“None for Normandy’s duke?” she rejoined.
Rurik tilted a brow. “Do you wish to wager coin, my lady wife?”
“Only if it be on you.” She winked.
“Clever vixen, but you’ll not lead me out. I would spend myself more cheerfully on a different playground this day.” His lips began to claim hers, but a voice boomed from behind.
‘Tis the sport here or afield?” Ketil called robustly. “‘Od’s breath, have pity, Rurik. There be few enough women in Normandy. Leave the men their concentration long enough to pull their bowstrings.” He chortled and trudged off to take up his place.
The contenders changed their mark after every shot, ever increasing the distance of the targets, these stretched over bails of straw. As Rurik predicted, the Franks showed themselves well. After seven rounds, five men remained, two Franks and three Normans. Lyting and Esternay numbered among them.
While the men refreshed themselves with ale and waited for the targets to be relocated, Rurik admired Lyting’ s bow made of yew wood. He was quickly caught up in conversation with his brother and uncle over the virtues of yew versus elm, which was heavier. From there, they agreed that lightweight ash made the best arrows, fletched with goose for steadiest flight.
Brienne’s thoughts wandered to Aleth who tarried nearby with Elsie, Waite, and his ever-present charge, Patch. She craved to speak with her friend, for she wished to release her from her duties within the keep. Mayhap it served well at first for Aleth to pose as her personal maid, but she was an equal, a lady of blood and fine training. There were others who could attend as tirewomen. Aleth’s abilities must not be wasted. She was a practiced and capable healer, adept in her skills. Together they would see to the needs of Valsemé and instruct others in the art.
Slipping from Rurik’s side she went to greet her friend. Barely had they embraced than the knight Leveque approached.
“Best wishes for your marriage, my lady. We leave on the morrow for Paris and the king, then on to Roubaix. Might I carry a word from your lips to Lady Lisette?”
“Lisette.” Brienne whispered her sister’s name, then placed her hand on the knight’s arm more urgently. “She does not know that I have returned to Valsemé, or that I have . . . that I have married a Norman.” Faith! What untruths would Lisette be told? She withdrew her hand, remembering herself. “Lord Robert said she is ill with child. Is this true?”
A swift shadow passed over Leveque’s features. “She grows stronger by the day.” He swallowed the rest of what he would say. “Do not worry, my lady. I will watch over her as is within my power. She implores his lordship to send her to Chaudrey. Let us pray he concedes, for I believe she would regain her health in those airs.”
Brienne searched the young man’s face, sifting his words, for they hinted at much yet revealed little. Did her mind play her a trick or did he bear her sister a special loyalty?
She puzzled at his offer to convey a message rather than assume she would send word through Lord Robert. Mayhap he was simply courteous, or mayhap he knew well his liege, who kept much from his wife.
“Do you place yourself at risk in this?” she asked quietly, her meaning in her eyes.
He smiled. “I think not, my lady.”
Hope rose but prudence cautioned. “Then apprise Lady Lisette of all you have witnessed. Tell her that I am happy and that I long to see her but — “ She cast about, desperate for the right words. How could she explain that she must stay apart? That she dare not come to Roubaix for fear of the husband her sister so blindly honored?
As though her thoughts had conjured the man, Esternay appeared, nearly upon them. Brienne squared her shoulders and offered her hand to Leveque.
“Thank you for your wishes on my marriage and your many kindnesses throughout our journey. Thank you also for me Blanchard and Mortain. Perchance I will see you again — “ She was about to add “at Chaudrey,” but Esternay clipped through her words.
“Then you must visit us and soon, my dear.” His lips twisted wryly. “Lisette would be overjoyed to see you, and I would assure myself that you fare well in Normandy. But you need not commit yourself this moment. Consider the invitation ever open. Who can augur the future?” He dismissed his man with a sharp glance.
Brienne crushed the gown beneath her fingers. He obscured his meaning for Leveque’s and Aleth’s benefit, but his intent remained clear to her. Such guile!
His mouth quirked upward. “Do bring your husband if he cannot bide your absence. ‘Tis no imposition. As I have told you, my dear, there are many rooms at Castle Roubaix. Think on it.”
Brienne would have liked to scream her frustration and scratch the overconfident smile from his face. But as he retreated toward the field, a loathsome fear gripped her heart. She had refused to be partner to his schemes, yet he did not abandon them. Her rejection had little altered his course, only his level of pleasure. Her knees weakened beneath her. Robert Coustance would seek to kill Rurik — at some future time — once they had a son.
Rurik drew his gaze from the competition just as Lyting stepped forward. He saw Brienne lay her hand on the arm of a Frankish retainer.
He recognized the man from his entertainment in the hall several days past. A small horn of jealousy pricked him, but he shook it away. Truly he was besotted to read more into that gesture than anything proper. Brienne’s brow creased in earnest conversation while her woman, Aleth, listened avidly at her side. He looked back to see Lyting’s arrow hit dead center.
Applauding the shot, he glanced once more at Brienne. His smile slackened. Brienne fairly bristled as Esternay joined her, giving some comment. For a moment her anger seemed to crackle about her like some live thing. There was a brief exchange, and Rurik started toward them but the knight took his leave. Brienne’s fire suddenly abated. She paled, clearly stricken. Had it not been for Aleth taking her by the hands, he thought Brienne might have swooned.
Anger rode him dark and swift. Rurik stalked toward the field, passing Lyting as he went. He delayed long enough to relieve his brother of his longbow and a single arrow and advanced on Esternay, now taking up his mark.
Esternay glimpsed Rurik moving across the green just as he released his arrow. The shot went awry, hitting the edge of the target, an embarrassing effort.
The knight took several paces back as Rurik strode glowering to the mark. But Esternay could not resist a sneering comment. “So, the groom competes for his lady’s attentions after all.”
With lightning-swift speed, Rurik set the arrow, aimed, and released. The arrow whistled through the air and with a thwack split the shaft of Esternay’s arrow in two.
Rurik turned narrowed eyes on Robert Coustance. “As I said, I’m better at spears.”
Giving the knight his back, he sought his bride and escorted her to the keep.
»«
Brienne regained her good spirits under Rurik’s mindful attentions. They partook of a light evening meal as day stretched toward its end.
A new sport rose in the hall as the men now tested their verbal dexterity with riddles and witty sayings. None could match the clever tongue of Brother Bernard, and for this he earned two silver dirhems.
Evyind composed a song to honor the bridal couple, afterwhich he was hailed, plied with wine, and cheerfully dispossessed of his instrument. Other would-be musicians plucked out their pieces with less craft, and when wit waned, quoted the salty wisdom of the old lays.
Dally with girls in the dark —
the day’s eyes are many.
Seek you some maid
when from her bower she calls.
Forget the stout cup —
in white arms work your will.
Bold men bare your blades!
But beware, for ‘tis found —
drink steals more than one’s wit.
A wholehearted swain
with dull sword cannot breech
the portals of the fair-dight maid.
The crowd roared with delight and
continued in their merriments.
Rurik observed that Brienne ate little, only a bit of broth and crust of bread. She appeared content though at times distracted.
“Have you tasted of the pomegranate?” Rurik snatched up a leathery-looking fruit from a neighboring tray and split it open with his knife. Brienne’s eyes widened at the brilliant ruby flesh encasing a multitude of little seeds.
‘Tis deliciously sweet.” He stripped apart the membranes and carefully pared away the rind. “Well worth the effort.” Lifting a juicy morsel to her lips, he added, “ ‘Tis fitting a bride eat of the pomegranate. ‘Tis said it blesses her with many children.”
Brienne’s eyes fixed on his as she accepted the offering from his fingers. A trace of juice lingered on her bottom lip and he brushed it away with his thumb.
‘Tis pleasantly tart,” she said with some difficulty. “Would you also eat of the pomegranate?”
“From your hands I will eat anything, ástin mín.” He flashed her a smile.
She felt exhilarated under his steel blue gaze as he waited expectantly. The fruit proved slippery to handle. She cupped one hand beneath the other so as not to lose the piece or drip its juice onto his fine garments. He bent forward to receive the delicacy, but in so doing, captured the tip of her finger, skimming it with his tongue before slowly releasing it from the warmth of his mouth.
“Parbleu!” Brienne jumped and would have sprung to her feet had not Rurik placed a hand on her thigh, unseen beneath the table, and pressed her down. She whisked her glance about to see if any marked his play.
“I would have more,” Rurik whispered huskily in her ear.
Her hand trembled slightly as she proffered the delicacy, experiencing a sweet joy at those words, but trepidation as well. This time he wrapped his fingers lightly about her wrist so she could not retrieve her hand. Taking the morsel, he then slowly sucked the juice from one finger, then the next. His eyes locked on hers and he watched their color darken. Juice dribbled into her palm, and this, too, he sought, lingering to draw a lazy circle there with the tip of his tongue.
“Rurik!” Brienne gasped, a burst of sensation firing through her. “Have mercy.”
“Do you beg me cease my attentions so soon?” He stroked the inside of her wrist.
“I . . . I only. . .” Warmth tingled downward over her breasts, stirring her stomach to knots before it found the core of her womanhood. How swiftly and instinctively she responded to his touch. It was as though she had no rule of herself, and that affrighted her.
“Let us take our leave, ástin mín.” His breath fell hot on her neck and shoulder. “I grow weary of sharing you and would seek our sweet nest.”
Brienne’s voice stuck somewhere in her throat as she read the desire in his eyes. She swallowed. Of the intimacies shared by men and women she knew little, only a most basic knowledge and that sparing. She trusted Rurik would be patient and use her kindly. But it was the force of her own passion, sweeping her toward that unknown, which fed her unease.
Rurik squeezed her hand as he signaled Aleth with his eyes to gather the chosen maidservants and attend Brienne to their chamber.
“I will try to convince the men to forgo the bedding ceremony and take my leave unimpeded. But should I fail and you hear their approach, forget aught else and see yourself safe beneath the coverings. They are as eager as I to glimpse your tempting curves, ástin mín.” Rurik pressed a final kiss to her fingers and released them.
Raucous applause broke out as the bride rose and moved from the dais. Much jesting accompanied her departure, quickly giving way to earthier advisements and offers of assistance to the groom.
Rurik bore this in good humor, joining his men in a toast to his marriage, to his lady, to his lady’s beauty, then to all the dark-haired beauties of Francia and sun-bright maids of the North. Drink flowed to the praise of full-bosomed maids everywhere and small-breasted ones alike, to long-limbed wenches with firm round buttocks, to their silken thighs and hot tender loins. On went the rounds of toasts till they had drunk to every part a maid could own.
Hoping Brienne had time enough to complete her preparations, Rurik summoned a servant to fetch a flask from his private stock. This he shared at the high table. Esternay had absented himself long ago to the company of his retainers, but Rollo, Lyting, Brother Bernard, and Ketil now gathered closer. They raised their cups this time to long life and children aplenty.
“I have seen fit to help you to those ends,” the duke announced heartily. “My wedding gift awaits you in your chamber. Njóta! Enjoy!”
The conversation meandered and digressed, ever returning to Rurik’s travels and exploits in the East.
‘Tis said you shun the mail-shirt in battle, wearing neither metal nor bone sewn to your corslet. True?” Ketil tested the rumor he had heard long ago.
Rurik eyed the four steadily as he sipped the biting liquid, sensing where this would lead. “True.” He took another sip, waiting.
“Well?” they asked in unison, their faces keen with interest.
Ketil’s patience rubbed through first. “Well, man, do you defy death or have you a secret?”
Rurik suppressed his amusement, moving forward in his chair to rest his elbows on the table. “Reindeer hide,” he pronounced confidentially. “Twelve layers. ‘Twill turn a blow as well as any mail-shirt.”
“I have heard of such but gave it no credence,” Rollo said, twisting his mustache thoughtfully. “Twelve layers, you say?”
More discussion ensued until Rurik saw no other way to gain his leave than by promising to acquire like corslets for his uncle and old friend. Lyting declined his offer, preferring his own durable mail, and the churchman had no use for it.
“I will send to the North Lapps to have them made, but it could take a time to gather enough hides to cover the two of you. ‘Twill require several herds, no doubt!”
This met with laughter, and Rurik thought them placated. Draining his cup, he gave over the remainder of the flask and called for another.
Rising to his feet, Rurik extricated himself with what he thought to be faultless and eloquent logic as he encouraged them to remain. After the tumultuous days surrounding his father’s marriage, death, and funeral, he desired that his bride and he enjoy a more quiet and tempered occasion. “I see no need to hold to ceremony where the bedding is concerned.”
“What?” Rollo came to his full height, slamming down his goblet. “No bedding ceremony? ‘Twas a wedding I set my sail for, and a wedding I’ll see well to its end. Men!” he bellowed, gesturing to his table companions at the same time.
Before Rurik could protest, he was lifted high off his feet and carted out of the hall.
»«
Brienne shook her head at the monstrous bed filling the chamber. Immense and box-shaped, it stood as wide as it was long, and it was longer than any she had ever seen. The footposts were simply turned, plain, in truth, but the planklike headposts rose high above her, the heads of two unidentifiable beasts snarling down.
“It looks to be comfortable enough,” Aleth soothed, seeing Brienne’s trepidation, then spoiled the effort with a giggle. “At least when you’re abed you need not look at them.”
Voices clamoring in the passage stole the retort poised on Brienne’s tongue. All objection flew out the window, and with a gasp, she slipped from her robe and dove for the protection of the bed coverings.
A heartbeat later, the door burst open and the boisterous group entered, carrying Rurik feet first and half undressed. Brienne drew the sheet to her chin as their eyes strayed to the bed and they set him down before her. Amid pointed jests and offers of help, they divested Rurik of the rest of his clothes and heaved him into the bed.
Aleth whisked the covers back as they did so, barely allowing the men a glimpse of thigh. She blushed to the roots of her hair for what she saw of Rurik and now hastily shooed the jocular group from the room. Giving a last inspection to the wine and fruit tray that graced the table, she followe
d the servant women out and pulled the door closed.
Rurik released a long breath, grateful to be alone at last with his bride, thankful for the quiet and their privacy. He smiled down on Brienne, then his brows creased. She continued to clutch the linen to her chin, her lashes lowered. Beneath the thin shield he could perceive that her shoulders, nei her whole body, trembled.
Rurik raked a hand through his hair, then glanced at the table. Wine would hearten her. Glad he’d had the foresight to order a flask of the keep’s best, he sprang from the bed and padded across the chamber, perfectly at ease with his natural state.
A sound escaped from the bed and he pivoted to face Brienne, unthinking of the image he created as he stood naked in the fire’s flickering light. He caught the stark fear in her eyes as she shrank back into the bed. For the most fleeting of moments’ he imagined her reaction to be spawned by her fear of Norsemen. The look was akin to the one with which she had reviled him in the glade.
But as her shocked gaze remained fixated on his bold display of maleness, he realized the cause of her distress. He cursed himself for his thoughtlessness as he watched Brienne color profusely and give a shudder that reached to her toes. She was but a shy maiden faced with her first mating, mayhap more timid than most since she had been shut away from men for so many years.
“Brienne . . . I did not think — “ He faltered, wondering whether to cover his arousal or quickly return to the bed or both. Nei. He felt no shame, nor should she. Still, he did not wish her to fear him.
Brienne instantly regretted her response, afraid she had spoiled the moment. Worse, her actions may have prompted Rurik to think he had spoiled it. And worse still, he might think she found him lacking or repulsive in some wise. ‘Twas impossible, of course. He was truly magnificent, though she admitted her astonishment at . . . but he was a big man, uncommonly tall. What did she expect?
Brienne composed herself. This was not the first time she had seen Rurik thusly, nor would it be the last. Granted, when they had discovered one another in the river, she hadn’t seen all of him, but she had certainly felt all of him. She forced her mind to that interlude, recalling each rapturous sensation they had shared, and how those sensations had filled her dreams for so many nights since.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 21