Uppermost in his mind was the nature of Esternay’s and Brienne’s alliance. He could not quite grasp their game. During the marriage negotiations, the Frankish envoy disclosed that Beaumanoir’s eldest daughter resided in a religious community at Levroux, having been there for nearly a decade. Lyting witnessed her there and assured Atli that she was an acceptable bride. He made no remark upon her person, nor did he praise her as being fair of face. Oddly, with a sparkle in his eye that was not lost on Rurik, he urged that coin be spared to gown the new baronne, stating that she had been reduced to the meanest of attire, unbefitting her new station.
But Brienne was uncommonly beautiful and exquisitely robed, more like a lagskona, a lover, than a cloistered maid. Lagskona! The word jolted him. Rurik’s mind flew back to earlier that day when first they met. Was she not forward, boldly appraising him till Esternay exploded in a fit of jealousy? Then there was the knight’s undisguised appetite for the woman. Was it possible that Brienne, in truth, was not Beaumanoir’s daughter but the Frank’s paramour?
White-hot anger blazed through him, and he stabbed his blade into the ground with a solid thrust. His chest heaved as he fought down foul images of the lovers entwined. Yet in his mind’s eye, Brienne’s form refused to clarify itself and play the vixen.
Rurik pulled loose the sword, reconsidering. Brienne had valiantly defended the villagers without regard to herself. Then, too, there was Bolsgar. The man undoubtedly recognized the maid and bore her genuine respect. If Brienne was the heiress, would she bed her sister’s husband?
Rurik frowned and resheathed his sword. His arguments were running full circle, devouring one another till they scarce made sense at all. He vowed to lay bare the truth this night and be done with it. There was one who could be trusted.
»«
Brother Bernard quaffed down a liberal measure of amber liquid, then sighed contentedly as the last effects of the dusty, travel-worn day were cleansed away. The heady brew was undoubtedly one of the more commendable achievements of the Nordic brethrens. An unsuppressed belch gave credence to his thoughts.
“I see you have a taste for Norman beer.” Rurik’s shadow fell across the stout monk, a wide grin splitting his face. “But, tell me, have you sampled this fair beauty?” He held aloft an unusual flask of azure glass fitted with an ornate silver closure. “A temptress from the courts of Byzantium.”
“Ah, my son, have you not heard? I am a celibate man.” His sea-green eyes danced beneath unkempt brows.
“Then we must remedy your sad condition at once.” Rurik crouched down and produced two carved cups. “But be warned, she is a potent wench.”
“A devil-woman, eh? Females are a deceptive lot, are they not.”
“Precisely my concern.”
Chapter 5
Rurik winced at the light of day and cupped his tender head in his hands. Spying a bucket of water in the corner of the tent, he moved gingerly from his pallet and doused his head. The startling iciness brought him instantly to his feet, gasping sharply and groping blindly about for a cloth.
Throaty laughter erupted nearby.
Rurik opened one eye and peered through his dripping locks at the bemused face of Ketil Blunt-nose, thrust through the flap of his tent.
“You’re a wretched sight.” A toothy grin spread beneath the man’s decidedly flat nose, obviously resculpted numerous times since birth. “Wasn’t sure what mischief you were about when I found you outside the bridal tent last night, smiling like a besotted pup. Brought you here before you could disgrace yourself.”
Rurik ignored the jovial giant and grunted. “Feels like Thor has taken his hammer, Mjollnir, to my skull.”
Ketil clapped him soundly on the back, chuckling as the younger man groaned in misery.
“‘Tis good that you can feel at all. I’ve heard sorrowful tales of those who abuse that cursed brew you were swilling. And with a holy man, no less! Have you not heard? We’ve taken the Christian baptism while you were away.”
“Don’t be fooled by his cross, friend. The monk’s capacity rivals your own.”
“Indeed?” Ketil stroked the flaming red hair fringing his battle-scarred face. “A man worth the acquaintance.”
“Later. First, I would have that bundle I entrusted to you.”
“The brooches? But I have not yet put the runes to them. Are they not for Katla?”
“She has many baubles already and I have others. Atli bid me choose a welcoming gift for his bride, and the brooches will suit her well.
Ketil nodded thoughtfully. “They are a fitting ornament for one so fair. Does she find favor with you, then?”
Rurik smiled to himself, recalling the evening’s exchange with Brother Bernard.
After several rounds of the fiery drink, Rurik had inquired of the heiress’s journey from Levroux, then discreetly questioned her reception of the marriage offer. Refilling their vessels, he probed more pointedly, seeking to verify Brienne’s true identity and unveil her motives for accepting wedlock with his father.
When he dared suggest that there was something unseemly, perhaps even intimate about her relationship with Esternay, the monk came out of his cups, hurling a score of slurred oaths and waving his little sword about in feeble defense of the lady’s besmirched virtue. Rurik had to sacrifice the remainder of the flask to calm the outraged man, who had then proceeded to relate a most remarkable, albeit somewhat incoherent tale of the beautiful maid.
Rurik’s smile broadened as he envisioned Brienne boldly defying the Frankish Knight. “A Beaumanoir to the last,” the churchman had proclaimed, “full of spit and fire. No fainthearted damsel, that one. Nay, she spurned the king’s champion and bore his wrath upon that tender frame . . .” The clouded reference was lost in a trail of mutterings as the monk drained his cup.
It pleased Rurik enormously that he had so misjudged Brienne. He shifted his attention back to Ketil, who eyed him speculatively.
“Let us say that the night’s revelations are well worth my present discomfort. Now, if you will stop gawking and bring me the parcel, Brother Bernard undoubtedly requires assistance this morn.” Rurik pulled on a fawn-colored jerkin. “And I have need of his skilled tongue.”
»«
“Hurry, Brienne! The Norman approaches.”
Brienne stepped quickly past Aleth and slipped a glance through the tent flap. Rurik stood several paces away, his broad back facing her as he gestured to someone in the distance.
“Quickly, Aleth.” She motioned to the coffer that stood open against the tent’s thin wall. “Sister’s medicant.”
Aleth snatched up a small earthen pot and deftly smoothed its contents over the discolored bruise that marred Brienne’s jawline. “ ‘Tis nearly gone. None will notice.”
Brienne emitted a small sigh. ‘Twould do no good to draw attention to the matter, she thought. ‘Twas her sharp tongue that won the knight’s token. Sister Ursuline cleverly concocted a curative, a cream tinted with flesh-colored pigment, to conceal the telltale marks and hasten the healing.
‘Tis a shame we are unable to apply this balm to your arms, but the stain it bears would ruin your gowns,” Aleth remarked, completing her ministrations.
Brienne nodded, remembering Lord Robert’s viselike grip as he dragged her from the scullery and hurled her to the floor of her cell. Ugly discolorations had appeared, creating perfect imprints of his punishing fingers. In truth, those marks were far more unsightly than the blemish she suffered upon her face, but at least her arms were easily covered.
Brienne adjusted her deep blue tunic and secured the falcon-crested girdle about her slim hips.
“Wait!” Aleth draped the couvre-chef over Brienne’s crown of braids. “There be no horses between the two of you now, and you may find the Northman but a hair’s breadth apart. The scarf will help hide our handiwork.”
Aleth made a slight adjustment to the drape of the scarf, bobbed her head in approval, then swept open the tent’s portal. Before Brienne could
move, Aleth stumbled backward, trampling Brienne’s toes.
“Sweet Jesu!” she gasped, crossing herself swiftly.
Brienne followed Aleth’s gaze to a giant of a man with flaming red hair. He dwarfed his companion, Brother Bernard, whose eyes surprisingly matched the giant’s fiery mane.
Brienne swallowed and, tugging along the gaping Aleth, willed her feet forward.
A movement caught the corner of her eye, and she turned to see Rurik. The bitter smile of yestereve was banished to some distant plane. Now his eyes crinkled in amusement at her anxious regard of his rugged friend. Rurik’s high spirits amazed Brienne, her curiosity mounting as he retrieved a small bundle from the giant and slipped away the wrappings.
“By your leave, my lady,” said the monk, his voice more gritty than usual. “Atli honors your forthcoming marriage to him with this small offering.”
Resting in Rurik’s hands were two golden brooches, large convex ovals covered with lavish decoration.
“They are exquisite,” she breathed, lifting one brooch and examining its extraordinary craftsmanship. Finely wrought threads of gold swirled over the surface, twisting and knotting and coiling in the vigorous patterns so beloved by the Norse. Brienne fingered the pearllike grains of gold encrusting the design. Truly, the work was without equal. A pin was cleverly hidden beneath the shell of the brooch, and Brienne thought, as she reversed the ornament and cradled it in her hand, that it resembled a small, elegant bowl.
Brienne smiled her pleasure. The brooches were chosen with great care and cost. In truth, they seemed more a gift of Rurik than the faceless Atli. The few personal adornments Rurik wore rivaled the brooches by their own magnificence.
A riot of gold filigree and granulation embellished the large buckle at his waist, while five large garnets further enhanced it. His spiral arm rings were fashioned from ropes of silver twisted together. Closer inspection revealed them to be serpents entwined, their heads gleaming with small emerald-chip eyes. Even his sword was unsurpassed, its pommel bearing beak-headed creatures and the silver hilt chased with ribbons of black niello.
Perhaps a woman’s logic hath no reason, but in her heart of hearts she knew, ‘twas Rurik who selected her gift and none other.
Her gaze met his and the day seemed a little brighter, the sun shone a little warmer, and the world appeared yet more beautiful. Suddenly, she wished to please him in some small way.
“Aleth, search my coffer for the scarlet mantle.” Her eyes sparkled. “I would show the brooches to their best advantage.”
»«
Hours later, the entourage picked its way over the rolling countryside. Rurik held ever near, and Brienne’s only encounter with Lord Robert was when she received a scathing glance for displaying the Nordic finery so prominently upon her person. She counted it a small triumph that her gesture goaded the knight, for she remained sorely pricked by the liberties he had taken with her the night before.
Brienne slid her fingers over the golden brooch securing her cloak. A Norsewoman’s attire required two brooches, explained Brother Bernard, thus she’d been gifted with a matching pair. ‘Twas disappointing that her Frankish dress could utilize only one of the splendid ornaments at a time.
As a village appeared in the distance, Rurik conducted Brienne to the front of the column, setting her at his side. Again, the villagers clamored to greet Valsemé’s heiress. This time, no swords were drawn and the soldiers kept their distance as the crowd thronged Brienne.
Outwardly, the Frankish lands seemed unchanged by their new Norman masters. But it was here, among the people, that the transformation was most apparent. Flaxen-haired babes clung to their mothers’ gowns, while strong Frankish youths were strangely absent, having sought their fortunes apart from Normandy. Along the fringes of the crowd stood the newest inhabitants of the village, tall fair-haired Northmen, silently observing the unaccountable scene before them.
The villeins engaged Brienne with their praises and petitions. As she reached down to accept a small posey of flowers, a hand suddenly gripped hold of her forearm.
“Save yourself, my lady! Flee to the winds!” a woman cried out, her eyes red and swollen. “No maid is safe from these rutting boars.”
The woman’s face crumpled then, and she began to sob in earnest.
“My daughter . . . my only child. Ravished she was, and her father cut down when he sought to protect her.” The woman shook her head, tears streaming from her eyes. “The swine carried her away and now my husband lies dying from the bite of a Norse blade.” With renewed vigor she squeezed Brienne’s arm tighter. “Save yourself if you can!”
Brienne cast the woman a sharp look. “Where lies your husband?”
The woman pointed toward a mean hut. “God have mercy, I aided him best I could, but his leg is gashed to the bone and filled with infection. He rages with fever and knows me not at all.”
Without hesitation, Brienne dismounted and pressed through the crowd.
As she paused on the portal of the one-room dwelling, a foul stench assailed her nostrils. Determined, she caught up her mantle to her face and crossed to the thrashing form on the pallet.
The man clutched his blankets close about him as though he were whipped by an icy wind. Yet his flesh was ablaze with fever. Thrashing from side to side, he fought imaginary creatures in his delirium.
Brienne struggled to free the covers from his grasp, ducking a fraction too late as he lashed out at an unseen specter and next found herself sprawled on the dirt floor.
Strong hands lifted her from behind and set her to her feet.
She turned and swayed into Rurik’s chest. He steadied her, concern etching his face, and she thought her legs would give way again as his arms tightened protectively about her.
It seemed an eternity before he released her, though scarcely a moment had passed. Rurik moved quickly to the pallet and held down the bedeviled man, allowing Brienne to draw back the blankets. Her fingers trembled, though not from the grim sight that greeted her.
A viscous yellowish substance oozed through the man’s leg wrappings, its putrid odor near choking her. By contrast, the bandages binding his side appeared clean and unsullied.
Brienne regained her concentration and turned to the woman who stood wringing her hands and bemoaning her misfortune.
“Build the fire and set water to boiling, then get my woman, Aleth,” Brienne ordered.
Unclasping her brooch, she shrugged off her mantle, folded it and set it aside. She next pulled away the head scarf, freed her girdle, and slipped the fine tunic over her head.
Rurik watched as Brienne moved about the room, gathering clean cloths and inspecting the contents of various pots and jars sitting near the hearth.
He was momentarily transfixed as she stepped before the fire, unaware that her slender limbs were plainly silhouetted through the thin fabric of her chemise. He was further taxed when she bent to set her eating knife in the flames, presenting a most tempting view of her backside.
His grip tightened on the feverish man as he fought down the urge to sample the feast she so unwittingly set before him. Thor, but she tested him sorely! Brienne straightened just then. Raising her violet eyes to his, she smiled warmly in gratitude for his help. Rurik nearly groaned aloud.
Aleth’s appearance proved a welcome distraction, and Rurik hoped his torture was at an end. Ketil followed closely on her heels, bearing several small pouches. ‘Twas an odd sight — the massive Norseman hovering about the frail, limping girl. There seemed no need for words as Ketil did Aleth’s bidding and laid the little bags on a small trestle near the hearth.
The two women set about mixing their poultices, while Ketil moved to relieve Rurik. Cloths were added to the steaming kettle and Brienne selected herbs from the pouches and crumbled them into goose grease. She tested several knives that she discovered among the kitchen implements, but found them dull and unusable. Before she could brood further over the matter, Rurik offered his own sharp blade.
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Settling down at the foot of the pallet, Brienne motioned Rurik to hold the man’s leg. Carefully, she cut away the bandages and laid open the festering wound. They were assaulted anew with the sickening stench of fouled flesh.
The leg was swollen to thrice its usual size, the mottled skin drawn so taut it appeared it would split open. The laceration ran long and deep, disgorging a vile fluid, while angry red streaks snaked outward. Gently, Brienne probed the gash. Rurik marveled at her calm and sense of purpose. Where another maiden might swoon or cry out at the repulsive sight, Brienne flinched not at all but bent silently to the task.
A moment later, Brienne sat back on her heels, uncertainty clouding her features as she addressed the woman. “I can save your husband, but I am not so certain of his leg.”
The hours passed slowly. The soldiers had long since been ordered to dismount, while inside the hut steaming cloths were applied again and again to draw the poisons from the corrupted limb. When Brienne was satisfied, she cleansed the wound painstakingly with herbal waters. All the while, she relied on Rurik’s and Ketil’s strength to keep the man immobile. At last she called for needle and thread, and stitched the tissue closed.
The maid was like no other, Rurik decided as he watched Brienne labor. She rivaled the beauties from the Northern fjords to the court of Byzantium. Yet for all her loveliness and noble blood, she did not turn from the unsavory, but plied her skills with care and compassion for the simplest of men. He knew many elegant and high-flown women, yet none demonstrated such selfless generosity or courage of heart.
Brienne packed the leg with a hot poultice and wrapped it in fresh linens. The side wound proved less troublesome but required a quick searing to safeguard it from infection.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 7