Viking Betrayed (Viking Roots Book 3)

by Anna Markland

  She smiled, reminding him of Aleksandra’s wide-eyed delight when she thought to prove her father wrong. “Yes I have,” she replied. “The king insisted on Rollo kissing his foot as a sign of obeisance. Rollo appointed a warrior who grasped the king’s foot so quickly, Charles nearly fell off his horse.”

  He chuckled. “That warrior was my father. I didn’t realize the tale had traveled as far as Flandres.”

  She laughed out loud. “You must be proud of your family’s history.”

  “Fiercely proud,” he agreed.

  The wagon creaked as it rolled along; the lush grass muffled the horses’ hooves. The sun was warm on his back and he felt the heat of Judith’s body resting lightly against his chest as he cradled her. But thoughts of Aleksandra had unsettled his contentment.

  “You reminded me of my daughter when you smiled,” he confessed, not sure why he had mentioned it.

  “Aleksandra or Brynhild?” she asked.

  It pleased him she had remembered their names. “Aleksandra.”

  “I look forward to getting to know them,” she murmured.

  Her innocent remark filled him with dread. He closed his eyes as a sharp pain struck the back of his neck. His spine ached from the effort of holding Judith far from his body. The sooner he got off the horse the better. “I’ll have to get to know them myself,” he rasped.

  They rode in silence, until Bendik shouted words of farewell, and turned his men in a different direction.

  She wriggled on his lap. “Where is he going?”

  He was tempted to put his hands on her hips and lift her up a bit, but such an action might be misconstrued. “My father gave his parcel of land in Rouen to Bendik’s father, Torstein, but he decided to settle in Montdebryk, so he bartered a portion of the land to Sven Yngre, Raoul’s father—”

  That was a whole other story he didn’t want to get into yet.

  “But he kept part of it?”

  “Yes. And Bendik’s brother, also named Alfred, farms there.”

  “Another cousin,” she exclaimed.

  Strictly speaking, Alfred and Bendik were his second cousins, but there’d be time enough to explain the twists and turns of his family’s history. To his surprise, he relished the notion of sitting by the Seine with Judith, recounting the tales of his family’s journey from Norway and the part they’d played in the establishment of Normandie. He enjoyed her company.

  “Our family history is a glorious one too,” she said, so softly he barely heard her. “Except of course I belong to the illegitimate branch of the tree.”

  The pain in her voice gave him pause. “Ha! Wait until I tell you the fascinating details of Torstein’s incredible story,” he said. “He was not only illegitimate, he was also a slave in Norway.”

  She shivered. “I have heard Vikings enthrall their captives.”

  Her fear shook him. “Don’t worry. I won’t enslave you.”

  He’d intended to relieve her concern with his lighthearted remark, but she turned her big green eyes to him. “What are you planning to do with me?” she asked.

  No Easy Answers

  Judith wished she hadn’t posed the question regarding her future. There were no easy answers, and she shouldn’t have expected Magnus to provide one. Having recently lost his wife, he’d been forced to leave his grieving daughters and obey the call to arms.

  She was a hostage, married to a foreign nobleman who was now confined to the residence of the archbishop. They both had enough worries.

  “Are you sure your relatives won’t mind us arriving unannounced?” she asked in an effort to change the subject and nudge Magnus out of his silent brooding.

  It was heartening to see the smile return to his face as he brought the horse to a halt in front of a substantial thatched dwelling. “Absolutely not. Tante Hannelore has a heart of gold. Don’t tell her I told you, but she must be at least two score and ten years old, yet she scurries here and there like a spring chicken. She never seems to age and keeps Brede on his toes, though I have to admit, Alfred’s death hit her hard.”

  As if conjured by his words, a diminutive gray-haired woman bustled out of the house, accompanied by a young man who looked like a smaller, stockier version of her Viking.

  “Magnus,” the woman cried as he lowered Judith into the young man’s open arms. “Dag told us you were on the way.”

  He dismounted and embraced his aunt. “Tante, it’s good to see you.” He stepped back and took Judith’s hand. “I want you to meet Judith, a noblewoman from Flandres. Judith this is my aunt, Hannelore, and my cousin, Brede.”

  His introduction of her in such positive terms eased her fears, and she grew warm inside when he winked as he spoke the word cousin.

  Hannelore threw her arms around Judith. “Welcome, welcome.”

  The woman’s genuine affection was overwhelming.

  Brede bowed. “We are honored to have you as a guest, my lady Judith.”

  How had she ever believed Vikings were barbarians?

  Despite the sunny weather and the warmth of the welcome, Judith missed the heat of Magnus’s arms. She was relieved when he once again took her hand.

  “We’ve come from Montreuil,” he explained to his kinfolk as he led her into the house. “Not far, but tiring. As you see, Judith’s maidservant has fallen asleep in the wagon.”

  Everyone laughed, including Judith. “Poor Beatrice. She is a faithful servant who has taken care of me my whole life. But she is far from home, and terrified at the prospect of sailing down the Seine.”

  Hannelore ushered her to a chair. “And what are you doing this far from Flandres?” she asked.

  Judith recognized the question for what it was—a polite enquiry. But how to respond?

  Magnus came to her rescue. “She travelled to Ponthieu as the betrothed of a nobleman from Abbatis. Things became difficult there after the invasion and our duke deemed it safer she accompany us to Montdebryk.”

  Hannelore’s deep frown betrayed her true age. “You’re married?” she asked, her voice dripping disappointment, her eyes darting from Judith to Magnus and back again.

  Magnus fixed his gaze on Judith, apparently uncertain how to respond.

  This time Brede rescued the situation. “Enough questions, Mama. They’ve travelled far and are weary. Time enough for your interrogation after they bathe and eat.”

  Judith wanted to kiss him. “A bath sounds wonderful.”

  Hannelore sprang into action, bustling here and there, issuing orders for hot water to servants who appeared from seemingly nowhere. Judith smiled inwardly. Hannelore might believe she ruled the roost, but Brede had known how to redirect her.

  Magnus smiled, looking as relieved as she felt. But if this first introduction to his family had been momentarily uncomfortable, what would it be like when they arrived at Montdebryk and had to face his parents and daughters.

  The following morning Judith woke after a surprisingly sound sleep, given the amount of hearty food she’d consumed at Hannelore’s table the previous evening. Beatrice snored softly, curled up on a pallet at the foot of her bed.

  She lay still, listening to the sounds of muffled voices, sheep bleating in some far-off place, pots banging, wood creaking. The vibrant yellow of the bed’s coverlet, the embroidered samplers displayed on the whitewashed walls, the carved turnings of the furnishings suggested the chamber must once have been the bedroom of a daughter of the family. The girl was probably married now, and she’d been happy in this simple chamber. Indeed, the entire house felt like it had been filled with love for many years.

  Beatrice stirred. “By the saints,” she exclaimed, tumbling off the pallet. “I overslept. Must be well past dawn.”

  Judith was tempted to remark that there didn’t seem to be any reason to be out of bed, but her maid was already shaking out a day dress she’d laid out atop the trunk Magnus had carried in last night.

  “Such a thoughtful man,” Beatrice gushed, reading Judith’s mind. She hadn’t asked for he
r things. He’d understood her need for clothes.

  Once their ablutions were complete and her maid had helped her don the frock, they made their way to the kitchen, drawn by the aroma of fresh baked bread.

  Hannelore rushed to embrace her. “Good morning, my lady. I trust you slept well.”

  “Indeed,” she replied, “but please call me Judith.”

  “But you’re the sister of a comte, Magnus tells me. It wouldn’t be right.”

  “Nonsense,” she said with a smile, wondering what else Magnus had said.

  Hannelore indicated the huge wooden table in the center of the kitchen. “Sit down, Judith, and help yourself to bread. There’s cheese, and Micheline can fry an egg if you like.”

  They’d met Brede’s shy wife the previous evening. Judith smiled at the pretty blonde. “I’d love an egg.”

  She glanced at her maid, hovering at the edge of the table, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “Do you mind if Beatrice eats with me? We don’t want to offend your customs, but—”

  Hannelore pulled out a chair. “Not a bit. Sit down, please, Beatrice.”

  Looking relieved, her maid sat down daintily in the rustic wooden chair as if she was the Holy Roman Empress sinking into her throne.

  The bread was delicious, the cheese soft, and the egg mouthwateringly good. “Delicious,” she declared, “I don’t remember the last time I ate an egg.” Her words elicited a grin of pleasure from Micheline.

  Hannelore took the chair across from her. “Magnus tells me your husband is in the archbishop’s residence.”

  “Yes,” Judith replied nervously, staring at her food. “I’m not sure why.”

  “A good husband is he?”

  Beatrice paused in her noisy chewing.

  Judith had no idea how to answer, and was relieved when Hannelore said, “Never mind. Magnus more or less told us.”

  More or less?

  Beatrice resumed her enjoyment of the food.

  Minutes went by, punctuated by the occasional loud shout from outside. She thought she might have recognized Magnus’s voice.

  “Consummated, was it? The marriage?”

  Judith should have been affronted. Her throat tightened. How dare this woman ask such a thing? She understood from Magnus that his forebears were of noble Norse stock, but—

  “No,” she replied hoarsely, wishing Magnus was present to help fend off these enquiries. She had to ask the question dancing on the tip of her tongue. “Where is Magnus this morning?”

  “Huh!” Hannelore grunted. “Up at the crack of dawn and off to check on his men. As if Dag can’t take care of things. Which he can, and they’re camped in one of our best fields, close to the river, for bathing.”

  She winked impishly. Judith’s face was on fire as the image of Magnus bathing naked in the river rose behind her eyes.

  “He’ll need to bathe again,” Micheline interjected. “He was on his way back when Brede waylaid him. They’re preparing to force the sow into the field closer to the barn.”

  Hannelore gaped, her face creased with worry. “The pregnant one? She’s a devil.”

  The chunk of bread Judith had been enjoying suddenly lodged in her throat, the vision of Magnus replaced by one of a sow with horns and a pitchfork. “A devil?” she spluttered.

  “Sour tempered at the best of times,” Hannelore explained. “Now she’s ready to drop a litter, she’s as mean as Beelzebub.”

  Judith grasped her crucifix. “Why would Magnus help with such a task? Surely you have peasants who—”

  “Hah!” Hannelore cackled. “He loves playing in the mud, our Magnus. The Kriger boys are farmers at heart.”

  Mud? A memory of Magnus emerging from the fog at Saint Riquier came to mind. There had been torrents of mud. Had he relished it? This was a side of her Viking she’d never seen. “Are they nearby? Can we watch?”

  Beatrice choked on whatever she was eating. “My lady,” she gasped.

  “Come along,” she retorted, pulling her maid to her feet. “A little mud won’t kill us.”

  The Pig

  Magnus eyed the big black pig as it chomped contentedly on the lush grass of the meadow. “She looks like a barrel on legs,” he said to Brede. “Her belly is dragging on the ground.”

  His cousin scratched his head. “That’s why I want her nearer the farm. Too many hidden dangers for piglets out here.”

  Magnus looked to the distant barn. “It’s far.”

  Brede pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it to the ground. “It is, and she won’t go willingly. She loves sweet grass. The pen near the barn is muddy, and she knows it.”

  As if aware of their discussion, the sow lifted her head and stared at Magnus. She grunted, grass dangling from her snout. Enormous ears obscured her beady eyes, but the defiance was unmistakable. He took a deep breath then followed Brede’s lead and stripped off his shirt, relieved when six farmhands sauntered into the meadow.

  Brede signaled for the men to form a half circle. The peasants stretched out their arms. They’d evidently done this before. “Don’t shout,” Brede warned. “It will make her nervous.”

  Magnus pressed his lips together. He had no intention of being flattened by an angry pig. Some of the tenant farmers at Montdebryk kept pigs, but there were none on the family farm. A memory surfaced of a tale his father loved to tell of Viking warriors with no farming experience trying to land a pregnant pig from a longboat when they’d first come to Francia. At least here they were on dry land.

  The men inched towards the animal, moving their arms up and down slowly. She moved gradually towards the barn, apparently engrossed in her grass.

  Magnus grinned at his cousin as if to say, Nothing to it.

  “Don’t get too cocky,” Brede replied. “That grunt means trouble.”

  The grass thinned as they neared the open gate of the enclosure. The pig looked up at the mostly muddy pen, evidently decided there wasn’t enough grass, turned around and shuffled back towards the men, munching all the while.

  Brede waved his arms with more gusto. Magnus did the same. The pig didn’t stop. The grunting became louder, but her snout remained in the grass.

  Brede produced a sound from deep in his chest that Magnus at first had trouble imitating. He’d got the hang of it when he noticed the pig had stopped munching and was eyeing them. The grunt died in his throat and his lungs stopped working when she lowered her head and charged.

  Standing his ground armed to the teeth and confident of his abilities in the face of an enemy was one thing. An angry, charging pig was a whole different matter. He glanced at the other men, determined not to be the first to run, though his knees threatened to buckle as the massive sow galloped towards him with surprising speed.

  Brede suddenly let out an ear-piercing yell, waving his arms. The other men did the same. Magnus waved frantically but producing a sound from his parched throat seemed to be beyond his capabilities.

  The irate animal slid to a halt, snorting and squealing. Then Brede did something startling. He waved the other men off and walked slowly towards the sow, murmuring soft sounds. “You’ve had your fun, but now it’s time to do as I ask and get into the pen.”

  Magnus held his breath when his cousin came within a yard of the animal. The pig stopped snorting, chewed the grass dangling from her mouth, then turned and trotted back towards the enclosure.

  Brede grinned, motioning for the others to resume their progress. “Slowly now, she might still turn.”

  Apparently disgusted by the lack of sweet grass in the enclosure, the pig rolled onto her side in the muck.

  “Shut the gate,” Brede yelled.

  One of the peasants strode through the mud toward the gate, but one boot became mired.

  The pig was on her feet in the blink of an eye, running for the open gate.

  Brede yelled an obscenity and dove at the fleeing animal. Magnus rushed to his aid, his feet sliding from under him. Soon seven men were wrestling the stubborn pig to
the ground while the eighth struggled to close the gate.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Brede pleaded, his face bedaubed with muck. “We need her and her piglets.”

  The enraged animal snorted, squealed and struggled. She kicked Magnus hard on the thigh, too close to his groin for his liking. It would bruise badly, but he gave thanks to Freyr, the god of fertility, that the blow hadn’t landed on his male parts.

  “Closed,” the peasant at the gate yelled.

  “Let her up,” Brede panted.

  The men scrambled away from the distraught pig like ants fleeing a ruined anthill. She got to her feet, thrust her nose in the air and waddled off towards the barn.

  Brede pushed himself upright, laughing. “She knows there’s food in there.”

  Magnus’s heart pounded as he sat in the mire, surveying his fellows. Everyone, including him, was covered from head to toe in mud.

  Brede strode over and offered a hand. “Thanks for your help, cousin. Sorry it went awry.”

  Magnus laughed as Brede pulled him to his feet. “Haven’t had so much fun for along time,” he said, rubbing his upper thigh as they walked towards the fence.

  “Did she kick you?”

  “Aye.”

  “My mother will make a poultice to ease the pain,” Brede said. “Mayhap your friend can help apply it.”

  Magnus looked up. Judith stood on the other side of the fence, clutching the wooden slats, her mouth agape, her eyes fixed on the hand at his groin.

  Gathering Eggs

  Judith had never seen a pig. “It’s huge,” she said to Micheline, gasping as a pungent stench assailed her nostrils.

  “She’s pregnant,” Brede’s wife replied shyly. “See the teats? Her piglets will nurse from them.”

  Judith stared, disturbed by a sudden tingling in her breasts. Adela had consigned her babies to wet nurses, and Judith recalled thinking how wonderful it would feel to nurse a child. A hankering tugged in a private place. “Look at her curly tail,” she babbled as the pig ambled into the enclosure.