“What are they like?” Color faintly tinged her cheeks. “I would know how they treat their women.”
“Do not worry overlong on it. Generally, they are good to their families, though I would warn you of one thing — the More Danico.”
He rubbed a bristly chin. “You see, in their homeland, a man may take as many wives as he can afford. They are a rather polygamous lot by nature. Even when they embrace our Christian faith, they are reluctant to lay aside this custom, and simply keep handfast wives alongside their legal ones.”
“Paramours?”
“In essence. But fear not. Any issue of your union with Atli will be his legitimate heir to Valsemé. You must face the possibility, however, that he may keep other women as well.”
“Do not concern yourself for my sake. I almost welcome it. Perhaps he will desire their favors over mine and not bother me overmuch.”
Brother Bernard knew that any full-blooded male could not soon forget the exquisite creature that rode next to him. He diverted the conversation into a lighter vein.
“Would it amuse you to learn a few words in the Norse tongue, perhaps a simple greeting that you can share on the morrow?”
The ensuing hours slipped pleasantly by as Brienne contorted her tongue around an impossible combination of sounds, laughing at her ineptitude.
Later, with the camp settled for the night and the coarse provisions eaten, Brienne made her only request of the journey, water for a bath.
She had to content herself with a scrubbing from a large basin set inside her tent. Aleth worked long soaping and rinsing Brienne’s hair till it squeaked clean. It took several more hours to dry the silken mass before the campfire.
»«
Esternay watched intently from a distance. Thus far, he had avoided Brienne altogether during the journey, lest she stir his wrath anew. Now he found that it was not his ire that she kindled, but his naked desire.
The simple gown she had donned after bathing clung to her damp, lush curves, and her delicately boned features were pleasantly flushed by the warmth of the fire. As she combed out her glorious black mane, he craved to wrap it about his arm and trap her softness beneath him. She’d infected his blood, turning his veins to fire.
He growled deep in his throat, damning Richard Beaumanoir in his grave once again. The girl should have been his. His! And despite her troublesome nature, he meant to have her.
He stroked his beard thoughtfully, reassessing his carefully laid plans, plans that would one day assure him control of Valsemé itself, right in the midst of the Normans. Brienne was the key to those designs.
He continued to watch the maid, deciding upon his course and how best to press his advantage. Most likely, she would be as desirous of the liaison as he. His offer, of course, was irresistible. Freedom from the Norman yoke, and rule of the barony.
He smiled, skimming a glance over her inviting curves once again. Of course, there was a price, but he held no doubt that she would prefer his touch to those of a Norse jackal. Indeed, her terror of the Norsemen would serve him well. Esternay measured Brienne closely, confidently, as she chatted with the little cripple, her laughter a soft melody against the night. She was a delectable morsel, and one he intended to savor for many years to come.
»«
At length, Brienne returned to her tent. She collapsed on her pallet, refreshed and tingling to the tips of her toes, and quickly nodded off.
As the night skies lifted their heavy veils, Brienne nudged Aleth awake to begin preparations for the new day.
Dashing her face with cool water, she wondered briefly of Gruel Atli and whether he would be present among his men. No mention of it had been made. Still, she must leave nothing to chance.
In a few short hours, the escort would pass into Normandy and her life would change forevermore. Brienne knew if she was to succeed in influencing these people, she must establish herself at the outset. Today, she represented her kingdom as Frank met Norman, but even more, she embodied the very essence of Valsemé. She was part of a yesterday that once was, a part that would triumph again in that joining.
God grant her strength. Despite the nobility of the cause, the reality truly repulsed her.
Time slipped swiftly away and the call to mount their steeds sounded. Esternay strode boldly to the women’s tent smiling inwardly to himself as he envisioned Brienne recoiling before her new masters when he presented her to them later that day. He would seize the moment and salve her fears, offering her fresh hope, and more, oh, so much more.
Moments later he swallowed that smugness as Brienne stepped forth from her tent.
She was stunningly gowned in a rich tunic, deeply cut and the color of a fine crimson wine. Unlike the voluminous garments currently favored, the gown molded her contours snugly then fell gracefully to her knees over an ivory chemise. Both were lavishly embroidered about the neck, sleeves, and hem with wide borders of purest gold thread. An exquisite girdle, studded with garnets and pearls, lay atop her hips, accentuating her tiny waist.
Brienne’s ebony tresses cascaded luxuriantly past her shoulders like a midnight waterfall, crowned with a circlet of gold. The band was set with a single gemstone, a large ruby, centered above her brows. To the back, the circlet secured a sheer golden veil that fell in misty layers nearly to the ground.
Esternay stared greedily at the vision before him. Soon, my dove, soon.
»«
The entourage abandoned the old Roman road, which it had followed for nearly a week, proceding now along a much narrower route that wound through lush meadowland and open orchards.
Brother Bernard joined the women, who were still ensconced in the center of the escort, offering his encouragement and briefly reviewing the greeting Brienne had prepared in the Norse tongue.
A short while later, the retinue entered a little valley where its steeply sloping sides cradled the ruins of a once palatial Roman villa.
As the horses and carts cautiously descended the rutted road, Brienne spied a great gnarled tree near the ruins, incredible in size, impossibly massive in its girth.
“Yggdrasil,” she marveled softly.
Brother Bernard had taught her a smattering of the Norse religious beliefs to break the monotony of their journey. This mammoth oak recalled his tales of the great World Ash of Asgard, Yggdrasil, a gigantic tree bearing up the universe. Among its numerous fascinations were two wells located beneath its roots.
Mimir watched over the Well of Wisdom, and it was to him that Odin sacrificed an eye for a draught of the magical pool. The Norns dwelt by the Well of Fate and tended men’s destinies. Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld by name, they personified the Past, Present, and Future.
How appropriate, Brienne reflected, for undoubtedly this was the rendezvous. What mischief did the Fates weave for her?
She quickly scanned the grounds below and caught sight of a large host of men mounting their steeds near the crumbling walls and reassembling beneath the mighty oak, Normans to be sure, red and golden of hair. An icy finger of memory traced down her spine.
As the Frankish column neared the bottom of the valley, the road straightened and Brienne could no longer see ahead past the hulking soldiers. Shortly, the retinue came to a standstill and waited to be signaled forward. She surmised that Esternay was now advancing with his select retainers to meet the Norman complement in the open field.
Brienne bit her lower lip. The moment was at hand and she did not know if she could still her pounding heart.
Time weighed heavily upon their idleness. The men’s saddles creaked as they strained to see, and they mumbled among themselves. Ghostly images of a smiling, black-haired heathen floated before her mind’s eye, and she fought down her rising panic as the aromas of grasses, horses, and leather bombarded her senses.
Leveque suddenly appeared at her side, his pride and concern for her reflected clearly in his hazel eyes.
“We have spoken with the Normans, my lady. You are bid forward to make your presence kn
own.”
Brienne froze momentarily, unable to move. She watched dazedly as the troops parted on command to either side of the road, creating a pathway before her. Aleth squeezed her hand, then extracted the whining pup from its basket. Leveque nodded solemnly for her to begin.
Swallowing hard, she pressed Candra forward, feeling much like a lamb approaching a den of hungry wolves.
For the love of God, for the love of my people, she chanted silently, over and over. Dear God, do not abandon me.
As she approached the front of the Frankish lines, Brienne gained her first close look at the men of the North. Larger than the Franks and powerful in build, they were not wholly unpleasant to look upon. They were a fair-haired lot for the most part, and not a few favored scarlet mantles.
Brienne continued toward Esternay and Brother Bernard who sat astride a roan and a gray, conversing with the Norse leader, entirely blocking her view of the man. She wondered wildly if this was Gruel Atli.
Her pulse quickened and her mind raced, barely capable of coherent thought. She dropped her gaze, feeling stripped bare under the curious stares and open assessment of the Norman host.
With a start, she realized that Esternay and Brother Bernard had reined their mounts aside. She was left face-to-face . . . with whom?
Slowly, Brienne lifted her eyes but for a moment could go no further than the powerful stallion, as satiny black as Candra was silken white. Then, inhaling deeply, she willed her eyes upward over the expansive chest and astonishingly wide shoulders to look fully upon the Norseman’s countenance.
She could not breathe for several seconds, only stare speechless. Never had she seen such a man. Like some glorified hero acclaimed in the legends of old, he was a magnificent golden warrior. Dear God, why did he have to be a Norman!
His steel-blue eyes locked with hers and an energy passed between them, igniting ripples of warmth through her trembling limbs. She wondered breathlessly if this was the man who held her future.
He released his gaze then swept an appreciative glance downward to her feet and back again, like a gentle caress. She flushed warmly as he paused at her breasts. Shockingly, they grew taut under his intimate appraisal. His eyes widened a fraction, and for a moment Brienne wondered if it were possible to die of acute embarrassment.
How dare he examine her like some prize bauble! Did males never see more to a woman than a passive plaything to warm their beds? Well, passive she was not. She was fully capable of returning like for like. When his eyes captured hers again, she smiled winsomely and initiated her own bold perusal of his splendid frame.
Briefly, she traced over the finely hewn features and square set of his jaw, lingering at the enticing cleft of his chin. She moistened her lips then allowed her gaze to slip lower, skimming over the sleeveless suede jerkin of dove-gray to explore thickly muscled arms wrapped in the spiral embrace of silver arm bracelets.
As her eyes roamed across the flat abdomen, Esternay cleared his throat sharply. Her eyes flew upward and were claimed at once by the Norman’s captivating smile and a quizzically arched brow. Brienne bestowed a full smile upon the golden man, catching in her side vision the ominous scowl that now darkened Esternay’s mien.
“Velkominn.” The voice was beautifully rich.
Brother Bernard hastened to make the introductions. “My lady, may I present to you Rurik, eldest son of Gruel Atli. He bids you welcome.”
Disappointment crushed down on her, but she fought to not betray her feelings. How could she have been so childish to hope for even an instant that this man was her betrothed? She puzzled at the strong, physical response he evoked from her, causing her to forget that he was a Northman and deserving of all her hatred. Yet he was a man all the same. Flesh and blood, was that not what the good monk said?
“My lady, he bids you welcome,” Brother Bernard prompted, urging with his look that she should begin her speech.
A thousand thoughts swirled through Brienne’s mind. Her lips parted then closed, the strands of memories demanding a new course. She lifted her chin and met his gaze directly.
“I am Brienne Beaumanoir, by birthright Baronne de Valsemé. ‘Tis I who bid you welcome to my ancestral homeland and to those lands your people now claim. May the Norman rule prove wise and worthy of my forefathers.”
Brother Bernard’s eyes rounded. “My lady, we dare not provoke — “
“Tell him exactly.” Her tone brooked no argument.
Brother Bernard grumbled to himself, then began conveying her message in the odd tongue. A gleam lit in Rurik’s eyes, and his reply set the monk to sputtering.
“My lady, Rurik thanks you for your generous greeting. He asks that you would settle a question that plagues him overmuch.”
Brienne nodded.
“Forgive me, my lady, these Normans are rather blunt — “
Brienne frowned, impatient.
“He wonders why a woman so beautiful and, ahem . . . obviously desirable as yourself was locked away in a house of virgins.”
Brienne’s mouth dropped open, but she quickly recovered herself as a surge of mischievousness bubbled up. “My father sought to save me from the Northmen.”
As the reply was translated, Rurik smiled broadly, showing even white teeth, then issued a rejoinder. Brother Bernard blustered incoherently for a moment.
“My lady, he says, to the contrary; ‘twould seem your father saved you for the Northmen.”
Esternay sliced through the repartee, barely suppressing the fury that consumed him. The chit slavered over the heathen like a bitch in heat!
“Enough of your bantering, Lady Brienne. You are dismissed. Return to your position in the column at once.”
His words stunned Brienne. “My lord, if I have offended any — “
“Offended?” Esternay snapped. “You are either amazingly naive or appallingly wanton. If you continue to encourage the man, you’ll next find him between your thighs!”
Brienne recoiled at his crassness, astounded. Had the man gone utterly mad?
Brother Bernard gasped, his eyes darting nervously over the towering Normans. “My lord, ‘tis unwise — “
“Silence!” Esternay hissed, emboldened since the foreigners could not understand his Frankish tongue. He glowered at Brienne. “We shall finish this matter later. Your years in cloister have left you surprisingly lacking in the finer points of gentility.” He signaled brusquely for one of his men-at-arms to remove her.
Rurik suddenly spurred his mount forward between the maid and menacing knight, catching up Candra’s reins and swiftly drawing Brienne aside.
Esternay’s hand flew to his sword hilt, but the monk stayed him.
Rurik glared coldly at the Frank, the blue tinge of his eyes draining to a flinty gray. When next he spoke, Brienne detected a dangerous undercurrent to his incomprehensible words.
“Sire, we are to depart at once.” Brother Bernard mopped his brow. “The Lady Brienne is to ride with Rurik and an escort equal in number of Normans and Franks. He bids you choose ten.”
“Tell this arrogant bastard that I represent the king,” Esternay snarled. “The lady is my charge and shall remain under my protection until she is wed. I’ll share her with no cockscomb of a Northman till then.”
Rurik’s eyes glinted like polished steel. Before another word could be uttered, he bellowed a string of commands.
Two dozen of his men promptly encircled the small group of Franks that stood in the open field, hands poised, ready to unsheathe their blades.
Brienne wavered at the sight and searched Rurik’s stony face.
The monk hastily signed himself. “Seigneur, ‘twas no request. We are in Normandy now.”
Chapter 4
Brienne spent the next hour reconstructing the tense scene that had erupted at the ruins, wondering what she had done to provoke Lord Robert’s reckless display of temper. In a corner of her heart, she marveled at Rurik’s keen perception and rapid command of the situation, claiming her from Est
ernay’s side in a daring gesture that was as startling as it was perplexing.
Of course it was her fault. She was much too bold. The troublesome trait had caused her countless embarrassments and had inspired many a lengthy sermon on the modest virtues befitting gentlewomen.
After years in cloister, Brienne tended to view everyone as her peer. She was unaccustomed to dealing with men, let alone this fearsome breed. How should one react to such as they, long-standing enemy to the kingdom, now the crown’s ally? Brienne sighed. How should she behave toward a man who could steal her breath away and set her heart to racing with a single look? She glanced ahead at Rurik’s powerful back and gilded mane as he rode easily astride his mount. How indeed.
Rurik kept his silence after departing the ruins, never quite allowing the Seigneur d’Esternay beyond his field of sight. The day held many surprises thus far, the most pleasurable being the mysterious lady from the Frankish holy house.
He did not fathom this custom of shutting away maidens and half expected the bride to suffer some odious malady. Atli’s lack of concern did little to ease his apprehensions, but then his father was more familiar with these Christian practices, even accepting their religion alongside the old gods.
He, on the other hand, had spent the years past chasing adventure and trading among different peoples in the far reaches of the world. He was prímsigned, of course, so that he might deal with the Christian merchants. But beyond this quasi form of baptism, which involved no more than a cross being signed upon the brow, he knew little of their curious rites.
Rurik invoked Brienne’s sweet image and her innocent response to him. Loki must be laughing that this beautiful girl was to become his stepmother. Were she destined for anyone save his father, he would not think twice on sweeping her away in his ship to some hidden nest.
Brienne was absorbed in her thoughts as the retinue passed through the undulating hillsides and broad green valleys of the Perche. Horses grazed idly in rolling pastures, and the fragrance of peach and apple blossoms from nearby orchards delicately scented the air.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 5