenly, Torstein ran out of the trees, brandishing his sword. He hesitated for a moment, then rushed towards the giant.
Pride swelled in Bryk’s heart. No one would have censured his nephew for choosing a different opponent. He ordered his men to charge, keeping his eyes fixed on the scene as Fisk galloped closer. His heart leapt into his throat when
Torstein fell and the giant raised his javelin.
No-o-o-o-o-o!
Unexpectedly, the Breton crumpled onto Torstein, felled by another warrior. The dust made it impossible to make out who it was.
He reined to a halt and leapt from Fisk’s back in time to help Torstein to his feet, realizing the other warrior was Sven Yngre. “Good teamwork,” he rasped. “He was a formidable opponent.”
Torstein looked first at Sven, then at his uncle. “Ja!” he murmured.
“Vilhelm is wounded,” Sven said hurriedly. “By the rock.”
Bryk was conflicted. If Vilhelm died, Rollo’s grief would be immense, but he had to ask—
As if sensing his indecision, Torstein lay a bloodied hand on his arm. “They are safe. I hid them away.” He grinned. “Your seeds too.”
Choking on the gratitude welling in his throat for the love in his nephew’s heart, he gathered Torstein into his embrace, not caring his clothing was bloodied. When his heart eventually slowed, he hurried away to see to Vilhelm.
Torstein staggered around wondering if he was caught in the throes of a dream. His limbs were heavy, his wits muddled. Mayhap he’d been struck on the head without realizing it. He’d suffered wounds before and not been aware of them.
After several fruitless attempts he managed to roll the Breton off his sword. He wiped the blood on a nearby tuft of grass, then stared, thinking how strange the world would be if grass was red.
He sheathed the weapon and looked over to where Bryk knelt beside Vilhelm. He might have known it was Rollo’s son Sven had been willing to die to protect.
To his relief, Vilhelm sat up, apparently dazed, but alive. Torstein hunkered down in the grass, watching, waiting for a sudden dizziness to leave him. Two warriors helped get Vilhelm to his feet. There was no blood in evidence.
Viking Defiant (Viking Roots Book 2) Page 12
