Rurik stroked the back of Brienne’s slim hands with his thumb, debating how to best tell her of his resolution to leave Valsemé. Now, more than ever, he knew he must depart, for if he stayed, surely as the sun rose and the rains fell, he would have her. Deciding on straightforwardness, he looked at her evenly and took a formal tone.
“My lady, I am away at morrow’s eve, after the wedding celebration is . . . complete.”
Verily, he would see Atli to his marriage bed. He owed him that. But he held no desire to remain till morning to view the bridal sheets displayed with her virgin blood, witnessing the gift of herself to his father. He pushed down the thought and gripped her hands firmly in his.
“Your protection lies henceforth with your husband. Look to him in your need. No harm shall befall you from my broðir Hastein or from any other.”
His heart wrenched as he looked into her pain-filled eyes, and he wished to ease her sorrow in some small way.
“If I were not so certain, I assure you I would not leave.”
Brienne withdrew her hands from Rurik’s as the last fragments of her world crumbled at her feet. She was truly alone amid a barbarous race. Why had she thought ‘twould be otherwise? She drew her mantle about her, retreating into its folds. A helpless shield for a helpless maiden.
Brienne nearly missed Rurik’s offer to escort her to the keep. She shook her head, then glanced about the room.
“What has passed within these walls is best left to rest.” To rest, she thought, yea, but ne’er to be forgotten.
Dispirited, Brienne preceded Rurik out of the building.
»«
Katla satisfied herself that the slack-witted cook had not ruined her latest batch of skyr before setting herself to her next task. The thick curds would normally be whipped smooth with milk and mixed with porridge for a fortifying meal. Tomorrow, however, it would be sweetened with honey and served as a pleasant dessert.
Now she gave herself over to making the festive bread that Rurik favored, studded with currants and spiced with the precious cardamom that he had procured from the East. This could not be trusted to doltish Frankish hands.
Katla took up her station outside the kitchen at a long wooden dough trough that stood hip high. Carefully, she measured together the ingredients, working wet into dry as the sticky mass took shape. She then set to kneading the bulk vigorously, folding and pushing and turning till it became elastic and smooth.
Her hands stilled as Brienne emerged from the manor house, followed by Rurik brief moments later. Atli’s bride appeared distraught as she traversed the courtyard with leaden steps, clutching her mantle fast about her. Suddenly, she sobbed and hurried up the stairs of the keep.
Katla flicked her eyes back to Rurik. He stood watching grimly after Brienne, the intensity of his gaze hidden to none.
Katla slapped the dough harder, then gave it her fist.
Chapter 8
Restlessly, Brienne paced the confines of her chamber as she awaited Aleth’s return with Brother Bernard. She felt ill and weary and ready to retch.
Supper had proved an unnerving affair. Rurik remained absent throughout the course of the meal, but Hastein joined the high table and brashly claimed the place beside her, displacing Lyting. Lyting’s sentiments toward his half brother were as apparent as his displeasure in having to share a trencher with Katla.
Brienne massaged her throbbing temples.
Katla. The woman had taunted her throughout the evening, making a grand display of the lavish jewelry she wore while laughing loudly and uttering clever, double-edged jests. But for every barb hurled, Lyting intervened with ready wit, deftly deflecting the intended blows, and often as not, ‘twas at the Norsewoman’s expense. Katla had seethed with indignation, clawing Lyting with her cat-green eyes.
As the evening grated on, Brienne had grown increasingly unsettled by Hastein’s presence. ‘Twas more than his contemptible behavior that afternoon. The thought tormented her that Hastein might be the same murderous heathen she had spied from her tower window so long ago.
She could not say with certainty. Helmet and noseguard had obscured the man’s features. Yet the smile . . . the smile she would never forget. ‘Twas as cold as death.
Brienne had tried to cast the image from her mind but found herself, instead, drawn to the assemblage before her. Any of the Northmen there could have partaken in that day’s carnage. Twin kernels of fear and loathing blossomed deep within her breast. She scrutinized them more closely, searching out every nick and scar — badges of warfare, warfare wrought against her people. Never had the distinctions between Norse and Frank seemed more manifest or foreboding than in that moment. Their hair, their dress, their mannerisms, their countenance and bearing — such a rugged lot they were, carved from the severity of the ice-bound North.
Brienne had then shifted her gaze to watch Atli slice a choice piece of meat upon the trencher they shared and sickened inwardly to think of those coarse hands moving over her body. Suddenly she felt light of head and was forced to brace herself against the table’s edge as the room swam before her eyes.
Unable to bear more, she made her excuses and retired from the hall, leaving the men in high spirits. Their hunt had been good, and the feasting was well under way as they toasted the bride and drank merrily to Atli’s final hours as an unfettered man. Even now, snatches of bawdy song and echoes of bellowing laughter drifted from below.
Brienne rubbed warmth into her arms as she continued her pacing. Aleth had left with her message what seemed like hours ago. Brienne strived to fill the time with prayer but could not hold rein on her thoughts and was far too restive to remain on her knees. Now, despite her constant movement, she felt chilled to the core, as though, in her distress, the warmth of life refused to flow.
A solid rapping sounded upon the door. Expecting Aleth, Brienne fairly flew across the room and dragged it open. Her face fell as the darkly clad figure of the Seigneur d’Esternay strode across the portal.
“Lord Robert.”
“My lady.” He bowed curtly. “Brother Bernard is detained at the church. I understand there is a matter of some urgency.” The words stilled on his lips as his eyes passed over her features. “Lady Brienne, are you ill? You are trembling.”
He caught up her hands in his, but she quickly reclaimed them and stepped away. She held no wish to confide in the man, or parry words. Nor did she wholly trust him. She drew a deep breath, attempting to clear her mind.
Still, the knight was Frankish and he was kin. If the churchman would not heed her desperate summons, ‘twould seem her last shred of hope lay in Lord Robert’s keeping.
She bit her lower lip, struggling to form the words. When at last she opened her mouth to speak, a loathsome fear gripped her heart and her face crumpled. She turned away, overcome by a fresh onslaught of tears.
“Forgive me, my lord, but God has chosen a frail vessel to champion His people.”
Moving behind her, Esternay reached out to touch her, then dropped his hand.
At last, he smiled inwardly. He’d been waiting for her confidence and high purposes to crack under the weight of reality. Now his patience would be rewarded. She would be malleable to his will. For that, he could gird his patience a pace longer.
“My lady, is there aught I can do?”
Brienne turned to him, her eyes huge and pleading. “Return me to Levroux, I pray thee, Lord Robert. I cannot face life with . . . I cannot marry this man. Do not leave me here.” She clutched at the sleeve of his tunic.
“You do not know what you ask. Atli favors you and will not be denied. ‘Twould mean death to do so.” His words held not a mullet of truth, but he suspected she would believe them easily enough.
Brienne shook her head. “Better dead than — “
“What, then, of your people? Would you have them suffer as well? Surely they will bear the Norseman’s wrath should you dare to depart.”
Her head sagged forward as she absorbed the truth of his wor
ds.
A smile crept over Esternay’s lips, his triumph near. “Faith, my lady. Did I not tell you that I would not abandon you to these heathens?”
Slowly, Brienne lifted her face to his.
“There is a way.”
He held her full interest and a beam of hope flooded her eyes. Just then, the oaken door creaked on its hinges and Brienne glanced toward it. He followed her gaze to where the door stood slightly open, then berated himself for not taking more care to secure it fully.
Having no wish to lose Brienne’s attention or profit by her fears, he grasped her by the arms and drew her toward him.
“Take heart, my lady. What if I were to tell you ‘tis possible to regain your title and lands yet rule them free of the Norse dogs?”
Brienne blinked, as if uncertain whether her ears deceived her. Esternay read the look with encouragement.
“There is naught I can do to forestall the nuptials. But I will aid your plight and free you of your Norman husband. Your father’s lands will once again rest in your keeping.”
“Impossible,” she breathed at last.
“Nay, not so, but ‘twill require courage and forbearance, Brienne . . . and a son.” He plunged on, unmasking his plans.
“By the terms of the marriage contract, any male child born of this union will be recognized as heir to the barony. Your marriage to Atli need not be long, only fruitful.”
Brienne blanched at the remark, increasing the knight’s confidence.
“Once the child is born, I will see you widowed upon the battlefield — the matter of a small accident.” He shrugged lightly. “You will retain your place as baronne, ruling Valsemé through your son. The Normans will pay him obeisance and I will abet you as well as you kinsman.”
Brienne pulled back as anger blistered deep within her breast. “And the price? Surely you expect recompense for the deed?”
“Everything has its cost, my dear, but not all is met with coin.” He lifted a long finger and stroked her cheek. “My requirements are few. In sum, only three.”
Brienne fought the urge to recoil beneath his touch and carefully schooled her features. “Pray, name them, Lord Robert. What be the terms of my deliverance?”
He eased his hold of her, confidence in his bearing. “Once you are widowed, I will assume guardianship as the child’s closest male relative, lending you my strength of arms and men, as well as the benefit of my governance. I will provide for you in every way.”
“Continue.” Her temper flamed to new heights. In his arrogance had he forgotten Atli’s sons, or did he intend to arrange “accidents” for them as well?
“Your father played me false, Brienne. You should have been mine.” Bitterness tinged his words as he drew her against him. “I would have you still.”
“Must I remind you? You are wed to my sister.”
“I speak not of marriage, but of an arrangement that will profit us both.” He gazed at her with hooded eyes. “When I am in residence, you will attend to me, and care for me, as you would a husband true. And — “
“And?” Brienne choked at this outrage.
“Your heir. I desire the chance to sire the child myself.”
Brienne’s legs nearly folded beneath her as Esternay pressed on with his suit,
“Your sister is ill with this pregnancy. Shortly after you are wed, I will send a missive as to the gravity of her condition. You will plead with Atli to allow you to journey to her sickbed. There are many private rooms at Castle Roubaix . . .” He left the statement suspended between them but the meaning clear. His fingers tightened on her arm. “But once widowed, you are mine, Brienne. None other’s.” His grip loosened just as quickly, and he toyed with a lock of her hair. “But you will suffer no complaint, for I will keep you very well.”
Brienne’s blood fired to boiling. Still, she restrained her fury. “Perchance Atli’s seed will already grow within me.”
“Perchance,” he returned coolly. “Still, I would have the opportunity to see that the child’s veins flow with pure Frankish blood. My blood.”
Esternay caught the rebellion she knew simmered in her eyes.
“Would you prefer to spend your days in the embrace of that hoary bear of a Norseman down below who even now must be savoring the sweet promise of your body? Or this?” He drew her against him in one swift move and covered her lips.
Brienne held herself rigid beneath Lord Robert’s ardent kiss. A faint clinking of metal on metal and a soft creaking of the door played at her ear, but she could not look there as the knight’s assault continued.
Her anger burst and a new strength welled up from deep within, pulsing solidly to life. She shoved hard at his chest and won free of the knight’s embrace, catching him by surprise.
“You dishonor the house of Beaumanoir and disgrace it with your treachery,” she hurled the words, then straightened, drawing upon her noble breeding. “By the blood of my father, I am the Baronne de Valsemé and I’ll whore for no man.”
Blackest anger flashed across Esternay’s features, and he instinctively drew back his hand to strike her.
“Do your worst, that you may know a Norseman’s justice,” she dared. By the flicker of his eyes, she knew he remembered Rurik’ s warning.
Esternay clenched his hand, then slowly lowered it. His lip curled into a sneer. “Do not covet your virtue overmuch, my sweet. You may yet find my bed more desirable than that of a Norse jackal.” Brushing past her, he stormed from the room.
Swelled with her momentary triumph, Brienne moved to the window and drew a shaky breath. Below, an elderly Frankish servant hobbled across the courtyard carrying buckets of water. Spying his lady in the window above, he set them down and snatched the soft cap from his head. He smiled as he bobbed a small bow, then picked up his burden and continued on his way.
Brienne lay her cheek against the coolness of the stone. Somehow, the encounter with the knight renewed her purpose and buttressed her for the morrow. She closed her eyes as a gentle breeze played over her.
»«
A cheer greeted Brienne as she emerged from the arched portal of the keep and paused at the top of the staircase. Self-consciously, she smoothed her finely woven gown, a deep forest-green edged with marten and cinctured with a narrow belt of gold. A small gust of air lifted her hair from her shoulder where it fell unbound past her waist.
Below, the bridal procession waited, a mixture of Norman warriors, Frankish servants, and the king’s escort that had accompanied her here. They seemed eager for the festivities to begin, or continue, as was more likely the case. She imagined that many a man had not found his pallet the night before.
A groom walked Candra to the foot of the stairs, and Brienne smiled to see that flowers had been added to her trappings. But the smile vanished from her lips as Esternay strode forward and took the reins. Even at this distance, she could feel the challenge in his dark, steady gaze.
Oh, that God would smite his insolence! she railed silently, then set her jaw. Bones of the saints, he would find such audacity well met this day! Plucking up her courage, she looked out over the gathering and graced them with a wide smile. Then, with head held high and steel in her spine, she descended the timbered steps.
Horns trumpeted as the gates creaked open. The bride alone rode mounted, while the well-wishers walked alongside, crowding merrily around. Esternay led Candra by the reins as was his privilege as her kinsman. There was naught she could do to forestall him. At least, this way, he could taunt her no further.
The villeins who had been assembling at the gates since early morn now joined in the procession, hailing their new mistress joyfully as they strewed fragrant flower petals on the ground before her. Valsemé’s villeins were so few, Brienne noted sadly, and not a one did she recognize.
As they approached the church, Brienne spied Gruel Atli standing with Brother Bernard before the church doors, resplendent in his Nordic finery. Rurik, Lyting, and Hastein held to one side below the steps, and with the
m, Katla.
Once again, the Norsewoman appeared weighted down with her wealth of gold and jewels. They shone at her ears, in her hair, around her neck, and again at her waist. An abundance of bracelets crowded her arms, and each finger boasted a heavy ring. The woman could not move without jangling and clinking, Brienne mused. At least she would know where the cat roamed.
As Lord Robert lifted Brienne from her horse, he whispered in her ear, “My offer remains, should you find life unbearable in your husband’s arms.”
Finding the ground, Brienne trod purposely on his toe and gave it her full weight.
“If for no better reason than to escape your arms, I will find it bearable. Now, release me and bedevil me no more with your vile purposes. I’ll have none of it.”
“As you wish, my dear.” He gave her a mocking smile and offered his arm. “Your bridegroom awaits and appears eager to rut.”
Gruel Atli smiled his pleasure as his bride mounted the steps. As Brienne was formally presented, Atli clasped her hand warmly in his much larger, thicker one and lifted it to his lips.
Brother Bernard began to protest, for the vows had yet to be exchanged and such display should be constrained for the moment. But seeing Atli’s enchantment with his bride, he reconsidered. Why risk the man’s ire when the matter was easily solved? He cleared his throat and prayerfully joined his hands.
Only once did Brienne allow her gaze to meet Rurik’s. The single look did more to fracture her resolve than all of Esternay’s effrontery. A deep, searing pain pierced her heart through. She forced her attention to Brother Bernard as he began the ceremony.
The oaths were exchanged outside the church for all to witness. Atli spoke in clear tones, first in Norse, then in Frankish, carefully pronouncing each word as the monk bade him. Brienne repeated her vows softly, her voice barely audible.
Atli smiled, charmed by the maid’s beauty and sweet innocence. Absently, he flexed his left hand as Rurik came forth with the ring. The accursed tingling had persisted since yestereve, a damnable nuisance since he favored that hand except when wielding a sword. Determined not to let the affliction best him, he reached out to take the small gold band, but the partial numbness caused him to fumble and drop it.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 12