Whatever Rurik sought to procure, his eyes had sparkled with such anticipation, and truly a whit of mischief, that she could not argue his leave-taking. He vowed to join her upon the church steps midmorn of this third day.
In his absence, she had scoured through both mind and coffer, questing for something suitable for Rurik’s marriage gift. Seizing on a costly robe of Frisian cloth, blue as a deep summer night, she made it over into a thigh-length tunic of the Frankish fashion. The wool was exceptionally fine and precisely woven. It had long been the gift of kings. Charlemagne himself had once favored the Persian monarch with cloaks of the prized fabric. This he did after receiving of the Caliph the most wondrous of animals, an elephant.
Brienne and Aleth had worked fervently, cutting and sewing the garment long into the first night of Rurik’s absence. Her broidery box yielded a few small spools of precious silver thread, intended by the sisters to embellish vestments and altar cloths. These she claimed with a small amount of guilt, offering a mea culpa on the one hand and salving her prickly conscience on the other. Did she not bring her great Norse husband before the altar of God? And was he not a man of means? Surely the thread would be replaced.
She gave a last critical inspection to the row of shimmering falcons that bordered the tunic’s hem. Precious objects, she had none to offer, nor coin to call her own. But what better than she present Valsemé’s new lord with the symbol of authority and prowess borne by her father and her father’s father — the Beaumanoir falcon. ‘Twas not given lightly, and she hoped Rurik would claim it for his personal emblem to wear proudly, as had her sire.
Brienne blinked the soreness from her eyes and looked to the window where early-morning light blushed the skies. “Does he come yet, Aleth?”
Aleth had been watching the stirrings below but shook her head. “I see naught of him. But faith, Brienne. He’ll not leave you abandoned before the church.”
Faith. How far had she traveled on faith? Brienne released a small sigh and folded away the tunic. Perchance ‘twas patience she needed the more, but she dare not entreat the Almighty, lest He send fresh trials by which to cultivate that virtue in her.
Seeing Brienne rub at her weary eyes, Aleth moved to her side. “Merciful Lord! Your betrothed mustn’t find you like this on your marriage day. Let us freshen you and allow you to rest for atime.”
Brienne conceded and accepted a cool compress dampened with clary water. Time winked past. Aleth was next rousing her from a light slumber and bidding her take nourishment. Brienne complied, then she bathed from a deep earthenware basin kept warm before the fire. Together they combed the silky length of her hair and left it free to cascade over her shoulders and down her back.
Aleth had just finished lacing Brienne’s gown when a soft rap sounded at the door. Lyting entered at her bidding, smiling warmly.
“Are you near ready, Lady Brienne?”
“He returns?” Her heart leaped madly.
“Já.” The dimples in his cheeks deepened and he swept his hand toward the door. “Would you see for yourself?”
Minutes later, Brienne followed Lyting to the upper reaches of the keep, climbing high above the garret rooms by way of a narrow passage to the topmost chamber. It was a low-ceilinged room with a stout ladder leading to the roof. Brienne gave thanks that she left veil and mantle below as she plucked up her skirts and found footing on the crosspieces. Lyting, having preceded her, reached down and caught her beneath the arms, lifting her the last distance.
Wonder took Brienne as she turned slowly around in a full circle. The barony spread before her in every direction.
Lyting chuckled at her rapt expression. “You grew up here. Did you not ever come atop the keep?”
“Never,” Brienne tossed back blithely. “We lived in the manor house, not the keep.” She could have added that her family resided here only in the dark times when Valsemé fell under attack, attack wrought most often by Northmen. But she did not wish to spoil the moment.
“Had I but known this splendor awaited me, I would have grown to maidenhood on this very spot. Others could have styled me the Lady of the Tower.” She laughed gaily, pushing back long tendrils of hair as they stirred in the brisk wind and whispered over her face.
Lyting smiled and then pointed to the silver ribbon of the Toques. There came a Norse longship with its red and white striped sail billowed with the breeze.
“Rurik comes.”
Brienne’s breath caught for joy. Yet dark memories clutched at her Frankish heart as she watched the sleek, high-prowed vessel range over the waters. Ever before, their presence heralded naught but death and destruction. She took mental rein of herself. Today it bore life — her life and her love — back to her arms.
Did the villeins likewise tremble to see such a sight? she wondered. Even here in Normandy? There was naught to distinguish one of the Norse “sea serpents” from any other save size. How could one tell if a longship offered peace or devastation?
“Are the sails ever striped the red and the white?” she asked.
Lyting looked at her curiously. “Blue and green are favored as well. Of necessity, the looms produce the heavy woolen in strips. They are sewn together — “
“At what size is such a piece when finished?” she interrupted him, an idea taking form.
“Measuring by fot, roughly twenty-three wide and thirty-six in length.”
“Oh, Lyting, can you not see it? A sail of deepest blue emblazoned with a great falcon — a great silver falcon for my lord, Rurik.” Brienne declared excitedly, caught up in her imaginings.
Lyting’s pale lashes brushed his cheekbones, then his lips eased into a sad, pensive smile. “You are happy, my lady?”
“Truly, Lyting. Truly, I am,” she avowed most fervently.
Turning to him, she caught the grave tenderness in his eyes. He glanced away, toward the river. For a moment they did not speak. When he gazed on her again, the look was gone and the warmth of his smile returned.
“Then all is as it should be, my lady. I wish you every joy and happiness. Welcome once more into the heart of my family.”
“Merci,” Brienne returned softly, and stretched up her hand to touch his cheek.
He pressed his eyes closed at that contact, then blinked them open and turned to face the river. “Remember, my lady. If ever you have need, my sword stands ready to serve.”
“Let us pray I never fall to such dire circumstance to warrant the need, but merci once again. I shall remember.”
For atime they stood in silence watching the longship grow larger as it glided toward port. Brienne now saw that it was filled with people, and in their midst stood a tall and gilded man.
»«
Brienne waited impatiently upon the church steps. She ached to greet Rurik at the water’s edge but honored her promise to meet him here.
Lyting had given her over to Lord Robert’s keeping before dispatching Sleipnir to his brother. Once again she was escorted with much merriment from bailey to church, but this time Rollo insisted on leading Candra the distance. Outranked, outmaneuvered, and outmatched, the Seigneur d’Esternay looked fit to snap off the head of anyone who crossed him. Now he scowled blackly in the direction of the river.
Singing, heavy with male voices yet spiced with lighter, feminine tones, announced Rurik’s approach. Brienne fixed her gaze on the horizon. To the left of the church steps, Aleth smiled, flushed and pretty as a bride herself. Young Waite and Patch held to her side and heel, awed by the grandness of the moment.
Rurik then appeared, astride the great black, his golden hair glinting with the sun, accompanied by dozens of men and women walking alongside him. Love and pride stirred in Brienne’s breast. He wore a cloak of sapphire-blue, pinned at the shoulder, over clothes of pearl-gray. These skimmed torso and thigh to disappear into soft leather boots. His neck was collared with gold, his waist girt with a wide belt and jewel-hilted sword. He was a princely vision to her eyes, and that vision held her bound.
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Her gaze moved to his arms and she marveled to find a small sprite nestled there, clutching a fistful of wildflowers and riding with queenly dignity.
“Elsie!” Brienne blurted with joy. Tears sprang to her eyes as she recognized Bolsgar amid the crowd, along with the child’s mother and many faces familiar to her from Ivry.
Without thought or heed, her feet moved beneath her and she ran toward Rurik and the stallion, her arms outstretched.
A ripple of fear passed through Rurik as he saw the flurry of crimson and gold hurrying toward the war horse. Sleipnir tensed beneath his thighs. Issuing a swift command, Rurik halted the beast and slipped to the ground, Elsie still in arm. Quickly, he closed the distance between himself and Brienne and caught her to him with his free arm. The couple’s eagerness delighted the crowd.
“Oo-oo-oo.” Elsie wriggled, trapped between the lord and his lady. “You’re squishing me,” she protested.
“Sorry, sweeting,” Rurik smiled then kissed Brienne soundly, making her laugh for joy.
Elsie fussed, shooing them apart with her little fingers. “My lord, you mustn’t. Truly you mustn’t,” she scolded.
“I did but kiss my bride,” he teased cheerfully. “Is there aught amiss in that?”
Elsie admonished him with her most stern and serious look. “You need marry m’lady before you get her with child.”
Rurik chuckled deeply. “That I must.” Giving the girl over to her mother’s care, he offered Brienne an arm and led her through the villeins and soldiers, back to the church steps and the waiting prelate.
Brienne could not keep her eyes from Rurik throughout the ceremony, nor he from she, both stealing glimpses of one another. But when time came to profess their vows, Rurik looked on her fully, enclosing her hands in his own. He treasured the love he found mirrored in her eyes as he repeated each word in strong clear tones. Brienne’s voice came soft, touched with wonderment, as she gave hers.
No ill omen shadowed the ring this time as Rurik accepted it from his brother and slipped it onto her finger.
The crowd’s approval rang in Brienne’s ears as Rurik drew her into his embrace and covered her lips with his. She leaned into him, welcoming his kiss and seeking to taste more.
Amusement rumbled in Rurik’s chest. “Easy, ástin mín. There are still many hours before we can take our leave. I fear I shall be in discomfort enough just gazing on you throughout the day.”
He smoothed a fingertip over her perplexed brow and wondered how much she knew of men. Did she not realize how easily she aroused him and how tormented would grow his condition left unrelieved all the day?
Sighing, he kissed the tip of her nose and turned her for presentation to the people. He then named Ivry as her dower land, taking Brienne by surprise. Rollo, upon banishing Hastein, had awarded him the fief. In turn, it pleased Rurik to bestow the holding on his bride, Ivry’s fierce protectress.
The villeins of Ivry pressed forward past the soldiers to present themselves and their humble gifts, mostly offerings of food to augment the wedding table.
Elsie skipped up the steps to proffer her clutch of drooping flowers to Brienne. She slowed her pace on her descent, spying young Waite and the spotted dog. Sidling against her mother’s skirts, Elsie pushed a finger into her mouth and eyed them with pointed curiosity.
Brienne paid scant attention to the long Mass that followed. Her new husband wholly consumed her thoughts as he towered beside her. If there were regrets, it was only that Rurik could not partake of the Eucharist with her. She looked forward to the day when he would accept the Christian waters.
Upon leaving the church in a shower of grains, Rurik swept her atop Candra, then swiftly mounted Sleipnir. Side by side, they led the merrymakers back to the keep.
Brienne found it a heady experience to have Rurik fully to herself. She laughed inwardly at that thought since the bailey literally overflowed with people. But until this day, they had been ever separated — pushed apart and ever denied. Now Rurik was hers and she his and none could say them nay.
Pure joy pulsed through her veins. She had gained her heart’s desire. And as she reached toward the full measure of womanhood, she felt like a blossom unfurling beneath the warmth of the sun. Rurik was that warmth. He was her sun.
Rurik lifted Brienne from her horse, their bodies meeting as she shifted against him, then slid down his hard length to the ground. Desire swamped her.
Rurik’s touch stirred fresh yearnings within her, and in this he proved a merciless lord. As they lingered briefly among the garrison, receiving well-wishes and pleasantries, he kept her ever at his side, finding every excuse to touch her. If her hand was not resting upon his arm, he would place his own to the curve of her back or caress a tendril of her hair. Once, as he clasped her hand in his, he idly stroked the back with his thumb, rousing every nerve in her body to stand on tiptoe.
Even before they began their ascent up the long wooden staircase, she felt boneless. He matched his tread to hers, slipping his arm beneath her veil to embrace the curve of her waist. Blissfully, she did not care how long it would take to reach the top. But when his hand slipped upward, spanning her ribs, and his forefinger grazed the underside of her breast, she nearly leaped two steps for the sensations that jolted through her. It was going to be a very long day indeed.
As Brienne and Rurik entered the hall, they were greeted with the sight of the baronial high seats positioned side by side once more upon the dais. Rollo’s great chair still held to the center, but Brienne’s had been moved left of it, to sit right of Rurik’s.
“ ‘Twould seem at long last we are to share a trencher,” Brienne said with a laugh as they crossed the chamber. “Will my lord baron prove as attentive as Normandy’s great duke?” she added teasingly.
Rurik lifted her fingers to his lips. “I intend to shower my lady with every consideration and courtesy till she begs me cease.”
“Cease? Surely not.”
“We shall see.” He dropped a kiss to her shoulder as he seated her.
Brienne marveled that the food and drink still flowed aplenty. To her count, fewer courses were served, but the boards groaned with such abundance, none suffered complaint. True to his word, Rurik proved attentive, selecting and slicing her meats, seeing that her goblet brimmed with sweet Frankish wine, and ensuring that bowls of sugared roses and almonds were always near to hand.
The harper’s sweet chords and verses passing fair floated throughout the hall. Jugglers amused with shiny brass rings and whirling brands of fire, but it was a small reed of a man that truly captivated the gathering. Lithe and supple, he twisted himself into grievous contortions almost too painful to observe.
Rurik preferred their wedding to be a festive yet subdued affair, since it directly followed, and somewhat eclipsed, his father’s funeral celebration. No trials of strength were held, but the men were challenged to test their skills at spears and arrows.
Feeling no need to prove himself, Rurik declined from participating in the competitions. The last days were beginning to take their measure, and he wished to save himself for the coming nightfall and the sweet promise of his bride.
Rollo offered his great cup as prize for “spears,” then quickly won it back. Drinking heartily of the goblet once more, he regretted aloud that he had not tested his nephew’s skills. Atli ofttimes boasted of Rurik’s proficiency with the weapon. If there be one thing the duke loved beyond a well-pitched battle and a good woman, ‘twas a stout match.
Rurik would not be drawn. “Enjoy your cup a time longer, Uncle,” he bantered. “We will test our skills another day.”
Rollo toasted the promised meet and quaffed his drink.
As the crowd moved to line the archer’s range, Rurik bent to Brienne’s ear. “My wager is for Lyting. His arm is strong, his aim accurate, and he can peg the eye of a snake from the greatest of distance. It has earned him the title Skarp-Øje, ‘Sharp Eye.’“
“Lyting Sharp Eye?” Brienne grinned. �
��It has a music to it.”
“At your service, my lady.” Lyting suddenly appeared at her elbow, clasping his longbow that stretched nearly as tall as he. “Will you compete, broðir?”
“Nei. Have you not heard? I am better at spears,” Rurik tossed back with a laugh.
“Better at spears?” Ketil choked from his position behind Rurik.
Rurik ignored the comment and looked back to his brother. “You must uphold our family honor today.”
“Against our new ‘kinsman’?” Lyting asked with a nod to where the Seigneur d’Esternay stood with his men, stringing his bow stave.
Rurik’s eyes grayed and Brienne realized that he had not considered that Robert Coustance was now his brother-by marriage through her. Either that or he chose to disregard it. She squeezed his hand, forcing lightness into her words.
“At last Lord Robert allows his soldiers to join in the games. They have been sorely idle since their arrival. I wonder how they will fare. Bow and arrow are employed chiefly for hunting in Francia. I understand Northmen train with it for war as well.”
She sensed she was on the verge of babbling. Esternay had glanced up from his labors and was now staring at her, his look hard. She moved closer to Rurik.
“Of course, Sister Dalmatica — her brother is in Lord Geaune’s service — claims the Roman crossbow gains favor among the troops since it does not require long training or great strength.”
This drew a chuckle from Rurik. “ ‘Twould seem holy women have an uncommon interest in weaponry, and here I thought they spent their time in prayer. Nei, ástin mín, do not look at me so.” Rurik pressed a finger to her lips, smiling, before she could gainsay him. “If you would know, hunting and warring demand different skills, but I am sure the king’s men will show themselves well.” He looked out over the Normans and Franks taking up their marks on the field. “Still, my silver is on Lyting.”
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 20