Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02

by The Rover Defiant

  Sven opened his arms wide. “A fair exchange. My land here for your land in Rouen.”

  Shielding his eyes from the sun, Torstein followed the sweep of his friend’s arm. “Where does your property lie?” he asked.

  Sven pointed out the markers. “And the river isn’t far distant, over there.”

  Torstein rubbed the stubble on his chin. The land he now owned near the Seine belonged to him thanks only to the generosity of his uncle. Yet Bryk stood with arms folded and legs braced, chewing a sweet grass plucked from the meadow as if the discussion was of no importance to him.

  If he made the trade, he might lose Bryk’s respect—something he’d striven hard to win. But he thirsted for land in this valley, for a new beginning far away from the censure of Rouen. In the distance he heard the rippling waters of the Orne. “I cannot agree to it,” he said.

  Sven frowned. “But I thought—”

  “The property near the Seine is three times the size of this, and Alfred has proven it’s arable. There is no guarantee things will grow here.”

  Sven stared at him, mouth agape, looking crestfallen. “Well—”

  Torstein crossed his fingers, hoping he was doing the right thing. “I will deed to you one third of the parcel near the Seine in exchange for this land.”

  Sven glanced at Bryk, but evidently gleaned as little indication of the Comte’s feelings there as Torstein had. He spat into his hand and offered it to Torstein. “Done.”

  Torstein spat into his blistered hand, and shook on it. “Done,” he repeated. No thrall was allowed to seal a bargain in this manner. He relished the warm spittle of freedom joining his hand to Sven’s.

  “You drive a hard bargain,” Sven said as he strode away.

  Torstein faced his uncle.

  Bryk unfolded his arms and walked towards him. To Torstein’s surprise, he smiled, offered his hand to his nephew and drew him into his embrace. “Well done, lad. We are of one blood, after all.”

  A WEDDING

  The moon had waxed and waned since Torstein’s bargain with Sven Yngre. Bryk Kriger stood atop his promontory, relishing the chill of approaching winter in the air. “Reminds me of Norway,” he said to Torstein beside him. It gladdened his heart the memories now were fond ones. He would never forget the dark times, but the bitterness had faded, thanks to the happiness he’d found in Francia.

  Was the same true of his nephew? “Your life in Norway is behind you now. This is a new beginning.”

  “Thanks to you, onkel,” Torstein replied.

  “No, you earned it, though you do have the right bloodlines.”

  They chuckled, sharing the humor.

  “Cathryn is looking forward to the celebration of Christ’s birth, the feast Christians called Yuletide,” Bryk said.

  Torstein laughed again. “You have to admit even you have been caught up in the preparations, roving far and wide in search of the precise cedar boughs Cathryn insists she needs.”

  Bryk rolled his eyes. “And I can attest that the red berried ilex does not grow in this valley.” He slapped Torstein on the back. “However, those important activities have been superseded by the excitement over a wedding—the first ever to be held at Montdebryk.”

  It was a good omen—a union between a freed slave and a noblewoman, a sign this was a new land of opportunity for those who might prove their worth. The ceremony would honor both Christian and Norse traditions, setting a precedence for tolerance and peace.

  He glanced over to his wife’s uncle. Twenty yards away the Archbishop was sprinkling water and intoning some Latin blessing over the stone footings of the magnificent building Bryk hoped would rise there one day. The wind caught the wide sleeves of the cleric’s white robes causing them to billow behind him like the wings of a giant bird. With his free hand he kept a pointed hat clamped to his head. Bryk supposed he’d eventually get used to the strange Christian customs, but wondered if the Archbishop realized how comical he looked.

  They’d made remarkable progress on the footings. Hundreds of new settlers had flocked to the area; Franks, Celts, Norsemen, some from Britain, many with badly needed skills. The promise of new lands and new opportunities had drawn them. Some of the Bretons captured in the battle had begged a chance to remain and settle in the area. Bryk’s first plan had been to enslave them, but Torstein had dissuaded him, instead suggesting they be granted land in exchange for working on the stone edifice.

  More remarkable still was the completion of Torstein’s house, thanks in large part to Vilhelm’s assigning laborers to the task. Seven miles away the modest dwelling stood ready to welcome the newly married couple after the ceremony.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Bryk caught sight of Cathryn standing in the entryway of their house nearby, waving impatiently.

  Standing at his side, Torstein, clad in the blue tunic Bryk had given him for the baptism, cleared his throat and shifted his weight. “I think he’s done,” he said hopefully.

  Bryk smiled. The Archbishop had insisted on blessing the place where the wedding would take place, though it was outside. “I believe you’re right.” He winked at his nephew. “A bit ironic, wouldn’t you say, this Christian fuss for the joining of two pagans?”

  Torstein winked back. “Now, now, onkel. You wouldn’t want your wife to hear.”

  The cleric bustled over. “Everything is in readiness. The ceremony can commence.” He looked over to where Cathryn stood. “I see my niece is impatient to get on with it.”

  “Ja,” Bryk replied. “Women and weddings.”

  The Archbishop laughed—as if a celibate cleric knew anything about women. Again Bryk wondered at the folly of the Christians and their religious ideas. But at least his wife’s uncle had undertaken the arduous journey from Rouen to preside over the ceremony, bringing his flask of precious holy water with him from the cathedral.

  He signaled Cathryn. She ducked inside the house, reappearing after a minute or two. Vilhelm exited behind her, carrying Magnus. He offered his arm and escorted her up the hill.

  Bryk wondered if the day would ever dawn when the sight of his wife didn’t steal his breath away. The new life within was showing, only adding to her beauty. She looked like a Norsewoman born and bred, clothed as she was in traditional Viking garb.

  He suppressed a chuckle at the errant hope Vilhelm would keep his sword away from her feet.

  His attention was fixed on Cathryn and he didn’t notice Sonja step out of the house until Torstein inhaled sharply.

  A fleeting memory of cool autumn winds blowing off the fjord near Åndalsnes shivered through Sonja as she stepped out of Cathryn’s house. She looked down at the elaborate Viking wedding dress and boots she wore—gifts from her repentant parents brought from Rouen by the kindly Archbishop. She touched a hand to the traditional red and blue headdress that matched her gown. She recognized her mother’s handiwork in the gold braided edging, felt the weight of the wool. Olga had wanted to make sure she was protected from the cold. The knowledge warmed her heart and her body.

  Two men linked arms with her, one on each side. She smiled first at Frits, then at Kennet as her brothers lifted her and carried her in Viking fashion up the hill to her bridegroom. Her feet never touched the ground.

  They might have been back in Norway.

  But they weren’t, thanks be to Freyja, or she wouldn’t be marrying the man she loved who stood waiting atop the promontory, his uncle and a Christian cleric at his side.

  “Sonja,” he rasped, taking her hand when her brothers deposited her next to him. The warmth of his touch sent tiny winged creatures fluttering in her belly.

  “Torstein,” she murmured, her gaze flitting from the silver buckle of his belt to the love burning in his eyes.

  The Archbishop cleared his throat, made the Christian sign of the Crucifixion, and then began the Latin rite. Cathryn had schooled them in their responses and everything went smoothly and faster than she’d anticipated. The only moment of irritation came when Frits star
ted sucking food out of his teeth, but Bryk quickly silenced him with a glare.

  Despite the chill in the air, Sonja’s body warmed at the prospect of life with Torstein. In Norway she’d have married a wealthy nobleman and lived in an opulent house, waited on by servants and thralls. Here she was impatient to cuddle with her defiant rover in the cozy bed in the wattle and daub cottage he’d built, and farm the land he’d won through his bravery.

  Bryk and her brothers had concluded the traditional Norse bridal agreement beforehand; therefore what was to follow was a formality. However, she hadn’t known what bride price Bryk, as Torstein’s sponsor, had paid.

  She smiled when her brothers’ faces lit with pleasure as they accepted new tapered shields from her husband’s uncle. Many warriors clamored for the shields Torstein and Sven had fashioned, but only Rollo, Vilhelm and Bryk had received one.

  Now she understood. It wouldn’t have mattered to them who won her, provided they got what they wanted.

  Brandishing their shields in one hand, they each pecked a kiss on her cheek and declared the bargain honored and their sister wed. She was sure it wouldn’t be long before they were arguing over who had the best shield, though both looked identical to her.

  Cathryn smiled and announced there was food and ale in the house. Sonja made a move to follow everyone down the hill, but Torstein pulled her back. “It will be hours before we can leave for our home,” he rasped. “I want to kiss my bride.”

  He pulled her to his body and nibbled her bottom lip. Their breath mingled in the cold air. “Your nose is cold,” he said, “but you taste wonderful, and you are the most beautiful bride a man could wish for.”

  His tongue coaxed its way into her mouth and mated lovingly with hers. A wave of longing flooded her, and she whimpered.

  He broke them apart. “Not long now, Sonja,” he said with a smile. “Our feather bed awaits.”

  SWEET FEATHER BED

  It was well past midnight by the time Torstein and Sonja arrived at their cottage. She had changed into clothing more suitable for riding and they shared a horse. The wind had dropped, but the air was cooler and he relished the firmness of her breasts as she leaned into his back for warmth.

  They exchanged worried whispers about how to get rid of her inebriated brothers who’d insisted on escorting them home. To their relief, Frits and Kennet, new shields slung on their backs, quickly retreated to the stable. They secured the horses and collapsed into the hay, belching like hogs, then giggling like girls.

  Torstein was also relieved the guards Bryk had stationed on the property had lit torches outside and left a fire banked in the hearth. The warmth caressed them as he carried her through the door. “Wonderful,” she said, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.

  “It will be,” he rumbled, sitting on the edge of the mattress unfastening his belt. “Let’s get into our sweet feather bed. I wanted to undress you slowly, but it’s too chilly.”

  She stared at him.

  Contrite, he came to his feet and hugged her shivering body. “Forgive me, my love, I am in a hurry to get you into bed, but a beautiful bride deserves less haste.”

  She eyed him curiously, pressing her mons to his arousal. “Haste is good. I’m freezing. But I wanted to undo the silver buckle. It drew my eye to you the first day in the cathedral.”

  He spread his arms wide. “Then you shall unfasten it now.”

  He sucked in a breath as she worked the buckle loose. He moved her warm hands to his waist, intending to have her push his leggings off his hips. But she seemed to lose courage. She turned away and hurriedly peeled off her dress, then the chemise beneath it. She hugged her arms around her body, her shoulders hunched. He hastily pulled off his leggings and stood naked, waiting. “Turn to me,” he growled.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered.

  He moved to stand behind her, his chest barely touching her back. Her skin was warm, but she was shivering. He put his hands on her shoulders, gently pressing his thumbs into the stiffness, inhaling her perfume. “Afraid of me?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know how to—”

  He turned her carefully and pulled her arms away from her breasts. They were as beautiful as he remembered. “Sonja, my wife, you arouse me like no other ever has. Look at me.”

  She raised her eyes to his.

  He eased away from her slightly and put her hand on his pikk. “No, I mean for you to see how you excite me.”

  Her lips parted as she glanced down. “Torstein,” she breathed, her eyes wide. “You’re big.”

  He shrugged. “I may not be a large man, but the god of fertility has seen fit to endow me with male parts capable of pleasing a woman.”

  She shuddered, the firelight catching a gleam in her eye. “May God bless Freyr.”

  Utter silence reigned for a moment until they both realized the incongruous nature of her prayer and dissolved into laughter.

  His smile widened when she said, “It’s your turn for pleasure. Make love to me, my husband.”

  Grinning, he lifted her into the bed and gathered the chilly linens over them. They cuddled together, warmed by the heat of their bodies. She moved against him restlessly as he nibbled each nipple in turn, then moaned when he suckled hard.

  “I want to bring you joy again,” he rasped, hoping the need surging in his sac wouldn’t belie his words.

  She opened her legs. “Lick me like before,” she murmured. “I loved it. I’ve dreamt of your mouth on me over and over.”

  His spirits soared as he parted her nether lips. “You dreamed of me?”

  “Every night. Yes, like that. Mmmm.”

  The soft crooning soon turned to guttural screams when she released. He positioned himself over her, his weight on his elbows, and thrust his shaft into the moist heat of her sheath. The coupling freed him forever of the bonds of hatred. The power of love had helped him defy fate. A vision of Cathryn’s patron saint, a woman martyred hundreds of years earlier for love of her Savior, appeared behind his eyes.

  Sonja cried out.

  Reluctantly, trembling from head to toe, he slowly withdrew.

  “No! Deeper,” she cried, grasping his hips.

  His shaft thickened as he plunged back inside. “Curl your feet behind my knees,” he urged, growling his pleasure when she complied, drawing him closer to her center.

  He thrust again and again, hard and deep, her amulet around his neck swinging free between them. She danced her fingertips along his thighs, carrying him over the edge. As his seed erupted into her womb he crushed her against his chest. Their cries of ecstasy filled the night air.

  Euphoric, and soaked in sweat, he collapsed on top of her. “Good thing we have no neighbors,” he whispered into her neck.

  “Hope my brothers and the guards are asleep,” she murmured hoarsely.

  He raised up on his forearms and looked into her eyes. “In truth, I don’t care if the whole world knows I’ve made love to my noble wife. Now I am free.”

  “No,” she teased. “Now you’re my slave.”

  His heart leapt. “And you are mine.”

  Careful to stay inside her pulsing sheath, he turned them so they were lying face to face. They drifted into oblivion atop the sweet feather bed.

  EPILOGUE

  Montdebryk, Normandie, Fifteen years later

  Bryk and Alfred strolled around the recently completed wall walk atop the palisade. The last time his brother had visited Montdebryk, two years before, there’d been only one row of wooden pilings encircling the promontory. Bryk resisted the urge to explain the construction, wanting to see Alfred’s reaction.

  His brother paused, stamping one foot, then the other. “Solid,” he muttered.

  “You’re as talkative as ever,” Bryk replied. “Aren’t you curious?”

  Alfred shrugged. “I’d guess you’ve filled the space in between the two wooden walls with earth and stones.”

  Bryk was disappointed. “Well, ja, but you make it sound eas
y. It’s taken months to get the fill packed hard enough to build on, and the walls secure so they didn’t cave in.”

  Alfred looked out at the cottages that had sprung up at the edge of the promontory. “Good thing you’ve no shortage of workers.”

  Bryk welcomed the opportunity to boast of other steps he’d made toward progress. He gestured towards the trees encircling the promontory. “You know from your own experience in Rouen how a fruitful orchard attracts peasants. It took five years, but my trees eventually provided apples.”

  Alfred laughed. “Ja! Our hardy little seeds from Norway seem to like the rich earth here.”

  Bryk was happy to see his older brother laugh. In the two years apart, Alfred had grown stooped. His hair had thinned and turned completely gray. Bryk ran a hand through his own hair, thanking Freyr for its weight, though he’d recently detected a few traces of gray. He straightened his shoulders, and sucked in his belly. He hoped the lines around his eyes weren’t as pronounced as Alfred’s. He didn’t consider he was elderly, and his brother was ten years his senior.

  The intimate passion he and Cathryn shared kept him feeling young. The wanton gaze of a beautiful woman was strong motivation for a man to keep his body in fine fettle.

  He supposed fourteen children would wear anyone out, though the diminutive Hannelore never seemed to age, and Cathryn looked as vibrant as she had before birthing Magnus and the four brothers and one sister who’d followed.

  As they continued their walk, the sounds of laughter and children playing drifted from the courtyard. “I wonder what our father would say of our twenty children?” Bryk asked.

  Alfred grinned. “He’d proudly boast up and down the fjords of Norway how Freyja had blessed his virile sons.”

  Their eyes met in a moment of shared recollection. “Do you miss our homeland, Alfred?” Bryk asked.

  Alfred stared out, his arms relaxed at his sides. Was he seeing laborers in fertile fields, apple trees in blossom, villagers bustling in and out of their cottages? Or was his mind’s eye filled with narrow fjords, pure white snow, conifer trees and mile upon endless mile of grey seas?