Anna Markland - Viking Roots Medieval Romance Saga 02 by The Rover Defiant

hem and sleeves. A circular silver pin at his shoulder held in place a short sheep’s wool cloak, which was odd given the summer heat. An impressive bronze sword hung on his hip, its battle scars an indication it had belonged to his father.
    He was taller than she remembered. Torstein had spoken proudly of his blossoming friendship with this boy she’d played with as a child and who’d grown into an attractive man. She cringed inwardly at his desperate anger if he learned Sven had come a-wooing.
    A lead weight pressed on her heart.
    Her father stood with his hands clasped behind his back. “Here she is,” he announced.
    She wondered why her normally confident sire sounded nervous. Perhaps it was frustration at not leaving to fight with the army prompting him to state the obvious.
    He cleared his throat, appeared ready to speak, then coughed into his hand once more before he spoke. “The Yngre’s have come with a proposal.”
    Does it include a sweet feather bed?
    Clearly, she was losing her wits. She looked at Sven, then quickly averted her gaze. His eyes shone with the same longing she saw in Torstein’s eyes, the same hope. The desperate notion they had come to discuss something other than a bride alliance faded.
    Her belly lurched. The prospect of marriage to Sven loomed as a long nightmare. She was incapable of returning the ardor burning in his eyes. They would destroy each other. It would be a fate worse than the loveless marriage of Ingeborg and Arval.
    She swayed, her head spinning. If only she had something to hold on to. A peculiar vision of her friend Cathryn surged into her head.
    Saint Catherine, pray for me.
    “Why does she pray to a Christian saint?” Sven’s mother asked, scowling at Sonja’s father.
    Mortified that she had evidently uttered the prayer out loud, she was filled with regret for causing the dejection on Sven’s face. She dove into a diatribe about Cathryn’s copper triptych, explaining the martyr’s fate at the hands of Emperor Maxentius, and the steadfast faith of Sister Ekaterina who was reported to be over a century old. She might have mentioned the flatulence problem before expounding on Rollo’s mandate for the Vikings to convert, and she was doing her best to combine the Norse gods with—
    Her father’s incredulous glare silenced her, but her trembling hands were beyond her control. Sven was taller than Torstein, possibly fairer of face, probably stronger, and he didn’t carry the taint of thralldom. But he wasn’t Torstein, and, for whatever reason, the gods had decided Torstein was her destiny. Mayhap if Sven deemed her a lunatic, he’d lose interest in the idea of marrying her.
    Long minutes crawled by in oppressive silence.
    “Sonja is nervous,” her father said.
    Sven took a step towards her. If he came too close she might be sick. Retching on the black tunic would be considered a profound insult.
    Thankfully, her father waved him away. “Sonja is distraught, like everyone. On the morrow we send our glorious warriors off to war. Frits and Kennet are still in the west. Ingeborg is hysterical over Arval’s departure, and you too will join the fight, Sven.”
    Sven’s mother beamed a smile at her son, who still looked perplexed at Sonja’s behavior.
    Her father coughed again. “I propose we accept this bride alliance in theory and ratify it on your return from the battle front.”
    She wanted to rain kisses on her father’s face, but then he’d think for certain she had completely lost her wits. “ Ja! ” she blurted out. “When you return.”
    She turned and fled, leaving her father to deal with the visitors.

FAREWELL BRAVE VIKINGS
    Hundreds of brightly colored pennants flapped in the stiff breeze blowing off the Seine. Row upon row of longboats lay at anchor, packed with men, horses, weapons and provisions. Leaning on her father’s arm as she stood on tiptoe, Sonja craned her neck over the crowd assembled to see off the army, searching for a last