Viking Betrayed (Viking Roots Book 3) Page 8

  “My lord. Our chieftain awaits your arrival.”

  He and Bendik dismounted. Magnus handed the reins to his cousin. “Wait here. Pray this goes as planned.”

  Bendik nodded. “I too would like to return to Montdebryk. I’m weary of Abbatis.”

  He followed the soldier to Vilhelm’s tent and waited outside for permission to enter, taken aback when the duke emerged from the canvas shelter and clamped an arm around his shoulder. “Kriger! The security of Montreuil is assured. I came to see how you fare out here in the countryside. I am pleased with what I’ve seen.

  “I should not be surprised. My father and yours were strong allies. Bryk Kriger was a great warrior.”

  Magnus recalled the tales his sire had told him of the many years of enmity that had simmered between him and Vilhelm’s father, the legendary Rollo, but now wasn’t the time to mention it. It irked when the duke spoke of Bryk Kriger as if he were dead. “My father is still your loyal subject, my lord.”

  Vilhelm laughed heartily, slapped him on the back then beckoned him into the tent. “Yes, yes. Of course. And I wouldn’t be alive today were it not for the courage of Torstein Kriger. How is Bendik’s father?”

  “He’s well. He is second in command at Montdebryk.”

  Perhaps this was the opportunity to ask—

  “Commendable for a freed slave,” Vilhelm remarked. “I expect as the oldest son you will soon take over the post.”

  It had been many years since anyone in the Kriger family had thought of his Uncle Torstein as a former thrall, and Magnus wasn’t sure he cared for the duke’s condescending tone. He was heir to the title of Comte, not Second, and Vilhelm’s own mother, the haughty Princess Poppa of Bayeux, had only escaped thralldom because her Viking captor had been smitten with her. He shifted his weight, biting back a retort. He had to stay in the duke’s favor. “Forgive me, my lord, now you’ve brought reinforcements—”

  Vilhelm suddenly picked up his sword from the trestle table on which it lay and unsheathed it with great flourish. No matter how often Magnus set eyes on the magnificent weapon it never failed to rob him of breath. The duke traced his fingertips over the legendary inlay, still visible nigh on twenty-five years since his father had presented the sword to him. “Ulfberht,” he said with great reverence, gazing at the long sword that had earned him his name. “I am Vilhelm Longsword, second Duke of the Normans, and I have pledged to hold these lands for Comte Herluin of Ponthieu.”

  Magnus wondered why he was on the receiving end of this pompous show of strength and power. Worry gnawed his belly. “Indeed, my lord. You have secured these lands, and it has been my honor—”

  Vilhelm swiped the air with the sword. Most men would have needed two hands to wield the weapon, but the duke arced it back and forth with ease, as if swatting pesky flies.

  “But now you wish to return to Montdebryk.”

  Magnus saw no point in protesting, though Vilhelm’s tone gave no inkling of his opinion on the matter. “My daughters still grieve the recent loss of their mother, my lord.”

  Vilhelm studied his sword. “The only one in the whole of Francia.”

  Magnus didn’t see what this had to do with—

  “I’ll wager Arnulf of Flandres would love to get his greedy hands on my Ulfberht.”

  His remark made Magnus nervous. Where was this discussion headed? Vilhelm seemed determined to turn the conflict with Arnulf into a personal matter. “I have no doubt he would, my lord, but—”

  Vilhelm eyed him. “Talk to me of his sister.”

  The snake writhing in Magnus’s belly hissed. He had no wish to betray his feelings for Judith, but neither did he want her to be a plaything in Vilhelm’s plan. “She is Flemish,” he said.

  The sword sliced the air in a blur of steel that sent a chill up Magnus’s spine. Vilhelm grimaced. “I’m aware she is Flemish. Is she comely, dimwitted, loyal to Arnulf?”

  Magnus clenched his jaw. Somehow they had left the topic of returning to Montdebryk and gone onto something he would prefer not to discuss. “She is comely,” he replied, remembering the shining chestnut hair and unforgettable breasts that haunted his dreams, “but certainly not dimwitted. You question her loyalty to her brother?”

  “Half brother,” Vilhelm said. “Have you demanded ransom?”

  Magnus frowned. “I have asked for a ransom.” A voice inside warned him to be wary. He feigned ignorance. “She is his half sister?”

  “A bastard,” Vilhelm replied, looking as if a rotten odor had suddenly assailed his nostrils. Magnus clenched his fists. This arrogant duke had been born out of wedlock in Norway when his mother was Rollo’s concubine. Apparently, his parents’ later Christian marriage had erased the truth of his bastardy.

  Vilhelm’s only son was a bastard, born of his concubine, Espriota.

  Magnus’s heart went out to Judith, but this new information explained in part Arnulf’s abandonment. He had to defend her. “She is a woman of breeding and principle, in my opinion, my lord.”

  “What of her husband?”

  Vilhelm had evidently made sure he was informed of events in this remote area of Ponthieu. Had Bendik told him of the marriage?

  What to say? Resentment for Judith’s predicament seethed in his blood.

  “A local nobleman, Theodoric of Abbatis. He’s—”

  Try as he might, nothing good came to mind.

  “A protégé of the local priest, I understand,” Vilhelm said, arching his brows. “A scholarly lad.”

  Magnus decided scholarly protégé would have to suffice.

  “And the marriage is valid?”

  Magnus was a worm wriggling on the end of a hook. The circumstances of the ceremony were bizarre at best, and he doubted Judith’s marriage had been consummated. But chewing on those matters only heightened his frustration. “I believe so,” he mumbled.

  Vilhelm handed his sword to Raoul who carefully sheathed it. “I would meet this woman,” he said. “Come. Lead the way to Saint Riquier.”

  The Duke Visits

  Judith was napping in the reassuring shabby comfort of her father’s chair. Theodoric was off in the stable with a new servant boy; Liette was busy in the kitchen, and the house was quiet. She startled when Beatrice burst in, breathless and red faced. “My lady,” she panted, pointing vaguely with one hand while mopping her brow with the other. “Horsemen, at a gallop.”

  Judith gripped her crucifix. “Arnulf?” she asked.

  Beatrice shook her head. “Wrong direction.”

  She felt a strange sense of relief, but then stiffened her spine and walked to the door. “Compose yourself. It’s probably Magnus returning from Abbatis. He said he would call.”

  Theodoric appeared at the open door. “Riders,” he said, stating what was by now obvious. His next words took her by surprise. “Stay behind me.”

  It was ludicrous. Her husband had no weapon in evidence, yet he seemed inclined to protect her. It was the first glimpse of the noble blood in his veins.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when Magnus reined his horse to a halt. But he wasn’t alone. A giant dismounted at the same time, a man taller than Magnus. The overlong weapon on his hip convinced her this was Vilhelm, Duke of the Normans.

  Theodoric’s spine stiffened. He had evidently recognized their visitor. She retreated into the main room, dragging Beatrice with her. “He must realize I am Judith of Valognes, sister of a comte.”

  Theodoric bowed low, backing into the room as Vilhelm strode into the house. “My lord duke,” he murmured, “welcome to my home.”

  The Norman ignored him, his eyes fixed on Judith. Behind him Magnus glared, his jaw clenched. Her eyes were fixed on his weapon, the famous sword with the name that always escaped her.

  Ulf..something. What was it Arnulf said? Some kind of special steel.

  The duke’s voice jolted her out of the reverie. “You are Judith of Flandres?”

  She inhaled deeply. “No,” she began, then quickly babbled on when
the Norman narrowed his eyes. “I am Judith of Valognes, daughter of Baldwin, Comte of Flandres, granddaughter of Judith of Francia, and proud descendant of Charlemagne.”

  Theodoric gaped.

  The duke laughed, his hands on his hips. “And Arnulf’s bastard sister.”

  Her eyes flew to Magnus. His sympathetic gaze steadied her. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and clutched the back of her beloved chair. “Arnulf and I are siblings, born of the same father. He is my liege lord to whom I owe my allegiance.”

  The duke strutted closer. She tried unsuccessfully to drag her eyes away from the sword. It was said to have some sort of inlay, but he would have to unsheathe it for her to see it.

  She snapped her attention back when she realized he’d asked a question.

  “But your allegiance now must be to your husband, the scholar, and to his liege lord, Herluin of Ponthieu. You spoke your vows, did you not?”

  For the life of her she had no memory of that wretched day other than shock at first sight of her betrothed and the look on Arnulf’s face when he’d left her behind in the mud. No answer was to be found on Theodoric’s stricken features.

  Scholar?

  Magnus seethed anger, his teeth gritted, fists clenched at his sides.

  “Did you not?” the Norman insisted.

  “I have no memory of doing so,” she said, sounding pathetic to her own ears.

  Relief brightened Theodoric’s eyes.

  Magnus quickly closed his gaping mouth when the duke turned to him and said, “Kriger, it’s imperative this woman be as far away as possible from Arnulf. He will attempt to rescue her, and she will do whatever she can to aid him. You will take her with you to Montdebryk.”

  Duty demanded Magnus follow on the heels of his duke as he strutted out of the dwelling, but his feet refused to move. He stared at Judith, trying to discern her feelings. She returned his gaze, clutching the crucifix around her neck, shock evident on her face.

  His hand went to his Thor’s hammer, but the cold silver revealed nothing.

  Was she devastated at the prospect of being taken to Montdebryk? The notion appalled him, yet his heart rejoiced, and he had a peculiar urge to laugh out loud.

  Was Vilhelm correct that she would try to escape to Flandres? Or did the hint of a smile in her eyes mean she wanted to go with Magnus? It had never occurred to him she might flee.

  Behind him someone coughed. He turned to see Raoul. “My duke commands you make haste, my lord Magnus.”

  He turned to Judith. “It will not be an easy journey, my lady,” he rasped.

  She clenched her jaw. “I beg Beatrice be allowed to accompany me.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, relieved there had been no loud protestation, no outrage.

  “What of me?” Theodoric asked in a shrill voice.

  “You’re to accompany them as far as Rouen,” the bodyguard told him.

  As he left the house, too many conflicting emotions swirled in Magnus’s heart. He wanted Judith with him, yet he didn’t. He desired her, but she could never be his. The prospect of showing off his father’s grand fortress elated him. They’d walk amid the apple orchards and inhale the scent of fragrant blossoms. He sensed his mother would love Judith.

  However, his daughters needed his attention. Judith was a hostage, a spoil of war.

  And why was Theodoric being summoned to Rouen?

  Homeward Bound

  A fortnight later, as the first pink streaks of dawn lit the sky, Magnus sat stiffly atop his horse outside Theodoric’s house, surveying the final preparations for the journey.

  Satisfied that the commander of the replacement troops Vilhelm had brought from Rouen had matters in hand in the region, he was elated to be at last on his way back to Montdebryk. However, it promised to be anything but an uneventful experience, and there was too much red in the sky for his liking. He prayed the rain would hold off. His nose and throat problems were close to gone, and Dag was feeling better. Magnus felt a measure of smug satisfaction; Bendik was now sneezing and coughing. His cousin was fond of boasting he never took sick, but had stubbornly refused to share his brandy.

  It was a relief that Judith too seemed to have recovered from whatever ailed her. She’d not objected to being forced to travel to the hinterland of Normandie. He assumed she’d accepted the inevitability of it, as he had. It was obviously Odin’s wish.

  The trek to Rouen would have taken two days at most on horseback, but he had given in to Judith’s insistence that she be allowed to take most of her belongings, including the chair. This entailed having the wagon repaired, fitted with a more weatherproof cover and loaded. He denied Theodoric’s request to take some of his furniture, since he had no inkling why the young man was being summoned to Rouen, nor how long he would remain there.

  To everyone’s consternation, except Theodoric’s, Vilhelm sent word that Father Innocent was also to travel to Rouen. The news puzzled Magnus, offended Judith and outraged Beatrice.

  Despite the refurbishments to the wagon, the vehicle would slow them down considerably. Three or mayhap four days with this odd group loomed like a dragon lying in wait, ready to breathe fire.

  He, Dag and Bendik looked forward to reuniting with their kin in Montreuil, but how to keep his hands off Judith once Rouen was behind them and they were rid of the priest and his lover?

  As Theodoric assisted her to climb into the wagon, Judith deemed this the strangest collection of people and circumstances imaginable. She settled into the cushioned seat Beatrice had prepared and reached out one hand to touch the nearby chair, wedged in place between iron trunks.

  “It’ll be our talisman,” Beatrice whispered, patting her hand.

  As usual, the resilient maid had divined her thoughts. “You’re right,” she murmured nervously. “All shall be well as long as I have my father’s chair.” Ludicrous as it sounded, the notion brought comfort.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Beatrice said. “Magnus will protect you with his life.”

  She looked over to where he sat atop his steed. Strong, noble, kind—he embodied everything she wanted in a husband. “You have great faith in him,” she whispered, thankful whatever had plagued her throat seemed to have cured itself.

  “You’ll see,” her maid replied.

  Though the words were meant to be reassuring, Judith fervently hoped Magnus wouldn’t be called upon to risk his life to protect her. The joyful glow in his eyes whenever he spoke of his homeland warmed her heart. It was puzzling that she didn’t feel the same longing for Bruggen, though she’d lived there since birth. She was more excited at the prospect of seeing the vast orchards Magnus spoke of with deep affection.

  “Am I being disloyal to my brother?” she asked as the driver urged the carthorses forward and the wagon lurched.

  Beatrice snorted, clutching the side of the conveyance. “You have no choice. Your darling brother doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to rescue you.”

  “Mayhap he plots a raid as we travel,” she said, praying such a scheme wasn’t in Arnulf’s plans.

  Beatrice shook her head. “He’d be a fool to attack this column. The Montdebryk men number in the hundreds. A skirmish would result in great loss of life.”

  Judith looked to the front of the cavalcade. Magnus rode at the head of his army. Even among a host of well-muscled warriors, the powerful shoulders, the slight tilt of his head were easily recognizable. The sun glinted off his helmet. She recalled how terrified she’d been on first setting eyes on him, riding out of the mist on that fateful day. Now she longed to jump down from the wagon and run to his side. How glorious to ride on his lap, safe in his embrace. The fanciful thought warmed her.

  She turned around to hazard a glance through the open flap of the canvas cover. Theo and Father Innocent rode directly behind the wagon. Her husband looked happier than she’d ever seen him, despite the scowl on the cleric’s face directed at her. She averted her gaze, suddenly chilled, annoyed that he was angry with her. He was the one
who had performed the marriage. It wasn’t her fault he’d angered his bishop.

  “I wish they would sneak away, disappear and live happily ever after,” she murmured.

  Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “But they are men.”

  “They love each other,” she replied. “Should they not be allowed to live together happily?”

  “Nay,” Beatrice exclaimed. “One’s a priest, sworn to God’s service.”

  Judith shrugged, settling more deeply into the cushions. “I forgot that detail.”

  Montreuil

  After a day and a half of bone jarring travel in the wagon, Judith wished she had overcome her reticence and begged Magnus to let her share his horse—and they’d only come as far as Montreuil.

  They entered the heavily guarded perimeter. Many of the soldiers recognized and hailed Magnus. An eerie silence hung over the town, though it was midday. Evidence of fierce fighting loomed everywhere. Clouds of dust clung to ruined buildings. Filthy, ragged children begged for food, hunger etched on their faces. The stench of rotting flesh hung in the air. Skeletal dogs sniffed at the ruination. Wounded and bandaged men limped about, or slouched in filthy corners. The Montdebryk soldiers rode on, eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaws clenched against the hellish nightmare around them.

  Judith had fancied they might sleep in a comfortable bed but now held on to the hope she’d be required to spend another night dozing in the wagon. Magnus led them through the ruined streets to an open field at the other side of the town. She was plagued with the guilty notion that blame for this misery lay at the feet of her brother.

  “Why must there be this death and destruction?” she asked Beatrice.

  Her maid sniffed back a tear. “’Tis the nature of powerful men to covet the lands of others. Your brother believes this town belongs to Flandres.”