Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 Read Free Page B

for Torstein welled up in her throat. “But he is your nephew, Bryk. He led the revolt and helped save my life. You freed him, yet you still treat him like a servant.”
    He shifted his weight, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation. “It’s the only life he’s known.”
    She regretted the anxiety she was causing, but the injustice burned in her belly. “And that’s all he’ll ever know if you don’t take him under your wing. Your brother’s blood flows in his veins. He’s a cousin to the babe you can’t take your eyes off and would probably fight to the death in defense of your son. He’s demonstrated his courage.”
    He rubbed his thumb along his chin. “You’re right. He would likely sacrifice his life for me and you, but you cannot expect me to change the habits of a lifetime overnight.”
    She lifted her sated son over her shoulder and patted his back. “You became a Christian overnight.”
    The bleak look in his eye told her she’d gone too far. Bryk may have embraced Christianity, but hadn’t abandoned the Norse gods, and probably never would.
    She patted his hand. “Forgive me. I’m too impatient.”
    He came to his feet, reached for Magnus and lifted him over his shoulder. “No. You have a big heart and you hold onto what you believe is right like a dog with a juicy bone.”
    She laughed. “Like Saint Catherine.”
    “It’s one of the things I love about you,” he whispered.

    Alfred and Hannelore still dwelt in the main Viking camp because the house under construction on the banks of the Seine was only partially finished when Alfred had left with the army.
    Wedged into his corner of their canvas shelter, Torstein lay awake in the darkness, listening to his uncle’s loud snoring on the other side of the threadbare dividing blanket hanging from the ceiling support.
    The noise wasn’t keeping him awake; he’d slept through worse.
    The ten children clustered around him like peas in a pod were sound asleep, limbs tangled.
    He clasped his hands behind his head, thinking back to the babe he’d held a few hours earlier.
    Confused emotions had surfaced with the birth of Bryk’s boy. Magnus—the son of a Frank and a Viking, born in the new Land of the Norsemen—was the harbinger of a new race. He would probably never experience the brutal hardships of a Norwegian winter, nor the breathtaking beauty of a northern fjord.
    Cathryn would be a fine mother, but the notion filled Torstein with inexplicable sadness. Bryk’s wife had proven to be a strong ally. He was certain that without her influence he would not have been granted his freedom.
    Cathryn was his champion, but she wasn’t his mother who was lost to him forever. It was difficult to understand why the notion bothered him. Marian had been a terrified child when she’d given birth.
    But the certainty that Magnus would experience the love of a father and mother who adored him underscored his loss in a way he’d never allowed himself to consider before.
    He sniffled, swallowing a sob lodged in his throat, but another followed, and soon he was biting into the flesh of his fist, his face pressed into the canvas as grief racked him.
    In his lonely despair, one thing became clear. He’d been given an opportunity for a new life in Francia, but if he wanted to enjoy the fruits of freedom, things would have to change. He could no longer live a half-life between two worlds. He would defy the odds and prove he was worthy of being accepted as a true Viking.
    At least Bryk had allowed him into the gathering to welcome the new babe. It was a beginning, and if he ever sired a child of his own—
    He conjured an image of a babe born of a union between him and Sonja Karlsdatter. Would he have his father’s dark features or be fair like—
    He clenched his fists, inhaling deeply to calm his turmoil. Sonja lived in that other world to which he’d been denied entry. She had a wealthy father and two belligerent brothers who would strike him dead