Read Online Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 01 by The Rover Bold - Free Book Online
Authors: The Rover Bold
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first, insinuating that Cath-ryn was probably unaware of the ways of Vikings.
But Hrolf had supported his insistence she couldn’t remain in the religious community. She’d implied as much. She was his thrall, and from the glint in her eye and the way she gazed at him, he was confident she was a woman born to share a man’s bed. These errant thoughts produced a pleasant but inconvenient stiffening at his groin. It was unfortunate his long kyrtill was in his chest. But the weather had warmed and he’d have been too hot if he’d worn it at the tiller. However, he was assured the pouch hid his arousal. It held a few coins brought from home and of no practical use. There was a scrap of clean cloth to wipe his hands and face, a fire starting kit, a whetstone, and a lock of Myldryd’s hair, braided into a circle—and the key to his chest.
There was also a key to the farmhouse in Møre—a keepsake.
He feared the woolen under-dress Poppa had provided for Cath-ryn might be overly heavy. She appeared comfortable though it was tight around the breasts. The robe had hidden the bounty of her perfect globes. He mused about the color of her nipples, probably dark, given her black hair, then wished he’d avoided the notion as his arousal surged.
He shifted his gaze to the cup-shaped silver brooches holding up the straps of her hangerock , the linen over-dress Poppa’s thrall had helped her fasten. The brooches were a generous gift, but they looked too much like breasts for his comfort. Funny he’d never noticed it before though all the wealthier women wore them.
“Too well dressed for a thrall,” Poppa had mumbled when they’d emerged from the curtained off area reserved for females. His heart had filled with contentment. She looked like a Viking noblewoman—except she’d evidently declined the offer of a traditional headdress, opting instead for his scarf, which fluttered in the breeze.
Hrolf’s concubine had never fully accepted her role as a captive, but he suspected she loved Hrolf. There was no doubt in his mind the chieftain loved her.
But would Cath-ryn accept being a thrall? In his confused mind he couldn’t think of her as one of his slaves. They were well taken care of, but he didn’t love them.
Love?
As another swift bend in the meandering river appeared ahead, he wondered if he had made a mistake in claiming his prize.
His gaze chanced upon Ekaterina, who was staring at him, shaking her head.
SACRED VESTMENTS
Cathryn reluctantly twisted around to face the town where she’d lived all her life. It seemed eerily quiet. No doubt the alarm had been raised, prompting citizens in the low-lying areas to flee. She raised her gaze beyond the cathedral to the distant hill where the abbey convent stood. Many would be sheltering there.
She turned away.
As if sensing her turmoil, Bryk shaded his eyes and looked to the hill.
Hrolf ordered the longboats to pull in at the island where the chapel of Saint-Éloi stood. “First stop,” he declared.
Without another word from their leader, hundreds of men swarmed off the boats. Bryk handed the tiller over to another seaman after everyone else had left. He took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. He donned the mailshirt from his chest, tucked the axe into his belt, then put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay. Short time.”
No use begging him not to go, not to leave her. What would happen to her if he failed to return? She buried her nose in the cloak, inhaling his comforting scent.
Ekaterina waddled over to her. “All shall be well,” she crooned.
More than a hundred longboats sat at anchor and shorebirds danced on the wind, calling raucously, yet the silence seemed overwhelming. Cathryn could barely make out the boats with the women at the end of the line, but sensed they too were praying to their gods for the safe return of the men.
It occurred to her that this was an opportunity to flee. The lone sailor wouldn’t leave his post on the boat.
But Hrolf had supported his insistence she couldn’t remain in the religious community. She’d implied as much. She was his thrall, and from the glint in her eye and the way she gazed at him, he was confident she was a woman born to share a man’s bed. These errant thoughts produced a pleasant but inconvenient stiffening at his groin. It was unfortunate his long kyrtill was in his chest. But the weather had warmed and he’d have been too hot if he’d worn it at the tiller. However, he was assured the pouch hid his arousal. It held a few coins brought from home and of no practical use. There was a scrap of clean cloth to wipe his hands and face, a fire starting kit, a whetstone, and a lock of Myldryd’s hair, braided into a circle—and the key to his chest.
There was also a key to the farmhouse in Møre—a keepsake.
He feared the woolen under-dress Poppa had provided for Cath-ryn might be overly heavy. She appeared comfortable though it was tight around the breasts. The robe had hidden the bounty of her perfect globes. He mused about the color of her nipples, probably dark, given her black hair, then wished he’d avoided the notion as his arousal surged.
He shifted his gaze to the cup-shaped silver brooches holding up the straps of her hangerock , the linen over-dress Poppa’s thrall had helped her fasten. The brooches were a generous gift, but they looked too much like breasts for his comfort. Funny he’d never noticed it before though all the wealthier women wore them.
“Too well dressed for a thrall,” Poppa had mumbled when they’d emerged from the curtained off area reserved for females. His heart had filled with contentment. She looked like a Viking noblewoman—except she’d evidently declined the offer of a traditional headdress, opting instead for his scarf, which fluttered in the breeze.
Hrolf’s concubine had never fully accepted her role as a captive, but he suspected she loved Hrolf. There was no doubt in his mind the chieftain loved her.
But would Cath-ryn accept being a thrall? In his confused mind he couldn’t think of her as one of his slaves. They were well taken care of, but he didn’t love them.
Love?
As another swift bend in the meandering river appeared ahead, he wondered if he had made a mistake in claiming his prize.
His gaze chanced upon Ekaterina, who was staring at him, shaking her head.
SACRED VESTMENTS
Cathryn reluctantly twisted around to face the town where she’d lived all her life. It seemed eerily quiet. No doubt the alarm had been raised, prompting citizens in the low-lying areas to flee. She raised her gaze beyond the cathedral to the distant hill where the abbey convent stood. Many would be sheltering there.
She turned away.
As if sensing her turmoil, Bryk shaded his eyes and looked to the hill.
Hrolf ordered the longboats to pull in at the island where the chapel of Saint-Éloi stood. “First stop,” he declared.
Without another word from their leader, hundreds of men swarmed off the boats. Bryk handed the tiller over to another seaman after everyone else had left. He took off his cloak and draped it over her shoulders. He donned the mailshirt from his chest, tucked the axe into his belt, then put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay. Short time.”
No use begging him not to go, not to leave her. What would happen to her if he failed to return? She buried her nose in the cloak, inhaling his comforting scent.
Ekaterina waddled over to her. “All shall be well,” she crooned.
More than a hundred longboats sat at anchor and shorebirds danced on the wind, calling raucously, yet the silence seemed overwhelming. Cathryn could barely make out the boats with the women at the end of the line, but sensed they too were praying to their gods for the safe return of the men.
It occurred to her that this was an opportunity to flee. The lone sailor wouldn’t leave his post on the boat.
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