The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Encouraged by his good mood, Brienne requested that she be free to leave the confines of the keep to deliver the sisters’ altar linens to the church. This drew a frown from Atli, and Brienne felt her hopes wither within her breast. If only she could persuade Brother Bernard to prevail upon the Norsemen to delay the ceremonies.

  “Atli prefers that you not be seen by the villagers till you pledge your troth before the church doors and he may present you as his baronne. Lyting will deliver the cloths.” A smile tugged at Rurik’s lips. “Though I can tell you that it does not gladden my father to send him. He believes Lyting spends overmuch time with the churchman as it is, and fears that one day my brother will return branded with the tonsure.”

  Despite her heavy mood, a small bubble of laughter escaped Brienne’s lips, and she smiled warmly up at Rurik. It was the first time she had done so that day. He returned the smile, wondering how he would bear to leave her on the morrow’s eve.

  Atli massaged the side of his neck, then worked the tingling from his hand, thoughtfully observing his son and his bride.

  »«

  Hours later, having changed her attire and dressed her hair, Brienne left Aleth freshening her gowns and descended the tower stairs.

  She fastened the golden brooch to her mantle as she went, telling herself firmly that the piece served solely as a reminder of duty — duty to her people for whom she had returned, and duty to her betrothed whose gift it was. Yet even as she schooled her thoughts, ‘twas Rurik her heart held fast.

  Patch scampered ahead through the hall, on out and down the bailey steps. He awaited Brienne at the bottom, then scurried away, tail awag, following the aroma of fresh-baked bread.

  Brienne laughed and stepped quickly after him, her humor much improved since morn. The tantalizing odors tickled at her nose, beckoning her as much as the mongrel to seek their source.

  The kitchens were beehives of activity as the servants dashed in and about, preparing for the elaborate wedding feast to come. At Brienne’s approach, they paused in their labors, but before she could acknowledge them, a woman’s strident voice drew her attention to the side of one of the cookhouses. The Norsewoman, Katla, stood alongside a rectangular pit, raining terse commands on a handful of youths.

  “‘Tis for the boiling of broken meats. A Norse custom, my lady.” A Frankish maidservant ventured forward hesitantly and gestured toward the open pit.

  In truth, Brienne’s interest lay more with Katla than with whatever purpose the hole served. She turned to regard the maid and was surprised to find a young woman at an age with herself, her waist thickening with child. Brienne wondered briefly if the girl had been ill used by the Normans, or if a name could even be put to the father. She dismissed the thought as unworthy. The maid stood tired and drawn, yet obviously warmed by the hope that she could assist her lady. Brienne would not abuse such kindness and listened attentively as the girl explained the curious practice of cooking in the earth.

  “The cavity is first lined with wood, my lady, then filled with water and heated with scorching-hot stones. The meats and herbs will next be added, and the stones replaced as needed. ‘Tis a lengthy process, but renders a tasty dish. Other pits will be used for the roasting of whole animals. ‘Tis much the same. The meat and hot stones are covered over in the ground to cook the night long. ‘Tis far superior to our stewed meats, most succulent and tender, the best I have tasted.”

  The girl flushed, realizing her mistake in admitting that she had eaten of the lord’s meat.

  The slip of tongue was not lost on Brienne. Had the girl simply taken a portion for herself, she wondered, or was it a lover who offered the delicacy, tempting her to his bed? Perchance the maid already knew more of love and tender entreaties than she herself would ever experience. Atli seemed not a man given to gentleness, and Brienne doubted that she could ever find more than tolerance for him. Certainly not love.

  Brienne shook the thoughts away and looked over to where several youngsters stacked clean, flat stones next to the cooking fire. A small lad, no more than five, struggled with one particularly heavy stone before it dropped from his grasp, bounced several feet, and struck Katla’s ankle.

  Katla shrieked in outrage and cuffed the child. He stumbled to the ground, then, as if by reflex, curled into a tight ball and covered his head, waiting for the assault to continue.

  Brienne bristled as Katla raised her hand to deliver a second blow. “Hold!” she cried out as she swept before the Norsewoman.

  The youths attending the pit ceased their activity and bowed in deference to Valsemé’s lady, fueling Katla’s temper.

  “What goes here?” Brienne demanded, unable to conceal her own anger and having no wish to do so.

  Katla assessed the Frankish heiress with a cool measure of disdain, arching an elegant eyebrow. “We prepare for the celebration of your marriage.” She spoke in heavily accented Frankish. “Does it distress you?”

  ‘Tis the mistreatment of babes that distresses me.”

  “The child is worthless.”

  “No child is worthless. The task you set is unsuitable for one so small.”

  Brienne caught the flash of fury in Katla’s eyes and realized her error in confronting the Norsewoman so openly before the servants. She did not regret her words, but feared Katla would wreak a greater vengeance upon the child if he remained in her care. Best to bear the brunt of Katla’s wrath herself, Brienne decided.

  She turned to the boy, now enfolded in his mother’s skirts. Surprisingly, she was the same Frankish maidservant with whom Brienne spoke moments earlier.

  “How are you called?” Brienne coaxed, and was rewarded when the child peeked out from the folds of cloth. “Waite.”

  “Well, Waite, I have need of a houndsman. Think you can tame yon beast?” She pointed toward Patch sniffing at something of interest in a woodstack.

  The child’s eyes brightened with excitement. “Oh, oui, m’lady.”

  “He needs to be fed twice daily, groomed free of spurs, and trained up properly. Patch is a most ungovernable fellow,” she confided. “See that he does not tangle my threads or steal off with my broidery. How say you, Waite?”

  The boy nodded eagerly.

  “So be it! Henceforth you shall answer to me, and to any who ask, you are the baronne’s houndsman. Now be off with you.” Brienne watched the boy scramble after Patch and waited expectantly for Katla to challenge her authority.

  Katla bit her tongue down upon her anger. For the time, she would endure the bitch’s presence. ‘Twould be unwise to do aught else. Gruel Atli favored this spawn of Beaumanoir, and took her to wife upon the morrow. But he could not live forever. One day she, Katla, would sit proudly at Rurik’s side and oversee Valsemé as its mistress. By the gods of her ancestors, she would be baronne.

  The two women regarded one another warily. To her chagrin, Brienne found that it was not their argument that plagued her thoughts but the vision of Katla filling Rurik’s arms. The Norsewoman was striking with her blazing hair and flawless features. She wore the traditional dress of the North, a pleated linen chemise that fell to the ankles, covered front and back by two long rectangles of fine cloth. These were fitted at the top corners with loops, enabling the two sections to be joined over the shoulders with large oval brooches, much like her own but not nearly so grand. Katla’s only other jewelry consisted of an elaborate necklace of amber and jet fitted with gold coins.

  Katla’s gaze moved insultingly over Brienne, then widened as they fastened on the elegant brooch. Only the famed goldsmiths of Gotland were capable of such extraordinary craftsmanship. The piece was easily worth a small ransom.

  Her eyes narrowed. Only one man had recently arrived at Valsemé from distant shores, only one who was wealthy enough to afford so fine a treasure. Rurik Atlison.

  It rankled Katla that he had not seen fit to present the brooch to her upon his homecoming. It rankled her all the more that Rurik made excuses last evening when she welcomed him to her
bed. Now she suspected his reluctance had something to do with this Frankish sow.

  “The brooch is magnificent,” Katla forced out.

  ‘Twas Atli’s gift,” Brienne returned a bit too quickly.

  Katla scoffed at this. The only finery Atli was expert in selecting was his sword. Nei, Rurik chose the gift, even if he did so for his father. Still, it irked her that he had neglected to procure something for herself of like value. Katla tossed her hair back from her shoulder. She would draw a little blood. The bitch deserved it.

  “For so fine a treasure you must reward Atli well on your wedding night,” she taunted, and was pleased to see Brienne shudder.

  “Now, Rurik — “ Brienne’s eyes flew to her face. Katla well knew Rurik’s effect upon women and, ironically, it pleased her that Brienne was not immune. She gloated inwardly as she decided how best to toy with her prey.

  “Rurik is above all men in gifting a woman. I assure you my coffers are filled with many fine pieces, for I pleasure him in so many ways,” Katla purred, sliding a hand over the side of her breast, down to her waist and hip. “He knows well how to ride a woman. May you find such joy beneath Gruel Atli.”

  Brienne colored fiercely and turned on her heel. Katla’s laughter followed her as she strode quickly away and headed toward the manor house.

  Moments later, Brienne ducked inside the walls of the building, passing through a small arched door, her cheeks still burning by the encounter. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, heart pounding. Brienne slowed her breaths and inhaled deeply of the rich, earthy scents.

  She stood, she knew, in the ground-level storage area of the house. The hall would occupy the second level, and above it the bedchambers, save the lord’s, which would be partitioned off directly behind the dais in the hall.

  Brienne opened her eyes to the clear blue sky stretched high above. The wood floors had yet to be sprung or the building roofed over. ‘Twas little more than a great stone shell.

  She glanced up to the square holes that marked the walls where the floor beams would be secured and planks laid over, then dropped her gaze to the rows of sturdy stone pillars standing like soldiers before her. These would further reinforce the floor and its overhead structure.

  A smile played over her lips. She crossed the room to run her hand over first one, then another of the pillars. Ofttimes she, Thomas, and Lisette had amused themselves in this place as children, playing hide-and-go-find among the great boxes and casks, the pillars and crates.

  Mayhap that was what she found so disturbing about the manor being moved. Oh, ‘twas a bold idea on Rurik’s part, inspired even. But these stones held the shadows of her past, precious memories of days spent long ago. If only she could somehow squeeze them out, bring them to life again. How she longed to hear her brother’s and sister’s laughter ringing in the hall, or see her lovely mother dressed in velvets at Christmastide. Her father would lavish his wife with compliments then, in his rich, deep tones not unlike Rurik’s.

  She laid her head against the pillar, pondering how her life had been fragmented, just as the manor house, stone by stone, piece by piece, all had been dismantled. It could never be put back quite the same. She closed her eyes against the dreary thought and rested quietly.

  A chill feathered down Brienne’s spine as she heard the faintest of footfalls. Again, she detected movement and the soft rustle of cloth. Her stomach clenched into a cold knot. She was not alone. Slowly, Brienne turned, pulses racing.

  Her blood turned to ice as she beheld the black-haired heathen who tormented her dreams.

  The devil impaled her with strange, colorless eyes. His lips twisted into a smile. “What have we here? You’re a lusty bit I have not laid eyes to before.”

  The heathen advanced, and she fell back against the pillar, a cry strangling in her throat. There was a cruelty about his face, the harsh planes etched with scars and the sharp jaw shadowed by a day’s growth of bristles. Raven brows slashed over eyes so pale they seemed devoid of all color, yet they glowed from within with a menacing light.

  Brienne began to inch around the stone pillar as she fought the sudden paralysis in her limbs. That the heathen spoke her tongue only now occurred to her, so desperate was she to put something solid between them.

  The man peeled off his gloves with a maddening slowness as he continued toward her. Backing away with small steps, Brienne swung herself toward the safety of an adjacent pillar, but the heathen sprang forward and shackled her arm.

  “Not so fast, my lovely vixen. You promise a more tender sport than I have enjoyed these past days astride my dun.”

  He eyed her concealing mantle and reached to draw it back, but then stopped when his hand brushed against the ornate brooch. He scowled darkly.

  “So, the Barnakarl has bought himself a pretty piece to warm his pallet with his fancy trinkets. Where did my broðir chance on you, my sweet-breasted dove?”

  Brienne trembled as the devil drew a finger down the column of her neck.

  ‘Tis not my practice to take my broðir’s leavings, but you . . . you are exceptional.”

  Heat flooded Brienne’s cheeks as his meaning came clear. The man thought her a whore! Anger momentarily overcame fear. Would he be so confident if he knew she was plighted to the lord of the keep?

  Clenching her teeth so they would not rattle, she raised her chin. “ ‘Twas a gift of Gruel Atli.” Brienne could not bring herself to call Atli “baron,” but she hoped her words carried their weight.

  “Minn faðir?”

  The man paused and Brienne thought her cause won as surprise flickered across the heathen’s face. But then his smile broadened.

  “Gratefully, my father is generous with his women. Surely he will not keep you to himself.”

  “Atli is your father?” she stammered, revolted by his presumption and shocked by what he implied.

  “Já. I am his sonir, Hastein.”

  Fear climbed through Brienne as she recalled the name and all that had been said of him. He was a dangerous man, even by Norse standards, and not to be trusted.

  She tried to snatch her arm free of his grasp, but he tightened his hold, chuckling deep in his throat. Then he fell silent, raw desire smoldering in his eyes. Slowly, he pushed back her mantle.

  “Now, let us see what treasures you have hidden there.”

  Brienne brought her free hand across his face with a solid slap. Lightning swift, Hastein caught her wrists and jerked them behind her back, crushing her hard against his chest.

  “Do not think you can thwart me? I’ll taste of you as I please.” He fisted her hair, yanking her head back to expose her neck. His ardor blazed as he consumed her with his gaze. “And I find I’m near to starving now.”

  He ravaged her lips with a bruising kiss, then thrust his tongue boldly into her mouth. Gripping both her wrists in one hand, he freed the other to roughly explore the full swell of breast. She struggled against his strength to no avail, her protests muffled under the assault. In the next moment, he pinned her against the pillar, shoving a knee between her legs. Tears sprang to Brienne’s eyes as she steeled herself for what was to come.

  Hastein growled his satisfaction deep in his throat as he slid her gown upward, his hand traveling the smooth length of leg, then caressing her bare thigh before moving to her backside and kneading her there.

  Abruptly, space opened between them as Hastein hurtled backward. He barely glimpsed Rurik’s distorted features before his head exploded in a splintering light. The force of the blow sent Hastein sprawling to the dirt floor. Before he could recover, Rurik stayed him with solid strength and pressed a knife firmly against his throat.

  “Do you defile our faðir’s bride?” Rurik raged with a scalding fury.

  “Upon the runes, I did not know,” Hastein swore, clearly stunned.

  Rurik’s iron grip did not lessen, his anger so great that his arm fairly trembled. “See that you remember it well, broðir,” he spat the last word with contempt
. “Next time I will not spare my blade.”

  Slowly, Rurik released Hastein and rose to his feet, but he made no move to resheathe his weapon.

  Hastein drew himself up, wiping blood from his lip. He slid a glance over Brienne then looked back to Rurik. “Does the Barnakarl safeguard the woman for Atli, or for himself?” he sneered, brushing the dust from his garments, then dropped his voice. “We will see this to an end another day, eh, broðir?” He turned and strode from the building.

  Scarcely had Rurik secured his blade, when Brienne threw herself against him with great racking sobs. This surprised him, for he feared she would recoil from him as she had after happening upon the skeleton. But now she instinctively sought comfort and safety in his arms, and he pleasured greatly in that. Rurik gathered Brienne close, his heart racing. In truth, he did not know if ‘twas wrought more from the encounter with Hastein or by her nearness.

  He smoothed Brienne’s hair, whispering softly in Norse against her midnight tresses. She trembled in his arms and he pressed her closer, brushing his lips against her temple, her brow, her eyelids. Brienne lifted her lips to his, and he grazed them gently at first, then kissed them slowly, tenderly. Her lips parted, inviting him further, and needing little encouragement, he covered her mouth. Brienne met him fully, pouring herself into him, releasing her fears and pent-up emotions into the strength of him. Their kisses caught fire, becoming quick and feverish, urgent and hungering. Consumed with desire, they clung to one another.

  Rurik battled against himself and nearly lost that struggle before he broke the kiss. His breathing came heavy, tortured. “Nei, ástin mín. I am pledged.”

  He chastised himself for behaving little better than Hastein. How he ached to lose himself in the sweet depths of her, to strive as one with her. Rurik shuddered with repressed desire. He would not forswear his father for the lust he harbored in his loins.

  Rurik’s words jolted Brienne from her reverie. In her need she had forgotten Katla. Rurik was pledged to the torrid Norsewoman and, honorably, would not betray his wife. She could not ask it of him. His unyielding sense of honor should please her, yet it left her empty, bereft, unfulfilled.