Viking Betrayed (Viking Roots Book 3) Page 5

  “And the inside?” his cousin asked.

  Magnus didn’t want to set foot in the dwelling. “We’ll bring people from Abbatis to clean the chambers.”

  Relieved to leave the offensive house behind him, he found Abbatis deserted. The villagers gradually appeared from hiding and seemed happy to hear Comte Herluin would likely be restored to Montreuil. They willingly informed him Arnulf of Flandres had ridden hard through their fields earlier in the day.

  Magnus deemed it a fool’s errand to pursue the fleeing comte into Flandres.

  Father Innocent spoke to the crowd like the lord of the manor, while Theodoric seemed to hang on his words, following him like a faithful puppy. The lad had uttered not one word of enquiry about his bride. It sickened Magnus whenever he thought of the derelict house.

  He left Bendik in command of Abbatis after making sure the town was secure. It had taken less than two hours with no loss of life. His cousin quickly set his men to pitching their camp on the banks of the Somme.

  Father Innocent rounded up a contingent of peasants to tackle the work at the manor house and a wagon was brought to transport them. Magnus was relieved when the priest suggested he and Theodoric travel with the villagers. If he spent another hour with the dimwitted lord of the manor he’d be tempted to punch him in the nose.

  “The Flemish comte seems to have made good his escape,” he muttered to Dag as they rode back to the abbey.

  “He probably rode through Saint Riquier,” his brother mused.

  Magnus had been determined to keep his thoughts off Judith, but now he wondered if she’d seen her brother? If so, why hadn’t he taken her back to Flandres? His abandonment must mean the marriage had been solemnized.

  The notion bothered him; indeed his whole preoccupation with Judith of Flandres was wearisome, as was the incessant runny nose and cough.

  “Did you bring a flask of apple brandy?” he asked, knowing no Kriger warrior ever left Montdebryk without one.

  Dag eyed him. “You know I did.”

  Magnus held out his hand. “Mine’s gone, and my need is greater than yours,” he rasped, coughing to prove his words. “Hand it over.”

  Sulking, Dag drew out the flask from his gambeson. He uncorked it and took a long swig before passing it to Magnus. “Someday, brother, someday.”

  Magnus halted his horse, took out his own flask and poured most of Dag’s brandy into it. He shoved the stopper back into the neck of the flask and returned it, inhaling the brew before taking a long draw of the soothing liquid. After savoring the taste of the brandy in his mouth, he closed his eyes, warmed by the glow coating his throat as he swallowed slowly. “You shall have a reward for your generosity,” he said, inhaling the aroma on his chilled breath. “Second in command of Saint Riquier.”

  Dag snorted. “I’m always your second in command.”

  Magnus smiled. “But I plan to do nothing but sleep in Saint Riquier until I get rid of whatever ails me. You’ll have free rein.”

  An errant notion played in his mind’s eye of being curled up in a warm bed with the tantalizing Judith naked beside him. By Thor, his malady was stealing his wits!

  Dag arched his brows. Magnus acknowledged in his heart it must be difficult to be the third son of a powerful family. If something happened to Magnus, Bastian would become comte, but he was with Vilhelm in Montreuil—

  He shook his head to dispel these morbid fears. Life was dangerous. Every Kriger accepted it was a warrior’s duty to fight to protect what belonged to him and his family. The prosperous settlement they’d built at Montdebryk was worth fighting for. His father and the other Vikings who’d sailed from Norway had sacrificed too much to allow an upstart Flemish nobleman to steal their land away.

  Thoughts of his home and family strengthened him, but brought to mind once more the shabby way in which Judith had been treated.

  He suddenly remembered he’d ordered her to remain in the abbey—hours ago. She’d filled his mind, yet he’d neglected her. “Judith is still in the abbey,” he shouted as he urged his horse to a gallop.

  Dag caught up quickly. He said nothing but the look of amused disbelief on his face had Magnus wishing he’d taken every drop of his brother’s brandy.

  Once they arrived at the manor house, Magnus paced nervously around the outside, reasonably pleased with the remarkable progress made by his men. Fallen trees had been hauled away, the piles of rubbish banished. A fire smoldered in the field behind the house. Built of split and planed timbers, it had the potential to be a good house if taken care of, though it would never be suitable for the sister of a comte. It was too cramped and dark. Whereas the impressive stone dwelling at Montdebryk—

  He was impatient for the villagers to arrive, doubting Theodoric was capable of instructing them in what needed to be done. Judith was probably fretting and fearful, her cough getting worse by the minute. He patted the flask beneath his gambeson. The days were getting longer, but it would be twilight before they reached Saint Riquier.

  Dag seemed to sense his dilemma. “The peasants will know what to do. We don’t need to wait.”

  Magnus clenched his jaw, mounted his horse and set off at a gallop.

  Corpus Domini

  Judith peeled open her eyes, unsure of where she was. She’d slept, but the hard bed had made her stiff and sore, although her head was resting on something soft that smelled comfortingly like Beatrice.

  It was dark, but candles cast flickering shadows. Muffled voices muttered what sounded like prayers. She looked up into the vaulted ceiling of a church and the memory flooded back. She sat up quickly, then clutched her maid as dizziness took hold.

  “Hush,” Beatrice whispered. “People are here for Mass.”

  Judith narrowed her eyes to peer into the gloom. The elderly priest stood before the altar, his arms raised, offering the blessed host to the Almighty. Behind him, peasants knelt ready to receive the sacrament of the Savior’s body and blood.

  “How long have I been asleep?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

  Beatrice chuckled. “Hours, but I dozed too.”

  Judith looked around the church, hope budding in her heart. “The Vikings haven’t come back?”

  Beatrice’s confirmation that the Normans hadn’t yet returned was strangely alarming. She hoped nothing untoward had happened to Magnus, then laughed at the ridiculous notion. What did it matter to her if he lay dead in the mud somewhere? She sniffled. “At least my nose has dried up.”

  Beatrice helped her stand. “We must receive the sacrament. We need all the help we can get.”

  They walked slowly towards the altar, drawing curious stares. One by one, village folk rose from their knees after receiving the blessed bread. Beatrice claimed a vacant spot on the cloth spread for worshippers and Judith knelt next to her. They waited their turn. She paid no heed to the man who took the place next to her, but edged closer to Beatrice. In Bruggen peasants weren’t allowed to kneel with nobles.

  The elderly priest moved with painful slowness, intoning Corpus Domini with dignified solemnity as he placed the Body of Christ on each tongue and made the sign of the cross over his flock.

  An enticing aroma tickled Judith’s nostrils. The man kneeling next to her smelled of the fiery liquid the Viking had given her. But how was such a thing possible? Even on his knees he towered over her, like Magnus. But Magnus was a pagan.

  She was mortified to realize she was leaning towards the warmth emanating from the big body. She straightened her spine. Noblewomen didn’t lean against peasants before the altar.

  She dutifully muttered a hoarse Amen after receiving the Blessed Sacrament, praying Christ’s body might strengthen her. The priest moved on. She was coming to her feet when the man next to her said his Amen in a deep, husky voice.

  Her knees threatened to buckle when she recognized the Viking.

  He was Christian?

  He put a welcome hand under her elbow as she staggered away from the altar, and escorted her back to the benc
h. They knelt together in prayer.

  His overwhelming presence made her heart race. He was too big, too warm, too male. She’d never been physically close to a man. She shivered, remembering his kiss and the strange sensations it had wrought—sensations that even now in this holy place rushed through her veins. Instead of meditating on the divine mystery, she was dreaming of kisses.

  She glanced up at the altar, fearing God would strike her dead for such sinful thoughts. She was Theodoric’s wife. Hateful as the notion was, it was reality, and she must accept it.

  “Are you cold?” Magnus whispered.

  Words refused to form.

  He put a hand over hers, the heat of his moist palm sending a jolt of desire spiraling into her womb. She moaned then disguised it with a cough when she realized the sound had come from her.

  Beatrice cleared her throat.

  Magnus removed his hand. “We must find somewhere for you and your maid to spend the night. Your husband’s house isn’t yet fit to inhabit. He has rooms here. We’ll locate them after Mass.”

  Her mouth fell open. She turned to him in amazement. He’d returned from securing Abbatis and must be exhausted. Yet the man she’d judged to be a barbarian was more considerate of her needs than the man she had wed.

  Magnus longed for sleep, but grudgingly recognized it would elude him if he spent all night worrying about Judith of Flandres.

  Dag would make sure the camp was secure and the men fed and watered, but there was no one to look after the Flemish noblewoman. It irked that she still seemed to consider him a barbarian. She hadn’t been able to conceal her surprise upon discovering he was a Christian. The fear still lurking in her green eyes was bothersome.

  By Thor, a man could lose himself in those eyes.

  His heart had done a strange flip inside his chest when he’d caught sight of her kneeling at the altar. The peasant he’d shouldered out of the way had been on the point of objecting until he’d seen whom he was glaring at. Then he’d willingly bowed out of the way to leave room for Magnus to kneel next to her.

  The long stressful day she’d endured had taken a toll, yet she had a presence, a beauty the muddied garments and wild chestnut hair enhanced in some strange way. She was a bride who should be feasting with friends, relatives and well-wishers.

  God forgive him but when she’d leaned into him at the altar his shaft had stood to attention.

  It was a good sign she hadn’t recoiled when he’d touched her hand. She might have enjoyed his touch, though the maidservant had quickly put paid to that notion.

  As the last of the worshippers left the abbey, he eased away from the bench, thankful his long cloak concealed his arousal. She might not understand what it signified, but—

  He bade the ladies follow him and ushered them to the old priest. “Father, take me to Theodoric’s room.”

  The cleric grunted. “Room? Pah! Come.”

  He pried a lighted tallow candle off the alms box. They followed him as he shuffled through an arched doorway into a cloister that wound its way around four sides of an area overgrown with weeds. It was difficult to tell if it had once been a garden or a courtyard. The priest shielded the flame from the breeze. Doorways led off the cloister to what Magnus suspected were cells. “This is a monastery,” he said with surprise. “Are there monks?”

  The priest didn’t turn as he muttered his reply. “Used to be.”

  Magnus wondered why the monks had left, and how long ago, but the priest seemed disinclined to impart further information.

  They came to a halt outside one of the doors. “Theodoric of Abbatis,” he intoned rather formally. Then he pointed to the next door. “Father Innocent,” he said, sticking out his tongue. “I leave you to form your own conclusions. I’ll send food in an hour.”

  He handed the candle to Magnus, turned abruptly and walked away through the tall weeds to disappear into one of the cells on the opposite side.

  Judith let out a sob. The maid clucked words of consolation and put an arm around her mistress’s shoulders. He longed to cradle the distraught woman against his chest and assure her he would do everything in his power to make sure Theodoric did his duty.

  But a man such as Theodoric could never offer the kind of love Magnus suspected she needed. She struck him as a passionate woman who would give her all to the man she loved. His already aroused manhood responded predictably to the notion.

  Sweat broke out on his brow when he became aware the two were staring at him. He cleared his throat, wishing he’d taken a quick swig of brandy, and shoved open the door to Theodoric’s cell. It dragged on the stone and he put his hip to it, lifting the candle to light the room.

  They entered.

  Beatrice grunted a loud, “Huh.”

  Judith gasped.

  Magnus tamped down the bile rising in his throat as he lit the dozen candles perched at intervals around the chamber. The flickering flames filled the air with the aroma of expensive beeswax. He blew out the offensive tallow candle he held.

  The cell was small, but its occupant had crammed fine furniture, chests and tapestries into every nook and cranny. He was tempted to make some damning remark about the lord of Abbatis, but Judith beat him to it.

  “This is what he did with his father’s good pieces,” she declared, hands on hips.

  He was glad to see the green eyes flash with anger and to hear the indignation in her voice.

  Theodoric’s selfishness stuck in his craw, but he was relieved Judith would be comfortable for the night. He eyed the well-stuffed mattress atop the opulent bed, wishing he could pull off his boots and crawl into it. “The bed looks comfortable,” he said. “Plenty of room for two.”

  Heat surged into his face as it dawned on him his words might be misconstrued. “I mean for you and Beatrice, not for…”

  She blushed.

  By Odin, mayhap she thought he meant for Theodoric and his priestly lover, or for— his heart lurched as a vision of Judith lying naked beneath him rose up behind his eyes.

  “Yes,” she sighed, turning languid green eyes on him.

  “I must go,” he mumbled, narrowly avoiding tripping over his sword as he backed out of the cell. “Goodnight.”

  Wishful Thinking

  Beatrice ushered two peasant women into the cell. “Put the food and the water ewer on the table,” she said to one. “I’ll take the chamber pot,” to the other.

  The aroma of roasted chicken assailed Judith’s nostrils. Her belly sang with anticipation.

  The young girl who’d handed over the chamber pot curtseyed. “You can leave it outside the door when you’re done,” she said, her face red as a winter beetroot.

  Judith eyed the chipped porcelain pot. She was in dire need. “Thank you both,” she said as Beatrice shooed them out.

  “You first, my lady,” her faithful servant offered, setting the pot down in a corner. “I had a chance to sneak out from the abbey while you slept.”

  Feeling better after seeing to her needs, Judith marveled that she’d been so sound asleep in the church she hadn’t known Beatrice was gone. She took her place at the table and bit into the chicken. “This tastes like manna from heaven,” she said, licking the juice from her lips before it ran down her chin. “These clerics enjoy good food.”

  Beatrice snorted. “It’s often the way. The poor go hungry while their priests grow fat off the fruits of their labors.”

  Judith frowned. “Surely not?”

  Beatrice wiped the grease off her mouth. “Forgive me, my lady, but noblewomen are shielded from many realities.”

  Such words were sobering. Wealth and position had insulated Judith and her half brother from the rigors of life with which most people had to contend.

  How quickly life had changed. She was embroiled in dangers she’d never imagined. But at least she was warm, dry and fed, and had a safe place to sleep, thanks to the Viking. Her view of the world had shifted. “I hope Magnus found a comfortable bed and hearty victuals to fill his belly
.”

  Beatrice arched her brows. “Magnus, is it?”

  Judith fanned her face. “He bade me call him by his name. If not for him we’d be—” She shuddered. “Probably dead.”

  Anger seethed. The brother she loved and the husband she already loathed had cared nothing for her well-being, but she resolved not to criticize Arnulf to Beatrice.

  Her maidservant glanced around the cell. “What a husband you’ve been saddled with.” She winked. “Too bad your brother didn’t betroth you to a man like Magnus—strong, brave, handsome.”

  Had Beatrice read her thoughts? “I’ll never wed a Viking,” she murmured, stupidly wishing it wasn’t true.

  The smile left Beatrice’s face as she swallowed her last piece of chicken. “Likely. Vikings don’t wed their captives. They take them as concubines.”

  Judith’s belly churned. “What do you mean?”

  Beatrice thrust out her chin. “You’ve only to consider the case of their duke, Vilhelm with the Longsword. Years ago, he captured Espriota, a Breton princess. She bore him a son, but he never married her, except in more danico. Their law forbids anything other than what they call a Danish style marriage with captives.

  “She lives under his protection. He since married Luitgarde, but she has provided him with no heir, though they’ve been wed several years. It’s whispered the next Duke of the Normans might be Espriota’s son Richard, a bastard born of a concubine.”

  Judith gaped at her maid. Reality suddenly slapped her in the face. “Captives. We are captives.”

  Beatrice patted her hand. “Of course we are. We should fall on our knees and give thanks our captor is a man of honor who will likely ransom us. He could have slaughtered us.”

  “But what if Arnulf won’t pay?”

  “Then Magnus will probably take us to his homeland.”

  Judith lay down on the bed, unsure of her feelings. She longed for the safety of Bruggen, yet the prospect of never setting eyes on Magnus again left her strangely bereft.