A Nun for the Viking Warrior
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Lucy Morris
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Chapter One
‘We won’t let the heathens take you!’ Sister Gabriel cried, almost hysterical. She gripped Amée Évreux’s arm painfully tight as they watched the wooden door shake with every strike of the battering ram. The sound echoed through the stone walls of the nunnery as if God Himself were knocking at the gate.
Except, of course, if it had been God Amée wouldn’t have been so fearful.
The abbess had refused the men entry as it was the middle of the night. They were obviously Norsemen and she’d been concerned for the safety of those within the cloister. Unfortunately, the men seemed unwilling to wait until dawn to speak with them.
Despite her own fear Amée gave her friend a comforting touch on the arm. ‘The door will hold—it’s been there for nearly a hundred years. It won’t fail us—not in our time of need.’ She tried to hide her shivering as she looked at the rest of her frightened sisters, offering what she hoped was a reassuring smile. They all looked at her as if she were mad.
Maybe she was?
An image of her distraught mother ripping up her father’s clothes came to mind and she briskly rubbed her arms for comfort as well as warmth. It was no wonder she was cold. She wore only her shift and the boots she’d hastily pulled on when the abbess had hauled her from her bed. Another friend passed her a blanket and she wrapped it around her shoulders with a grateful smile.
Abbess Berthild frowned at the trembling double doors as years of dust was shaken from its weathered hinges. ‘It will hold... At least until morning. Once their tempers have cooled, I’m sure they will be more reasonable in the light of a new day. There is a treaty now. They can no longer behave like animals!’
‘What’s going on?’ whispered one of the novices.
Sister Gabriel was helpfully quick to explain Amée’s impending doom. ‘His name is Jorund Jӧtunnson and he has come to take our poor Amée! He looks like the devil himself. As tall as a mountain and as broad as the sea!’ She made the holy sign with a quivering hand. Amée couldn’t blame her for being afraid. They’d all—in one way or another—seen the fury of the Norse as they’d burned through Francia. Bringing death and despair to all who stood in their path.
Was that why they were here?
Surely not. It was well known the nunnery had nothing of value, and why had the warrior asked for her specifically?
She tried to remain optimistic for the sake of her sisters. But each bang on the door was another blow to her equanimity. Would her own defences eventually crumble? She clutched the blanket tighter as her heart thundered louder and louder in her chest like a runaway horse.
Sister Gabriel continued—oblivious to Amée’s crisis of confidence. ‘He is one of Jarl Rollo’s men. He says Amée has been promised to him! Abbess Berthild has refused him entry until he can provide proof of this from our King.’
Everyone’s eyes turned towards Amée.
She looked up at the abbess. ‘Maybe I should go out and speak with him? It would be wrong to put you and the others at risk. Besides, maybe it’s a misunderstanding.’ How she prayed it was a misunderstanding! Otherwise, the future she’d worked so hard for would be lost. She smiled brightly. ‘Princess Gisla will know the truth of it...’
Bang!
‘And he can’t possibly refuse to speak with his overlord’s wife...’
Bang!
Her voice trailed off with each continued knock to the door. ‘She will understand and sort this whole mess out.’
Bang!
‘She considers me a friend. I was her companion for many years at court.’
Bang!
‘All will be well. I’m sure of it. A few calm, reasonable words with the...’
Bang!
‘...the man, and he’ll understand.’
Bang!
The abbess sniffed. ‘Absolutely not.’
The doors creaked and groaned.
Wide-eyed with horror, the sisters and novices of the nunnery watched as the oak began to bow under the strain. For many of the sisters, this was not the first time a Norseman had broken into their home. But with the recent treaty—which granted land and Princess Gisla’s hand in marriage to Jarl Rollo in return for protection against raids—they’d prayed those days of torment were behind them.
Apparently not.
With a deafening crack, both the hinges and the thick oak bar gave way. The double doors splitting and then falling to the ground like overripe figs.
The women lurched back in fright and a few of the serfs ran into the shadows seeking a place to hide. Several Norse warriors dressed in leathers burst into the cloister. Dropping the tree trunk they’d used as a hastily cut battering ram, they drew their swords and approached slowly with predatory intent, glistening with sweat and barely concealed rage.
‘Where is Amée Évreux?’ shouted the giant at the head of the group. He was the tallest man she had ever seen. She had to look up at most people, but he may as well have been sat on a horse for the way her neck had to bend backwards to see him clearly as he approached. He was battle-scarred, with a half-head of dark blond hair thickly coiled on top and braided down his back. The sides of his head were closely shorn, as was his face, revealing a strong jaw.
But it was his piercing blue eyes that cut down all her optimism and hope. They were as sharp and as deadly as the sword in his hand. There would be no negotiation, no reasoning or bargaining, with this man. Her knees became soft and she stumbled back a step.
‘Enough games!’ He snarled, his teeth almost wolf-like as shadows danced across his menacing face. ‘If I will not have your hospitality, I will have what I came for!’
He’s terrifying!
Amée watched him approach and her vision contracted. All else forgotten as he prowled forward with fierce masculinity. This man was all-powerful, and even worse, he knew it. The irritation cooled as he looked around at their pale faces, but he didn’t look ashamed of what he’d done—he looked...beautiful.
She blinked in confusion at her odd twist in thought, but it was true.
He was beautiful, in his own raw and wild way. In the same way Amée might admire a hawk swooping in for the kill or the flash of lightning. She shivered as she realised her fanciful notions were once again clouding her judgement.
How many times had her father beaten romantic notions out of her mother? Too many times to count...too many to bear.
She clenched her jaw and sucked in a deep breath to wash away the distracting ideas that swam freely in her head.
She had to focus on the facts.
He was a heathen raider who had no respect for God or women, only for blood and gold.
The enemy.
He raised his sword towards the abbess. The steel shone bright in the flickering flames of the sconces surrounding the entrance hall. ‘Where is she?’
The sight of her abbess being threatened was enough to spark the fiery temperament Amée struggled daily to control. She stepped in front of the sword. Unfortunately, because of her short stature, it still pointed above her head at the abbess. So, her gesture appeared futile. Regardless, she spoke with as much imperial command as she could muster. ‘I am Amée Évreux.’
‘You?’ He looked her up and down with barely concealed horror.
Amée tried not to take offence—after all, why should she care what this beast thought of her? She raised her chin defiantly. ‘How dare you enter this holy place with weapons raised? Even your leader, Rollo, has converted to Christ. He cannot condone such actions.’
He smiled, a flicker of respect crossing his features, and sheathed his sword. ‘I think you do not know the Jarl as well as I do, Lady Évreux. It’s good to finally meet you.’ His voice was a distant rumble of thunder that sent a shiver down her spine.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps not, but I am a dear friend of his wife, Princess Gisla. She would never approve—’
‘She is the one who sent me.’
It was a mistake! It had to be.
Amée felt the blood drain from her face and she clutched the blanket tighter around her shoulders. The chill of the forest air rushed in after their intruders, bringing with it the cold dread of familial duty she’d hoped was long forgotten.
‘I am to be wed to Christ,’ she whispered. Even as she said the words, she knew her life had changed forever in some terrible way. Her father had broken his promise. She was his chattel and always would be. The ghost of hope, a life free from her father, disappeared with her misty breath into the midnight air.
Jorund stepped forward. His arm ring shone in the candlelight as he reached with a calloused hand to brush the hair away from her face. The raven curls she usually kept tightly bound beneath a novice wimple and veil flowed around her in thick sleep-mussed waves. In less than a month her hair would have been roughly shorn, and she would have taken her vows. The restrictions and chains of her life as Lady Amée Évreux cast aside. Ahead only spiritual peace and obscurity.
Not the hell her mother suffered. Not marriage.
‘No.’ He sighed, as if he pitied her. ‘You’re going to be wed to me.’
Jorund stared at the young woman in front of him.
Why did she have to be so damn...small?
At first, he’d dismissed her as a child. Wrapped up in a huge blanket, with little worn-out boots peeping through the pools of rough wool gathered around her. But when she’d confronted him with a tilted jaw of defiance, he’d recognised her for what she truly was.
A beautiful noblewoman...albeit a very small one.
He tried his best to smother his disappointment. What had he expected? A giant like himself? Hardly likely amongst the Francia nobility. Yet there was strength there: she had the pitiful arrogance of a wolf pup that thought it was much bigger than it actually was.
He’d met her father very briefly at the signing of the treaty, and even after that short acquaintance he knew Lothair Évreux was as much of a trickster as Loki. No doubt it was why he’d been so slow and vague in his correspondence. Lothair had probably hoped she would have already taken holy orders before Jorund could find her. At least she didn’t appear anything like her father, the opposite, in fact—emotions and thoughts washed across her face without guard or pretence. It was refreshing.
His heart softened a little knowing how vulnerable she felt. But he could not give her hope. They would marry and he would have Évreux. His chance for a peaceful and respected life. A nervous bride would not stand in his way. She would learn he wasn’t the callous brute he appeared...eventually.
He shifted on the balls of his feet with a frown. He certainly felt like a callous brute at this moment.
‘You have no jurisdiction here, you heathen brute!’ snapped a strange woman from the side with a shrill voice and panicked eyes. He frowned and stared her down. It was odd that she’d used such similar phrasing to his own thoughts. The woman shrank into the shadows with a pitiful squeak.
So be it if they were afraid of him. Maybe he could get out of here quicker. He did so hate the Christian churches with their depressing images and draughty halls.
Why was he here? he asked himself again for the hundredth time. Because Princess Gisla begged her husband to grant her this favour.
Rollo would do anything for his beautiful bride. And Jorund would do anything for Rollo, who’d been more of a father to him than the wretched worm who’d sired him.
‘The treaty has been signed by your King. The land between the River Epte and the sea, as well as the Duchy of Brittany, belongs to Jarl Rollo. It includes Évreux, the land gifted to me through our marriage.’
Amée’s bitter voice interrupted him. ‘If it is Jarl Rollo’s land now, then why do you need my hand in marriage to rule it? Take it! It is mine only in title. I have not been there since I was a child, when your people first ransacked it.’
Her eyes spat fire as she spoke and he had the uneasy feeling his wife would not be as accommodating as Princess Gisla was to Rollo.
‘Because your Princess has commanded it,’ he answered with a shrug. It was true. The land was his by right, nothing could take it from him. But the Princess was determined to mix the blood of both their people in as many matches as she could arrange between the Norse and the Franks. She and Rollo wanted an enduring peace, and who could argue against that?
Amée began to choke on her words of denial, her breath speeding up with fear and panic. ‘No, I can’t... My father has given me permission to take holy orders... I’m to live here now...peacefully...and put aside my duties as a lady of the court. I... I...’ She looked at her abbess for guidance and was met by the sad shake of the woman’s head.
‘Your father now agrees with the Princess and has retracted his approval for you to live here.’ He gestured at the damp walls of the cloister with disgust. He would provide a better home for her than this. ‘I have a missive from him that confirms it.’
Jorund took out the scroll from his tunic but didn’t bother to offer it.
The abbess let out an exasperated hiss. ‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier? I would have granted you admittance if I’d known you had her father’s written permission!’
Jorund handed her the parchment. Eagerly she broke the seal and unfurled it. There was a reason why he hadn’t initially provided the scroll when he’d first reached the stone nunnery. He’d been cautious because he couldn’t read it—neither runes nor the written words of the Franks. It didn’t matter to him that he couldn’t read. However, he didn’t fully trust what the document actually said, especially as it had come directly from Lothair rather than Rollo. For all he knew, it would give the bearer permission to kill him and his warriors. But after breaking into the dismally fortified building, he’d quickly realised there were no archers or defence of any kind within the crumbling old walls. He had no reason to fear a counterattack.
He noticed Amée was staring up at him. A slow dawn of despair spread across her features. Big eyes, soft brown with flecks of gold within, were perceptive and glinted with barely concealed emotion. For all of her bluster and confidence, she was afraid, and that sat badly with him.
Unconsciously, he shifted his weight from side to side, a nervous habit from when he’d learned to fight as a child, constantly checking and rechecking his ever-changing balance. He bristled with irritation at the way she took the smallest of steps backwards, as if she were afraid of what he might do.
Was marrying him such a terrible fate? Maybe it was to her, he admitted.
A bit of reassurance, then.
He turned and waved forward the nervous priest he’d dragged along from Rouen. ‘I have brought a priest to perform the marriage ceremony. It will be a Christian ceremony. He washed me at the same time as he did Rollo. Didn’t you, Augustus?’ He slapped the man on his back good-naturedly, but the man was as light as a bird and would have fallen on his face if Jorund hadn’t quickly righted him.
Instead of looking reassured, Amée paled.
There was an awkward silence that lasted several of her gasping breaths and then she shouted, ‘No!’
The sudden burst of passionate refusal echoed around the arched hallway and rebounded at him with a hollow sound.
He stared at her dumbfounded. What could he say to that? He’d not expected her to be happy about the sudden change in her circumstances, but he’d expected her to at least accept both her father and the Princess’s decision.
‘Amée...’ said the gentle voice of her abbess.
But she shook her head and took a further step back.
‘No!’
She took another step and then another.
‘I won’t!’
Then she turned and ran.
