Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 Read online

  It was a blessing Gunnar had been the one swept away. He was unmarried and had no children, except for a son born of his thrall.

  “Jutland passed,” Hrolf had yelled two days ago, his hands cupped to his mouth. “From here everything belongs to the Franks.”

  Now Alfred frowned. “Surely any people strong enough to conquer and hold so vast an empire are capable of mustering armies far larger than our force.”

  Bryk sought to reassure him. “Hrolf knows what he’s doing. He plans to strike deep within the heartland of the Franks.”

  He hoped his voice didn’t betray his fear that the boldness might prove to be dangerous folly. “By day, we’ve sailed out of sight of land so they don’t become aware an invasion fleet is making its way down their coast.”

  Only at night had they anchored in hidden coves or along sandy beaches. Hrolf did indeed know the way.

  It irked that he was now defending the man who had treated his wife cruelly. “Hrolf hopes to strike the first blow against the western Frankish kingdom before their king has time to gather an army. He loves to remind us that the run of the game is determined by the first move. You’d think we were playing hnefatafl.”

  Alfred shook his head. “But every morning we’ve landed men to forage for animals and winter crops. Surely the loss of the livestock and provisions they’ve brought back has alerted someone?”

  He shrugged away his brother’s worries. “We have to eat. It wasn’t possible to bring enough provisions to feed everyone. But pirate raids are common along any coast. Hrolf doesn’t believe it will have caused too much alarm. And you have to admit your belly is fuller than it has been in a while.”

  Alfred grunted his agreement.

  Hrolf changed course suddenly, heading closer to land, away from the rest of the fleet. He signaled for the Kriger to follow the Seahorse.

  “We must be getting close,” Bryk said.

  As they came in sight of land, Hrolf ordered a halt. “Armor,” he shouted.

  The rowers pulled in their oars, and those who had armor took it out of their sea chests, along with their weapons. Bryk thanked the gods he hadn’t got rid of his mail shirt when he’d abandoned warmongering. Alfred, who had no armor, helped him don it once he’d pulled it out of its sealskin bag.

  “Lash shields,” Hrolf yelled. Alfred jumped immediately to fasten his brother’s shield to the rack along the side of the ship.

  Bryk accepted that his brother was dependent upon his protection.

  “Is a battle at hand?” Alfred asked nervously.

  “No,” he replied, hefting his stridsøkse, then placing the heavy weapon next to his sea chest where it would be accessible. “I suspect we’ll go scouting first.”

  Hrolf braced his legs. “We are nearing the mouth of the Seine, the mighty river that flows out from the heart of West Francia. We don’t want to miss it. The fleet will wait out of sight for our signal while we search for the river’s mouth.”

  “Why armor if we are only looking for a river?” Alfred asked.

  Bryk didn’t want to alarm his kind and gentle brother, but he had to be forewarned. “This is the land of the enemy,” he said. “Uncertainty lies ahead. Would you track a wolf threatening your sheep without arming yourself?”

  Alfred shook his head, looking anxiously out to sea, then back to shore.

  The Seahorse hugged the coastline, its sail lashed. In the early afternoon the land curved away to the east. Hrolf signaled to the Kriger to pull alongside. When the ship was within hailing distance, he called to its captain. “Tormod, row out to the fleet,” he said. “Tell them we have located the estuary. They should look for our camp among the islands in the delta. On the morrow we’ll head downriver.”

  The mouth was too wide for them to see the opposite bank and the water was choppier than out at sea. Gradually the river narrowed and they encountered sandbars, and low, grassy islands. The water turned brown. They slowed down as a sailor next to Hrolf threw out a weighted line, checking the depth.

  As they neared a large island Bryk recognized, Hrolf swung the ship sharply and she slid sideways in the water the last few feet. He called for a halt and the anchor was dropped. In five days, they had reached Francia.

  THE CHOSEN ONE

  A summons to Mater Bruna’s office after the observance of Terce meant only one thing. Cathryn was to be punished for something. Time would tell what. Despite her prayerful entreaties to Saint Catherine, the persecution continued.

  Upon receiving permission to enter the cramped room she was surprised to see a smile on her Superior’s normally scowling face.

  She was further astonished to be invited to sit in one of the well-upholstered chairs. A pang of regret twirled in her belly. She had spent many happy hours in this same seat soaking up the knowledge and wisdom that poured from Mater Silvia.

  She sat politely, gripping the wooden arms, her back rigid. When Mater stared accusingly at her white knuckles, she nervously laced her fingers together in her lap.

  Should she look at Mater, or keep her eyes downcast as she’d been reminded since childhood? She decided to fix her gaze on her hands.

  “You have been chosen,” the elderly nun declared, her mouth settling back into its usual tight moue.

  Having no idea what was coming next, Cathryn deemed it wise to remain silent.

  “Do you not wish to know for what you have been chosen?”

  She risked a quick glance at her tormentor. “I trust in the Lord and Saint Catherine that whatever it is—”

  “Yes, yes,” the nun interrupted with a dismissive wave. “You’re to go to Jumièges.”

  A maelstrom of thoughts whirled through Cathryn’s head. From what she’d heard, the town was a mere ten miles distant, but it was far enough to escape Bruna’s tyranny. However, the abbey at Jumièges had been destroyed by Viking marauders nigh on seventy years before, and according to rumor the rebuilding was by no means complete. Why was she being sent there? How would she travel? Was she to go alone? One thing was for certain. Travel was risky. Cathryn had never ventured further than to walk to the cemetery behind the abbey.

  Saint Catherine pray for me.

  “But what of Vikings?” she asked nervously.

  “Too early in the year. They come in the summer, if at all. There have been no raids for several years. Your work illuminating manuscripts has come to the attention of the Archbishop of Rouen,” Mater said, her voice edged with jealousy. “He wishes you to instruct the small community being reestablished in Jumièges. They are copying damaged manuscripts.”

  Again Cathryn was torn. It was work she loved, but—

  “You will leave on the morrow on a trading ship bound for the sea. They will take you as far as Jumièges.”

  Cathryn could no longer contain her thoughts. She had only ever glimpsed the mighty river from the cemetery. “Down the Seine?”

  Mater looked at her with disdain. “Of course. Do you suppose a ship can travel by road? Be ready at dawn.”

  A NEW LAND

  A damp mist crept in from the sea as the Viking horde gathered on the island after the rest of the fleet followed the Kriger into the mouth of the Seine. Happy sounds of families reunited after the long voyage filled the air. Pots and pans clanked as women set about preparing for the foragers to return.

  Bryk chuckled as Alfred strolled by with his youngest atop his broad shoulders and the rest of his brood clustered around his legs. His nieces and nephews called out to him. “Onkel Bryk.”

  He returned their waves with mixed feelings. He loved Alfred’s boisterous children, but they reminded him keenly of his own loss.

  Hrolf called a council of captains from other boats. They gathered round a bonfire near the shore. Bryk was not invited to the inner circle, but noted bitterly that Hrolf offered tumblers of his family’s eplevin to the captains. Even young Vilhelm was allowed a taste. The Gardbrukers had been given no choice but to watch Hrolf load their entire stock of the apple wine aboard his own ship
.

  Bryk sat cross-legged on the fringe, huddled into his woolen cloak, ready to hasten back to the longboat once the meeting concluded. Canvas shelters were reserved for the women and children. Most of the men would have to sleep on the damp grass, and he didn’t intend to be one of them. His personal thrall wouldn’t be able to hold his place for long.

  The chieftain climbed aboard his boat, one hand on the neck of the carved seahorse at the prow. His voice carried over the crackle of the flames as he held his wooden tumbler high. “This has been a long journey, and it’s good to set our feet on solid ground again.”

  This statement was greeted with loud laughter and agreement, but no one sipped their wine, waiting for their leader to take the first drink in the new land.

  “The gods smiled on us, and only three of our number perished on the way.”

  Alfred elbowed Bryk. “Aye, three drunken fools we’re better off without.”

  Bryk remained silent, thinking of the three families facing an uncertain future without a protector.

  Still Hrolf’s tumbler remained aloft. Several men licked their lips. “We lost no boats!”

  There was a rousing cheer.

  Hrolf continued once the noise had quieted. “We are a strong and determined force. However, as many have observed, the Franks can muster a large army to rout us. Surprise and swift action will be the keys to success. We must strike before they have time to react.”

  “But if we sail upriver, we will be going further away from the sea,” Captain Tormod said hesitantly.

  Tormod had echoed what every Norseman felt in his bones. The sea offered safety, a means of escape. A Viking rarely ventured far inland in foreign climes.

  Hrolf narrowed his eyes and lowered his tumbler. “This is true, but we must have courage to forge deep in their territory and take what we can to strengthen our bargaining hand. Once we take Rouen, the roads left by the Romans will give us access to vast areas.”

  Murmurs of confusion and discontent greeted this pronouncement.

  Hrolf cleared his throat. “We are outnumbered. We will take what we want and use it to pry concessions from the King of the Franks. Traders to our lands have told of the challenges he faces from factions within Francia. They call him Charles the Senseless.”

  Laughter greeted this revelation.

  Hrolf laughed with them, but then grew serious again. “His army is weak and he will welcome a bargain if he thinks we can be of use to him. In the past we’ve often extracted geld ransoms to leave communities in peace. The goal now is to wrest land where we can settle. There is no going back.”

  At last he took a long swig of his wine. The captains watched for a moment, then broke into loud cheering and drained their own tumblers.

  Bryk leaned towards his brother. “The man has charmed them again, and with our wine.”

  LA RUSSE

  Cathryn was relieved not to be the only nun making the journey to Jumièges. However, as their meager belongings were being stowed aboard the Bonvent, she was forced to acknowledge that Mater had assigned two women as companions who would be more of a liability than a blessing.

  Sister Ekaterina squinted at everything and spoke the Frankish tongue with a heavy foreign accent. The exact place of her birth on the eastern plains was unknown. She was so old it was rumored she’d been alive when the relics of the blessed saint had been discovered on Mount Sinai in the Year of Our Lord Eight Hundred. She was reputed to be the only one of the community who had actually lived at the Monastery of Saint Catherine, built over the site where the aromatic relics were unearthed. She was fondly referred to by the nuns as La Russe.

  The third member of the group was her friend Kaia, a young woman from a wealthy family who was so frail she had to be carried up the steep ramp by a grimy sailor, all the while fanning her face with her hand, nose wrinkled in disgust.

  Cathryn suspected that if anything untoward happened to Kaia, Mater would somehow make sure the blame fell squarely on her shoulders.

  She marveled at how the woman had convinced Kaia’s family to allow her to undertake this risky journey.

  Head held high, Cathryn climbed up the ramp, terrified of losing her balance on the flimsy plank that had no railing. After one unsettling glance at the dark water below, she resolved to keep her eyes on the heavens.

  Another sailor gripped Ekaterina’s hands and walked backwards up the ramp, guiding the elderly nun. Despite her advanced years and deteriorating eyesight, she was always smiling, chattering away in a language all her own. Perhaps not being able to properly see the evils of the world was a blessing.

  Smoothing the folds of her habit, Cathryn took in her new surroundings. The ship was broad in the beam, its sail furled. There was a raised deck in the rear with a long wooden apparatus fixed to the side of the boat. She assumed this must be for steering.

  The men of the Bonvent appeared to be busy preparing for departure, but she was uncomfortably aware of their hostile gazes. She looked around, wishing someone would direct them to their cabin.

  A tall, bearded man with cleaner clothing than the rest of the crew approached them. “Mes soeurs,” he said politely, pointing to a tattered canvas canopy stretched between the mast and the side of the ship. “I am Capitaine Vranche. We have provided shelter—in case of rain.”

  Cathryn’s spirits fell as she eyed the threatening skies and the weathered canvas. “There is no cabin?” she asked.

  The corners of Vranche’s mouth twitched slightly.

  Kaia swayed alarmingly.

  Ekaterina gazed about, still smiling.

  “Alas, dear Sisters,” Vranche replied, “my humble ship offers no such amenity. Forgive me, I must see to preparations for departure.”

  He stalked off abruptly, leaving Cathryn with no option but to shepherd the other two into the shelter.

  Kaia sank down sullenly onto one of the large cushions and curled her knees up to her chest.

  “At least they’ve provided us with cushions,” Cathryn said in an effort to lighten the tension.

  “Da!” La Russe exclaimed breathlessly as Cathryn eased her down.

  “I suppose,” Kaia replied, still pouting. “But this isn’t what I’m used to.”

  Cathryn sat beside her and took her hand. “We must look upon this as an adventure. We have been called to do God’s work. He will protect us.”

  Despite her professed calm, Cathryn’s heart was racing. Deep within, she had a troubling sense that some life-changing event would happen on this journey.

  The boat lurched as it was freed from its moorings. Kaia put her forehead on her knees. Ekaterina twisted her wizened face into a grin as she turned her face to the wind and exclaimed, “Da!”

  WILD HORSES

  To his surprise, Bryk was appointed leader of a scouting party the next morning with strict instructions to find horses.

  “Once we have pack animals,” Hrolf declared, “raiding parties can travel fast and wreak havoc on the Franks quickly. We rendezvous this night just past the first oxbow bend in the river, on the north bank. If memory serves, it will take three hours to row there.”

  Bryk suspected he’d been chosen because he had armor and a reputation as a warrior. The five men assigned to him knew, as he did, that the chieftain required beasts of burden for treasure trove, not for men to ride. Vikings were foot soldiers.

  They waded across the narrow strip of water between the island where they had camped and the riverbank to the south. The Seahorse ferried another scouting party to the opposite bank.

  After an hour slogging through wet, boggy terrain, dogged by persistent flies, Bryk’s group came across a handful of wild horses. The beasts looked up lazily from their grazing as he motioned his men to crouch. They watched for long minutes. It was evident the animals were aware of them.

  “It appears they don’t have much contact with people. They’re curious, but not afraid,” he said.

  Young Sven Yngre frowned. “How will we capture them?”

>   Bryk smiled, recalling his youth when he and his father and brothers had roamed Norway looking for horses for the farm.

  “Be calm,” he explained. “If a horse senses you’re nervous, it will scare him off. Watch me. I’ll approach their leader sideways so he won’t feel threatened. And never stare right into a wild horse’s eyes or he’ll think you’re a predator.”

  Rope in hand, talking quietly, he sidled towards the beast that appeared to be the dominant male.

  He stopped a few yards away. “You’re a fine looking horse,” he lied. “Magnificent indeed. Shiny coat, strong legs.”

  He inched his way towards the animal and slowly put out his hand to touch its neck.

  It snorted, stamping one foot, then another, but didn’t move away. The other horses stood stock still, watching, blonde tails twitching. Bryk talked on in a calm and soothing way. He petted the wild creature’s neck. He let it smell his hand. “You’re getting to know me,” he crooned.

  As he was about to ease the rope around its neck, it shied, snorting at another horse that had suddenly trotted up, seemingly from nowhere.

  Now here was a horse! The newcomer nuzzled his hand, seemingly jealous of the first beast that it shouldered out of the way. It was several hands higher than the other horses, and gelded!

  The other men had come to their feet, mouths agape. Bryk motioned them away. “Feral,” he told them.

  This good fortune augured well. He gave thanks to Odin’s horse, Sleipnir. The brown gelding seemed to be the dominant horse, and must have been ridden at some time. It showed no fear. If he captured it, the others might follow.

  He chattered on and on, patting the horse’s neck, chuckling at the way the beast relished his attentions. “You’ve missed being with people, haven’t you?”

  The animal almost roped itself, and within half an hour they were leading a string of five horses across marshy plains and through forests en route to the rendezvous.