Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 (9 page)

Once the Rouennais and their Viking conquerors had reached the town, Hrolf commandeered part of the Archbishop’s residence as living quarters for his family. The cleric seemed visibly chagrined, but put on a brave face. Perhaps he was sympathetic to Poppa’s plight as a former Frankish noblewoman captured by Norsemen.

Bryk
had urged Fisk to move on but reined to a halt when Poppa called to him. “There will be a chamber here for you and your captive. The Archbishop is aghast at the notion of your taking her into the town, and I agree. Have you explained
more danico
to her?”

He shook his head,
relieved she had spoken in his tongue, though he suspected from Cath-ryn’s red face she understood the gist of what they were saying.

“You must tell her,” she insisted.

He dismounted quickly and put his hands on Cath-ryn’s waist. He lifted her from the horse, savoring the touch of her hands gripping his shoulders and the softness of her warm body as she shyly pressed it to his. He doubted she was aware of what the hard flesh at his groin meant.

“Tell me what?” she asked
, her hands moving to his biceps.

He
gestured towards the dwelling. “You, me, we live here.”

She narrowed her gaze. “In the Archbishop’s house?”

“
Ja!
”

“You and me? Together?”

“
Ja!
Together.”

“But we’re not married.” She looked to Poppa. “Explain that I cannot live in sin with him, especially here.”

Poppa’s reply wasn’t what she expected.

“You won’t be living in sin. Hrolf and I have never married, except in
more danico
, which is to say in the tradition of the Norse tribes. It’s the only way a Viking nobleman can join with a foreign captive considered to be of lesser rank. Hrolf is the son of a
jarl
, I was the daughter of a Count—but a captive.

“
It’s their tradition, and if you want Bryk you must accept it. You have made your choice to give yourself to him. You are not of the nobility, yet he has chosen you. It’s an honor.”

The words whirled in the maelstrom of Cathryn’s mind.
“You and Hrolf aren’t married?”

Poppa shrugged.
“I suppose you can say I’m his concubine, since we have never had the blessing of the Church. But he has been faithful to me and I to him. He loves me, and I have come to love him. Someday, perhaps, when he embraces the one true faith—”

She glanced hurriedly at
Bryk, and said nothing more.

“But your son—”

“Is Hrolf’s heir. He never enslaved me.”

She
recalled Torstein had been born into slavery—a
fostri
Bryk had called him. Where were his parents? Were they both slaves?

She narrowed her eyes at her Viking, afraid he might
believe she was rejecting him. “What does this mean? It’s true I chose to be with Bryk, but I thought—”

He tightened his grip on her waist. “I want you,” he rasped, his eyes bright
.

W
hat was it she saw in those brown depths? Love or lust?
Mater
Bruna had harangued the nuns often enough on the alarming subject of the inability of men to control their sinful urges.

But
there was no room in her heart for guilt. “I want you, too,” she murmured.

“
Good!” he exclaimed. “Hrolf say the words, and you are mine.”

~~~

Bryk had never thought to marry again. Myldryd had been given to him when they were children. His father had paid the bride price and signed the contract. They’d grown up knowing they would marry. They got along and he loved her, though he’d never burned for Myldryd the way he burned for Cath-ryn. When he was old enough, they’d undergone the ritual of bride buying and bride transfer, then celebrated with a feast. Essentially it was a commercial transaction between two families, and their marriage was much like everyone else’s in Møre. They were comfortable.

It was accepted that if
Bryk found a woman of higher rank he wanted to wed, he had the right to set Myldryd aside and remarry. But he’d known in his heart such a thing would never happen. For one thing, Myldryd was Hrolf’s sister, the daughter of a
jarl
. For another, he was content with her.

She accommodated his needs,
but he’d never thought of his wife as a passionate woman. She’d loved him in her own way.

He wanted to share these thoughts with Cath-ryn, but didn’t have the words. He hope
d his actions would show her he cared and would remain faithful.

If it were within his power he would
participate in a Christian marriage, something she no doubt wanted with all her heart. But he’d have to forswear the Norse gods.

~~~

Cathryn had never given any thought to marriage, though she’d sung in the choir at two nuptial masses at the abbey. But her imaginings wouldn’t have come close to the brief ceremony that had joined her to Bryk. She wished Ekaterina had been there to explain what was going on, but at least Poppa had helped her. The Frankish woman had supplied a fine linen chemise and woolen overdress, along with a traditional Norse headwrap.

She’d had no
part to play. The men had done all the talking. Since she had no parents, Hrolf had given her away. Representing his brother, Alfred gave Hrolf the vestments taken from the chapel of Saint-Éloi as her
bride price
.

The chieftain’s eyes lit up as he shrugged his huge body into the too-small vestments and preened like a peacock. Poppa rolled her eyes.

Bryk presented her with the gilded copper triptych as his token of buying her. She should have been affronted by the notion, but the longing in his eyes when he handed it over touched her heart.

The
feasting had already lasted much longer than the ceremony. The nervous Frankish servants had gradually relaxed as the evening wore on and the Norsemen hadn’t slaughtered them.

She wondered if there was any food left in the kitchens after endless platters of venison,
jambon
, and vegetables had been served. How was it the Archbishop enjoyed such fare, certainly better than anything she’d ever eaten at the convent? The heat from Bryk’s thigh pressed against hers shooed thoughts of hunger from her mind.

She’d never seen the heavily braided saffron shirt he wore, nor the
tight leggings. When she’d commented on the absence of his usual leg wraps, he’d explained the leggings were kept in place by straps under the soles of his feet.

The notion of seeing something as intimate as the soles of his feet had her heart beating wildly, and t
he bulge at his groin cast into doubt unsettling things Poppa had told her about what took place in the marriage bed.

The silver pendant of the goddess
Freyja hung around her neck. She rubbed the talisman between thumb and forefinger, finding it strangely calming.

At last, when she
feared she might die of heat in the confined space of the dining area, Bryk held out his hand. “
Kom
, Cath-ryn,” he said, his deep voice rich with promise.

~~~

For the first time in his life, Bryk wished he didn’t belong to a tribe of men who were unashamedly vocal in their exuberance about sexual matters. He sensed his bride was skittish enough without the raucous cheers that echoed as he escorted his bride to their tiny chamber.

He had swallowed his pride and asked Poppa to
arm him with words for the bridal bed, but hoped his lovemaking would demonstrate how much he cherished her.

Torstein had lit the candles as instructed, and the chamber smelled fresh, which was more than could be said when they’d first entered it earlier in the day.
It had been a long while since he’d slept in a real bed and he trusted his thrall had made sure the linens were clean.

He didn’t intend
to do much sleeping this night. Cath-ryn had awakened a long buried desire to sire children, to perhaps establish his own dynasty.

He pulled off his boots, then
casually eased the overtunic and shirt over his head and tossed them away carelessly. She’d seen him do this before, so he hoped she wouldn’t be alarmed.

He knelt to remove her shoes. She watched, wide-eyed, her hands on his
shoulders. Then she touched her fingertips to the silver amulets around his biceps. By rights they belonged to Alfred as the eldest son, but his brother had insisted Bryk have them.

“You were wearing these the night we met,” she whispered.

“
Ja
,” he replied. “My
fader
—warrior.”

She stared
up at the amulet around his neck as he came to his feet. “Can I touch it?”

His throat had gone strangely dry, so he simply nodded.

She examined the rune sheet. “It’s green.”

“Copper,” he explained.
“Green like your eyes.”

“
It has symbols, like the comb.”

Was he ready to tell her he loved her
, to explain Myldryd? “
Rún
,” he replied, frustrated by his cowardice.

The silence stretched until she whispered,
“You have nipples.”

H
er innocence struck him full force. The prospect of being the first to possess her was highly arousing, but he would have to be patient and careful not to hurt her. He sensed passion in Cath-ryn and Freyja had granted him the right to unleash it.

He took hold of her hands and put them on his chest. “Touch,” he said. “Feel me.”

He fervently hoped she would soon want to taste as well as touch him. She kept her hands where he had placed them for a few minutes, then brushed her thumbs over his nipples. He tilted his chin to the rafters, swallowing hard to smother the growl that threatened to emerge as desire spiraled from his sack into his spine.

She withdrew her hands quickly, her face full of concern. “Did I hurt you?”

How to explain the fire flowing through his veins at her touch? He decided to take a chance. He brushed his thumbs over the nipples pouting against the fabric of her dress. Her mouth fell open and she closed her eyes.

“
Pain?” he asked.

She peeled open her eyes. “No,” she replied hoarsely. “I like it.”

She sucked in a breath when he did it again. Control of his greedy
pikk
was going to be difficult.

He
put his palms over the brooches they’d used to pin the straps of her overdress, hoping he’d soon be cupping warm, firm breasts no man had ever touched. “Take clothing off.”

She hesitated only a moment, then reached to unfasten the brooches.

~~~

T
o Cathryn’s relief, Bryk took over the task of unpinning the elaborate silver fastenings from her trembling hands. The woolen overdress slipped soundlessly to the floor, revealing the fine linen chemise Poppa had given her. She’d never worn such a garment, but suddenly she wanted it off, wanted to feel the golden hairs on his chest against her skin. Were they soft or wiry?

O
nly a fool would think he’d never bedded a woman. She’d heard Vikings often had more than one wife. He would know what to do, because she surely didn’t—yet she trusted him.

Her husband—
should she call him that—raked his eyes from the top of her head to her toes. Her body heated under his gaze.

He
motioned for her to raise her arms then reached for the hem of the chemise.

She
did as he asked and he eased the garment over her head. The headwrap came with it. He buried his nose in the fabric, inhaling deeply before tossing it away. “Smell good,” he said with a grin.

No one in the convent lingered overlong without clothing. Bodies were sinful earthly vessels to be
kept covered. The nuns disrobed and dressed in the dark, and eyes didn’t wander.

As a consequence, Cathryn had rarely seen her own body, yet now she stood
calmly under the perusal of a lusty male. The hunger in his half hooded eyes produced tinglings in intimate parts she’d been taught to deny existed.

Bryk
seemed particularly fascinated with her breasts. She had no inkling how they compared to other women’s, but when he cupped her with his big hands, again brushing his thumbs over the nipples, the tingling turned to liquid fire.

She
opened her mouth to ask if she was too small when he suddenly took her in his arms and crushed her to his body. The breath wooshed from her lungs as the heat from his chest flowed into her skin. His hair was soft. He didn’t smell like the women she’d lived with. She supposed it was the scent of a man.

She clung to him as he carried her to the bed which was three times the size of her pallet at the convent, though she’d guess this was a
seldom-used chamber for guests.