The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  With a sudden jolt, Brienne felt the snare slip into place, and she realized what the duke was about. Her heart picked up its pace as she attended Hastein’s answer. Maddeningly, he related his thoughts in Norse.

  “The land is what we have always craved, what we have spilled our blood for. The king’s grant is but a beginning, a foothold, that we can expand into a Norse empire. Our course must first be to strengthen and solidify that which we hold. Then we can look to fresh conquests.”

  “In Francia?” Surprise lit Rollo’s eyes.

  “It can all be ours.” Hastein licked his lips. “Charles is weak. ‘Tis the individual lords who hold any real power. We can expand to become the mightiest force to be reckoned with upon the continent.”

  “And what of my sacred oath? Am I not to be a man of honor?”

  Hastein’s lip curled. “ ‘Twill be of little account to forswear yourself as duke to take title as King of Normandy.”

  Brienne saw Rollo’s features darken with thought, but could glean naught from his shuttered expression. He put his question next to Rurik, and she was thankful when Rurik chose to repeat his answers in Frankish. Presumably, he did so for the benefit of the king’s men and Lord Robert, officially the sovereign’s envoy. There would be no misconstruing Rurik’s stance or his loyalties when they reached the royal ears.

  Rurik swept a glance over Brienne and then focused on his uncle. “My vision is not so filled with vainglorious ambitions. Normandy is prize enough. What glory can a man savor if he has not his honor? Lands abound apart from Francia to master. There be no need to break oath.”

  Rurik shifted his weight to partially face Hastein.” ‘Twould be reprehensible to do so. An oath-breaker has no credence, his words no value. If one overlord can be so easily forsworn, then what is another, be he king . . . or duke?”

  This drew a growl from Hastein and a raised eyebrow from Rollo.

  “I do not presume to advise you on the affairs of Normandy, but of Valsemé there is much I would attend to. First, I would fortify by arms and by stone. We are unrivaled upon the seas, but on land we must learn from our Frankish brethren and mount our — “

  “Stone, Rurik?” Rollo leaned forward on his elbows and clasped one balled hand in the other.

  “Já.” Rurik smiled lightly. “The quarries of Francia offer far better than the soft steatite of our homeland. We can raise more than cathedrals and monasteries.” He let the duke ponder that thought as he continued. “Valsemé’s soil is rich and fertile. But I would see her flourish with more than crops.”

  “Defense works?” Rollo interrupted once again. “ ‘Tis a costly undertaking, be it of stone.”

  “Wealth need not depend on land alone. The barony is favorably located on the Toques, easily accessible to our trade routes. The expansion I propose is one of economy, of trade. Long have our people enjoyed and profited from the splendid offerings of the East. Miklagárd and the Caliphates are rich in silver, silks, and spices. Few of the commodities we Northmen take as commonplace reach the Frankish markets, and when they do, ‘tis with no dependability or regularity. I would build Valsemé as a center of trade.”

  Seeing Rollo’s favorable nod, Hastein’s patience wore thin. “Rurik distracts us with pretty words and grand visions. But I have claim to these lands by right of blood. Let us convene the Assembly. Let the council decide.”

  A storm gathered on Rollo’s brow, swift and thunderous. Veins stood out along his neck, and his color deepened as he slowly rose to his great height.

  “I, Rollo, Duke of Normandy, do not call the Assembly. Not now or ever! Like it or not — and make no mistake in this — Normandy is mine to rule and mine alone. I am its overlord, answerable to no one, least of all you, Hastein. My barons hold their lands in obeisance of me, as my vassals.” Rollo emphasized each word distinctly. “Gruel Atli well understood that this fiefdom reverted to me at his death. He declared his preference when he conferred his arm ring. That I acknowledge, and give weight to it. But the choice remains mine.”

  Rollo’s sharp, assessing gaze prowled over the hall.

  “If any have difficulty in this, I suggest you seek your future apart of Normandy, for I intend to keep faith with Charles.”

  When none stirred, he turned to Rurik. “Now will I accept oath from the new Baron de Valsemé.”

  “Nei!” Hastein’s face twisted with rage. He threw off his mantle and, with lightning swiftness, unleashed the battle-ax concealed at his side, wielding it aloft with both hands. Brienne screamed as the flaring blade burred through the air. Rurik twisted away and dropped into a roll, barely escaping its deadly bite.

  “Widow-Maker thirsts for your blood, Barnakarl!” Hastein rasped, sweeping the blade back and forth as Rurik rose to his feet.

  Brienne lurched from her chair, nauseous with dread, but Brother Bernard restrained her. The heathen’s eyes glittered like icy shards and his smile . . . his smile was cold as death.

  Hastein swung once, twice, thrice at Rurik’s midsection. Each time, Rurik leaped backward agilely, sucking in his stomach and landing with solid footing. A fourth sweep sliced through his leather jerkin. Hastein exulted, thinking he had drawn blood. He laughed low in his throat and, pausing, allowed the blade to sag. Without hesitation, Rurik sprang into the air and kicked out, catching Hastein squarely in the chest with both feet.

  Hastein thudded to the floor, tumbling over in a backward somersault, and came to rest on the balls of his feet. Still crouching, he aimed a sweeping blow at Rurik’s legs, a stroke purposed to divest his prey of limbs.

  But Rurik leaped above the humming blade and, as he found footing, delivered a stunning blow to the side of Hastein’s neck. Hastein sprawled backward onto the rushes, and Rurik lunged on top of him, gripping the ax handle. The two rolled head over feet several times in quick succession, clutching the wood handle, and slammed against the wall.

  Rurik gained the advantage and dragged Hastein up. Ramming him hard into the stone, he shoved the ax handle against Hastein’s throat and choked the breath from of him. Hastein struggled to entangle Rurik’s leg with his own and pull him off-balance, but he found himself solidly pinned.

  Hastein’s face purpled. As his head lolled to one side, Rurik released the ax handle and Hastein crumpled onto the rushes. Several moments passed before he expelled a harsh groan, air assaulting his lungs.

  Satisfied, Rurik hauled his half brother before the dais and threw him down before Rollo. “I give him to your mercy, Uncle.” Rurik gasped for his own breath, sides heaving.

  Rollo stepped from the platform to stand over Hastein, eyes fire bright.

  “Curse the day Morrígú dropped you,” he ground out. “From the cradle, your mother twisted you with her hatreds and blind jealousies. She poisoned you with the venom of her Druid heart. Your sire was a fool not to cast her from his longhouse. But he spared her a place and this day was foregone.”

  Rollo drew himself up, his features hardened, and spat into the rushes. “I know you not,” he thundered. “I spit you out. You are ekkert in my eyes, a nothing. From this day, you shall bear the name of úrhrak, outcast. You have till day’s dawning to flee these borders. Dare you befoul my domain, or canker the soil of Normandy with your step, any may sever your worthless soul from its husk and claim it in my name.” Rollo gave him his back. “Get thee from my sight.”

  Hastein shoved himself to his feet, his eyes flaying Rurik with pure hatred, then stumbled from the hall.

  “Anyone else who cannot abide my dictates, or wishes to follow, do so now,” Rollo growled.

  Two of Valsemé’s garrison slipped from the back of the chamber, but the duke’s personal retainers held firm to a man.

  The lines of Rollo’s face eased as his anger abated. He smoothed his mustache and called for wine. Swiftly draining the cup, he relinquished it to a servant and faced Rurik.

  “It pleasures me that you should hold title of these lands. I would see them prosper under your hand. Now, if you be re
ady, I will receive your fealty and homage.”

  Rurik sent the battle-ax clattering over the floor and dropped to one knee before his uncle. Placing his hands within Rollo’s in the age-old symbol of submission, he repeated the prescribed words, pledging himself by bouche et des mains, by mouth and by hands as the duke’s commended man. This done, Rollo raised Rurik to his feet and bestowed the kiss of fealty, sealing their bond.

  Next, a lance and a bowl containing a clod of earth was brought forth and presented to Rurik, symbolic of the service required of his overlord, to arms and to fief.

  Rurik’ s hand hesitated over the small coffer of relics as he prepared to swear the oath of homage. Brother Bernard, who had moved from the dais and now held the reliquary, explained the king’s condition that the men of Normandy accept the Christ and Holy Baptism. Since Rurik was prímsigned, the monk conceded that he could first receive instruction and the waters later. This agreed, Rurik placed his hand upon the box and swore himself to faithfulness, aid, and obedience.

  Rollo clamped him firmly on the shoulder. “Arise, Rurik Atlison, Baron de Valsemé.”

  Cheers united the hall, leaving no doubt as to the soldier’s acceptance of Rurik. Brienne swelled with pride, as she gazed on her golden warrior.

  The smile dissolved as she spied Katla moving to stand at the fore of the crowd. The Norsewoman had withdrawn from the table on Ketil’s heels when the duke first dispatched him in search of Rurik. Katla had evidently been lost in the throng of soldiers during Hastein’s vicious attack, if indeed she had been present for it.

  Brienne discharged a breath of disgust. Katla stood regally robed, having readied herself to officially assume her place as baronne. Silk edged the mantle swathing her, and jewels sparkled at her ears and throat. The fiery mass of hair spilled gloriously about her shoulders, and Brienne thought she might have applied darkener to her eyes, for they appeared enormous and well defined.

  Brienne’s heart cramped. Katla was indeed beautiful. And Rurik was snared in that beauty, by heart and by vow. She clenched the arms of her mother’s high seat, knowing in brief moments she must surrender it to Katla.

  “Is there aught you wish?” Rollo’s hearty tones drew her from her thoughts as he gained the dais and settled himself in his great chair. “What be your first pronouncement as baron?” He smiled down at Rurik, taking up his huge goblet.

  Rurik remained standing before the dais, his eyes traveling to Brienne. Her heart skipped a beat as she braced herself for the inevitable and prepared to yield her place.

  “If it pleases my lord, Lady Brienne journeyed forth from cloister to take vows with my father. This they so did, but as most here witnessed, Gruel Atli died before the marriage was complete.”

  Rollo’s brow creased in puzzlement while Brienne dropped her gaze to study her hands.

  “Before it was consummated,” Rurik supplied, bringing Brienne’s eyes to his and color to her cheeks. “I am assured that, according to Christian law, the marriage is not valid for the Morgengabe had not been bestowed.”

  Brienne’s pulse picked up its pace at a stunning speed. Did he give heed to her pleas after all?

  “Before all, I release my claim as Lady Brienne’s guardian and acknowledge the Church’s rule in this,” he declared firmly. “I recognize her as an unmarried maiden and ward of the king.”

  A mixture of gladness and despair gripped hold of Brienne. ‘Twas done. Rurik had granted her appeal, but in so doing he must now see her away, away to Levroux. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she received his pronouncement.

  “Lady Brienne has expressed her wish to return to her abbey. She is free to do so if she so desires.”

  Rurik’s words weighted in her heart like lead as a lone tear escaped over her cheek. Was it not as she asked? Yet such misery, such heart-crushing pain it cost her.

  “However,” Rurik recaptured her gaze with eyes more blue than gray, “ ‘twas the king’s decree that Valsemé’s heiress be restored to her holdings and marry its new lord baron.” He smiled in earnest now. “As the Baron de Valsemé, I offer to take Brienne Beaumanoir’s hand in marriage and fulfill the terms of that agreement.”

  Katla gasped audibly and Esternay wrenched himself upright in his seat.

  Brienne sat riveted, perfectly stunned by Rurik’s words. A tingling began in her toes and vibrated up through her legs, torso, and arms, sending her heart pounding and her head spinning. God’s great splendor! Radiant Mother of God! For the briefest of moments her joy was boundless, her heart on wing.

  But her soaring spirits quickly collided with reality and came hurtling back to earth. Her eyes shifted to Katla, and warnings of the More Danico passed through her mind in a rush.

  Norsemen were accustomed to taking wives at will and as many as could be afforded. Certainly Rurik could afford the many, but such was not lawful in Francia. Did he not know this? Was he untutored in Frankish and Christian precepts, or had he not considered them? Still, it remained. He was espoused. Any other union was forbidden.

  Obviously pleased with the turn of affairs, Rollo nodded favorably at Rurik’s words. “How say you, my lady? Are you agreeable to my nephew’s offer, or do you still wish to return to Levroux?”

  For a long aching moment her eyes clung to Rurik’s, pleading for his understanding. A heaviness settled in her chest as she formed the words, and they could barely climb from her throat. Pressing her lashes together, she said in a raw whisper, “I wish to return to Levroux.”

  She felt Rurik’s hard stare boring into her but could not bear to meet his eyes.

  Rollo sat back, clearly astonished. He looked to his nephew who stood coiled tightly, wounded by Brienne’s words and glaring at her with whip-stung eyes. What objection could the lady possibly claim? Rurik was a fine stallion, skilled with sword, dauntless in battle, rich beyond imaginings, and so indecently handsome the maids fair swooned when he graced them with but a smile.

  Rollo drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, brooding a moment, then expelled a long breath in dismay. “As you wish, my lady, but indulge me. I would have you favor me with a reason.”

  Brienne’s head snapped up, appalled that he should have embraced Christianity for the full year past and still need ask.

  “My lord, surely it has been explained to you that our Christian religion allows but one wife to husband, one husband to wife.”

  Rollo exchanged glances with Rurik, confusion etching his forehead. “ ‘Twould seem something doth escape me here.”

  “As myself,” Rurik concurred. “Mayhap my lady would clarify herself.”

  Brienne felt the pull of his eyes and met his burning gaze. It tortured her heart. Must he have it so plainly? Very well, then. She sighed in bewilderment.

  “I cannot marry Rurik since he has a wife already. Mother Church will not permit — “

  “Wife?” The word burst from Rollo’s lips and he nearly tipped over his goblet. “What wife be that?”

  Brienne wavered, suddenly unsure of herself. Rurik waited expectantly, his hands braced on his hips. She took a small swallow. “Why, Katla, my lord.”

  Rollo laughed richly, his voice resounding in the hall. ‘Twill be a sad day for many a man the day Katla binds herself to one pair of breeches.”

  Brienne flushed fully at the duke’s earthy remark, then the statement took hold and her eyes flew to Rurik.

  “Rurik is not married?” she asked breathlessly.

  “My nephew may be accused of other things, perchance, but he has yet to tie the marital knot.” Rollo grinned at her stunned expression. “What say you now, my lady. Will you accept Rurik as your lord husband?”

  Brienne rose unsteadily, joy racing through her. She descended the dais, her gaze fixed on Rurik as she stepped before him.

  She lay her hand upon his chest, over his heart. “I beg pardon, my lord.”

  “Já eda nei, my lady?” Rollo questioned impatiently.

  “Já, my lord,” Brienne returned with a
smile to challenge the brilliance of the sun, her heart overflowing. “I shall bind myself to the Baron de Valsemé in marriage. May we both be worthy of our titles and our people.” She then added for Rurik’s ears alone, “May we be a most noble inspiration.”

  Relief washed over Rurik and heartened his soul. He clasped Brienne’s hands in his and drew her to him. Caressing her with loving eyes, he bent to her ear.

  “Pleasure me in a small thing, ástin mín. Wear for me your crimson and gold when next we meet at the church doors, that I might behold you once again as when first we met. For I swear, in that instant you laid siege to my heart and plundered it fully. Naught has been aright since.”

  Brienne trembled under his tender admission, achingly repentant that she had caused him the least of pains from her own simplemindedness.

  He tilted her chin and stroked his thumb along her jaw. “Have you also a wish that is within my power to grant?”

  Brienne’s eyes sparkled with life. “This wedding, I would prefer to keep to good Frankish wine.”

  “Saucy wench!” Rurik grinned. His arms wound around her as he claimed her for his bride and kissed her deeply.

  Shouts of approval reverberated throughout the hall. Esternay gripped his goblet and sullenly downed its contents while Katla stomped from the hall.

  Chapter 12

  The needle gleamed in the candle’s soft light as Brienne bent over the fine Frisian cloth and burgeoned the breast of a small silver falcon. The emblem grew beneath her fingers. With a final stab, she sharpened a tiny talon, then snipped the thread.

  ‘Tis done, Aleth.” She smiled her pleasure, spreading the garment to survey her handiwork.

  Two full days had passed since Rurik departed the keep. He did so, to her dismay, brief hours after their betrothal. What he was about and whence he had gone, she could not say. But it was clear he wished to gladden her with some bridal offering and, at the same time, allow the soldiery to continue the funeral feast and properly honor his father.

  Normally, ten days would be set aside for such an occasion, seven for a wedding celebration. But, in truth, little had been normal these scant days past. Brienne appreciated Rurik’s mindfulness to see Atli remembered fittingly while not allowing the revelries to stretch without end from one feast to the next. She sensed he wished Lord Robert gone. Rollo, too, chafed to return to Rouen and to Poppa.