The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  “Nei. You neglected that piece of information, and well you know it,” Rurik retorted lightly. “Did you wish to make sport of me for having sent you to a house filled with women you could not touch?”

  The man laughed, his white smile slashing his bronzed face. “A cruel task to set for one bearing so passionate a nature. But, nei. You were so mulishly insistent that Frankish devilment was afoot — “

  “Brother Lyting?” Brienne knit her brows, staring at the man intently.

  The two men exchanged glances, then the younger man bowed gallantly. “By your leave, my lady.”

  Brienne looked from him to Rurik and back again. The facial resemblance was unmistakable. “You are kindred?”

  “Lyting is my brother,” Rurik confessed.

  “But where are your robes?” Brienne still could not grasp the whole of it.

  “Indeed. Where are your robes, brother?” Esternay challenged as he stepped forward, halting beside Brienne. “Pray enlighten us. Are Norse monks absolved from wearing the tonsure as well?”

  Lyting continued to smile easily as he shifted his stance and toyed with the hilt of his dagger. “Life is seldom as it appears, my lord.”

  “Is this how Norsemen honor their alliances, with trickery and deceit?”

  Lyting did not meet the barb and avoided his brother’s cautioning glance as well. “My father is pleased to return you to your barony.” He smiled at Brienne. “In the North, ‘tis our custom that women are free to accept or reject offers of marriage. My father was assured that you would enjoy that same choice in considering wedlock with him. I was sent to assure that you did.” He cast a brittle look back to the knight.

  Brienne glanced uncomfortably from one man to the other. She drew the tip of her tongue slowly over her lips. “I come of my own will. You honor me with your concern.”

  Something moved in Lyting’s eyes, and he withdrew his wintry gaze from Esternay. “More than that, fair lady.” His sword flashed momentarily as he swept it free of its scabbard. Dropping to one knee, he lay the blade across his upturned palms. “My sword and my arm are yours. By the Cross!”

  Rurik stepped back a pace, startled by his brother’s impassioned oath. Several minutes later, as he led Brienne and the Frankish contingent toward the keep, he continued to ponder the significance of Lyting’s actions.

  »«

  The climb up the steep timbered staircase, rising from the courtyard to the second story of the tower, left Brienne thoroughly winded. She took some small pleasure in the knowledge that the Norsemen were forced to rebuild these steps to gain entrance to the keep. One of her father’s final acts before departing Valsemé was to burn the stairway, a defiant gesture that bespoke of a man who never acknowledged defeat.

  Once inside the keep, the troop mounted a second set of stairs, flanking the stone wall and spiraling to the great chamber above.

  As they entered the the hall, Brienne glanced quickly about. It was much as she remembered, and she shuddered. The memories were not fond ones. Torches crackled and blazed in iron brackets, casting eerie shadows about the room and lacing the air with a thin haze of smoke. Its acrid odor mingled with that of the stale rushes strewn over the floor and the ancient collection of debris concealed beneath them. An assortment of weaponry and animal skins decorated the walls that Brienne’s mother had once adorned with tapestry panels. Spiked shields, double-headed axes, spears, and halberds declared the fierceness of the Norman warlords.

  At last, Brienne dared to look toward the opposite end of the hall and seek her bridegroom among the men gathered there. Her heart fell to her toes at the sight of a scarred and grizzled warrior occupying her father’s high seat upon the dais.

  A buxom wench brushed boldly against him as she filled his drinking horn. But Atli waved the woman away, never taking his eyes from Brienne. A smile broke over his craggy features as he slowly rose to his full height.

  Gruel Atli stood as tall as Rurik. The resemblance ended there, except for the steel-blue of his eyes. An unruly mass of hair fell to his shoulders, a fading copper hue streaked liberally with gray. His beard was tamed into two braids reaching to his chest and a jagged scar cut across his left-cheek, tugging the eyelid and face into a fearsome mien. His thickset torso attested to a solid strength that caused Brienne to take a deep swallow. She held little hope that she could ever escape the demands, or the desires, of this formidable man of the North.

  Atli’s smile broadened as he stepped down from the dais and crossed the room toward her. Rurik joined him, following a pace behind, while Esternay and Brother Bernard moved to Brienne’s side.

  Beneath the folds of her mantle, Brienne clenched the sides of her gown and drove her nails into its fabric. Everything inside her cried out that she break free and run till every last breath was spent. Faith! Where was God now? Had He abandoned her altogether?

  As Gruel Atli stood before her, Brienne held her lashes lowered, finding it difficult to gaze on him without betraying her feelings. She hoped he would think her properly modest and shy, not repulsed, as truly she was. But Atli, delighting in his good fortune, lifted Brienne’s chin with a roughened hand and stroked her cheek. He voiced his pleasure in Norse, commenting over his shoulder to Rurik, then greeted her in thick, halting Frankish. Brother Bernard clarified the sentiments, to which Atli rumbled his approval, then confined himself to Norse once again.

  Withdrawing a parchment from his vest, Esternay insisted upon a more ceremonious presentation of Valsemé’s heiress. Atli chafed under the formalities but held his peace as the knight delivered the king’s tidings and blessings over the union, followed by a subtle yet pointed reminder of their agreement. Brother Bernard communicated the royal message in Norse and, finally, the sheaf was folded and tucked away.

  At that, Atli called for refreshment and led his bride to her rightful place upon the dais. Brienne ran her hand over the smaller of two carved chairs and thought fleetingly of her mother as she assumed the traditional seat of the baronne.

  Ewers of water and lavers quickly appeared for cleansing. No sooner were these carried away than an array of breads, cheeses, and cold meats covered the table. Brienne had little appetite but accepted a goblet of wine to soothe her frayed nerves.

  Conversation flowed awkwardly at first as Brother Bernard bridged the barriers of language to convey the requisite courtesies and trivialities. Soon the men eased into more comfortable banter among themselves, though Gruel Atli’s appreciative gaze returned to Brienne again and again.

  To her relief, Esternay engaged Atli in a spirited exchange on the preferred modes of travel, he himself favoring a smooth-gaited steed. Atli groused that ships offered swiftness and ease, but admitted he admired the Frankish practice of mounting its soldiery. From there, they deliberated over the merits of various breeds and the most effective methods for training stallions for battle.

  Brienne’s thoughts drifted to Rurik. She missed his presence at the high table. Lifting her goblet to her lips, she discreetly scanned the room over its rim. Rurik leaned against the wall, idly studying the contents of his cup. Could she ever bear to be near him yet belong to another?

  Atli suddenly laughed and said something in her ear. She straightened, fearing he would divine her thoughts, but he only gestured toward the lower end of the hall.

  Brienne looked up to see a woman enter. Obviously Norse, she was tall and regal with jutting breasts and a narrow waist. Her fiery red hair was caught up atop her head in an exotic knot, the wealth of it tumbling freely down her back. She swung her slim hips rhythmically as she crossed the room and molded herself to Rurik’s side. Long, milky fingers slid over his chest and upward to capture his jaw. Rubbing against him seductively, she drew his head down and seized his lips with her own.

  A hearty, knowing laughter broke out in the room and the name “Katla” filled the air.

  Brienne felt as though a hand closed around her throat while she witnessed the eager display. Heat flooded her cheeks and she look
ed away.

  Thoroughly amused, Atli drained his cup, then looked down with warm anticipation at his bride. Her dark head was bent and her shoulders sagged with weariness. Atli grunted. When would the Franks learn? Ships were the easiest way to travel. Horseback was accursedly slow and tiresome. His eyes softened. The maid would need all her energies for the days to come. He motioned over a servant and arranged for Brienne to be escorted to one of the garret rooms above.

  Brienne rose from her chair, numbness enveloping her as she stepped from the dais. She cast a parting glance toward Rurik as she crossed the room. Katla stood proudly at his side, her hand resting possessively at his waist.

  With a pang, Brienne noted the exquisite jewelry the Norsewoman wore, so like Rurik’s in its lavishness. A lover’s gift? The thought stabbed at her. Katla was Rurik’s woman. His kona. But the word, she knew, had a dual meaning in Norse. Kona meant “woman” as well as “wife.” Why had he not mentioned this before?

  Brienne passed through the hall’s arched portal and mounted the cold stone stairs, her desolation complete.

  Chapter 7

  Brienne watched the bailey stir to life from her vantage in the keep as the early-morning darkness dissolved into a new day. Smoke quickly rose from the kitchens, and the stables and storehouses bustled with activity.

  Listlessly, Brienne lay her cheek against the cool stone of the window, her gaze following the diminutive figures below as they shuffled about their duties. Beneath the folds of her garments, she stroked the smooth reed with its hidden parchment until it lay warm beneath her fingers.

  “Isaiah, child.” Mother Annice’s softly lined features came unbidden to her mind. “Remember it well. ‘He will teach us what He wants us to do. We will walk in the paths He has chosen.”

  A sob broke from Brienne’s throat and she nearly snapped the reed in two. Aleth moved instantly to her side, encircling her with her arms, and soothed her gently until the flood of tears ceased.

  Straightening, Brienne patted her friend’s hand. “Faith but I am weak, Aleth. I know not how to bear this portion.”

  For all the world, Aleth longed to ease her plight and give lie to Brienne’s fears, but words seemed naught but hollow clamorings. “Mayhap some wine to hearten you,” she offered softly, then crossed the room with her quick, limping gait to fill a goblet.

  Heavyhearted, Brienne turned back to the window and looked over the collection of buildings lining the bailey. She had paid scant attention at evenfall when first she arrived, but now, striving to forget the leaden ache within her breast, she quietly surveyed their condition.

  Many were of new construction. The kitchens evidenced fresh wattle and daub. No doubt they had burned any number of times since her departure, as kitchens were wont to do. For that very reason the cookhouses were prudently built apart from the keep. The smithy and stables stood in good repair, she noted, and the garrison appeared to have been enlarged since her father’s day.

  Her gaze paused over an unexpected structure occupying one corner of the bailey against the curtain wall. Surprisingly, it was fashioned of stone and of considerable size. Though only partially complete, its walls stood higher than six men, one atop another.

  Brienne frowned, uncertain of the structure’s purpose. A prickling feeling began at the nape of her neck and inched down her spine as she appraised the stonework more carefully. All at once a chill swept through her as she recognized the pearly gray sandstone of her father’s manor house.

  Brienne bolted from the window, spinning Aleth round and spilling the wine as she raced from the room.

  »«

  “But you’ve returned barely a pace of time,” Atli protested, displeased that Rurik was intent on returning to his life of trading. True, the lure of the sea flowed strong in a Norseman’s veins. He understood that all too well. But Valsemé was Rurik’s future. Whatever notions of adventure and distant lands the young buck entertained could wait. He needed Rurik here, now. He counted on it. Atli swore into his beard as he continued circling the base of the motte beside his golden-haired son.

  Rurik avoided his father’s disapproving gaze and looked up toward the keep as Brienne emerged from its arched doorway. His lips curved into a smile then froze as she plucked up her skirts and rushed down the endless flight of stairs, her legs a blur of white. Making no effort to mask his alarm, he ran forward, fearful she would fall the full length of the stairway and break her beautiful neck.

  Brienne continued her rapid descent, her skirts slipping from her hold as she hurried on. Stubbornly, she fought their encumbrance without slowing her pace, but as she neared the last of the stairs, she stepped into the gown’s hem. Brienne squealed as she plunged forward and toppled unceremoniously into Rurik’s arms. Before he could stand her aright, she scrambled away and darted across the courtyard.

  Halting before the stone edifice she’d seen from the keep, Brienne gasped for breath. She paced beside it, incredulous, then placed a hand to the stone, willing it to vanish beneath her touch and prove this all some distasteful dream. Stubbornly, it did not.

  As Rurik and Atli hastened to join her, she whirled on them, anger and frustration glittering in her eyes.

  “My . . . my father’s hall. You’ve despoiled my father’s hall!”

  Rurik stood speechless at her outburst.

  “Why?” she cried out, dashing away a tear from the corner or her eye. “Why have you destroyed my — “ She choked with emotion, unable to finish.

  Rurik knew not how to answer, for it was upon his own suggestion that the hall had been moved, and that action clearly distressed her.

  “Nei, Brienne, not destroyed, only . . . transported.” He settled on the word uncomfortably.

  “But how? To what purpose?” Brienne threw up her hands in bewilderment.” ‘Twas solidly built, finer even than Charles’s halls.”

  Rurik looked soberly upon the construction. “We dismantled it stone by stone and moved it to the safety of the bailey. See, ‘tis half restored already. All will be as it was before.”

  “But the lord needs to be among his people,” Brienne argued.

  It discomfited Rurik to defend his actions, sound ones that his kinsmen embraced as brilliant and innovative. But now, as he watched Brienne struggle with her confusion, he longed to enfold her in his arms and explain it all. He wished to open her mind to his vision of what castlery could achieve, of the heights it could attain. He had seen so much in the East – in Byzantium – and their achievements could be adopted here. Desire flooded him anew, yet he dare not reach out to her in his father’s presence, nor at any other moment that might present itself. His weakness for Brienne necessitated his departure from Valsemé for many years to come.

  “The manor house was fine and well built,” he granted, clearing the sudden dryness from his throat. “But it sat distant of the keep. In time of need, should the barony suffer attack and be caught unawares, ‘twould offer little protection to the lord or his family and be difficult to defend. By moving it inside the bailey, their safety is ensured.” Rurik held her gaze with his own. “The defense of the keep rests upon the skill of the lord and his men. Without him to command, all suffer.”

  To her dismay, Brienne could not argue the logic of his words. “But you move it. . . stone by stone?”

  Rurik nodded, astonishing her with the Norsemen’s energy.

  Atli shifted impatiently, irritated that he could not follow the course of their words, yet thoroughly captivated by the spirited beauty as she argued with his son. He liked fire in a woman. ‘Twould be a good match! He smiled as his loins warmed with that thought.

  Atli rubbed at the numbness that bedeviled the left side of his neck as Rurik conveyed Brienne’s concern for her father’s house. It did not displease him that she would find issue with his command. Rather, he likened her to a lioness, fiercely protective of her own, and that pleased him well. Now, he would please her.

  A shiver of fear passed through Brienne as Gruel Atli stepped
forward. The light of day did nothing to soften the coarseness of the man she would call husband. He addressed her in Norse, his heavy voice fairly booming in the quiet of early morn.

  Rurik masked his feelings as he aided his father’s cause and translated his words. “Today, the men do not build. The barony prepares to celebrate your marriage on the morrow. Atli invites you to join him in the wedding hunt.”

  Brienne’s knees threatened to crumble beneath her. She had not thought the vows would be exchanged so soon. Why had she not been advised?

  As she opened her mouth to speak, Rurik continued, allowing her no chance to object and unwittingly affront his father.

  “Rollo was to attend the ceremony several days hence, but his courier arrived during the night. Poppa has begun her lying in. The duke will remain in Rouen till the child is born.” Rurik avoided her gaze, fixing his own on a distant point beyond Brienne’s shoulder as he added softly, “Rollo wishes that your own pleasure be not delayed and will journey to Valsemé forthwith after the baby arrives.”

  Rurik withheld Atli’s mirthful comment that it would be best to wed her and bed her before Rollo arrived, lest the duke be tempted to take her for himself. After all, he had captured Poppa from her father, the Count of Bayeux, and kept her as his mistress.

  Brienne swallowed her rising panic and wished desperately to speak with Lord Robert or Brother Bernard. Surely the nuptials could be delayed, if even for a day. Sweet Mary, she would have more time!

  “My lady,” Rurik said gently, breaking through her thoughts. “The hunt. Atli waits upon your answer.”

  Brienne braved a tremulous smile as she turned to Gruel Atli and declined as graciously as she could manage. “I fear I am a poor horsewoman at best, having spent so many years in cloister. And I confess that I am greatly relieved to be free of the saddle.” She dropped her lashes demurely. “There is much to attend to before our vows are spoken.”

  Atli accepted her response with a nod of understanding and instructed Rurik to ask after her needs.