Viking Betrayed (Viking Roots Book 3) Page 6

  The unknown lurked in the land of the Normans, but the notion of spending her life with Theodoric turned her stomach. Strangely though, her anger towards him was caused less by his inclinations than by his lack of nobility.

  “Imagine,” she murmured as she drifted into sleep, “Judith of Bruggen, proud descendant of Charlemagne, a Viking’s concubine.”

  Beatrice chuckled, convincing Judith she was losing her wits for being drawn to a foreigner who probably had a wife anyway.

  Magnus had spent many a night under canvas. He was fond of boasting he could sleep anywhere. Visions of Judith made a mockery of his determination to banish her from his thoughts. He tossed and turned, sweating in the cold cell, trying to dispel images of her naked, pouting, flashing her green eyes, enticing him with her beautiful breasts. Was the hair at her mons the same color as the crowning glory on her head? Just as curly?

  In his fitful state she knelt between his legs and put her mouth on him. He must have fallen asleep, but woke at dawn with a rock hard arousal, afraid he may have called out something obscene in his sleep.

  Never had he dreamt such vivid dreams of Ida. It shamed him. What had happened to his loyalty to Ida’s memory, and respect for his daughters’ grief? Judith belonged to another man.

  But his late wife had been repelled by suggestions she put her mouth on him, or that he sup of her intimate juices. He licked his lips. What would Judith taste like?

  He groaned as his arousal spiked anew.

  A booted foot connected with his ribs. “What’s amiss, brother? Throat still sore?”

  He shoved away Dag’s foot and rose slowly, his body aching. “Nothing a swig of your apple brandy won’t soon cure,” he rasped with a grim smile, aware he’d forgotten the ills plaguing his nose and throat.

  Dag sniffled. “My nose is bothering me now. I might need my brandy back.”

  Magnus put a hand on his shoulder. “You jest, of course.”

  Dag looked away dejectedly.

  Feeling remorseful, Magnus drew out a clean linen square and offered it to his brother. “Here. You’ll need this.”

  Full Of Surprises

  The message from Magnus instructing Judith and her maidservant to prepare themselves for travel to Theodoric’s house came as welcome news after two days confined to the cramped cell.

  She loved Beatrice but had never spent long periods of time with her at close quarters. The woman was opinionated. She’d always known it, but now there was no escape.

  “We’d be better off staying here,” Beatrice lamented. “Comfortable, good food.”

  Judith understood. It was likely the first time her maid had enjoyed such ease. “The messenger assured us the house is clean,” Judith said. “It’s something at least.”

  Beatrice shrugged. “The man is full of surprises.”

  “And they’ve found a cook,” Judith added.

  Beatrice wagged her head from side to side as if weighing the pros and cons. Judith sought to disabuse her of any notion of staying in Saint Riquier. “We do not belong in a monastery. I have a right to live in my husband’s house.”

  Though I’d prefer my husband not live there with me.

  But then the truth dawned. Montreuil must have fallen to the Normans. Magnus wouldn’t send her closer to the town if he believed she’d be in danger. She marveled she had quickly come to trust him—but then she’d trusted her brother.

  Pacing back and forth in the cramped space while awaiting his arrival, she resolved to be wary of the Norman, but when he appeared at the door of the cell, she wanted to leap at him. She knew she was blushing, but her racing heart refused to calm.

  He raked his gaze over her. “You look better, my lady,” he said with a smile that melted her innards, stoking heat in unmentionable parts of her body.

  This sinful foolishness had to stop. “You look tired,” she replied shakily, longing to smooth away the lines of exhaustion from his brow.

  “It was a long two days,” he said, shoving his hair off his forehead. “Montreuil has fallen. You will learn soon enough that the Flemish usurpers were more or less wiped out, but your brother escaped.”

  She averted her eyes.

  He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face to him. “You already knew he’d fled.”

  Looking into his warm hazel eyes, she recognized she could never lie to this man. “Yes. He came to Saint Riquier.”

  The warmth cooled as his eyes narrowed. “And he left you there, at the mercy of an invading army.”

  His words irked. “You have no right to criticize my brother. He had no choice.”

  Behind her, Beatrice snorted.

  Eyeing her skeptically, Magnus proffered his hand, bowing slightly. “Your house awaits, my lady.”

  Magnus thought again of his own sister. He had resolved not to comment on Judith’s defense of her brother, but the angry words refused to remain unspoken. “I have a sister. Katarina is several years younger than I and she was named in honor of Sister Ekaterina, an elderly nun who raised my mother in Rouen. I would not have ridden off without her.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her he would never allow Katarina to marry one such as Theodoric, but he didn’t voice his opinion. The man was Judith’s husband after all.

  Judith’s eyes widened. “Your mother was raised by nuns?”

  Magnus savored the glint of surprise in the beautiful green depths. Beatrice too had stopped fussing and lent an ear to the conversation. He’d wager they’d be further surprised if they learned more of his family. “My mother was born a Frank. She was brought up in the abbey convent of Saint Catherine of Alexandria in Rouen.”

  If her eyes got any wider he might drown in their depths.

  “Your mother wasn’t a Viking woman,” she replied. “This explains why you are a Christian.”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly, though my mother is devout. When my father married her, he became an adherent of the Christian faith, as did every Viking who followed Rollo in pledging allegiance to King Charles of Francia.”

  Beatrice couldn’t seem to control her curiosity. “Your father was a Viking? And he married a Frank?”

  Judith glared at her. “Beatrice,” she chided.

  He offered Judith his arm, elated to feel the light brush of her breast against his bicep when she linked arms with him. “I’m not offended, my lady,” he said. “I am proud of my father, who still lives. He and the other Norsemen who came from Norway fought long and endured many hardships to win the lands to the south of yours.”

  Beatrice bustled along behind them as they walked along the cloister. “There are those who say you men of the North are foreign pirates who stole the land.”

  Judith turned and glared once more at her maid.

  Magnus patted her hand. “The land was granted by King Charles in exchange for our ridding Francia of the threat of the Bretons, which we did. As for being a foreigner, I was born in Rouen, and my father is Governor of the valley of the Orne, the Comte of Montdebryk.”

  Judith’s arm stiffened. “Your father is a comte?”

  Beatrice chuckled. “And you’re the eldest son.”

  He turned to look at the maid, noticing Judith’s blush. “How did you know?”

  Judith tugged on his arm. “Never mind, my lord. Beatrice is impertinent.”

  He noted with satisfaction Judith had addressed him as my lord. Perhaps she was beginning to understand he wasn’t a savage barbarian.

  A party of his knights awaited them. He’d taken care to pick out two fine palfreys and was pleased to see Judith’s smile when she espied them. Beatrice gaped.

  He went down on one knee beside the roan, his fingers laced atop his knee. “My lady,” he said with a smile, determined to display his courtly manners.

  Judith arched one brow and placed her foot in his hands, grasping the pommel as he hoisted her into the saddle.

  A lad did the same for Beatrice.

  It bothered him that he would have to
spoil the mood. “Your house is ready, Judith, but be warned your husband is there.”

  Her smile fled. She looked so bereft he longed to take her into his arms and offer comfort, but she was married to Theodoric, and he was a widower who would be hastening back to his grieving daughters as soon as Vilhelm gave leave. There was no future for them.

  Dragging his eyes away from Judith of Flandres, he gritted his teeth, mounted his horse and led them out of Saint Riquier at a trot.

  No Choice

  Theodoric awaited Judith at the door of his house. She barely recognized it as the same derelict dwelling she’d left only days before. A considerable amount of refuse had been cleared away. Her husband strode forward to assist her to dismount, and she noticed he wore a different, cleaner tunic. His bony fingers dug into her waist as he lifted her from the horse, but once her feet were on the ground he bowed. “Welcome, Lady Judith,” he said, taking hold of her hand.

  There was no warmth in his touch, but he had at least combed his hair.

  “I apologize for the reception you received when you arrived,” he muttered. “Time of war and uncertainty, and er—” He looked at Magnus. “—Er, everything is set to rights now.”

  Beatrice snorted, brushing by her new master without so much as a curtsey. Judith thought she might have mumbled we’ll see, under her breath.

  She hazarded a quick glance at Magnus, who looked slightly amused despite the deep frown creasing his brow.

  It was evident as Theodoric ushered her into the house that he was aware of Magnus’s eyes on him. What might happen once her protector left made her nervous.

  He followed them into the house, though he dwarfed the entryway and had to bend his head to get through the doorway.

  Beatrice stood in the middle of the main room, hands on hips. “Certainly cleaner,” she pronounced.

  “Smells better too,” Theodoric said, grinning like a child.

  Judith smiled her unspoken thanks to Magnus. He bowed and left. Strangely, the house was smaller for his leaving.

  Theodoric fidgeted with the cuffs of his tunic, edging towards the door. “I’ll see Magnus off.”

  “Your husband can’t spend one minute in the house with us,” Beatrice scoffed. “But never mind him. Come and see.”

  Judith took off her cloak and walked into the main room, looking to where Beatrice pointed. Off in one corner sat her father’s chair.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. The barbaric Viking had sensed the importance of this old piece of furniture. His thoughtfulness stole away her breath as she ran a hand over the chairback, scarcely able to believe it had survived the soggy journey.

  Beatrice brushed a hand across the seat. “Huh! Looks better than it did in Bruggen.”

  Judith didn’t understand how such a thing was possible but recognized the truth of it. She sat down and closed her eyes, wishing she was back in her brother’s fortress in Bruggen. But she never would have met Magnus if she hadn’t left her homeland.

  Such ideas were dangerous. Theodoric was her husband. Magnus would go back to Normandie and be lost to her forever.

  Beatrice lay a hand on her shoulder. “I never thought I’d say this, but it’s a pity Arnulf didn’t align Flandres with the Normans instead of La Vermine’s father. Mark my words, if all Norsemen are like the ones we’ve encountered, they’ll soon rule more than Normandie.”

  Perched in the saddle, Magnus looked down at the young man nervously stroking his horse’s nose. It would be an easy matter to dispose of the effeminate creature and take Judith as his own. But an image of his mother’s reproving face surged behind his eyes. Cathryn Kriger would not approve of murder to satisfy lust and he wasn’t that kind of man.

  Despite his shortcomings, Theodoric was the lord of Abbatis and Judith’s husband in the eyes of God, though the notion of the youth putting even a finger on her beautiful body made him sick. Pity welled up in his throat. Judith of Flandres wouldn’t be content to live with such a man.

  “Take my words to heart, Theodoric of Abbatis,” he said, pleased his sore throat seemed to make him sound more menacing, “do nothing to incur my wrath.”

  The young man nodded. “I understand. I am Herluin’s loyal subject.”

  Annoyance gripped Magnus. He hadn’t made his meaning clear. “And you are Judith’s loyal husband.”

  Theodoric averted his gaze. “Yes,” he murmured.

  Magnus had an urge to scream at the heavens.

  Why have you given her to this nithing?

  He resolved to petition Vilhelm at the earliest possible opportunity. It was imperative he return to Montdebryk. His duty was to his daughters. The sooner he was far away from Judith and the temptation she presented, the better.

  He scowled at Theodoric and rode off to Abbatis.

  Judith and Theodoric barely exchanged a word after Magnus left. Beatrice got busy unpacking and arranging her mistress’s belongings in the bedchamber. Judith nestled into her father’s chair, closed her eyes and savored the aromas wafting in from the stone kitchen behind the house. Perhaps Magnus had found a talented cook.

  Judith and Theodoric took their places at the crude wooden table when a diminutive red-faced woman appeared to announce the meal was ready. Later she would mention bringing the polished oak table from his cell at the abbey, but for the moment resolved to speak only kind words at their first meal together.

  Beatrice bustled off to the kitchen, no doubt anxious to fill her empty belly.

  “What is your name?” Judith asked the cook, as some sort of thick broth with boiled meat and vegetables was served onto the trencher placed before her husband.

  The woman eyed Theodoric for a brief moment before answering. “Liette, my lady.”

  “Liette, the food smells delicious. What is it?”

  Liette bit her bottom lip. “Mutton, my lady, with parsnips. Hard to find meat these days but the Norseman—”

  Magnus had provided food. Her heart raced. “You’ve done well, Liette. Thank you,” she said hoarsely.

  The peasant’s eyes widened then she quickly bobbed a curtsey and left. Judith surmised the woman wasn’t often the recipient of praise.

  Theodoric looked nervously at the food in front of him, then at Judith. He picked up his eating dagger. “I suppose I’ll have to, er—”

  Who had educated this young man? Did he have no notion of manners and customs? Or perhaps things were done differently in Ponthieu. “In Flandres, it’s customary for the man to cut the choicest piece and serve it to his lady.” The words tasted like parchment. She was this man’s lady.

  He nodded vigorously, his eyes wide. “Yes. Same here. I’ll just—”

  He sliced into the mutton, leaned forward and scraped her share onto her trencher. She was tempted to tell him he was supposed to pass it with the dagger, but a ring of green mold on the edge of her trencher caught her attention and she pushed the mutton away from it with her fingertip. There was no way of knowing how long the bread trenchers had been in the house. Stale was one matter, moldy another. On the morrow, she’d speak to Liette about baking fresh bread.

  Her husband picked at his food, cutting off bits of meat and nibbling them, putting her in mind of a rabbit. When it became apparent she was to be given no utensil, she broke off an edge of the trencher that looked to be mold-free and ate with her fingers. Sustenance was more important than etiquette if she was to survive this ordeal.

  Theodoric poked at his parsnips.

  She swallowed a morsel of surprisingly tasty mutton and took a sip of watered wine, wishing it was apple brandy. “Liette is a good cook,” she ventured.

  He looked up, frowning.

  He has no notion of conversation.

  “Yes,” he finally murmured. “She was my father’s cook.”

  This news lifted her spirits. “Is she also the cook at the abbey?”

  He smiled for the first time. “Yes. One of them.”

  His face transformed as if by magic, his beauty taking her by sur
prise. “You should smile more often,” she said without thinking.

  He blushed, breaking off a chunk of his trencher. “There hasn’t been a great deal of happiness recently.”

  The bitterness in his words shook her. “I understand. Believe me, I am as unhappy as you.”

  He gazed at her across the table, his eyes welling with tears. “I suppose we can be friends.”

  She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of their predicament. It struck her she’d never had a friend, other than Beatrice. “But we are man and wife, Theodoric.”

  He leaned forward abruptly and grasped both her hands in a surprisingly strong grip. “Please call me Theo. I can never be the kind of husband you want, Judith,” he rasped, his eyes wholly on her hands. “Women do not interest me, and I can’t—”

  In the lengthening silence, he brushed his thumbs along hers, over and over. It was strangely calming, despite the sinfulness of what he was trying to tell her.

  “Why did you agree to the marriage?” she asked softly.

  He looked up sharply, his face contorted with anger. “We were threatened.”

  She frowned in confusion. “With what?”

  He gritted his teeth. “Excommunication.”

  Her mouth fell open. “I don’t understand.”

  He let go of her hands. “The bishop of Saint Riquier threatened to excommunicate me and Father Innocent if I didn’t agree to the betrothal. I care nothing of the consequences for myself, but for Charles—”

  She wondered for a moment who Charles was, but then realized it must be the priest’s given name.

  Theo looked so bereft she feared he might burst into tears.

  “For him to be damned for eternity,” he choked. “I had no choice.”

  In her dreams of marriage Judith had imagined her husband whispering many things, but being told her new groom had married her to save his male lover from eternal damnation left her drained, empty. “I had no choice either, Theo, but you’re right we must be friends,” she murmured. “Otherwise, we’ll both go mad.”